Swords Against the Shadowland

The proprietor shook his head and began to replace his trays within the trunk. Closing the lid and locking it, he turned once again to the Mouser. "As hungry as your fat purse makes me, I can offer you nothing. If it is precious objects of a religious nature you seek, may I recommend Demptha Negatarth. He runs a shop one block north on Temple Street, and some say he dabbles in minor sorcery, as well."

The Mouser led the way back through the curtain to the shop's outer room with its display cases of cheap baubles. At the door, he paused. "Since most men cannot discern the true nature of your wealth," he said, "how is it that you have no guards to defend it?"

The proprietor smiled. "You have a keen eye for stones, sir," he said, pointing a finger toward the ceiling, "but only the gods are all-seeing."

Among the shop's high rafters four stout, dark-faced dwarves sat swinging their legs with ankles crossed. They grinned wickedly down at the Mouser, showing the huge, glittering knives they held on their laps. Despite their size, they had the look of dangerous men.

With the briefest of bows to the proprietor, the Mouser left the shop and stepped out into the street again. Pushing back his hood, he paused and frowned.

The quality of the sunlight seemed muted, and the bright blueness of the sky had leeched away.

Shading his eyes with a hand, he glanced squinting up toward the sun. Did he imagine it, or did the tiniest piece seem to be missing? Jerking his head away, he wiped at stinging tears and blinked hard.

From the east, saffron-robed priests of Aarth ran shrieking down the Street of the Gods, their bare feet slapping furiously on the cobbled paving. Then, without warning, the gates of Mog's temple flung open. Black-robed priests of the Spider-god poured out with upraised swords to intercept Aarth's fanatical followers.

Now the shrieking took on a new note—of terror. Swords rose and fell mercilessly, flinging blood. Mog's priests swarmed over Aarth's followers, hacking and chopping until none stood. Still, in a grisly fury, they swung their swords, beheading and dismembering the corpses.

Shoppers and pedestrians ran screaming from the streets. The Mouser pressed himself into the narrow alley between a pair of shops and dragged a rain barrel across the opening. Over the rim, he watched with his own sword in hand.

Covered with blood, Mog's priests ran down the Street of the Gods. Scores of them fell upon the lines of faithful gathered before the pillared entrance to view the body of Attavaq the Patriarch before its burial. A new chorus of screams rose up.

Then, from around both corners rushed squads of Aarth's followers. Brandishing swords and clubs, they surged through the gates, entering their own temple behind Mog's invading priests.

The clash and clangs of weapons rose over the temple walls. Bloody acolytes stumbled into the streets. Worshippers ran out in terror. The battle followed them, filling the street outside the temple.

Yet another cry drew the Mouser's attention. From farther down the street, the gates of the Rat God's temple opened. Red-robed priests, waving spears and blades, charged forth to attack the followers of Mog.

Above it all, the sun slowly vanished. The sky turned the color of gray slate, and still it darkened. An unnaturally cool wind blew through the narrow passage where the Mouser nervously crouched.

Madness swept through the street, growing, feeding upon itself. Armored soldiers from the North Barracks raced down Nun Street and Silver Street to meet the fray. At first, they attempted to break up the fighting, but soon, they battled for their lives in a chaotic sea.

Up from Nun Street and from the wharves, yet more squads of soldiers ran. Common citizens, supporting one god or another, or striving to protect shops and homes, or merely trying to get out of the way, drew steel and fought.

Suddenly, the Mouser leaped up. He slapped his thigh and slammed his sword back into its sheath as he shot another look toward the sun. His heart pounded in his chest. Overhead, nightbirds began to caw and circle, confused by the fading light. Here, in the midst of insanity, lay an opportunity!

Hurriedly, he slipped back through the passage, emerging in another narrow alley, and then another, until he found himself on Pimp Street. In the road or on their rooftops, citizens screamed or prayed at the tops of their voices, faces filled with terror as they pointed at the black shadow that crawled across the sun.

The Mouser paused, swallowing hard. The hand of fear squeezed his heart as he stared at the horrifying sight. Stinging tears clouded his eyes, forcing him to look away. Then, gathering his courage, he ran.