Swords Against the Shadowland

Cursing, Scarface struggled up. Still gripping his sword, he scowled as he turned toward the Mouser. Another pair of soldiers rushed in to back him up.

Forced against the wall, the Mouser grabbed for Fafhrd's sword and dragged it free of its sheath. Beautifully polished, the naked blade gleamed. Yet, the Mouser hesitated. It felt like a gross weight in his hand, and it was nearly as long as he was tall. "What the hell do I do with this thing?" he shouted.

Gripping the hilt in both hands, he swung the sword in a broad swishing arc, forcing Scarface and his men to retreat a step. Wildly, he swung it again, carving an invisible deadly line in the air to keep his attackers at bay.

With a loud growl, Fafhrd flung off the pair that had tackled him and rose to his feet. Yet another soldier charged at him. Side-stepping, Fafhrd stuck out a foot. With a startled yowl, that one flew through the air and out the open window above Bones Alley. A predictably short scream followed him.

A sword flashed down at Fafhrd. Dancing away, the Northerner snatched the Mouser's weapons belt from the back of the chair where it hung, and hurled the chair. He whipped free the Mouser's rapier. "What am I supposed to do with this toothpick?" he shouted across the room to his partner. "Why don't you get a real sword?"

"You lack the skill and finesse to appreciate what you hold," the Mouser shot back. He continued to swing Fafhrd's heavy blade in the widest possible arc as Scarface and another soldier tried to close with him.

Fafhrd made an exaggerated lunge and nicked his opponent's shoulder, drawing a small neat trickle of blood. Wide-eyed, the surprised soldier touched his wound and stared at the blood that came away on his hand.

"Bah! He didn't even fall down!" Fafhrd called to his embattled comrade as he scowled at the Mouser's weapon. In truth, it appeared tiny in his great fist. "This thing's far too dainty for me. Here's a man's weapon!" So saying, he snatched up the table with one hand. Holding it shield-like, he screamed a blood-curdling battlecry and charged the wounded soldier, knocking him and two others back through the door and into the hallway beyond. "Come, Mouser!" he shouted, laughing. "I'll clear a path to the bar!"

Sprawled on the corridor's floor, the three soldiers and two more saw the mocking flame-haired giant standing over them brandishing table in one hand and unlikely sword in the other. Scrambling up, they nearly tripped on each other as they fled toward the stairs.

Fafhrd laughed again and flung the table after them. He called again to the Mouser on the far side of the room. "Would you stop dawdling?"

"A moment more of this excellent exercise," the Mouser answered, puffing as he held off the two remaining attackers. "It's having some salutary effect on my mood."

Just then, Scarface's partner stepped too close. The Mouser brought his foot up in a sharp kick. Clutching his groin with one hand, the soldier dropped his sword and sagged to his knees. "Yes," the Mouser said, "I'm feeling much better now."

A startled Scarface unwisely glanced at his collapsed and groaning comrade. The Mouser's powerful swing, barely under his control, whistled toward the corporal's head. The big sword's point cut through the leather chin strap of Scarface's helmet, and cut a deep gash in his unblemished cheek. Blood gushed. Scarface shrieked with pain, clapping one hand to his face as he leaped back.

"Now you'll have a fine matched set," the Mouser said with a smirk.

A hoarse cry bubbled up in Scarface's throat, and he grasped his sword in both hands for a final, hysterical charge. Before he could rush forward, Fafhrd appeared behind him, lifted the helmet from the corporal's head, and slammed the rapier's pommel against an unprotected skull.

"You're an impatient lout," the Mouser pouted.

"Just like your namesake," Fafhrd scolded, "you play too much with your food."

The Mouser snatched back his rapier and handed the great sword to Fafhrd. "I wasn't going to eat him," he said defensively as he reclaimed his weapons belt with Catsclaw from the room's wreckage.

A low groan drew his attention to the soldier that lay on the floor with his hands still tucked between his thighs. Bending over the man, the Mouser murmured, "I feel compelled to apologize for that. Most men would rather be run through."

Biting his lip, eyes squeezed shut with pain, the poor man managed to nod agreement.

Fafhrd leaned in the doorway with one eye to the corridor beyond. "The boot is mightier than the sword," the Mouser whispered as he joined him there.

"He'll surely sing his love songs in a new octave," Fafhrd said.

They crept down the corridor toward the stairs, Fafhrd leading the way. At the top step, they paused.

A half-dozen soldiers waited at the bottom, swords drawn, tense, steeled for combat. Sweat gleamed on their faces; fear shone in their eyes. Nervously, they stared upward.