Ed Greenwood - Cloak of Shadows

As the Time of Troubles came down upon the Realms, dark things watched and waited their chance…

The Fall of the Gods had come to pass. The gods came to Toril amid flame and destruction, and the world was riven and changed forever. Amid all the flames and strife, the Chosen of Mystra were hurt more than most guardians of Faerun, for the servants of the goddess of magic discovered that spells were raging wild all over the world. Magic would obey them no more than it did anyone else.

Just when they needed it most.

Against them stood outlaws, orc hordes, and fearsome monsters that had long lurked on the fringes of the bright realms and grown hungry indeed. Even the gods themselves were wandering Faerun, slaying and plundering and despoiling all that fell within their reach, and battling with reckless savagery whoever-or whatever- stood against them.

It was a time for heroes to stand forth and fight to defend whatever could be saved of the splendor and strength of the civilized Realms. Folk looked to the Chosen, who stood helpless, with magic a treacherous thing in their hands.

All save one… one who dared not act at all. Elminster of Shadowdale, the Old Mage feared and revered across Faerun for nigh a thousand years, held so much of the divine power of the dying goddess Mystra within him that he dared not cast so much as the simplest spell, for fear of shattering the Realms around him and being torn apart in the world-destroying conflagration that might follow.

His foes, however, were on the move. Elminster's inability to hurl spells against them must be concealed from everyone. One of his fellow Chosen sent two of her Harper pupils to guard him, and a brave lady Knight of Myth Drannor took the same task upon herself. Together the three young people aided Elminster as he plunged into the depths of Zhentarim plots in the High Dale that lay in the Thunder Peaks between Cormyr and Sembia.

Yet even as Elminster and his companions defeated Zhentarim evil once more, older and more sinister foes had their own dark designs on the Realms. The Malaugrym, masters of shadow, watched the chaos and ruin in Faerun from their dark castle and grew hungry to conquer as much of Faerun as might fall within their grasp. Shapeshifters and sorcerers of ancient power, they had long feared to challenge Elminster, who hunted and slew them whenever they ventured into the lands he held dear.

If Elminster was powerless, and the Chosen were busy trying to hold the Realms, the Malaugryms' chance had come at last. If they took the shapes of rightful rulers, the Chosen would actually defend their new-won realms for them! All that was needed, to make victory a sure thing, was shadow magic that would hide the Malaugryms' true essence, inside their stolen shapes, from any Chosen who survived the Time of Troubles.

All that was needed to conquer Faerun was a Cloak of Shadows…

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.