Swords Against the Shadowland

Sitting forward, Fafhrd pushed at the sheets with his bootheels, grinning stupidly as he waved the bottle at the Mouser. "Hey, welcome home!" he cried with feigned excitement. Then his face turned grave. "Guess what? Vlana's haunting me, did you know that?" He waved the bottle in the air again, then took a deep swig. "Chased her half the night, I did, through every damned street and alley in the district."

The Mouser froze. Then softly he closed the door and turned away so Fafhrd couldn't see his face. Vlana's name reminded him of Ivrian and of what he'd surrendered himself to at the House of Night Cries. He felt the lashes and welts underneath his soft silk shirt, and his face burned with shame. Had Liara wielded a leather whip instead of a velvet one, his back would be a bloody mess.

But worse than the shame, he felt again a powerful confusion. Liara and Ivrian—somehow, in some impossible manner, he felt sure they were one and the same. Yet, in personality they were utterly different.

Now Fafhrd spoke of ghosts.

"Vlana?" the Mouser said without looking at his friend. He unfastened his weapons belt and hung it over the back of the only chair.

The bed creaked as Fafhrd shifted his weight and leaned back against the wall again. "She was waiting for me in an alley when I left Laurian."

The Mouser whirled. "Sadasters wife? Is that where you've been these past two days?"

Fafhrd snapped his fingers, or rather tried to snap them. For a moment, he stared at his thumb. A second time he tried and achieved a faint pop. "Snatched me right out of the air, she did. She's got Sadaster’s power, you know. At least she did." Fafhrd took another drink before adding morosely, "She's dead."

Abruptly, Fafhrd lurched off the bed and across the room to the table. Knocking the empty wine bottle aside, he poured water from a pitcher into a basin and splashed his face. "Malygris killed her," he said bitterly, "and I couldn't stop him." Gritting his teeth, he pounded one fist on the table. The basin jumped, spilling water over its side, and the pitcher teetered dangerously before righting itself.

The Mouser moved softly away from the table and into a corner near the bed, giving his friend a respectful space. A wise man didn't crowd Fafhrd when such dark moods were upon him. Without comment, he noted the huge new sword sheathed and leaning nearby. No doubt that, too, had a part in Fafhrd's story, and he would unfold the tale in time.

Then he would tell all he knew and suspected of the Dark Butterfly and the House of Night Cries, yes, even of how her doorman had pitched him insensate into the street when Liara had finished her vile humiliations and subtle tortures. He would tell even that and risk Fafhrd's scorn or laughter.

Rubbing his stubbled chin, he eyed Fafhrd warily and watched him tremble with silent, barely controlled anger. While he waited for Fafhrd to resume the story, his mind worked. Vlana's ghost. Ivrian and Liara. More mysteries to trouble him. Mysteries upon mysteries.

All Sheelba had sent them to do was find one wizard.

The Mouser's mouth slowly gaped. "Oh, gods," he murmured, suddenly filled with a dreadful realization. He uttered another low, horror-filled curse. "Mog's black soul! Fafhrd, look at me!" He waited until the Northerner turned. "Did Malygris cast some great magic last night? Something to affect the entire city?"

Fafhrd frowned in puzzlement.

The Mouser smashed one fist against a palm, ignoring Fafhrd now. "It had to be magic! Nothing else could explain the madness! And everyone touched by it. . . !" He stared wide-eyed at Fafhrd again as he thought of Malygris's wasting spell flashing like some invisible lightning bolt among last night's unsuspecting celebrants.

"The fog!" he whispered, thinking hard, remembering how it rolled so unnaturally through the streets.

"Laurian controlled the fog," Fafhrd offered, seeming to shake off his drunken state. "She used it somehow to find Malygris."

"Laurian?" the Mouser questioned. That didn't make sense. "Why would Laurian ..."

He didn't get a chance to finish.

The door smashed open. Corporal Scarface leaped into the room, sword drawn. More soldiers filled the corridor beyond the threshold. "Now you little runt, I've trapped you!" Scarface froze in mid-threat and stared up at Fafhrd's seven-foot height and at the pitcher hurtling down toward his head.

"I don't think you've met my partner," the Mouser said as the pitcher shattered on Scarface's helmet, showering him with water and ceramic fragments. With a loud groan, the corporal sank to his knees.

"Next!" Fafhrd cried, seizing the basin and flinging its contents at the soldiers who pushed through the door. Next, he flung the basin, itself.

A pair of soldiers charged through, stepping on their corporal in their zeal to tackle Fafhrd. One hit him high, the other low, and the giant went down with a thunderous crash.