Swords Against the Shadowland

Fafhrd didn't answer. The alley joined another street where the shoppers were fewer. Fafhrd stepped out and let go the breath he'd been holding. Instantly, he jumped back as an ox pulling a cart nearly ran him down. His sudden lunge for safety caused him to collide with the Mouser, who was not yet clear of the alley. The Mouser gave an awkward cry and clutched frantically at Fafhrd's borrowed cloak with one hand, at the wall with the other.

The big Northerner caught his friend's arm and apologetically set him on his feet again.

"Pissing on me last night, that I can forgive," the Mouser warned. "Knocking me into this slime, however, would have required retribution."

Fafhrd peered carefully around the edge of the alley before stepping out again. The way was clear. At the end of the new street where they found themselves the tall masts of a sailing ship rocked gently to and fro. On the wharf, half-naked men busily loaded barrels and sacks of grain onto the vessel.

Halfway down the street, the line of warehouses parted, yielding to the cracked marble tiles of an old courtyard. Surrounded by an iron fence that offered no gate, a slender, black-stoned tower rose three stories high. Only the third and highest story offered any windows or apparent openings. Birds flew in and out, having made their nests in its shadowed recesses. The courtyard, even the side of the tower, was stained with centuries of droppings.

The Mouser approached the fence, walked back and forth before it, ran his fingers along the spear-pointed iron bars. Fafhrd stood back. His gaze climbed the stones, noting the crumbling mortar, the gaping rent in the structure near its parapet, the way the birds cooed in their nests while their mates circled.

"He's not here," he said in a low voice to the Mouser. When his partner turned toward him, he explained. "The birds are too carefree. The nests would be empty if the tower were inhabited."

Nodding agreement, the Mouser backed away from the fence.

Returning to Nun Street, they worked their way south through the growing throngs that choked the busy thoroughfare. Exerting itself, the sun made slight headway through the clouds, and though the sky remained gray, the air warmed.

A pair of temples stood side by side on Sailors' Row. The taller one stood two stories and loomed over the second temple, which was a low, square building. The tower, badly crumbled on one side, leaned at an unlikely angle. Slumped over, Fafhrd thought to himself, as if the god it was built for had died. The box-like temple appeared ageless, seamless in construction. Neither structure showed doors or windows. They shared a common courtyard, and in the center of that lay the shattered ruins of an ancient fountain. A common iron fence separated the grounds from the rest of the city.

The feeble sun slipped toward the horizon, and twilight stole quietly through Lankhmar. The sounds of industry lessened in the riverfront district, and the streets slowly emptied of shoppers and workers.

Frustration gnawed at Fafhrd as he wandered with the Mouser to the southern end of the wharves and stared across the glimmering water of the wide Hlal. A rising wind played an eerie tune in the riggings of ships moored in their berths. He listened, noting also the creaking of the boards beneath his feet as the river lapped at the pilings. It all made a strange, lonely music.

"I think I have never felt so thin as now," Fafhrd murmured to himself.

Overhearing, the Mouser raised an eyebrow. "Thin?"

Far across the river, a black-cloaked old man poled a flat skiff patiently across the dappled water. Fafhrd watched with an odd foreboding, that he attributed to fatigue. "The wind blows," he said cryptically to the Mouser, "but it blows through me. The music, too, seems to pass through me."

"Music?" the Mouser repeated. "What music?"

Fafhrd continued to watch the skiff. Though the boatman worked his pole with practiced skill, he progressed but slowly over the darkening waves. "I can't explain it, my friend," he said without looking at the Mouser. "I feel . . ." he hesitated and hugged himself against a chill before finishing his thought. "Insubstantial."

A small sharp pain flashed suddenly through Fafhrd's rump. Giving a yelp, the Northerner jumped a foot in the air and clutched his backside.

The Mouser smiled wickedly as he held up thumb and forefinger and made a pinching motion. "So much for insubstantiality," he said. "Now come on."

The Mouser turned his back to the river and started away. Fafhrd followed, but before they rounded the corner of yet another warehouse, he glanced around abruptly and stopped.

The air became dead still, without a breath of wind. The guy wires and riggings of the moored ships hummed no more, but fell suddenly silent, as if struck dumb. Even the constant creaking of the wharves seemed to cease.

Fafhrd studied the river. Nowhere upon that gently swirling surface was there a sign of a skiff or boatman.