Stormlight - Ed Greenwood [38]
His hands itched at the thought. Ah, to wield what she had. But he must take care..Subsuming the essence of a mortal was all too easy with the fire at his command… but she could destroy him even without the aid of the others she could call on. He must be very careful.
It was prudent to skulk within spell-spun walls of magical mist, to hide behind gibbering skulls and other madnesses folk wouldn't dare pass. Prudent, but hardly subtle. He must take great care in the days ahead.
And he must feed again. He'd gained the wits and wariness of a hardened Harper and the wiles and local knowledge of a veteran warrior-but his magic was still all too feeble. There were only five war wizards left. The two older ones might have something of worth… but slaying them was sure to bring more mighty mages, who'd arrive well prepared for trouble.
What choice was there? For him to regain his rightful place, many must die. He needed to do more than shapeshift and subsume. He needed true power-the power to withstand the mightiest of spells once more, such as the wish magics of mortals. No one in this vale, perhaps in this realm, had what he needed…
But Storm Silverhand came close.
He must move softly. Best to take the powers of some more mages first, and at least one better fighting man, before making any move against the woman with the silver hair. The Purple Dragon commander was probably the best target outside the ranks of the war wizards-but getting to him would take careful planning.
The watchfulness of veteran soldiers and Storm Silverhand, though, were nothing when measured against the peril offered by the probes of a competent priest. There was a Harvestmaster of Chauntea about, and other clerics who'd known adventure, and seen life, and learned things.
At all costs, he must avoid being recognized for what he was. Thoughtful hands stroked a chin. Yes, the form of an attractive maid might be safest for what would have to come next.
Perhaps, after ascension, he'd take a Twisted Skull as his symbol. Lips twisted wryly in the darkness. That would be a worthy jest, seeing as he was having to change from one forlorn form to another all too often these days. It would be a good sigil to make mortals know terror. He'd made mistakes before-mistakes that had cost him nearly everything, leaving him a thing like a howling shadow, able only to fly and moan and claw… and subsume.
Aye, subsume. It was time, and past time, to feed again. The memories rushed past in an endless torrent, but he heeded them no more. He'd mastered them, and grown stronger.. and it was time to seize more.
The dark figure dwindled and took on fullness-smooth, buxom curves of flesh, half revealed by a low-cut, ruffled bodice above a dark sash and slit skirts. Bare feet padded on stone. An anxious-looking maiden blew a kiss to one of the skulls, and stepped into the mists.
On their other side, a pale form waited-a warrior with no eyes. It howled soundlessly, raising the stump of a shattered sword with menacing intent. Another of the real phantoms of the keep.
The chambermaid laughed and strode right through it, using the light it radiated to adjust her garments more provocatively. Still laughing, she went on into dusty darkness.
It was time to feast again…
* * * *
"Mystra guard me," Storm muttered as she set the door bar in place and went wearily around the room, checking for intruders. She'd already looked for secret entrances and moved the bed to one side, just to be safe. Now exhausted, she wanted to relax within that safety, however false or flimsy it might really be.
She yawned, and felt suddenly homesick. She wanted to be in her own bed, with the green growing things of Shadowdale all around her. "You're getting old, lass," she told herself "Wanting to stay in one place and become a part of it-that was the sign Mystra warned of."
… The Mystra who is now gone, she reminded herself silently. The Mystra who'd dared to challenge Helm, and so left all her Chosen to go unguided into this new age. And how she needed