Swords Against the Shadowland

Finally, he stopped and peered upward at an elaborately painted sign. Portrayed upon it in vibrant colors was a wild peacock, its tail feathers displayed, an emerald clutched in one talon, a ruby in the other. " The Bird of Jewels, from the Lankhmaran tarot," the Mouser said, putting his hand upon the door. "I should have expected it."

Fafhrd put a hand on his companion's arm. "Can you be sure you have the right shop?"

The Mouser nodded. "I recognize the style of his art." The door swung open at his touch. "Unlocked," he said with some surprise.

They slipped inside and hesitated while their eyes adjusted to the gloom. A large worktable with various tools for gem-cutting and delicate metal-shaping scattered upon it occupied most of the visible interior. Several cupboards and empty display cases stood against a wall. A fine layer of dust covered everything.

"Demptha?" the Mouser called softly. Then louder, "Demptha?"

Fafhrd pointed to a curtained doorway at the rear of the shop. With the tip of one finger, he pushed back the edge and peeked through. He beckoned for the Mouser to follow.

The rear room was larger, but empty of furniture. A few tools hung on pegs on the walls, and an empty chest stood with its lid open. A broken chair leaned in one corner. In another corner, a narrow wooden staircase led to an attic.

With one hand on Catsclaw's hilt, the Mouser crept up the stairs. Carefully, he eased up the horizontal door. "Mog's blood!" he exclaimed. "Fafhrd, come see this!"

The Northerner climbed the stairs while the Mouser waited open-mouthed at the top. With only his head and shoulders above the attic floor, Fafhrd gave a low whistle.

It was hardly an attic at all. Plush scarlet carpets covered the floor. Paintings done by Demptha's hand adorned the wall. A gold samovar stood close by. Another large table dominated the center of the room. Upon it, an array of flasks and alembics glimmered in the light from a pair of candles. A deck of cards lay scattered between the candles.

The bookshelves that covered the wall behind the table revealed an impressive collection of volumes.

"I suspect this is Demptha's real work room," the Mouser commented.

A barely audible groan quivered up from the shadows behind the table.

"Demptha?" Taking a tighter grip on his dagger, the Mouser seized one of the candles and moved around the table. Fafhrd came around the other side.

The light fell on a lined and wrinkled face, on a mass of gray hair, and shriveled breasts. Horror and revulsion gripped the Mouser at this unexpected sight, for in that aged visage he recognized another. "Jesane!" he exclaimed, dropping to his knees.

Fafhrd raised an eyebrow. "The daughter?"

Jesane rolled rheumy eyes toward the Mouser. Then her gaze shifted to a book that lay open on the floor just beyond her reach. She strained for it, but the Mouser gathered her up in a cradling embrace. She felt brittle in his arms, this woman who had saved his life, like old parchment.

"What happened to you?" the Mouser cried as he brushed strands of hair from her brow. He searched that face for traces of her former beauty, recalled the sparkle in those once-bright eyes, the strength and vitality of a once-supple body that he had desired. "By all the gods, what happened?"

Jesane's mouth trembled and opened. A thin string of spittle hung suspended between her cracked lips. A brown tongue licked it weakly away. "Shadowland," she whispered, her eyes widening at some horror. She tried to roll free of the Mouser's embrace, tried to reach with twig-like fingers for the book on the floor. "Shadowland is here!"

A dry rattle issued from her throat, and she went limp.

"Dead," the Mouser said, his voice heavy with sadness as he laid her gently down. He picked up the fallen book, intending only to place it on the table. Yet the distinctive calligraphy caught his eye. He lingered over the page where the book was opened.

Before he could read a word, the page exploded in violent flame. The flash singed the Mouser's eyebrows and, but for his glove, would have burned his hand. Instinctively, he dropped the book with a howl.

With unnatural speed, the flames devoured the book and spread to the thick carpet. A streamer of fire shot across the floor straight for the bookshelves.

"No!" Fafhrd shouted, leaping up. He snatched volumes off the shelves, attempting to save them, but each one burst into new flame in his grasp.

The Mouser pulled him away.

"What a loss!" Fafhrd cried. "All that knowledge!"

"We've got to get out of here!" the Mouser insisted, shielding his face from the heat. "This whole place is going to burn!"

They ran down the stairs and out into the street. They didn't stop there. Neither wanted to be found lingering around a sudden fire when soldiers were already seeking the Mouser. They ducked around the next corner. Emerging onto the Street of the Gods, they headed toward the river.