Swords Against the Shadowland

FOURTEEN PIECES OF DREAMS, NIGHTMARE SHARDS

Fafhrd slipped naked between the sheets of Sameel's bed and eased his head carefully down upon the pillow. The vertigo troubled him less than before, and the constant hammering inside his skull had eased somewhat. Still, he saw the wisdom of resting a while. Later, he would rise, go out and search for the Mouser.

Turning on his side, his gaze fell upon his new sword, which leaned against a chair where his clothes were hung. Sameel's room had no windows, and the lambent flame from an oil lamp lent the polished black pommel stone a starlight glow.

Sameel entered the room quietly, bearing another tray of fresh herbs and steaming bowls. Noting the direction of his gaze, she said, "My master called the sword, Payday.''

"I’lll name it Graywand," Fafhrd said, "as I name all my swords."

"Why is that?" Sameel asked. Setting down the tray, she crumbled herbs and scattered them in varying portions over the bowls. Immediately a sweet aroma perfumed the air.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, and the face of his father floated in his mind—dark eyes, sweeping hair as red as Fafhrd's own, a handsome visage clouded by a melancholy and regret that Fafhrd had never understood.

"To honor Nalgron," he said, opening his eyes again, speaking as if to the sword itself. "After his fatal fall on White Fang Mountain, I inherited his sword, which he called Graywand. An uncle presented it to me when I was only a small boy." He paused and crooked one arm under his head. "But my mother, Mor, despised my father. Fearing I would grow to be just like him, she took the sword, broke the blade, and ordered the pieces melted."

Old memories washed over him, and he imagined at that moment that his face looked not unlike the clouded, brooding face of his father. "When I grew old enough to claim my own blade," he continued, "I gave it the name of my father's sword to remember him—but also to spite my mother. And every sword I've owned since that day I've named Graywand."

With a long piece of straw, she took flame from the lamp and lit a small candle beneath a slender copper samovar. "I never knew my parents," she said softly. "Laurian found me living in the streets when I was very small and took me in." She hesitated, holding the straw's flame close so that it uplit her face. Then she blew it out. "Sometimes in my dreams, I see the shadow of a face that might have been my mother." She shook her head. "But I don't know."

Fafhrd watched her as she bent over the tray again and crumbled some herbs into a delicate white kerchief. Lamplight and gloom played about the soft lines and curves of her body, lending her an aura of mystery and beauty Fafhrd had not noticed before. He rose up on one elbow, the better to observe her.

Folding the kerchief carefully, she turned from the tray and approached the bed. "Breathe these fragrances," she said, sitting down on the edge of the bed's wooden frame. "They will ease your pain."

Sameel lifted the pomander to his nose, but Fafhrd caught her wrist. Though she stiffened, she did not pull away. Their eyes met. For a long moment neither moved, and the only sound came from the soft sputtering of the lamp and the candle. Without taking his eyes from hers, Fafhrd drew her hand and the pomander closer. As he breathed in the woodsy aroma, he lightly kissed her fingertips, and when she did not protest, he drew her gently down beside him.

He shifted position, drawing her closer as he unfastened the brooches that held her simple dress upon her shoulders. She trembled against him. "I've never . . ." She bit her lip, her eyes brimming with tears. She squeezed them shut. "My lord, I don't want to die without tasting love."

Fafhrd shushed her, putting a finger upon her lips as he gazed down upon her frightened beauty. "Death has no business here tonight," he whispered, stroking her cheek, "nor any thought of Malygris, or curses."

Easing aside her dress, he drew the sheet over their bodies. Again he hesitated, studying Sameel's face, noting the play of the light in the tears that hung upon her lashes. She was not Vlana, not his one true love, but he saw within her something rare and special, something courageous in the face of a terrible fear—and for that moment, at least, he loved her.

In her sarcophagus, Laurian saw with a sight beyond vision. Nothing transpired in her home of which she was not aware. She felt in her mind and heart, like a tide on her skin, the waves of emotion emanating from her guest and her handmaiden. Simultaneously she experienced joy for Sameel and intense sorrow for the loss of her own beloved.

The ornate box cracked open, and the strange fog, her constant companion, seeped about the darkened library. It radiated a faint, yellowish light. In that glow, Laurian rose weakly. For an instant, she hesitated, summoning her courage and strength. Then she stepped from the sarcophagus. A moment of uncertainty and dread shivered through her. Immediately, a cold determination replaced it.

The fog seemed to cushion her footfalls. Soundlessly, she glided across the floor and pushed open the library doors. Her blind gaze turned down the hall that led to Sadaster's room. An ache filled her heart, and beneath the blindfold, her eyes misted. Steeling herself, she blinked back the threatening tears and moved, instead, in the opposite direction toward her own suites.

The fog that accompanied Laurian swirled ahead, played over the knobs, and opened the doors for her. In its unnatural light, she entered her room with its clutter of treasures, whose value could be weighed only in memories—small figurines, delicate pillows embroidered with bright-dyed thread, trinkets, pieces of jewelry, and vases of colored glass, precious gifts all, tokens of Sadaster's love and their years together.

A fine layer of dust covered everything. Waving a hand carefully over a table near the door, she found the remains of a single dead rose, drew it from its vase, and hugged it to her heart. It crumbled to pieces. The brittle petals fell from her fingers to the carpet. Another wave of sadness washed over her. Drawing a deep breath, she groped toward a thorn-wood chest at the foot of her bed. The hinges of the heavy lid creaked as she opened it.

Folded neatly within lay her wedding trousseau. Despite her resolve, tears came freely now, saturating her blindfold, leaking down from the edges of the cloth. With loving care, she lifted the items and spread them upon the bed. Then, she removed her blindfold, unwrapped the swaths of pale linen from about her body, and dropped them upon the floor.

One by one, she pulled on her wedding garments. The underskirts rustled crisply, and the white dress glittered with diamond chips sewn into the weave. She ran her hands over it, smoothing the folds and creases, pleased to find it fit her as perfectly as on that distant day when Sadaster took her for his wife. Setting the sheer veil over her head and face, she fixed it in place with a silver circlet that blazed with sapphires.

Slowly, she closed the trunk and approached a nearby table. Among the many trinkets sat a small chest. Opening it, she groped among strands of pearls, rings, and silver chains, pins and brooches, and lifted a slender dagger in a jewel-encrusted sheath. Carefully she inserted it beneath a tight-fitting sleeve.

Tears ceased; her mouth drew into a tight, determined line.

Returning to the library, she sat down once more upon her velvet-cushioned chair. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she put a hand beneath the veil. Touching her face, she explored fine new wrinkles, and old ones that had deepened, and skin that had lost its softness—the price she paid for leaving her elaborate sarcophagus.

Closing her blind eyes, she gathered her strength and planned magic. The night exhaled a soft breath, sending a wind that blew through the open window and fluttered the pages of a book on a table. When the wind ceased, silence and stillness dominated the room.

Laurian rested, letting her head roll back against the chair. Patience, she had learned, was sorcery's paramount virtue. The mist that perpetually filled her sarcophagus caressed her like a soothing friend, coolly kissed her, reassured her with its presence. When she lifted her head again, it spread itself before her feet.

Once more, Laurian turned her inner sight upon her handmaiden and her guest. Their tender coupling touched her heart as the fervency of their passion suffused her home and filled it with a radiance only she could see. With tender care, not wishing to disturb them, she distilled the essence of their desire and collected it as a fine moisture in her cupped hands. Then, leaning forward, she shook the glimmering droplets into the mist, which rose up and seemed to lick her fingers. "Go," she whispered.

Over the carpet the mist flowed, turning gray and thick as it oozed out the window and poured down the side of her house, thicker still as it crawled across the lawn and climbed the wall to reach the street.

Not far away, the fog that hovered upon the waters of the River Hlal turned toward the shore. Thickening, it engulfed the ships moored at the docks, swallowed the wharves, poured eastward into the city. In the north, more fog moved in from the Inner Sea, extinguishing the street lamps that lit the roads in the Nobles' District, obscuring the lights of the Rainbow Palace as it drifted inexorably southward.

Fafhrd cradled Sameel's head on his arm and stroked her throat lightly. Lying on her back, gazing toward the ceiling, she caught his hand and entwined her fingers with his. Her expression, so recently filled with rapture, reflected a thoughtful worry, and when she spoke her words seemed tiny and distant.

"Do you fear the decay in our bodies?"

Fafhrd sat up and swung his legs out of bed, turning his back to her. "No," he said in a quiet voice.

Sitting up, Sameel hugged her knees. "I guess I'm not as brave as you."

The lamp flame glimmered steadily, and the samovar sighed as it poured out a soft, fragrant steam. He stared into the shadowy corners of the room where the small light did not reach, as if the darkness might somehow show him his future.

"Malygris's curse won't have the chance to rot me," he said grimly. "His heart's blood contains the cure, and I'll kill him to obtain it. Or he'll kill me. Either way ..."

Sameel put a hand on his back. "I try to be brave," she said as if she hadn't heard him. "But I remember my master, how thin and weak he grew, and I see myself in a corpse's skin, struggling against the grave."

"It's all right to be afraid," Fafhrd said softly, turning to take her in his arms. "There's no courage without fear, girl." He drew her closer still, his heart hammering as he warmed himself in the fire of her body. Suddenly he buried his face in her hair. "I lied. I am afraid."

She laid her head upon his shoulder. "But you're also brave, my lord."

Her words calmed him. Sitting up, he composed himself and kissed the top of her head. He was a man of the north, and a warrior, he reminded himself, and it was Sameel who needed protection and reassurance.

His right hand cupped a bronze-colored nipple, and a grin turned up the corners of his mouth. "This doesn't feel like the skin of a corpse," he said.

She laughed lightly and slipped a small hand down his belly. "I think something is rising from its grave."

They fell back onto the bed and into each other's arms once more.

Fog rolled through the streets of Lankhmar, veiling the city in white. Down silent roads it poured, into alleyways, into the parks and city squares, swallowing whole blocks, entire districts.

In Pinchback Alley, a rat-catcher in pursuit of a fine black rodent felt the feathery touch of cool mist on his neck. Fog swirled around him. Squeaking, the rat scampered to freedom. The ratcatcher shrugged and turned toward home, his thoughts suddenly full of his wife, who waited for him.

The fog enwrapped the Spire of Rhan, concealing it from view. The five-storied Temple of Aarth sank beneath the tide of a gray sea. The great silos in the River District bowed away behind a misty curtain.

A carriage moved northward on Gold Street, its way lit by lanterns swinging on either side of the driver’s seat. Within, a merchants wife sat trembling, biting her lip as she peered out the carriage window, horrified by a strange and unnatural desire for her young son, who sat on the seat beside her.

Silently, the fog moved into the Garden of Dark Delights, enfolding the elaborate topiaries, obscuring the pebbled pathways. In a secluded place, two late-night philosophers shared a marble bench. The conversation turned gradually, seemingly naturally, from Kleshite theories of celestial mechanics to the finer points of Tovilyan erotic poetry.

The fog continued southward and eastward.

While quiet dominated much of the city, the sounds of music and drunkenness rose throughout the Festival District. Night brought no cessation to the weeklong midsummer celebration. Arm in arm, couples staggered from one crowded tavern to another. Some purchased bottles from temporary shops that wine merchants had erected in the streets. Dancers and jugglers, mimes and acting troupes entertained on every corner. Musicians strolled the lanes, serenading at the tops of their lungs to be heard over the din.

Countless lanterns lined the streets, hung from posts by the city planners. More lanterns burned above the entrances to businesses that remained open. Tall torches provided flaming light for the scores of performing stages.

One by one, the fog devoured them all.

Undaunted, the celebrants continued. But now, the plays went ignored. Musicians cast aside their instruments, and jugglers abandoned their props. Couples stumbled into alleys to grope each other's bodies. Some crawled beneath the stages and beer wagons. Some fell upon each other in the streets, trusting to the fog to conceal their lusts.

Men and women, men and men, women and women. Inhibitions melted. A pair rose suddenly upon a stage to demonstrate their prowess. A female pick-pocket of exceptional skill pilfered one man's purse as she slaked another man's desires.

Throughout the district, tavern doors stood wide open. The silent fog slipped inside. Wherever a window gaped, or a shutter hung open, wherever a crack in a wall allowed, or an unpatched hole in a roof, through any cranny, the fog slipped in.

High atop the Tower of Koh-Vombi, in the shadows of the parapet, Malygris studied the heavens, noting the descent of the evening star, Astarion, on the western horizon, and the ascent of bright Shadah in the east. Overhead, Akul burned like an emerald. In the north, the Targe constellation, with its seven vivid points of light, slowly turned.

Vaguely troubled, he raised one spidery hand to rub his chin and waited for Midsummer's Moon to rise. Its shape and position in relation to Shadah would determine his next move. He set his hand upon the parapet and quickly jerked it back, frowning in disgust at the crusted bird shit that covered the ancient stone. It covered the rooftop, too, and within, the very rafters dripped with it.

If the moon rose precisely where he calculated, and if he could draw a straight line from it, through Shadah, to Akul, then he would gather his power and leave this crumbling place. He had long ago grown tired of its filth, its mysteries, and the incessant monotonous whispering of its damnable ghosts driving him to annoyance.

For months the tower had provided him shelter and safe hiding, as the stars had promised it would. He had walked carefully in a dangerous place, drawing no attention to himself, avoiding rooms and objects best left undisturbed, respecting whatever ancient god once had dwelled here.

Now, however, invaders had breached his security through the only window and from below through a tunnel previously unknown to him, and damn near roasted him alive! Fortunately, finding little to feed on, the flames had extinguished themselves without seriously damaging the tower. Or perhaps the gods and ghosts of this place had stopped the fire.

But the invaders, what was he to make of them? Most, by their liveries, he knew for soldiers and men of the Overlord. The other two, the warrior-thieves, he knew not. He remembered a snatch of conversation he had overheard from the shadows.

"Malygris doesn't seem to be home," the short gray one had said.

They had come seeking him, those two. To what end? In whose service?

And what part did the ruler of Lankhmar play?

Too many questions and no answers.

He dared not set magical protections on the tower. Such might anger the spirits of this place. Certainly it would betray him to the wizards and sorcerers he knew were seeking him— might as well send a beacon of light up into the darkness.

No, it was best to change his hiding place. He waited only for the moon and the stars to verify his judgment.

But glancing up, he frowned. A thin veil of mist dimmed the stars. He shot a look toward the river, and his heart quailed. A thick white fog crawled over the banks, swallowing ships, wharves. The fishing district faded from sight, and still it came on, unstoppable.

One by one, the stars vanished. The fog advanced, approaching his tower, swallowing everything in its path. Malygris cried aloud in despair and thrust out his hands as if to hold back the massive tide. It swept around him, soft and warm as breath.

Cursing, he flung up the roof's trap door and descended into a large, round room, the tower's uppermost. A dozen candles illuminated the chamber. A crude pallet marked the place where he slept. A small stack of books and parchments lay scattered around it. Tiny pieces of down drifted in the air, and scattered about the floor lay small bones and the plucked corpses of raw, half-eaten birds.

Malygris waved a hand under his nose, silently cursing the thick smell of smoke that pervaded the air. He paced nervously back and forth. An overwhelming sense of danger buzzed like a wasp in the back of his head. Chewing his lip, he began to gather his books, which, like everything else, smelled of smoke. From hiding place to hiding place he had carried them, his few treasures, and now they were nearly ruined with the horrible reek. Dumping them disgustedly on his blanket, he tied the corners and shouldered the bundle.

Then, slowly he set it down again.

A strange feeling of calm settled over him. He turned back to the steps that led through the trap door to the roof, climbed them. The door, so old and rarely used, hung warped and swollen upon its horizontal jamb. He had neglected to close it carefully. Wisps of vapor floated at its edges where one corner gapped. It mattered nothing to him. Pushing the door back, he ascended and stepped out into the white night.

The fog reduced Lankhmar's skyline to a few ghostly silhouettes. In the thick mist that drifted through the air, the distorted shapes of towers and minarets seemed to waver. The nearest rooftops appeared and disappeared as the thinnest of breezes stirred the currents.

Staring northward from the parapet, Malygris felt a rush of joy. He whispered a name. "Laurian."

The fog quivered as if in response, white as Laurian's skin, soft as the body of the woman Malygris loved. He closed his eyes as he thought of her. Was it her perfume he smelled riding on the vapor? Her cool touch that brushed, delicate as a feather, over his face and throat?

His eyes snapped open, and he chided himself. Why was he hiding? Sadaster was dead, and—however inadvertently—most of Lankhmar s mages with him. What mattered if his greatest working had somehow gone awry? He was still Malygris, and the city feared him.

"Laurian," he whispered again as he gazed longingly in the direction of her house. He licked his lips. Her name in his mouth tasted sweet as honey. His heartbeat quickened with a building desire.

He had allowed her time—a proper period to mourn and to forget her husband. A year this very night since the Great Casting of his spell, and six months since Sadaster's funeral. The time for mourning was over.

He clutched his fists, shivering inside even as his skin seemed to burn, and his mind churned with thoughts of love. Out of courtesy, he had denied himself long enough. No longer would he wait to claim his heart's desire.

Forgetting all else, he climbed the parapet and plunged head-first over the side. But he did not fall. Spider-like, he crawled down the side of the ancient tower, defying nature. Even the mist seemed to recoil in revulsion from the scuttling shape he made on the crumbling black stone. Once he paused, and his head jerked back and forth as he surveyed the empty, fog-bound streets. When he reached the ground, he laughed softly.

The fence that surrounded the tower offered no greater challenge. Climbing it, he strode up Nun Street and into the heart of the River District. Even in the fog, he knew the way to her estate. In his mind, in his heart, in his dreams he had made this trip a thousand times, a groom going to claim his bride.

On the street-side of a white wall, he stopped. Again, his gaze swept cautiously up and down the misty avenue. No sign of life, not even a sound. The fog smothered everything. He might have been walking through a dead city.

A leer that resembled a snarl curled his lips. Considering the power and effect of his Great Casting, the analogy was apt.

Employing his peculiar talent, he climbed the wall and scuttled down the other side to stand within Sadaster’s estate.

Through one window only, a light shone. That lonely amber beam spilled down through the limbs of dead lemon and orange trees, through the twisted and brittle branches of lifeless rose bushes, to weave upon the ground a shadowy webwork that spread throughout the ruined garden.

Malygris drew himself erect. Boldly, he strode forward, crushing old mint and juniper under his tread, scattering old leaves, brushing aside the limbs. A sense of triumph filled him. Reaching the house, he looked up again at that window, whose shutters were thrown wide in invitation. In a matter of moments he crouched upon the sill.

His heart soared! In the center of the room in which he found himself, stood all his dreams and hopes fulfilled. Breath caught in his throat, and his heart hammered.

The lamplight played with dazzling effect upon the diamonds in the folds of white that draped his bride. Veiled, Laurian turned toward him and lifted her arms.

"I've been waiting for you," she said, silken-voiced. "Come, and receive my Wedding Vow."

Malygris sprang forward, passion burning in his blood, desire expelling all reason. Laurian's arms went around him, and he caught the edge of her veil, seeking the taste of her lips.

"Receive now, my Wedding Vow," she said as he drew the concealing cloth from her face.

Malygris gasped as she turned her eyes upward. Horror surged through him—he saw his own handiwork in those blind, blood-specked orbs. He tried to recoil, but her arms tightened about him. A sharp pain lanced into his back. Screaming, he pushed her away. "What. . . ?"

"My dagger," Laurian hissed, brandishing the bloodied blade. Droplets of red splattered upon her shimmering dress. "I named it for the occasion." She threw herself at him, catching his garments with a determined grip. With all her force she drove the blade upward. "Now receive it again!"

In Sameel's bed, Fafhrd rose suddenly up on his elbows, pleasure forgotten, as a shrill scream reverberated in the corridors. Before he could react, a second and higher-pitched shriek followed.

Sameel's eyes widened with fear. "Mistress!" she cried.

Instantly, Fafhrd threw back the sheets and sprang to the floor. Grabbing his sword with one hand and his breeches in the other, he flung open the door and raced for the library on the upper story.

Launching himself up the marble stairs, taking them two and three at a time, he tripped on the topmost step, fell heavily, and rolled to his feet again, leaving his garment behind. Down the hall he ran with Laurian's scream still echoing in his ears, straight for the library.

Fafhrd smashed through the ornate doors and whipped Sadaster's sword from its sheath.

A ragged, shriveled figure bent over Laurian's half-prone form, fingers locked and squeezing her throat as he cursed her with incoherent snarls. Blood spattered Laurian's white dress. Even as she gurgled for desperate breath, she beat one fist at her attacker's face and groped with the other hand for a dagger just inches beyond her reach.

Thin tendrils of fog, reaching in through the window, curled about the invader's waist, one arm, an ankle. Another snaked about his neck. Quivering and weak, they tried to drag the man off Laurian, but he resisted with a hideous strength, tightening his deadly grip.

Fafhrd screamed his challenge as he leaped to Laurian's rescue. "Malygris!"

The wizard's head snapped up. An animal-like growl issued from a thin mouth. Dark eyes gleamed with a horrible power. Shrugging off the gray tendrils that sought to hold him, he rose to meet Fafhrd. "Another man in your house already?" he raged at Laurian. "Unfaithful whore!"

As Fafhrd charged across the carpet, his senses unexpectedly whirled. The embroidery beneath his feet moved strangely, and the pattern shifted. Impossibly, the stylized vines and creepers woven into the rug assumed three-dimensions and rose up to thwart his attack.

Like some monstrously camouflaged man-eating plant, the carpet came to life. With a startled cry, Fafhrd swung the huge sword, slashing left and right. For every vine he cut, two more lashed at him. Serpent-like, they struck at his face, at his eyes, constricted his chest, tried to crush the breath from him. Coils ensnared his legs and sought to topple him.

Heart pounding with fear and fury, he caught a slender shoot as it looped about his neck. With all his might, he ripped it away. A sticky ichor filled his palm, ran down his arm. It burned his skin!

Malygris laughed harshly, his visage a frightening mask of anger, hatred, and pain. Turning his bloody back to Fafhrd, he bent over Laurian once more. Weakly, she dragged herself the few inches across the floor and reached for the dagger. Malygris pushed it away with a slippered toe. Then he began to throttle her once more, slowly and with relish.

"Leave her alone!" Fafhrd shouted, winning a few steps' progress into the room through the murderous jungle that assailed him. Vines whipped up immediately to encase his thighs, his waist. "Damn you to hell!"

Malygris showed no concern. "I am in hell already," he answered with grim savagery. "Without love, without hope, without Laurian."

The snap of bones filled the room. Laurian's eyes opened wide, then a sigh escaped her parted lips, and her feeble resistance ended.

"No!" Sameel streaked into the library. "I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" she cried hysterically. The vines and creepers that filled the air seemed oblivious to her presence. Before Malygris could react, she tackled the wizard, knocking him to the floor.

In her hands, she held Fafhrd's bunched breeches. Riding Malygris's back, she wrapped the leggings around his head, blinding him, choking him. At the same time, she struggled to reach Laurian's dagger.

Ensorceled vines and branches recoiled back into the carpet. Fafhrd grunted in surprise, suddenly freed, but wasted no time questioning the how or why. Raising his sword, he lunged forward. Now, with a stroke, he would avenge Laurian and Sadaster, and claim the drop of heart's blood that would end this madness.

Sheelba had sent him on an errand of cold-blooded murder, but leaping past Laurian's body, his blood ran very hot, indeed.

Before he could strike, however, Malygris rose. With little more than a shrug, he flung Sameel backward directly into Fafhrd's path. Whirling about, he clawed the breeches from his head.

Dark fire flared in the pits of his eyes. Again, the carpet's pattern came to life.

"Don't look at his eyes!" Sameel cried, throwing herself at the wizard again.

Malygris batted her aside with the back of his hand, sending her crashing into the silver sarcophagus. As she sagged to the floor, he glared at Laurian's body and backed warily toward the open window.

Fafhrd fought the vines again as they sought to entangle him. But Sameel's outcry rang in his ears, and suddenly he understood. "Illusions!" he cursed. "Here's a trick for you, monster!"

He flung the sword with all his strength, straight for Malygris. But the wizard dived headfirst through the window. The blade flashed through the space where only an instant before he had stood. The point bit deep into the woodwork, quivering. For a moment it protruded there, then fell to the carpet.

Malygris's mad spell dissolved again. Fafhrd snatched up his sword and leaned out the window. Halfway down the wall, clinging to the side of the house like an insect, Malygris looked up and snarled.

"Naked fool! I am not done with you!"

Fafhrd hawked and spat. The wad of saliva splashed on Malygris's bald head. Without a word, he catapulted over the sill and landed in a crouch on the ground direcdy below the wizard.

"Then come down and have done with me!" he called angrily, all fear gone now. Only the desire for vengeance boiled in his heart.

But Malygris refused to descend. With his strange talent, he crawled sideways upon the house, seeking escape around the corner. Fafhrd ran after him, leaping high and swinging his sword. Malygris climbed toward the roof out of range.

Drops of blood splattered the dead grass below him. Fafhrd noted the spoor with a grim nod. Laurian had struck a blow, at least. Fafhrd determined to make his own mark.

Keeping one eye on the wizard's position, he shot a look around the garden. A ring of dirty white stones made a border around a withered rose bush. Driving the point of his sword into the earth, Fafhrd tore up two rocks the size of his fists.

"Hey, spider-face!" he called. Malygris paused at the very roof edge and foolishly looked back.

The first stone impacted the side of the house, cracking the stucco and causing a shower of plaster. The second struck Malygris's elbow.

The wizard howled in pain, an inhuman sound that chilled Fafhrd's blood, yet pleased him bitterly. He bent to snatch up another stone, but when he drew back to throw it, Malygris had achieved the roof. His shadowy form melted into the dark-tiled background.

Grabbing his sword, Fafhrd ran with his rock through the garden to the opposite side of the house, ready to continue the battle. Squinting, breathing furiously, he scrutinized the gutters, the roof summit, the walls, the grounds. Then he ran back to the other side again.

With a curse, he swung his blade in a powerful arc and carved a deep gash in the sod. Tasting failure, he remembered Laurian and Sameel. He would have another chance at Malygris—both he and the wizard had sworn it.

Flinging open the garden doors, he made his way through a darkened foyer and found the stairs to the upper floor. The library doors hung crookedly on their hinges. He rushed inside.

Sameel cradled Laurian in her arms on the carpet. She turned a tear-streaked face toward him. "Malygris?" she asked hopefully.

"Gone," he answered. "Laurian?"

Sameel brushed hair from her mistress's face. "She's with Sa-daster now."

Fafhrd picked up the scabbard he had cast aside and sheathed Sadaster's sword. A new anger welled up within him as he clenched his fist around the hilt. "Why?" he raged. "Why did she challenge him alone? We should have planned it together, chosen the time ..."

Sameel smiled wanly. "You didn't know Laurian."

/ know she's dead, Fafhrd nearly snapped. Instead, he bit his tongue and shook his head. "She should have let us help."

Sameel leaned her head forward until it touched Laurian's brow. "I helped," she whispered. "Didn't I, mistress?"

"What?" Crouching down beside her, Fafhrd lifted her chin, forced her to look at him.

She gave a weak laugh that sent a new chill through Fafhrd. "She asked me for a favor," she said, turning her face away. "Something important, something that would insure Malygris's coming."

Fafhrd knelt closer, confused as well as angry, but suddenly frightened again as he peered at Sameel and perceived in her a new, desperate quality. It seemed as if her mind were unhinging. He started to speak again, but she put up a hand to stop his lips.

A moment of lucidity settled upon her face, and in her eyes he saw a sadness so deep it set his soul to aching. "Don't ask," she said, her words feather-soft, her breath herb-sweet. "The answer might hurt too much. And I will never tell."

Her eyes fluttered, and her head sank down upon Laurian's head again.

"Sameel?" he said.

She didn't answer.

A dark stain spread slowly across the carpet beneath Laurian's body. Fafhrd stared, puzzled. Too much blood for Malygris's wounds, and Laurian hadn't been stabbed. He noted how gingerly Sameel supported her mistress's limp form in her left; arm. His eyes spied Laurian's dagger so close at hand.

With a despairing cry, he caught the hidden arm and tugged it free. "What have you done?"

Blood swelled freely from the vein she had opened lengthwise and properly. It ran over her palm, through her fingers, dripped into Laurian's dark hair, into Laurian's shut eyes.

Sameel pulled her arm away and hugged it to her bare breast. "All the kindness, all the joy I have known in this world flowed from my mistress and my master," she said. An eerie happiness filled her voice. "They will need me in the Shadowland."

A hollow silence settled through the room. Fafhrd's eyes burned, and his heart threatened to burst. Kneeling, clutching his sword as if it were a holy relic, he banged his head again and again on the pommelstone.

Looking up, Sameel touched his knee. A dull light, swiftly fading, lingered in her eyes as she sought his gaze. "I didn't mean that—not all the joy," she whispered. She spoke his name once, then leaned down to wrap her mistress in a final embrace.

All through their night together, she had called him only, my lord.

Fafhrd raised his fists and screamed in rage and pain. For a long time he remained beside them, awash in memories, paralyzed by old and new regrets. Then, carrying both women, he placed Laurian on her velvet chair and arranged Sameel on her mistress's lap.

Closing the two halves of the silver sarcophagus around them, Fafhrd sat down and leaned his head against it.

After a time, he got to his feet, collected his breeches and other garments from Sameel's room, and dressed. While Malygris breathed, he would save his grief, and hoard his anger like a treasure of incalculable worth.

Meanwhile, there was the Mouser to find.

Carefully he closed the gates of the estate and stepped into the street outside. A soft breeze blew through the avenue, sweeping away a misty fog. Hugging himself beneath his cloak, he turned southward.

But before he went far, a harsh mirth echoed down the night, freezing him in mid-step. Even with its bitter edge, he knew that peeling laugh. "Vlana?" he said, casting a searching gaze about.

In the dark mouth of an alley, he thought he glimpsed a pale shape, a hint of flashing eyes, a wisp of hair floating about a familiar face. But when he rushed to the spot, no one was there.