Swords Against the Shadowland

Stepping slowly into the center of the street, the Gray Mouser gazed up and down. Cheap Street at this time of morning should have been busy with early shoppers, merchants on the way to their businesses, delivery carts laden with fresh wares.

Not so much as a dog prowled through the gutters.

As he turned back toward his partner, from the corner of his eye the Mouser noted a window directly above them. Its shutter hung slightly open; a nervous pair of eyes peered down at them, drawn perhaps by their voices.

Fafhrd followed the Mouser's gaze. Putting on a big smile, he raised a hand and wiggled his fingers at the peeper.

White fingers curled around the shutter's edge and drew it quietly closed.

Staring at the closed shutter, the Mouser sniffed the air. "You don't feel it?" he whispered to his partner. "Something intangible, indefinable, like a cold breath on the back of your neck?" He paused and swallowed. Once before, he had felt fear such as this, but stronger—in the tunnels under Lankhmar. "A strange wind is blowing, Fafhrd."

The Northerner frowned. "I don't feel any wind," he said. "Nor this fear you speak of, whatever it is."

"Do you not feel it, my stubborn friend?" the Mouser said, starting northward up the street. "Then tell me truly why I found you deep in your second bottle before the sun was even over the rooftops?"

Quickly overtaking the Mouser, Fafhrd started to protest. Instead, he fell silent, and his face took on an expression as grim as his companion's, and his eyes began to minutely search the alley entrances and shadowed places as they made their way.

From Dim Lane to Craft Street they encountered no more than five people. None spoke or offered any greeting. Averting their eyes, those citizens hurried past, clutching parcels or purses or daggers concealed beneath their cloaks.

At the Craft Street intersection, only two merchants had opened their shops. One of them stood in the doorway, glaring suspiciously up and down the road. In one hand, he gripped a wooden mallet that might have been a tool of his trade.

On the Street of Thinkers, the university bells tolled, calling students to study. Today, the bells carried a lonely quality and their summons went unheeded.

The Street of Silk Merchants normally bustled with trade even at the earliest hours. It was totally empty. Shop doors remained closed, windows shuttered.

"If Laurian cast a powerful spell last night," the Mouser said, "I think every citizen must have felt it. Something's left them cowed and hiding in their homes."

Fafhrd put a hand to his mouth and coughed, a soft explosion that rose from deep in his lungs. "If you're right," he said, wiping a trace of spittle from his lips, "then this is a city of the damned."

The Mouser stared at his partner, and he paled. "Malygris's curse," he said with a sudden dreadful understanding. "It may have touched every person affected by Laurian's magic."

A look of infinite sadness settled upon Fafhrd's face. "I wonder if she knew what she did?" He shook his head forcefully. "I can't believe she would doom so many innocents."

Gray-gloved hands curled into fists at the Mouser's sides. "I wonder if Laurian is responsible at all," he murmured. "Or even Malygris, for that matter."

"Malygris killed Laurian last night," Fafhrd snapped. "He's no innocent."

The Mouser only half-listened as, privately, he dealt with a bitter realization. Magic had compelled him to seek out the Dark Butterfly and suffer her humiliations. He felt sure of that, but the surety brought no consolation. Instead, it brought danger, threat, and uncertainty. Would he, too, now fall victim to the horrible, wasting sickness?

"I don't know what that wizard is," the Mouser muttered, "but I swear, Fafhrd, there's some greater mystery here that we've not yet touched upon."

The same hushed quiet filled the Street of the Gods, but on this most major of major thoroughfares, braver souls ventured. The clip-clop of a horse caused Fafhrd and the Mouser to turn and watch as a black carriage, its small drapes drawn to conceal the occupant, passed them by. The driver kept his gaze straight ahead, studiously ignoring them.

At the Temple of Mog, a squad of armed priests stood guard by the entrance and along the surrounding wall, a clear reminder of their battle with the priests of Aarth and the violence that had taken place only days before. They glared with dark suspicion at the few citizens wandering among the open shops and businesses.

Only one block northward, however, Temple Street appeared abandoned. The south side of the street consisted of temple walls and back gates, but small closely crowded shops lined the opposite side. With no good idea exactly where Demptha's business stood, the Mouser scratched his chin and wondered which way to go. He chose the riverward direction and began scrutinizing the merchants' signs carefully.