Swords Against the Shadowland

A swallowing sound issued from within the creature's black, faceless hood. "This spell was created to slay a wizard," Sheelba continued at last. "But Malygris, blast his soul, wove no controls into his creation. Now it strikes with purpose at every wizard, every magician, attracted by the simplest acts of legerdemain. Grand sorcerers, herb witches, young girls with their love potions, wearers of charms and talismans—they are all at risk. Indeed, many who walk the streets of Lankhmar are cursed already and know it not."

A wind sprang up again, and the Mouser's gaze shot toward the coals of the dwindling campfire, but this was seemingly a natural wind, no whim of Sheelba's, and the coals and ash performed no tricks, but stayed in their bed.

"Is there no counter-spell?" the Gray One asked. "No way to undo what has been done?"

Sheelba bent down over the campfire. A long-fingered hand snatched up one of the coals and popped it inside the hood as if it were a snack, a delicacy to be savored. Sheelba gulped, then belched.

"After much work and diligent study," he said with grim satisfaction, "I have found the counter-charm. However ..." He paused, and the hood lifted ever so slightly until the Mouser felt the power of unseen eyes directly upon him, peering from the blackness contained in those folds of cloth. "There is one ingredient which I must have, and which you must steal for me."

Fafhrd bristled. "Steal?" he said. "Steal? You mistake us, sir!" He glanced at his gray-clad companion with a hurt expression. "We do not steal! We liberate. We pilfer. We purloin and even filch. But we do not steal!"

The Mouser ignored Fafhrd’s comments. He peered closely at the strange figure on the other side of the coals. "You wear desperation like a pair of new boots," he said. "Uncomfortably. I, too, feel a sudden pinching on my soles."

Sheelba’s voice was a serpentine hiss. "Even here in the Great Marsh, far beyond the city's walls, his wretched curse reaches." That black, empty cowl turned upward toward the skies, and a long sigh issued forth. "I will die from this evil unless you two bring me what I need."

Fafhrd puffed out his chest as his gaze narrowed contemptuously. "Us?" he said, his voice gruff. "Do you take us for errand boys?"

"I take you for the best thieves and adventurers ever to pass through Lankhmar’s gates," the wizard answered. He raised a withered finger to stem their surprise. "Oh yes. Though I live in the swamps and marshes, nothing transpires in the City of the Black Toga that I don't know about. I am called Sheelba of the Eyeless Face. Yet I have eyes, and they are everywhere, and my ears, too. I know your reputations, as I know your deeds and your skills."

Fafhrd's contemptuous expression yielded to a prideful grin. "Indeed?" he said more pleasantly.

The Gray Mouser frowned. His companion was such an easy target for flattery, but his own suspicions were running in dangerous directions. His right hand tightened imperceptibly around Scalpel's hilt, though he wondered what good his blade could do to a being with power enough to transport two grown men halfway around Nehwon. "What is this errand you would have us run?" he asked, "and tell us if we have a choice in the matter?"

Sheelba stretched out his hand above the coals, which began to crackle and spark with new flame. Then with a whooshing roar, the flame shot up into a writhing column nearly as tall as Fafhrd.

The Mouser jumped back, whipping out his sword with one hand, shielding his face from the heat with the other.

The fiery shaft quivered wildly, lighting up the landscape, coloring the sky with a blood-red hue. Two smaller prominences exploded from either side of the column, and each in turn sprouted fingers of flame. Those arms and hands began to move up and down, shaping fire as if it were potters clay. Wherever the hands touched, the flames turned silver and took seemingly solid substance.

From his dream, the Mouser recognized the form and features of the wizard called Malygris as they emerged from the fire. In only moments, a gleaming silver statue stood where the campfire had been. A penumbra of flame danced around its edges, then flickered out.

"It's alive!" Fafhrd cried in alarm, raising his sword defensively as the statue's head turned to take them in with a gaze.

"Because Malygris is alive from moment to moment in my thoughts," Sheelba explained. "Have no fear, Northerner. This is only a construct. The real Malygris is hiding somewhere in Lankhmar."

"Hiding?" the Mouser said.

Sheelbas empty cowl nodded, and his words dripped with disdain as he spoke. "Too late, the bumbling fool realizes what he has done, but he hasn't the knowledge or skill to unmake what he has made. Frankly, it's taken me a year to research a counter-measure, and I am many times his match in wizardry." He paused abruptly, seeming to choke on the last word before a bout of coughing seized him. His cloaked frame shook with the strain, and he wheezed for breath.