Swords Against the Shadowland

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.