Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar)

by Robin Wayne Bailey

  With that, he spun suddenly about and flung the cat, which let out a horrible screeching as it found itself flying through the air. Claws dug deeply into the face of the nearest man, who let out a shriek to match the cat's. "Demons!" he screamed in terror. Wrestling with the beast that ripped his flesh, he leaped back into two of his comrades, sending them toppling.

  The Mouser hit the fourth man with his shoulder, smashing him into the wall before he could recover from his surprise. The Gray One ran toward Dim Lane's entrance into Cheap Street.

  One of the figures on the roof leaped into Fafhrd's path. Before his feet even quite touched the ground, a heavy pommel broke his jaw. A huge hand caught the shoulder of a rough tunic and hurled the slack-faced man into the paths of the other team of four as they rushed forward.

  "Amateurs!" Fafhrd called, taunting them as they scrambled to get up. A knife whished by his ear suddenly, and his grin vanished. Spinning about, he ran back up the lane, pausing long enough to put a boot in the face of the man the Mouser had downed, and to sweep up the cat.

  The Mouser waited for him at the mouth of the lane, his narrow sword drawn now, his breathing quick, his eyes bright with excitement.

  "I think this belongs to you," Fafhrd said, delivering the cat into his arms. But the beast gave a growl, leaped away, and disappeared into the fog.

  Footsteps raced toward them. Their attackers were not yet discouraged.

  "The puss is on his own," the Mouser declared, forgetting about the cat as the first foe charged out of the fog. A blade cut toward the Mouser's head. Ducking the swing, he put a boot between the wielder's legs. "The better part of valor?" he suggested, inclining his head in the direction of the plaza.

  "But of course!" Fafhrd called over his shoulder, his heels already ringing on the paving stones as he ran.

  The plaza was a virtual fog-bound limbo, an ocean of gray mist. Neither intersecting Cash Street, nor the other end of Cheap Street could be seen. "Where?" Fafhrd cursed, his head whipping from side to side as he searched for the best course.

  The Mouser whirled to meet their onrushing attackers, who surged into the plaza right behind them. The ten formed a circle around them. The weapons they carried were plainly swords now, not clubs, and the looks in their eyes were murderous.

  The broken-jawed man stepped slightly forward and pointed his sword toward Fafhrd. "Ah wan' ma cloak, 'ou filthy barbar-an! An' ma ring! Then ah wan' yer miserble lives for the embar-rassmen you've caused me!"

  "It's our Ilthmart friend," the Mouser said in a tone of mockery as he turned back-to-back with Fafhrd.

  "Aye," Fafhrd answered, "and nine of his dumbest, ugliest sisters.

  "Ugly I may well be, you ignorant lummox," one of the nine said harshly. "But I take offense at 'dumb.'" With serpentine quickness, a length of rope flashed from his hands, uncoiling, whiplike, to snap around Fafhrd's sword. The blade went flying.

  The Ilthmarts charged. The Mouser's blade rang against another. A knife flashed at his ribs. Twisting, he avoided the thrust and slammed his elbow into a face. Pain flashed across his left bicep, and the warm rush of blood poured down his sleeve. A fist toppled him to the street, and for a moment, he was submerged in a foggy sea under a pile of bodies. A knee pinned his sword-hand to the ground, and a knife waved before his eyes. A vaguely familiar face appeared suddenly close to his, and the Mouser recognized the other Ilthmart who'd tried to rob him in the alley behind the Silver Eel.

  "That's twice ye or yer pal have put a boot in me family treasures, shorty," the Ilthmart said angrily. "Now I'm gonna slice yers off an' wear 'em fer earrings!"

  But before the Ilthmart could carry out his threat, his eyes widened with fear, and he leaped away. All the Mouser's attackers fell back as a whirring sound filled the air, growing louder, deeper. Rising first on an elbow, then to a nervous crouch, the Mouser gripped his wound and stared.

  Standing protectively over him, Fafhrd swung the heavy grapnel on its length of rope around and around. Letting out more line with each rotation, he drove the Ilthmarts back. A blow from that weight meant crushed bones or death. Just beyond the lethal arc, the Ilthmarts cringed, but kept their weapons ready, looking for some opening to renew their attack.

  The grapnel whooshed; Fafhrd's breath came out in great exhalations as he whirled the makeshift weapon, letting it out to the full length of its line. On the ground, the Mouser groped for his sword, finding Graywand as well as Scalpel.

  Just out of the grapnel's range, the Ilthmart's broken-jawed leader raged. "Ge' in there!" he encouraged his men. "Cu’ their damn throa's! Avenge the honor of Ilthmar'!"

  In his enthusiasm, he caught the arm of the nearest man and propelled him forward—straight into the path of the grapnel. The weighty prongs missed the startled unfortunate, but the line arced around his throat and upper body, snapping his neck before the grapnel finally tangled itself.

  Giving a tug on the line, Fafhrd found it would not come free. "Oops," he said with a shrug to the Mouser. He extended a hand for Graywand.

  The Ilthmarts stared in disgust at their leader. Nevertheless, they now had something more than mere honor to avenge. Gripping their weapons, they stalked forward with fiercely determined expressions.

  Then, from the foggy sea, dense tendrils of mist snaked languidly upward, surrounding the Ilthmarts. Like the tentacles of some horrid sea squid, those tendrils coiled about the terrified men with such impossible power that some were lifted from the very ground. The Ilthmarts screamed, those whose throats were not gripped. Spines and ribs, arms and necks cracked with brittle snapping.

  Back to back with Fafhrd, even the Mouser cried out in fear and horror. Cold sweat ran down his neck; wide-eyed, dry-mouthed, he watched the killing, his ears ringing with screams, his hammering heart near to bursting. He shrank from the arcane tendrils, cowering against his trembling partner, his sword useless in a fear-numbed hand.

  The last scream ended with a strangulated gurgle and a gasp. Not a single Ilthmart remained alive. Their deadly work completed, the tendrils lost their seeming solidity, dissolved, and melted away into the murky night.

  The Mouser turned slowly to stare at Fafhrd. The Northerner, pale of face, shivering like a child in the cold, stared briefly back. As if with one thought, they ran from the plaza, ran up Cheap Street, ran as fast as their legs would carry them down Dim Lane for the warmth and light of the Silver Eel. Bursting through the door, the Mouser tripped over the threshold and spilled full upon the floor. Fafhrd slammed the door shut. Ignoring his small partner's plight, he braced his muscled frame against the wood as if to hold it against a pursuing foe.

  The Mouser raised his head, suddenly aware of a powerful quiet. Every pair of eyes in the hotly crowded tavern locked on them. Around the room, men half-risen from their chairs put hands to swords or daggers. A dancer, raven hair plastered to her bare, sweating shoulders, stood frozen in the middle of a movement. Behind her, a band of drummers hesitated in mid-beat over now-silent dumbeks. Another trio of scantily clad women ceased to shake tambourines.

  On the far side of the inn, Cherig waved his hook in the smoky air. "It's only my favorite tenants," he called merrily to his customers. "Play on! Play on!"

  Like a tableau come back to life, the drummers struck their hides, and the dancer resumed without seeming to miss a step. Gruff men pushed their weapons back into sheaths, sat down again, and turned their gazes once more to shimmying hips and breasts, some clapping appreciatively to the throbbing beat of the dumbeks, others sipping beer or thin wine. Near the door, a comely woman leaned on the arm of a pot-bellied noble, but the wink she gave Fafhrd held no subtlety.

  Red-faced with embarrassment, the Mouser banged his forehead on the floor three times before he drew a deep breath, got to his feet, and sheathed his slender blade. "I pray," he said to Fafhrd, summoning an air of bravado as he straightened his cloak and tunic and patted his stomach with one hand, "let Cherig have some of that seasoned lamb ..."

  He didn't fi
nish the thought. Across the tavern in the gloomy corner near the rear door, standing between a pair of handsome young men, he spied the Dark Butterfly.

  SEVEN

  THE DARK BUTTERFLY

  In the gloomiest corner of the inn, the Mouser leaned his back against the wall and ate cold lamb and gravy on a trencher of bread. He chewed slowly without appreciating the taste at all, dripping sauce on the front of his gray tunic without noticing.

  The percussion continued, but the music turned softer with the addition of Fafhrd's lute-playing. The dark-haired dancer worked the center of the floor, her movements slow and sensuous to match the more romantic mood created by the lute's strings. Her audience watched, entranced, but her flashing eyes glowed only for the red-bearded Northerner.

  Between her two paramours, Liara paid little attention. She sipped her violet wine, sometimes lifting a small, ivory-skinned hand to hide a smile or quiet a laugh as one of the men whispered some secret in her ear. The deep purple of her silken gown and cloak shimmered in the inn's lantern light, and with her every slight movement, golden threads woven throughout the fabric seemed to spark with fire. A huge amethyst, depending from a golden chain, blazed at the opening of the valley between her breasts.

  The Mouser watched her, frowning at the intimate way the two men touched her, whispered to her, pressed themselves against her in their dark corner as if they were about to take her, standing, right there. Liara laughed, drew down the face of one of them, kissed his nose, then his lips, before she pushed him away again. The other moved in then, bending close, expecting similar treatment, and she gave it.

  Casting the remains of his meal on the floor, the Mouser wiped his hands on his trousers and tried to look away. She drew him, though, as if she were a flame and he a helpless moth. With his gaze turned from her, he still felt her there. Her presence called to him, demanded all his attention. Try as he might, he could not resist for long.

  Just looking at her filled him with a fire, a heat he had not known since his beloved Ivrian held him last. Mog's blood! How could one woman look so much like another?

  She laughed again, a sharp little sound, and stroked her own breast while her companions grinned hungrily down upon her.

  The Mouser could stand her teasing no more. Leaving his place by the wall, he chose a spot where he could better watch his partner's playing. The blond noblewoman who had earlier winked at Fafhrd had sidled closer to him while the dancer bent backward before him, letting her hair brush over his feet as her breasts spilled nearly out of their cups. With soft percussion for accompaniment, Fafhrd played sweetly, enjoying the attention it won him.

  Cherig One-hand appeared suddenly by the Mouser's side and pushed a mug of beer into his hands. "Perhaps the barbarian isn't such a barbarian, after all," he said with a hint of drunkenness. The Silver Eel's owner snatched another mug from a startled customer's hand and swallowed from it. "I think he's good for business, and I'd like to have a drink with his manager." Without thanks or apology, he handed the vessel back to the same customer.

  The lantern light reflected in the amber contents as the Mouser swirled the liquid thoughtfully without drinking. "No," he murmured, more to the beer than to Cherig. Without even looking, he could sense Liara in the corner as he passed the beer back. "I'd like a small glass of Tovilyis wine."

  Cherig raised an eyebrow. "Your boy's popular for one night, and already you're making demands!" He lifted the Mouser's mug to his lips and drained it, spilling some of the contents down his bare chest and into his apron. "I'll get it then to make you happy," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm. "Festival comes, and all my friends must be happy!"

  The music ended, and the percussionists took over. A wild, frenzied beat filled the inn. A different woman leaped up onto a table and began to gyrate, uncaring when someone snatched at her clothing. Indeed, she began to cast it off, herself, throwing blouse and then skirts into the air to fall where they would while the rest of the customers clapped and called encouragement.

  She was indifferent-looking, however, and the Mouser's gaze strayed toward the tavern's rear door. Did he imagine it, or was Liara watching him, too? She raised her glass and sipped the wine. Her eyes, catching the liquor s color, shot violet fire.

  Then Cherig blocked his view. The tiny crystal goblet he held for the Mouser was not much bigger than a thimble, yet the rare wine's bouquet blossomed like the finest perfume. Accepting the drink, the Mouser closed his eyes and inhaled delicately, letting old memories wash gently over him.

  Ivrian had loved this wine of Tovilyis. On the first night of their lovemaking in Lankhmar she had poured a bottle over him and, laughing, licked it off. "To my noble father, who tried and failed to keep us apart," she had toasted as she filled his armpit and drank from it. "To my father's soldiers, who couldn't find their own arses, let alone the two of us in this huge city," she had said with her head between his legs.

  "To you, Ivrian," he whispered as he raised his small glass to the memory of his one true love and opened his eyes. To an observer, however, it might have appeared that it was Liara he toasted, for Cherig no longer stood between them.

  Putting the crystal to his lips, he poured the thick, flowery nectar down his throat. Surely, the gods vinted no more wondrous beverage, he thought as he savored the burst of flavor.

  When he lowered the glass, over the rim he spied the Dark Butterfly slipping out the rear door with her pair of suitors.

  Fafhrd, in a generous effort to lower class barriers, had one arm wrapped around the dark-haired dancer and the other on the waist of the blond noblewoman. As the Mouser watched, the noblewoman held a mug to the Northerner's lips, and he drank deeply while the dancer kneaded the corded muscles in his neck.

  Cherig passed by again to claim the precious glass. Without a word to his partner, the Mouser slipped through the crowd and exited through the rear door.

  The fog swirled through Bones Alley. The moist air felt cool on his face, and he drew up his hood as he gazed up and down the narrow passage, hoping for a sight of the Dark Butterfly. The mist, of course, thwarted that desire, but a short, familiar laugh established his direction.

  The haunting zaghareets of Aarth's followers still floated in the night, but the close walls of the alley muffled the weird cries. He felt his way along carefully until he reached Carter Street.

  Rounding the corner, he caught just a flash of a silk cloak before the fog concealed Liara from his view again. Fortunately, her companions, made ebullient by liquor, gave forth with an endless stream of brags and jokes, as men too often did in the presence of beautiful women. Their voices made them easy to follow.

  At the corner of Damp Street, a gaunt-faced man in a ragged cloak raised a smoking pitch torch as he called out to the trio. "Light your way!" he cried, his dirty face shining under the bright flare. "Light your way! Five tik-pennies is what you pay! Light your way!"

  The Dark Butterfly laughed as she stopped before the enterprising fellow. "What a clever way to earn your bread, and a worthwhile service it is," she said. "Have you turned much business tonight?"

  The torch-bearer bowed elegantly. "This damned fog, if your ladyship will pardon a poor man's language, keeps many folks inside. But Midsummer Festival approaches, and there's always them that likes to get an early start on their celebrating. I just walked a couple to the Plaza of Dark Delights." He winked salaciously.

  A chorus of shrill zaghareets and a barely human scream ripped through the night. The torch-bearer shrank in fear, nearly dropping his money-maker. One of the paramours drew Liara protectively into his arms while the other whirled with a drawn dagger.

  Unseen, the Mouser flattened against a wall, his sword whisking from its sheath. For a moment, all the horrors of the Cheap Street Plaza, forgotten in his desire for the woman he followed, surged through his mind.

  A small mob of Aarth's priests and followers charged down the road, saffron robes flapping and torn, the light of tiny lanterns swinging in the m
ist as they ran. Again, they screamed zaghareets, and again one of their number, unable perhaps to make the intricate sound, answered with a blood-curdling scream. In only a moment they were passed and lost once more in the dense fog.

  Liara's guardians gave a visible sigh of relief and sheathed their daggers, though Liara seemed quite calm, almost amused. "I have no fear of the night," she said to the torch-bearer, "but to soothe the nerves of these big strong men,"—she indicated her companions—"I will hire your services." She held up a finger. "One tik."

  The torch-bearer scoffed, feigning offense. "Five tiks," he insisted. "But for such a beautiful lady, I will lower myself to accept four."

  Liara held up another finger. "Two," she offered.

  The torch-bearer rubbed his chin, looking stern. "Shall we say three and call it a bargain?"

  "Two," Liara said firmly. Then she smiled. "And a kiss at the end of your hire."

  The torch-bearer's eyes grew as bright as his flame.

  "On the cheek," she added, folding her arms beneath her silken cloak.

  "Left or right?" the torch-bearer grinned, unwilling to end the haggle.

  Liara shrugged, reached out with a fingertip, and touched the left side of a broken-toothed mouth. "Here."

  The little man smiled, then jumped up and clicked his heels. "Lead the way!" he sang. "Lead the way! Two tiks and a kiss is what you pay!"

  Now four, Liara's party continued down Carter Street surrounded by a wavering circle of amber radiance. Concealed by the fog, the Mouser followed a few paces behind, his sword once more in its sheath. The smoke of the pitch torch tickled his nose, and he pressed a finger against his nostrils to stifle a sneeze.

  She even walked like Ivrian. Her laughter, speech, her smallest movement reminded him of his dead love. The color of her hair, her eyes, her face was Ivrian's. Only in her boldness, her disdain for the dangers of the night, did she differ, and in her open, flagrant flirtation.

  Drawn almost against his will, the Mouser crept along just past the edge of the light, a shadow of her shadow, haunted and mesmerized.