Swords Against the Shadowland

With an anguished shout, Fafhrd swung Graywand with all his might. One more time, sword and pole met. Fire and heat erupted, and a thunderblast shook the night. Steel cleaved through wood; a fragment of the pole exploded into flame and spun across the sky like an arcane comet.

For an instant, the creature stared in amazement at the shattered weapon. Fafhrd didn't hesitate. Putting the entire weight of his giant body into a back-handed effort, he sliced through his foe's chest.

But the blade met little resistance. Black robes buckled inward, like a sack containing nothing. The creature, whatever it was, fell forward into the sea with the remains of its pole, and the mist swallowed it.

With a triumphant bellow, Fafhrd turned toward the boat, intent on a successful rescue of his one true love. His heart swelling, he thought of breaking her chains and gathering her in his arms, of tasting the ruby wine of her lips once more.

The boat, however, was already far away, its anchor and chain neatly curled on deck. Vlana stood amidships, watching him from the mast, while a cadaverous pilot in black robes propelled the vessel with a long pole.

"I beat you!" Fafhrd shouted, bitter with frustration and renewed grief. "Let her go! I fought for her, and I won!"

The much-hated sound of the creature's laughter rolled back across the mist, followed by a rasping voice. "You lost, son of Nalgron." The sea itself seemed to carry the words to him. "Before this little amusement began, you had already lost."

The boat sailed onward, growing smaller and smaller, until only its lamp could be seen, and even that passed out of sight.

"Vlana!" The desperate shout ripped from Fafhrd's throat as the lamp's light vanished.

Alone in a gray limbo, he tried to think what he should do. Slowly he turned, attempting to spy some landmark in this desolate, featureless place by which he could navigate. Nothing caught his eye, no sound touched his ears, no odor wafted through the air. Even the pale, thin grayness that pervaded this world—wherever it might be—was fading, leaving him in darkness, deep and impenetrable.

Blind, guided by nothing except hope and determination, he started in the direction he thought the boat and Vlana had gone. How far he walked, he could not guess, nor for how long before the chill fog began to freeze his legs, and the cold crept into his lungs and all through his extremities.

With Vlana's name on his rime-caked lips, his weary limbs gave out, and he stumbled. Falling, sinking, the shallow sea seemed suddenly to have no bottom at all.

The mist enfolded him in a feathery soft embrace as unseen currents caught and carried him—somewhere. Yet again I fail you, Vlana, he thought bitterly as consciousness left him. Yet again, I fail.

NINE SHADOW ON THE SUN

The first sunlight of dawn burned across the fog, coloring the sky with watery pastels. Swaths of pink and palest blue washed over a canvas of grays and silvers, creating a chiaroscuro edged with the black of retreating night.

Wearily, the Gray Mouser pushed open the Silver Eel's door and made his way up the stairs. On tiptoes, with no desire to wake either Cherig One-hand or the inn's other tenants, he crept down the hall to the room he shared with Fafhrd, turned the knob, and entered.

Fafhrd's big, booted feet stuck out from under the only blanket and hung over the end of the bed. Still in his clothes, the Northerner lay face down on the pillow, his red hair splayed about on the case, snoring with somnolent abandon. His left arm hung off the side of the bed, and the knuckles of that hand brushed the floor.

The Mouser frowned. There was no room on the bed for him to lie down. Unfastening his weapons belt, he set sword and dagger aside, placing them beside the only chair. Stripping off his gray tunic, he moved quietly across the room to a table and poured cool water from a pitcher into a ceramic basin. Enough light slipped through the unshuttered window to make the small oil lamp unnecessary, and he gently blew out the tiny flame. Unbinding his hair, he let the black mass spill forward as he bent over the basin and laved his face. He felt dirty, in need of a bath.

The bed frame creaked. Wiping his face with his tunic, the Mouser glanced sideways as Fafhrd sat slowly up and looked around the room with the curious, wide-eyed expression of one not quite awake. His gaze finally fastened on the Mouser.

"How did you get that plum over your eye?" the Mouser asked, returning to his ablutions.

As if in a daze, Fafhrd reached up and gingerly explored the red bruise that showed just below his hairline. Then, throwing back the blanket, he ran a hand over his trousers. "It wasn't a dream," he murmured distantly. His face screwed up with an expression of confusion as he patted the bed. "Or was it?" Staring toward the window, he became pensive and silent.