Swords Against the Shadowland

For months the tower had provided him shelter and safe hiding, as the stars had promised it would. He had walked carefully in a dangerous place, drawing no attention to himself, avoiding rooms and objects best left undisturbed, respecting whatever ancient god once had dwelled here.

Now, however, invaders had breached his security through the only window and from below through a tunnel previously unknown to him, and damn near roasted him alive! Fortunately, finding little to feed on, the flames had extinguished themselves without seriously damaging the tower. Or perhaps the gods and ghosts of this place had stopped the fire.

But the invaders, what was he to make of them? Most, by their liveries, he knew for soldiers and men of the Overlord. The other two, the warrior-thieves, he knew not. He remembered a snatch of conversation he had overheard from the shadows.

"Malygris doesn't seem to be home," the short gray one had said.

They had come seeking him, those two. To what end? In whose service?

And what part did the ruler of Lankhmar play?

Too many questions and no answers.

He dared not set magical protections on the tower. Such might anger the spirits of this place. Certainly it would betray him to the wizards and sorcerers he knew were seeking him— might as well send a beacon of light up into the darkness.

No, it was best to change his hiding place. He waited only for the moon and the stars to verify his judgment.

But glancing up, he frowned. A thin veil of mist dimmed the stars. He shot a look toward the river, and his heart quailed. A thick white fog crawled over the banks, swallowing ships, wharves. The fishing district faded from sight, and still it came on, unstoppable.

One by one, the stars vanished. The fog advanced, approaching his tower, swallowing everything in its path. Malygris cried aloud in despair and thrust out his hands as if to hold back the massive tide. It swept around him, soft and warm as breath.

Cursing, he flung up the roof's trap door and descended into a large, round room, the tower's uppermost. A dozen candles illuminated the chamber. A crude pallet marked the place where he slept. A small stack of books and parchments lay scattered around it. Tiny pieces of down drifted in the air, and scattered about the floor lay small bones and the plucked corpses of raw, half-eaten birds.

Malygris waved a hand under his nose, silently cursing the thick smell of smoke that pervaded the air. He paced nervously back and forth. An overwhelming sense of danger buzzed like a wasp in the back of his head. Chewing his lip, he began to gather his books, which, like everything else, smelled of smoke. From hiding place to hiding place he had carried them, his few treasures, and now they were nearly ruined with the horrible reek. Dumping them disgustedly on his blanket, he tied the corners and shouldered the bundle.

Then, slowly he set it down again.

A strange feeling of calm settled over him. He turned back to the steps that led through the trap door to the roof, climbed them. The door, so old and rarely used, hung warped and swollen upon its horizontal jamb. He had neglected to close it carefully. Wisps of vapor floated at its edges where one corner gapped. It mattered nothing to him. Pushing the door back, he ascended and stepped out into the white night.

The fog reduced Lankhmar's skyline to a few ghostly silhouettes. In the thick mist that drifted through the air, the distorted shapes of towers and minarets seemed to waver. The nearest rooftops appeared and disappeared as the thinnest of breezes stirred the currents.

Staring northward from the parapet, Malygris felt a rush of joy. He whispered a name. "Laurian."

The fog quivered as if in response, white as Laurian's skin, soft as the body of the woman Malygris loved. He closed his eyes as he thought of her. Was it her perfume he smelled riding on the vapor? Her cool touch that brushed, delicate as a feather, over his face and throat?

His eyes snapped open, and he chided himself. Why was he hiding? Sadaster was dead, and—however inadvertently—most of Lankhmar s mages with him. What mattered if his greatest working had somehow gone awry? He was still Malygris, and the city feared him.

"Laurian," he whispered again as he gazed longingly in the direction of her house. He licked his lips. Her name in his mouth tasted sweet as honey. His heartbeat quickened with a building desire.

He had allowed her time—a proper period to mourn and to forget her husband. A year this very night since the Great Casting of his spell, and six months since Sadaster's funeral. The time for mourning was over.

He clutched his fists, shivering inside even as his skin seemed to burn, and his mind churned with thoughts of love. Out of courtesy, he had denied himself long enough. No longer would he wait to claim his heart's desire.