Swords Against the Shadowland

In the far northern land of his birth, he had seen eclipses and partial eclipses and stranger things. He recalled the cold, shimmering auroras of colored light that danced sometimes above the frigid mountains. Magic, some of his people claimed. Not so, said the sailors and seamen among them.

To him, they were awesome mysteries to be appreciated, not feared. Nevertheless, he understood the dread such phenomena instilled in many human hearts.

The line jerked in his hand—the Mouser's signal. Fafhrd returned his attention to the task at hand and began to climb. In moments, he squeezed through the narrow window.

"It's dark," he commented as the Mouser touched his arm to help him through.

"Inside and out," the Mouser commented drily. "We should have brought a lamp."

Quickly, Fafhrd drew up the line, coiled it, and hung the grapnel over his shoulder again, while the Mouser probed the darkness of the corridor in which they found themselves. Creeping noiselessly after, Fafhrd caught up with his partner and touched his shoulder. "Look," he whispered, pointing back toward the window.

Beyond the slender opening, the sky of Nehwon blazed with stars.

"It's just an eclipse," the Mouser muttered with casual disinterest, but in one tight fist he held his dagger, Catsclaw, and he set his jaw more firmly than usual, and his lips drew into a thinly nervous line.

Loosening sword and dagger in their sheaths, Fafhrd slipped past the Mouser, and led the way into the deeper blackness that filled the tower. With one hand on a cool stone wall, he felt his way along, and with each careful footstep he probed the old boards that made the floor before transferring his weight forward.

The air smelled of bird droppings and rat dung, damp and musty and stale. Each breath filled his nostrils with a repulsive perfume that left a dry and bitter taste in the back of his throat. He covered the lower part of his face with one hand as he groped in the darkness with the other.

Mortar crumbled suddenly under his fingertips, and he paused, listening to the soft patter of the fragments in the thick pounce that covered the floor. A softer skittering of tiny feet sounded ahead as rats retreated further into the darkness.

Gritting his teeth, Fafhrd shuddered. Memories of Vlana and Ivrian swam unwelcome in his head, and he recalled the rat-chewed corpse of his first true love.

The corridor curved subtly to the left. Behind, the window with its starry panorama could no longer be seen. Though virtually invisible, the Mouser's steady, low breathing reassured Fafhrd that his partner still followed. Licking dry lips, Fafhrd held up his hand and brought it slowly toward his face, unable to see palm or fingers.

Frantic wings beat suddenly in the dark. A bird, disturbed by their intrusion, sprang from an unseen nest cradled in the corridor's rafters. Feathers brushed sharply at Fafhrd's eyes. Cowering back against the wall, he covered his face with a protective arm, biting his lip to prevent an outcry. The bird surged past, seeking the window and the safety of the sky.

"Piss and defecation!" the Mouser hissed. "Watch your next step, Fafhrd—my heart's thumping somewhere on the floor."

Fafhrd squeezed his comrade’s shoulder and replied in the lowest of whispers. "Then if I slip, we'll know the cause."

Continuing forward, they reached the end of the corridor. A stone staircase curved downward into the tower's stygian depths. Reaching out, Fafhrd discovered no guarding rail or baluster on the inner sweep, so he pressed his back to the wall and descended one cautious step at a time.

Abruptly the stair widened, and Fafhrd's hand brushed a round metal knob. Blindly, he explored the outline of a smoothly polished wooden door. Placing his ear against it, he listened, detecting no sound from the other side. His fingers curled cautiously about the knob; it refused to turn.

The Mouser tapped his shoulder. Creeping to the precipitous edge of the staircase, they peered downward together.

A faint ruby glow burned near the far-off bottom of the stairs, no brighter than a slowly dying coal. The light wavered in a subtle manner, dimming and ebbing with heartbeat precision.

Fafhrd knew the ways and whims of fire. No flame caused the glow he gazed upon. With soundless tread, braving the unguarded edge, he eased down the stairs again, always with one eye upon that weird redness.

The staircase spiraled lower and lower. Here and there, steps flattened into wide landings. Black, stale-smelling corridors and locked doors temptingly presented themselves, but Fafhrd and the Mouser ignored them. By unspoken consent, the glow became their destination.