Interlude II: Chapter Three

It was pouring outdoors.

Axarthys had known it would; she felt it in the tips of her fingers, in the dampness hanging in the air that weighed down the snowy lashes about her eyes. Her joints had become stiffened in the slightest, protesting the foul weather, anticipating fearfully the downpour even as the tanar'ri irritably flexed her limbs to stop the ache. She'd predicted the rain for two weeks' time since the very day she'd been permitted her own room. It was there in the sumptuous guest quarters, poised on the velvet quilt over her bed, that she watched the puddles envelope holes in the cobblestone paths of Blacklake. She unblinkingly stared at the rain, listening to it patter on the roof above her head. Her keen ears captured the bemoaning words of guards stationed at the highest towers outdoors. Their voices consoled the apprehension prying at her mind. She feared no justice of a Neverwinter court, yet as it drew nearer Axarthys's heart pounded. She blamed her anxiety on impatience.

But, in truth, it was Bishop's absence that disconcerted her the day of sentencing. Who would stand as her witness? Could she prolong Nasher's decision enough that the ranger could be found? Would Neverwinter wait for a despised demon to find her defender? Irritation stirred within her. Was Bishop so ignorant to her need of him? Was he so sightless? Surely he knew of her presence in the city. Surely he would not abandon her, not after four years' servitude to him. Not after the embraces they'd shared, not after the love they'd made, not after acquiescent lips joined in a love undeniable and unspoken. Axarthys banished the thoughts. She could not bear them.

A knock at her door and not a moment enough for her to speak did Nevalle pass the threshold, glancing to her with a quizzical stare. Perplexed, she cocked her head. He said, "You are to be present in the throne room in a quarter hour and yet you aren't even dressed."

Axarthys glanced down at herself, cloaked in nothing but a chemise and a corset whose cords lay slack across the span of her back. She demurely bit her bottom lip, answering, "My maid was not sent to string my corset. I was awaiting her arrival when you entered."

Nevalle growled under his breath, wishing to say a few words about women's vanity that did not escape his mouth. Instead he beckoned her to stand on the floor, putting his knee into the small of her back. He gathered the ribbons into his hands, pulling tautly enough to feel her ribs pressed together. Tying the remaining ribbon at the base of the corset he said, "For further reference, you no longer have a maid because she refuses to serve the murderer of the Knight Captain."

"I shall remember to have you string it, then." She replied, digging through her traveling trunk to select a dress of opal brocade. When she'd draped it over her shoulders and through her arms, adding a printed-silk fan tied at her belt, slipping her feet into white leather slippers she turned to face a vaguely exasperated Nevalle.

"You'll be polishing many more pairs of boots if you expect that." He responded. She walked past him to her mirror, dabbling rosewater around her neck. Axarthys purveyed her reflection. She coiled a tress of hair around her horn and through a finger, freeing it to tuck behind a pointed ear. She looked to Nevalle before moving into the hall. There was the thinnest mask of tension over his visage. It combated her stress enough to compel her to walk with poise to her fate. Down a spiraling staircase and through a corridor, the rain outside had become more furious, beating so hard the reassuring noise of Nevalle's confident step was deafened.

Axarthys swallowed her tension, feeling a knot of it tangling in her throat. How would she stand before Neverwinter alone? How would she face Nasher and his people with no witnesses, no hand to hold as these mortals defiled her name and made a villain of her? Their criticisms and their hearsay would sully the Saintrowe name, stain her eternally. And Bishop would be oblivious, weaving the wood, unknowing of her fate. Betrayal tore at her, and she stopped, between sorrow and rage, to face Nevalle.

"I cannot go." She declared.

"You must. I am ordered to see you to court and I will not defy the orders of Lord Nasher." He replied sternly. She shook her head fiercely, white locks swaying acutely.

"I go to stand alone, undefended by my champion Bishop, to listen to your people bemoan my very existence, to hear the paladin Casavir sully my name with a tale of murder so romanticized no bard or poet could have concocted such an epic tale." Axarthys proclaimed. Nevalle stepped forward, taking her roughly by the shoulders. She gasped in the ferocity of his hands upon her, frail bones and fragile frame shivering.

"Axarthys." He demanded, and her lips locked together. He slackened his grip, saying, "I will present all that you told me to the Nine and Nasher. Furthermore I will allow no injustice to befall you. You shall be heard fairly and no slander will come to you. Now, will you go willingly or will I have to force you?"

"I walk willingly." She uttered, lips quivering. He nodded silently, moving to walk beside her, a hand still wrapped around her shoulder. There was strength in his grasp that spoke to his aggravation, yet there was a courtesy that was telling of his slim sympathy for her. Whatever his emotions, Axarthys's hurricane of thoughts numbed beneath his touch. She was grateful for it. They continued towards the throne room, where he released her of his hand and motioned for her to enter.

The Nine, convened in a deluge of blue tunics, plastered with the eye of Neverwinter, stared her down as she entered. When she knelt before Nasher in front of the summoning circle, she said, hushed, "I have not summoned my kin as is my power as a tanar'ri, have not laid a hand of foul intention on your people, and in my restraint feel I deserve to decline being caged as if a demon conjured."

"What next? Shall she be quartered in extravagant rooms and served by our very citizens? Ah, of course. She already is." Adelaide mocked loudly. Guffaws broke the room, echoed from the mouths of many of the Nine. Axarthys peered to Nevalle. His mouth had retained a sober line.

"I will grant her wish," Nasher thundered, eyes on Adelaide. Laughter was crushed under the crown of Neverwinter. He faced the tanar'ri, "You have been compliant thus far. Do not test my leniency."

"Thank you." She mouthed. He continued, only gently regarding her.

"As all of the Nine have been briefed on what information Nevalle has retrieved from the tanar'ri, I may rightfully assume you are each intimately familiar with the details of the report, and so we shall begin today with evidence countering the story of the demon to suggest a higher punishment be dealt. Though I wished to postpone these testimonies until tomorrow, Lady Cryhart requested she be allowed to speak today." Nasher announced. Adelaide slouched in her seat, one leg poised at the edge of the chair and the other casually extended. Her arms outstretched, spread cross the arms of the chair. Her posture was predatory.

"Thank you, Lord Nasher," she began, "As we are all aware of the… situation that occurred at Red Fallow's Watch between this demon and Bishop from Nevalle's first most comprehensive report, I'll not waste my breath on the whole tale. I will tell you I was there when this tanar'ri's ranger tried to butcher the whole village."

The Nine traded intrigued glances. There was silence, shattered by Nevalle as he retorted, "That is a fact related to Bishop's case and should be presented at his trial-if he ever stands trial at all, which is unlikely. As far as our information tells, it very well could have been Luskan at fault for the destruction of Red Fallow's Watch. But that has precious little meaning in a hearing for Axarthys."

"The demon was there, Nevalle." Adelaide snapped.

"Red Fallow's Watch is completely removed from the murder of the Knight Captain." Nevalle countered.

"And what would you know of Red Fallow's Watch?" she hissed.

"I was knighted there before it was utterly destroyed. I fought for the villagers, Adelaide, I fought for you and defended your people," He answered, asking of Lord Nasher, "I would ask this testimony be dismissed. Axarthys only happened to be there at the time of the attack and her business was with Bishop, not with murdering peasants."

"I agree. Adelaide, while we mourn Red Fallow's Watch, we cannot possibly relate that to the matter at hand." Nasher exclaimed. Adelaide's gaping mouth brought a sigh to Axarthys's lips. Relief. Nasher continued, "Adelaide, compose yourself and you shall be granted another chance to prove your evidence as valid tomorrow. Now, for today's… planned business, we will discuss the proper punishment for this crime of murder. Casavir, as you were a witness, speak."

"No less than death." He stated, finality lucid in his tone.

"If I may," Sand spoke from the crevices of the room, guised in shadow, "I suggest, as I did to Sir Nevalle, her end be not officially by our hands. Poison, disease- these things can easily be inflicted, causing lengthy suffering before death. This demon killed our Knight Captain, our friend and our hero, our leader and our compatriot. Her crime merits a death filled with the anguish of the Knight Captain and her mourning companions as well."

"Clearly your view of justice comes from your days in Luskan." Nevalle said. His statement worried the assembled knights, sending utterances through their mass.

"What unfounded information! I never spent so long as a few months' time traveling through there." Sand protested. Nevalle needed only return his gaze with a threatening glower. The truth lingered in their displacement. As the wizard recoiled into the darkness on the opposite side of a pillar once more, Nevalle advanced into the light of the room, pacing around the room.

"We are nine individuals of vastly different origins, with utterly different personalities, wholly dissimilar lives. Save that one precious thing that we all stand here for today, and that is justice. It is what unites us, what makes us the Neverwinter Nine and not nine people who serve Neverwinter. But when we allow our emotions and personal pain to distort our view of justice, we shatter. We are zealots and pacifists at war, and we erupt at the seams of what we formed to defend. In a manner direct or indirect we each loved the Knight Captain; her passing is unbearable to us regardless of how long ago it was. Sand, you were her dearest friend. Casavir, you loved her deeply. It was I that mentored and guided her towards battle with the King of Shadows. We want this tanar'ri, Axarthys Saintrowe, to suffer as we did for the Knight Captain's death," Nevalle declared, "But then are we any better than this murderer? Have we fulfilled our duty as one of the Nine? It has been three years since the Knight Captain was struck down. We have to detach ourselves from the past. Now is not the time for sorrow; we are done mourning. Now, we must rise. It is time we seek uncorrupted justice."

The Nine, in realization of what he spoke, chastised, turned in their silence to Nasher. He said, "You speak frankly and true. Now it must be decided what precisely justice is."

"I would suggest exile and banishment from Neverwinter," Nevalle said, "I feel it is closure without cruelty, as death would only mean this tanar'ri be sent back to the Abyss, only to return here regardless, and permanent death is unjust."

"Allow her to trot back home to Waterdeep? Why did she even come here at all?" Adelaide hissed.

Casavir joined, "To think she will be entirely unaffected."

"Unfortunately, this may prove true." Nasher frowned.

"Then banish her somewhere specific so she may not roam Faerun." Nevalle said, "Ruathym's mages would welcome a tanar'ri of her powers."

"A wise alternative," Nasher said, "All in favor, stand."

Most rose. Two seated were still. Adelaide and Casavir remained steadfast. Adelaide took the paladin's hand in support.

"Then as it stands, that is her punishment." Nasher said, "We will finalize our verdict in three days' time. Should any protesting evidence be brought forward then, we will reevaluate the situation. You are dismissed."

All stood to leave. Axarthys bounded to her feet, weaving through the crowd to reach Nevalle. She called out his name but he ignored her entirely, so she rested a hand against his back. She uttered, "Nevalle, I-"

He returned sharply, "Go to your chambers, Axarthys. I don't want to think about this case, about you anymore. I've sought this end for three years and I just want closure. I want peace."

"I-"

"I'll send a guard later to escort you through the gardens. Whatever you demand. Just- leave me be." He said, turning a corner and ascending a stairwell. Axarthys stood at the center of its helix, watching as he left for his quarters. The remaining Nine bustled about her, steering clear of her presence as they eyed her warily when they passed. She lingered still, ignoring their gawking, eyes transfixed on the stairwell. She whispered, "Thank you, Nevalle."

-

Assembled in the furthest reaches of the Moonstone Mask, Casavir, Adelaide and Sand circled a wooden table with untouched tankards before them. Their robes of station- whether the mantle of the Neverwinter Nine or the cloak of a wizard- were abandoned for cloth tunics, breeches, boots and skirts. Unrecognizable amidst the bands of middle-class merchants, the three vigilantes leaned towards the center of the table, eyes narrowed in a sort of rogue zealotry, theirs an unvoiced requiem for justice un-served.

It was the wizard who spoke first, his bright eyes aglow. He had called their secret meeting, and it was his voice that harkened the beginning of their meeting, "They will not kill her. They cannot risk open war. That is, unless there are other grounds to be considered. Other factors that would assure her punishment, which should be no less than death."

"So we are here to assemble our own evidence against her." Adelaide summarized, shaking her head fervently. She noted, "Nevalle is meticulous; he is heading her case now. He's squeezed every last fact from her, and he will use it to see she is not killed. He won't allow the tanar'ri to be executed. That leaves us nothing to use against her."

"My testimony," Casavir reminded, "Will surely seal the tanar'ri's fate when it is repeated on the morrow."

"Except if Darmon ever gets his sorry ass in line and captures the ranger, and then you'll have a witness to the very same deed who isn't going to let your words be the death of his private succubus. It's your word against his, Casavir. We need more." Adelaide said, "Sand, that is why you brought us here, correct? You have knowledge that may be to our benefit?"

"As do you, Adelaide." He countered. She pursed her lips, eyes sharpened and transfixed on the wizard. Sand sighed, "Very well, my information first, then. Remember what Nasher reported to us, what occurred at Red Fallow's Watch? At the same time I was involved with Luskan studying their magic, wizards had paid the Saintrowes to send Axarthys so they could commune with other tanar'ri. Axarthys then deceived them. She received her pay in advance, told them she needed to travel to Red Fallow's Watch- which she called a more 'spiritually charged' region for her communications- only to catch a free ride with Luskan forces to reach Bishop, who was her true assignment in Faerun."

Adelaide's brow arched mockingly. Her scowl upturned into a sickeningly sharp grin, and she chuckled, "Oh, what gossip. So what if she lied and schemed a handful of times- if we counted how many times you were guilty of that, Sand, I think we'd run out of fingers between all of us here."

"As if you have information any better." Casavir retorted, "Why are you here if you only wish to criticize? Does cynicism compel everything you do?"

"I am here, Casavir, because my entire family died defending the people of Red Fallow's Watch. That demon bitch hexed my mother, my father and my brothers. They were paralyzed, and I watched them, their faces contorted, aghast, as the fires of our home consumed them." Adelaide snarled. Her hand had clenched her tankard like talons against the metal, scraping at the surface with a fury unmatched by any other memory Casavir had of her. She stood from her stool, looming over Sand and Casavir both, "We deal with not only the murderer of the Knight Captain but a brutal slaughterer of Faerunian souls. She will use every last resource and pull every last string and she had many of them. She has the support of nobles in all major cities along our coast and the Saintrowe family- and wealth- behind her name. Nevalle will tell you that she is not worth a war and he is wrong. Whatever the cost, we must stop her. She will not leave this city alive while I breathe."

Sand nodded, quiet, "Then we know what is at stake. If we try and use our stories as evidence, the demon will only refute them and use Bishop and her royal connections to back whatever lie she tells. We cannot allow Nevalle to see to her punishment. It is time we act."

"We have little choice, then," Casavir solemnly voiced, "to do what must be done."

-

When dusk had long passed and the rain had eased, a Greycloak rapped at Axarthys's door. She joined him outside, asking, "You were sent by Sir Nevalle?"

The captain, a woman with cropped brown hair and almond-shaped, kind eyes, nodded, "Yes. I am Brelaina. Nevalle requested I be your guard. He has granted you free reign of the Docks District, where he believes you may attract less attention. Stay close to me there- the district is perilous."

Axarthys followed her, grey hood drawn to mask her face. They departed Blacklake with haste and even still received questioning gazes, though between her disguise and the rain that obscured her visage, Axarthys felt secure in her transversing of the bridge into the Merchant Quarter, treading the alleys to cross the river once more into the Docks. The rain had lessened where the wind had strengthened, wailing at first in muted whimpers now howling as if a wolf baying at the moon, fearsome and ravenous. Axarthys clutched her cape at the nape of her neck, restraining the hood from fluttering away on the thrashing air. Her eyes stung with cold moisture and she tucked her chin against her shoulder bone, shielded from the storm. Brelaina's torch clamored for its flame as it struggled to extinguish itself. She kept a hand on the tanar'ri's upper arm, calling in her ear, "We'd best go inside. There's an inn-"

"The-the Sunken Flagon." Axarthys interjected. Brelaina nodded, the demon in tow as they rounded the corner of a building, slinking past a band of thieves assembled around the warmth of a lantern's fire. The soft thump of feet upon the grass and dirt, the occasional hammering of boots on a broken pathway of stone, became the distinctive creaking of wood as they crossed the deck before the tavern's door. The wind pounded on it, Brelaina tugging the handle with all her strength. When it submitted, the guard and the demon nearly tumbled into the stale, hot air of the place, the door smashing into its frame as they stood at the threshold within. Brelaina motioned to the demon's hood, suggesting the tanar'ri leave it in place, and they strode together to the bar at the farthest reaches of the main parlor.

Axarthys had not forgotten the distasteful place. As she steered through the mess of tables and fallen bar stools, stepping over one drunkard who'd collapsed upon the floor, she recalled the obtuse proprietor, Duncan, and the foulness of the place she and Bishop once occupied. She was fleetingly inspired to beg Brelaina to stay the night so she could sleep in the bed she and her hunter had long ago lain entwined together in. A painful pang of memories struck her heart, an arrow plunged through the lungs of her emotional being. Breathing sharpened for a time, the prelude to tears she never shed. Axarthys missed Bishop so.

Every passing second had become misery, the echoes of a time long past. She approached the bar, remembered caressing Bishop's back as he vomited his drunkenness away, chastising him gently and with a knowing smile. She reposed on a barstool, reminisced straddling his hips as he sat on a chair by the fire, uttering stories in her ear before she feel asleep in his arms. She parted her lips to order a drink, recalled opening her mouth to his, surrendering her voicing of her love for naught but the sensation of it. Caught winded from her memories, Axarthys trembled in her words, finally managing, "Amontillado."

Brelaina's order had been interposed by Duncan's broad, thick chortle. He extended his arms on the bar, hands outstretched before Axarthys. The stench of cheap ale, sea salt and vinegar were about him. He boomed, "Why, if it isn't my old demon friend, Miss Saintrowe. Yes, you used to insist on a difference between sherry and amontillado, I remember you! And those eyes, pink as someone with a cold! Trial brought you as far as the Docks?"

Axarthys struggled for a response and Brelaina shook her head ardently, "You must be mistaken, sir. She is a noble and ambassador from Waterdeep. I was touring her through the city."

"No, no-" Duncan persisted, "She lived here at my establishment for four years. I know a loyal patron when I see one. You know, Axarthys… personally, I don't think you killed the Knight Captain. All hog's wash. Now take off your hood- let me see your face. It's been so long."

"No, I-" Axarthys insisted, "I am not she, the demoness."

"Afraid to show your face, girlie?" One of the customers by the fire taunted.

"I'll bet she's an emissary, sure. From Luskan." Another chimed. The first nodded in acknowledgement, stealing a sip of whiskey from his tankard before he spoke.

"No, no I think ol' Duncan's right. This here's Axarthys Saintrowe, demon-wench that murdered our hero, the Knight Captain." He said, reason clouded by alcohol. He stumbled off his seat, leaping atop a table, whipping his limbs in drunk theatrics as he exclaimed, "Who remembered the men we lost to the King of Shadows? Did your sons and daughters die defending Neverwinter? Would they still live if the Knight Captain had not been so brutally killed because of this, this pit fiend?"

"I am no pit fiend." She uttered. Brelaina's hand enclosed around her wrist.

"I'll escort you back to Blacklake." She said. Another of the patrons overheard her words.

"No offense, Captain, but you'll do no such thing. You're shielding a murder and even worse a demon." He hissed, sulking from his seat towards them, "We'll take care of her, Captain. Don't you mourn the Knight Captain?"

Brelaina tried to dodge the man, skirting about him, but he spun about and tore Axarthys's hood from her shoulders. She shrieked, ducking one of his hands as it reached to slap her cheek. Uproarious and anxious, the bar burst into anarchy. A brawl had set loose, and where it should have been patron pitted against patron, it was now every man against the tanar'ri. Brelaina was swiftly separated from her charge, shouting the name Axarthys in desperation derived more from fear of failure than from concern for the tanar'ri. Overpowered and helpless as she was, Axarthys could do naught save beg for mercy, knowing it was fruitless. Pleading filled her ears with a noise her own, gave her a degree of struggling that allowed her to believe she would not submit to defeat.

Fists collided with her ribs, the delicate bird's cage that was all that displaced her internal organs from malicious hands. Bare human hands upon her drove her to insanity, their thoughts coursing through her as their minds in their touch connected. Her telepathy drove the brawlers even more riotous. Her knees buckled as the patrons kicked them free from beneath her. Instead of collapsing entirely she was lifted, limbs pulled in every which way as she was carried outdoors. Her weary, tear-threatened eyes sought out Duncan. Surely he would come to her aid; he'd known her to long. Instead, he watched motionless as she was taken out to the docks like an animal to the slaughter. Except it was her dignity, and not her body, that would be most broken that night.

The mob had assembled, people swarming from their hovels as if mosquitoes to a lantern. Now women and children had begun to chant her name in hatred, cheering their husbands, sons and nephews on as they paraded towards the wooden docks. The whole district had gone mad with rage, the thugs and drunks and thieves of Neverwinter emerged from the darkest reaches of the city. Street lamps had been pounded out of their positions in the soil, carried by two men apiece like terrible torches. Flames had burst from the earth where downed street lamps had been left, strong enough in their fire to overcome the rain. The scene was hellish. Axarthys choked on the memories arising in a hardened ball inside her throat.

Red Fallow's Watch.

Suddenly she thrashed against the arms of her captors, screaming and cursing in tongues reserved for demons that had taken possession of a mortal soul. Her spine twisted, her body contorting in ways her skeleton did not appear to allow. Her fingers churned, mechanical in their gradual spasm, her voice hoarse and rabid as she shrieked in long-lost tongues, "I who descend from the blood of Belial, in heathen flesh and hedonistic heart, and dare your kind lay hands upon me? I, uncloaked in human form, and not possessed of a human your touch would stray cross my strictly demonic manifestation? Let condemnation in my dominion be your punishment, and ever there upon my plane shall I torment you who would do so unto me."

The crowd broke only momentarily, retreating from her enough for her words to cease. Before another breath she could take to continue a man still holding on to her legs yelped, "Burn her! Send her back to hell!"

The assembled mass went berserk. The guards, long idle in defending her, swung their weapons as they howled wildly. Children gyrated around their mother's waist, appendages lashing in horror, weeping at seeing the demon while their parent shouted and screeched rowdily. In the man's words they demanded in a united cry, "Burn her! Burn her!"

A dozen men pounced upon her, restraining the seizure of her body under their hands. She heard the tearing of material and the coarseness of it coiling to bind her wrists, arms held still as she was tied by two men on each of her sides. Those at her feet had in similar fashion tied her ankles, the rough linen burning the skin unprotected by her shoes. Hoisted upwards in a sudden jerk, Axarthys's arms were looped around a halved, abandoned mast stripped of its sails. The makeshift pole had been erected as she was bound, the fallen street lamps piled at the base. The shattered glass of their lanterns liberated the fire within, casting it upon the wood of the mast. Axarthys cried out as she felt the rising heat approach her, licking the soles of her heels. Lightning illuminated her pitiable position, the pounding rain unable to battle the relentless yet now-sluggish fire. Her eyes in desperation scanned the crowd, pleading for a returned gaze of sympathy for her suffering. In the absence of it Axarthys saw at the back of the crowd Adelaide Cryhart and the wizard Sand.

Adelaide stared directly at the demon, steadfast in their cruelty. She did not smile, did not cheer. Simply a grim satisfaction was upon her face. Parallel her Sand had handed a clear flask to one of the mob. The crowd parted as the man carried it through them. Axarthys's fingers, heated from the progressively growing blaze, had run cold. Her eyes, stung with smoke, widened in terror. No flame could burn half as badly, no wound ache a third as much, and where the contents of the flask would extinguish the inferno below it would only singe her more, scorching her porcelain flesh. Holy water.

As the crowd reformed around her and the man uncorked the flask, Axarthys's instincts had her duck to her feet and swing to rotate around the other side of the pole. In so doing she felt a splatter from her right shoulder cascading to her left hip across her back. Temporarily it was cool. Then it seared. Her skin split and cracked where the water had touched beneath her gossamer dress, blistering and throbbing so sharply she could hear the hissing of her own body burning. Pain had never been so vivid before, overriding all other senses entirely. Sight, sound, taste, smell all rendered irrelevant to touch, the feeling of sheer misery coursing through every artery, vein and capillary inside her. She was deaf to the victorious shrieks of the antagonists, blind to their manic smiles. Breathing meant inhaling smoke and expanding her body with air, stretching the skin of her back and furthering the opening of her wounds.

Bishop knew she was in Neverwinter, her mind wept, and he had abandoned her to this. He had deceived her, he had left her; how could he have been unaware? The city was aflame with fire and with voices raised to screams in crazed, vigilante justice. From anywhere in the Neverwinter Wood one could hear the echo of madness, feel the reverberations of peasants marching as a legion into a hell mouth, fearful alone but brave in their numbers. The hunter knew and he ignored. His life was not worth hers, he had decided. All she knew as decent and moral in Faerun, all of Toril she invested in him. And this was her reward.

Bishop had betrayed her.

Exhaustion forbade her tears. Axarthys ceased her struggle. Her knees met the earth and fire. Had she a white flag it would have been raised. She bowed to defeat, surrendered in body and a thousand times more in her mind. Neverwinter had shattered what fragility of her emotions was left. Taken from her home, carted up the Sword Coast, tried and given a transitory verdict to be exiled to Ruathym to become the subject of wizards and sorcerers' studies, forever locked in a cage there, Axarthys's heart had been slowly crushed by Tyr's hammer. Through his tool Neverwinter he had extinguished the tanar'ri's resolve. Once more Axarthys gazed up at the crowd, begging one of them in her frantic eyes to mercifully end her life where she knelt.

No one dared be so humane. They watched, they clapped, they cheered and they laughed. Their merriment continued. Yet without notice their numbers became anxious, surrounded. Thunder rattled the ground in hollow metallic hammering. Horses. Blacklake's royal guard aloft their white steeds halted before her, their ebony armor reflective of the moonlight and the stars, diamonds mirrored as if upon black velvet. At their center a palomino stallion stood, as golden as the sun, as radiant as the fires burning at the demon's feet. His rider ordered, "Half of you find Captain Brelaina and take her to Castle Never for questioning. The rest, lock down the district and interrogate anyone possibly involved. I expect a detailed report on the morrow."

Nevalle's voice tore through the torrents of the storm in her head. Acutely aware of her position she called for him to free her. In her mind she was screaming, yet truly her words escaped as a muffled slew of phrases in a tongue she herself did not know. She repeated and repeated in the same sorrowful, nonsensical mewl, "Diligo mihi summitto in meus pectus pectoris, diligo mihi summitto in meus pectus pectoris, diligo mihi summitto in meus pectus pectoris."

For what seemed forever he approached her, knelt, extended his arms slowly as if to reach for a wounded wild animal. Her eyes darted, her body still contorting as her senseless ramblings dissipated into ragged breaths. She was lifted to her feet, unable to stand alone, relying on the knight's body leaned upon. He severed her bounds, catching her as she tumbled into his grasp. His bare hands on her shoulders should have caused her to feel his thoughts reverberated in her own yet there was no sensation save the very physical one of the rumbling of his words from within his chest as he declared to the people, "You think this is justice? To torture our enemies are we any different than Luskan? This… this is an outrage; this action will forever tarnish our city, and it shall be you to blame. Return to your homes and remain there. You will not be permitted to leave this district until Lord Nasher- and I- see fit."

Axarthys's feet were lifted from the earth, body scooped in his arms. His hand on her back and the movement of his stride burned ferociously, her back's wound begging not to be so tormented. In turn she cried out, arms nearly strangling his neck with the remainder of her taxed strength, legs wrapped around his waist to keep her back straightened. That helped little- she was swung atop his horse, bent again, wound aching terribly. Once Nevalle had mounted, grasping her head to his shoulder, the pain dulled. The physical closeness filled a void Bishop had cored from her heart. Any embrace would have- had she been harbored in Adelaide Cryhart's arms she would have cared not. Human touch, mentally and bodily, soothed her. A brittle peace washed over her, fatigue surely contributing to it. She did not ward off the sleep tranquility offered. Axarthys acquiesced to slumber, rocked to sleep by the canter of Nevalle's horse.

-

The hunter had smelled the smoke, heard the flicker of the fire in the distance well-hidden under the patter of the rain. The earth shook as people amassed. From his post on an outcropping above Neverwinter, he saw the Docks speckled with the blazes of torches carried by its people. He wondered why they marched, toyed with the possibilities in his mind. The hunter hoped the incompetent Darmon and wretched Casavir had been slaughtered in the fray but the scene did not appear a battle. A protest, possibly. Given, anything was possible. It was, after all, the Docks, renowned for its instability and crime. The Shadow Thieves had surely just rallied the district thugs, or some ne'er-do-well had committed an act inspired by the late Moire, maybe as foolish as attempting to torch the City Watch.

He then paused, considered that Lamb was involved.

And if she was, what could he have done? She was capable, and he was no one to rescue damsels. Yet with the thought of her suffering came a shame the hunter could not wipe clear from his mind. He knew what it was to suffer. He remembered Red Fallow's Watch, and it had been her that came to his side and offered him peace. What if he had failed to do the same for her? Did his heart, as tainted and wicked as he'd allowed it to become, pine for her safety? It had been so long, too long, years. Three years, and only a few moments of her company while she killed the Knight Captain kept it from being longer. Could he let harm come to her?

He loved her severely. Of that he was sure. Sinking into the guise of the trees he coursed his way to Neverwinter. If she'd been injured, he had to reach her. He had to see to it that the scene he'd witnessed had nothing to do with her. The hunter could not longer wait for Darmon.

-

Author's Notes:

Wow, this chapter was perfectly miserable, wasn't it? Kind of like reading the fifth Harry Potter book without the teen angst. Okay, I hope not that miserable. Not going to lie though, I had WAY too much fun writing this chapter (Goes to show you how delightfully despicable I am). I wanted to take a chapter to bring my love of classic demonology into play for Axarthys, and the timing seemed right, so viola! I won't insult your intelligence by pointing the references out, but they're there.

And for your amusement, I deleted a scene in this chapter where Nevalle talks to Axarthys about if she ever possessed anyone, and she admits a number of years ago, yes, when she was "…slightly inebriated." It was a little too playful a scene to make this happily dark chapter. Maybe it'll make its return later on. :shrugs:

Happy reading always,

Valah