Swords Against the Shadowland

"Blood of Kos," Fafhrd muttered, taking long strides to catch up with the Mouser. "This city is getting to me."

Where Nun Street joined Cash Street, yet another temple stood. The four-storied black structure cast its shadow over a neighborhood composed mostly of small shops and the estates of wealthy merchants and ship-owners. Taller and more slender than most of the forbidden towers, and leaning at a riverward angle, it looked to Fafhrd like some stygian sword thrust by a giant hand into the earth. Narrow balconies beneath windows on either side even gave the impression of tines.

A fair number of citizens still ventured abroad in this part of town even as night drew close. Many still carried their shopping baskets as they drifted from door to door. Others, dressed in finery and accompanied by servants or personal guards, on foot or in palanquins, headed east on Cash Street toward Carter Street, bound for the Festival District or the Plaza of Dark Delights.

Fafhrd started toward the iron fence that surrounded the ancient tower, but the Mouser's hand closed firmly around his arm and steered him in a new direction.

"Pull up your hood," the Mouser whispered sharply, his dark eyes darting suspiciously from side to side.

Without seeming haste, Fafhrd covered his head and continued down the street past the temple. A fountain and public drinking well gurgled prettily at the center of the intersection of Nun and Cash Streets. Fafhrd allowed the Mouser to guide him there, and the two men dipped their hands in the water to drink.

"So, gray friend," Fafhrd said as he brought his cupped hands toward his mouth, "what spurred this sudden fondness for my elbow?"

"Glance toward the lace-maker's shop across the way," the Mouser said as he pretended to drink. "What do you see leaning in the doorway?"

Smacking his damp lips, Fafhrd wiped his hands on his trousers. "Why, nothing but two fellows in idle conversation," he answered, scrutinizing the pair. Under the cloaks they wore, however, he thought he detected the outlines of swords.

"Now, over by the white wall of that estate," the Mouser continued, dipping his hands for another drink. "Just down the road to your left."

Splashing a little water on his face, Fafhrd wiped at his eyes with one sleeve. As he did so, he gazed where his partner directed. "Another pair of fellows," he noted. "Also in idle conversation."

"Also cloaked and armed," the Mouser said. "Also shaven of face and trimmed of hair, like the pair by the shop. Four sturdy men without an ounce of merchants' fat around their bellies or on their bare cheeks. Their eyes sweep everywhere."

"Private security?" Fafhrd suggested. "Perhaps they are positioned to keep the neighborhood safe from crime."

The Mouser snorted. "Let's continue casually around the tower," he suggested. "For the moment, observe it without approaching it."

By the time they finished their reconnaissance, night had fully settled. "How many did you count?" Fafhrd asked as they drank once more from the fountain at the intersection of Nun and Cash.

"Twenty-two," the Mouser answered quietly, "lounging in various doorways and gateways, under trees, on rooftops."

From the doorway of the lace shop, a pair of stout men paused in their conversation and glanced their way. They were a different pair, but acting out the same conversation, striking the same nonchalant poses. Their eyes, though, gave them away, for they watched everything.

"The guard has changed," Fafhrd murmured.

"The question is," his companion said, "what are they guarding? My money is on the tower."

Together, they left the fountain and started eastward on Cash Street away from the forbidden temple. "Why this particular temple and not the others?” Fafrd wondered aloud. Then the obvious idea occurred to him. “Could they be seeking Malygris as well?”

The Mouser gave a low chuckle. “So many curious questions,” he said. “And if your archery skills are sufficient to put an arrow and a climbing line through one of those upper windows, perhaps after midnight we can find some answers.

SIX DEATH KNELLS

Fog once again moved through the streets of Lankhmar. Tendrils of mist crept up every lane, poured into every plaza, seeped through the smallest alleys. The heavy gray blanket extinguished the moon and stars, dimmed the watchfires that burned atop the city walls, threatened to swallow even the tiny flames in the lanterns of the few citizens who dared to venture forth.

Once more crouched in a shadowed doorway near the intersection of Cash and Nun streets, the Mouser growled a low curse. The midnight hour was far off; the deepening fog had forced them to hasten their plans.

In the shadows beside him, Fafhrd stood ready with a newly purchased line and iron grapnel. "Getting over the fence would be easy," the Northerner whispered. "But in this pea soup, I can’t even see the tower, let alone pitch a hook through a third-story window."