Swords Against the Shadowland

Barely in time, Malygris recovered himself and twisted away. Instead of his heart, the dagger sank into his already injured arm, biting through the bandages deep into muscle and bone. His high-pitched scream rang with shock and pain.

Fafhrd ripped his sword from the ground, determined to finish this confrontation. "One drop of your heart's blood," he said through clenched teeth. "Small payment for the suffering you've brought." He charged.

Graywand writhed in Fafhrd's grip, transforming itself into a ruby-eyed, tongue-lashing serpent. It coiled around Fafhrd's wrist and sank fangs deep into his bicep.

It was only an illusion, but the unexpectedness of it, coupled with Fafhrd's utter revulsion for snakes, proved an effective distraction.

Malygris ran.

EIGHTEEN FESTIVAL’S END

Wrapped in his cloak, the Gray Mouser skulked through the shadows by the rutted road that ran parallel to the river. His keen eyes searched the riverbank. He sniffed the air. He listened, but except for the tranquil purling of that black ribbon of water, the night kept its silence.

Thin lips moved in a soundless curse.

Bad enough that Fafhrd had attempted to sneak past a sleeping Mouser without waking him. The Mouser's ego still smarted at that insult. Why, not so much as a rat, nay a roach on the floor, could slip by without stirring the Mouser, so lightly did he sleep!

But to actually have lost the great log-foot in the winding alleys east of Nun Street!

A brow furrowed under a gray hood, and one gray-gloved fist ground against a gloved palm. Disgusted with himself, the Mouser shook his head and prayed to Mog that Fafhrd hadn't purposefully given him the slip. He imagined the arrogant lummox crouching behind some barrel, chuckling to himself, then darting right into the shadows when the Mouser went left.

The Mouser knew he'd never hear the end of it, nor live down the shame if his partner had, indeed, tricked him.

Maybe he should have just stayed behind and spared himself potential embarrassment.

He scowled at another thought. What if Fafhrd was just sneaking out for some woman or a taste of the grape? Why partner or no partner, the Mouser would crown that splendid red head with the nearest wine-pot!

The thought of wine made him thirsty. Licking dry lips, he glided through thick grass down the riverbank’s gentle slope to the river's edge. Bending low, he put his fingers into the softly flowing water. Its strange warmth surprised him. Marveling, he drew his hand out and thrust it back in again, sending small ripples dancing into the darkness.

Blood warm, he thought morbidly. With a curious trepidation, he raised his wet fingers and put them in his mouth. Only water. He chided himself for an overly imaginative fool. Cupping one palm, he took a deeper drink and wiped his hand on his cloak as he rose.

Far down the shore, the faint light of a campfire glimmered. Gypsies, he expected. Still, lacking any other sense of Fafhrd's direction, he crept toward that flickering glow.

The fire reminded him sadly of Demptha's great burned library and the blaze at Sadaster's estate. So many books—so much knowledge lost. His heart ached at the loss, and his chest swelled with anger.

Yet, what was gained by anger alone? Once again, he put his mind to work searching for answers to questions he could barely form, convinced that Malygris alone was no longer their only foe. Sadaster and Demptha, he murmured to himself.

What was the connection?

Concealed by the grass and the darkness, a narrow drainage ditch crossed the Mouser's path, carrying sewage and run-off from the edge of the city to the river. The Mouser's next step landed several inches lower than anticipated, and his foot slipped in a black slime. The world tilted, and the sky spun sharply clockwise. Choking back an outcry, the Mouser toppled sideways with a muted splash.

Muttering curses, he dragged himself up and scrambled out of the ditch. A miasma swam in his nostrils. Mud covered his garments, saturated them. Disgust wrinkling his face, he shook black filth from his hands and fingers. "Capricious gods!" he grumbled as he bent down and wiped his hands in the grass. Unsatisfied, he went back to the river's shore and plunged them in the water.

Nothing could be done about his clothes. He sniffed himself and nearly gagged on the stench. Boots, trousers, sleeves, cloak—he took a mental inventory and cursed again. "What a world," he groused. "What a fine, pungent perfume for a dainty fellow like me!"

Muffled voices, born over the water, drew the Mouser's attention from his smelly plight. He turned his head toward the distant campfire again, slowly rising. Now he spied a second, smaller flame. A torch, perhaps?

He chewed his lower lip, listening, and his eyes narrowed suddenly. Despite the distance and the sound-distorting effect of the river, one of those voices carried a familiar note.