Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) (31 page)

The Mouser moved softly away from the table and into a corner near the bed, giving his friend a respectful space. A wise man didn't crowd Fafhrd when such dark moods were upon him. Without comment, he noted the huge new sword sheathed and leaning nearby. No doubt that, too, had a part in Fafhrd's story, and he would unfold the tale in time.

Then he would tell all he knew and suspected of the Dark Butterfly and the House of Night Cries, yes, even of how her doorman had pitched him insensate into the street when Liara had finished her vile humiliations and subtle tortures. He would tell even that and risk Fafhrd's scorn or laughter.

Rubbing his stubbled chin, he eyed Fafhrd warily and watched him tremble with silent, barely controlled anger. While he waited for Fafhrd to resume the story, his mind worked. Vlana's ghost. Ivrian and Liara. More mysteries to trouble him. Mysteries upon mysteries.

  
All Sheelba had sent them to do was find one wizard.

The Mouser's mouth slowly gaped. "Oh, gods," he murmured, suddenly filled with a dreadful realization. He uttered another low, horror-filled curse. "Mog's black soul! Fafhrd, look at me!" He waited until the Northerner turned. "Did Malygris cast some great magic last night? Something to affect the entire city?"

Fafhrd frowned in puzzlement.

The Mouser smashed one fist against a palm, ignoring Fafhrd now. "It had to be magic! Nothing else could explain the madness! And everyone touched by it. . . !" He stared wide-eyed at Fafhrd again as he thought of Malygris's wasting spell flashing like some invisible lightning bolt among last night's unsuspecting celebrants.

"The fog!" he whispered, thinking hard, remembering how it rolled so unnaturally through the streets.

"Laurian controlled the fog," Fafhrd offered, seeming to shake off his drunken state. "She used it somehow to find Malygris."

"Laurian?" the Mouser questioned. That didn't make sense. "Why would Laurian ..."

He didn't get a chance to finish.

The door smashed open. Corporal Scarface leaped into the room, sword drawn. More soldiers filled the corridor beyond the threshold. "Now you little runt, I've trapped you!" Scarface froze in mid-threat and stared up at Fafhrd's seven-foot height and at the pitcher hurtling down toward his head.

"I don't think you've met my partner," the Mouser said as the pitcher shattered on Scarface's helmet, showering him with water and ceramic fragments. With a loud groan, the corporal sank to his knees.

"Next!" Fafhrd cried, seizing the basin and flinging its contents at the soldiers who pushed through the door. Next, he flung the basin, itself.

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. "Exercise 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.