Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) (8 page)

The Ilthmart backed up nervously. On the sleeve of his sword arm, a rip and a slight red stain showed where the Mouser's blade had earlier nicked him. His gaze darted about the gloom-filled room, seeking a way out. "Perhaps we can come to some accommodation?" he said, lifting the Mouser's purse by its strings from under his belt.

"No doubt we can," Fafhrd replied in calm manner. "Return my partner's purse, and we'll consider it a short-term loan. And that ring you're wearing, we'll consider that interest on the loan. Your sword, too." Then he smiled. "Your cloak, that's a bribe to the middleman who arranged your loan—me. In fact, just leave all your clothes."

The Ilthmart blustered. "Why, my things won't begin to fit you!

Fafhrd smiled. "I know, but I'll feel much better knowing I'm not the only one running buck-naked in the middle of the night through the streets of Lankhmar. And since you're responsible for my current state of undress, it seems fitting that you share my discomfiture." He rested the tip of Graywand on the Ilthmart's chest. "Do I need to emphasize my point?"

The Ilthmart cast his sword down at Fafhrd's feet and scrambled swiftly out of his boots and clothes. In moments, he stood as naked as Fafhrd, but far less at ease.

"Out you go now," Fafhrd said, inclining his head toward the door.

Nervous eyes regarded Fafhrd, then flickered toward the wench, who still sat straddle-legged on the floor, then toward the door, and back to Fafhrd. "That's it?" he said warily. "You're letting me go?"

"What worse can I do to you?" the Northerner answered. "Your humiliation is between your legs."

"Ain't it the truth!" said the wench, making a wry face as she measured a small piece of air with thumb and forefinger.

Face reddening with anger and embarrassment, the Ilthmart clenched his fists. Without another word, he bolted past Fafhrd for the door. Fafhrd, laughing hugely, swung his blade, the flat side of which made a loud, sharp crack on bare buttocks. With a yowl, the Ilthmart flung open the door and raced into the night.

The thick fog crept surreptitiously over the threshold, seeming to pause as it touched the warmer interior air. At a slower, more cautious pace, it flowed along the floor.

Fafhrd picked up the Ilthmart's discarded trousers, frowned, and cast them aside.

"Why not try me on for size, dearie?" the wench suggested with a lewd wink.

Fafhrd considered it for a moment as he extended a hand to help her to her feet. Yet there was still the Mouser's safety to ascertain, and this nameless tavern's customers might return at any moment. Wrapping one arm around her waist, he drew her close for a quick kiss before stepping away. "Except for this cloak," he said, snatching up the garment and lacing it at his throat, "these clothes and sword are yours. Hide them before someone returns and sell them for what you can."

The wench's eyes widened at such generosity. "I'm not used to no gentlemen," she said, swiftly collecting the Ilthmart's belongings. Straightening, she clutched them to her breasts. "But you come back this way any night, and I'll treat you right well, and charge you nothing for it."

Fafhrd smiled at her earnestness. Prying one hand from her new possessions, he planted another kiss on the tips of her fingers, and bowed. Then, gathering the folds of his acquired cloak to conceal his nakedness, he went out into the street.

The fog seemed thicker than ever. It flowed over the ground like a white, feathery river and filled the air with an obscuring, chilly mist. Fafhrd paused long enough to tie the Mouser's purse strings around his left wrist, struck with a curious awe and foreboding by the eerie atmosphere. He drew the cloak closer about his shoulders, unable to see the garment's hem or the lower portions of his legs as he waded through the night.

Hidden in fog, an overturned rain barrel waited for Fafhrd, and the unsuspecting Northerner howled as he smashed the already-abused big toe of his right foot against it. Cursing, he hopped away, slipping in the mud created by the barrel's spillage. With another yelp and a loud curse, his left foot slipped out from under him, and he fell in a sloppy splash.

"Hounds of filthy hell!" Fafhrd grumbled, shaking mud from his hands as he got to his knees and clambered up. Groping in the fog, he seized a piece of the barrel and flung it away. In mid-flight it disappeared in the fog, but the noisy racket it made as it struck some wall gave a small satisfaction.

"Hello?"

The voice drifted out of the fog, distant and muffled. Fafhrd listened as he wiped Graywand's blade on a piece of his sodden cloak, wondering if he should answer.

From another direction, a different voice responded. "Who's there? Hello?"

"Can't see a thing," the first voice called. "Who made that noise?"

Fafhrd repressed a shiver. The overturned barrel was a landmark that told him he stood at the point where the alley joined Plague Court, but he could not see the other side of the street, nor anything up or down it. The callers were virtually invisible, disembodied voices crying in the fog. He thought of answering, then reconsidering, kept silent. These might be the men chasing the Mouser.

Moving slowly into Plague Court, he turned to his left, sure that in that direction lay the Silver Eel, where the Mouser, if he knew what was good for him, would be waiting with a reserved table and a pitcher of beer.

Far down the street, he spied the faintest amber light floating in the misty limbo that Lankhmar had become. The hairs prickled on his neck, and he froze again, until he convinced himself it was only the obscured gleam of someone's torch or lantern. He saw no figure, though, only the light bobbing in the mist. When it disappeared a moment later, he told himself it was because its bearer had turned a corner or entered a building.

The voices continued to call. There seemed to be more of them now. Barely perceived, a shape passed with outstretched arms and faltering steps near to Fafhrd. "Gamron?" the shape murmured nervously. "Is that you?"

Heeding the counsel of his own natural caution, Fafhrd kept silent and moved on, holding his sword low and before him as if it were a blind man's cane.

Never had he seen such a fog. In the Cold Wastes, that distant land of his birth, he had seen the ice witches of his village call great mists, but always they came with a numbing, marrow-freezing chill that set the air to glimmering with ice crystals and coated everything with a white rime.

His mother, Mor, had been such a witch, and with such a spell—damn her jealous eyes—had she killed his father, Nalgron, as he climbed the frigid peak of White Fang Mountain, from which could be seen the very top of the world and all the gods of Nehwon.

He forced the bitter memory away. Fafhrd had not thought of his mother or father, nor of the Snow Clan he had left behind, for a long time. Pausing again to frown and scratch his head, he wondered if he had passed the Silver Eel. Could he have run so far in pursuit of the Ilthmart thief?

Squinting, he tried to penetrate the gray veil with his gaze, spying nothing to left or right, before, or behind. At last, deciding that the middle of the street was the wrong place to be, he took a perpendicular course, expecting eventually, within a few steps, to encounter a wall, along which he could then grope his way.

He encountered no wall. Instead, he found himself in another alley or street. Still the voices, heavily muffled, drifted out of the gray night, and an increasingly worried Fafhrd tried to cheer himself with the wry thought that half the city seemed to be wandering lost and unable to make contact with anyone else.

A superstitious dread suddenly seized him. Reaching out to the right with his sword, he raked the point lightly along a stone construct, reassuring himself that he was not lost in some unnatural wasteland. With a quiet, half-embarrassed sigh, he put his hand on the side of an unknown building and began to feel his way along.

"Fafhrd."

He stopped. Was that his name he'd heard, or did his imagination play tricks on him? Listening, he waited, uncertain if he should continue. He raised the point of his sword. "Mouser?" he whispered.

No response came, nor any sound at all. Feeling foolish, Fafhrd lowered his blade. Only his imagination after all, he told himself. Starting forward again, he stopped just in time when a random eddy in the fog revealed another rain barrel directly in his path. He gave a hearty laugh that was more relief than genuine mirth, thinking that at least this once he had spared his poor toe.

Stepping around the barrel, he advanced through the fog, considering that it might be better simply to wrap himself in his muddy cloak and curl up under some stairway or in some alley until morning and sunlight evaporated the veil enough to let him find his way home, but he licked his lips. The thought of a cool mug impelled him to continue. If not the Silver Eel, surely he could find another tavern to take pity on a naked and filthy man. Thankfully, he had the Mouser's purse.

"Fafhrd."

The voice drifted to him again, and once more he stopped, certain that he had heard his name this time. Should he answer? He bit his lip, chewing a corner of his beard as he did so. How many people knew his name in this city?

A sudden suspicion filled him.

"Mouser," he grumbled, staring ahead into the fog to where the voice seemed to emanate. "If you're playing some trick to get even with me for peeing on you, I'll pound on your head until you're six inches shorter than you presently are!"

Fafhrd grinned with inward satisfaction. If it was, indeed, the Mouser playing games, such a taunt should draw him out. His partner was quite sensitive about his height and refused to abide comments under any circumstances.

Slowly, however, the grin turned to a frown. He might have shouted at the moon, had the moon been visible, for all the response he got.

Suddenly a breeze whispered through the lane, stirring the fog, parting and lifting it. A few paces away, a figure stood swathed in the vapor, quietly regarding him. A beauty she was, clad in a dress of black velvet with strands of raven hair riding the wind about her strong, Lankhmaran features. Around her waist, gleaming with an impossible light, hung a belt of silver links, and from that depended an empty silver sheath where a dagger might once have been.

The breeze swirled the mist once more, briefly revealing her face.

Fafhrd's heart seemed to stop in his chest. "Vlana?" Trembling lips seemed scarcely able to form her name. Extending one hand, he took a lurching step and stopped, unwilling to believe his eyes. Still, he cried, "Truest love!"

The wind ceased, and the mist enshrouded once more the figure before him, the only woman who had ever claimed his heart. With a wild outcry, Fafhrd thrust the point of his sword in the earth and ran forward, flinging his arms around the space where she should have been, encountering nothing. Nearly maddened, he flailed at the fog, spinning around and around like a drunken dancer, calling for his Vlana, until at last, he fell exhausted to his knees.

She was gone, if she had ever been there at all.

Once again, like a teasing serpent, the breeze slithered down the narrow way, and the heavy, gray fog parted before it. Lifting his head, Fafhrd stared across the road at the charred ruin of a once-familiar apartment dwelling and realized with a horrible, heart-wrenching certainty where he was.

In the uppermost floor of that building, his true love and the Mouser's had been set upon and devoured by hordes of rats under the control of a wizard in service to the Thieves' Guild. The women had fought and died while their men were off buying wine from the Silver Eel for a party.

The horror of the sight that greeted his eyes upon returning to those bloody rooms still haunted Fafhrd. It was the substance of all his nightmares, that Vlana called out, cursing his name and begging for aid as the vermin ripped out her throat and drank her eyes from their sweet sockets.

Such was the dream he had dreamed even this night and from which he had struggled to awake.

For the first time in this stranger than strange evening, he felt truly lost.

Alone and unseen, veiled by the darkness and the fog, even a barbarian could weep without shame. On his knees in the street, the big Northerner's head sagged forward onto his chest, and his arms fell limply to his sides as sobs of grief and aching loss filled the night.

The fog hid the building from sight once again, and misty tendrils, offering cool comfort, enwrapped Fafhrd in his pain.

FIVE

CITY OF A THOUSAND TEMPLES

T
he front door of the Silver Eel opened quietly, and the pale gray light of an early misty morning seeped across the threshold. The heavy fog of night had retreated, but the sun had not yet warmed the streets, nor chased the chill from the air. Hugging his cloak about his shoulders, Fafhrd eased the door closed.

The tavern was silent and empty but for a single figure. Slumped over a table in the farthest corner, the Mouser raised his head sleepily and peeled open one eye. Fafhrd said nothing to his companion as he passed by, but he set a soft leather purse near the Mouser's hand before he proceeded up the stairs and sought the room they shared.

The lamp in the hallway had long since burned out, and within their rented room, darkness still held sway. The morning light, weak as it was, had not yet penetrated into the narrow alley beyond the open window. Putting aside his sword, Fafhrd pulled the shutters closed and latched them. Turning, he gazed around the room and wondered what he should do next. At last, he sank down to the floor, leaned his back against the wall beneath the window sill, hugged his cloak closer still, and put his head wearily upon his knees.