Swords Against the Shadowland

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!"