Swords Against the Shadowland

Wadding up his tunic, the Mouser dipped it in the basin and used it to wash under his arms, over his chest and neck and back. He scrubbed until his dusky skin turned red, and still he scrubbed. Liara's soft face seemed to stare up at him from the water in the basin, and her words echoed in his mind.

...I will show you the finest perfection of love, she said.

He scrubbed some more, forgetting about Fafhrd, gritting his teeth until he threw the wet tunic forcefully into the basin, shattering the image he imagined there, splashing water across the table and floor. Struck by a wet sleeve, the lamp pitched over the table's edge. Lunging, the Mouser caught it and set it safely upright again.

A little oil had leaked over his fingers. For a brief moment, he noted how the faint morning light played in the oil on his skin, how it shone like the cold light in Liara's eyes.

He pushed his hands into the basin and washed them thoroughly.

"Fog or no fog," he said suddenly, his jaw firmly set, "we search that tower tonight and find Malygris. This corrupt city will taint our souls if we linger here. We're made for open skies, you and I, and for carefree adventure."

Fafhrd spoke with uncharacteristic softness and regret. "I can't leave, my friend," he said from the bed. He wore a haunted look, and his gaze seemed fixed on something beyond the open window, something the Mouser couldn't see. "I have a new mystery, and I'm compelled to solve it." Pausing, he swallowed hard. "Twice, I've seen Vlana—or her ghost. Truly, I know not which. But she, or her spirit, walks in the fog."

"In the fog?" the Mouser said doubtfully.

"I believe it was she that saved us from the Ilthmarts."

The Mouser scoffed. Turning back to the basin, he took up his shirt and wrung it, his arms bulging, knuckles turning white with the effort he exerted. "Ghosts don't wield witchly powers," he said. Unwinding the garment, he shook it violently, snapping out the wrinkles, flicking droplets everywhere.

"I know what I have seen," Fafhrd answered stubbornly.

"You know what you've dreamed," came the Mouser's harsh reply. "Or what the bottom of some wine bottle has shown you." He spread the tunic over the back of the only chair and moved it next to the window so the sun would dry the cloth quickly.

Fafhrd shook his head. "I can't get her out of my mind, Mouser. I swear to you. Vlana, or her spirit, walks the streets of Lankhmar."

Agitated, the Mouser began to pace about the room. Abruptly, he stopped. Liara's face seemed to float in the air before him, though he knew he only imagined it. . . . The finest perfection of love, she seemed to say to him, her voice drowning Fafhrd's earnest insistences.

"All night I wandered in the Plaza of Dark Delights," he said suddenly, his voice a bare, choking whisper, "through that mist-filled maze of hedges and topiaries. Over white-pebbled walkways, down grassy paths slick as ice with dew. For hours I sat, then reclined, on a marble bench and stared into the gray limbo overhead where stars used to burn so brilliantly." He paused, and for a moment, he stood unmoving as a statue before he continued. "Not another soul ventured through the plaza all night. I was utterly alone. I felt so empty—"

"Maybe our souls are already tainted," Fafhrd said, "not by the city, but by our own memories."

The two men looked at each other for a painful moment. Then Fafhrd grinned and smacked his palm on the bed so hard the blanket leaped up around him. "Come and lie down on something softer than a marble bench," he invited. "When we wake up again, these black moods will have melted with the fog."

The Mouser drew a deep breath and shrugged. Bending down, he pulled off a boot and cast it aside. "Later, I'll sneak into the kitchen and forage for breakfast."

"You distract Cherig," Fafhrd said, holding back a corner of the blanket for the Mouser to slip under. "I've got a bigger appetite and deeper pockets in which to stuff his delicious victuals."

The Mouser chuckled. "Just don't hog the bed," he warned as he stretched out.

Huddled under the single blanket, the two turned their backs to each other and grew quiet. After a while, Fafhrd's snore broke the silence, rising in volume until it rocked the bed. Snatching the only pillow, the Mouser covered his head and stoppered his ears with his hands.

Gradually, he relaxed. As sleep crept over him, he thought of Liara, and when he dreamed, he dreamed of the finer perfections of love.

A knock at the door awakened them. Without waiting for a response, Cherig One-hand walked into the room and strode to the foot of the bed. In his arms, he carried a large bundle wrapped in black cloth.

"Move your smelly feet, my favorite of guests," he said to Fafhrd with a subtle grin as he dropped the bundle on the mattress. "The Lady Sharmayne has sent you a token of her, shall we say, appreciation."