Swords Against the Shadowland

The Mouser's shoulders slumped again. Surely, that was a false hope. Sheelba dwelled in the marshes beyond the city's walls and was sick near to death, in need of errand boys to go where his magicks could not. What would he think of his errand boys now, the Mouser wondered bitterly.

Reaching behind, he fingered the leather thong that bound his black hair away from his face. At least he still had one weapon. Crawling on hands and knees, he searched the floor until he found the coil of rope that had bound his wrists. Undoing the knots, he tested its strength, nodding grimly. It would make an adequate garrotte, and now his weapons were two.

Sitting again, listening alertly for any sound beyond the door, he conserved his energy and shut from his mind all awareness of pain from the beatings the guards had given him. He might yet, with luck and daring, break out of this prison. Then nothing would keep him from learning Fafhrd's fate.

Before much time had passed, he heard a sound in the corridor, and a key grated in the lock of his cell door. Moving swiftly, he rose and concealed himself in the gloom next to the door, gripping the two ends of the rope. The door swung outward, and lamplight spilled across the threshold, but no guard stepped inside.

"Prisoner, show yourself," a deep voice called from the corridor.

Some guard's natural caution had undone him. Silently cursing, the Mouser dropped the rope and, blinking, stepped into the light. Four soldiers stood in the narrow passage with short swords drawn. The tallest guard gestured to two of the others. "Take him," he said.

The guards seized him roughly by his arms. For an insane moment, the Mouser considered fighting them. In the close confines of the corridor, though, their swords would cut him down easily. At least, when he made no effort to resist, they relaxed their grips.

Down the corridor they led him, up a stone staircase, and into a room. Sunlight streamed through a pair of barred windows. On a table in the center of the room he spied his clothes. No sign of his weapons or his purse. Another soldier leaned over the table, frowning distastefully as he stirred the Mouser's belongings with a finger.

When the soldier looked up, the Mouser recognized him by the scar on the right side of his face. On the shoulder of his scarlet cloak, he wore a corporal's pin. Apparently, he had succeeded his superior.

"Get dressed," he instructed as he pushed the gray bundle across the table.

Reaching for his garments, the Mouser asked in a sarcastic tone, "Is it a formal occasion?"

Corporal Scarface regarded him coldly. "As formal as it gets."

The Mouser pulled on his clothes, taking his time, studying the room, the corporal, his guards, looking for any opening that might suggest an opportunity to escape. Nothing presented itself yet. He slipped on his boots and tied the lacings.

"Leash him," Corporal Scarface ordered when the Mouser was dressed.

One of the guards sheathed his sword and produced a short rope. With practiced speed, he bound the Mouser's hands securely together. When the knots were tied, the guard slipped another rope around the Mouser's neck. Grinning, he gave a tug on the line.

"I can tell you're a man who loves his work," the Mouser said drily, trying to hide a grimace. The ropes bit deeply into his flesh. Already, numbness crept into his fingers.

Behind, another guard rapped him sharply on the head. "Silence!" he ordered.

Scarface, no man for long speeches, headed for the door. "Bring him."

The guard holding the other end of the Mouser's leash gave it a jerk, spinning his prisoner about. Two guards fell in behind the Mouser and two before. Scarface led the way from the room into the corridor, through a large hall, and out into the grounds of the North Barracks.

A large tarpaulin had been cast over the stack of corpses. A number of soldiers wandered aimlessly about or sat in the shade of other buildings, sporting bandages and wounds. Most of the barracks, the Mouser reasoned, would be out in the streets attempting to restore order and reassure the citizenry.

Scarface set a brisk pace. Out through the barracks' main gate they went. To the Mouser's left, the ancient Citadel of the Overlord squatted on a low hill, bleak and gray as old steel behind high walls. The northernmost point in the city, it overlooked the vast Inner Sea and the Royal Docks. In past centuries, during an attack, the Overlord and his generals conducted battles from that stronghold, but it was seldom used now. No nation on Nehwon dared make war against Lankhmar.

The Mouser appreciated what a rare tour he was about to receive. Commoners were not allowed in the Noble District without permission or an escort. He might have wished for friendlier companions, he admitted, and better circumstances.