Cloak of Shadows

1

Faerun, Raurin, Mirtul 29, The Year of Shadows

A dark shadow that had eyes drifted down unseen over a mist-shrouded battlefield where weary, snarling creatures hacked at each other with blood-drenched blades at the end of a day that had been long indeed. The Dark One looked around at hill after hill of destruction, and sighed. Waste, all this blood and dying. Waste on this plane and that, puny beings struggling to seize fleeting power, when might enough to shatter all their realms at once throbbed and strove all around them.

Magic. The power eternal, the energy behind all. He must have it. For centuries-eons, now-he had come back, again and again, to that gnawing need… and that stone wall blocking his hunger. Up against the shield that left him helpless once more. The Dark One snarled. Down the long years he had learned to be old, but not to be patient. Patience was for the powerless.

Restlessly, Bane turned toward the sun, corpses shifting under his black boots, and spun himself homeward through the shifting voids, back to the body that grimly paced the Cold Castle. Ethereal mists whirled briefly around him, and then he was striding again along the windblown battlements, looking far out over bleak Acheron. Magic, aye. Always it came back to that, and to her.

Mystra, the Lady who was magic. He must possess her, rule her-or destroy her-to gain true mastery of magic. But how? Many webs he'd spun to take her- some still hung waiting, even now-but the very power he sought warned her and shielded her, time after time.

In the ashen failures of his last few attempts, she'd even laughed at him. Bane whirled with a roar of sudden fury, there on the battlements, and drove his fist through a stout merlon, smashing it to stony rubble that rattled and sprayed down over his startled and fearful minions in the courtyard below. If only it had been her laughing face! The Overgod take her! She -

Bane froze in sudden thought, and a slow, dark smile spread softly across his angry face. Aye, let the Overgod take her.

Memories that were dim even for him flickered briefly, and he felt the stirrings of excitement. It might well work.

Yes. It was high time for the overproud, overreaching gods to be cast down again.

The Plane of Acheron, and a forgotten ruin in the Savage Frontier backlands, Mirtul 29

Cold laughter rang out through the castle, and scurrying servants of Bane paused in their scuttlings long enough to shudder before they hastened on again. Such sounds boded ill for all.

Still smiling like a wolf rising in bloody satisfaction from a fresh kill, Bane spun himself away from cold Acheron once more, heading for Toril. Of course.

Even gods need a playground. Because Faerun was Mystra's, he had made it his — as had, increasingly, the others. The Dark One cloaked himself in shadows and sought the throne he liked to sit in, deep in the riven ruins of the once-proud city of Netheril.

In a moment he was there, surrounded by the drifting, sparkling shreds of forgotten spells. He peered around, feeling with his mind for living, watching things, but none were near. He looked around at the dim depths of the hall. Strange, how the shattered splendor of this place held his interest, awakening old memories and long-quiet lusts…

The Castle of Shadows, Mirtul 29

In a place of shifting shadows, someone else grinned like a blood-dripping wolf as he ended a spell and slid away from the dark thoughts of the god Bane, unnoticed and now traceless. It was done. At last.

Milhvar of the Malaugrym watched the gray and purple sparks chase each other endlessly over the spell-weave and nodded in satisfaction. He'd taken what he needed from the unwitting mind of Bane while it was blinded by arrogance and driven by dark passion. He allowed himself to relax, letting out his breath in a long sigh. The most dangerous part was done; all that was left was the fun.

He did not have to look to take down the razor-sharp waiting runeblade from the wall beside him. The naked priest of Mystra bound to the stone altar before him whimpered once, then stiffened in silent resolve-until the blade swept down.

Blood and screams rose together, and the gray and purple sparks leapt from the weave and raced down Milhvar's trembling arms, their power surging into the fading life he held, sweeping it away, absorbing it.

Slowly the power of the crowning enchantment gathered and swirled within him. Milhvar smiled coldly as the last of the staring clergyman's life-force flowed into the web, then turned to look at his creation.

As if in answer, the cloak hanging in the spell web stirred for the first time. Success.

Milhvar gestured, and watched the cloak rise like a silent specter to his bidding. He thought of his dead brother, and of a certain old wizard in a fair, forested vale-Shadowdale, that was it-and nodded slowly. Soon it would be time to go hunting. Soon.

Somewhere in Faerun, Mirtul 29

Overhead, the dragon unfurled its wings with ponderous grace, and began to dance. The tall, silver-haired lady laughed in delight, and the music she'd conjured swelled around them all. Pegasi neighed their pleasure aloud as they swooped past her, and the spell-dance quickened.

The dragon managed a curving cartwheel across the sky, the wind whistling through its scales, and Mystra leapt to meet it, trailing bright silver stars in her wake. The wordless song rose with her, soaring, exultant-and was suddenly shattered.

In the air, the goddess of magic faltered, and her silvery light flickered. With little cries of unease, the cavorting creatures broke off their dancing to watch. Mystra drifted on until she touched the dragon and clung to it, but her face wore a frown, and her eyes gazed on something far off.

Suddenly she shivered. "Evil Art," she whispered sadly, waving her arms as if she could brush the moment away. Returning from wherever her sight had taken her, she shook herself and looked around the waiting sphere of gravely watching creatures.

"A great and dark Art has been worked," she told them calmly. "Not in Toril, but by someone who watches this world and thinks of it even now."

"We must be vigilant," the dragon said then, the deep, melodious rumble of its voice startling them all.

"Aye, that we must," Mystra agreed gravely, and swept her hands up. From between her long, graceful fingers streamed a bright shower of silver stars that made the watching creatures gasp and murmur in awe.

The music sang forth again. "I will not have the spell-dance ended," the goddess said with sudden fire, "by every evil deed of Art… or we should never dance together at all!"

Warily the pegasi, faerie dragons, sprites, swanmays, and the great form of the gigantic copper dragon circled her and began to move in time to the music again. Stars dove and spun around them as the music swelled, but there was a darkness among them now, a shadow of Mystra's mood that even the most spirited of her leaps did not dispel. "Bad times ahead," said one faerie dragon to another, and there was reluctant agreement. A note of proud defiance crept into Mystra's music as the dance went on. More than one troubled creature fell away from it and made for home, and safe lairs, and places where seeking-magic was stored. Bad times are better faced on the crumbling pages of tomes that relate histories of long, long ago-not as deadly events that tomorrow may bring.

The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 6

Milhvar grew a long, tentacled arm that flattened into a leathery wing, and flapped it once. The power of his wing beat plucked him from his feet and took him a good way across the chamber. He noted approvingly that the cloak's gray and hard-to-see substance shifted shape along with him. His cloak of spells was truly a cloak of shadows, as suited to shifting as any of the blood of Malaug. Now to test it against the Chosen of Mystra, to see if the enchantments he'd devised truly held. The cloak must foil all magic wielded or cast by any sworn minion of Mystra, from her mortal Chosen to Azuth himself! If it proved able, the Chosen wouldn't be able to sense the approach of the Malaugrym… and perhaps his kin would have their revenge upon the hated Elminster at last!

Milhvar made a certain gesture. The cloak shrank away from him, rolled itself into a ball, and dwindled into a thing of wisps and tatters. Smiling faintly, he took it in his hand and headed for his favorite hiding place. His cloak of shadows was best kept secret until it had served him in winning far greater power in the ranks of the clan than he commanded now.

Power he deserved. What, after all, had the Malaugrym done under the command of Dhalgrave? Elminster yet lived, and none who walked in the shadows dared set foot on Faerun without great preparation-and greater stealth. All we do these days, Milhvar thought sourly, is watch from afar and brood. And the time for that is fast running out. Something was building among the gods, something that could be turned to advantage by those who knew how to bend both magic and shadows to their will.

"And then," Milhvar told the darkness politely, "things will change-rather violently, as they deserve to." He thought he heard an answering whimper, and stiffened for an instant before he recalled that the cloak in his hand was a priest of Mystra. Of course. He chuckled. "You serve me now," he told it with a savage grin. 'Try to remember that."

As he cast it into a vortex of concealing shadows, the cloak did not answer. He chuckled again and turned away.

Shadowdale, Kythorn 14

The young lass in leathers screamed as a black-fletched arrow leapt from nowhere to take her in the shoulder. It hissed into her flesh before she had time to do more than gape at it, with its one red feather among the sable. The force of its flight plucked her from her feet, spun her about, and slammed her to her knees in the snow. Her face creased in startled pain as the vision wavered, like still water stirred with a hand, and then faded away, leaving only empty air over the table.

Itharr stared at the spot where the conjured image had been and shook his head. "Not a gentle way to die," the burly Harper said softly, one strong hand tightening absently on his tankard.

Sharantyr nodded and set down her ale, stern sadness in her gray-green eyes as she met his gaze. Itharr blinked. The lady knight's fine-boned beauty had made many a man stop and stare, and the firelight dancing on her face made her seem a creature from a dream. Itharr stared into her eyes for a long moment before the other man in the room spoke, and she turned to look at him.

"Whence came you by this magic?" Belkram of the Harpers asked quietly over his own tankard. Sorrow to match Sharantyr's own glimmered in his eyes. He shifted in his chair, firelight flashing on his smooth-worn leathers, every inch the fearless fighting man. A well-used long sword shifted with him, riding his hip, always ready.

An onlooker would have judged Belkram more handsome than his fellow Harper, but like Itharr and the lithe Knight of Myth Drannor across the table, he wore the nondescript harness of a working ranger. They looked, Belkram was sure, like three weary hireswords at ease, not champions of good just back from saving the world from disaster and magical chaos.

The lady ranger lifted her slim shoulders and let them fall in a shrug, noticing a lock of gray hair at Belkram's temple-gray that had not been there a few days ago. "That vision was brought to me by a linking spell known to some elves and elf-friends. Flambarra linked to me when she cast it, so she could show me things of import, should it be necessary. It shows the caster in her last nine breaths before the spell is ended."

"In this case, by her death and not her choice," Itharr murmured, taking up his tankard again. "When do we ride to avenge her?"

Sharantyr shook her head. "That was a brigand's arrow, and a quiverful to match it were found on a man who chose to defy the wrong patrol, three days ago." She took up her wine and stared through it. "We live in dark times, friends."

Silence fell in that dim back room of the Old Skull Inn, and the fire in the grate sent fingers of light and shadow dancing across their faces. A roar of laughter came faintly to their ears from the distant taproom. Belkram stirred, grinned at Sharantyr, and said, "But not all is gloom, or should be. We're the great heroes who rescued Elminster, remember?"

"That sounds perilously like a cue for an impressive entrance," an all-too-familiar voice said from beside the Harper. They all started, whirling to look at the still-closed door of the room. A mist was coiling lazily in front of it. As they watched, the tendrils of mist grew suddenly darker, then seemed to drop and change in a whirl of colors and flashing movement. Elminster of Shadowdale stood regarding them, a twinkle in his eye.

The three companions at the table sighed-in Itharr's case, it was almost a groan-as the Old Mage shuffled unconcernedly forward. His pipe appeared out of thin air behind him with a pop and floated along in his wake as he came to the table, lowering himself with a grunt onto the bench beside Belkram.

The taller and more ruggedly handsome of the two young Harpers looked into the mage's old, bearded face with something approaching fond amusement. "How long have you been here listening?"

Belkram's tankard rose stealthily from the table and darted toward Elminster's waiting hand as the wizard of Shadowdale said mildly, "Long enough to tell this lass here-"

He gestured with a glance, and Belkram's eyes, following the wizard's gaze across the table to where Sharantyr sat with a dangerous look growing on her face, saw his tankard flying past. He made a grab for it, missed as it impudently shot straight upward, and overbalanced heavily onto the table.

Sharantyr's wine danced, and Itharr chuckled as she made her own-successful-grab for drinkables. As the lady Knight swept her goblet away from disaster, Elminster continued unconcernedly, "-that Flambarra was found by Elion of Talltrees, and by the grace of Tymora lives again."

Sharantyr stared at him for a moment in astonished silence. Then tears of joy rained from her, and she erupted across the table, crushing the stolen tankard against Elminster's cheek as she embraced the Old Mage. Around her tearful thanks he said gruffly, "Agh! Urgghh! I-The deed was not mine, lass, but if ye're bent on thanking me, well, my mouth is over here, and-"

Obedient lips found his enthusiastically, and his words trailed away in a confusion of frantic murmurs. One of the Old Mage's hands waved vainly above the lady ranger's smooth shoulders, gesturing frantically but not too frantically.

Itharr took in the sight with one bright eye. Turning deliberately to his Harper colleague, he remarked casually, "All in Faerun is not dark these days, indeed. Why, I could not help but notice, as we came here to partake of this excellent beer tonight, that the price of potatoes has fallen a full two coppers the wagonload, heralding a goodly harvest without doubt."

Belkram nodded his head and replied heartily, 'This is true, good Itharr, and yet surpassed by even more heartening news! Our internal ablutions cannot help but be aided by a similar drop in the price of ale, a drop that by the all-surpassing favor of the gods bids fair to coincide with a rise in the quality of the brew. Richer, nuttier, and more warming in the chest, by my halidom, and-"

"You can belt up now," Sharantyr told them both in dry tones. "I had to release him, to draw breath."

"And yet," Elminster put in merrily, in perfect mimicry of Itharr's conversational tone, "I find the surpassing memory of her kiss is a fiery balm upon the hitherto-cooling flames of my old heart! I could not help but notice, moreover, that her tears taste like the finest salt wine of Tashluta, and her eyes are like two dark and welcoming stars in th-"

Sharantyr plucked the gently smoking pipe deftly from where it floated in the air by the Old Mage's shoulder and thrust it into his mouth. "Glup," he added intelligently, ere smoke began to leak from his ears and nose.

The two young Harpers shouted their laughter at Elminster's slightly disbelieving expression… and then at the dangerous calm with which he spat the pipe out, watched it scud away trailing smoke across the room, and turned to regard Sharantyr.

The Lady of Shadowdale shrank back a little and brushed her long hair out of her face with one impatient hand as if preparing for battle, but met Elminster's gaze with a bold, silent calmness of her own.

Elminster's eyes blazed at her for a long, tense moment. Then the Old Mage turned his head and said lightly, as if nothing had occurred, "I observed the newborn pricing of potatoes too, and wondered in passing if it meant other goodly harvests, and a general time of plenty across the Dragonreach!"

"Well," Belkram said in a voice as dry as the bottom of the empty tankard he had retrieved, "if magic everywhere continues to fail and go wild, farmers'll certainly have less interference in taking their crops in, and we'll see fewer armies on the march to devour it all."

Itharr sighed. "You would have to drag things back to that."

Belkram spread his hands. "And is this chaos of magic not the true driving force of the times? And do we not share a victory, born of this very matter? A victory that bears celebration?"

"I'll ring for more beer," Itharr replied, pulling on the stout cord that hung by the wall near his corner seat.

"The simple solution to ill tidings," Elminster informed the ceiling. "Have more to drink."

Belkram shrugged. "With thirsty wizards at the table, I'm in little danger of getting more to drink, wouldn't you agree?"

Elminster's reply was a snort that seemed as eloquent as several speeches. They were still chuckling when there was a rap on the door. "Ale," came the voice of a server from outside.

"Ride in!" Itharr called in reply as Sharantyr took another sip of her wine and Belkram made an innocent grab for the floating pipe.

The door swung wide, and they had a momentary glimpse of a young boy's face, set in concentration over a tray laden with tankards, before he hurled tray and all at them.

Blue-white fire roared out of the heart of the tumbling pitchers and steins, thrusting into the face of the Old Mage like a bright, unstoppable lance.

Blue radiance flashed around the calm wizard, and the roaring shaft of devouring fire rebounded from him, snarling back at its source while the surprised and shouting Harpers and lady ranger were still hurling themselves back from the table and snatching at their sword hilts.

One tardy tankard melted away in the path of the fiery bolt and was hurled aside in the form of hissing droplets of molten metal. Beyond them there was a thin scream as the white light found its source and winked out.

Sharantyr and the Harpers were leaping forward by then, blades drawn, as the staggering, hunched thing that had been a serving boy a moment before sprouted long, snakelike tentacles in all directions. Coiling like a forest of serpents, the tentacles lengthened with terrifying speed, growing sharp edges and points like blades. Without pause they slashed and stabbed at the charging Harpers, slithering and looping around them.

Amid this sudden chaos, Elminster calmly pulled the bell rope for beer again, even as a single tentacle leapt past the shoulders of his three embattled companions, growing to an impossible stretch over the entire length of the table as it raced toward him. Its skin seemed to split and shrivel away as it came, revealing a needlelike, flashing sword. Elminster calmly murmured an incantation as the slim steel stabbed at him.

As he completed the spell, the Old Mage heard the tentacled creature grunt in pain as someone's blade struck home. Sharantyr gasped as a tentacle tightened around her, and then the sword that sought Elminster's life passed through his arm as if it were made of smoke and plunged deep into him!

He felt nothing as the blade plunged, probed, slashed, and was driven home again, cleaving the air freely as if he weren't standing there. El looked at his three friends, hacking at growing forests of tentacles around them, saw Belkram look back apprehensively, and snapped, "Drive your blades deep, all of you!"

An instant later his spell took effect. Blue lightning crackled from Itharr's blade to Sharantyr's, then from hers to Belkram's steel as the three swords quivered amid rubbery, shapeshifting flesh and hot, rushing blood. The creature they fought shuddered as smoke rose from it. Then it collapsed suddenly away from around their blades like the contents of a fresh-broken egg, flowing to the floor in an untidy heap.

"You're protected by an ironguard spell?" Belkram asked Elminster, watching the released sword pass down through the wizard's body to clang and bounce on the floor.

"Always," Elminster said, his eyes fixed on a disturbance in the air that had just sent his floating pipe tumbling aside.

As his hands came up to hurl blasting magic, the disturbance whirled and spun-and became a thin, wild-eyed woman in tattered black robes, her silver hair swirling around her as if it were made of lightnings.

It was the Simbul, Witch-Queen of Aglarond, who glared anxiously around the room, the red fires of an awakened slaying spell running up and down her arms, seeking the danger that had menaced her beloved.

Itharr tried not to shiver at the sight of her. Her gaze froze him on its way to where the Old Mage stood staring down at one smoking, shriveling tentacle as it shrank away from him in death.

"The Malaugrym?" she said in an awful whisper of fury and promised doom.

Elminster stroked his beard thoughtfully and nodded. "Again," he said as the door behind her swung wide. There was a startled gasp, and another platter of tankards crashed to the floor.

The sorceress whirled around, red fire blazing around one raised hand, in time to see a serving wench, face white in terror, moan and faint dead away, crumpling to the floor atop her spilled burden.

Behind the Simbul, the Old Mage's head came up, face brightening into a smile of welcome. "Will you take ale, love? It's richer, nuttier, and more warming in the chest, by my halidom, as a man I trust said not long ago!"

At the look on the Witch-Queen's face, Sharantyr burst into helpless laughter, followed by Belkram. It was a perilously long moment before the Simbul's dark gaze flickered. Then she too began to laugh, a low, raw, throaty chuckle that made both Belkram and Itharr think of leaping flames and hungry caresses and wilder things.

"Why is it," Elminster asked his pipe as it hung obecuently nearby, fragrant wisps of smoke still rising from it, "that folk always seem to feel the need to laugh at my converse?" Fresh gales of mirth rocked the ruined room around him at his words. The Old Mage looked around at his friends sourly and then readdressed himself to his pipe. "Is it my looks, d'ye think? My sensually musical voice, perhaps?"

Wisely, the pipe chose not to answer.