Swords Against the Shadowland

Hugging the sword to his chest, he tipped sideways and curled up on the blanket. The bed creaked under his shifting weight, but the soft feather mattresses embraced him with comfortable warmth. The pillow beneath his head smelled pleasantly of Sharmayne's expensive perfume, and a strand of Ayla's dark hair tickled his nose until he brushed it away. He turned over twice, finally settling on his back, and threw one arm over his eyes. At last, he lay still.

The lamplight flickered. The wick sputtered and hissed.

Slowly, Fafhrd uncovered his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. Had he slept? He wasn't sure. But something had disturbed him, not a sound or a movement, something else. He sniffed, and inhaled the odor of a sweet perfume that was not Sharmayne's.

He knew that fragrance, though—Vlana's perfume.

The lamplight flickered once more. With careful deliberation, Fafhrd turned his head toward the window. The shutters, which he had closed and locked, hung open. Beyond the sill, the fog stirred and eddied.

Fafhrd. ...

It was not wind, nor the lute-strings, nor the effect of too much wine, nor his imagination. Vlana whispered his name. From somewhere in the dark and misty night, his one true love called him to rise from his bed and join her. How such a thing could be when she was dead, he did not understand, but he reached for his trousers and his boots. Wordless, he pulled them on.

Strapping Graywand around his waist, he went to the window and leaned out, seeing nothing but the fog. He would go down to her then, find her wherever she might be, make whatever amends he could for his part in her cruel and untimely death.

Leaving the room, he made his way down the stairs. Empty wine bottles, beer mugs, overturned stools and chairs lay scattered about the Silver Eel's floor. There was no sign of Cherig One-hand. With all his customers gone, no doubt he had retired to his own bed, leaving the clean-up until morning. Only an old brown dog glanced up at Fafhrd before it resumed eating the scraps that littered the floor.

Fafhrd slipped through the passage beneath the steps and opened the back door to emerge into Bones Alley. His open window and Vlana's whispering voice had suggested she might be waiting here, but he saw no one.

He thought he better understood the strange occurrence in his room now that he knew who was behind it. The fear he had earlier felt was gone, replaced almost by a sense of relief. He thought he understood now the strange occurrences in the Cheap Street Plaza and in his room. Something indeed waited in the fog. Or rather, someone. And she waited for him.

He did not yet see Vlana, nor did she speak his name again. As he gazed up and down the mist-filled alley, a lingering grief compelled him to speak.

"Why do you haunt me, love?" he whispered to the fog. "What do you want from me?"

A little way down the alley, the mist parted like a slowly opening curtain to reveal his beloved. A wind he couldn't feel teased the folds of diaphanous white silk that clothed her form, and black tresses whipped about her face. With mesmeric grace, her arms rose and fell in a serpentine undulation, while her hips floated in a tantalizing circle. One pale hand waved in the air, a gesture that seemed to invite him closer even as it warned him away.

"Vlana ..." he said, taking a single step before halting again.

She spun in a triplet pirouette and stopped, flinging out her arms, her eyes flashing like ice in sunlight. Pressing her palms firmly together beneath her chin, she began a new, far less sensuous dance. Her bare feet moved in a series of intricate patterns, while she held her upper body with rigid, courtly formality.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice pleading.

Again she stopped. Her cold gaze fixed him accusingly across the distance. With a dramatic toss of her head, she bent at the waist, and swung all her hair forward to conceal her face. Then straightening, she parted it with her hands. Vlana's face was gone, replaced by a glaring red-eyed skull whose teeth chattered an angry rhythm.

Fafhrd gave a cry of despair, but before the sound had escaped his lips, Vlana spun again. When she stopped, she wore her own beautiful face again. Reaching up with one hand, she drew down a piece of the mist and drew it teasingly across her face like a dancer’s veil. With a flourish, she tossed it away. Her fingers began to move with dazzling speed. Unable to tear his gaze away, Fafhrd watched, feeling stirrings, a strange excitement. Like frantic birds, her hands worked in the air, fluttering, fingers darting between fingers, nails tapping on palms, tips snapping together.