Swords Against the Shadowland

Only once before during their too-short time together had he seen Vlana perform the subtle and beautiful finger-dances of Tisilinit. A culture dancer of immeasurable talent and reputation, she held in her repertoire dances and dance-tales from scores of Nehwon's many lands and nations. She danced alone now and made no effort to approach him, but played upon the palms and fingers of a lover, the movements were said to bring on an erotic passion unmatched by any herb or aphrodisiac.

He remembered the night when he first saw her dancing on a crude stage with poor lighting for the benefit of even cruder men who could not possibly appreciate her art. With a caravan of traders she had come, just one of a small troupe of actors and entertainers, to the village of the Snow Clan in the Cold Wastes. Only the adult men had been invited to the performance, but he had climbed a high tree, shinnied out on a limb, and from such a precarious perch, he fell in love.

How different his life would have been without her, he realized. It was Vlana who had lured him away from his mother, his clan, from the plain village girl to whom he had been betrothed, from a life devoid of hope, empty of dreams, Vlana who had severed the chains of expectation and lifted the yoke of duty from around his neck. It was she who had brought him to the southlands and the warmer climes, ultimately to the exotic city of Lankhmar and taught him the ways of civilization.

In return, he had sworn always to love and protect her. Succeeding in the first, he had failed horribly in the second.

"Even with death’s chilly rime on your lips," he murmured, "grant me forgiveness with a kiss."

Resolutely, he walked toward her. Vlana ceased her dance. The fire went out in her eyes, and a look of horror flashed over her face. Holding out a hand to warn him away, she took an involuntary step backward. At the same time, the fog seemed to thicken and rush in from all sides, snatching her away.

Fafhrd ran forward until he stood on the spot where she had danced. The fog swirled about him, filling his eyes with a cold, numbing vapor, blinding him, choking his lungs. Stumbling, he fell to his knees.

From out of the night came a harsh, mocking laughter.

Coughing, rubbing his fists against his half-frozen eyes, Fafhrd looked up. The high walls of Bones Alley no longer loomed over him. Indeed, he could not say exactly where he was, in Lankhmar, or even on Nehwon. A shallow sea of cold mist flowed around him, gently tossing with low, smoky waves. From horizon to horizon, as far as he could gaze, it rolled beneath a featureless, fog-filled sky.

Struggling to his feet, Fafhrd closed one fist around the hilt of his sword. Again the night reverberated with derisive laughter. Knee-deep in streaming white fog, he turned toward the sound.

Far off in the darkness, a lamp burned dimly. Yet even as Fafhrd watched, it drew nearer and nearer. In its sickly amber glow, he spied the prow of a boat or a barge, a black shape sailing upon the fog. Barely visible in the lamp’s glow, a pale figure stood in the prow.

Closer and closer the ship drew. The unmoving figure stood stiff as a mast in a white silk gown that billowed, sail-like. As the vessel continued to approach, the brightening lamplight reflected on heavy steel chains and manacles locked about the figure's wrists and neck, and on raven hair that streamed about proud and shapely shoulders.

Sad eyes turned Fafhrd's way.

"Vlana!" he cried, his heart brimming with anger and despair.

Another, taller figure worked in the vessel's stern. Until now, the brilliance of the lantern had prevented Fafhrd from seeing him. The black robes he wore snapped in the wind like the wings of a huge vulture, and a voluminous hood concealed his features. From his sleeves jutted a skeleton's bony hands and forearms. Leaning upon a long pole, he propelled the unusual boat forward.

The vessel's low, black rails gleamed with intricately worked gold and silver inlay. Amidship, a slender mast spired upward. Without sail or rigging, it was covered with the same swirling inlay work as the rails, indeed, the rest of the ship. Immensely old and beautiful, it also gave off a sense of alienness.

Without word or warning, the pilot lifted his pole from the misty sea and swung it. Vlana's face contorted with pain as the end struck her in the side, yet she made no sound at all as the impact sent her sprawling upon the boat's deck.

Fafhrd drew his sword. "Villain!" he shouted. As rapidly as he could manage against the currents and eddies that worked unseen beneath the surface of the strange sea, he waded toward the boat. On its present course, he feared that it would sail right past before he could reach it. "Damned villain!"