Swords Against the Shadowland

The Mouser lunged forward in a straight thrust, bending his back knee almost to the earth to come under the great sword. With surprising speed, the larger sword smashed downward, blocking his effort, turning his point aside with such force the Mouser barely kept his grip.

Yet keep it he did. With a flick of his wrist, he slashed his sword point at his opponent's hand, hoping to disarm with a cut. But Malygris moved marginally faster and turned the blow on the great sword's tangs.

Undaunted, the Mouser attacked. With three swift, skipping steps he drove the wizard toward the river. Malygris retreated adroitly, dodging the first thrust, ducking the second, turning the third away with the flat of his sword.

Then the Mouser's eyes widened in surprise. The wizard— brazen fool!—attacked him straight on! The great sword whirled in his hands, becoming a dazzling blur that gleamed red and gold in the firelight. The Mouser scrambled back from a fierce attack, pressed to defend against a blade that could smash his own slender weapon into pieces.

The great sword sang down toward his head again. With delicate artistry, the Mouser's Scalpel flashed out and kissed it away. At the same time, the Mouser danced in close. Catching the front of Malygris's tunic in his empty hand, he attempted to head-butt his foe.

A massive hand came up and caught his face. Steel fingers squeezed. The Mouser felt himself lifted and flung bodily through the air. Managing to roll on the soft ground, he came up in a ready crouch with a greater respect for his enemy.

Malygris advanced, then stopped with a sour expression on his face. Reaching up, he pinched his nostrils shut. "Piss and spit, man!" he cursed in a loud nasal voice. "Your stench is worse than your swordplay! Did you shit your pants in fear of me?"

Stunned by this pronouncement, the Mouser sniffed himself. He coughed at the assault on his sensibilities. The smell of the ditch still clung. "It's a fair effluvia," he answered defensively. "Five silver smerduks an ounce, and all the rage with the dandies in the palace." He blinked, welcoming a chance to get his breath before the fight resumed. "How came you by my partner's sword?"

Malygris's right eyebrow shot up. "I was about to ask how you come by that toothpick the Gray Mouser calls a weapon. Or how you suddenly happen to speak with his same smirking, half-witted sarcasm?"

"Half-witted . . . ?" With narrowing eyes, the Mouser took a tighter grip on the hilt of his sword. "Well, this is certainly my very sword, Scalpel. But I shall be happy to give you a little of it."

His foe took a defensive posture. "Then mine is the more generous nature, for this is my sword, Graywand, and you shall have half its length!"

Yet no sooner had the wizard completed his boast than he fell back in a sudden fit of coughing. Gripped in both hands, the great sword wavered uncertainly. And though he struggled to keep his gaze upon the Mouser, the wizard's eyes widened with a quiet inner fear. He coughed harder, a deep wracking sound that issued from the depths of his lungs, and a thin scarlet spittle stained the corner of his lip.

Slowly, the Gray Mouser lowered his sword. A chill of understanding and subtle horror passed through him. "And how is it," he said in a low voice, "that you cough with the same resonant note as Fafhrd Red-Hair did early this morning and again in his sleep this early evening?"

Malygris's eyes flashed even through the sickness that filled them. "Play me no more games, madman! I am Fafhrd Red-Hair!"

"I know," the Mouser said softly, sheathing his sword. "And do you not recognize your own blood-and-oath bound comrade?"

The point of the great sword dipped to the ground. Fafhrd, wrapped in the illusory appearance of Malygris, stared strangely. "Mouser?" he said.

The air around Fafhrd trembled as with heat-shimmer. Malygris, his angry demeanor, his rags and all melted away like vapor, leaving the tall copper-haired Northerner in his place. For a long moment, he gaped at the Mouser. Then his open mouth closed, and he leaned wearily on the sword he called Graywand.

"I thought you were Malygris," he said, shaking his huge head in confusion. Then his voice turned bitter as he wiped his lip and shot a look toward the city. "He fooled us with another of his damned illusions to make good his escape."

"He worked his magic on us both," the Mouser admitted. "To my eyes you were the image of him. Only the sound of your coughing stayed my hand, else I would have run you through."

The rightward corner of Fafhrd's mouth curled upward in a grin or a sneer. "Spoken boldly, for a man dumped on his rump in the combat. I would surely have taken your head had I not noted the familiar tenor of your boasting. Only that stayed my hand, that and your gut-churning stench, which would keep any man at a distance." He waved a hand under his nose and rolled his eyes in a mock-faint. "Your smell surpasses ..."