Swords Against the Shadowland

In the dark mouth of an alley, he thought he glimpsed a pale shape, a hint of flashing eyes, a wisp of hair floating about a familiar face. But when he rushed to the spot, no one was there.

FIFTEEN A FEAST OF FEAR

The Mouser peered cautiously around the corner of an old warehouse on Hardstone Street into an alley filled with night's gloom. Adjusting the heavy sack he carried over one shoulder, he cast a glance toward the ponderous silhouette of the city's eastern wall in whose shadow he stood.

An aura of moonlight shimmered above the wall, though the moon had not yet risen above it. Wetting his lips, he slipped into the alley’s deeper blackness.

Halfway into the alley, invisible from the road, Nuulpha sat on a low wooden crate, bent forward, elbows on his knees, lost in thought. Moving soundlessly on soft-booted feet, the Mouser reached out and tapped the corporal on the top of his helmet.

Startled, Nuulpha gasped and fell sideways into the dirt, one hand groping for his sword's hilt. Only the Mouser's toe, placed carefully upon the edge of the crate, kept that from toppling and making an unwanted racket.

"By the Rat God!" Nuulpha whispered anxiously, finally recognizing his friend. "I didn't hear you." With some embarrassment, he rose and brushed himself off.

"What are you doing here?" the Mouser asked in a low voice.

"Waiting for you," Nuulpha answered. "Demptha said you'd left on some errand." He eyed the Mouser's burden. "What's in the bag?"

"Decent food and plenty of it," the Mouser answered, passing the heavy bag to Nuulpha. "Everyone below, including Demptha, looked half-starved. A nobleman named Belit happened to cause me some irritation a night or two ago, so it amused me to strip his larders bare."

"Lord Belit?" Nuulpha gave a soft whistle. "I wish I'd been with you for that."

The Mouser shook his head. "Except for Fafhrd, there's no other man I'd take a-burgling. I'm not fool enough to risk a fight or capture on someone else's clumsiness."

A look of hurt slipped over Nuulpha's features, but the Mouser slapped his arm. "No offense intended. But theft is a solo job, my friend. If you ever take it up, remember that. Trust no one."

Nuulpha adjusted the bag on his shoulder. "But you and the Northerner..."

"That's different," the Mouser said curtly. "I can't explain it, but that big lummox and I know each other in a manner that's not completely natural." He rolled his eyes melodramatically. "Distasteful as I find the idea, sometimes I think we're two halves of some very old soul."

Suddenly he held up a hand for silence and, poised like an animal ready for flight, turned toward the alley's entrance.

The sound of marching feet grew steadily clearer. Then a soft wavering radiance drifted down Hardstone Street. The Mouser loosened his thin sword in its sheath as he pressed himself against the warehouse wall into the deepest shadows.

A squad of six soldiers bearing torches passed by without so much as a glance into the alley. Exhaling a soft breath, the Mouser stole up to the street, peered around the corner of the warehouse, and watched until the squad marched out of sight.

"Let's go inside," the Mouser whispered, returning to Nuulpha. "Don't let the hinges squeak."

"I oiled them," Nuulpha answered, sheathing his own sword and picking up the bag, which he had placed on the ground.

"You're learning," the Mouser said with a nod and a grin. "I'll make a thief of you yet."

Nuulpha led the way a little further down the alley and found the wooden handles of a pair of large doors. Carefully, he opened one just wide enough for them to slip inside. The hinges made no sound at all, but the bottom of the old door, which hung crookedly, scraped softly in the alley dust.

Pulling the door shut, the Mouser reached for the stout four-by-four wooden bar that leaned against the wall nearby. As quietly as possible, he set it in place, sealing the doors. Relaxing a little, he surveyed the warehouse's stark interior. A score of thick square-cut beams supported the low ceiling, standing like anorexic sentinels guarding a vast dusty emptiness.

A few paces away, crouched beside a wooden box, Nuulpha turned up the wick of a lantern. The dim blue flame within brightened, exuding a soft yellow glow that uplit the corporal's sharp-featured face. Seizing the bale, he lifted the lantern in one hand and the bag with the other.

Just at the light's edge lay a huge crib that might once have served as a corn bin. The Mouser tugged open the lid and pulled back the latticed door before pausing. Pursing his lips, he turned slowly.

"Speaking of my partner," he said quietly, "have you learned anything?"

Nuulpha frowned. "No news at all," he said regretfully. "No one's seen him—the city guards aren't even looking for him. You, however, are a different matter. A certain Corporal Muulsh of the North Barracks is storming all over the city looking for you."

The Mouser drew a finger down his right cheek. "Long scar?" he asked.

Nuulpha nodded. "You know him?"