Swords Against the Shadowland

A raspy whisper issued from within the hood, as a skeletally thin hand reached trembling up to draw the hood even closer and so conceal whatever was within. "Wizard-spawned accident of my mother?" Sheelba rasped.

The Mouser shrugged, greatly relieved to find the wizard alive. "Rhetorical excess," he said.

Fafhrd bent over the Mouser to peer down at Sheelba. The rainbows from the diamond crucible filled his eyes and hid the worry in them. "Let's get him to his bed."

Sheelba raised a hand and grasped at the table drapery. "No," he insisted. His words came haltingly, painfully through lips as dry as parchment. "I smell the blood of our enemy on you. Help me up, that we might end this nightmare." Before he could say more, he gave a sigh. His fingers relaxed their grip in the drapery, and his hand slipped to the floor.

"Sheelba?" the Mouser said. No answer came from within the black hood. Over his shoulder, he spoke to Fafhrd. "The samovar has water or tea. Fill the cup and bring it."

Sheelba stirred again even as Fafhrd moved. "Water be damned," he murmured. "I've lain here for days too weak to move. Bring wine from the black trunk with the copper hinges. Bring the jug." This time, he grasped the Mouser's tunic. "Get me on my feet, Gray One."

The Mouser slipped his clean arm under the wizard's shoulders. Sheelba weighed so little he had no trouble lifting him up. Fafhrd stood ready with the jug in one hand, the small cup in the other. "A cupful first," he said, holding it close to Sheelba's Hps and tipping it. "The jug if you keep it down."

But Sheelba did no more than wet his lips before he pushed Fafhrd away. He leaned upon the worktable, his hands on either side of the crucible. Fiery rainbows danced on the thinly translucent skin that stretched over his knuckles. Even the faceless darkness within his hood began to fill with color. "I feared you would not succeed in time," he said. "But you have—barely. The ingredients are mixed. Add Malygris's blood to the potion, and your victory is complete."

For the first time, the Mouser bent over the crucible and saw that it contained a still, clear liquid. For a moment, he stared in small confusion, a slight vertigo clawing at his senses. Then he gasped.

The rainbow light that danced about the room came not from the interplay of the crystal ball's glow on the facets of the crucible, but from some strange energies contained within that liquid, energies that swam and swirled languidly, directionless, through a watery suspension.

Half-entranced by the sight, the Mouser raised Catsclaw and his bloody hand over the vessel. All that he had done, all that he and Fafhrd had endured in Lankhmar, had come to this. He saw his own hand rising as if pulled by a string. He saw himself as a puppet, manipulated by another hand greater and more powerful than his own.

And he resented it.

"Plunge it in!" Sheelba rasped. Bony fingers closed around the Mouser's arm and sought weakly to force it downward. "Plunge it in, and save us all!"

The Mouser's jaw knotted, and he gnashed his teeth in anger. The blood on his hand—it stank in his nostrils! Not innocent blood, by any means. Malygris, the jealous and insane fool, had intended to kill, and kill he did. But was he, too, no more than a puppet, playing a part dictated to him, dancing on strings pulled by some greater power?

The Mouser did not doubt it, and the hand that held bloody Catsclaw trembled with rage.

Then Fafhrd doubled over in a fit of coughing. One hand clutching at the edge of the table drapery, he stumbled back. The liquid in the crucible splashed violently. The crucible itself threatened to tip and spill its life-saving contents. Sheelba made a grab for the vessel, but the Mouser brushed his hands aside, caught the rim and saved the potion himself.

Fafhrd's spasm passed, leaving him gasping for breath and pale of face. Wiping a hand over his lips, he looked with fearless eyes toward his partner.

The Mouser nodded to himself as much as to Fafhrd. Then unseen by the others, he rolled his dark and angry eyes toward the roof and beyond. Well-played, you puppet-masters, he thought. Well-played. To save Fafhrd, I’ll dance your jig.

With that, he plunged Catsclaw into the liquid.

The rainbow energies, directionless before as they swam, surged around the blade, entwined around it like fiery serpents. The blood diffused into the liquid, and for a brief moment, the liquid turned scarlet, and the rainbows faded away as if some battle had been lost.

But the scarlet faded in turn, and from within the red water the rainbows rose again. They danced upon the dagger blade, climbed it, licked the blood from the Mouser's hand and sleeve, growing as they fed until bands of colored fire encircled the Gray Mouser.