Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) (40 page)

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."

Malygris took a sudden step forward, and the shell upon which he stood cracked loudly under his feet, causing him to retreat to his original place as all attention turned upon him. He wore a look of dawning terror. "Your schedule? Your kingdom? Who are you, monster? What is this dreary place?"

As if stirred by a wind, the mist swirled on the surface of the white sea. Forms and figures rose up with the mist, pale shapes, some with familiar faces. There was Mish again, whole with his arms and head. And Gamron with his Ilthmarts. A blond girl-child with bright eyes and a straw poppet in her arms.

"Sameel," Fafhrd whispered, his gaze fastening on a beautiful young woman who stood shyly apart from the other figures.

Scores, hundreds, perhaps more walked out of the fog and stood silently by as if to give witness. These were the ones from whom time and life had been stolen. Here also were the victims of Malygris's jealous evil.

The wizard gave a shrill scream, as if at last he understood, and the sound filled the Mouser with an icy satisfaction.

Death of Nehwon spoke again. "Only you, Demptha Negatarth, of those who possessed Sadaster's spell, used it for no selfish end. You wear the wrinkles you have earned and stoop beneath your properly accumulated years. Only for your daughter's benefit did you employ this insulting magic." He nodded ever so slightly, briefly closing his eyes as he did so. "I forgive you," he pronounced.