Swords Against the Shadowland

A few blocks further, and they reached the edge of the Festival District. The streets, which should have yet been crowded with celebrants, merchants and entertainers, instead were quiet, nearly empty. A now familiar pallid fear marked the faces of the few pedestrians they encountered. Shops were closed. The kiosks had been taken down. The taverns remained open, but the busiest hosted only a squad of off-duty soldiers, and the noise that issued even from that seemed muted and nervous.

The magic that had compelled such a carnal frenzy the night before had exacted a toll of suspicion and uncertainty from the citizens. Many had stayed home tonight; some had left the city early to return to their farms and villages.

A man suddenly leaped from behind a rain barrel to block their path. Round, wide eyes filled with the light of madness glared at them from a sallow, too-thin face. His wild hair jutted from his head at all angles, and clothes that once were finely made hung on him in tatters.

"Good sirs, don't go any further!" came a sibilant whisper. The man paused and shot fearful looks over his bony shoulders before turning back to Fafhrd and the Mouser. "There's plague in the district! Plague!" He hesitated again, then thrust a hand forward. Keeping his voice low, he added, "That'll be a tik-penny for the warning."

"We know," Fafhrd answered. Delicately, he put his hand to his mouth and gave a sharp cough, then another.

The beggar's eyes grew even wider, and his knees began to shake. When Fafhrd coughed a third time, he turned and fled down the street, disappearing around a corner.

"That didn't sound like a very genuine cough," the Mouser commented.

"I didn't feel like parting with a tik-penny," Fafhrd said with a wink and a shrug.

Skirting the edge of the Garden of Dark Delights, they came to Face-of-the-Moon Street. The Mouser preceded Fafhrd up the pebbled walkway, past the elaborate lawn sculptures, and up the marble steps. Small oil lamps suspended on bronze pegs burned on either side of the door tonight, their flames shielded by glass globes.

"Stand here," the Mouser said, positioning Fafhrd against the wall where he'd be just out of sight when the door opened. "When I hook the fish, you net him."

Seizing the brass knocker, the Mouser slammed it twice against the plate. In a moment, the door opened. The Mouser pushed back his hood and smiled at the hugely muscled, bald warrior that served the house as guardian and doorman.

"Good evening, you over-grown jackass. Remember me?"

The doorman growled. "Yes, little man. I threw you out on your drunken head last night."

He reached for the Mouser with large, grasping hands. When the Mouser backed up a step, the doorman followed. Fafhrd tapped him on the shoulder and, when he turned, smashed his own huge fist against the doorman's jaw.

The doorman's eyes glazed, but his lips parted in a weak grin. "Thank you, sir. May I have another?" Half-heartedly, he raised a fist to strike back, but Fafhrd's blow had achieved its purpose. The Mouser dropped to his hands and knees behind the doorman's legs, and Fafhrd gave a push. Over the doorman went into the bushes beside the high marble steps.

"A mightier blow I couldn't have delivered myself," the Mouser said, brushing his hands. "Now for Ivrian and a few answers!"

Yet before they could enter the house, a startled gasp spun them about. At the gateway to the marbled path, wrapped in a walking cloak, Ivrian stood still as a deer and stared nervously at them both. Then she bolted back into the street.

Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser bounded down the steps in pursuit, reaching the street just in time to see the girl dash into the Garden of Dark Delights. They charged after her. A flash of a heel led them through the shadows; a swish of a cloak drew them deeper still into the park.

Abruptly, Fafhrd grabbed the Mouser's arm and jerked him to a halt. "You know I'm not a cautious man by nature," he whispered, peering around. "But this situation, in the parlance of my distant northern cousins, stinks."

A familiar voice called out from behind them. "The only stink here," it said, "clings to the two of you!"

Fafhrd whirled, the great sword he called Graywand sweeping from its sheath in one smooth motion.

The Mouser held up a hand. "Captain!" he cried in greeting as he turned.

"I was having a drink at a tavern," Nuulpha said. The faint moonlight glinted on his corporal's helmet as he pushed back his hood. "I thought I saw you skulking past, so I followed."

"How fares that fat, spend-thrift wife of yours?" Fafhrd asked, sheathing his blade again.

"Not well," Nuulpha answered, his voice dropping a note. "Though I speak roughly of her sometimes, she is the reason I serve Demptha Negatarth—in hope of a cure. She too suffers from Malygris's curse."

"Forgive me," Fafhrd said quickly. "I intended no cruelty."

Nuulpha shrugged. Unfastening his chinstrap, he removed his helmet and wiped a hand through his damp black hair. "It's no matter," he said. Then he screamed.