Dhalgrave obligingly made the view expand to fill a wide arc of the hall's upper air, and made the young Malaugrym's humiliation complete.
The night sky over what must be ruined Dragonspear Castle, in the Sword Coast lands, was lit as bright as day by spell-glows. There, shuffling around in the air, wearing what could only be described as a satisfied expression, was a lone, lean figure. Elminster of Shadowdale, pipe trailing along behind him as he went, was treading empty night air as if he were walking the floor of his own kitchen.
The Old Mage was peering down into the darkness below, ignoring black arrows and hurled stones alike-as Issaran watched, some of these missiles came close to the human wizard and promptly perished in gouts of flame- and from time to time hurling spells down into the night.
Dhalgrave obligingly made the portal's view drift down to where Elminster's spells were going, just in time to show the watchers in the hall a spinning wheel of lightning plunge into the depths of a great host, an army of orcs clad in spired and fluted armor of ancient style- Netherese? Nimbralese, from the Dawn Days of that realm? No matter. That ornate armor did nothing to stop the wheel from bursting in an explosion that sent bolts of lightning sizzling off in all directions, hurling orc bodies for hundreds of feet and searing great swathes of ash-choked air, where all solid things had been burned away in an instant, through the massed army.
More than one of the watching Shadowmasters gasped or swore, and someone in the depths of the dark hall whimpered. There were more startled oaths a moment later, when Elminster's next spell scooped a thousand or more orcs skyward, whisked them some distance away to hang for a breath above another orc horde, and then dropped them all as helpless, wriggling missiles from the sky.
The portal moved again to show the small human band Elminster was protecting: an unarmed caravan fearfully struggling to pass the castle as fast as possible. Something that looked like a hemispherical shell of flying swords whirled endlessly around this small train of merchants, carving up any orcs bold-or crazed-enough to try to reach them. A scarlet mist of gore marked the edges of that deadly barrier, and the massed ranks of the orcs were starting to give way before its advance. The mutterings in the Great Hall grew louder and held a distinct note of awe, and of fear.
'Could… that be someone else?' Issaran asked, almost whining in his desperation.
'It could be,' Dhalgrave said gravely, his eyes like two hard points, 'but it's not. I've checked on the whereabouts of all the powerful sorcerers of Faerun… unlike certain overconfident younglings.'
There were chuckles and smirks from around the chamber as a crestfallen Issaran looked at the head he held and said unwillingly, 'So this… isn't Elminster at all?'
The head's eyes swiveled up to meet his and winked, its mouth pursed into a kiss.
The watching Shadowmasters drew back in a wary hush, fearful that Elminster might have worked a slaying spell on the head. But the disembodied visage merely blew Issaran three kisses and then began to melt away like wax in a hot flame, dripping down into nothingness.
Fearfully Issaran flung the thing away from him. The head faded away before it could reach the floor, with one last mocking wink and a chuckle of its own that made certain elder Shadowmasters stiffen-notably the serpent-man who was Yabrant, and the wyvern who was Kostil.
'Try again,' Dhalgrave said, almost wearily, and waved a hand. The portal sprang back to its original size and location and the bloodfire winked out, leaving Issaran in darkness.
Slowly he walked away across the black marble floor, never seeing the Shadowmaster who stood alone on a high balcony, cloaked in deep shadows. Milhvar watched the young Malaugrym go, and there was a tight smile on his face as he shook his head.
Deep in an inner room of the Castle of Shadows hung a gem, a sapphire as large as a man's head. Its rich blue depths glowed with captured fire as it floated above a pool whose thick black waters had yielded many potions. A spell library of ancient Netherese make, the gem held spells of great power ready to be used by anyone who dared to touch it. All Malaugrym knew the Shadow-master High could instruct the gem to visit death on the deliverer of any touch but his own.
There was one small way, however, in which any learned Shadowmaster could call on the power of the gem. One did so now, causing the massive stone to chime softly in its private chamber.
A questing shadow shifted through a doorway and rose up to regard the gem, which chimed again and began to spin slowly, a pulsing light awakening in its lower depths. The watching shadow thickened swiftly as others joined it, and then sharpened suddenly into the large but human face of Dhalgrave. Staring calmly at the gem that no one should have awakened, he asked, 'Who is it?'
And from out of the heart of the winking gem, a voice he knew said, 'Milhvar of the blood of Malaug, Shadow-master High. There is a plan I must lay before you.'
'Say on,' Dhalgrave replied, his face and tone unreadable.
'There are other gems like this one in Faerun, hidden away in vaults that have survived since the fall of Netheril. Many more spells sit in grimoires and items all over Toril, and we have seldom dared to seek them out. The deaths that the Simbul caused underscore the prudence of this caution, but our younger blood grows ever more restive, and you rightly chose this opportunity of the godstrife to send them after the Great Foe. Yet I fear not just he, but all of Mystra's Chosen are our foes-as the Simbul is. We stand little chance of survival unless we can find some means of warding off their seeking magic, and the spells they send to slay us. The time is right for us to devote all of our skills-together, not as warring individuals-into crafting a cloak of concealing spells.'
The voice paused, and then went on more strongly, 'If such a thing can be woven, we could make forays into Faerun and seize the magic long denied to us. If the Chosen confronted us there, we could fight them as equals- and better-and no harm would come to this castle around us. I have heard many kin speculating aloud as to how they'd lure Elminster here, and overwhelm him with our massed might and the power of shadows we can call on. I'd rather not see such a battle, with all its unavoidable damage, occur in our very home.' Milhvar's voice fell silent.
'You have my permission and support for all you've said thus far,' Dhalgrave said without hesitation, 'but I sense you've more to propose. Say on.'
'There is a grave danger in this proposal, a danger to one being. You.'
'I know this,' Dhalgrave replied patiently. 'Go on.'
'Our trust in each other must soon be absolute,' Milhvar said, as casually if he were discussing the weather in Faerun, 'and I am prepared to submit to all of the scrying magic you care to use. When the concealing cloak of spells is shown to work against the wrath of one of the Chosen, it must also be demonstrated to all that the Shadowmaster High has the means to remove the cloak without warning, leaving the being who was using it vulnerable, I fear this demonstration will cost us one of our more ambitious-not to say rebellious-younglings. By this action you will reaffirm your power and quell the inevitable moves by the younger blood to go their own ways in the planes, armed with cloaks of our devising.'
'Your words please me,' Dhalgrave responded. 'Will you submit to my probing immediately?'
'Of course,' the voice replied. 'Bring me through.'
The Shadowmaster's head didn't appear to do anything, but the floating gem flashed brightly, and the slim man-form of Milhvar stood beside the pool in the chamber. He opened his mouth to speak, but sudden lightnings raged around him, stiffening him into immobility, and a singing, droning sound awakened in the gem, rising in pitch and volume until it abruptly ceased.
Dhalgrave nodded. 'You spoke truth to me. I confess I am surprised and pleased. Your loyalty is rare indeed. Know that I have established scrying links to you that govern your very life. Go now and do as you have proposed. If you need my authority to call your team of spell-crafters together, use it.'
'My thanks, Shadowmaster High. You shall not regret this.'
Dhalgrave nodded curtly, the gem flashed again, and his visitor was gone. Silence returned to that hidden chamber as the floating head frowned at the space where Milhvar had stood. There had been just a shade too much triumph in that parting smile.
Daggerdale, Kythorn 16
The milky mists of approaching dawn had come again to Daggerdale, and Sharantyr shivered once as she stripped away the last of her clothing and stared down at the headless body, contemplating the grisly task ahead. Belkram deftly took the well-worn cotton halter and clout she handed him, as he'd taken her leathers before.
