Swords Against the Shadowland

"It's all right to be afraid," Fafhrd said softly, turning to take her in his arms. "There's no courage without fear, girl." He drew her closer still, his heart hammering as he warmed himself in the fire of her body. Suddenly he buried his face in her hair. "I lied. I am afraid."

She laid her head upon his shoulder. "But you're also brave, my lord."

Her words calmed him. Sitting up, he composed himself and kissed the top of her head. He was a man of the north, and a warrior, he reminded himself, and it was Sameel who needed protection and reassurance.

His right hand cupped a bronze-colored nipple, and a grin turned up the corners of his mouth. "This doesn't feel like the skin of a corpse," he said.

She laughed lightly and slipped a small hand down his belly. "I think something is rising from its grave."

They fell back onto the bed and into each other's arms once more.

Fog rolled through the streets of Lankhmar, veiling the city in white. Down silent roads it poured, into alleyways, into the parks and city squares, swallowing whole blocks, entire districts.

In Pinchback Alley, a rat-catcher in pursuit of a fine black rodent felt the feathery touch of cool mist on his neck. Fog swirled around him. Squeaking, the rat scampered to freedom. The ratcatcher shrugged and turned toward home, his thoughts suddenly full of his wife, who waited for him.

The fog enwrapped the Spire of Rhan, concealing it from view. The five-storied Temple of Aarth sank beneath the tide of a gray sea. The great silos in the River District bowed away behind a misty curtain.

A carriage moved northward on Gold Street, its way lit by lanterns swinging on either side of the driver’s seat. Within, a merchants wife sat trembling, biting her lip as she peered out the carriage window, horrified by a strange and unnatural desire for her young son, who sat on the seat beside her.

Silently, the fog moved into the Garden of Dark Delights, enfolding the elaborate topiaries, obscuring the pebbled pathways. In a secluded place, two late-night philosophers shared a marble bench. The conversation turned gradually, seemingly naturally, from Kleshite theories of celestial mechanics to the finer points of Tovilyan erotic poetry.

The fog continued southward and eastward.

While quiet dominated much of the city, the sounds of music and drunkenness rose throughout the Festival District. Night brought no cessation to the weeklong midsummer celebration. Arm in arm, couples staggered from one crowded tavern to another. Some purchased bottles from temporary shops that wine merchants had erected in the streets. Dancers and jugglers, mimes and acting troupes entertained on every corner. Musicians strolled the lanes, serenading at the tops of their lungs to be heard over the din.

Countless lanterns lined the streets, hung from posts by the city planners. More lanterns burned above the entrances to businesses that remained open. Tall torches provided flaming light for the scores of performing stages.

One by one, the fog devoured them all.

Undaunted, the celebrants continued. But now, the plays went ignored. Musicians cast aside their instruments, and jugglers abandoned their props. Couples stumbled into alleys to grope each other's bodies. Some crawled beneath the stages and beer wagons. Some fell upon each other in the streets, trusting to the fog to conceal their lusts.

Men and women, men and men, women and women. Inhibitions melted. A pair rose suddenly upon a stage to demonstrate their prowess. A female pick-pocket of exceptional skill pilfered one man's purse as she slaked another man's desires.

Throughout the district, tavern doors stood wide open. The silent fog slipped inside. Wherever a window gaped, or a shutter hung open, wherever a crack in a wall allowed, or an unpatched hole in a roof, through any cranny, the fog slipped in.

High atop the Tower of Koh-Vombi, in the shadows of the parapet, Malygris studied the heavens, noting the descent of the evening star, Astarion, on the western horizon, and the ascent of bright Shadah in the east. Overhead, Akul burned like an emerald. In the north, the Targe constellation, with its seven vivid points of light, slowly turned.

Vaguely troubled, he raised one spidery hand to rub his chin and waited for Midsummer's Moon to rise. Its shape and position in relation to Shadah would determine his next move. He set his hand upon the parapet and quickly jerked it back, frowning in disgust at the crusted bird shit that covered the ancient stone. It covered the rooftop, too, and within, the very rafters dripped with it.

If the moon rose precisely where he calculated, and if he could draw a straight line from it, through Shadah, to Akul, then he would gather his power and leave this crumbling place. He had long ago grown tired of its filth, its mysteries, and the incessant monotonous whispering of its damnable ghosts driving him to annoyance.