Swords Against the Shadowland

He led them past the other three guards, who eyed the odd-looking adventurers suspiciously as they passed through the open wooden gates and under the great arch where empty watchtowers perched on either side. The Street of the Gods stretched before them, a broad lane paved with white marble. To the left and right ran Wall Street, another wide lane cluttered with shops and merchants' kiosks.

"The Silver Eel, near witching hour," the corporal repeated quietly as he turned to resume his post.

"Refreshing," Fafhrd commented as he watched the man go, "to deal honestly with an honest guard."

"There are so few men of integrity left," the Mouser agreed.

The pair strolled south on Wall Street. The shadows of Lankhmar's towers and minarets drew dark hatchings across the dusty road. The massively stout wall on their left rose in stark contrast to the rickety wooden apartment buildings and old warehouses that stood jammed in too-close proximity on their right.

An ox-drawn cart loaded with rough barrels trundled by; the driver, a bone-thin old man, barely seemed to notice them. A raspy noise issued from his throat, and he coughed into his hand as he passed. The white parts of his eyes were as yellow as old parchment. From a leather cord around his neck depended a small monkey’s paw, considered a good-luck charm by the residents of the southern city of Tisilinit, and a bestower of virility by the men of Ilthmar.

The Mouser reflected glumly that the talisman had brought this poor workman neither luck, nor virility.

At Fafhrd s suggestion, they turned and headed west on Craft Street. The sounds of industry were a welcome change from the quietude of Wall Street. Blacksmiths and metalsmiths worked their trades, hammers ringing on anvils, hot steel hissing in tempering waters. Potters' wheels whirred merrily. The mingled smells of leather and fabric dyes wafted richly in the air. Basket weavers at their shops and kiosks sat cross-legged on carpets or short stools among piles of their products, working straws in their callused fingers, glancing up in hopeful expectation as the pair passed by, then giving their interest to their work again, sure that swordsmen had no use for their wares.

At Cheap Street the pedestrian traffic increased sharply. Silk-draped palanquins, borne on the shoulders of servants, ferried nobles up and down the wide avenue. Merchants stood before their shops and stalls, barking enticements to the throngs of shoppers. Old women bent over displays of fruits and vegetables, wrinkling their noses, complaining of quality, trying to haggle the venders down. Chickens, ducks and geese in wooden pens made a squawking cacophony as prospective buyers eyed and prodded them. Small plump dogs, hobbled and bound with leashes, sprawled in the dust beneath one particular tent, whining and hopelessly teary-eyed. Like the penned fowl, they were destined for someone's dinner table.

A pair of youthful, shirtless jugglers worked the corner at Cheap and Craft Streets while a young female assistant, her shiny black hair tied back with a bright bow, moved among the onlookers shaking a plain wooden bowl as she trawled for coins. Daggers flashed between the young men, who were plainly masters of their art. The hot sun glinted on their sweaty skin and on the flying steel, but the jugglers laughed and taunted each other and called distractions, each daring the other to miss.

Only a few coins fell into the young girl's bowl. The Mouser frowned and wished that he had even a single copper penny with which to reward such showmanship. "The audience is stingy," he commented. "They take pleasure from the entertainment and give nothing back."

They proceeded south, pushing their way through the crowded street, the sun hot on their heads and necks. Fafhrd licked his lips and craned his head left and right; the Mouser suspected his comrade was thinking of a tavern and a cool draught.

Suddenly, the huge Northerner bolted through an opening in the traffic, and an unsuspecting Mouser found himself dragged along by the front of his gray tunic. At the same time, an immense roll of carpet, precariously balanced on the shoulders of a lone bearer making his way down the road, aimed straight at his head and a half-starved hound dog, scavenging for scraps, tangled in his feet.

Fafhrd gave another yank, pulling his smaller partner out of the bearer’s path, and setting him on his feet again. With a frightened bark, the hound dog bolted the other direction, straight into the feet of the unseeing carpet-bearer. The bearer screamed, the dog yelped, and half a score of pedestrians shouted curses and obscenities. For a brief instant, the air was filled with a blaze of woven color. Carpet and bearer went flying, then sprawled in the dust, in turn causing other passersby to trip over them in the confusion. In full panic now, the dog leaped across the backs of the fallen, crashing into still other shoppers, sending bags and packages sailing.