Swords Against the Shadowland

In the master bedroom of this wondrous house, Sadaster lay with his beautiful wife, Laurian, asleep on his arm with only a sheet of thin red silk to cover them. Midsummer's Moon floated at zenith, but the glow of the bright star, Shadah, suspended on the horizon, spilled straight through the window. In its radiance, he admired Laurian's sweet face and felt his heart fill with love. The first signs of age marked the corners of her eyes and her lips, and gleaming in the starlight, he spied a single silver hair. Yet he loved those eyes and lips and that softly textured hair more than life.

The mist, no longer a ribbon, filtered down around the mansion, undetected by wizardly wards or protections, and waited.

Sadaster moved ever so gently so as not to awaken his wife as he kissed her hair. All traces of silver vanished from those beloved locks. With the tip of his little finger, he brushed the outer corners of her eyes and her mouth, erasing the evidence of time.

Even as he completed these simple magicks, he wept quietly, for he knew that his spells could only hide the effects of aging and that someday, Laurian, the great blessing of his life, would go to the Shadowland, as all mortals did, leaving him, with his wizard's lifespan, lonely and alone.

Drying his tears, Sadaster hugged his wife closer, and put away such thoughts. Beyond the sill, Shadah twinkled hypnotically like a rare jewel, and the night wind played a gentle lullaby. Inhaling the fragrances that rose from the garden, Sadaster at last surrendered to sleep.

The mist waited no more. It entered the room through the walls and the roof, through the floor and through the window. Unseeable tendrils seeped toward the bed, flowed upon the silken sheets, and touching the nostrils of the sleeping mage, wormed their way into his body.

Without waking, Sadaster gave a small cough.

The Gray Mouser woke from a troubling dream and sat slowly up on the thin blanket that made his pallet. The campfire he had made to keep away the mountain leopards had burned down to red-glowing embers. Only a few tiny flames flickered here and there among the coals.

On the other side of the fire, Fafhrd, his companion, lay stretched out under a blanket too small to cover his huge frame, his bare feet and legs sticking out from one end. A strangely troubled expression creased Fafhrd's sleeping face, and without waking, he closed one giant hand slowly around the leather sheath of the great sword he called Graywand and clutched it to his body.

Unable to shake the perplexing dream from his mind, the Mouser rose slowly to his feet. The wind blew cool and moist against his face and down the unlaced neck of his rumpled gray silk tunic as he turned his gaze up toward the stars. In the north, the seven-starred constellation called the Targe shone serenely, and directly above it, bright Shadah. The Mouser scratched his head.

A low moan drew his attention back to Fafhrd as his friend sat up, rubbed a hand through the tangled locks of his red-gold hair, and shook himself. Fafhrd looked toward the Mouser with an expression that said he was still not quite awake. "Little friend," Fafhrd grumbled, "the strangest dream has come to me."

The Mouser’s frown deepened. "And to me," he answered, bending toward his pallet to retrieve his weapon belt, from which depended a slender sword and dagger.

"I dreamed of a jealous wizard ..." Fafhrd started to explain. Then, as if for the first time, he took note of the Mouser s actions and came fully alert. His voice dropped to the barest whisper, and one hand closed about the hilt of the great sword. "Have I been a sleepy-eyed, dull-eared slaggard? Does some danger steal upon us?" His eyes suddenly widened. "I was on watch!"

"You fell asleep," the Mouser said, keeping his voice low. "Later, I'll poke merciless fun of you for it. For now, though, I spy no immediate threat." Fastening the sword belt around his waist, he turned back to his partner. "It is no small matter, however, this dream you've had. Were there two wizards and a woman?"

Fafhrd's eyes widened yet again, and he rose cautiously to stand beside the fire. The dim light glowed on his powerfully muscled form. Nearly seven feet tall, the Northerner towered over his much smaller companion. "Aye," he answered, "and one of them died a horrible, wasting death."

The Mouser shrugged. "I woke up before that part," he said, "But if your wizard died in Lankhmar on Midsummer’s Moon, then I've had this same dream."

"In Lankhmar, yes, curse that wretched city's name," Fafhrd said with a scowl. "And there was a festival, but Sadaster didn't die until nearly the Eve of the Frost Moon." His brow wrinkled with sudden concern. "What thievery is this?" he said with an air of offense. "Must we now split and share our dreams as we share our booty?"