Swords Against the Shadowland

The Mouser and Fafhrd exchanged glances. Seizing the bannister with one hand, the Mouser screamed a battlecry. His gray cloak spread like a bird's wings as he vaulted the rail. Fafhrd roared. Carving the air with his great sword, he ran down the stairs like a fire-haired madman.

The soldiers screamed. Weapons clattered to the floor. Booted feet caused a thunder as six terrified men ran over each other, pushing and shoving to get to the door and away from the flying imp and the charging giant. Fafhrd chased them as far as the threshold. His mocking laughter chased them up the street.

The Mouser sheathed his rapier as Fafhrd turned back toward him. "You ogre," he said with a mock-frown to his partner. "I think they wet their trousers." He picked up an overturned wine bottle from the floor and shook it. Finding a swallow remaining, he put the bottle to his lips, drained it, and wiped his mouth.

"Thirsty work, terrorizing helpless soldiers," Fafhrd replied as he sheathed his own sword.

A smile turned up the corners of the Gray Mouser's lips. "I noticed the vintage," he said, dropping the empty vessel. It shattered at his feet. "Tovilyis. It would have been a crime not to finish it."

A groan drew their attention to the bar. Cherig One-hand struggled drunkenly to sit up. His arms thrashed at the air, and one leg twitched. Then with an awkward cry of surprise, he rolled off the bar's narrow surface, disappearing behind it.

The Mouser hurried to help his fat landlord, as did Fafhrd. Together, they pulled him up, walked him to a stool, and propped him against the wall.

With bleary red eyes, Cherig studied both their faces, seeming not to recognize them. Then, he clapped Fafhrd's shoulder. "Oh, it's you, Fafhrd," he mumbled, his words slurring. He shook a finger under the Northerner's nose. "You better be careful. Some of the Overlord's men have been asking about that gray partner of yours, and if you ask me, I think they're watching the place."

"I'll warn him," Fafhrd said, waving a hand under his nose to disperse the foul odor of Cherig's breath.

"You do that," Cherig answered, nodding. He closed his eyes and slid sideways off the stool, his back still to the wall. A loud snore escaped his parting lips as his jaw sagged.

"He must have had an interesting night," Fafhrd commented.

The Mouser looked at him sharply. "You don't know?"

Fafhrd shook his head. "The party was over when I came home. Now tell me what you did to raise the ire of the constabulary."

It took only a few moments for the Mouser to explain his capture outside the Tower of Koh-Vombi and his subsequent escape from Rokkarsh's dungeon into the tunnels below the city. Of the Temple of Hates and its conversion into a sanctuary for homeless victims of Malygris's curse, he told more, giving details of his meetings with Demptha Negatarth and his daughter, Jesane. Lastly, his mood turning darker, he told of Demptha's disappearance.

"Demptha has a jeweler's shop just north of the Street of the Gods," the Mouser said. "If you're not too sotted from all that wine, I want to go there."

Fafhrd wiped a hand over his brow. "Exercise has a way of clearing the head," he said.

A muffled crash followed by a loud groan and a curse sounded from upstairs. The voice was plainly that of the scarfaced corporal.

"Now might be a good time to seek your shop," Fafhrd suggested.

"It would be more fun to stay and bash him again," the Mouser muttered, but he led the way from the Silver Eel into Dim Lane.

At the corner of Cheap Street, they encountered a lone pedestrian. Hurrying along hunched over in a hooded cloak, the man nearly ran into Fafhrd. Glancing up suddenly, he gave a sharp gasp and stepped back. His right hand flew out from under the cloak, and a slender knife flashed. Beneath the hood, fearful eyes snapped wide.

For a moment, the man stared at the pair. Then, putting the knife back under his cloak, he murmured a hasty apology, ran to the far side of the street and continued on his way.

"What was that all about?" Fafhrd asked, scratching his chin as he stared after the pedestrian. Then he swept his gaze up and down the street. "Where is everyone? It's morning, and the street is virtually empty!"

"Did you see how his hand trembled?" the Mouser commented in a low voice. He drew his own cloak closer about his shoulders. "Scarface's soldiers were afraid, too."

"Of course they were afraid!" Fafhrd laughed. "Are we not a fearsome pair? Why, all by itself that dusky face of yours could scare. . . !

The Mouser jabbed an elbow against Fafhrd's hip. "Do not besmirch my porcelain beauty," he warned with mock-gravity. He turned serious once more. "They badly outnumbered us. But if those soldiers were already afraid, before even knocking at our door, no wonder we defeated them easily."

"Afraid! Afraid!" Fafhrd said testily. "Afraid of what?"