Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar)

by Robin Wayne Bailey

  With scant subtlety, wrapping his hands nervously around his mug, Nuulpha glanced over both his shoulders. "Most of the populace is too stupid or too complacent to notice the things that happen in this town,” he said, his voice a mixture of fear and bitterness, "but the common, lowly guards who work the streets have eyes and ears, nor are we fools." He took a short drink. "Three of Lankhmar's most powerful wizards have died of sickness this past year, and this even our great bloat of an Overlord knows. Yet, along with the rest of this city's pampered nobility, he disdains to observe that others have died—fortunetellers, charm peddlers, priests. Also common merchants, shopkeepers, housewives and whores ..."

  He paused and looked sharply around again before continuing. "In the barracks, a few have dared to whisper the word, plague." The corporal frowned. "Their superiors had them whipped. I, myself, believe it is no plague." Touching the tip of a finger to his temple, he added, "I've been around, my friend, and I know a candle from a quarter moon. Some sorcery haunts the streets of Lankhmar, and something evil stalks our footsteps."

  Nuulpha picked up his mug again, drained it, and looked uncomfortably away. "My host knows this, too," he said as he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I saw it in his eyes and heard it in his voice when he warned that child to have no traffic with luck or magic."

  The Mouser narrowed one eye, impressed with his guest's perceptive powers, as he reached for the pitcher again. The handle appeared fuzzier than it should have, and it took two tries for him to close his fingers around it. When he refilled their mugs, some of the amber contents splashed onto the table.

  "I'll tell you honestly, good Captain," the Mouser said. "I know precious little, save that I must find this Maly... Malygris, and I haven't a clue where to begin." With a heavy sigh, he raised his mug in another salute to his guest. "Come, the subject has made us a pair of humorless gargoyles. See how you sit hunched over your beer?" He slapped his palm against the table. "No more of this tonight. Cherig's cellar is not yet dry, I'll wager, and that should be challenge enough for a pair of good men."

  Nuulpha’s expression remained gloomy. Both hands clasping his mug, he stared down into its contents. "I like you well, gray friend," he whispered, "but if some geas compels you to pursue this madness, then pay heed." He lifted his gaze to meet the Mouser's black-eyed stare. "There is a rumor—no more than that. In one of the forbidden temples of the Ancient Gods that stand near the riverfront, some hint that Malygris has taken residence, although in which of those accursed and abandoned structures . . ."—he shrugged—"no one says. Treat this as you will, but remember: if you are caught trying to enter or disturb those ruins, it's Lankhmar's law that your lives are forfeit."

  Grinning, the Mouser touched his mug to his guest's. "Well, if I'm arrested and hauled off to your famous city dungeon, I'll trust in you to effect for me an escape of such breathtaking derring-do that the bards will sing of it throughout this and the entire next season."

  Picking up his mug, Nuulpha returned the salute. "Indeed," he answered, "however, that will cost you a considerably larger and more ornate bribe than this milk of Cherig's."

  Once again, the Silver Eel's door opened. Raucous laughter preceded a pair of slender young men, whose richly embroidered black cloaks marked them as noblemen or sons of noblemen. The fog swirled around their feet and clung to their garments like thick smoke as they entered, and to the Mouser's inebriated eye it seemed that a wispy tendril shifted and coiled with noose-like menace around the throat of one of them, but the door closed and the clinging mist swiftly diffused in the growing heat of the tavern.

  With the young men came their paramours, two elegantly clad beauties, whose gowns of splendid silks shimmered in the Silver Eel's shadowy lamplight, whose arms and fingers sparkled with jeweled rings and bracelets. Both women wore their hair piled high on their heads and held in place with glittering pins and combs. One stood tall and dark as a raven's wing, but it was the smaller blonde who held the Mouser's eye. A child, really, no more than fourteen, she appeared thin as a willow wand, yet possessed of a grace an older woman would have envied. Her gaze swept around the tavern, and for a brief instant, her eyes met the Mouser's.

  With his mug halfway to his lips, the Mouser's heart froze. "Ivrian," he muttered, for it was the face of his one true love staring back at him across the smoky room.

  Then, she turned away again and threw her arms around the neck of her lover, laughing at some comment from him, as the four of them moved into a corner to call for drinks.

  Slowly, the Mouser sipped from his mug and set it down. The beer tasted bitter in his mouth. With an effort, he swallowed, his eyes still on the blond woman, who never looked his way again.

  "Stirs your blood, does she?" Nuulpha said, turning his head to regard the foursome.

  "She ..." the Mouser hesitated, his voice dropping to a soft whisper, "... reminds me of someone."

  Nuulpha grinned as he reached for the pitcher to refill his mug. "You can buy an evening with her for half again what you gave the child."

  The Mouser's eyes widened. "She's a prostitute?"

  "I'm a man of the streets," Nuulpha said proudly. "I know them all. Her name is Liara, called by some the Dark Butterfly, and she belongs to the House of Night Cries on Face-of-the-Moon Street."

  The Mouser fell silent as he regarded Liara. All the tables in the tavern were occupied, so she and her friends leaned against the wall, their celebratory spirits undampened. No common beer for them; Cherig stood at their elbows with four rare and delicate crystal goblets balanced on his tray as he poured wine of Tovilyis from a slender brown bottle. The lamplight gleamed on the blood-red wine, and the glasses shone like huge fiery rubies as hands reached out to seize them.

  Liara clinked the rim of her goblet with her companion's, then rose on tiptoe to lightly kiss his lips. Her dark eyes, subtly shadowed with traces of kohl, locked with his as she tasted the expensive liquor, while with one hand he stroked her breast.

  The Mouser rose suddenly, accidentally knocking over his stool. Grabbing his mug, he drained the contents and slammed it down again. "Got to pee," he told Nuulpha, slurring his words as he pushed away from the table.

  He weaved carefully through the crowd. Beneath the stairs that led to the sleeping rooms on the upstairs level stood a narrow door. The knob tried to dodge his grasp, but on the third attempt his fingers caught and turned it. Beyond was a narrow hallway, then another door that opened outward into Bones Alley.

  The white fog hung like a pall in the air, eerily still and cool upon his face. When the Mouser paused to stare up and down the alley, neither end was visible. So thick was the mist that it even obscured the rooftops of the buildings opposite the tavern.

  The Mouser pushed the outer door closed, muffling the laughter of the Silver Eel's customers. In the silence, he walked several paces down the alley and loosened the front of his trousers.

  The door opened again. A silhouetted figure turned quickly to the wall, muttering to himself as he raised a mug to drink, while fumbling one-handed with his clothing. The soft sound of his urination joined the Mouser's. "Leaks out fast as I put it in," the man grumbled drunkenly.

  The Mouser grunted noncommittally as he watched the dark stain he was making on the inn's wall grow. His thoughts were on the prostitute, Liara, who so resembled his dead love. A dull ache grew in his heart, and he began to spell Ivrian’s name wetly above the stain as a pair of sentimental tears welled in the corners of his eyes.

  Through the alcohol that dulled his senses, the Mouser heard soft footsteps coming up the alley. Yet another figure approached, emerging ghostlike out of the fog. Dark eyes locked on the Mouser, and from under the edge of a cloak, rose the long, broad blade of a sword.

  "I'll ha yer purse, shorty," the newcomer ordered, leveling his point near the Mouser's nose. "An any other bauble or bit o' value ye might be holdin'."

  The Mouser shifted his lower, hidden hand. "The most valuable thing I've got for you," he said, tu
rning his body away from the wall just enough to whip his own slender blade from its sheath in a high head parry that knocked his foe's point away from his face and sent the larger sword flying, "is this piece of advice ..." His riposte put his own point beneath the taller man's chin. Suddenly empty-handed, the fellow's eyes snapped wide with surprise and fear.

  "Never interrupt a man in mid-stream." The Mouser finished his business on the man's boots.

  Behind him, almost forgotten, the other man, who had relieved himself by the door, chuckled. "An never ferget that thieves are like the boots yer pissin' on."

  At last, recognizing their Ilthmart accents, the Mouser reacted too late. An earthen beer mug came crashing down on his head. Red stars exploded behind his eyes. He staggered, then sagged against the wall where he'd written Ivrian's name.

  "We usually come in pairs, little man."

  FOUR

  SHADOWS IN THE MIST

  Fafhrd yawned, stretching his arms above his head as he sat up on the side of the bed. The muffled sounds of laughter and general carousing rose up through the floorboards from the tavern below. It was not the noise that had awakened him, however, but a nightmare from which he had struggled to awake.

  Frowning, he rubbed his nose. Born and raised in the open spaces of the Cold Wastes, the smells of city living constantly offended his senses. At the moment, though, such odors were a welcome distraction, for they forced his mind farther from the specters that even now reached for him and called to him from the receding dream.

  Only a feeble light from the lamps in the hallway seeped beneath the door. Otherwise, the room was black as pitch. Throwing back the sheet, Fafhrd rose naked and groped for the chamber pot at the foot of the bed. In the darkness, however, he kicked it, and sent it clattering into some other corner of the room.

  Muttering curses, the huge Northerner hopped up and down on his right foot as he clutched his left. His big toe throbbed. Yet he thanked his god, Kos, for small favors, for his nose told him that the Mouser had not used the pot before him. Squinting, he tried to locate the overturned vessel in the blackness. Then, with a shrug, he gave up and limped to the window.

  Somebody had closed the shutters, Fafhrd noted sleepily, but he flung them open and leaned against the sill. Damn the chamber pot. He would only have emptied it into the alley below anyway. Yawning again, he released his urine and watched it fall steaming into the cool, foggy night while he listened to the voices coming up through the floor.

  Outraged screams and curses rose up from below! Fafhrd grinned as he continued with the task at hand. Cherig's guests were a rowdy lot tonight. No doubt his companion, the Mouser, was downstairs in the thick of it.

  Then, another sound jarred against his ears, and suddenly Fafhrd realized the curses were rising, not through the floor, but from the alley below his window. Steel rang on steel, a note played only by one sword blade upon another.

  As he continued to pee, Fafhrd leaned his head out the window, curious to see what transpired below. Through the dense fog, he barely spied one small shape fending off two larger attackers. At the same time, he heard his own name shouted.

  "Fafhrd, you ill-mannered oaf, you're drenching me in your damnable rain!"

  His personal business nearly complete, Fafhrd shouted back in surprise. "Mouser?" he called, the sleep-fog lifting from his brain. "Is that you?"

  The small shadow below called back as he dodged and feinted, and steel rang out again. "None other, and covered in your foul stink!"

  While one tall shadow engaged the Mouser, another stepped away from the conflict and shook his sword at Fafhrd's window. "As am I, you faceless, bottomless bladder! After we dispatch this puny runt and relieve him of his purse, my comrade and I will be pleased to knock upon your door and deal you similar treatment!"

  Fafhrd considered for a moment while all three shadows resumed the fight. "Mouser," he called over the clash of blades. "Do I take it this bout is not just the friendly play of good-natured tavern-mates engaged in peacock displays of skill and manhood?"

  A heavy wisp of fog shifted through the alley, momentarily obscuring the combatants from Fafhrd's view, but the Mouser's voice came to him clearly, if a bit breathlessly. "This pair of Ilthmart thieves?" There was a pause, followed by a loud hawk and sound of spitting. "Skill and manhood are both small things to these cowards. I am giving them a fencing lesson!"

  Despite the Mouser's bravado, Fafhrd thought he detected a certain slur to his friend's words, and when the fog parted slightly, it seemed to him that the Ilthmart thieves, blades weaving in tandem, were pressing the Mouser to the wall.

  His own sword, Graywand, stood sheathed near his pillow. Swiftly crossing the room, Fafhrd stubbed another toe on the bed's leg. With a roar of pain, he drew the blade. A stream of curses flowing from his lips, he returned to the window, leaped over the sill, and plunged through the fog to the street below.

  One of the Ilthmarts turned to face Fafhrd. Raising his sword to strike, the thief and would-be murderer hesitated, his eyes widening as he looked up at his seven-foot opponent. No small man, himself, his jaw gaped.

  "Now then," Fafhrd said as he took a two-handed grip on his huge weapon and leveled the point near the man's throat, "which of you called my friend a puny runt?"

  The thief wet his lips. Without taking his eyes from Fafhrd, he inclined his head toward his partner, who was furiously fending off the Mouser's attacks. "Uh, not me," he answered with an innocent-seeming shrug. "It was my friend. He's always had a big mouth. I'm a quiet one, myself."

  "I see," Fafhrd said, drawing a circle before the man's eyes with his sword's point, "No reason to run you through, then." He brought his foot up into the Ilthmart's groin. The man's eyes snapped wider as he dropped his sword, clutched himself between his legs, and sank to his knees; his mouth made a pained oval, and he elicited a pitiful, low moan. "Next time," he gasped as he slumped forward, "just run me through."

  Planting the point of Graywand in the dirt, Fafhrd leaned on the pommel and peered through the ever-thickening fog. The clang of blades made a sweet music for a pair of dim shapes dancing a few paces away. "How fares the puny runt?" he called to the pair.

  Barely visible in the hazy mist, the remaining Ilthmart scowled contemptuously, though his breathing was ragged. "His sword is a small threat."

  Fafhrd smirked. "Play with him a while, and it'll grow."

  "I have taught him the parry from the third, fourth, and fifth positions," the Mouser called merrily, his words wine-slurred, "as well as the direct and indirect ripostes." Blades clanged again, mingling with the sounds of boots scraping desperately in the road, ending with a scowled curse and the harsh intake of breath. "Ah, there!" the Mouser cried. "Now he knows the fleche!"

  Patting his lips with the palm of one hand, Fafhrd faked a yawn. "Haven't you dispatched him, yet? A spectator might think you were in some trouble."

  Again, a ring of steel as blades slid against one another. "A mouser likes to play with its catch before he eats it," the smaller figure laughed. "Ah hah! There! An arm-cut!"

  The larger shadow growled. "No more than a scratch, you little braggart! And there's one lesson I learned long before this." Stooping, he grabbed a handful of dirt and flung it at the Mouser's face. "That's when to run away!"

  Recoiling, the Mouser shielded his eyes with one hand as the Ilthmart thief disappeared down the fog-enshrouded alley. "I think I should mention he's got our purse," he said, sputtering dirt from his lips as he spoke to Fafhrd. "And I've run up quite a tab with Cherig. There'll be no beer for you tonight if he gets away."

  Spurred to action by such a prospect, Fafhrd snatched his sword out of the ground and raced after the Ilthmart, guided only by the sound of fleeing footfalls. Down the length of Bones Alley he ran, emerging into Plague Court. There, he paused to listen and to determine the direction the thief had taken.

  The Mouser crashed into him from behind. With a groan, he bounced off Fafhrd's huge form and fell backward on his rump
. "Mog's blood!" he cried angrily, invoking his tutelary god. "What do you mean, stopping in the middle of a chase like that, particularly in this pea-soup fog!"

  Fafhrd offered a hand to help his friend up. "Maybe I should have called a warning," he whispered derisively. Then, pitching his voice toward an imitation of a woman's soprano, he continued, "Oh, Mouser, I'm stopping now. Don't run into me like some stupid, drunken sot!"

  The Mouser grumbled unappreciatively, waving his narrow blade before he wisely sheathed it. "I should have put Scalpel's point up your backside!"

  A crash and a now-familiar snarl sounded out of the fog off to Fafhrd's right. Wasting no more time on witticisms, he ran in that direction with the Mouser close behind. At a corner of the next intersection a rain barrel lay overturned and smashed. The muddy ground betrayed how the thief had fallen and scrambled up again, and wet footprints indicated his direction.

  Fafhrd stepped carefully around the broken pieces of the barrel, cool mud squishing between his bare toes. It was an abrupt reminder that, in his enthusiasm, he had jumped naked from his window to rescue the Mouser. Standing bare-assed in an unnamed alley with muddy feet and nothing but the night's fog to cover him—and a chilly fog at that—the stolen purse suddenly seemed less important than his dignity.

  Unfortunately, at the same moment that he came to this realization, a door opened further down the narrow road, and a dim light spilled briefly out. A brief, muffled laughter echoed up the way before the door closed again.

  "The rat's ducked into some dive of a tavern," the Mouser whispered, unsheathing his sword again as he advanced purposefully past Fafhrd. "Lucky for me—I've quite a thirst this evening."

  "Mouser!" Fafhrd hissed, hoping to stop his friend. "Mouser!" But the Mouser continued on, determined to retrieve his purse from the Ilthmart thief. With an aggrieved sigh, Fafhrd followed, covering his groin with one hand while his other hand tightened around his sword's grip.