Swords Against the Shadowland

For a short time they walked toward the Citadel past several well-kept estates, past walls lined with roses and greenery, down a road paved with wide, flat stones and well-shaded with stately trees. Orchards and floral gardens filled the air with a sweet perfume. Expensively sculpted fountains offered cool water to pedestrians.

Then, one long and unbroken wall of gleaming white sandstone began to border the right side of the road. No trees grew near this wall, no roses, no greenery. Slender, mushroom-shaped watchtowers, artfully constructed, stood atop the wall at every fifty paces. Archers in ornamented, highly polished armor and bright scarlet cloaks, scrutinized every movement in the street below while pairs of foot soldiers walked patrol.

Another pair of soldiers stood duty before a small, arched gateway. With a gesture, Scarface signaled his men and his prisoner to halt while he approached the sentries. Reaching inside his jerkin, he brought out a folded parchment and displayed it for the guards, who studied it closely.

The Mouser couldn’t hear the exchange of words, but the gate guards looked up from the writ and eyed him with the kind of disgusted, disbelieving look usually reserved for the idiot who drinks too much and pukes on himself. Shaking heads, the two opened the gate and stepped aside to allow Scarface, his prisoner, and his men to pass through.

Beyond that gate lay a place of beauty, a dreamland— Lankhmar's Rainbow Palace. Four stories high, made of the same sandstone as the wall that surrounded it, the palace shimmered in the late afternoon sun. White colonnades supported gracefully curving porticos and terraces. Spires and minarets floated splendidly skyward above the fourth level.

Majestic obelisks and sculptures stood scattered about the perfectly manicured lawns. Beds of blossoming flowers, carefully tended, spread bright color about the grounds. Isolated fruit trees, placed strategically for artistic and olfactory effect, sang with wind chimes that hung from their branches.

A sharp jerk on his rope and a push from one of the guards at his back reminded the Mouser of his predicament.

Flat stones made a narrow walkway from the gate leading toward the Rainbow Palace. His guards fell into a cadenced military step now, and carried themselves with stiff bearing. The Mouser pushed out his chest and lifted his head higher. A prisoner he might be; and though he had been beaten, beaten he was not.

Even the least significant entrance to the palace was double-guarded. At a tiny yet ornately gold-embossed garden door, Corporal Scarface flashed his parchment for the soldiers on duty. Wordlessly, they stepped aside.

The bright beauty of the Rainbow Palace ended at the threshold. Beyond the door only a single smoky cresset relieved the cavern-like gloom that filled a low-ceilinged passage. In the next corridor, another lone cresset burned, and in the next. In the chamber beyond that, a trio of suspended lamps illuminated huge earthen jars taller than any of the guards. Covered and sealed with cloth and wax, they smelled of mysterious oils.

Past that chamber, they climbed a staircase. On the second level, lamps and cressets lit the hallways with noonday brightness. Servants drifted by, casting curious glances at the Mouser and his guards, saying nothing.

Reaching a set of grandly carven doors, Scarface once more showed his writ. The sentries posted there examined it carefully, then eased open one of the doors. The Mouser's guards drew their swords and closed in around him.

"Little man, you stand in a place of honor," Scarface warned. "Conduct yourself accordingly."

The Mouser glared at him. Then he sent his gaze past the corporal to take in the lavish richness of the vast hall, its wooden columns, its tapestries and carpets, the dais and the high-backed, ivory throne at the far side.

"Why am I here?" he whispered in a tone unbecoming his status as a prisoner.

Scarface matched his glare and raised his sword slowly until the point rested on the Mouser's nose. "Abase yourself at his feet when you approach," he instructed, ignoring the Mouser's question. "If you hesitate, I will sever the tendons behind your knees."

The Mouser raised one eyebrow and gave Scarface a sardonic, challenging look. Defiance would ill-serve him now, however. Instead, he turned smartly, moving so quickly that he pulled the leash from a lax guard's hand, and led the way toward the Overlord's throne, trailing the rope tied about his neck, leaving his guards to hurry after.

At the foot of the dais he paused. The royal seat was empty. The Mouser looked around. Off to the side, between a pair of gracefully fluted pillars, a trio of men stood in muted conversation. The light of a single brazier gleamed on their oiled beards and hair, and on the elaborate silver embroidery that adorned their black tunics and cloaks.