"Prove it!" someone yelled. "Cast a spell!"
The guard hefted his pike. "I don't cast spells, Roldo," he said menacingly. "Do you?"
"Get one of the priests...get 'em all!" Roldo called.
"Aye," someone else agreed. "And see if one of them... just one of them...can cast a spell!"
The roar of agreement that followed his words shook the very temple walls, but through it the man in the black cloak heard one of the guards mutter, "Aye, and make it a good big fireball, right about there."
The other agreed, not smiling.
"Look," the man in the black cloak said to them, "I must speak to Kadeln. Kadeln Parosper. Tell him it's Tenthar."
The nearest guard leaned over. "No, you look," he said coldly. "I'm not opening these gates for anybody.. . short of holy Mystra herself. So if you can come back holding hands with her, and the two of you asking very nicely to come in, all right, but otherwise ..."
A third figure was on the balcony, peering around the guard's shoulder. It wore the cloak and helm of a guard, but no gauntlets, and the helm...which was far too big for it...kept slipping forward over its face.
An impatient hand shoved the helm back up out of the way, and the white, worried face of Kadeln, Tome-priest of the Temple, stared down at his friend. "Tenthar," he hissed, "you shouldn't have come here. These people are wild with fear."
"You know," the man in the black cloak remarked almost casually, "standing down here with them, I'd begun to notice that." Then his control broke and he almost clawed his way up the wall to the balcony, ignoring a warning pike thrust. The dirty blade stopped inches from his nose and hung there warningly. Tenthar paid it not a blind bit of attention.
"Kadeln," Tenthar was snarling, " what's going on? Every last damned magic I work goes wild, and when I study...nothing. I can't get any new spells!"
"It's the same here," the white-faced priest whispered. "They're saying Mystra must have died, and..."
One of the guards hauled Kadeln away from the edge of the balcony, and the other jabbed viciously with his pike, Tenthar flung himself desperately back out of its reach and tumbled down the bronze doors to the ground.
The crowd melted away a few paces as if by magic, and he found himself lying in a little cleared space with the pike once more hanging a handspan above his throat. "Who are you?" the guard behind it demanded. "Answer, or die. I have new orders."
Tenthar sat up and thrust the pike head away with one contemptuous hand. When he scrambled to his feet, however, he took care to be a good two paces beyond its reach.
"Tenthar Taerhamoos is my name," he said sternly, opening his cloak to reveal rich robes, and a gem-studded medallion blazing on his chest. "Archmage of the Phoenix Tower. I'll be back."
And with that grim promise the archmage whirled around and pushed his way almost proudly through the crowd. All around him were murmurs of "It's true! Mystra's dead? Magic all undone?" and the like.
A stone spun out of somewhere and struck Tenthar on the shoulder. He did not stop or try to turn but struggled onward through bodies disinclined to let him pass. "An archmage?" someone cried. "With no spells?" another asked, close at hand. Another stone struck Tenthar, on the head this time, and he staggered.
There was a roar of mingled awe and exultant hunger all around him, and someone shrieked, "Get him!'
"Get him!" a thunderous chorus echoed. Tenthar went to his knees, looked up to see boots and sticks and hands coming at him from all sides, clutched his precious medallion to guard against the spell going wild, and said the words he'd hoped not to have to say.
Lightning crackled out in all directions, and Tenthar tried not to look at the dying folk dancing to its hungry surges around him. Chain lightning is a terrible thing even when unaugmented, with the medallion involved, well...
He sighed and stood up as the last of the screams died away, watching the bobbing heads of those who'd lived to flee grow smaller as they ran across the fields. He'd best be running, too, before some bloodthirsty idiot rallied them or the folk here who were only stunned and twitching recovered enough to seek revenge.
The smell of cooked flesh was strong, bodies were heaped on all sides. Tenthar gagged, then broke into a trot. He never even saw the pike hurled at him from the balcony, it fell well short and struck, quivering, in the dirt.
A blackened body rose from among the dead and tugged it free. "The thing I hate most about these little games," it remarked to the empty air, "is the cost. How many lives will be snuffed out before it's over, this time?"
Another blackened thing rose, shrugged, touched the pike, and said sadly, "There's always a price ... all our power, and we can't change that."
There were two shimmerings in the air...and the two blackened bodies were gone. The pike winked out of sight an instant later.
"Are there archmages under every stone out yonder? Or just what bloody dancing gods were those? the guard who'd thrown the pike barked, more fear than anger in his tones.
"Mystra and Azuth," the priest beside him whispered. The guards turned to look at Kadeln...and gasped in amazement. The missing pike had just appeared in the priest's shuddering hands. He stared at them, eyes full of wonder, and moaned, "Mystra and Azuth, they were. Standing right there, with the symbols they've granted us to know them by glowing above their heads...right there?
He tried to point out into the litter of bodies, but decided to faint instead. He did it very well, eyes rolling up and body folding down. One of the guards caught him out of force of habit, and the other snatched hold of the pike.
If gods were going to come calling, he didn't want to be standing there unarmed.
"Mystra is dead!" the Darklady declared exultantly. "Her priests find their spells to be but flickering things, and mages study and find no power behind their words. Magic is now ours alone to command...ours to control!"
The purple flames that raged in the brazier before her cast strange lights on her face as she raised eyes that were very large and dark to gaze at them all. Around the flames sat her eager audience: the six priests of the Dark Lady who'd agreed to work as wizards, harnessing for their spells the power of what had already become known in the temple as the Secret in the Sphere. With them she could make the House of Holy Night the mightiest temple of Shar in all Faerun...and the faith of the Nightbringer the most powerful in all Toril. It might not even take long.
"Most loyal Dreadspells," the high priestess told them, "you have a great opportunity to win the favor of Shar, and power for yourselves. Go forth into Faerun and seek out the most capable mages and the largest holds of magic. Slay at will, and seize all you can. Bring back tomes, rare things, and anything that bears the tiniest glow of magic. You must slay any of those servants of Mystra called the Chosen if you meet with them. We here shall work most diligently with our spells to try to find them for you."
"Your Darkness?" one of the wizards asked hesitantly.
"Yes, Dread Brother Elryn?" Darklady Avroana's voice was silken, a clear warning to all that anyone who dared to interrupt her had better have a very good reason for doing so...or she'd soon give them one.
"My work involves farscrying our agents in Westgate," Elryn said quickly, "and rumor now abroad in that city speaks of many recent sightings of a Chosen in the vicinity of Starmantle ... something about going into a 'Dead Place'..."
“I, too, have heard such tidings," the Darklady agreed eagerly. "My thanks for giving us a location, Elryn. All of you shall go there immediately...and there begin your holy task. Thrust your hands into the flames...oh, and most loyal Dreadspells, bear in mind that we can see and hear you always."
Six faces paled...and six hands were reluctantly extended into the flames. Darklady Avroana laughed delightedly at their fear and let them burn for a few moments ere she said the words that teleported them all elsewhere.
It was very peaceful in the woods around the shrine...and, since the killings had begun and fear had driven folks away, very quiet.
Most days Uldus Blackram was alone on his knees before the stone block, halfheartedly lashing himself a few times...gently, so as not to make much noise...and whispering prayers to the Nightsinger.
The shrine had been founded so nicely, consecrated with blood and a wild ritual that still made Uldus blush to remember it. Now there were no black-robed ladies to dance and whirl barefoot around the horned block and no one to lead him in the half-remembered prayers ... so he did a lot of just thanking Shar for keeping him alive on his stealthy visits to the woods. He hoped she'd forgive him for not coming at night anymore.
"May your darkness keep me safe from the Slayer," Uldus breathed, his lips almost touching the dark stone. "May you guide me to power and exultation over mine enemies, and make of me a strong sword to cut where you need things cut, and slash where it is your will to slash. Oh, most holy Mistress of the Night, hear my prayer, the beseeching of your most loyal servant, Uldus Blackram. Shar, hear my prayer. Shar, answer my prayer. Shar, heed m..."
"Done, Uldus," said a voice from above him, crisply.
Uldus Blackram managed to strike his head on the altar, somersault over backward to get a good four paces away, and get to his feet all in one blurred flurry of movement.
When he froze, half turned to flee and panting hard, he was looking back at six bald-headed men in black and purple robes, standing in a semicircle around the altar facing him, with faint amusement on their faces.
"Lords of the Lady?" Uldus gasped. "Have my prayers been answered at last?"
"Uldus," the oldest of them said pleasantly, stepping forward, "they have. At last. Moreover, a fitting reward has been chosen for you. You're going to guide us into the Dead Place!"
"P-praise Shar!" Uldus replied, rolling his eyes wildly upward as he toppled to the turf in a dead faint.