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  They whirled as one, in time to see Elminster’s body topple in a fountain of dark blood as a black blade scythed through his neck. The blade was held by—no, it seemed to actually be one arm of a tall black figure. The Old Mage’s eyes stared accusingly at them as his head dangled, long white hair firmly in the dark man’s grip.

  “Futile fools!” the figure sneered, and backed away from them into a whirling green light that was growing behind it.

  Heartsick, Shar took three running steps and hurled her blade. But as the weapon flashed end over end, the laughing figure faded away through the gate and made the portal wink out, so her steel bounced on dark turf in the night.

  She felt the tears beginning as she turned her head and saw Belkram and Itharr looking down at the headless body. Belkram licked dry and trembling lips twice before he managed to ask, “What do we do now?”

  THE SHADOW OF THE AVATAR TRILOGY

  Ed Greenwood

  Shadows of Doom

  Cloak of Shadows

  All Shadows Fled

  Other Books by Ed Greenwood

  Elminster, the Making of a Mage

  Crown of Fire

  Spellfire

  CLOAK OF SHADOWS

  ©1995 TSR, Inc.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  FORGOTTEN REALMS, D&D, Wizards of the Coast, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Fred Fields

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6167-2

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  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  To John, for Belkram’s kindness.

  To Ian, for Itharr’s keen wits.

  To Erica, for loving the Realms as much as I do.

  Ignis aurum probat, miseria fortes viros

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1 - A Long Day Indeed

  Chapter 2 - This Wizard Must Be Destroyed

  Chapter 3 - To Battle we go, to Let the Blood Flow

  Chapter 4 - A Slaying Moon

  Chapter 5 - Fallen the Flames

  Chapter 6 - Fire in the Night

  Chapter 7 - Mushrooms and Revelations

  Chapter 8 - To Get a Head in this World

  Chapter 9 - Another Day Spent Saving the Realms

  Chapter 10 - Talking to Gods

  Chapter 11 - Two Edges to Every Sword Blade

  Chapter 12 - Marshaling the Madfolk for Battle

  Chapter 13 - Guests of the Blackstaff

  Chapter 14 - Visitors to the Castle

  Chapter 15 - Tumult and Affright

  Chapter 16 - The Unbidden Guest Knows Not Where to Sit

  Chapter 17 - Hot and Cold Running Receptions

  Chapter 18 - Shadows on the Castle Walls

  Chapter 19 - But a Grand Place to Skulk About

  Chapter 20 - A Sword Against the Shadows

  Chapter 21 - Shadows Cloak, but Make a Better Shroud

  Excerpt of Daughter of the Drow

  About the Author

  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 Faerûn, 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 Faerûn, 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 Faerûn 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 Faerûn from their dark castle and grew hungry to conquer as much of Faerûn 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 Faerûn was a Cloak of Shadows …

  1

  A Long Day Indeed

  Faerûn, 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 tha
t 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 Faerûn 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 Faerûn, 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 tc 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 Faerûn 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 amon
g 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.