Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar)

by Robin Wayne Bailey

  Demptha screamed, too, and fell to the ground, wrestling with the hands that still stubbornly tried to throttle him.

  Fafhrd struck again. Swinging with all his fear-driven might, he sliced off Mish's head and sent it smashing against the same stalagmite where the Mouser struggled to sit up. It landed in his gray-clad lap between his very knees.

  A sound of repulsion gurgled in the Mouser's throat. Hurling the head away, he scrambled to save the lantern.

  Mish's corpse fell. It kept on falling, as if the mist were water, and a feathery white wave closed over it. Ripping free the hands that gripped him, Demptha dropped them into the unnatural stuff, and they too sank away as if into a rippling lake.

  Rising with the lantern in one hand, his sword in the other, the Mouser walked cautiously to the spot and poked the rapier into it. The point scraped on solid stone. Licking his lips, looking to his comrades, he stamped his feet upon the place.

  "Dance this way with that light," Fafhrd said, "and look at this." He held Graywand's broad blade to the amber glow. It gleamed cleanly. "No blood."

  "Whatever that was," the Mouser said to Demptha, "it wasn't Mish." Yet in his heart, he wasn't so sure. He couldn't discount the radical change in Ivrian, once his true love.

  Entering the new tunnel, the Mouser steeled himself against the terror that permeated this strange labyrinth. Once again, the stone walls pressed close, and the ceiling slanted gradually lower and lower. The mist thickened as they advanced, and the small lantern became virtually useless. Unable to see more than a few feet ahead, the Mouser waved his sword before him, tapping first one wall and then the other.

  Suddenly metal rang on metal. The Mouser felt a shock rise up through his sword and into his arm. Barely keeping a grip on his weapon's hilt, he leaped back, colliding with an unwary Demptha. "Fall back! Fall back!" he cried. Shoving the lantern into Demptha's hands, he drew his dagger, Catsclaw.

  A figure brandishing shield and a long dirk rushed screaming out of the fog at the Mouser. Behind that ferocious warrior, from the narrow tunnel, came four more, similarly armed. Blocking the dirk's thrust with Scalpel, he brought his foot up against the nearest shield and kicked the closest foe back into his companions.

  The Mouser's eyes snapped wide. He recognized the face that appeared just over that shield rim. "The Ilthmarts!" he shouted. "The dead Ilthmarts!"

  "Ilthmarts behind us, too!" Fafhrd answered grimly. "Five more!" There was no room in the tunnel for Graywand. He drew his dagger, instead. Bellowing a mighty roar, he charged straight into the five, slashing with the thin blade and smashing with his fists, using his huge body to clear a retreat back into the larger cavern.

  Pushing Demptha Negatarth before him, the Mouser leaped past Fafhrd's victims before they could stir to their feet. "Out! Out!" he shouted at the wizard. "And take care to guard that light!"

  A booming laugh filled the cavern as Fafhrd emerged and freed Graywand. Thrusting Demptha aside, he called to his partner as the Mouser emerged. "Hah, a good battle is a cure for the numbing fear-stink that fills this blasted maze!"

  "Personally, I'm insulted," the Mouser answered diffidently. "Ilthmarts—and Ilthmarts we've already beaten."

  Fafhrd laughed again and twirled Graywand in a showy one-handed arc as he fell back into a defensive posture. "It would be rude of me to point out that Laurian's magic defeated them when they had us cornered like a pair of rats."

  "A treacherous slander!" the Mouser scoffed. "She merely interfered while I was catching my second wind."

  A host of battlecries sounded, and the Ilthmart warriors charged into the cavern. Fafhrd met the first one, knocking him aside with a ringing blow on a shield. The second warrior tripped over the first, smacking his chin on the rocky floor. The third leaped screaming over the first two. With a dancer’s grace, the Mouser dropped to one knee and thrust upward, piercing flesh with Scalpel's point.

  The fourth and fifth squeezed out behind the third. Both charged the Mouser. The rapier edge of Catsclaw swept in a sidewise arc, slipping beneath a shield to slice a muscled thigh before the Mouser rolled aside and jumped to his feet.

  The rest of the Ilthmarts rushed clumsily from the narrow tunnel, pushing and shoving each other as they emerged. "Eight more!" they shouted. "Eight more for the Shadowland!"

  "These fools can't count!" Fafhrd laughed as he waded into them, swinging left and right with Graywand. "We are but three!"

  A dirk flashed through the air toward the Mouser. With a flick of his blade, he batted it aside in mid-flight, and with an advancing lunge, pushed his point through the throat of the thrower.

  "Seven more!"

  The odd count caught the Mouser's attention. Whirling about, he spied the Ilthmart that had voiced it. That warrior loomed over a cowering Demptha, dirk upraised, prepared to strike a death blow.

  "No!" the Mouser shouted, too far away to help.

  But Demptha did not cower. He merely stooped to set the lantern safely aside. Even as the Ilthmart stabbed downward, Demptha reached into his left sleeve. Out came a packet. Black powder showered over the Ilthmart. Bright star-like sparks flared, and a hideous scream tore through the cavern. Shield, dirk, clothes, and Ilthmart all burst into white flame.

  Shielding his eyes against the sudden painful brightness and the crackling heat, the Mouser ran to Demptha's side and pulled him up. "Stay behind me!" he ordered.

  On the distant side of the cavern, partially obscured by the gray vapor, a silhouetted Fafhrd gave a forceful shout. Graywand's blade and elaborate hilt sparkled like blue lightning as he cleaved an arc through the air and drove the sword through the final Ilthmart’s shoulder and deep into his torso, carving the man nearly in half.

  For a moment, the two combatants stood as if frozen, still as statues, a captured tableau of desperation and death. Then the Ilthmart corpse slipped free of the great blade and fell out of sight under the mist.

  For a moment more, Fafhrd remained unmoving. Finally, he lowered his sword and leaned heavily on it. A wracking cough shook his great form.

  Before the Mouser could run to his friend, the burning Ilthmart, now the major source of light, screamed his last scream and fell face-forward into the thick mist, sinking into it just as Mish had done. A crushing blackness once more filled the cavern with nothing more than the lantern's small flame to hold it back. In the renewed dark, the Mouser rubbed a gloved fist over his eyes, unable to see. "Fafhrd!" he called.

  "I'm here," Fafhrd answered, emerging from the mist into the small light of the lantern as Demptha raised it. A dark smear of blood stained his mouth and chin.

  "You're wounded!" Demptha cried.

  Fafhrd allowed a humorless smirk. "Not by any Ilthmart blade," he answered.

  None of their foes remained. All the fallen had vanished, swallowed by the fleecy white river that flowed over the cavern floor.

  Filled with concern for Fafhrd, the Mouser stared, sickened with worry at sight of the blood on those lips. He thought of suggesting a respite, a brief chance to let Fafhrd recover. However, Fafhrd would take it as an insult, so instead the Mouser stalled.

  His quiet voice reverberated with surreal effect from the stone walls. "What means this count?" he wondered aloud. "Ten more, eight more, seven more."

  "Aye," Fafhrd murmured. "And what happened to nine?"

  The Mouser walked carefully over the area of battle. No bodies. No trace even of the shields and dirks. "How do ten dead men rise up and fight again, Fafhrd?"

  Fafhrd fixed the Mouser with a gaze. His green eyes burned suddenly like those of a cat. "How is it, Mouser, that Vlana and Ivrian have risen up to haunt us?"

  The lantern flame shivered suddenly in Demptha's hand as he turned. "How indeed," he whispered, pointing to the tunnel entrance.

  Jesane floated there, her bare feet seeming to stand upon the misty sea. Tendrils of white vapor stirred modestly about her pale naked body, veiling her face as she tempted them with a dark-eyed look.

  "I warned
you," she whispered. Though her lips moved, her voice didn't seem to come from her, but unnaturally from the cavern itself. "Shadowland has come to the City of a Thousand Smokes—and you have come to Shadowland." Raising a slender arm, she crooked a finger and floated backward into the mouth of the tunnel, her gaze locking with her fathers.

  "Now I know our enemy" Demptha Negatarth said without taking his eyes from Jesane. "I know my sin." Without a glance at his comrades, he followed after his daughter, taking the lantern with him.

  As darkness closed around them, the Mouser gripped Fafhrd's brawny arm. "I've sometimes thought that we are two halves of the same soul, Fafhrd," he said as he stared after the disappearing light. "If we lose that one soul tonight, know that I think well of you."

  Fafhrd nodded, sheathing Graywand and drawing his dagger once again. "Some few have joked that a certain pair of thieves were ill-met that night long ago in Lankhmar when they collided under a bridge on Gold Street. I have never thought so."

  The time for sentiment was ended. The Mouser swallowed and peered down the tunnel after Demptha and Jesane, who could no longer be seen. The lantern gave only the dimmest glow from far ahead. Sheathing Scalpel but keeping Catsclaw in hand, he entered the passage a second time with Fafhrd right behind and Jesane's words in his mind.

  Shadowland has come to the City of a Thousand Smokes.

  In the world of Nehwon lay two great poles. In the far west lay Godsland, and all the gods, known and unknown, dwelled there, seldom venturing from that paradise. In the far east lay Nehwon's opposite pole, Shadowland—the land of the dead.

  The soft whisper of Jesane's eerie voice drifted back to him. "Five more," she murmured with a dreamlike weariness.

  What happened to six? the Mouser wondered, waving a hand to part the mist that swirled before his eyes. Six what?Five what?

  Abruptly the tunnel ended. The Mouser stepped out warily, not into another tunnel or a larger cavern, but onto a vast and sprawling plain. A white sea of feathery vapor stretched as far as the eye could see, while overhead in a black velvet sky, stars as sharp and bright as diamonds glittered.

  No familiar constellations, the Mouser noted, studying that awesome heaven. He directed his gaze farther afield, seeking the lantern's light. Hand in hand now, father and daughter stood patiently, as if waiting.

  "In a dream," Fafhrd said as if to himself, "I've been here before." Stretching out an arm, he pointed. "A barge will come from there. I know it."

  Indeed, a second faint light appeared in the distance. Slowly it approached, but smoothly, growing subtly brighter. Out of the blackness sailed a fantastic barge of black wood with gold fittings. A simple lantern fixed to its prow lit the way across the foggy sea.

  Upon that barge sat an elaborate throne of the same black wood marked with gold and silver inlay, cushioned with fine pillows. Upon that lustrous seat a tall figure sat with casual posture, its features concealed under a hood and behind a shining black mask.

  The barge stopped. Jesane floated up to the deck to stand before the seated figure. Her father clambered up the side, climbed over the ebony rail and remained there.

  Without sail or oar, with no sound of water or wind, the barge turned toward Fafhrd and the Mouser.

  For perhaps the first time in his life, the Mouser gave thanks for his short stature, for the fog rose up to his thighs and hid the trembling in his knees. Fafhrd stirred uneasily beside him. His friend had exchanged his dagger once again for the greater comfort, not to mention reach, of Graywand.

  The barge drifted to an easy stop.

  "Only four more," Jesane said to the figure on the throne. "A child comes, Pilsh her name."

  Nodding, the seated figure rose and walked gracefully to the barge's fore. Involuntarily, the Mouser flung up an arm, averting his gaze from the piercing, evil eyes that stared from behind that glittering mask.

  "No, little man," said a voice that came from behind that mask. "I am beyond mortal concepts of good and evil."

  Fafhrd did not look away, but lifted his chin defiantly to meet the creature's stare. "Then who are you?" he shouted. "Where is Malygris?"

  "Fafhrd, son of Mor and Nalgron," the figure answered. "We have fought before, you and I. And though it was only a game— no serious duel—you did well." He looked from Fafhrd to the Mouser and back again. "In truth, you both have done well, each playing your part."

  "Answer my question," Fafhrd demanded.

  Leaning over the barge's rail, the figure bowed ever so slightly. "Do you not recognize me?" A black-gloved finger rose to touch the mask. A light seemed to brighten around the creature's face.

  "The ferryman!" Fafhrd cried, recoiling. "The pilot in my dream!"

  Simultaneously, the Mouser cried. "Rokkarsh!"

  The two friends looked at each other stupidly.

  The masked figure laughed, and the sound of it boomed across his Shadowland. "Death has many names and many faces," he said.

  Demptha Negatarth climbed over the side of the barge and came to stand beside the Mouser. "He is Death of Nehwon," the wizard said.

  Death of Nehwon gave a small shrug. "Only a minor Death in the cosmic scheme of things," he said modestly. "But as with all other Deaths in all the worlds and dimensions, I serve my purpose."

  Abruptly, Death of Nehwon held up a hand. Fathomless eyes closed behind a mask that was only a mask again. "A fisherman, Massek by name," he intoned. Then those horribly vast eyes opened again. "Now only two remain, and soon this play will end."

  Death of Nehwon stretched out his hand to the sky.

  A red light appeared in the heavens. Softly glowing, it sank from the firmament, wafting with a strangely lazy motion, and the Mouser knew it for Malygris's hideous ribbon of evil. Lower and lower it drifted, touching the misty sea near the barge, disappearing into it only to rise again.

  With it rose a huge obloid, an egg whose white shell was laced with red streaks and veins of pulsing scarlet.

  Death of Nehwon waved his hand. The ribbon fluttered away and disappeared. At the same time, cracks formed on the egg's surface, widening, deepening, filling the air with a sound like thunder. Suddenly it exploded, showering fragments into the air. They did not fall again.

  On the remaining piece of shell, Malygris stood, confused and trembling. His gaze darted in nervous fear as he tried to discern his tormentors, gauge his situation. Biting his lip, he stared at last toward the ominous, masked barge-master.

  "Here is a man who dared to affront me," Death of Nehwon said.

  "There were others," Demptha Negatarth interrupted, finding his voice. He stepped toward the barge, craning his neck toward the ruler of Shadowland. "Sadaster, Aarth's Patriarch, Rokkarsh, myself!"

  Death of Nehwon might have smiled behind that mask as he looked down upon Demptha. "Confession is good for the soul, is it not, mortal?"

  Cowed by the sarcasm, Demptha hung his head and stepped back.

  A sneering voice continued as Death of Nehwon stabbed a finger at Malygris. "In his jealousy and madness, this fool reached beyond his meager talents, creating a spell to strike at his enemy. So he thought. In truth, he unleashed a mindless force that destroyed uncounted lives."

  Death of Nehwon paused and looked down upon the three men before him. "I took no interest in that. All mortals die in their time, and I am the Keeper of the Schedule."

  The Mouser raised his fist. He had worked hard to piece the puzzle together, and he had no intention of being grandstanded, not even by such a being as he stood before.

  "But there was another spell, wasn't there?" he called. "One you couldn't ignore. A secret that Sadaster possessed, and a secret that Malygris stole from him. A spell that Demptha bargained for with Malygris."

  Death of Nehwon nodded appreciatively "You are shrewd for a mortal," he complimented. "I see why Fate has set her mark on you. But hear the rest of the story." He glanced toward Demptha. "Then a decision must be made."

  "Well, tell it quickly," Fafhrd shouted. "Though you
claim you've no interest in it, Malygris's curse works in my body, and I may shortly puke on the front of your fine boat."

  Did a low chuckle issue from behind that mask? The Mouser could not tell.

  "The rest is simple enough," Death of Nehwon said. "Or should I say, human enough. As your gray friend has figured out, Sadaster's spell not only erased the tracks of time from Laurian's lovely face, it held back the years."

  "It held back death," the Mouser said. "It kept you at bay."

  Death of Nehwon scoffed. "Oh, pish. Perhaps you are not so shrewd after all. Everyone's name is written in a book of my keeping, and every time is appointed. The life given each man is finite. Yet with this spell of Sadaster's, some few took time that didn't belong to them."

  "And thus shortened the time of other innocents?" Demptha murmured, shame-faced. "I didn't know."

  "Each man has an apportioned share of time. To add more to his own share meant diminishing someone else's—thus upsetting my precious schedule," said Death of Nehwon coldly. "That, I could not ignore. Selfish men stole time that rightfully belonged to others. Sadaster prolonged his own life and looks, as well as Laurian's. Jealousy drove Malygris to the same sin."

  "And Aarth's Patriarch," the Mouser interrupted. "How does he fit into this?"

  Death of Nehwon laughed. "The Patriarch, through his own magic, learned of Malygris's plan to kill Sadaster. Malygris bought his silence with the secret of prolonging life. The Patriarch, mortal fool that he was, then curried favor with the Overlord Rokkarsh by sharing it with him. Nor would it have ended there. Rokkarsh intended to share it with several of his nearest noble relatives."

  A sigh came from behind the mask. "Their vanity earned them my annoyance. Now their souls are waiting table in the banquet halls of Hell."

  "But I used the spell, too," Demptha said. "Why am I alive when Jesane is dead?"

  "Your daughter is dead because her time expired years ago. When I extended my kingdom into Lankhmar's underworld, I found her with others whose time had expired in the place you call the Temple of Hates. I reached out my hand and claimed them. Surprisingly, Jesane slipped through my fingers for a few desperate moments, long enough to try to warn you." He inclined his head toward her. "Now as it happens, I look with favor on such devotion and courage. It pleases me, and I've made her my handmaiden."