Swords Against the Shadowland

With a carefully maintained calm, Fafhrd closed the shutters and locked them. The fight at the Cheap Street Plaza was still a fresh memory in his mind. He remembered the arcane tendrils of mist that had risen to crush and strangle the Ilthmarts. The screaming still echoed in his ears.

Not even the charms of two beautiful women, he discovered somewhat guiltily, had driven that terror from his heart. He had used Ayla and Sharmayne as distractions to hide from his fear. In their arms he had tried to forget what he had seen, what he had heard. But Ayla and Sharmayne were gone, and now his fear returned.

He couldn't quite explain it. He had seen men die horribly before, and he himself had faced vile deaths. Yet all the superstitious dread he thought he had left behind in the Cold Wastes seemed once again to press in upon him, and he could not shake a peculiar premonition.

Something lurked in the fog beyond his window, waiting. It waited for him.

Quietly, he walked to the lamp and turned the wick higher. Although the taller flame brightened the room a little, the shadows also seemed to darken and grow in number. Each time the light wavered or the wick sputtered, the shadows stirred, shifted, striking macabre poses on the walls, the ceiling, the floor.

Attempting to shake his black mood, Fafhrd picked up his lute and settled down on the bed with his back against the wall. His fingers brushed softly over the strings as stubbornly he tried to ignore the shadows. Instead, he thought of the noble-blooded Sharmayne and Ayla the dancer, the fine wine they had shared, the laughter that had so softly blessed his ears. The sweet smell of Sharmayne's perfume yet lingered in the bedclothes, mingled with the odor of passion-sweat. Barely audible, Fafhrd sang in a low voice.

"Nothing finer for me and you
Than the belly-jig danced by two,
Unless, of course, it be
The belly-jig danced by three—
Me and thee and thee!"

Abruptly, he stopped and listened. Not a sound drifted up through the floor from the tavern below; apparently, the customers had all gone home. Even the infernal cries of Aarth's followers seemed to have ceased. The unexpected silence hung about his shoulders like an oppressive weight.

He set his fingers to the strings again and prepared to pluck a note.

Fafhrd. ...

A draft teased the lamp's flame; the shadows whirled around the room and settled down again. Was it Fafhrd's imagination, or did they strike new and improbable postures? He was drunk, he decided, disgusted with himself. Setting the lute against the wall near the head of the bed, he crossed to the table and turned the wick down again.

"Take that, you tormenters or poor, inebriated sots," he said to the shadows. The deepening darkness seemed to drain them of life. Before he could truly gloat, a disharmonic chord, powerful of volume, rang through the small room with eerie effect. The Northerner jumped, nearly bashing his head on the low ceiling. When he spun about, he spied his lute, which had slipped from the place where he had leaned it and now lay upon the floor, its strings still vibrating faintly.

Fafhrd. . . .

His heart skipped a beat, and his mouth went dry. The darkness quivered and rippled, as if the shadows it had swallowed were struggling to get out. The room seemed suddenly too close, too small. The weak and tiny light retreated even farther into the lamp. The walls themselves began to pulse, and a labored, breathing sound whispered from the boards.

"Blood of Kos!" Fafhrd cried.

At Fafhrd's outburst, the room stilled. Then it all began again—darkness writhing like something alive, the breathing louder than ever. The pulsing became a painful thunder that filled his head and set his senses to swirling.

With a shout of terror, Fafhrd snatched up his sword from where it lay buried beneath the pile of his clothes. He whipped the blade from its sheath. For a moment, he hesitated, half in a panic. The walls of the room, like the chambers of some monstrous heart, throbbed. With another cry, he lunged, driving his point deep into the woodwork.

The pulsing ceased instantly. The room seemed to give a final long sigh, then a gasp that faded away.

Fafhrd pulled his sword free. For a long moment, he stood in the center of the room, breathing hard, his gaze darting nervously to every gloomy corner. Rubbing thumb and forefinger over his eyes, he shook his head as if to clear it. Perhaps he was drunk, after all.

Sheathing his sword, he sat down on the edge of the bed. With his hands wrapped around the guard-tangs, he leaned his head wearily on the weapon's pommel and closed his eyes. It had to be near dawn, he figured. A little sleep would help to clear his head and let him see things more rationally.