Swords Against the Shadowland

"Take the lantern then," said the newcomer, "and remember you're celebrants, albeit quiet ones. Return by a roundabout course to the Rainbow Palace."

With the lantern's light to guide them through the fog, the men on the stoop walked around the corner to Cash Street while the newcomers made themselves comfortable in the doorway below.

Putting the cat aside, Fafhrd rose and beckoned the Mouser away from the roof's edge. But he didn't stop when they were safely out of hearing. Indeed, not until they had reached Cash Street, themselves, and dropped to the ground did Fafhrd speak.

There was no sign of a lantern's glow in the fog, which continued to grow ever thicker. "These are the Overlord's men," he stated, adjusting the grapnel, which was now slung by its coiled line over his shoulder.

"Your ears are sharp as ever," the Mouser answered.

A gray streak leaped from the roof, rebounded from the rim of a rain barrel, and landed between their feet. The Mouser jumped back, his narrow blade flashing out of its sheath.

Unimpressed, the cat blinked and gave a quiet meow before it rubbed against Fafhrd's ankle.

Grinning at his partner’s startled reaction, Fafhrd shrugged. "Think of him as a mascot," he suggested.

The Mouser slammed his sword back into its sheath. "Think of him as victuals," he responded. He wagged a finger at the cat. "One more time ..."

Fafhrd drew the Mouser against the wall. A dull amber glimmer, coming from the direction of Nun Street, warned of someone's approach. Drawing up his hood, the Mouser crouched down by the rain barrel. When he glanced back for his friend, Fafhrd was simply gone.

The lantern and still another pair of men passed right by the Mouser's hiding place. He might have put out one foot and tripped them, they came so close. Unaware, they wandered on until the night swallowed them.

The cat rubbed its head against the Mouser's rump.

Fafhrd swung lithely down from the rooftop, where he had taken refuge. "Why would the Overlord keep a round-the-clock watch on a forbidden temple?" he asked.

"Why are the guards out of uniform?" the Mouser replied.

Fafhrd rubbed his bearded chin. "To trap and apprehend Malygris?" Fafhrd suggested uncertainly.

An ugly scowl settled over the Mouser's face as suspicion filled him. He picked up the cat and hugged it close. His dark eyes, narrowing to slits, burned almost as luminously as the feline's. "Or to protect him?" he said sharply. Pushing the cat into Fafhrd's arms, he started down Cash Street again. "Come on, there's nothing more we can do here tonight."

The black shapes of buildings loomed as Fafhrd and the Mouser made their way through the thickening fog back toward the Silver Eel. Here and there, the silhouette of a minaret or an obelisk jutted up half-seen. In the murk, a statue affixed to a fountain at the intersection of Cash and Gold Streets took on a menacing appearance. To the north, the ten-story Spire of Rhan, the tallest structure in Lankhmar, rose barely visible over the shadowy rooftops to stand like a spear upon which the misty night had impaled itself. Over it all hung the palest silvery moon, its weakening light causing the air to glisten and sparkle.

Voices, then the high-pitched sound of a woman's laughter came out of the fog near the corner of Cheap Street. Fafhrd and the Mouser paused to watch in silence as four men and two ladies, all in cloaked finery, passed by with lanterns to light their way to the Festival District. Their gay spirits were a distinct contrast to the depressing weather.

An unexpected beam of frosty light suddenly lit the street, causing the Mouser and Fafhrd to glance skyward. A brief rent widened in the mist and clouds, and the moon, like some brightly turning pupil in an arcane eye, stared down upon the city. The clouds moved in again, and the rent sealed from the top to the bottom, as if that godlike eye had slowly closed.

The cat in the Mouser's arms gave a soft meow, and he gently scratched the soft fur beneath its chin. The greedy creature encouraged his strokes by lifting its head to give him freer access to the tender parts of its throat as it began audibly to purr.

Fafhrd glanced up toward the sky again, then his gaze seemed to comb the shadowy mists as if he were watching for something. The Mouser thought he had never seen his friend quite so tense.

"That woman's laughter," Fafhrd explained slowly. "Coming out of the fog like that. It..." he paused, and when he spoke again there was an odd note in his voice. "... reminded me of someone."

"Lord Hristo's whorish wife?" the Mouser guessed.

Fafhrd offered no response, just started forward again. With a puzzled shrug, the Mouser followed, but before they took ten paces, another sound caused them to stop in their tracks and stare northward.