Swords Against the Shadowland

The Mouser stared out through the open shutters of the only window in their small room above the Silver Eel. The black towers and minarets of Lankhmar stabbed at the star-speckled sky. Midsummer’s Moon, waxing toward fullness, hung like a solemn, disapproving frown above the tallest spire.

A tendril of pale mist wafted across the sky, diffusing the moon's light. In the street below, a thicker, white fog rolled slowly through the city, southward and eastward from the Inner Sea and the River Hlal.

A lone figure, barely visible in the darkness, waded quietly through the fog down the narrow road called Bones Alley and entered the rear door of the Silver Eel. Laughter from the inn below suddenly penetrated up through the floorboards. The Mouser cast a glance toward the only bed, but the sound failed to disturb Fafhrd, who lay sprawled on his belly like a great starfish, taking up the entire mattress.

The Mouser had slept but little, himself, clinging to the very edge of the bed lest he be smothered or crushed in Fafhrd s unconscious embrace. Adding to his restlessness was the sullen afternoon heat that had lasted into the early evening. They had been lucky to get this room for only five coppers, but it had been a mistake for the Mouser to try to catch up on lost sleep.

Still, he felt rested enough. It was not yet near midnight, he reckoned, but he could abide the room no longer. His mind churned with thoughts of Malygris, Sadaster, and the strange creature called Sheelba. Folding his arms across his bare chest, he gazed out the window again and drew a deep breath.

The rising mist half-obscured the moonlight now, and the silvery fog glimmered in the weakening light. Somewhere out there, the Mouser thought glumly, a terrible enchantment crept through the city as silently and surely as the night-mist, stealing under closed doors, pressing against shuttered windows.

Involuntarily, he edged back into the room’s shadows, his gaze never quite leaving the soft, white tendrils and wisps that eddied just beyond the sill. Then, with crisp, abrupt movements, he stepped forward, leaned out the window, seized and drew the shutters, and latched them tight.

For a long moment, he stood in the darkness, aware of nothing but the frantic beat of his heart and the dryness in his mouth. "I need a drink," he muttered, disgusted with himself for the undeniable fear he felt.

Groping his way around the room, he snatched his garments from a narrow rope line strung up high near the ceiling. Cherig One-hand, the owner of the Silver Eel, had provided them with a basin and water enough to wash their clothes and themselves at no extra charge for the service. Though still slightly damp, his things were dry enough to pull on. Quietly, he eased into his boots by the door, fastened his weapons belt around his waist, and slipped out into the hallway.

A lantern mounted on a sconce at the end of the narrow hall provided the only light. The Mouser paused long enough to reach into the purse on his belt and draw out a small strip of leather, which he used to tie back his lengthy black hair. Then, determined to forget about spells and wizards for a while, he squared his shoulders and went downstairs to the tavern.

The Silver Eel was arguably one of the most notorious dives in Lankhmar. Here, on almost any night between the right hours, a man could expect to fence a pretty bauble or contract out a murder. Yet, such was Cherig One-hand's reputation for keeping the peace in his establishment that one could find the city's most ruthless denizens rubbing elbows with some of the more adventurous-minded nobles whose tastes ran to "slumming."

A small crowd was gathered tonight. Some of the customers paused in their conversations to see whose soft tread creaked on the seventh stair. While most resumed their talk after a casual glance, a few watched, suspicious and steely-eyed, until the Mouser settled on a stool behind a rough table in the tavern's farthest corner.

The Silver Eel's owner strode to the Mouser's table, an earthen mug dangling from the hook where his right hand used to be, and a pitcher of dark beer clutched in his good left hand. With practiced ease, he set the mug upright before his customer and filled it to the brim. "First one’s on the house for renters," he grumbled good-naturedly. "How do you like my fine suite, Gray One?"

The Mouser grinned. "Most excellently," he said, raising the mug to his lips. "The rats bowed with exquisite grace to welcome us, and the fleas waited a full hour before biting us in our bed, which, by the way, is too small."

Cherig One-hand laughed. "It's not the bed that's too small, but your companion, Fafhrd, who is too large."

The Mouser swallowed a cool draught and smacked his lips. Cherig's home-made brew was legendary in Lankhmar, another reason for the Silver Eel's popularity. "Hmmm," he murmured with a roll of his eyes, "a complaint he often attributes to his wenches."