Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar)

by Robin Wayne Bailey

  With gaping jaw, the Mouser bent over the first tray as the proprietor placed it on the worktable and moved a lamp closer. The gems dazzled under the shifting light. He caught his breath and leaned nearer.

  "I salute you, sir," he said at last to the proprietor. "Never have I beheld such remarkable fakes. How do you make them?"

  The proprietor's face colored, and the muscles in his neck corded. For an instant, he swelled up like a man who'd taken a severe insult. Then he relaxed. "No sir," he said. "It is I who salute you. I see you are, indeed, a connoisseur who knows his stones, and I cannot fool you." He shrugged as he tugged a ring loose from its velvet backing and held it up. When he spoke again, it was with the voice of a man who took pride in his work. "I cut every piece, myself," he said, "and inject the smallest amount of dye into the glass. Rare is the man who can tell them from real stones. But tell me, how did you gain such a keen eye?"

  The Mouser rubbed his chin as he continued to examine the trays. "I am a sometime-procurer of gems for a great northern prince," he said. Inwardly, he smiled, thinking of how Fafhrd would laugh at that. "I'm afraid I'm looking for something a bit more, shall we say, unusual. Perhaps even talismanic."

  The proprietor shook his head and began to replace his trays within the trunk. Closing the lid and locking it, he turned once again to the Mouser. "As hungry as your fat purse makes me, I can offer you nothing. If it is precious objects of a religious nature you seek, may I recommend Demptha Negatarth. He runs a shop one block north on Temple Street, and some say he dabbles in minor sorcery, as well."

  The Mouser led the way back through the curtain to the shop's outer room with its display cases of cheap baubles. At the door, he paused. "Since most men cannot discern the true nature of your wealth," he said, "how is it that you have no guards to defend it?"

  The proprietor smiled. "You have a keen eye for stones, sir," he said, pointing a finger toward the ceiling, "but only the gods are all-seeing."

  Among the shop's high rafters four stout, dark-faced dwarves sat swinging their legs with ankles crossed. They grinned wickedly down at the Mouser, showing the huge, glittering knives they held on their laps. Despite their size, they had the look of dangerous men.

  With the briefest of bows to the proprietor, the Mouser left the shop and stepped out into the street again. Pushing back his hood, he paused and frowned.

  The quality of the sunlight seemed muted, and the bright blueness of the sky had leeched away.

  Shading his eyes with a hand, he glanced squinting up toward the sun. Did he imagine it, or did the tiniest piece seem to be missing? Jerking his head away, he wiped at stinging tears and blinked hard.

  From the east, saffron-robed priests of Aarth ran shrieking down the Street of the Gods, their bare feet slapping furiously on the cobbled paving. Then, without warning, the gates of Mog's temple flung open. Black-robed priests of the Spider-god poured out with upraised swords to intercept Aarth's fanatical followers.

  Now the shrieking took on a new note—of terror. Swords rose and fell mercilessly, flinging blood. Mog's priests swarmed over Aarth's followers, hacking and chopping until none stood. Still, in a grisly fury, they swung their swords, beheading and dismembering the corpses.

  Shoppers and pedestrians ran screaming from the streets. The Mouser pressed himself into the narrow alley between a pair of shops and dragged a rain barrel across the opening. Over the rim, he watched with his own sword in hand.

  Covered with blood, Mog's priests ran down the Street of the Gods. Scores of them fell upon the lines of faithful gathered before the pillared entrance to view the body of Attavaq the Patriarch before its burial. A new chorus of screams rose up.

  Then, from around both corners rushed squads of Aarth's followers. Brandishing swords and clubs, they surged through the gates, entering their own temple behind Mog's invading priests.

  The clash and clangs of weapons rose over the temple walls. Bloody acolytes stumbled into the streets. Worshippers ran out in terror. The battle followed them, filling the street outside the temple.

  Yet another cry drew the Mouser's attention. From farther down the street, the gates of the Rat God's temple opened. Red-robed priests, waving spears and blades, charged forth to attack the followers of Mog.

  Above it all, the sun slowly vanished. The sky turned the color of gray slate, and still it darkened. An unnaturally cool wind blew through the narrow passage where the Mouser nervously crouched.

  Madness swept through the street, growing, feeding upon itself. Armored soldiers from the North Barracks raced down Nun Street and Silver Street to meet the fray. At first, they attempted to break up the fighting, but soon, they battled for their lives in a chaotic sea.

  Up from Nun Street and from the wharves, yet more squads of soldiers ran. Common citizens, supporting one god or another, or striving to protect shops and homes, or merely trying to get out of the way, drew steel and fought.

  Suddenly, the Mouser leaped up. He slapped his thigh and slammed his sword back into its sheath as he shot another look toward the sun. His heart pounded in his chest. Overhead, nightbirds began to caw and circle, confused by the fading light. Here, in the midst of insanity, lay an opportunity!

  Hurriedly, he slipped back through the passage, emerging in another narrow alley, and then another, until he found himself on Pimp Street. In the road or on their rooftops, citizens screamed or prayed at the tops of their voices, faces filled with terror as they pointed at the black shadow that crawled across the sun.

  The Mouser paused, swallowing hard. The hand of fear squeezed his heart as he stared at the horrifying sight. Stinging tears clouded his eyes, forcing him to look away. Then, gathering his courage, he ran.

  Cherig's dog stood howling in the open doorway of the Silver Eel, its muzzle thrust toward the darkening sky. The Mouser leaped over the beast and ran inside, finding no sign of Cherig or anyone else. Rushing up the stairs, he pushed open the door to the room he shared with Fafhrd, snatched up the coil of rope with the grapnel attached, and dashed out again.

  Two at a time, he descended the stairs, and collided with a breathlessly ascending Fafhrd.

  "The tower!" the northern giant shouted excitedly as he clutched the rail to keep from falling backward.

  Of course, Fafhrd had had the same idea, seen the same opportunity. They thought alike, Fafhrd and he. Sometimes they seemed even to share the same mind.

  The Mouser picked himself up and rubbed his bruised rump. "There's a good chance the guards are busy elsewhere," he said, moving past his partner. Outside, he paused again to stare upward. Now the great shadow obscured fully three-quarters of the sun. In the west, a pair of premature stars twinkled.

  "Come on!" Fafhrd urged, grabbing the coil of rope from his partner and throwing it over his own broad shoulder. "What's the matter? You've never seen an eclipse before?"

  The Mouser struggled to feign a sophisticated calm. "Eclipse?" he said. "Of course it's an eclipse." He ran on before Fafhrd could see the look of relief on his face. He'd heard of such things. He wasn't uneducated, and he knew more than just a little astronomy. He'd just never seen one.

  "An eclipse," he muttered under his breath, disgusted that Fafhrd had known something he hadn't.

  TEN

  THE TOWER OF KOH-VOMBI

  Over Lankhmar, a fiery crescent burned in the darkening sky. Unexpected night swallowed the city while fear and madness spread through the streets. A terrible lamentation rose as panicked citizens fled into the roads, pleading for mercy, begging their gods to spare them from the destruction of the world. In the southern part of the city, many hurried northward to seek their temples, unaware of the slaughter going on as priests made war on each other.

  In the deepening shadows of Nun Street, Fafhrd and the Mouser crouched down and stared toward a lonely black-stoned tower.

  "Can you hit that window?" the Mouser whispered.

  Fafhrd eyed the narrow, dark opening halfway up the tower's facing wall. "Not if we los
e the light entirely," he answered grimly. His gaze swept around. Rising, he adjusted the weight of the grapnel and line concealed under his cloak. "I don't see any soldiers or guards."

  "Called to the Temple District," the Mouser said. "I expected it." He nodded ahead. "Let's go."

  They charged the iron fence that surrounded the tower. Reaching the ten-foot barrier first, Fafhrd bent low and braced his hands on the rusted metal bars. Running hard, the Mouser leaped, one foot barely brushing Faffird's shoulder. Fafhrd sprang erect, catapulting his smaller companion into the air. Waving his arms for balance, his gray cloak flapping, the Mouser landed lithely in the tall weeds that filled the space between the fence and the tower.

  Briefly, Fafhrd studied the top of the fence, which was only three feet above his head. Backing a few paces, he took a quick running step. One foot pushed off an iron bar as his hands caught the top cross-bar, and he vaulted over.

  "It should be a crime to be so tall," the Mouser muttered as his partner landed beside him.

  "It's a crime to be on this side of the fence," Fafhrd reminded. Looking quickly around, he noted people on the rooftops along Nun Street. The eclipse held them in thrall, and he doubted anyone had witnessed the tower's invasion. Still, he bent low, using the weeds for concealment as he ran toward the mysterious edifice.

  After twenty paces, the soft ground and weeds gave way to a broken paving of large flat stones and a terrace of steps that ringed the tower. No entrance or opening revealed itself at ground level.

  "How in Mog's name does Malygris get in?" the Mouser wondered, frowning.

  His gaze fastened on the window high above his head, Fafhrd freed the hidden line and grapnel. Stepping back, he let out a few feet of line and lofted the clawed weight upward. Metal scraped on stone. Grapnel and line plummeted downward.

  Covering his head, the Mouser cursed and jumped backward as the grapnel crashed on the spot where he'd stood.

  With a sheepish look and a shrug, Fafhrd rapidly coiled the line again and made a second toss. This time, the grapnel sailed expertly through the dark opening. Fafhrd tugged on the line until it snapped tight.

  Without a word, the Mouser drew Catsclaw from its sheath and put the dagger between his teeth. Taking the line, he climbed rapidly, hand over hand, his soft-booted feet making no noise on the tower wall. Like a small, gray spider on a web, he rose.

  Fafhrd glanced skyward. Icy stars flickered in the black heavens. Only the barest trace of the sun remained.

  In the far northern land of his birth, he had seen eclipses and partial eclipses and stranger things. He recalled the cold, shimmering auroras of colored light that danced sometimes above the frigid mountains. Magic, some of his people claimed. Not so, said the sailors and seamen among them.

  To him, they were awesome mysteries to be appreciated, not feared. Nevertheless, he understood the dread such phenomena instilled in many human hearts.

  The line jerked in his hand—the Mouser's signal. Fafhrd returned his attention to the task at hand and began to climb. In moments, he squeezed through the narrow window.

  "It's dark," he commented as the Mouser touched his arm to help him through.

  "Inside and out," the Mouser commented drily. "We should have brought a lamp."

  Quickly, Fafhrd drew up the line, coiled it, and hung the grapnel over his shoulder again, while the Mouser probed the darkness of the corridor in which they found themselves. Creeping noiselessly after, Fafhrd caught up with his partner and touched his shoulder. "Look," he whispered, pointing back toward the window.

  Beyond the slender opening, the sky of Nehwon blazed with stars.

  "It's just an eclipse," the Mouser muttered with casual disinterest, but in one tight fist he held his dagger, Catsclaw, and he set his jaw more firmly than usual, and his lips drew into a thinly nervous line.

  Loosening sword and dagger in their sheaths, Fafhrd slipped past the Mouser, and led the way into the deeper blackness that filled the tower. With one hand on a cool stone wall, he felt his way along, and with each careful footstep he probed the old boards that made the floor before transferring his weight forward.

  The air smelled of bird droppings and rat dung, damp and musty and stale. Each breath filled his nostrils with a repulsive perfume that left a dry and bitter taste in the back of his throat. He covered the lower part of his face with one hand as he groped in the darkness with the other.

  Mortar crumbled suddenly under his fingertips, and he paused, listening to the soft patter of the fragments in the thick pounce that covered the floor. A softer skittering of tiny feet sounded ahead as rats retreated further into the darkness.

  Gritting his teeth, Fafhrd shuddered. Memories of Vlana and Ivrian swam unwelcome in his head, and he recalled the rat-chewed corpse of his first true love.

  The corridor curved subtly to the left. Behind, the window with its starry panorama could no longer be seen. Though virtually invisible, the Mouser's steady, low breathing reassured Fafhrd that his partner still followed. Licking dry lips, Fafhrd held up his hand and brought it slowly toward his face, unable to see palm or fingers.

  Frantic wings beat suddenly in the dark. A bird, disturbed by their intrusion, sprang from an unseen nest cradled in the corridor's rafters. Feathers brushed sharply at Fafhrd's eyes. Cowering back against the wall, he covered his face with a protective arm, biting his lip to prevent an outcry. The bird surged past, seeking the window and the safety of the sky.

  "Piss and defecation!" the Mouser hissed. "Watch your next step, Fafhrd—my heart's thumping somewhere on the floor."

  Fafhrd squeezed his comrade’s shoulder and replied in the lowest of whispers. "Then if I slip, we'll know the cause."

  Continuing forward, they reached the end of the corridor. A stone staircase curved downward into the tower's stygian depths. Reaching out, Fafhrd discovered no guarding rail or baluster on the inner sweep, so he pressed his back to the wall and descended one cautious step at a time.

  Abruptly the stair widened, and Fafhrd's hand brushed a round metal knob. Blindly, he explored the outline of a smoothly polished wooden door. Placing his ear against it, he listened, detecting no sound from the other side. His fingers curled cautiously about the knob; it refused to turn.

  The Mouser tapped his shoulder. Creeping to the precipitous edge of the staircase, they peered downward together.

  A faint ruby glow burned near the far-off bottom of the stairs, no brighter than a slowly dying coal. The light wavered in a subtle manner, dimming and ebbing with heartbeat precision.

  Fafhrd knew the ways and whims of fire. No flame caused the glow he gazed upon. With soundless tread, braving the unguarded edge, he eased down the stairs again, always with one eye upon that weird redness.

  The staircase spiraled lower and lower. Here and there, steps flattened into wide landings. Black, stale-smelling corridors and locked doors temptingly presented themselves, but Fafhrd and the Mouser ignored them. By unspoken consent, the glow became their destination.

  Finally, they reached the bottom of the staircase. Ten paces away, a pair of huge, arched doors stood partially open. No longer only a small glow, scarlet light poured from a chamber beyond the doors and lit up the Mouser's face as he paused on the last stair, clutching his dagger in a ready fist. His grim, wide-eyed expression betrayed excitement, fear, and wonder all at once as he gazed toward that light.

  Fafhrd pulled up his hood, concealing hair and face. In his black cloak, he looked like any other shadow. Still, he hesitated before moving toward those inviting doors. The light that shone on his partner’s face also revealed black markings upon the wall at his back. As far as he could see up the soaring walls, those markings went. On the steps, too, and barely visible under the thick carpet of dust, on the floor.

  Stooping down, he brushed his fingers over one of the markings. They were too regular for burns, forming a definite pattern that covered the walls and floors, the steps, perhaps even the ceiling high above. He glanced upward, noting the
beams and rafters barely visible in the red glow. Paint, then? Some kind of artwork?

  The Mouser slipped past him. On the balls of his booted feet, leaving prints that showed visibly in the thick dust, the small gray man stole toward the waiting doors. Catsclaw's polished blade gleamed like a scarlet flame in his gloved hand as he crouched low and peered through the opening. Cautiously, he straightened and, putting one hand on the nearest door, eased it wider.

  Putting aside the mystery of the markings, Fafhrd overtook his comrade, but rather than showing himself in the opening, he concealed himself behind the nearest door. Putting one eye to the narrow gap between the door and the wall, he peered over the top of a hinge into the chamber beyond.

  A ring of elaborately carved chairs greeted his vision. Some lay crumbled in pieces with legs and arms rotted away, while others still stood, as if immune to the centuries, with high, polished backs proudly gleaming in the red glow.

  The smell of fresh oil touched Fafhrd's nostrils. Taking his eye from the slender space, he touched the hinge, and his fingertip came away with a faint, wet smear. With a start, he gazed back at the floor. The dust betrayed not only the Mouser's footprints and his own, but someone else's.

  Before he could warn the Mouser, his comrade threw the doors wide, stepped over the chamber's threshold, and boldly strode inside. "Behold a wonder!" he murmured.

  Frowning at his partner’s lack of caution, Fafhrd followed the Mouser inside, his gaze sweeping around, his fist closed tight around the hilt of his sword, Graywand. Even so, he caught his breath.

  The small range of vision through the crack between door and wall had allowed no sense of the chamber's ancient grandeur. A domed ceiling soared overhead. Against the north wall, on a white marble dais, a huge Y-shaped altar of black obsidian stood, its once-sharp edges worn smooth. Brownish stains on the stone hinted of blood sacrifices.

  Elaborately worked candelabras of purest gold stood on either side of the altar. Standing at least six feet high, the bases resembled the intertwined forms of serpents, and eight fanged serpentine mouths opened to hold the candles. Only melted stubs and wax drippings filled those gaping jaws now.