Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar)

by Robin Wayne Bailey

  Sheathing his sword, he sat down on the edge of the bed. With his hands wrapped around the guard-tangs, he leaned his head wearily on the weapon's pommel and closed his eyes. It had to be near dawn, he figured. A little sleep would help to clear his head and let him see things more rationally.

  Hugging the sword to his chest, he tipped sideways and curled up on the blanket. The bed creaked under his shifting weight, but the soft feather mattresses embraced him with comfortable warmth. The pillow beneath his head smelled pleasantly of Sharmayne's expensive perfume, and a strand of Ayla's dark hair tickled his nose until he brushed it away. He turned over twice, finally settling on his back, and threw one arm over his eyes. At last, he lay still.

  The lamplight flickered. The wick sputtered and hissed.

  Slowly, Fafhrd uncovered his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. Had he slept? He wasn't sure. But something had disturbed him, not a sound or a movement, something else. He sniffed, and inhaled the odor of a sweet perfume that was not Sharmayne's.

  He knew that fragrance, though—Vlana's perfume.

  The lamplight flickered once more. With careful deliberation, Fafhrd turned his head toward the window. The shutters, which he had closed and locked, hung open. Beyond the sill, the fog stirred and eddied.

  Fafhrd. ...

  It was not wind, nor the lute-strings, nor the effect of too much wine, nor his imagination. Vlana whispered his name. From somewhere in the dark and misty night, his one true love called him to rise from his bed and join her. How such a thing could be when she was dead, he did not understand, but he reached for his trousers and his boots. Wordless, he pulled them on.

  Strapping Graywand around his waist, he went to the window and leaned out, seeing nothing but the fog. He would go down to her then, find her wherever she might be, make whatever amends he could for his part in her cruel and untimely death.

  Leaving the room, he made his way down the stairs. Empty wine bottles, beer mugs, overturned stools and chairs lay scattered about the Silver Eel's floor. There was no sign of Cherig One-hand. With all his customers gone, no doubt he had retired to his own bed, leaving the clean-up until morning. Only an old brown dog glanced up at Fafhrd before it resumed eating the scraps that littered the floor.

  Fafhrd slipped through the passage beneath the steps and opened the back door to emerge into Bones Alley. His open window and Vlana's whispering voice had suggested she might be waiting here, but he saw no one.

  He thought he better understood the strange occurrence in his room now that he knew who was behind it. The fear he had earlier felt was gone, replaced almost by a sense of relief. He thought he understood now the strange occurrences in the Cheap Street Plaza and in his room. Something indeed waited in the fog. Or rather, someone. And she waited for him.

  He did not yet see Vlana, nor did she speak his name again. As he gazed up and down the mist-filled alley, a lingering grief compelled him to speak.

  "Why do you haunt me, love?" he whispered to the fog. "What do you want from me?"

  A little way down the alley, the mist parted like a slowly opening curtain to reveal his beloved. A wind he couldn't feel teased the folds of diaphanous white silk that clothed her form, and black tresses whipped about her face. With mesmeric grace, her arms rose and fell in a serpentine undulation, while her hips floated in a tantalizing circle. One pale hand waved in the air, a gesture that seemed to invite him closer even as it warned him away.

  "Vlana ..." he said, taking a single step before halting again.

  She spun in a triplet pirouette and stopped, flinging out her arms, her eyes flashing like ice in sunlight. Pressing her palms firmly together beneath her chin, she began a new, far less sensuous dance. Her bare feet moved in a series of intricate patterns, while she held her upper body with rigid, courtly formality.

  "I love you," he whispered, his voice pleading.

  Again she stopped. Her cold gaze fixed him accusingly across the distance. With a dramatic toss of her head, she bent at the waist, and swung all her hair forward to conceal her face. Then straightening, she parted it with her hands. Vlana's face was gone, replaced by a glaring red-eyed skull whose teeth chattered an angry rhythm.

  Fafhrd gave a cry of despair, but before the sound had escaped his lips, Vlana spun again. When she stopped, she wore her own beautiful face again. Reaching up with one hand, she drew down a piece of the mist and drew it teasingly across her face like a dancer’s veil. With a flourish, she tossed it away. Her fingers began to move with dazzling speed. Unable to tear his gaze away, Fafhrd watched, feeling stirrings, a strange excitement. Like frantic birds, her hands worked in the air, fluttering, fingers darting between fingers, nails tapping on palms, tips snapping together.

  Only once before during their too-short time together had he seen Vlana perform the subtle and beautiful finger-dances of Tisilinit. A culture dancer of immeasurable talent and reputation, she held in her repertoire dances and dance-tales from scores of Nehwon's many lands and nations. She danced alone now and made no effort to approach him, but played upon the palms and fingers of a lover, the movements were said to bring on an erotic passion unmatched by any herb or aphrodisiac.

  He remembered the night when he first saw her dancing on a crude stage with poor lighting for the benefit of even cruder men who could not possibly appreciate her art. With a caravan of traders she had come, just one of a small troupe of actors and entertainers, to the village of the Snow Clan in the Cold Wastes. Only the adult men had been invited to the performance, but he had climbed a high tree, shinnied out on a limb, and from such a precarious perch, he fell in love.

  How different his life would have been without her, he realized. It was Vlana who had lured him away from his mother, his clan, from the plain village girl to whom he had been betrothed, from a life devoid of hope, empty of dreams, Vlana who had severed the chains of expectation and lifted the yoke of duty from around his neck. It was she who had brought him to the southlands and the warmer climes, ultimately to the exotic city of Lankhmar and taught him the ways of civilization.

  In return, he had sworn always to love and protect her. Succeeding in the first, he had failed horribly in the second.

  "Even with death’s chilly rime on your lips," he murmured, "grant me forgiveness with a kiss."

  Resolutely, he walked toward her. Vlana ceased her dance. The fire went out in her eyes, and a look of horror flashed over her face. Holding out a hand to warn him away, she took an involuntary step backward. At the same time, the fog seemed to thicken and rush in from all sides, snatching her away.

  Fafhrd ran forward until he stood on the spot where she had danced. The fog swirled about him, filling his eyes with a cold, numbing vapor, blinding him, choking his lungs. Stumbling, he fell to his knees.

  From out of the night came a harsh, mocking laughter.

  Coughing, rubbing his fists against his half-frozen eyes, Fafhrd looked up. The high walls of Bones Alley no longer loomed over him. Indeed, he could not say exactly where he was, in Lankhmar, or even on Nehwon. A shallow sea of cold mist flowed around him, gently tossing with low, smoky waves. From horizon to horizon, as far as he could gaze, it rolled beneath a featureless, fog-filled sky.

  Struggling to his feet, Fafhrd closed one fist around the hilt of his sword. Again the night reverberated with derisive laughter. Knee-deep in streaming white fog, he turned toward the sound.

  Far off in the darkness, a lamp burned dimly. Yet even as Fafhrd watched, it drew nearer and nearer. In its sickly amber glow, he spied the prow of a boat or a barge, a black shape sailing upon the fog. Barely visible in the lamp’s glow, a pale figure stood in the prow.

  Closer and closer the ship drew. The unmoving figure stood stiff as a mast in a white silk gown that billowed, sail-like. As the vessel continued to approach, the brightening lamplight reflected on heavy steel chains and manacles locked about the figure's wrists and neck, and on raven hair that streamed about proud and shapely shoulders.

  Sad eyes
turned Fafhrd's way.

  "Vlana!" he cried, his heart brimming with anger and despair.

  Another, taller figure worked in the vessel's stern. Until now, the brilliance of the lantern had prevented Fafhrd from seeing him. The black robes he wore snapped in the wind like the wings of a huge vulture, and a voluminous hood concealed his features. From his sleeves jutted a skeleton's bony hands and forearms. Leaning upon a long pole, he propelled the unusual boat forward.

  The vessel's low, black rails gleamed with intricately worked gold and silver inlay. Amidship, a slender mast spired upward. Without sail or rigging, it was covered with the same swirling inlay work as the rails, indeed, the rest of the ship. Immensely old and beautiful, it also gave off a sense of alienness.

  Without word or warning, the pilot lifted his pole from the misty sea and swung it. Vlana's face contorted with pain as the end struck her in the side, yet she made no sound at all as the impact sent her sprawling upon the boat's deck.

  Fafhrd drew his sword. "Villain!" he shouted. As rapidly as he could manage against the currents and eddies that worked unseen beneath the surface of the strange sea, he waded toward the boat. On its present course, he feared that it would sail right past before he could reach it. "Damned villain!"

  From within the black folds of the pilot's hood came a now familiar mocking laugh. Setting aside his pole, the creature bent down and effortlessly lifted a huge iron anchor, which he threw over the side. It disappeared without a splash or crash, and the anchor chain drew tight. The boat jerked to a stop. Once more, the creature took up his pole.

  "Let her go!" Fafhrd demanded as he struggled toward the eerie craft. Over the low, wooden rail he could see the limp form of his one true love, and he fought all the harder to reach the ship.

  A raspy voice spoke from within the hood. "Will you fight me for her, barbarian?" the creature said. "Is your blade as strong as your heart?"

  Fafhrd did not answer with words. At last, he stood within sword-reach of the vessel. Gripping Graywand's hilt in both hands, he swung the blade high and brought it smashing down on the rail. The boat rocked under the impact; wood splinters and bits of gold and silver flew into the air. Impossibly, they sparked with brilliant, white-hot fire and flared out.

  Reflexively, Fafhrd flung up an arm to protect his eyes from the unexpected light and heat.

  The creature laughed. The pole whirled in his skeletal hands, becoming a blur. Then one end lashed downward at Fafhrd's head. At the last instant, Fafhrd recovered his senses and brought his great sword up in a defensive block. Pole and steel clashed. Again, searing sparks leaped at the contact.

  "You can't win back the lovely Vlana," the figure taunted him. "You'll fail her again, just as you did before."

  "No!" Fafhrd screamed. Desperately, he swung Graywand again, striking at the creature's legs. At the same time, he caught the side of the boat with his free hand and tried to pull himself aboard. Deftly evading Fafhrd's cut, the creature smashed downward at Fafhrd's fingers.

  Barely in time, Fafhrd let go of the rail and jerked his hand away. The other end of the pole came spinning toward his unprotected head. Voicing a deep grunt, he brought his sword up in a mighty swing. With powerful force, wood and steel met again. Shimmering sparks seemed to set fire to the mist before fading, and the ship's inlay flashed.

  They fought in earnest now, the creature striking from his higher vantage with both ends of his weapon, Fafhrd swinging his sword with consummate skill, thwarting every attack. The boat rocked precariously, and the lantern, depending from a peg on the mast, cast a pendulum of light over the gray sea.

  Yet, strive as he might, Fafhrd could gain no advantage from his lower position. Finally, he risked a dangerous gambit. Chopping at his foe's knees, he drove the creature back a step. Then, springing up with all the power in his muscular legs, he threw himself across the boat's rail. Under his sudden weight, the vessel tipped violently. Still clinging to his pole, the creature catapulted over the side, wildly aflutter in his robes, and sank out of sight beneath the sea of mist.

  Sword ready, Fafhrd whirled, his gaze locked on the spot where his foe had disappeared under the gray waves. Not for a moment did he believe he could vanquish such an opponent so easily. He ventured only the swiftest glance toward Vlana, who cowered with her arms wrapped around the base of the slender mast, her eyes wide with terror.

  With lightning quickness, one end of the pole arced upward out of the mist, and whistled toward his skull. Fafhrd hurled himself backward. Still, a stinging blow glanced off his brow. Dazed, he caught himself on the side of the boat.

  The robed and hooded being rose laughing out of the river of mist. Fafhrd had yet to win even a glimpse of the face within those funereal garments.

  "What are you, monster?" Fafhrd shouted, stalling for time while his vision cleared. He gripped Graywand's hilt in both hands and swayed lightly back and forth on the balls of his booted feet.

  The creature’s laughter ceased. The voice that issued from within the black hood turned grim. "I am the Inevitable," it said pompously, "that all men must face."

  "Spare me your riddles," Fafhrd said. He lunged, describing an elusive circle with the point of his broad blade, hoping to slip past the creature's defense and drive home through its heart, if it had one.

  "No one will be spared," the creature said. "Not even the most innocent, the newest born." Undeceived by Fafhrd's tactic, it slammed the pole downward, intercepting the fatal thrust, diverting it.

  But Fafhrd only pressed his attack. With renewed fury, he rained deadly blows upon his foe, driving him backward away from the ship. Again and again, pole and blade met, and the darkness glowed with the heat and lightning they created.

  "Vlana must be spared," Fafhrd cried.

  "Fool," the creature said coldly. "She is already dead."

  With an anguished shout, Fafhrd swung Graywand with all his might. One more time, sword and pole met. Fire and heat erupted, and a thunderblast shook the night. Steel cleaved through wood; a fragment of the pole exploded into flame and spun across the sky like an arcane comet.

  For an instant, the creature stared in amazement at the shattered weapon. Fafhrd didn't hesitate. Putting the entire weight of his giant body into a back-handed effort, he sliced through his foe's chest.

  But the blade met little resistance. Black robes buckled inward, like a sack containing nothing. The creature, whatever it was, fell forward into the sea with the remains of its pole, and the mist swallowed it.

  With a triumphant bellow, Fafhrd turned toward the boat, intent on a successful rescue of his one true love. His heart swelling, he thought of breaking her chains and gathering her in his arms, of tasting the ruby wine of her lips once more.

  The boat, however, was already far away, its anchor and chain neatly curled on deck. Vlana stood amidships, watching him from the mast, while a cadaverous pilot in black robes propelled the vessel with a long pole.

  "I beat you!" Fafhrd shouted, bitter with frustration and renewed grief. "Let her go! I fought for her, and I won!"

  The much-hated sound of the creature's laughter rolled back across the mist, followed by a rasping voice. "You lost, son of Nalgron." The sea itself seemed to carry the words to him. "Before this little amusement began, you had already lost."

  The boat sailed onward, growing smaller and smaller, until only its lamp could be seen, and even that passed out of sight.

  "Vlana!" The desperate shout ripped from Fafhrd's throat as the lamp's light vanished.

  Alone in a gray limbo, he tried to think what he should do. Slowly he turned, attempting to spy some landmark in this desolate, featureless place by which he could navigate. Nothing caught his eye, no sound touched his ears, no odor wafted through the air. Even the pale, thin grayness that pervaded this world—wherever it might be—was fading, leaving him in darkness, deep and impenetrable.

  Blind, guided by nothing except hope and determination, he started in the direction he thought the boat and Vlan
a had gone. How far he walked, he could not guess, nor for how long before the chill fog began to freeze his legs, and the cold crept into his lungs and all through his extremities.

  With Vlana's name on his rime-caked lips, his weary limbs gave out, and he stumbled. Falling, sinking, the shallow sea seemed suddenly to have no bottom at all.

  The mist enfolded him in a feathery soft embrace as unseen currents caught and carried him—somewhere. Yet again I fail you, Vlana, he thought bitterly as consciousness left him. Yet again, I fail.

  NINE

  SHADOW ON THE SUN

  The first sunlight of dawn burned across the fog, coloring the sky with watery pastels. Swaths of pink and palest blue washed over a canvas of grays and silvers, creating a chiaroscuro edged with the black of retreating night.

  Wearily, the Gray Mouser pushed open the Silver Eel's door and made his way up the stairs. On tiptoes, with no desire to wake either Cherig One-hand or the inn's other tenants, he crept down the hall to the room he shared with Fafhrd, turned the knob, and entered.

  Fafhrd's big, booted feet stuck out from under the only blanket and hung over the end of the bed. Still in his clothes, the Northerner lay face down on the pillow, his red hair splayed about on the case, snoring with somnolent abandon. His left arm hung off the side of the bed, and the knuckles of that hand brushed the floor.

  The Mouser frowned. There was no room on the bed for him to lie down. Unfastening his weapons belt, he set sword and dagger aside, placing them beside the only chair. Stripping off his gray tunic, he moved quietly across the room to a table and poured cool water from a pitcher into a ceramic basin. Enough light slipped through the unshuttered window to make the small oil lamp unnecessary, and he gently blew out the tiny flame. Unbinding his hair, he let the black mass spill forward as he bent over the basin and laved his face. He felt dirty, in need of a bath.

  The bed frame creaked. Wiping his face with his tunic, the Mouser glanced sideways as Fafhrd sat slowly up and looked around the room with the curious, wide-eyed expression of one not quite awake. His gaze finally fastened on the Mouser.