Swords Against the Shadowland

The deep tone of a huge bell sent a chill creeping up the Mouser's spine. Once, twice, three times it rang, and still it did not stop. Precisely spaced and measured, those dreadful tones echoed across the city. Not even the thick fog could muffle the lonely sound, and the air seemed to shiver with every mournful stroke.

"... nine . . . ten . . . eleven ..." Fafhrd counted, murmuring each number.

Even the cat in the Mouser's arms pricked up its ears. No longer purring, it arched its back, as if aware of the bell's significance. "The Voice of Aarth," the Mouser said reverently, speaking the name of the great bell, which resided in the highest minaret of Lankhmar s most important temple. "A priest has died."

The doleful chime continued, but Fafhrd stopped counting and shook his head. "Not even those egotistical shave-heads would disturb the city in the dead of night for a mere priest."

"The Patriarch?" the Mouser wondered aloud.

The grim look on Fafhrd's face was agreement enough, and the Mouser admitted his companion was probably correct. The bell continued for twelve more strokes while they stood listening, unwilling to move, as if frozen by the sound.

Then Aarth's Voice went silent. For a long moment, the night seemed to hold its breath. Nothing moved, not even the fog; the dense vapors ceased to swirl and eddy, and lay leaden in the streets.

From far across the city, a new sound came, shrill and sharp as a blade, to tear the stillness. A lone voice cried out a trilling zaghareet. Before the eerie cry died, another voice joined it, then another, and another as the priests and followers of Aarth took to the streets to fill the night with the almost inhuman sounds of their mourning.

Fafhrd drew his cloak closer about his shoulders. "If there are any ghosts in this fog tonight," he muttered half to himself, "that noise will surely drive them away."

The Mouser frowned. "The death knells have not yet faded from my ears," he scolded, "and you talk of ghosts. You'll bring bad luck with your careless words."

"Superstition, Mouser?" Fafhrd mocked. "From a son of the civilized south?"

The Mouser squared his shoulders and drew a hand along the gray-furred spine of his newfound pet. The cat resumed its purring. "You northern barbarians are not the only ones that pick up pins and study the way the crow flies at dawn," he said defensively. "You have no corner on irrational beliefs."

The light-hearted exchange brought a certain sense of relief. Both friends breathed sighs and clapped each other's arms. "Back to the Silver Eel?" Fafhrd suggested, shouldering the weight of the grapnel and its line under his cloak.

The Mouser nodded. "That finely seasoned lamb Cherig served for dinner was exquisite," he said, trying to relieve the tension with small talk. "I could barely taste the near-rot. Perhaps he has some left."

"I leave the lamb to you," Fafhrd answered. "Nothing but a keg, or even two, of our host's strongest beer will settle me this night."

The mournful zaghareets of Aarth's faithful, spreading southward from the Street of the Gods, served to hasten the footsteps of Fafhrd and the Mouser as they hurried toward Cheap Street. Like the muffled cries of wind demons, the weird sound bounced among buildings, echoed from rooftops and towers. Distorted by distance and the fog, it chilled the blood and fueled the imagination until every shadow became a crazed and menacing shape poised to attack.

A gray, misty sea hid the plaza where Cash and Cheap Streets intersected. The shops and apartments on the far side of the square could not be seen at all. Hesitating, the Mouser looked down and bit his lower lip. The mist curled with intimate familiarity about his thighs. He could not see his own knees.

"Give me your hand, that we might not get separated," Fafhrd said, his voice little more than a whisper.

"Am I some maiden?" the Mouser answered curtly. "As if I could lose a mountain like you, even in this soup. Lead on, Mountain."

They moved up Cheap Street, nearly missing the entrance to Dim Lane, down which lay the Silver Eel. Wishing for a lantern, the Mouser tugged at Fafhrd's sleeve. "This way," he insisted, turning into the narrow lane.

A muted percussion reached their ears. Dumbek drums rumbled under furious hands, brass zills clashed, and tambourines rattled. Up ahead, a weak lantern lit the sign above the Silver Eel's entrance.

"Sounds like a celebration," the Mouser commented, quickening his step now that their destination was in sight.

But Fafhrd caught a piece of the Mouser's cloak and jerked him backward. With a sweep of his other arm, the huge Northerner intercepted a spreading rope net that dropped from a rooftop. Catching its edge, he flung the net aside and reached for his sword.