Swords Against the Shadowland

Then, another sound jarred against his ears, and suddenly Fafhrd realized the curses were rising, not through the floor, but from the alley below his window. Steel rang on steel, a note played only by one sword blade upon another.

As he continued to pee, Fafhrd leaned his head out the window, curious to see what transpired below. Through the dense fog, he barely spied one small shape fending off two larger attackers. At the same time, he heard his own name shouted.

"Fafhrd, you ill-mannered oaf, you're drenching me in your damnable rain!"

His personal business nearly complete, Fafhrd shouted back in surprise. "Mouser?" he called, the sleep-fog lifting from his brain. "Is that you?"

The small shadow below called back as he dodged and feinted, and steel rang out again. "None other, and covered in your foul stink!"

While one tall shadow engaged the Mouser, another stepped away from the conflict and shook his sword at Fafhrd's window. "As am I, you faceless, bottomless bladder! After we dispatch this puny runt and relieve him of his purse, my comrade and I will be pleased to knock upon your door and deal you similar treatment!"

Fafhrd considered for a moment while all three shadows resumed the fight. "Mouser," he called over the clash of blades. "Do I take it this bout is not just the friendly play of good-natured tavern-mates engaged in peacock displays of skill and manhood?"

A heavy wisp of fog shifted through the alley, momentarily obscuring the combatants from Fafhrd's view, but the Mouser's voice came to him clearly, if a bit breathlessly. "This pair of Ilthmart thieves?" There was a pause, followed by a loud hawk and sound of spitting. "Skill and manhood are both small things to these cowards. I am giving them a fencing lesson!"

Despite the Mouser's bravado, Fafhrd thought he detected a certain slur to his friend's words, and when the fog parted slightly, it seemed to him that the Ilthmart thieves, blades weaving in tandem, were pressing the Mouser to the wall.

His own sword, Graywand, stood sheathed near his pillow. Swiftly crossing the room, Fafhrd stubbed another toe on the bed's leg. With a roar of pain, he drew the blade. A stream of curses flowing from his lips, he returned to the window, leaped over the sill, and plunged through the fog to the street below.

One of the Ilthmarts turned to face Fafhrd. Raising his sword to strike, the thief and would-be murderer hesitated, his eyes widening as he looked up at his seven-foot opponent. No small man, himself, his jaw gaped.

"Now then," Fafhrd said as he took a two-handed grip on his huge weapon and leveled the point near the man's throat, "which of you called my friend a puny runt?"

The thief wet his lips. Without taking his eyes from Fafhrd, he inclined his head toward his partner, who was furiously fending off the Mouser's attacks. "Uh, not me," he answered with an innocent-seeming shrug. "It was my friend. He's always had a big mouth. I'm a quiet one, myself."

"I see," Fafhrd said, drawing a circle before the man's eyes with his sword's point, "No reason to run you through, then." He brought his foot up into the Ilthmart's groin. The man's eyes snapped wider as he dropped his sword, clutched himself between his legs, and sank to his knees; his mouth made a pained oval, and he elicited a pitiful, low moan. "Next time," he gasped as he slumped forward, "just run me through."

Planting the point of Graywand in the dirt, Fafhrd leaned on the pommel and peered through the ever-thickening fog. The clang of blades made a sweet music for a pair of dim shapes dancing a few paces away. "How fares the puny runt?" he called to the pair.

Barely visible in the hazy mist, the remaining Ilthmart scowled contemptuously, though his breathing was ragged. "His sword is a small threat."

Fafhrd smirked. "Play with him a while, and it'll grow."

"I have taught him the parry from the third, fourth, and fifth positions," the Mouser called merrily, his words wine-slurred, "as well as the direct and indirect ripostes." Blades clanged again, mingling with the sounds of boots scraping desperately in the road, ending with a scowled curse and the harsh intake of breath. "Ah, there!" the Mouser cried. "Now he knows the fleche!"

Patting his lips with the palm of one hand, Fafhrd faked a yawn. "Haven't you dispatched him, yet? A spectator might think you were in some trouble."

Again, a ring of steel as blades slid against one another. "A mouser likes to play with its catch before he eats it," the smaller figure laughed. "Ah hah! There! An arm-cut!"

The larger shadow growled. "No more than a scratch, you little braggart! And there's one lesson I learned long before this." Stooping, he grabbed a handful of dirt and flung it at the Mouser's face. "That's when to run away!"