The ride north-east from Neverwinter to Crossroad Keep would take the better part of two days in good weather, but as it was the way was slowed by the persistent rains, turning the farmers' roads to deep quagmires of mud. It was only a matter of time before several of the wagons carrying supplies for the fifty soldiers became caught in the tracks, several not only a foot-deep in mud, but many others with their wheels trapped against hidden tree roots. The axle of one had broken upon a particularly heavy impact with an unseen boulder.
"Incompetent fools," Bishop sniffed as Isaviel rode back to join the others at the temporary encampment just off the road, "It's starting to get too dark to move on any more. At this rate we'll have to set up camp right here in the mud."
He and Neeshka were sat under the meagre shelter of a skeletal tree, atop the embankment a short way from the roadside, watching the struggling soldiers and the dreary scenery, and it was to the Tiefling that he spoke, utterly failing to acknowledge the Moon Elf's arrival. He did look over after a moment to send venomous glares to those soldiers who paused to salute their new captain. These were gestures which Isaviel felt herself naturally recoiling at, as well, as her horse wound its way past the already mud-filled tents towards her friends, several of whom had treated into the trees beyond.
"I'm tempted to leave them behind," Isaviel sighed, dropping from her horse, who an embarrassingly attentive soldier led away for her even before she could think to ask; she was still watching him go, shaking her head in discontent, when she spoke again, "I doubt anyone that poorly trained will do us much good in the coming combat."
Neither Neeshka nor Bishop responded to her; the Tiefling took badly to the dreary weather, as rain made her far more uncomfortable than strong heat, while Bishop had barely acknowledged Isaviel at all since she had recovered. He rode as far from her as he could get, he spoke as few words to her as was possible, and he seemed angrier than ever. The Moon Elf did not have time to corner him about this and had instead rode ahead with Sand and the leader of the Many-Starred Cloaks, Valarian, a startling albino Elvish mage who had researched Crossroad Keep's defences thoroughly.
"…but I suppose we have no choice but to make do with what we've been given," Isaviel sighed, turning back to watch the men struggling with the wagons over by the road, slipping amusingly in the mud, while others fought the wind and rain to set up tents, "It's better than no soldiers and no supplies, I suppose."
The fields were utterly bare after the dreadful harvest of that year. Neverwinter itself had not felt the effects of the struggle for food, with much in store and much else secretly shipped in from Waterdeep and Amn to avoid spreading frightening rumours. But the farmers they had met on the road herding their livestock told a different tale. One did not need to speak to them to know that they were afraid of the dawning winter, and their sunken cheeks betrayed their frugal use of the supplies they had. Their livestock were skin and bones, not worth killing for meat, and there was no way any profit had been made that year.
"At least we get a chance to rest," Neeshka pointed out, rather belatedly attempting to sound up-beat about this; she sent a half-hearted smile over at Isaviel when the Moon Elf glanced over to look at her.
The Tiefling was trying to sound cheerful, but she was huddled closely against the tree trunk, both hands keeping her hood over her head, tail helping to hold closed the rest of her cloak. Water was dripping off the tip of her nose and she looked thoroughly uncomfortable in that weather; the tree had lost most of its leaves, which formed a sodden orange bed beneath them. They were hard-pressed for shelter at this time of year, and it made the weather even more infuriating.
"Let's just say I think I'd rather burn than drown," Bishop grunted dismissively, taking a long swig from his skin of wine and pulling out some provisions from his pack; dried meat and hard bread. The fare of the adventurer.
"How much longer do you think we'll be travelling?" Qara exclaimed from within her expensive, oiled, fur-lined cloak as she rode up to the trio to see the pile-up of stuck wagons, "I can't believe I agreed to come with you. There's so much rain."
"Go and join in sword-practice with the others," Bishop suggested, waving his skin of wine at her, "With any luck one of them might run you through by accident."
"Ugh. You disgust me," the sorcerer sneered, instead beginning to wheel her horse back around to the road, watching him disdainfully over her shoulder, her blue eyes flashing dangerously when he made a rude gesture at her, "I pray to all the gods that you slip some day and get caught in one of your own traps. A fitting death for someone as…revolting…as you."
"If you knew all the ways I have planned to kill you, you'd not dare say that," Bishop growled warningly, placing a hand on his sword hilt, but the sorcerer just laughed contemptuously and spurred her horse away, spattering one of the men by the tents with mud.
Isaviel groaned in weary contempt for the pair of them, turning and patting Neeshka on the shoulder as she passed the Tiefling, heading further amongst the sparsely placed trees which served to mark out two farmers' territories. She could see Elanee picking through the leaves, while Khelgar had propped his axe against a tree and was practicing his unarmed fighting skills against one of the Greycloaks, who had blunted his sword appropriately. Isaviel wondered how he would fare against sharp steel.
The Moon Elf did not immediately see where Shandra and Casavir had gone – they had initially been practicing beside Khelgar, but now she noticed they had moved a little away. They had swapped weapons, and though Casavir held Shandra's shortsword with ease, the weapon perhaps better complimenting his stance with a shield than his usual choice, the woman was struggling with the glowing hammer. Every time she attempted to swing it, the weapon would tilt in her hands and sent her dipping to the ground. Mud was spraying up each time she lifted it, but the pair were laughing. Gods, Casavir was laughing.
Curious now, Isaviel became one with the dull grey shadows of the early evening and drifted towards them on feet well-used to treading a silent path through far muddier ground, concealing herself behind a pair of closely twined trees and peering through the gap. She had noticed Casavir and Shandra were beginning to spend a great deal of time together, but it had never struck her before. The way they laughed, the way they were not really practicing. It drew a crooked, rueful smile from her that she was so willing to eavesdrop on their flirting, but she felt no guilt for it. The others could not have failed to notice their behaviour either. If Sand had not ridden ahead to confer with the scouts, eager to know everything on his first journey to a battle in many years, he would have done the same, she did not doubt. She needed to know the dealings of her companions after all, did she not?
"I give up…for now," Shandra was laughing.
The woman put the hammer down at last with a playful gesture of finality, brushing her dripping blonde her from out of her eyes and unwittingly leaving behind a smear of mud on her cheek. Sand had described her once as 'rustically beautiful' and he was proven unswervingly correct to Isaviel in that moment, watching Shandra with Casavir. The woman's hair was a lovely honey blonde even soaking and hanging in strands like that; a little paler when dry and flowing in its usual untamed waves. Her skin was flawless, slightly tanned from hours of working in the sun, her eyes clear blue. She was certainly too muscular around the shoulders to be deemed classically beautiful, but she was shapely as well, without a self-conscious need to show it off. She preferred to dress in her farmers' attire in the city, and now she was perfectly happy in chainmail and leather breeches. Casavir certainly did not seem put off.
"My lady," he spoke the words so fervently, so gently, stepping closer, and she automatically took her sword from him, sheathing it with a little spray of droplets which tinkled softly against the paladin's armour.
Her eyes were staring into his as though mesmerised, a little nervous smile on her face as he stepped closer still, gently wiping the mud from her cheek with the side of his gloved hand. But with that gesture he moved to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing over her skin as he leaned closer. They both looked so nervous, Isaviel wished she could somehow have told them ahead of time that they both clearly wanted the same thing.
"Did I fight well?" Shandra smiled slowly, her eyelashes fluttering until she watched his lips for a reply.
"Most valiantly," Casavir nodded with a little laugh, sounding distracted as his other arm curved around her waist, pulling her against him – there was no way back now, surely? "You always fight valiantly."
"I wish you wouldn't," Shandra murmured, so softly Isaviel barely heard it, "I mean…I wish you wouldn't…against your emotions…"
"I understand, my lady," Casavir all but grinned, "And I do not think I can fight them."
They kissed then, one brief, tentative touch of their lips, a pause, a moment to look into each other's eyes cautiously, and then they pulled each other closer, their kisses more ardent, more enduring. Isaviel turned away then, feeling a little guilty at last…and confused. How had she failed to see that coming? She felt like she should have been happier than she was, but an odd feeling twisted in her stomach, a cold stab of something unfamiliar.
She moved back through the trees, all but invisible, unseen by Khelgar or Elanee…but a hand caught her by the shoulder as she passed those others, spinning her around. She met Bishop's glare squarely, a little shaken by his success in finding her in that state of shadowy invisibility.
"See something in the woods?" he mocked, and he sneered at her when she tried to raise her eyebrows derisively, "See something that made you jealous?"
"No. But right now I'm looking at something that makes me angry," she told him coldly.
She started to move away, but he caught her arm and pulled her back, pressing her hard against the bark of a tree, just out of sight of the others, until she ducked under his arm and gave him a shove. He twisted and caught her again, his grip far too hard, and she glared up at him.
"I need to know what's happening amongst those who claim to follow me," she responded through gritted teeth, "Though their caution was painful to watch. I prefer to be certain of what I want. And I know right now that I do not want you."
"Hmm...want," Bishop growled, "I hope that doesn't mean you want to own me, 'captain'."
"Enough, Bishop," Isaviel snarled now, wrenching herself free as Khelgar paused on his way past, watching their interaction with a distrustful frown towards the ranger, "You know I didn't choose this."
"Oh really?" he asked mockingly, "Is that so? I reckon you decided to do your duty the moment you stepped foot in Neverwinter. You've been undermining Neeshka's guild and guilt-tripping all the rest of us into following you. Making us think you had no choice, with that shard and those torn off wings," his rage was sudden and fierce, leaning closer, "But really you just want a fancy castle and pretty dresses and a perfect knight to match your own knighthood and flock of simpering children…"
The slap she gave him rang tellingly in the silence that had fallen. Everyone was watching; not only her companions, but also several of the men who now called her 'captain', just as Bishop had said they did. That had made her angrier than she could have expected, and when Bishop looked back to her there was a thin line of blood running down his cheek. His anger seemed to have dimmed a little, if anything, but he just snarled and stalked away, pushing past a frightened soldier as he went.
They made camp in the afternoon before they were to attack, a mile down the road from the crossroads which gave the keep its name, an intersection of farmers' tracks with a longer, more established road joining the Long Road with the High Road. The keep loomed at the top of an impressive rise, built on the edge of a cliff so that only its entrance and east side were accessible. The road leading that way was poorly tended, furrowed by the carts of the farmers who had livestock grazing in the surrounding fields of the castle complex.
Isaviel had been with the scouting group who had gone up to the keep while the others made camp, and she had seen for herself the extent of the place's ruin. All four of the outer walls, once several metres thick with enough room along their ramparts for many ballistae, were mostly collapsed into moss-covered chunks of stones. Some had fallen down the cliff face and lay by the crossroads. All of the buildings in the vast bailey, whether once wooden or of stone, where rotting and crumbling, as were the roofs of the tiered sections of the keep itself, which stood on a high motte of partially natural rocky ground.
It was hard to imagine the place was of any worth to anyone, and certainly not a man as powerful as Black Garius was supposed to be. However, there were men on the ramparts at the top of the keep, others patrolling the bailey and the surrounding lands. It was those lands which gave the best proof for the wizard's presence, as well, for the small farmhouse had been torched, many cattle and sheep, as well as a pair of horses, killed on the scorched pasturelands around the keep. The body of a man, evidently running away at the time of his death, was visible where the trees began at the far side of the field.
By late afternoon the plans for assault on the castle were laid out, and Isaviel was in relieved agreement with Valarian on how things should proceed. The leader of the Many-Starred Cloaks' contingent was an experienced Elvish wizard, three centuries in the service of Neverwinter. He was thankfully attentive and dutiful thus far, though the same could not be said for many of his men, or those of the Greycloaks. Isaviel had heard them muttering behind her back, seen their distrustful glares. She wondered if all new captains faced such difficult odds amongst their own men.
Their intention was to go in through the collapsed defences on the complex's eastern side; they had some thirty foot-soldiers, a paltry five archers (augmented by Bishop, who had refused to fight with Isaviel and her companions), and ten wizards, led by Valarian. Hopefully this would be enough to quell the men Garius had guarding the outside of the keep, especially when they had been taken off-guard in the final hours of daylight. They could not afford to leave their attack until they could utilise the comforting shelter of darkness. It was then that Garius was purportedly going to carry out his ritual; the night of the month when Selune was a new moon, her Tears twinkling, lonely in the sky; thus this was the darkest night of the month before winter. They had intended to reach Crossroad Keep a whole day earlier, but the weather had denied them. As if to prove that point, the winds buffeted them with unfamiliar strength as they approached, keeping hidden within the curve of the trees, the gusts howling over the flat plains of abandoned farmland.
It was understood that Isaviel and her companions needed to be able to get to the basement, where Garius was expected to be about to carry out the ritual. The only way to do that would be to break into the main keep itself, as the underground levels of the complex had once served as dungeons as well; as such there would be no other way in but the most defensible. They were fortunate the place was as ruined as it was.
With any luck Aldanon would be inside as well, and preferably unharmed and alive. Isaviel suspected that without him they would not be able to learn more of the shards, nor would they have a chance of getting to Ammon Jerro's Haven which they all hoped would answer her questions. The Githyanki had seemed interested enough to look for it.
Elanee's preference for fighting in the form of a bear meant that she, as well as Bishop, would not be accompanying Isaviel to directly attack Black Garius. That left the Moon Elf with Shandra, Casavir, Neeshka, Khelgar, Qara and Sand, with Grobnar still injured and recovering at The Sunken Flagon. Thus it was that as one the company of soldiers and adventurers fell upon the wizards and guards patrolling Crossroad Keep's bailey and outer environs. The fighting took longer than Isaviel had hoped, and she was increasingly aware of the setting of the sun when at last the ring of steel, the blast of spells and the shouts of combat died down. The Neverwinter soldiers had been lucky to take only three serious casualties, and thus far had received no deaths. The same could not be said for the Luskan guards.
It took some significant effort to break through the enormous half-moon shaped doors as well, and when at last their great metal lock broke and they swung wide, their wood was revealed to be almost a foot thick. It had taken a blast of magical energy from Qara to propel them into such free movement, and within the wizards had readied themselves, using fallen chairs and other mouldering items of furniture as barriers for the long-range attacks of their foes. There were far more of them than anyone had expected, perhaps twenty amassed but cowering in the great entrance hall, so dingy, smelling of age and rot – but also gusty from the absolute lack of a roof.
Several armed Luskan guards stood between the wizards and the Neverwinter contingent, and the Greycloaks rushed ahead of the others to immediately engage in vicious battle with them. Isaviel and those companions she had with her would need to get through the large set of doors over to the left, beside which part of the wall had fallen in to reveal an enormous but decrepit banquet hall. Ahead of this a number of black-robed wizards bearing an unfamiliar white sunburst symbol on their shoulders were deep in the throes of spellcasting, hands forming arcane gestures, many with their eyes closed as they spoke their incantations. A huge amount of magical power was growing in the room, and Isaviel held Shandra back when she stepped forward, sword drawn, as if to try to charge on their pre-planned route. First they would have to withstand the blast that was to come – and Isaviel prayed that the building could do the same.
Qara stepped forward, wreathed in flame, a wickedly gleeful expression on her face as she was the first to allow her spells to tear through the dingy room. Darts of fire arched over the Greycloaks grappling with the Luskan guards, and Qara laughed in delight when all three of the wizards up on the rickety balcony across the room caught fire, shrieking. Her sorcerer's skills appeared to give her the offensive advantage, perhaps a little too much of it, for that ancient wooden balcony had set alight as well, lighting up the whole room. It did not distract the Luskan wizards below it – or the seven or so others scattered about the room behind upended benches and tables; as one their magic ripped through the gusty air, sending all of the martial fighters scattering for cover. One Neverwinter man lost his footing and had his life quickly ended by cold Luskan steel.
Isaviel, Shandra and Casavir all dived for cover as well – Neeshka had surreptitiously slipped through the gap into the derelict banquet hall, and the Moon Elf had noticed her breaking through the doors there into the corridor beyond. A smile crept onto her face at that, if only briefly, for the rubble behind which she and her friends hid was shaken quite forcibly by a great blast of white magical energy. A glance over at the Many-Starred Cloaks, all lined up by the front entrance, showed to Isaviel that the man at each end of that group stood with eyes closed in deep concentration, arms stretched out. From their fingertips rippled a fine wall of fizzling energy, forming a barrier against which multiple blasts of magical missiles and fireballs hissed and died. Behind it the other Neverwinter wizards, Sand among them standing by Valarian's side, were at liberty to send forth their own magics.
At last the door which was their goal opened just a little, and through it stepped the tall, lithe figure of Neeshka to deal swift death to the three Luskan wizards in Isaviel's way. The man at the centre was pulled back suddenly, her tail wrapped around his neck, choking him, and the others met with her daggers before they could respond.
"Now!" Isaviel hissed.
She pushed Shandra forward and raced past her into the fray. Forced to dive, and arc to avoid the spellblasts; she heard her friend gasp behind her as the failed lunge of one man sent her into a forward roll, her momentum allowing her to jump to her feet immediately. Once she was standing, just metres from the opening Neeshka had forged, that man was on his knees, already dead, and her shuriken were returning to her grasp. When one more Luskan man stepped into her way, his sword raised to kill one of the Greycloaks, she only sped up her run, daring to lunge under his strike where his prey had not, and killed him too. She did not pause to hear the Neverwinter man's thanks…in fact she preferred not to.
"You did well," Isaviel told Neeshka as she reached the Tiefling, Shandra and Casavir not far behind.
With the battle still raging behind them in the main hall, spells roaring and swords clanging, men shouting, screaming and dying, the group of four slipped unnoticed into the darkness of the corridor beyond – the first roofed section of the keep which they had entered so far. Isaviel could see the thick cobwebs woven all across the bowed, years-old attempt to patch the roof with wooden beams. A moth eaten tapestry hung half-torn away from the wall by the door to the banquet hall which Neeshka had left ajar, and a broad stone corridor, bare of any life or light or sound curved around into the gloom.
"So that's the way down then?" Shandra hissed once Casavir had raised his hammer again and they pushed the door to behind them, pointing at the stone steps graven into the floor, a broken banister along the floor beside them, leading down to a forbidding iron door.
"That's the one," Isaviel agreed, glancing at the padlock lying open on the floor by the handle and looking incredulously over at Neeshka as the four approached, "Surely Black Garius is not so lax?"
"Apparently he is," the Tiefling shrugged, grinning as she pushed open the door into the thick darkness beyond, "I had a quick look and everything's just like the plans Valarian showed us."
She was right, just as Valarian had been. With Neeshka and Isaviel scouting ahead, silent and invisible in the gloom, they stepped through the doors onto a set of twisting stone stairs. Kicking up dust, they descended past the first floor down, the one they knew to be the pantry and storehouses for winter, then the next, a far more impressive door covered in locks and bolts on the outside; the dungeon. At this point the stairs changed, becoming a tight spiral set of uneven wooden steps without a banister but rather furnished only with a fraying rope to aid one's balance. The further they travelled, wishing Shandra and Casavir were not so heavy-footed behind them, wincing at the occasional shriek of armour plating against stone, the more it hurt.
As Isaviel stepped onto the floor of a broad room she saw a flash of green light ahead through the door in the far wall, and it was as if a dagger was pressed and twisted against her scar, as if the shard in her chest twisted and pushed against her skin. Gasping, she stumbled against the old table by the wall and Neeshka looked back at her anxiously, coming over to touch her shoulder, eyes flashing pink in the darkness. Pausing to catch her breath, Isaviel breathed deeply, closing her eyes, trying to find the peace Merring had taught her, and felt Neeshka draw her hand away sharply. Yes, she was a shadow now, thin and transparent, barely there at all. She felt safer, calmer, colder…and ready to do battle once more. A grin spread across her face as she watched Shandra and Casavir join them, silently surprised by her own confidence, nodding to Neeshka as she stood straight from the table – which looked rather like Sand's alchemist's workshop, with all those empty bottles…
The flashes from the door ahead were growing brighter, and as the Tiefling and Moon Elf approached on silent feet, gesturing for the others to wait a little way back, they heard strange chanting rising and falling. The words were not familiar, in no language Isaviel had ever heard before, and looking through the small section of grating in the door she saw it all…and at last she beheld Black Garius, the man who had ordered Moire to kill her in the name of the shadows.
It was time. Garius had donned only his typical black robes, although pointedly without the additional white velvet sunburst on one shoulder. He was not one for showier displays than necessary, and this was proving to be quite the spectacle already. The two shards he had managed to acquire before the Elf or the warlock were just enough for this, and they lay, glinting silver and beautiful on a waist-high pedestal of obsidian at the centre of the ring. There were eight points to the star-shape they had been required to carve into the stone ground – quite an arduous feat, which he was glad he had only needed to watch – at each of which stood one of his best wizards. He clutched the Tome of Iltkazar eagerly as he positioned himself before the pedestal, turning around to look pointedly at each of the men sharing this space with him. He did not need to be a being transcendent of the King of Shadows to kill them all together, and they knew that well.
They – and he – all knew what they had to do. The braziers at each corner of this large circular chamber had all been lit, and the flames burned green from the appropriate mixture of components; they stank, but any time practicing the necromantic arts meant one smelt far worse. And Garius was a master. He could not contain a slight smirk at the thought, feeling the rough surface of the tome, his prize key to immortality. Aldanon, the innocent idiot-savant, had suggested lichdom instead, but in his new form, the one he would take tonight, the greatest liches, even Szass Tam himself, would weep at his feet sooner than test his powers.
"The chamber is ready?" Garius inquired imperiously, and his acolytes responded with eager nods, their eyes telling of great fear, however, "And where are the shadow priests?"
"They took their leave, Master," one man offered, none of them daring to move from their spaces on the star – that was good, even if their news was not, "Once they were done preparing the chamber for the ritual."
That was…odd. They could have simply abandoned him beforehand, leaving him without the necessary power. Perhaps, he mused, they had been too afraid of his already potent wrath to dare refuse his command, even if they were now running back to their King of Shadows. His rage was a cold, heartless thing, and it shone in his eyes, sending the speaker cowering half a step off his line.
"Deal with them when we are done here. After this night, we shall have no more need for them…or their 'King of Shadows'."
"It shall be as you command, Lord Garius."
"Then let us begin the ritual," a shiver of fear ran through the last vestiges of his heart, "We wouldn't want to keep Neverwinter waiting."
His smile was crueller than a sneer, but there was no turning back now…nor did he wish to. The chant began immediately, and he joined in with more fervour than all the rest, already feeling a surge of power; a shift of the thickening darkness. Vaguely he was aware of the shards on the pedestal beginning to glow and glitter, of the tome hot in his hands. The words written on those ancient vellum pages swirled and mingled before his eyes until their power was flowing through him and he no longer needed to say the words; he no longer needed to lead the chant.
The green flames in the brazier guttered out, and the only light left in the chamber was that coming from the runes graven on the ground and the star shape which they formed. Somehow they only served to deepen the shadows, and the darker the room became the stronger Garius felt. The acolytes around him were being taken over by the dark magic now, some shrieking, some collapsing to their knees, but all were chanting, and though the pain only grew worse for them, they could not stop.
When a few more shrieks came and ended just quickly, that was why Garius thought nothing of it. He did not see any longer, for the power was too great, black magic pouring into him and clouding his vision. He could not see until too late, when the power was destabilised, the darkness continued to pour from the book, into him, and his eyes flew open, looking about wildly. This was wrong; there was no balance. Then he saw the fallen acolytes, dying in pools of their own blood, stabbed, their chants ended. Five acolytes remained, oblivious to the doom that was creeping through the darkness towards them, silent and unseen. Garius could not stop them, he was immobilised by the dark power tearing at his soul.
It was the first time he saw her, and he feared it would be the last; the Elvish girl, the one he had tried so hard to kill. She did not fear the shadows as Garius thought she should, as Garius knew she should. Instead she used them, and so did her friends. He could make none of them out, though he could sense that paladin's wretched aura, choking him even as the dark powers killed the wizard of the Fifth Tower. The human woman was blundering in the dark, and he could see the flash of pink of the demongirl's eyes. But only briefly as the power grew and Garius's own body began to glow white did he see her eyes, grey mists swirling at their heart. When she looked upon him, her expression was cruel and satisfied, and her eyes changed, glowing deep red…and he understood.
"W-what have you done to me?" Garius roared in pain, and as he spoke the white light poured from him.
A great humming grew in his ears, and his few remaining acolytes shrieked with him, all of them bleeding light, until with an explosion of magic the room lit up brightly, a few ancient stones shaking loose, and all of the power came crashing back into Garius. Death came.
Isaviel and her companions understood once they had killed only a few of the crazed acolytes that Garius's plan was ended. The powerful magic swirling around the wizard at the centre of the circle was too great to dare get close to him, but it soon became too great for him as well. It was not clear what killed him, for when he fell there was not a mark on his body. The light that had grown within him had all fled his body, and that seemed to bring about his death. His acolytes suffered worse fates, bursting briefly into flame and shrieking horribly.
Once they were all dead, the fires in the braziers – and that of Casavir's torch – all roared to life again, far greater than before, bathing the circular spell chamber in orange light. Isaviel and her friends looked at each other in silent, fearful awe for a few moments before the Moon Elf dared to step over the white-hot runes. Casavir caught at her arm, trying to stop her, but she shrugged him off and continued to advance on the two silver shards, glittering like false gold in the firelight. She stepped unconcernedly over Garius's body to reach them, feeling their powerful pull from the scar on her chest. When she touched them they sparked momentarily with magic but she did not pull back, lifting them with both hands to peer at them wordlessly, not listening to her friends' warnings. One was as big as her palm, the other perhaps half that size.
"My lady, please. It might not be safe…" Casavir was saying, but then she saw the tome still clutched in Garius's cold hands.
The book lay open, its strangely thick pages charred at the corners but black words, written in a small but spidery hand, were still clear – although not legible to Isaviel, for she could not understand the language. It was heavy, its cover rough when she picked it up too, and felt not even the faintest hint of remaining magic on its surface. Looking back around and moving over to her friends, who were waiting at the door, she smiled a little at their gawping faces. Black Garius was dead. One down…how many to go?