Wordless, she nodded.
A cold anger filled Fafhrd, and his hand went to the sword. He curled his fingers around its hilt. It fit his grip as if it had been made for him. Grimly, he drew the blade. Streaming through the window, the last sunlight touched the keen edge with a glittering fire.
Red fire, Fafhrd thought, turning the sword in the light— deep and rich as the color of blood.
FOURTEEN
PIECES OF DREAMS, NIGHTMARE SHARDS
Fafhrd slipped naked between the sheets of Sameel's bed and eased his head carefully down upon the pillow. The vertigo troubled him less than before, and the constant hammering inside his skull had eased somewhat. Still, he saw the wisdom of resting a while. Later, he would rise, go out and search for the Mouser.
Turning on his side, his gaze fell upon his new sword, which leaned against a chair where his clothes were hung. Sameel's room had no windows, and the lambent flame from an oil lamp lent the polished black pommel stone a starlight glow.
Sameel entered the room quietly, bearing another tray of fresh herbs and steaming bowls. Noting the direction of his gaze, she said, "My master called the sword, Payday.''
"I’lll name it Graywand," Fafhrd said, "as I name all my swords."
"Why is that?" Sameel asked. Setting down the tray, she crumbled herbs and scattered them in varying portions over the bowls. Immediately a sweet aroma perfumed the air.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, and the face of his father floated in his mind—dark eyes, sweeping hair as red as Fafhrd's own, a handsome visage clouded by a melancholy and regret that Fafhrd had never understood.
"To honor Nalgron," he said, opening his eyes again, speaking as if to the sword itself. "After his fatal fall on White Fang Mountain, I inherited his sword, which he called Graywand. An uncle presented it to me when I was only a small boy." He paused and crooked one arm under his head. "But my mother, Mor, despised my father. Fearing I would grow to be just like him, she took the sword, broke the blade, and ordered the pieces melted."
Old memories washed over him, and he imagined at that moment that his face looked not unlike the clouded, brooding face of his father. "When I grew old enough to claim my own blade," he continued, "I gave it the name of my father's sword to remember him—but also to spite my mother. And every sword I've owned since that day I've named Graywand."
With a long piece of straw, she took flame from the lamp and lit a small candle beneath a slender copper samovar. "I never knew my parents," she said softly. "Laurian found me living in the streets when I was very small and took me in." She hesitated, holding the straw's flame close so that it uplit her face. Then she blew it out. "Sometimes in my dreams, I see the shadow of a face that might have been my mother." She shook her head. "But I don't know."
Fafhrd watched her as she bent over the tray again and crumbled some herbs into a delicate white kerchief. Lamplight and gloom played about the soft lines and curves of her body, lending her an aura of mystery and beauty Fafhrd had not noticed before. He rose up on one elbow, the better to observe her.
Folding the kerchief carefully, she turned from the tray and approached the bed. "Breathe these fragrances," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed's wooden frame. "They will ease your pain."
Sameel lifted the pomander to his nose, but Fafhrd caught her wrist. Though she stiffened, she did not pull away. Their eyes met. For a long moment neither moved, and the only sound came from the soft sputtering of the lamp and the candle. Without taking his eyes from hers, Fafhrd drew her hand and the pomander closer. As he breathed in the woodsy aroma, he lightly kissed her fingertips, and when she did not protest, he drew her gently down beside him.
He shifted position, drawing her closer as he unfastened the brooches that held her simple dress upon her shoulders. She trembled against him. "I've never . . ." She bit her lip, her eyes brimming with tears. She squeezed them shut. "My lord, I don't want to die without tasting love."
Fafhrd shushed her, putting a finger upon her lips as he gazed down upon her frightened beauty. "Death has no business here tonight," he whispered, stroking her cheek, "nor any thought of Malygris, or curses."
Easing aside her dress, he drew the sheet over their bodies. Again he hesitated, studying Sameel's face, noting the play of the light in the tears that hung upon her lashes. She was not Vlana, not his one true love, but he saw within her something rare and special, something courageous in the face of a terrible fear—and for that moment, at least, he loved her.
In her sarcophagus, Laurian saw with a sight beyond vision. Nothing transpired in her home of which she was not aware. She felt in her mind and heart, like a tide on her skin, the waves of emotion emanating from her guest and her handmaiden. Simultaneously she experienced joy for Sameel and intense sorrow for the loss of her own beloved.
The ornate box cracked open, and the strange fog, her constant companion, seeped about the darkened library. It radiated a faint, yellowish light. In that glow, Laurian rose weakly. For an instant, she hesitated, summoning her courage and strength. Then she stepped from the sarcophagus. A moment of uncertainty and dread shivered through her. Immediately, a cold determination replaced it.
The fog seemed to cushion her footfalls. Soundlessly, she glided across the floor and pushed open the library doors. Her blind gaze turned down the hall that led to Sadaster's room. An ache filled her heart, and beneath the blindfold, her eyes misted. Steeling herself, she blinked back the threatening tears and moved, instead, in the opposite direction toward her own suites.
The fog that accompanied Laurian swirled ahead, played over the knobs, and opened the doors for her. In its unnatural light, she entered her room with its clutter of treasures, whose value could be weighed only in memories—small figurines, delicate pillows embroidered with bright-dyed thread, trinkets, pieces of jewelry, and vases of colored glass, precious gifts all, tokens of Sadaster's love and their years together.
A fine layer of dust covered everything. Waving a hand carefully over a table near the door, she found the remains of a single dead rose, drew it from its vase, and hugged it to her heart. It crumbled to pieces. The brittle petals fell from her fingers to the carpet. Another wave of sadness washed over her. Drawing a deep breath, she groped toward a thorn-wood chest at the foot of her bed. The hinges of the heavy lid creaked as she opened it.
Folded neatly within lay her wedding trousseau. Despite her resolve, tears came freely now, saturating her blindfold, leaking down from the edges of the cloth. With loving care, she lifted the items and spread them upon the bed. Then, she removed her blindfold, unwrapped the swaths of pale linen from about her body, and dropped them upon the floor.
One by one, she pulled on her wedding garments. The underskirts rustled crisply, and the white dress glittered with diamond chips sewn into the weave. She ran her hands over it, smoothing the folds and creases, pleased to find it fit her as perfectly as on that distant day when Sadaster took her for his wife. Setting the sheer veil over her head and face, she fixed it in place with a silver circlet that blazed with sapphires.
Slowly, she closed the trunk and approached a nearby table. Among the many trinkets sat a small chest. Opening it, she groped among strands of pearls, rings, and silver chains, pins and brooches, and lifted a slender dagger in a jewel-encrusted sheath. Carefully she inserted it beneath a tight-fitting sleeve.
Tears ceased; her mouth drew into a tight, determined line.
Returning to the library, she sat down once more upon her velvet-cushioned chair. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she put a hand beneath the veil. Touching her face, she explored fine new wrinkles, and old ones that had deepened, and skin that had lost its softness—the price she paid for leaving her elaborate sarcophagus.
Closing her blind eyes, she gathered her strength and planned magic. The night exhaled a soft breath, sending a wind that blew through the open window and fluttered the pages of a book on a table. When the wind ceased, silence and stillness dominated the room.
Laurian rested, letting her head roll back against the chair. Patience, she had learned, was sorcery's paramount virtue. The mist that perpetually filled her sarcophagus caressed her like a soothing friend, coolly kissed her, reassured her with its presence. When she lifted her head again, it spread itself before her feet.
Once more, Laurian turned her inner sight upon her handmaiden and her guest. Their tender coupling touched her heart as the fervency of their passion suffused her home and filled it with a radiance only she could see. With tender care, not wishing to disturb them, she distilled the essence of their desire and collected it as a fine moisture in her cupped hands. Then, leaning forward, she shook the glimmering droplets into the mist, which rose up and seemed to lick her fingers. "Go," she whispered.
Over the carpet the mist flowed, turning gray and thick as it oozed out the window and poured down the side of her house, thicker still as it crawled across the lawn and climbed the wall to reach the street.
Not far away, the fog that hovered upon the waters of the River Hlal turned toward the shore. Thickening, it engulfed the ships moored at the docks, swallowed the wharves, poured eastward into the city. In the north, more fog moved in from the Inner Sea, extinguishing the street lamps that lit the roads in the Nobles' District, obscuring the lights of the Rainbow Palace as it drifted inexorably southward.
Fafhrd cradled Sameel's head on his arm and stroked her throat lightly. Lying on her back, gazing toward the ceiling, she caught his hand and entwined her fingers with his. Her expression, so recently filled with rapture, reflected a thoughtful worry, and when she spoke her words seemed tiny and distant.
"Do you fear the decay in our bodies?"
Fafhrd sat up and swung his legs out of bed, turning his back to her. "No," he said in a quiet voice.
Sitting up, Sameel hugged her knees. "I guess I'm not as brave as you."
The lamp flame glimmered steadily, and the samovar sighed as it poured out a soft, fragrant steam. He stared into the shadowy corners of the room where the small light did not reach, as if the darkness might somehow show him his future.
"Malygris's curse won't have the chance to rot me," he said grimly. "His heart's blood contains the cure, and I'll kill him to obtain it. Or he'll kill me. Either way ..."
Sameel put a hand on his back. "I try to be brave," she said as if she hadn't heard him. "But I remember my master, how thin and weak he grew, and I see myself in a corpse's skin, struggling against the grave."
"It's all right to be afraid," Fafhrd said softly, turning to take her in his arms. "There's no courage without fear, girl." He drew her closer still, his heart hammering as he warmed himself in the fire of her body. Suddenly he buried his face in her hair. "I lied. I am afraid."
She laid her head upon his shoulder. "But you're also brave, my lord."
Her words calmed him. Sitting up, he composed himself and kissed the top of her head. He was a man of the north, and a warrior, he reminded himself, and it was Sameel who needed protection and reassurance.
His right hand cupped a bronze-colored nipple, and a grin turned up the corners of his mouth. "This doesn't feel like the skin of a corpse," he said.
She laughed lightly and slipped a small hand down his belly. "I think something is rising from its grave."
They fell back onto the bed and into each other's arms once more.
Fog rolled through the streets of Lankhmar, veiling the city in white. Down silent roads it poured, into alleyways, into the parks and city squares, swallowing whole blocks, entire districts.
In Pinchback Alley, a rat-catcher in pursuit of a fine black rodent felt the feathery touch of cool mist on his neck. Fog swirled around him. Squeaking, the rat scampered to freedom. The ratcatcher shrugged and turned toward home, his thoughts suddenly full of his wife, who waited for him.
The fog enwrapped the Spire of Rhan, concealing it from view. The five-storied Temple of Aarth sank beneath the tide of a gray sea. The great silos in the River District bowed away behind a misty curtain.
A carriage moved northward on Gold Street, its way lit by lanterns swinging on either side of the driver’s seat. Within, a merchants wife sat trembling, biting her lip as she peered out the carriage window, horrified by a strange and unnatural desire for her young son, who sat on the seat beside her.
Silently, the fog moved into the Garden of Dark Delights, enfolding the elaborate topiaries, obscuring the pebbled pathways. In a secluded place, two late-night philosophers shared a marble bench. The conversation turned gradually, seemingly naturally, from Kleshite theories of celestial mechanics to the finer points of Tovilyan erotic poetry.
The fog continued southward and eastward.
While quiet dominated much of the city, the sounds of music and drunkenness rose throughout the Festival District. Night brought no cessation to the weeklong midsummer celebration. Arm in arm, couples staggered from one crowded tavern to another. Some purchased bottles from temporary shops that wine merchants had erected in the streets. Dancers and jugglers, mimes and acting troupes entertained on every corner. Musicians strolled the lanes, serenading at the tops of their lungs to be heard over the din.
Countless lanterns lined the streets, hung from posts by the city planners. More lanterns burned above the entrances to businesses that remained open. Tall torches provided flaming light for the scores of performing stages.
One by one, the fog devoured them all.
Undaunted, the celebrants continued. But now, the plays went ignored. Musicians cast aside their instruments, and jugglers abandoned their props. Couples stumbled into alleys to grope each other's bodies. Some crawled beneath the stages and beer wagons. Some fell upon each other in the streets, trusting to the fog to conceal their lusts.
Men and women, men and men, women and women. Inhibitions melted. A pair rose suddenly upon a stage to demonstrate their prowess. A female pick-pocket of exceptional skill pilfered one man's purse as she slaked another man's desires.
Throughout the district, tavern doors stood wide open. The silent fog slipped inside. Wherever a window gaped, or a shutter hung open, wherever a crack in a wall allowed, or an unpatched hole in a roof, through any cranny, the fog slipped in.
High atop the Tower of Koh-Vombi, in the shadows of the parapet, Malygris studied the heavens, noting the descent of the evening star, Astarion, on the western horizon, and the ascent of bright Shadah in the east. Overhead, Akul burned like an emerald. In the north, the Targe constellation, with its seven vivid points of light, slowly turned.
Vaguely troubled, he raised one spidery hand to rub his chin and waited for Midsummer's Moon to rise. Its shape and position in relation to Shadah would determine his next move. He set his hand upon the parapet and quickly jerked it back, frowning in disgust at the crusted bird shit that covered the ancient stone. It covered the rooftop, too, and within, the very rafters dripped with it.
If the moon rose precisely where he calculated, and if he could draw a straight line from it, through Shadah, to Akul, then he would gather his power and leave this crumbling place. He had long ago grown tired of its filth, its mysteries, and the incessant monotonous whispering of its damnable ghosts driving him to annoyance.
For months the tower had provided him shelter and safe hiding, as the stars had promised it would. He had walked carefully in a dangerous place, drawing no attention to himself, avoiding rooms and objects best left undisturbed, respecting whatever ancient god once had dwelled here.
Now, however, invaders had breached his security through the only window and from below through a tunnel previously unknown to him, and damn near roasted him alive! Fortunately, finding little to feed on, the flames had extinguished themselves without seriously damaging the tower. Or perhaps the gods and ghosts of this place had stopped the fire.
But the invaders, what was he to make of them? Most, by their liveries, he knew for soldiers and men of the Overlord. The other two, the warrior-thieves, he knew not. He remembered a snatch of conversation he ha
d overheard from the shadows.
"Malygris doesn't seem to be home," the short gray one had said.
They had come seeking him, those two. To what end? In whose service?
And what part did the ruler of Lankhmar play?
Too many questions and no answers.
He dared not set magical protections on the tower. Such might anger the spirits of this place. Certainly it would betray him to the wizards and sorcerers he knew were seeking him— might as well send a beacon of light up into the darkness.
No, it was best to change his hiding place. He waited only for the moon and the stars to verify his judgment.
But glancing up, he frowned. A thin veil of mist dimmed the stars. He shot a look toward the river, and his heart quailed. A thick white fog crawled over the banks, swallowing ships, wharves. The fishing district faded from sight, and still it came on, unstoppable.
One by one, the stars vanished. The fog advanced, approaching his tower, swallowing everything in its path. Malygris cried aloud in despair and thrust out his hands as if to hold back the massive tide. It swept around him, soft and warm as breath.
Cursing, he flung up the roof's trap door and descended into a large, round room, the tower's uppermost. A dozen candles illuminated the chamber. A crude pallet marked the place where he slept. A small stack of books and parchments lay scattered around it. Tiny pieces of down drifted in the air, and scattered about the floor lay small bones and the plucked corpses of raw, half-eaten birds.
Malygris waved a hand under his nose, silently cursing the thick smell of smoke that pervaded the air. He paced nervously back and forth. An overwhelming sense of danger buzzed like a wasp in the back of his head. Chewing his lip, he began to gather his books, which, like everything else, smelled of smoke. From hiding place to hiding place he had carried them, his few treasures, and now they were nearly ruined with the horrible reek. Dumping them disgustedly on his blanket, he tied the corners and shouldered the bundle.
Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) Page 19
