Swords Against the Shadowland

Rokkarsh reached as if for another peach, but his hand slipped down between the throne and the table that held the bowl and came up again with a short, gleaming sword. Brandishing it, he gestured with the point toward the great doors.

"Insignificant fart," he said, his voice low with menace as he glared at the corporal, "your new rank goes to your head. Should the Overlord of Lankhmar fear a lone, bound man? Get out! And if one of you repeats a word of what he heard here, I'll hang the lot of you from the city walls."

Scarface shot a look of purest hatred at the Mouser, and the Mouser responded with a crooked grin and a mocking lift of his eyebrows. Retreating from their Overlord's fury, the other soldiers hurried to the doors. Slamming his sword back into its sheath, Scarface stalked after them.

"Now, little man." As the great doors closed behind the last of the soldiers, Rokkarsh descended halfway down the steps of the dais and stopped. His eyes narrowing to slits, he waved the point of his blade hypnotically before the Mouser's face. The red light of the braziers seemed to turn the silver metal to flame, and the Overlord himself appeared to grow subtly in power and stature as he struck a pose.

"You are not native to Lankhmar," Rokkarsh observed, studying the Mouser closely. "Your dusky skin suggests Tovilyis. I think you've come, an agent of some foreign power, to sow seeds of discontent, fear, and false rumor among my people."

"I know nothing of my parentage or my specific origins," the Mouser acknowledged, lifting his head high in stubborn pride, "but my guardian, Glavas Rho, raised me in the southlands of Lankhmar, steeped me in her traditions and customs, weaned me on her tales and legends. Lankhmar's gods are my gods, her ways my ways, and her people are my people as much as yours."

Rokkarsh sneered. "A pretty speech, but your arrogance puts the lie in your mouth. A true son of Lankhmar wouldn't dare to speak so to his Overlord. You're a spy and a rumor-monger."

With numbed fingers, the Mouser surreptitiously explored the knots of his bonds, working clumsily to loosen them, gaining nothing. He fought to conceal his disappointment, considering his options. Perhaps he could reason with Rokkarsh, reach him with words.

"Forgive my urgency, which you mistake for arrogance, most noble lord," the Mouser said. "Don't you see that our people are dying in their homes from an evil plague, and that damned wizard, Malygris, is to blame?"

Rage flashed across Rokkarsh's face, and he raised his sword as if to strike off the Mouser's head. "Hold your tongue, rogue, lest I cut it from your mouth! There's no plague in Lankhmar, and the loyal citizen, Malygris, has done me the dearest of favors with his magic."

The Mouser felt the blood in his veins turn cold, and for a moment, he ceased to work against his bonds. "Favor?" he said suspiciously. "What favor?"

A faint smile danced over the too-handsome face of Lankhmar's Overlord. Abruptly, he lowered the sword he held, turned, and climbed the few steps to his throne. Languidly, he sank upon it, throwing one arm over its high, velvet-cushioned back.

"Malygris undertook to rid me of important rivals and enemies," he said with a bemused grin. "The Patriarch of Aarth, for one, that meddling old fool." He gazed down upon the Mouser to measure the effect of his words as he touched the golden circlet he wore with a fingertip. "This rests a little easier on my brow with certain priests and powerful wizards out of my way. And if a few insignificant fortune-tellers and herb-witches have been incidentally brushed aside by Malygris's spell . . ."—he hesitated, looked thoughtful, then waved a hand—"well, their sacrifices are for the betterment of the state."

As he glared at the monster on the throne above him, the Mouser trembled with poorly hidden anger. "You fool!" he hissed. His life was forfeit; he knew that now beyond all hoping. Rokkarsh would not have confessed so much, otherwise. "Your ass disgraces the honored throne upon which it sits!"

Rokkarsh selected a new peach from the bowl close at hand and took a deep bite. Juice squirted upon his chin and dribbled downward. Contemptuously, he spat the pit at his prisoners feet.

The Mouser cursed his inept, swollen fingers because they couldn't manage the knots. How he wished he could squeeze Rokkarsh's neck and choke the breath from his body. "You stationed soldiers around the tower to protect Malygris," the Mouser accused. "Your villainy is even blacker than his!"

Rokkarsh inclined his head indifferently. "As the only wizard who can safely practice his art, he has some value to me." Setting aside the sword that dangled from one hand, he clapped his palms together sharply. "You, however, have no value at all. While you pose no real threat to a mage of Malygris s caliber, I can hardly let you run around the streets screaming 'plague!' and upsetting the citizenry."