Swords Against the Shadowland

But before the Ilthmart could carry out his threat, his eyes widened with fear, and he leaped away. All the Mouser's attackers fell back as a whirring sound filled the air, growing louder, deeper. Rising first on an elbow, then to a nervous crouch, the Mouser gripped his wound and stared.

Standing protectively over him, Fafhrd swung the heavy grapnel on its length of rope around and around. Letting out more line with each rotation, he drove the Ilthmarts back. A blow from that weight meant crushed bones or death. Just beyond the lethal arc, the Ilthmarts cringed, but kept their weapons ready, looking for some opening to renew their attack.

The grapnel whooshed; Fafhrd's breath came out in great exhalations as he whirled the makeshift weapon, letting it out to the full length of its line. On the ground, the Mouser groped for his sword, finding Graywand as well as Scalpel.

Just out of the grapnel's range, the Ilthmart's broken-jawed leader raged. "Ge' in there!" he encouraged his men. "Cu’ their damn throa's! Avenge the honor of Ilthmar'!"

In his enthusiasm, he caught the arm of the nearest man and propelled him forward—straight into the path of the grapnel. The weighty prongs missed the startled unfortunate, but the line arced around his throat and upper body, snapping his neck before the grapnel finally tangled itself.

Giving a tug on the line, Fafhrd found it would not come free. "Oops," he said with a shrug to the Mouser. He extended a hand for Graywand.

The Ilthmarts stared in disgust at their leader. Nevertheless, they now had something more than mere honor to avenge. Gripping their weapons, they stalked forward with fiercely determined expressions.

Then, from the foggy sea, dense tendrils of mist snaked languidly upward, surrounding the Ilthmarts. Like the tentacles of some horrid sea squid, those tendrils coiled about the terrified men with such impossible power that some were lifted from the very ground. The Ilthmarts screamed, those whose throats were not gripped. Spines and ribs, arms and necks cracked with brittle snapping.

Back to back with Fafhrd, even the Mouser cried out in fear and horror. Cold sweat ran down his neck; wide-eyed, dry-mouthed, he watched the killing, his ears ringing with screams, his hammering heart near to bursting. He shrank from the arcane tendrils, cowering against his trembling partner, his sword useless in a fear-numbed hand.

The last scream ended with a strangulated gurgle and a gasp. Not a single Ilthmart remained alive. Their deadly work completed, the tendrils lost their seeming solidity, dissolved, and melted away into the murky night.

The Mouser turned slowly to stare at Fafhrd. The Northerner, pale of face, shivering like a child in the cold, stared briefly back. As if with one thought, they ran from the plaza, ran up Cheap Street, ran as fast as their legs would carry them down Dim Lane for the warmth and light of the Silver Eel. Bursting through the door, the Mouser tripped over the threshold and spilled full upon the floor. Fafhrd slammed the door shut. Ignoring his small partner's plight, he braced his muscled frame against the wood as if to hold it against a pursuing foe.

The Mouser raised his head, suddenly aware of a powerful quiet. Every pair of eyes in the hotly crowded tavern locked on them. Around the room, men half-risen from their chairs put hands to swords or daggers. A dancer, raven hair plastered to her bare, sweating shoulders, stood frozen in the middle of a movement. Behind her, a band of drummers hesitated in mid-beat over now-silent dumbeks. Another trio of scantily clad women ceased to shake tambourines.

On the far side of the inn, Cherig waved his hook in the smoky air. "It's only my favorite tenants," he called merrily to his customers. "Play on! Play on!"

Like a tableau come back to life, the drummers struck their hides, and the dancer resumed without seeming to miss a step. Gruff men pushed their weapons back into sheaths, sat down again, and turned their gazes once more to shimmying hips and breasts, some clapping appreciatively to the throbbing beat of the dumbeks, others sipping beer or thin wine. Near the door, a comely woman leaned on the arm of a pot-bellied noble, but the wink she gave Fafhrd held no subtlety.

Red-faced with embarrassment, the Mouser banged his forehead on the floor three times before he drew a deep breath, got to his feet, and sheathed his slender blade. "I pray," he said to Fafhrd, summoning an air of bravado as he straightened his cloak and tunic and patted his stomach with one hand, "let Cherig have some of that seasoned lamb ..."

He didn't finish the thought. Across the tavern in the gloomy corner near the rear door, standing between a pair of handsome young men, he spied the Dark Butterfly.

SEVEN THE DARK BUTTERFLY