Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar)

by Robin Wayne Bailey

  A pair of soldiers charged through, stepping on their corporal in their zeal to tackle Fafhrd. One hit him high, the other low, and the giant went down with a thunderous crash.

  Cursing, Scarface struggled up. Still gripping his sword, he scowled as he turned toward the Mouser. Another pair of soldiers rushed in to back him up.

  Forced against the wall, the Mouser grabbed for Fafhrd's sword and dragged it free of its sheath. Beautifully polished, the naked blade gleamed. Yet, the Mouser hesitated. It felt like a gross weight in his hand, and it was nearly as long as he was tall. "What the hell do I do with this thing?" he shouted.

  Gripping the hilt in both hands, he swung the sword in a broad swishing arc, forcing Scarface and his men to retreat a step. Wildly, he swung it again, carving an invisible deadly line in the air to keep his attackers at bay.

  With a loud growl, Fafhrd flung off the pair that had tackled him and rose to his feet. Yet another soldier charged at him. Side-stepping, Fafhrd stuck out a foot. With a startled yowl, that one flew through the air and out the open window above Bones Alley. A predictably short scream followed him.

  A sword flashed down at Fafhrd. Dancing away, the Northerner snatched the Mouser's weapons belt from the back of the chair where it hung, and hurled the chair. He whipped free the Mouser's rapier. "What am I supposed to do with this toothpick?" he shouted across the room to his partner. "Why don't you get a real sword?"

  "You lack the skill and finesse to appreciate what you hold," the Mouser shot back. He continued to swing Fafhrd's heavy blade in the widest possible arc as Scarface and another soldier tried to close with him.

  Fafhrd made an exaggerated lunge and nicked his opponent's shoulder, drawing a small neat trickle of blood. Wide-eyed, the surprised soldier touched his wound and stared at the blood that came away on his hand.

  "Bah! He didn't even fall down!" Fafhrd called to his embattled comrade as he scowled at the Mouser's weapon. In truth, it appeared tiny in his great fist. "This thing's far too dainty for me. Here's a man's weapon!" So saying, he snatched up the table with one hand. Holding it shield-like, he screamed a blood-curdling battlecry and charged the wounded soldier, knocking him and two others back through the door and into the hallway beyond. "Come, Mouser!" he shouted, laughing. "I'll clear a path to the bar!"

  Sprawled on the corridor's floor, the three soldiers and two more saw the mocking flame-haired giant standing over them brandishing table in one hand and unlikely sword in the other. Scrambling up, they nearly tripped on each other as they fled toward the stairs.

  Fafhrd laughed again and flung the table after them. He called again to the Mouser on the far side of the room. "Would you stop dawdling?"

  "A moment more of this excellent exercise," the Mouser answered, puffing as he held off the two remaining attackers. "It's having some salutary effect on my mood."

  Just then, Scarface's partner stepped too close. The Mouser brought his foot up in a sharp kick. Clutching his groin with one hand, the soldier dropped his sword and sagged to his knees. "Yes," the Mouser said, "I'm feeling much better now."

  A startled Scarface unwisely glanced at his collapsed and groaning comrade. The Mouser's powerful swing, barely under his control, whistled toward the corporal's head. The big sword's point cut through the leather chin strap of Scarface's helmet, and cut a deep gash in his unblemished cheek. Blood gushed. Scarface shrieked with pain, clapping one hand to his face as he leaped back.

  "Now you'll have a fine matched set," the Mouser said with a smirk.

  A hoarse cry bubbled up in Scarface's throat, and he grasped his sword in both hands for a final, hysterical charge. Before he could rush forward, Fafhrd appeared behind him, lifted the helmet from the corporal's head, and slammed the rapier's pommel against an unprotected skull.

  "You're an impatient lout," the Mouser pouted.

  "Just like your namesake," Fafhrd scolded, "you play too much with your food."

  The Mouser snatched back his rapier and handed the great sword to Fafhrd. "I wasn't going to eat him," he said defensively as he reclaimed his weapons belt with Catsclaw from the room's wreckage.

  A low groan drew his attention to the soldier that lay on the floor with his hands still tucked between his thighs. Bending over the man, the Mouser murmured, "I feel compelled to apologize for that. Most men would rather be run through."

  Biting his lip, eyes squeezed shut with pain, the poor man managed to nod agreement.

  Fafhrd leaned in the doorway with one eye to the corridor beyond. "The boot is mightier than the sword," the Mouser whispered as he joined him there.

  "He'll surely sing his love songs in a new octave," Fafhrd said.

  They crept down the corridor toward the stairs, Fafhrd leading the way. At the top step, they paused.

  A half-dozen soldiers waited at the bottom, swords drawn, tense, steeled for combat. Sweat gleamed on their faces; fear shone in their eyes. Nervously, they stared upward.

  The Mouser and Fafhrd exchanged glances. Seizing the bannister with one hand, the Mouser screamed a battlecry. His gray cloak spread like a bird's wings as he vaulted the rail. Fafhrd roared. Carving the air with his great sword, he ran down the stairs like a fire-haired madman.

  The soldiers screamed. Weapons clattered to the floor. Booted feet caused a thunder as six terrified men ran over each other, pushing and shoving to get to the door and away from the flying imp and the charging giant. Fafhrd chased them as far as the threshold. His mocking laughter chased them up the street.

  The Mouser sheathed his rapier as Fafhrd turned back toward him. "You ogre," he said with a mock-frown to his partner. "I think they wet their trousers." He picked up an overturned wine bottle from the floor and shook it. Finding a swallow remaining, he put the bottle to his lips, drained it, and wiped his mouth.

  "Thirsty work, terrorizing helpless soldiers," Fafhrd replied as he sheathed his own sword.

  A smile turned up the corners of the Gray Mouser's lips. "I noticed the vintage," he said, dropping the empty vessel. It shattered at his feet. "Tovilyis. It would have been a crime not to finish it."

  A groan drew their attention to the bar. Cherig One-hand struggled drunkenly to sit up. His arms thrashed at the air, and one leg twitched. Then with an awkward cry of surprise, he rolled off the bar's narrow surface, disappearing behind it.

  The Mouser hurried to help his fat landlord, as did Fafhrd. Together, they pulled him up, walked him to a stool, and propped him against the wall.

  With bleary red eyes, Cherig studied both their faces, seeming not to recognize them. Then, he clapped Fafhrd's shoulder. "Oh, it's you, Fafhrd," he mumbled, his words slurring. He shook a finger under the Northerner's nose. "You better be careful. Some of the Overlord's men have been asking about that gray partner of yours, and if you ask me, I think they're watching the place."

  "I'll warn him," Fafhrd said, waving a hand under his nose to disperse the foul odor of Cherig's breath.

  "You do that," Cherig answered, nodding. He closed his eyes and slid sideways off the stool, his back still to the wall. A loud snore escaped his parting lips as his jaw sagged.

  "He must have had an interesting night," Fafhrd commented.

  The Mouser looked at him sharply. "You don't know?"

  Fafhrd shook his head. "The party was over when I came home. Now tell me what you did to raise the ire of the constabulary."

  It took only a few moments for the Mouser to explain his capture outside the Tower of Koh-Vombi and his subsequent escape from Rokkarsh's dungeon into the tunnels below the city. Of the Temple of Hates and its conversion into a sanctuary for homeless victims of Malygris's curse, he told more, giving details of his meetings with Demptha Negatarth and his daughter, Jesane. Lastly, his mood turning darker, he told of Demptha's disappearance.

  "Demptha has a jeweler's shop just north of the Street of the Gods," the Mouser said. "If you're not too sotted from all that wine, I want to go there."

  Fafhrd wiped a hand over his brow. "E
xercise has a way of clearing the head," he said.

  A muffled crash followed by a loud groan and a curse sounded from upstairs. The voice was plainly that of the scarfaced corporal.

  "Now might be a good time to seek your shop," Fafhrd suggested.

  "It would be more fun to stay and bash him again," the Mouser muttered, but he led the way from the Silver Eel into Dim Lane.

  At the corner of Cheap Street, they encountered a lone pedestrian. Hurrying along hunched over in a hooded cloak, the man nearly ran into Fafhrd. Glancing up suddenly, he gave a sharp gasp and stepped back. His right hand flew out from under the cloak, and a slender knife flashed. Beneath the hood, fearful eyes snapped wide.

  For a moment, the man stared at the pair. Then, putting the knife back under his cloak, he murmured a hasty apology, ran to the far side of the street and continued on his way.

  "What was that all about?" Fafhrd asked, scratching his chin as he stared after the pedestrian. Then he swept his gaze up and down the street. "Where is everyone? It's morning, and the street is virtually empty!"

  "Did you see how his hand trembled?" the Mouser commented in a low voice. He drew his own cloak closer about his shoulders. "Scarface's soldiers were afraid, too."

  "Of course they were afraid!" Fafhrd laughed. "Are we not a fearsome pair? Why, all by itself that dusky face of yours could scare. . . !

  The Mouser jabbed an elbow against Fafhrd's hip. "Do not besmirch my porcelain beauty," he warned with mock-gravity. He turned serious once more. "They badly outnumbered us. But if those soldiers were already afraid, before even knocking at our door, no wonder we defeated them easily."

  "Afraid! Afraid!" Fafhrd said testily. "Afraid of what?"

  Stepping slowly into the center of the street, the Gray Mouser gazed up and down. Cheap Street at this time of morning should have been busy with early shoppers, merchants on the way to their businesses, delivery carts laden with fresh wares.

  Not so much as a dog prowled through the gutters.

  As he turned back toward his partner, from the corner of his eye the Mouser noted a window directly above them. Its shutter hung slightly open; a nervous pair of eyes peered down at them, drawn perhaps by their voices.

  Fafhrd followed the Mouser's gaze. Putting on a big smile, he raised a hand and wiggled his fingers at the peeper.

  White fingers curled around the shutter's edge and drew it quietly closed.

  Staring at the closed shutter, the Mouser sniffed the air. "You don't feel it?" he whispered to his partner. "Something intangible, indefinable, like a cold breath on the back of your neck?" He paused and swallowed. Once before, he had felt fear such as this, but stronger—in the tunnels under Lankhmar. "A strange wind is blowing, Fafhrd."

  The Northerner frowned. "I don't feel any wind," he said. "Nor this fear you speak of, whatever it is."

  "Do you not feel it, my stubborn friend?" the Mouser said, starting northward up the street. "Then tell me truly why I found you deep in your second bottle before the sun was even over the rooftops?"

  Quickly overtaking the Mouser, Fafhrd started to protest. Instead, he fell silent, and his face took on an expression as grim as his companion's, and his eyes began to minutely search the alley entrances and shadowed places as they made their way.

  From Dim Lane to Craft Street they encountered no more than five people. None spoke or offered any greeting. Averting their eyes, those citizens hurried past, clutching parcels or purses or daggers concealed beneath their cloaks.

  At the Craft Street intersection, only two merchants had opened their shops. One of them stood in the doorway, glaring suspiciously up and down the road. In one hand, he gripped a wooden mallet that might have been a tool of his trade.

  On the Street of Thinkers, the university bells tolled, calling students to study. Today, the bells carried a lonely quality and their summons went unheeded.

  The Street of Silk Merchants normally bustled with trade even at the earliest hours. It was totally empty. Shop doors remained closed, windows shuttered.

  "If Laurian cast a powerful spell last night," the Mouser said, "I think every citizen must have felt it. Something's left them cowed and hiding in their homes."

  Fafhrd put a hand to his mouth and coughed, a soft explosion that rose from deep in his lungs. "If you're right," he said, wiping a trace of spittle from his lips, "then this is a city of the damned."

  The Mouser stared at his partner, and he paled. "Malygris's curse," he said with a sudden dreadful understanding. "It may have touched every person affected by Laurian's magic."

  A look of infinite sadness settled upon Fafhrd's face. "I wonder if she knew what she did?" He shook his head forcefully. "I can't believe she would doom so many innocents."

  Gray-gloved hands curled into fists at the Mouser's sides. "I wonder if Laurian is responsible at all," he murmured. "Or even Malygris, for that matter."

  "Malygris killed Laurian last night," Fafhrd snapped. "He's no innocent."

  The Mouser only half-listened as, privately, he dealt with a bitter realization. Magic had compelled him to seek out the Dark Butterfly and suffer her humiliations. He felt sure of that, but the surety brought no consolation. Instead, it brought danger, threat, and uncertainty. Would he, too, now fall victim to the horrible, wasting sickness?

  "I don't know what that wizard is," the Mouser muttered, "but I swear, Fafhrd, there's some greater mystery here that we've not yet touched upon."

  The same hushed quiet filled the Street of the Gods, but on this most major of major thoroughfares, braver souls ventured. The clip-clop of a horse caused Fafhrd and the Mouser to turn and watch as a black carriage, its small drapes drawn to conceal the occupant, passed them by. The driver kept his gaze straight ahead, studiously ignoring them.

  At the Temple of Mog, a squad of armed priests stood guard by the entrance and along the surrounding wall, a clear reminder of their battle with the priests of Aarth and the violence that had taken place only days before. They glared with dark suspicion at the few citizens wandering among the open shops and businesses.

  Only one block northward, however, Temple Street appeared abandoned. The south side of the street consisted of temple walls and back gates, but small closely crowded shops lined the opposite side. With no good idea exactly where Demptha's business stood, the Mouser scratched his chin and wondered which way to go. He chose the riverward direction and began scrutinizing the merchants' signs carefully.

  Finally, he stopped and peered upward at an elaborately painted sign. Portrayed upon it in vibrant colors was a wild peacock, its tail feathers displayed, an emerald clutched in one talon, a ruby in the other. " The Bird of Jewels, from the Lankhmaran tarot," the Mouser said, putting his hand upon the door. "I should have expected it."

  Fafhrd put a hand on his companion's arm. "Can you be sure you have the right shop?"

  The Mouser nodded. "I recognize the style of his art." The door swung open at his touch. "Unlocked," he said with some surprise.

  They slipped inside and hesitated while their eyes adjusted to the gloom. A large worktable with various tools for gem-cutting and delicate metal-shaping scattered upon it occupied most of the visible interior. Several cupboards and empty display cases stood against a wall. A fine layer of dust covered everything.

  "Demptha?" the Mouser called softly. Then louder, "Demptha?"

  Fafhrd pointed to a curtained doorway at the rear of the shop. With the tip of one finger, he pushed back the edge and peeked through. He beckoned for the Mouser to follow.

  The rear room was larger, but empty of furniture. A few tools hung on pegs on the walls, and an empty chest stood with its lid open. A broken chair leaned in one corner. In another corner, a narrow wooden staircase led to an attic.

  With one hand on Catsclaw's hilt, the Mouser crept up the stairs. Carefully, he eased up the horizontal door. "Mog's blood!" he exclaimed. "Fafhrd, come see this!"

  The Northerner climbed the stairs while the Mouser waited open-mouthed
at the top. With only his head and shoulders above the attic floor, Fafhrd gave a low whistle.

  It was hardly an attic at all. Plush scarlet carpets covered the floor. Paintings done by Demptha's hand adorned the wall. A gold samovar stood close by. Another large table dominated the center of the room. Upon it, an array of flasks and alembics glimmered in the light from a pair of candles. A deck of cards lay scattered between the candles.

  The bookshelves that covered the wall behind the table revealed an impressive collection of volumes.

  "I suspect this is Demptha's real work room," the Mouser commented.

  A barely audible groan quivered up from the shadows behind the table.

  "Demptha?" Taking a tighter grip on his dagger, the Mouser seized one of the candles and moved around the table. Fafhrd came around the other side.

  The light fell on a lined and wrinkled face, on a mass of gray hair, and shriveled breasts. Horror and revulsion gripped the Mouser at this unexpected sight, for in that aged visage he recognized another. "Jesane!" he exclaimed, dropping to his knees.

  Fafhrd raised an eyebrow. "The daughter?"

  Jesane rolled rheumy eyes toward the Mouser. Then her gaze shifted to a book that lay open on the floor just beyond her reach. She strained for it, but the Mouser gathered her up in a cradling embrace. She felt brittle in his arms, this woman who had saved his life, like old parchment.

  "What happened to you?" the Mouser cried as he brushed strands of hair from her brow. He searched that face for traces of her former beauty, recalled the sparkle in those once-bright eyes, the strength and vitality of a once-supple body that he had desired. "By all the gods, what happened?"

  Jesane's mouth trembled and opened. A thin string of spittle hung suspended between her cracked lips. A brown tongue licked it weakly away. "Shadowland," she whispered, her eyes widening at some horror. She tried to roll free of the Mouser's embrace, tried to reach with twig-like fingers for the book on the floor. "Shadowland is here!"

  A dry rattle issued from her throat, and she went limp.

  "Dead," the Mouser said, his voice heavy with sadness as he laid her gently down. He picked up the fallen book, intending only to place it on the table. Yet the distinctive calligraphy caught his eye. He lingered over the page where the book was opened.