Swords Against the Shadowland

Finally, they reached the bottom of the staircase. Ten paces away, a pair of huge, arched doors stood partially open. No longer only a small glow, scarlet light poured from a chamber beyond the doors and lit up the Mouser's face as he paused on the last stair, clutching his dagger in a ready fist. His grim, wide-eyed expression betrayed excitement, fear, and wonder all at once as he gazed toward that light.

Fafhrd pulled up his hood, concealing hair and face. In his black cloak, he looked like any other shadow. Still, he hesitated before moving toward those inviting doors. The light that shone on his partner’s face also revealed black markings upon the wall at his back. As far as he could see up the soaring walls, those markings went. On the steps, too, and barely visible under the thick carpet of dust, on the floor.

Stooping down, he brushed his fingers over one of the markings. They were too regular for burns, forming a definite pattern that covered the walls and floors, the steps, perhaps even the ceiling high above. He glanced upward, noting the beams and rafters barely visible in the red glow. Paint, then? Some kind of artwork?

The Mouser slipped past him. On the balls of his booted feet, leaving prints that showed visibly in the thick dust, the small gray man stole toward the waiting doors. Catsclaw's polished blade gleamed like a scarlet flame in his gloved hand as he crouched low and peered through the opening. Cautiously, he straightened and, putting one hand on the nearest door, eased it wider.

Putting aside the mystery of the markings, Fafhrd overtook his comrade, but rather than showing himself in the opening, he concealed himself behind the nearest door. Putting one eye to the narrow gap between the door and the wall, he peered over the top of a hinge into the chamber beyond.

A ring of elaborately carved chairs greeted his vision. Some lay crumbled in pieces with legs and arms rotted away, while others still stood, as if immune to the centuries, with high, polished backs proudly gleaming in the red glow.

The smell of fresh oil touched Fafhrd's nostrils. Taking his eye from the slender space, he touched the hinge, and his fingertip came away with a faint, wet smear. With a start, he gazed back at the floor. The dust betrayed not only the Mouser's footprints and his own, but someone else's.

Before he could warn the Mouser, his comrade threw the doors wide, stepped over the chamber's threshold, and boldly strode inside. "Behold a wonder!" he murmured.

Frowning at his partner’s lack of caution, Fafhrd followed the Mouser inside, his gaze sweeping around, his fist closed tight around the hilt of his sword, Graywand. Even so, he caught his breath.

The small range of vision through the crack between door and wall had allowed no sense of the chamber's ancient grandeur. A domed ceiling soared overhead. Against the north wall, on a white marble dais, a huge Y-shaped altar of black obsidian stood, its once-sharp edges worn smooth. Brownish stains on the stone hinted of blood sacrifices.

Elaborately worked candelabras of purest gold stood on either side of the altar. Standing at least six feet high, the bases resembled the intertwined forms of serpents, and eight fanged serpentine mouths opened to hold the candles. Only melted stubs and wax drippings filled those gaping jaws now.

These discoveries paled, however, in comparison to the source of the slowly pulsing glow. Ten feet above the obsidian altar hung a jewel the size of Fafhrd's fist. Four rods, two of gold and two of silver, jutting from the walls at the four cardinal points, joined to form a circlet where the ruby—if such it was—perched.

"In all of Nehwon," the Mouser said, forgetting to whisper, "there can be no other stone so marvelous as this!"

Fafhrd nodded agreement. But as the Mouser walked toward the altar and climbed upon it, Fafhrd's gaze swept about the chamber again. The same black markings covered the floors and walls and ceiling of this inner chamber. Like twisted teardrops, he thought, wondering at their significance.

"Malygris doesn't seem to be home," the Mouser said, standing on the altar, staring up at the jewel. "But our effort won't be totally wasted." Replacing his dagger in its sheath, he drew his rapier and jabbed the point at the ruby to dislodge it. It lifted slightly in its resting place, then settled back again.

The wizard's name seemed to echo in the domed chamber. The sound sent a chill up Fafhrd's spine. He turned slowly, hand tightening upon his sword. "Leave it," he whispered, eyes narrowing as he drew his long blade. Some sixth sense jangled in the back of his head, and he turned. Did he detect a new glow in the outer hall? "I don't think we're alone."