Swords Against the Shadowland

Reaching out, he touched the cards. His own shadow threw a cloak of darkness over them, and he turned them toward the light until he could see them clearly.

Cards of vengeance—

Cards of retribution—

The Knight and Knave of Swords.

THIRTEEN SHROUDCLOTH

From the depths of sleep's black ocean, Fafhrd floated slowly toward wakefulness. Pain throbbed in the back of his head, a distant awareness at first, a mere discomfort. It grew sharp and constant as it spread down the right side of his face. Even his teeth ached. He fought waking, tried to sink back into blissful unconsciousness. Pain buoyed him upward.

Opening one eye, he winced at the sunlight that streamed through an open window. With a low groan, wondering where the hell he was, he opened the other eye. Too quickly, he sat up.

A lightning bolt of pain shot through his skull, and a wave of disorientation seized him. For a moment, the room whirled. He clutched at the side of the bed in which he found himself. Fearful, confused, he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the wave to pass. The pain subsided somewhat, and when he dared to open his eyes again, the room remained still.

He ran a palm over the colorful, finely pieced quilts that covered him as he took note of the thick feather mattress that made his bed. Seldom had so sumptuous an accommodation supported his head. Gilt-threaded embroidery decorated the pillow cases, and the sheets were of exquisite red silk.

The bed and all the room's furnishings betokened wealth. Plush carpets dyed a deep, royal blue covered the floor. Two matched intricately carved chairs fashioned from rare seahawk wood stood in opposite corners. A wardrobe and a desk, each of Quarmallian thorn-wood, stood against one wall.

Yet, a closer look revealed a fine patina of dust on the furnishings and carpets, and despite the open window, a vaguely stale odor lingered.

Fafhrd pushed back the blankets and carefully swung his legs over the bedside. The room began to spin ever so slightly, and he hesitated. Then, naked, he stood. Pain hammered the inside of his skull again. Raising a hand, he probed delicately at a goose-egg knot on the back of his head, wincing at the blood-crusted cut he found there.

He remembered the forbidden tower, the leeches and fire, falling. . . . Nothing beyond that. He scratched his chin, then his crotch, pompously pleased with himself that he had survived a plummet guaranteed to crack a lesser man open like an egg.

But where was he? Where, for that matter, was the Mouser?

With measured steps, he walked to the window, gaining confidence as the vertigo subsided. Leaning on the narrow sill, he peered out.

Below lay the ruins of a formal garden. Now weeds strangled the flowerbeds. Oranges, lemons, pears and persimmons hung brown and unpicked from untended fruit trees, or rotted on the ground. Flies and gnats swarmed. Marble fountains that once flowed with sweet water stood dry and stained, covered with bird shit and filth. Decayed leaves from the previous winter half-concealed the pebbled walkways while dead, broken limbs thrust up from the earth like old black bones.

From the trees hung rusted wind chimes and broken bells. When the breeze touched them, they played a plaintive, sad music—whisperings and murmurings of music, really—ghostly memories of once-happy melodies. The wind rose, yet they played quietly, as if ashamed that anyone might hear.

Fafhrd turned away, disturbed by the sight. Something stirred in his mind, a memory, some image. No, some dream. He turned back to the window. Peering out, a chill passed through him. He knew with a certainty where he was.

Once more, he turned, noting the bed, the red sheets, the carpets, the arrangement of the room.

Sadaster's bed.

Sadaster's sheets.

Fafhrd swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. On that bed, Sadaster had slept, his wife in his arms. Through this window—Fafhrd jerked his hand away from the sill—had come Malygris's evil spell.

Fafhrd had seen it all in his dream. A renewed rage at Malygris's treachery filled him. Fear filled him, also, and set his heart to racing. How had he come here? What hand had brought him? Surely not the Mouser's.

Nudity caused him no shame, but an overwhelming sense of vulnerability propelled him toward the wardrobe in search of garments. Ignoring his headache, he flung open the thorn-wood doors and found his clothes neatly cleaned and hung on pegs fashioned in the shape of little hands.

"My lord!" a woman's high voice called behind him. "You should not be out of bed!"

Fafhrd whirled, and the room whirled with him. Unexpectedly, his vision blurred. He struggled to regain focus as he clutched one of the wardrobe's doors to keep his balance.

A young girl moved swiftly from the entrance and set a tray containing steaming bowls upon the thorn-wood desk. "My lord!" she cried again, alarm in her voice as she took his arm to steady him. "You are not yet well. Come, lie down."