Cloak of Shadows - Ed Greenwood [1]
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,