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"What in the Nine Hells and all of the Abyss does Nasher want with you now?" Bishop demanded.
The night had finally passed, Isaviel back in her room just after dawn, and she had been asleep on the table, her porridge cold by her side, when Bishop had entered without knocking. The ranger had apparently come up to her chambers to admonish her in the time that Isaviel had to pack her travelling gear, which she had gone about slowly, every limb heavy and aching.
"How should I know?" the Moon Elf glared at him, but his eyes only narrowed in response and she understood that her bluff had been called.
"You do," the ranger paused, making a dramatic show of sudden realisation, throwing a hand up, "Oh, wait. I know. He's going to make you a knight."
"Why do you care, Bishop?" Isaviel sighed, struggling to tie her bedroll onto the top of her pack, lifting it onto the table in the sitting room and tugging at the straps to try to alleviate some of her own annoyance at the situation.
"I don't care," Bishop denied quickly, and she glanced up at him doubtfully as the fastenings finally pulled into place, frowning when he affected his most mocking tone, "And I can't say I'm surprised that you're heading down the path of a righteous little hero."
Tired and increasingly angry, Isaviel fairly snarled at him for that , but her response only made him smirk coldly as he approached, catching her by the chin and staring down into her eyes suspiciously. Only when she moved back a step did she realise that she had not yet changed out of her dress – and how obviously unusual that attire was, when there was no way she would be travelling wearing it.
"You look tired…Captain," the ranger mused, his hand moving to the back of her neck when she tried to pull away, pulling her towards him, "What could possibly make the noble captain of Crossroad Keep stay up all night?" his voice was a growl now, his free hand running a fingertip along the neckline of her dress to emphasise his point, "And in such unlikely clothes?"
"You're assuming a lot," Isaviel pointed out, trying a new tactic now he was this close to her and she was embarrassingly unable to stay angry when his suspicions were so clearly incorrect, pouting up at him as she rested her arms over his shoulders, "The idea of going all the way back to Neverwinter with the promise of a knighthood makes me sick, and it's hard to sleep when I'm angry…I think Nasher will be disappointed if he expects me to bow to him and follow his rules."
"And what about this?" Bishop hissed, pulling her against him more fully with a sharp tug on the neckline of her dress, "That's no explanation for dressing differently…especially in the night when the keep sleeps."
"Why are you so bothered about what I did last night, ranger?" Isaviel smirked, and it was hard to keep up the teasing charade when his eyes met hers, so she leaned closer to whisper into his ear, "What do you think I'd be doing in the night? Whatever it was, it's no business of yours, surely?" she smiled more when he grunted and pulled her closer, his arm tight around her waist.
"I'd kill any man who you might spend that time with," he snarled, evidently intending it to sound threatening, but instead it just made Isaviel laugh, wrapping her arms around his neck, feeling his stubble rough against her cheek.
"Oh would you? I never took you for the sentimental sort, Bishop," she pointed out softly, kissing his cheek briefly before stepping away, heading into her bedroom wordlessly with the intention of changing into more appropriate travelling gear.
Of course he followed her, but that made no matter. He would see nothing new, after all, and he stood there in the doorway, arms folded, scowling, while she slipped out of that dress, turning her back on him as she gathered up her other things. She was mostly dressed, just buttoning up her pale grey velvet tunic when she felt his hand against her stomach, pulling her back against him hard. When she tried to move away, he only held her harder.
"You should not go to Neverwinter, Isaviel," Bishop told her earnestly, his tone unfamiliar enough that she twisted in his grasp, staring up at his face uncertainly, "It seems like the worst place for one who is prey to another. It's a place that won't move, where they'll expect you to be…"
Feeling her heart starting to pound at the intensity in his tone, Isaviel tried to smile with mock sweetness and covered his mouth with her hand before stepping away, hearing Sir Nevalle talking to the guards outside. She had pulled her boots on and was fastened on both her cloaks in the sitting room, surreptitiously checking that the recipe for Mephasm's summoning was in her tunic pocket, when the ranger spoke again. She could imagine the inner turmoil he had fought to get these words out, and his tone was so raw that she could only look at him fearfully, sidelong, as he spoke.
"Isaviel, you shouldn't go," he reiterated, approaching quickly, gripping the back of the chair between them, where it stood neatly tucked under the table, "This doesn't feel right. The knights and lords might think they're doing all these things in secret, but something tells me that the King of Shadows or whoever is leading those Shadow Reavers knows more than they do. If you go to Neverwinter, I think there'll be a fight – and it might not be a fight you can win."
"Bishop, you heard Ammon Jerro. I don't have a choice," Isaviel could barely force her words out, backing up as the ranger approached until she found herself pressed back against the wall by the door, "Bishop…I…" she had no idea what she was about to say, and stopped, staring up at him with wide eyes as he stepped against her.
"He could be lying," the ranger told her fiercely, his hands shaking a little as they drifted over her shoulders, his fingertips brushing over her skin until he held her face, forcing her to look up at him, his thumb tracing her lips, "Hells, he's probably lying. We could still get away from all this – just leave the shards here and we could go east and…"
"I told you before that I can't," Isaviel sighed, turning her cheek against his palm and closing her eyes, "There's no way I'm running."
"This isn't about being a coward, Isaviel, it's about surviving," Bishop disagreed ferociously, his brown eyes so honestly desperate that she felt herself starting to fear his next words, even as she could hear her heart pounding in her ears, feeling almost feverish with emotion, "I won't let you…"
He stopped himself, a look of self-loathing crossing his face, and then shrugged, leaning down towards her as she reached up on her tiptoes, meeting him halfway, gathering her against him and gripping hard as their lips met. It was tentative at first, though they lingered against each other increasingly until she pulled him closer with a groan. Then he kissed her more fiercely, more deeply than she had known him to, somehow. She was gasping and so was he, dragging each other closer at every break of contact. Both paused when they heard the door opening beside them, but it only broke their spell enough for them to look in each other's eyes with confusion…wonder…and fear. I don't love you, I don't love you…I don't…I don't…oh, gods…I love you.
"Ahem," Nevalle pointed out rather forcefully, but it took Isaviel a moment to look around at him, entirely unable to keep the panic out of her eyes, though Bishop paid no heed to the knight, dipping his head to the Moon Elf's neck and nipping her skin hard enough that her grip tightened on the back of his belt in warning, "We need to leave. Now."
"Alright," Isaviel nodded, knowing she had blushed to her roots, nodding towards her ready pack, "I will be out in a moment."
"As you will," Nevalle agreed shortly, not pretending to hide his derision.
As soon as the knight had stepped back outside, Bishop started pressing kisses to her neck, ignoring her feeble protestations. For a few more moments she let him have his way, her hand sliding up his neck and into his hair, something which only made him pretend to bite at her until she wriggled in his grasp, twisting to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. He stilled at that, and so did she; she saw him close his eyes, and his grip weakened a little.
"If you don't come back, I will hunt you through the Hells and the Abyss until I find you, and then I'll kill you again for being so weak," he snarled against her, not able to meet her eyes as he straightened up.
"What kind of sentiment is this, Bishop? Are you implying you care, now?" Isaviel tried to sound mocking, or curious…or both. But they both understood.
He turned to look at her sharply then, his eyes hard and angry, his expression set, but his hand traced the scars on her neck and he stepped closer, kissing her one more time, slowly, frowning against her and lingering as she sighed.
"Don't make me say it," the ranger hissed, and a shudder ran up Isaviel's spine at his words; she felt like a fool, staring at him with glazed eyes, sickened and excited all at once by her own realisation.
To break the silence that swelled – a silence that felt like it could have lasted a while – Isaviel smirked, winking at him and spinning away, pulling her pack over her shoulders and grinning at him even more when he watched her every move with a new hunger in his eyes. That made her finally remember to button up the rest of her tunic, and he raised an eyebrow at her for that.
"Make you say what?" she asked innocently.
He watched her silently, his expression not changing at all, arms folded across his strong chest; it still felt strange to see him dressed in that thin white tunic and those brown trousers instead of his travelling gear. One single dagger was sheathed on his belt; the hook for his longsword's scabbard empty. Burn scars glinted white across his shoulder, visible at the edge of his tunic's neckline, and there were more old cuts healed on his chest and neck, a thin one just on the right side of his jaw. It cut a fine white line through his dark stubble, and as her gaze lingered on him, she saw the healing cuts and bruises across his skin from the battles in Ammon's haven. His lips quirked a little at her sudden scrutiny, but she found it hard to maintain her attempt at levity.
He caught her at the door, just as she was about to leave, glaring at her with sudden ferocity. Weakened by her own secret and unwilling admission to herself of how she felt for him, she felt like a rag doll in his grip now. If he was right and she had to do battle in Neverwinter, and if she did not survive, would he mourn? Would he care at all?
"If I die on this journey you'll be free of your obligation to Duncan. You won't need to travel with me anymore," she whispered, but he only glared more.
"I could've just killed you myself for that," Bishop pointed out rather brutally – he definitely felt her shiver at his words, "I do what I want, not what your dear uncle Duncan tells me to," he added in a snarl, keeping a firm hold on the door handle.
"Don't make you say what?" Isaviel reiterated her earlier words, and he stilled against her, his lips against her ear, and the hand resting on her neck staying there when her pulse hastened.
"When you get back," he whispered, as if she never had asked him in earnest, "I will be waiting to throw you into my bed…and don't even think about your 'duties' and new, shiny knighthood. The day you decide your duty comes before yourself, I will leave you to the paladin's cold comforts."
Looking away sharply to hide the new fear shining brightly in her eyes at his words, Isaviel stepped back and pulled the door open, stepping out quickly when he growled in frustration and nodding coolly to the guards standing still as stone just ahead. On the way down the corridor, not looking back, she checked again for both of her daggers on her belt, for the shards in the bag across her waist, and for the note for Mephasm's summoning. She might love the ranger with all the feeling she could muster, but she did not trust him. Not at all.
Sir Nevalle set a brisk pace towards Neverwinter, spurring his horse on hard through the day, his blue cloak streaming out conspicuously behind him, unsubtly displaying his role as one of the Neverwinter Nine. Three Greycloaks road with them, but they were under his command as soon as they left Crossroad Keep and he did not deign to allow them a chance at an introduction. The path to the crossroad at the bottom of the cliff on which the keep stood had been cleared with increasing diligence by the soldiers as construction work neared its end. The main road back to Neverwinter had been significantly improved both by the employees of Crossroad Keep and servants of Neverwinter, largely kept clear of the thick snows that had begun to fall around them. Though Isaviel could barely see where she was spurring her horse, she had to follow Nevalle, and his guards in turn followed her. Their mounts had to be stopped twice on the first day to eat and drink from the provisions of hay and water that they had to bring along with them, given that the land was hardly suited for grazing at this time of year. The mud beneath their hooves was frozen solid, and it was a miracle that none of the animals fell and broke a limb on that hasty journey.
The forest in which they made camp that night provided poor shelter from the snow, all of the trees void of leaves under which to hide. Instead they built a feeble fire and huddled under a tent made of quickly knotted branches and several spare cloaks, all five of them shivering together. Isaviel wolfed down her rations quickly before turning away, wrapped in her cloaks beneath the furs they had to share, and though the ground was hard and the night cold, she fell asleep quickly. It was not a deep sleep – no elf often achieved more than 'reverie', a state of rest far closer to consciousness than that on which a human could survive. This felt especially prudent given the unfamiliar company, and the Moon Elf had been careful to position herself on the edge of the group, by Sir Nevalle. She doubted the noble knight would be a danger to what little honour to which she could lay claim.
In spite of her weariness, Isaviel had been first up in the morning, a little surprised to realise that no one had woken her for the watch. Perhaps they had seen how tired she was, and understood she would have been expending far too much effort to stay awake to look out for danger. They spoke little once the others were awake, and Sir Nevalle did not even bother trying to exchange pleasantries – perhaps knowing Isaviel would give none back – before saddling his horse and commanding that the others do the same.
Their pace on the second day would have been no slower, but the night's snows had fallen thick along the road and at one point they were forced to dismount to lead their horses over an all but concealed bridge. From there the going was a little easier, once the walls of trees fell away, revealing the distant pale blue sparkle of the Sea of Swords on the horizon with apparently endless snow-covered farmland to the south, where storm clouds hung. Ahead the road was broader, and where another path joined it there were wagon tracks in the snow, evidence of booted feet and horses' hooves. As the curving road wound first west, and then east, they rounded a tall rocky hill and saw to the north the great Crags. Steam rose from its westernmost tip, below which was sprawled the grey and brown of Neverwinter, clawing up its early foothills to the little pointed rectangle of stone better known as Castle Never. The eternal emerald of Neverwinter Wood began past the low hills less than half a mile away, not quite blending in with the drearier forest which had dogged their path so far.
Though the others rode on, Isaviel could not help but draw her horse to a stop to survey the world at this higher vantage point. Back the way they had come, and to the south where the black storm clouds gathered, all was thick snow, bare of grass or leaves and life, only the cold wind and the realities of the frozen north. To the north west, however, where Neverwinter lay, the grass was brittle and grey, but not gone, and the trees were deep, rich green. Those westernmost mountains of the Crags, steaming under a pale blue sky, were void of snow as well, and it was all thanks to them that this oasis in the winter desert remained. The more easterly mountains, taller, half-seen past the Neverwinter Wood's long shadow and through the fog of distant falling snow, were cloaked in white and colder than death, just like the rest of the Frozen North. For Neverwinter's lands the winds might still burn with cold, and the snow might fall, but it never lasted.
The Moon Elf, brought up in the more temperate Mere, had never known such cold as she had endured in these past few months – cold which would only grow worse. In West Harbour the summers were hot and humid, the sun a hazy golden orb shining in the sky, and the winters were rainy and grey, but never snowy. This year's winter was the first she had truly endured, for all her others had been spent in the Mere, or sheltered Neverwinter.
As they hurtled down the path now, curving towards Neverwinter slowly, aiming to join up with the last few miles of the High Road along the Sword Coast, it became ever clearer that all was not as idyllic as it had seemed at a distance. Perhaps an hour or two more, when the travellers from Crossroad Keep had stopped to allow their horses to graze on the blessedly available grass in the Neverwinter plateau, they could see the first tents of a nearby camp of enormous size. Sir Nevalle ordered his men to give out some of their food to the women and children who ambled towards them as they passed along the road again, but also urged Isaviel not to slow down. These dirty, rag-clad people, living in squalor and desperation, were thin and wild eyed. They had known the horror of the Mere, and yet suffered the horror of winter. Grief was a ghost that dogged their steps, and hunger the monster that drove them on.
There were three large camps on the way to the High Road, and many smaller ones between them, all built up close to – but not inside – the border of the Neverwinter Wood. Isaviel had passed through that place once, under Bishop's guidance when they had hunted Shandra. But the ranger knew the place well, and it had seemed peaceful enough. Grobnar and Bishop, as well as the Moon Elf herself had hunted there, but it seemed the place had a less than positive reputation. The common folk feared it, whispering of spirits and the like, so Nevalle told her as she rode beside him, their journey slowed by a wagon laden with furs, which were being handed out by Greycloaks of Neverwinter to the refugees.
Many more men, women and children were making their way in small, weary groups down the High Road when Isaviel and Nevalle reached it. All were underfed and dirty, but some had expensive steel in their hands and wore the remnants of richer clothes. It appeared no one had been spared whatever dreadful events had surged out of the Mere of Dead Men.
It was past these fearful, all but broken people that the party rode, to the chorus of the crashing waves on the pebbles to their left, eventually reaching the high stone walls and its painted wooden gates. The guards barely exchanged a word with Nevalle before opening the gates for him, allowing him, Isaviel and their three companions to exchange their horses for fresh mounts before galloping down the familiar central road of the Docks District.
The early winter evening was creeping in by this time, the sky pale purple with white clouds looming closer all the while, fringing the tops of the rickety wooden houses they passed. The sights and smells of the Docks, unique and unpleasant, rushed past in a quick breath of nostalgia for Isaviel. They did not go too near the quays themselves, but she caught a glimpse of a few high masts, void of sails, and the calls of fishwives and their worker husbands, all trying to sell wares which no one really had the coin for at this time of year. A carefully timed glance gave Isaviel a very brief view of the distinctive curved awnings of the Sunken Flagon, perhaps thirty metres down a side road, but after that they reached the Dolphin Bridge and crossed over into the Merchant Quarter – a far less familiar and heart-warming sight. It was here and not the Docks District where the refugees who had been allowed into the city were camped, their tents filling the extensive and once picturesque park by the riverside.
A little snow had gathered on the tops of the towers of Castle Never, far enough from the warming waters running below the ground, and icicles hung like poised daggers from some of the lower eaves. The guards at the gates were huddled under thick cloaks, looking more concerned with getting warmer than keeping their lord safe, shivering up on this high hill overlooking the rest of the city. Still, they jumped to attention when they saw Sir Nevalle's uniform, and the gates swung open quicker than they ever had for Isaviel.
Once inside the castle, Sir Nevalle escorted the Moon Elf to her room; it was accessible only along the high balcony standing over the great hall which ran through the centre of the building, from which a short flight of steps led up to a wooden door. There the leader of the Neverwinter Nine stopped, looking grave, and put a hand on Isaviel's shoulder as she moved as if to ignore him and head for her room.
"This is a room of honour, Isaviel Farlong," Nevalle told her coolly, gesturing across the walkway behind him, and at the gilded bars allowing them both a view at the echoing hall below. Even from this distance it was possible to make out a few conversations on the polished ground, the cold wind pouring through the great oculus not far across the roof from this point.
"What of it?" the Moon Elf shrugged, shivering, pausing to peer down at the people far below, all dressed in such opulent clothes, bowing and curtseying and drinking from expensive goblets, "It seems to be the coldest room in the whole castle."
"With privileges come duties," Nevalle responded, a little sharper now, nodding towards the black gates leading to Nasher's audience hall, "Come the dawn, you will be the first to see him, and receive the honours he would bestow upon you."
"A knighthood when I'm too sleepy to disagree?"
"A knighthood to honour the good deeds you have done for Crossroad Keep, though it pains me to say it," Nevalle corrected, raising a sceptical eyebrow in her direction as she looked at him in confusion, "Though some of the company you…favour…is foul, you have exceeded my expectations. It would appear that Nasher was right to believe you could succeed at the management of the keep, though I doubt he trusts you any more than he did to start with. He wishes to confer upon you the title of 'knight' because he does believe you can do further good deeds, beyond rebuilding the Crossroad Keep, and even in strengthening its army. The…dark elf you brought with you as your weapon master has garnered the respect of the men, in spite of his heritage, and he has helped a great deal in improving their combat expertise. Casavir is a welcome addition, as is the dwarf, Khelgar. Your father is an excellent bowman I might add," Nevalle looked a little taken aback when Isaviel frowned and turned away, watching the milling nobility below, "He and that Gnome seem strong additions to our cause."
"But there are those who you would see gone, as well," Isaviel nodded, gripping the bars in front of her, preferring to watch how the dying light danced in the water of the container below the oculus rather than see her companion's expression.
"Provided that you can keep the Tiefling, the sorcerer and the ranger under control, I will ask no more of you," Nevalle spoke carefully and after a long pause, his voice strained, "Any misdeeds they do will fall to you to punish as appropriate. If you fail to do so, then you will die along with them for treason."
"A rousing speech. Don't you think you could set me free now and save yourself the washing fee to wipe up all that promised blood? Now, if you wouldn't mind, we have been travelling hard – I would like the chance at least to wash before meeting with your wretched lord."
Again he stopped her on the steps when she moved towards her door, and she pulled her arm back sharply, not looking away from his piercing blue eyes and matching it with her own golden stare.
"You know that we would not deal with you unless it were absolutely necessary. And mind what you say of a High Lord in his own castle," Nevalle reprimanded, "There is a growing darkness to the south and Crossroad Keep is our best hope of stopping the army of the King of Shadows from reaching Neverwinter. Your keep will play a great role in the war to come – we are awaiting word from the defence of Fort Locke, but we fear the worst. They must surely have been overrun, but we hope yet for survivors. This knighthood is a gift, a great honour, for all the service you have done for Neverwinter – whether willing or not, you have done well so far. Soon Nasher will give you the garb and titles of knighthood and you should wear them with pride," his words were clipped, his eyes hard, "As the days grow darker the need for heroes grows greater. And Lord Nasher wants to recognise you as one of our finest. It is you who have built the keep into the force that it is. It is your name that is echoed on the lips of the men and women there. Even Sand has been known to say a kind word or two about you.
"What you will wear is more than just a piece of embroidered cloth, it is the hope of Neverwinter. Your companions and the people you have assembled in Crossroad Keep believe in you, and through you, believe in Neverwinter. It is no small thing you have done."
Every word was a like a blow to Isaviel. Her heart was pounding as if from fear, and she knew her eyes had grown wide, her expression shocked. Though Nevalle clearly did not like her, he seemed to believe in her just as much as he had claimed the others in the keep did. Swallowing hard, the Moon Elf looked away, wondering at how this had all happened, and why anyone would believe in her to do anything other than break the law.
The weight of duty hung heavier than had the expectation of heroism, because whether she liked it or not she had already been branded a hero and if she failed now and turned away from that expectation she would be weak in the eyes of all. Bishop's words came back to her as she steeled herself, looking to Nevalle with a steady expression, drawing herself up. The day you decide your duty comes before yourself, I will leave you to the paladin's cold comforts. But she just nodded, and Nevalle's expression cleared in surprise.
"Very well, then I will accept this knighthood…and my companions and the others at the keep will learn that they did not waste their time believing." What is love when there is no hope of life after it?
"That is all we ask," Nevalle smiled a little, stepping back and bowing to her, "I will come for you at dawn tomorrow. Be ready; duty is an honour that weighs heavily."
Isaviel did not watch him go, though as she turned the handle of her door she heard his heavy footsteps ringing on the tiled floor of this stone balcony. The room beyond was warm, in spite of the draft from the roof of the great hall, with a large fire crackling heartily in one plain wall, a bath tub ready in front of it. A large four-poster bed stood by the broad window, which looked out onto the gardens and hot springs along the northern slope of the hill on which the castle stood. The floor was covered with a soft deep blue carpet, and the Moon Elf was quick to pull off her boots and drop her pack, removing her travel-muddied clothes and slipping into the bath with a relieved sigh.
A diligent servant had left a pot of steaming soup on the table nearby, and there were some fresh clothes lain across the bed; a long silver dress of many thin silken layers, and a dark blue tunic with matching leggings, embroidered with shimmering leaves. Seeing this, the Moon Elf could only roll her eyes in disgust – evidently her usual clothes, even those the city had enforced up her at Crossroad Keep, were not deemed worthy of a knighthood by Lord Nasher.
Isaviel was lying in the deep, warm water, beginning to consider dragging herself towards that soup on the table, her hair hanging over the side of the tub to dry closer to the fire when she heard a crash outside. She had been half-dozing, staring through the window at the drifting snow, a dense veil of black to human eyes. Now she sat up swiftly, the water sloshing loudly around her as she twisted her long hair back behind her head, droplets tinkling from between her fingers.
She heard the grating of stone, the slamming of gates and running, booted footsteps echoing distantly, doubtlessly down in the great hall below the balcony outside her door. Those rich stragglers who had been drinking in the hall, talking noisily and jovially in spite of the late hour, had grown quiet; had Isaviel been less weary she would not have failed to notice that change.
Someone screamed – a scream of terror, not of pain; one of the ladies from the sound of it. Then someone screamed in agony, and the booted footsteps sped up…and stopped, accompanied by the ringing of blades. Isaviel pulled herself swiftly to her aching feet, stepping quickly out of the bath – only to slip on the water and fall to one knee with a cry.
"Gods! Lord Nasher was holding council in there…" she heard Sir Nevalle's voice ringing in the hall below as more cries of alarm went up, and more armoured feet pounded the floor, "We must get to our lord and escort him safely from this place. If the barriers are down, he should be safe…"
A shrill sound, very much like an amplified human scream, had Isaviel doubled up, clutching at her ears in surprise, but even over this she heard the people's cries of fear and rising panic. One of those shouts ended in a great, rattling wail, and the Moon Elf recognised the heaviness in the air, saw how the shadows on the walls seemed so much darker. There was a Shadow Reaver in the castle, and he had brought his servants of shadow with him.
"It's the ancient alarm!" Nevalle cried in horror as the shrieking ended and Isaviel managed to get back to her feet and start pulling on her clothes, "Everyone, to the guardroom! Not you two – you come with me. We must get to Lord Nasher or all is lost!"
Isaviel leapt back at the sound of something smashing against the doors of the rooms flanking hers, and there were more screams from so close at hand almost immediately, even as the ringing of battle in the hall below began in earnest. Hopping across the floor, almost slipping on the water again, still only in her undergarments, Isaviel managed to reach her weapons' belt and the bag for the shards as she heard the wood of her door splintering. That sent her skittering back against the bed, fumbling for her weapons and forgetting about her lacking state of dress.
"Isaviel Farlong. Know that your life will end here tonight," a deep, male voice stated calmly; a tall, dark-robed figure who stepped up around the corner.
This strange man held a serrated knife in one hand and a whip in the other, both trailing viscous red droplets onto the carpet. His veins pulsed red, not blue, beneath his papery skin – what sort of man was this?
"Now why would I let you do that?" Isaviel asked archly, trying to hide the shake in her voice.
"Neither you, shard-bearer, nor your lord may leave this castle alive," he responded nonchalantly, eyeing her movements as she reached for her weapons, "You cannot hope to defeat our King of Shadows."
"Oh, but you would say that, wouldn't you?" Isaviel pointed out, tensing in readiness, "And I shall happily prove you wrong."
The man just smiled more broadly, and did not bother to dodge when she threw her dagger at him. The weapon buried itself to the hilt in his shoulder, but he only raised one sculpted eyebrow, his icy visage as perfectly chiselled as the statues in the hall below, wherein his comrades battled against the forces of the castle.
Nor did he avoid her next weapon – her other dagger, foolishly discarded in her panic. Where the blades came into contact with his blood, they seemed to simply dissolve, and as the two hilts fell to the ground he tilted his head with a mocking pout, his eyes flashing red as their gazes met. He lashed out with his whip, and it cracked through the air far quicker than Isaviel would have expected. She had managed to fasten on her weapons' belt and as she threw herself to the side, she sent one of her shuriken spinning towards her new foe. That was an attack that he dodged as well, and the bladed projectile clattered against the wall as its magic sent it looping back – something he had not expected, for one keen edge left a thin cut across his sharp cheekbone.
Hissing, the man lashed out again, and the whip coiled with a blaze of heat around Isaviel's closing hand when she reached out to catch the returning shuriken, sending the item dropping to the ground. Crying out, the Moon Elf allowed her form to dissolve into the dim light, wrenching herself free – the whip had left blisters, and several cuts where the spines on its end had pierced her skin. Seeing the man's evident delight at her pain, and his apparent lack of concern for her disappearance, her panic became rage. He would not best her.
Isaviel threw herself towards the deepest shadows, her incorporeal form obeying immediately…only to feel a change in the air and see him appearing by her side, looming over her. She was forced to reach up and catch his icy wrist when his serrated knife descended towards her, and his immense strength pushed her to her knees. But it gave her time to lash out, another shuriken cutting more solidly through his right thigh. He grunted in pain and threw her back; she had expected this, and angled herself into a roll, reaching her feet quickly and flipping back when her opponent sped through the shadows to catch her off-guard again. She did not waste this move, however, sending another throwing star towards him; he had underestimated her, evidently, for he was too slow, and it tore through his left arm even as he raised it to crack his whip again. As his arm fell uselessly by his side he roared in pain, his skin sizzling and hissing horribly.
The shuriken responsible, a little heavier than the others, had embedded itself in the wall behind him. It gleamed gold in the candlelight by it and had three blades instead of four. It was Merring's, not one of hers, and that realisation brought a grim smile to the Moon Elf's face; the weapon must have held some enchantment of his Sun Soul order, in the service of Lathander. All manner of undead was deemed vile and unholy to that god, as this strange pale man must surely have been to have no warmth in his body and to rebuff her daggers as he had.
When next he danced into the shadows, she used her own similar ability to dodge him, reaching the shuriken he had not dared go near again and wrenching it free. The man cringed back a little when he saw her holding it again; he moved for the shadows once more…and so did she. He was not hard to follow now, especially not around this confined chamber, trailing all that quickly congealing cold blood across the carpet.
They met once more by the bath tub, and he jumped back to avoid Isaviel's swing with the shuriken, wielding it now as a melee weapon. Its blade cut through the stomach of his robe, but failed to catch his body – a miss that cost her, for he was quick to seize his advantage. Though his left arm could not wield a whip, and he hissed to move it, that did not stop him swinging it against her, backhanding her across the face, forcing her to stumble, dazed. Though she nicked his skin with a desperate slash, he caught her by the throat, raising her struggling into the air, and threw her down into the water.
The shuriken slipped from her grasp into the tub as the back of her legs slammed against the rim, and she clawed on reflex at his choking grip. As the water closed above her face, she saw her breath bubbling away from her, and the leering form of the monster who held her. The water burned against her eyes, and her lungs convulsed as she forced her lips closed, knowing even in her panic that she must not swallow the liquid. The man's hands closed more tightly around her throat, and she began to kick against him, grasping around the bottom of the tub for her shuriken. Her vision began to fizz, and her limbs were weakening when at last she felt the metal blade against her fingers and grasped it tightly. She tensed herself as she hooked one foot against the rim of the tub, the other under the man's own weapon belt as she lashed out with the shuriken, kicking against him at the same time. Blood poured down into the water before the man fell back, bringing her back out with him – dirtier than she had been start with, after all that.
Gasping, Isaviel pulled herself up, staring at the lifeless form on the ground and the strange thick blood pooling around him. Before her eyes his form collapsed in on itself and dissolved into the air, becoming a fog which poured across the room and streaked out of the door. She watched for a moment, her heart pounding and her breath coming in long, wheezing gasps, before stumbling to the bed and pulling on the tunic and leggings laid out for her there. She did not bother struggling with boots, just buckling on her belt and throwing the bag of shards across her back.
The Moon Elf did not give herself too long to think about the past events, only vaguely aware of the continuing pain in her hand as she ran on silent feet from her room, out onto the balcony. A man and woman were dead on the tiles to either side of the steps leading to her door, and she stepped over the latter to reach the barrier.
In the great hall below monsters of shadows fought with tiring guards, and many forms lay still on the marble floor; that included servants of both Nasher and the King of Shadows. It would appear that most of the nobility who had been gathered there had been safely led away to the guardroom – Isaviel did not trouble herself to ponder whether they had faced their death in that place or not.
Hearing the sounds of battle were more persistent further down the balcony, beyond the barrier separating the great hall from Nasher's audience chamber, the Moon Elf headed in that direction. She could sense the evil of the Shadow Reaver, and that ache in her chest was drawing her on. She could already feel its rage filling her, driving all the aches and pains she should have felt from her consciousness.
When she reached the section of the balcony which overlooked Nasher's audience chamber – evidently this was a prestigious place to stay, after all – she did not pause too long to consider the scene. Three worryingly corporeal beasts of shadow with talons long as greatswords were batting at five much more humbly sized humans dressed in the clothes of the Neverwinter Nine, their swords singing with enchantments as they bit against the monsters' skin. Lord Nasher had been backed up against his throne, his sword and shield in hand, and two more of the Neverwinter Nine stood in front of him. Several other guards were helping them against the Shadow Reaver who aimed his crackling spells their way.
As soon as she saw that monster, and the bright blue glow of his spirit in his ghastly skull, she could taste her fury rising up from her scar, torn anew, its power filling her body. Using agility she had never dared to test in the past she threw herself from the barrier of the balcony, her feet settling easily on the jutting decoration a short way below, before diving forward. As she fell towards the Shadow Reaver, the tendrils of red magic were already reaching for his soul from her scar.
The men and women in Highcliff were afraid. Elanee had observed this to her great sorrow as they rode through the all but deserted streets, seeing the pale, watchful faces of the townsfolk peering at them with haunted eyes through their windows as the group passed, pulling the coffin with them. The town might be apparently empty, but the seaside was teeming with people at the bottom of the eponymous high cliff, all begging for passage on the last few ships to Neverwinter. Refugees, all of them; starving, diseased and dying – Elanee wondered if ever so many people had sought escape from these lands for the colder Frozen North. Though the ground was icy, and old snow lay across the roofs of the houses, thicker on the farmlands further north, Highcliff had been spared the horror of that winter which Elanee and her companions had endured to reach that place.
The roads had been so well trampled by the walking refugees who had not been able to afford sea passage that their journey had gone quicker than expected. They had reached the town half a day early, only to be met with the sight of the desperate people on the shore far below, and the fear and distrust of those who remained in the simple little homes on these few empty streets.
"There will be a storm tonight," the druid sighed, looking up at the dark grey sky hanging heavy above them, "Rain which will freeze, and lightning."
"Ye must be jokin', druid," Khelgar huffed on his pony beside her – an animal which had endured admirably in spite of being required to keep up with the other horses, and under his heavy weight. Even without as much armour, and after all of his training in the ways of the monk, Khelgar was undoubtedly heavy.
"I wish I were, good Dwarf, but alas," Elanee shrugged and they shared a sombre glance before looking forward to the leader of their party, his gleaming hammer lighting the way for them in the dying light.
Though the men they had taken with them might be able to joke by the fire of a night, now riding a few paces behind with the rumbling wagon dragging Shandra's coffin, nothing seemed capable of stirring Casavir's spirits to any heights. Not anger. Not misery. Certainly not mirth. He rode ahead, his armour clanking and scraping audibly as he moved, even wrapped in furs and a long black cloak as he was. He always made certain to ride ahead, never beside his two friends – and he did not ever look around at the coffin coming in their wake. He spoke little and ate even less, sitting up by the fire almost all night for every day of their journey.
Now the paladin reined in his horse, just at the north eastern edge of the town, as an aged man in simple brown clothes hailed him, waving a torch out in front of him to herald his presence. His back a little bent, his hair thin and white, and his face deeply lined and mottled with the passing of many years, this man also wore a golden badge on his shoulder. That was the shield denoting him as mayor, lore Elanee had only recently learned.
"You bring back one of our own," the mayor stated darkly as Elanee and Khelgar at last rode up to flank Casavir, and the paladin nodded, his pale face an emotionless mask.
"She fought nobly and saved many lives," Casavir said at length, but the mayor's expression only filled with sadness, "It is Shandra Jerro who we must lay to rest."
"Yes, I feared as much. It is to her farm that you go, I understand – her mother was buried there, and her grandmother. She has no living kin, but the town will mourn; she was a friend to many," the mayor nodded. No one corrected his inaccuracy regarding her relatives – it was at Ammon Jerro's hands that she had died, after all. Her grandfather lived, to her cost.
"Indeed. My companion warns me that the weather is against us – we must hurry, before more rainfall freezes the ground harder still," Casavir explained.
"Yes, of course. Though it may rain, the cold lingers," the mayor agreed solemnly, "Ride on, sir paladin; noble lady; good Dwarf," he nodded to each of the companions at the head of the group and stepped aside, "I will bring a group of townsfolk to join you. We will mourn our friend together, and you and your group will want for nothing at our inn."
"Thank you, Mayor," Casavir inclined his head, spurring his horse on immediately, and the others followed him into the trees ahead.
They had crested the hill beyond the woods, just past the outer palisade of the town, when the first raindrops fell fat and icy onto Elanee's cheeks. The ruins of Shandra's farm lay beyond, a dark charred mass surrounded by grey, frozen fields half-covered in snow. The young druid blinked up into the rain, the water trickling over her cheeks and down her neck like endless tears. She prayed to Chauntea that the earth would move beneath their shovels, or they would be caught in a dreadful storm and the dark shadows of night.
The Reaver roared when her shuriken dug into his shoulders, but he could not pry her from his back. For her part, Isaviel could barely see, with the red fog in her eyes and rage filling her being. All she could do was cling to her prey, and let the urge to suck out his soul consume her. She was utterly unaware of the battle going on around her – all she heard was the scream of the Shadow Reaver as it fell to its knees beneath her, clawing at her arms, her legs and her sides. She could only see the blue flames pouring out of its skull towards her scar, and braced herself for the pain to come.
Isaviel did not notice Sir Nevalle and two castle guards emerging through a hidden door behind the throne, the leader of the Neverwinter Nine wielding an impressive pattern-welded longsword which flashed in the guttering firelight as it severed the arm of the shadowy giant fighting the guards. Instead of trying to focus on the scene around her, the Moon Elf felt the Shadow Reaver's form collapsing and dissipating beneath her, and saw the red tendrils of light falling back towards her chest, bringing with them the blue fire of the creature's spirit.
The blast as the creature's spirit was torn from its dead body sent Isaviel tumbling backwards to the cold, hard ground, writhing and gasping in pain until the shard in her chest rebuffed it, and the blue fire poured away through the gaps in the walls, the door, and the roof. Fighting against the lasting agony, Isaviel pulled herself up, hearing the clang of metal, and span around, wincing as she twisted on her knees. She saw Nasher by one wall now, several men around him with their shields up and their swords at the ready, five with the cloaks of the Neverwinter Nine. The monstrous creature of shadow which had been fighting the other guards in the room had fallen to Nevalle's strange gleaming sword, and as the Shadow Reaver's spirit fled, so too did the other's form.
"That was a close thing indeed," Nasher noted gravely as the silence grew, staring at each of his protectors in turn with those stern, pale eyes, "And I thank you all for your aid. Guards! Secure the rest of the castle, aid those who are wounded…count the dead."
"Yes my lord, at once."
Just like that, the guards rushed away, one of them speaking some warding phrases to send the stone barriers rising over the gates and opening their path for them. That left the six Neverwinter Nine, Lord Nasher…and Isaviel, who was still struggling to rise. It was to her who the lord of Neverwinter now turned, stepping towards her and hooking an arm under her elbow, helping her stand.
"Your help was unexpected, and it was unusual…but it saved us all," Lord Nasher told the Moon Elf, who stared at him with misting eyes, swaying on her feet, even as his grip tightened on her arm, "Perhaps I was too prejudiced after all to see your hidden honour." There was a hint of mockery in his tone, but his expression was steady as Nevalle stepped up to his side.
"We found our way through Lord Halueth Never's tomb, my lord, as you taught us," the leader of the Neverwinter Nine noted while his comrades helped the various servants out of hiding, whimpering and pale, from behind the many statues in the hall, "We recovered his sword."
"Ah, the long lost blade of the city," Nasher smiled coldly – a man of few strong emotions, apparently – and held out a gloved hand.
Nevalle passed the sword he held to his lord, its patterned blade shimmering silver and blue, runes carved down its centre. Nasher grasped its golden hilt and looked to Isaviel, his eyes a paler blue than the glittering pommel. He stepped back, gesturing for her to kneel, and a cold chill ran up her spine. Even weary and in pain, the Moon Elf feared this knighthood. It had been the urge to tear out the monster's spirit which had led her to attack the Shadow Reaver, not any loyalty to Neverwinter or its lord. Had it not?
"Kneel, Isaviel Farlong. I had intended this moment to be one of ceremony, to bind you to my cause under the eyes of many powerful men and women, lest you betray me. But now I will do you a greater honour – I will knight you not only for your service to Neverwinter in Crossroad Keep, but also for saving my life when you need not have. Kneel, squire. I intend to make you Knight-Captain of Crossroad Keep."
He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, and she did not have the strength to resist, kneeling as he bade her and looking up into his ageing face, seeing his glimmering armour and the golden crown upon his head. This was a moment for bards to capture in their songs and for scholars to write of in their books. She had never thought it would include her.
"My lord, surely this can wait?" Nevalle put in, his eyes wide, his glory stolen – after all, it was he who had braved Halueth Never's long-forgotten tomb, and it had been him who had recovered the ancient blade, "You could achieve both of those aims with a crowd and finery when the castle is pronounced safe once more…"
"No, Nevalle," Nasher disagreed sharply, holding out the wondrous sword, resting the flat of its blade upon Isaviel's left shoulder, and meeting her weary gaze, "I knighted you at Redfallow's Watch during the war with Luskan. In the mud, with men dying all around us. You saved my life then, and now so has she. I will bind her with a spectacle to nobility tomorrow, as intended, but this is a gesture of thanks."
Redfallow's Watch. Well, that sounded familiar. Did he have any idea that one of the men under her command had burned it to the ground? She almost smiled a bitter smile as she thought of Bishop. How he would hate her at this moment, and ever after once he found out. She ground her teeth at the thought, and held Nasher's gaze, ignored Nevalle as he huffed derisively and turned away, shouting commands to his men.
"You must swear," Nasher told her softly, a golden-armoured silhouette against the horrors of the halls beyond, "Do you, knight of Neverwinter, pledge your loyalty to the cause of this city?"
"I…" Isaviel winced, biting her lip and holding her breath…'I will leave you to the paladin's cold comforts'…but Bishop, I have no choice, "I…do pledge my loyalty to the cause of Neverwinter."
Nasher's smile was more genuine now, his eyes shining with victorious glory as he moved the blade to her other shoulder and held out a hand for hers, helping her once more to her feet and kissing her fingers. She cringed at this age-old gesture of nobility, but did nothing more. The pain of her fall, of her first enemy's whip and of the Shadow Reaver's claws was beginning to flood into her senses. She had not had a chance to rest after her journey and had fought for her life instead, blood staining her tunic and leggings, staining her skin and congealing in her hair.
"Then you rise as a knight of Neverwinter, Lady Isaviel Farlong. I will present you with your appropriate garb upon the morrow. Know that it is treason to break your vow," Nasher added, but Isaviel was not really listening, swaying more unsteadily on her feet before collapsing heavily to the ground, "Nevalle! Find a healer!"
"Yes, Lord Nasher," the knight agreed, though his disdainful glance towards the slumped Moon Elf, pulling herself up against the steps below the throne, suggested he would rather not help her and would have preferred to speed her on her way to death.
Elanee sensed them before she saw them. The shadows gathering in the wood around them as the last shovel-full of earth was dropped over Shandra's grave. Casavir was too concerned in keeping his cool façade, and Khelgar was trying to hide the tears trickling into his beard by angling his face more completely against the pouring rain. Somehow it was all still too obvious to Elanee, all too useless. The balance of nature had felt wrong from the first moment they stepped foot on Shandra's farm; the air was too cold, the shadows too dark. Now she saw the gleaming red and blue of the monsters' eyes as they crept into the chill night-time world towards the fires that burned, kept alight by her own magic against the torrential rain.
The evil darkness swept over the company of townsfolk gathered on the sodden field, and several of the outer rows of men and women had collapsed all in silence before she had a chance to shout warning. By then Casavir had sensed it too, pulling his hammer from his back as several other men drew their swords, only for many of them to be swallowed up by the suffocating darkness, instantly pale and still, falling as if in a faint, drained of blood, slumping to the ground in death.
"What is this foul sorcery!" Casavir roared, holding up his hammer, its light gleaming brilliant blue against the darkness as screams of fear and horror rang out all around them.
Men and women began to run, clinging to each other or pushing and shoving, scrambling up the hill which was now slippery and half-frozen from the rain. A few of the guardsmen of the town formed up around Casavir as Elanee leapt up, morphing into an owl and beating her wings hard, the air rushing against her as she rose above the horror.
"Stay with me!" Casavir cried to these soldiers, Khelgar by his side, the Dwarf suddenly as fierce as ever with his battleaxe in his hands. At least he did not think he could battle the darkness with his fists as a monk of his imagination might, "The evil cannot touch this light – we must hurry before the helpless townsfolk fall!"
"Yes my lord, at once!" a young man nodded, hefting an impressive greatsword over his shoulder, and Casavir caught him by the arm as the others ran towards the fleeing men and women, the darkness rushing after them , keeping a careful distance around Casavir and his sphere of light.
"You, what is your name?"
"Bevil, my lord," the soldier looked simultaneously startled and pleased for the attention in this moment of chaos.
"You and I must bring up the rear. Not all of these monsters are as insubstantial as these shadows."
Bevil nodded once, his eyes resolute, his expression set. To Elanee's eyes he was a handsome man, with a broad jaw and strong muscles, brown hair dripping water from the continuing rain. He wielded that greatsword as most men would struggle to control a weapon half its size. Casavir had seen his power as well, and that was why he had chosen him. For that, and the West Harbour boots he wore, which the druid did not doubt reminded the paladin immediately of Isaviel.