Swords Against the Shadowland

The tavern was silent and empty but for a single figure. Slumped over a table in the farthest corner, the Mouser raised his head sleepily and peeled open one eye. Fafhrd said nothing to his companion as he passed by, but he set a soft leather purse near the Mouser's hand before he proceeded up the stairs and sought the room they shared.

The lamp in the hallway had long since burned out, and within their rented room, darkness still held sway. The morning light, weak as it was, had not yet penetrated into the narrow alley beyond the open window. Putting aside his sword, Fafhrd pulled the shutters closed and latched them. Turning, he gazed around the room and wondered what he should do next. At last, he sank down to the floor, leaned his back against the wall beneath the window sill, hugged his cloak closer still, and put his head wearily upon his knees.

With the mildest of creaks, the door opened and shut. It was Fafhrd's turn to look up. An orange glow surrounded the Mouser as he held high one of the taverns lanterns. In his other hand, he bore a pitcher. Placing the lantern beside the wash basin on the room's only table, he handed the pitcher to Fafhrd, then crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Rough night?" the Mouser asked. "Looks like you spent it in a pig sty."

Fafhrd took a long pull from the pitcher. The beer tasted warm and bitter, but it drove the chill from his body, and lifted his spirits a little. "Nice of you to wait up," he said.

With the strings looped around his first finger, the Mouser twirled the purse around and around until the speed of its motion made a small humming sound and the purse, itself, blurred. "I gather you encountered the Ilthmart of questionable character?"

Fafhrd only nodded as he rose and went to the table. Setting aside the pitcher of beer, he cast off his cloak and began to wash himself with an old cloth using the water that already half-filled the crude earthenware basin. The sound of gentle splashing filled the room.

The Mouser put aside the purse. "Did you kill him?" he inquired carefully. "Is that why your mood seems bleaker than this crippled daylight?"

Fafhrd cleaned mud from his feet and shins. "He preferred to be reasonable," he answered. "As for my mood—" he paused in his ablutions and glanced toward the shutters before rinsing the cloth with a violent effort. Water splashed from the basin, spilling onto the table and floor. Fafhrd ignored it. "Blame it on this fog-haunted city. I wish we were away from here."

A strangely grim expression shadowed the Mouser's face. Fafhrd looked away from his friend as he gnawed his lower lip. He wondered if he should speak of Vlana's ghost. Yet, could he be sure he had, indeed, seen the spirit of his one true love? Perhaps it was only his imagination or the fog playing tricks with his head. Perhaps it was only his grief catching up with him.

The Mouser patted the mattress. "Let us take a few hours' sleep," he suggested, "then, we'll rise and begin this evil quest. The sooner begun, the sooner done."

Fafhrd scowled as he threw the cloth back into the basin, splashing more water. "Sleep," he said, turning down the lantern's wick. Crossing to his side of the bed in the near-darkness, he crawled under a corner of the only blanket. "Then rise and head to work like good common little hirelings."

The Mouser's boots clunked onto the floor as he cast them off. His tunic followed, and he claimed his own piece of the blanket. "You should never go to bed angry," he said in a lighter tone.

"You are not my wife," Fafhrd grumbled as he turned onto his side, a movement that dragged the entire blanket to his half of the bed. "Shut up."

The Mouser snatched it back again, beginning a silent war that would continue until well past noon.

A drizzling rain fell from slate-gray skies, turning the backstreets and alleyways to ribbons of mud, slicking the cobblestones and paving tiles of the better thoroughfares. Along the Street of the Gods, the gutters roiled with dirty, refuse-strewn water. Huddled under hooded cloaks or brightly dyed parasols, pedestrians hurried in and out of the many elaborate temples that gave the way its name.

Impatiently watching the traffic, Fafhrd waited outside the columned gates of the Temple of Mog, the spider god. The droning intonations of Mog's priests reached his ears, muffled only slightly by the rain's steady pitter-patter. The temple was actually a huge amphitheater with a cone-shaped administration building at its center. Come rain or shine, from dawn until sundown, priests and acolytes and worshippers ranged about the grounds singing the praises of their deity.