Swords Against the Shadowland

SEVENTEEN WIZARD'S RAGE

Squads of soldiers came racing down Nun Street, drawn by the crackling flames that engulfed Sadaster's estate. Mindful of the Mouser's status as a wanted man, Fafhrd caught his partner's elbow and quickly pushed him into the thick of the spectators.

The Mouser understood and drew his hood closer about his face. Without drawing attention to themselves, they slipped through the crowd into a narrow, serpentine alley and quick-footed away from the scene, emerging some blocks eastward in Crypt Court.

Tall ramshackle apartment buildings, mostly abandoned, rose on all sides of the square. The structures were among the oldest in Lankhmar, and they showed it, leaning at crazy angles on their ancient, eroded foundations. Sunlight streamed through holes in the roofs, through cracked and weathered walls.

Only the poorest and most desperate Lankhmarans, those at the very nadir of their luck, came here to live. The individual apartments were no more than tiny, cheerless cells—hence the name, Crypt Court. The floorings were treacherously rotten and the windows shutterless. A good wind could raise a creaking and a groaning from the wooden beams and set the structures to swaying.

Such was the nature of Lankhmar that its worst tenements stood side by side with its wealthiest neighborhoods, connected sometimes by no more than a narrow road or a few alleyways. At the center of the court, a small cracked fountain gurgled softly. Water from a ceramic pipe trickled into a round pool whose bottom was covered with a mossy, dark green growth. Pushing his cloak back over his shoulders, Fafhrd dipped a hand into the water, and wiped his face and neck. Though he declined to say so to the Mouser, a dull ache banged at the back of his head from the wine he had drunk.

Even here, a smell of smoke hung in the air, evoking memories of Sadaster’s fantastic library, of Laurian, of sweet Sameel and the joy she had given him. He grieved for those books and grieved anew for the ladies. The thought of their bodies burning in that holocaust angered and sickened him.

"I can't get over the way Jesane looked," the Mouser said wearily as he stretched his legs out before him and sat on the fountain's low stone wall. Pursing his lips thoughtfully, he cradled his chin in one palm. His face took on a troubled, faraway look.

"Laurian had the same look when she died," Fafhrd said quietly. "At the end, she seemed to age rapidly, and her beauty faded like a rose in a . . ."—he hesitated before finishing his remark— ... in a fire.

The Mouser drew his legs up and leaned on his knees. "Nuulpha said that Jesane was older than she looked. Demptha, too.

Unconsciously, Fafhrd mirrored the Mouser's posture, leaning his elbows on his knees, cradling his chin as he stared at the cobbled court. "In our dream," he said at last, "Sadaster used enchantment to keep Laurian young."

The Mouser looked up sharply. "You never cease to amaze me, Fafhrd," he said. "You've done what I could not—fit together two pieces of the puzzle."

Fafhrd brightened at the compliment, then frowned. "What puzzle?"

The Mouser barked a short laugh and then gave an exaggerated shrug. "I don't know!" he said. "But can it be coincidence that two women we know are dead under arcane circumstances, and that both were magically preserving their beauty against all nature?"

Fafhrd scratched the new copper-colored beard on his cheeks. He hadn't shaved for days now, and the short growth itched. "What has any of that to do with the reason we are here, namely Malygris?"

"I don't know!" the Mouser said again, waving his hands irritably as he rose to his feet. Abruptly he froze in mid-gesture. "Or maybe I do know. To strike at Laurian's husband, Malygris created his thrice-cursed curse. Jesane and her father worked to bring some comfort to innocent victims of that curse."

"That's pretty thin," Fafhrd scoffed.

"Perhaps," the Gray Mouser admitted. "But there's one thing I know well enough." Forcing a grin, he put a hand to his stomach. "I'm so hungry I could eat a Quarmallian ox."

Fafhrd raised an eyebrow and glanced at the empty dwellings that surrounded them. "You'd better keep that face of yours out of sight," he said, rising to his feet. "I’ll find breakfast. You see if you can find us a room around here."

Scratching his head, the Mouser turned in a slow circle. "Can we afford this neighborhood?" he asked.

Fafhrd patted his purse. "It's in our price range," he answered. "I wasn't fool enough to leave Sadaster's house without a few choice baubles."

"Well if price is no object," the Mouser said with a dainty curtsey, "I'll find your Lordship a rathole with a view."

"I'll settle for a solid floor."

Fafhrd adjusted the hood of his cloak to conceal his face as he started back through the alley to Nun Street. The smell of smoke hung in the air as he reached the thoroughfare, and to the north, a black plume rose into the blue sky.

At first, he considered joining the crowd he knew would be gathered to watch the fire. There would be plenty of pockets to pick and purse strings to cut. However, the Thieves' Guild would no doubt have agents working the same crowd, and though he longed for an excuse to tangle with that group again, now was not the time.

He worked his way west, keeping to narrow roads and back streets, until he came to the river. A pair of barges, majestically graceful for their cumbersome size and design, sailed past with pennons streaming in the wind, headed for Lankhmar's southern lands. A few fishing boats, trawling close to the shores, bounced on the barges' powerful wakes.

Standing in the dusty, rutted track that paralleled the river, Fafhrd scanned the banks with an intense gaze, noting an old woman with her basket of laundry, a fisherman half asleep over a cane pole, a trio of young boys skipping stones. For a moment, he envied them their simple, carefree lives.

But they weren't really carefree, he reminded himself. If he had learned nothing else he knew this, that everyone struggled. The old woman probably worked to support herself. The fisherman waited patiently for the fish that would feed his family. The children—perhaps they wondered where they would sleep next, and would they be safe?

He looked at them again, those citizens of Lankhmar, willing himself to see past the surface, through the illusion. They were poor; their clothes gave that away. They were brave, too; they went about their tasks and their lives, while others in the city hid from the madness that pervaded the city.

He wondered what ghosts they carried around.

Stepping off the road, he followed the grassy bank until he reached the old woman's side. Her back was bent and arched as she leaned over the water. The knobby ridges of her spine showed right through the threadbare black dress she wore. A frayed brown ribbon wound through her gray hair and held it in a knot on top of her head, exposing the deep wrinkles carved into her bird-like neck and high-cheeked face.

As Fafhrd's shadow fell across the water, she froze. Then, tossing a sopping wad of cloth into the basket at her side, she sat stiffly back on her heels and looked up wordlessly. Her eyes, though they contained a certain fear, revealed more—a deep resignation, perhaps even boredom, that let her face death, if such this giant represented, with an almost imperious dignity.

"Don't worry, grandmother," Fafhrd said as he reached into his purse. He pulled out a necklace of amethysts and silver beads, thinking of Sameel and Laurian, from whose room he had taken it. Kneeling down, he spread the precious ornament upon the wet clothes and forced a smile. Briefly, he touched her shoulder. Then he concealed the necklace beneath a damp fold. "Something for a rainy day."

The old woman gazed at her mysterious benefactor for a long, suspicious moment before her eyes flickered to the basket. Fafhrd rose quietly and moved back to the road, feeling a rare satisfaction. He thought Laurian would be pleased, too. He shot a final glance back over his shoulder—and paused.

For an instant, as she rose half-crouched over her basket, her black dress hanging on her frail form like an old loose robe, she reminded him of someone else. He recalled another thin figure draped in black—the fisherman, poling his skiff across the river late at night, the pilot who, in a stranger form, had sailed upon a sea of fog through his dreams.

He had been looking for that figure, he realized, as he scanned the riverbanks again. Instead, he had found the old woman, so thin and gray, at the end of her days. Repressing a shiver as he watched her from a distance, he wondered, was this an omen of his own demise?

The old woman rearranged the items in her basket. Kneeling down again, she took another garment and dipped it in the river. Gathering it wet, she scrubbed it determinedly between her gnarly knuckles, her face stern, almost impassive, as she returned to her common task.

Fafhrd lifted his head and drew a deep breath. If she was an omen, she also represented a lesson. Life, however short, went on. He felt a slight tightening in his chest, the threat of a cough, a barely perceptible weakness, but he chuckled to himself. Despite her newly gained wealth, the old woman went on with her job. He also had a job to do, a task to complete.

And suddenly he knew how he would do it.

Turning, he began to whistle as he walked toward the wharves. The morning sun warmed his face, and the sweet smell that rose off the water refreshed his spirit. Even the breeze that played in the ropes and cables of the ships at dock, and the lapping of the waves that set the boards to creaking, sounded like music—the music of life.

If the merchants at the heart of Lankhmar were too timid to venture out and open their shops, not so the common laborers who worked the riverfront. A line of sweaty, bare-chested workmen loaded barrels aboard a waiting bireme. A captain called commands to his crew. A teary-eyed girl, blond hair sparkling in the sunlight, blue cloak stirring about her like gossamer in the wind, waved a hanky at her sweetheart.

A half block eastward from the wharves on curvy Eel Street, Fafhrd used a thin gold ring to purchase a quantity of hot, buttered fish, which the pinch-faced old merchant carefully rolled in the stout, broad mint leaves that grew south of Lankhmar. At another shop across the road, he paid several tik-pennies for two loaves of bread and a round of pale cheese. For another tik-penny, the proprietor's wife offered him a worn cloth sack to carry his purchases.

At yet another shop, he bought an earthen jug and several beans of precious gahvey. Back at the wharves, he lingered for a final time inside a shop that sold ships' supplies, purchasing two pitch torches, an oil lamp, and a tinder box.

With his shopping in the sack slung over his shoulder, he made his way back to Crypt Court. The Mouser hailed him with a wave from a third-floor window.

Fafhrd beckoned his companion to join him by the fountain, where he spread out his feast. The fish, though cool, still smelled with a mouth-watering richness as he set them on the fountain's low wall. Next, he gathered handfuls of dry grass that grew between the court's flagstones and added bits of old twigs and rotten splinters of wood that he found in the shadows of the buildings. Using the tinderbox, he soon had a small fire going.

"You're in a good mood," the Mouser noted as he reached Fafhrd's side.

"I feel good," Fafhrd answered as he filled the jug he'd bought with water from the fountain. He placed it in the flames to boil and gestured toward the sack. "Carve us some cheese and slice the bread."

Lifting the cheese close to his hawkish nose, the Mouser inhaled deeply and let go a noisy sigh. Catsclaw came out of its sheath. Carving a thin slice, the Mouser popped it into his mouth, closed his eyes, and sighed again. Then, noticing Fafhrd's actions, his jaw gaped.

"Is that gahvey?" he asked eagerly.

Fafhrd nodded as he ground the precious black beans vigorously between his palms and sprinkled them into the jug of water. "Did you find us an apartment?"

"With a solid floor, as your Lordship requested," he said, carving a slice of bread. "But watch the stairs as you go up, and don't put any weight at all on the bannisters."

Leaning their backs against the fountain wall, they ate, savoring the minty butter-flavored fish, the strong cheese, and the fresh bread. When the gahvey was ready, they pulled it from the fire with gloved fingers and waited for it to cool sufficiently. They drank, passing the jar between them.

"We're not alone," Fafhrd whispered suddenly as he cast a subtle glance toward an upper-level window where a small face had appeared briefly and quickly disappeared.

"They're quick," the Mouser said, sipping the gahvey. "I noticed them earlier. I believe we've discovered where the city's street urchins spend their nights."

With a bite of bread at his lips, Fafhrd hesitated. He'd spent his own youth in the comparative luxury afforded by his mother's high station in the Cold Wastes. As the leader of the Snow Clan, and a Snow Witch herself, her tent had never lacked for heat, nor furs to wear, nor food to eat. In his own distant land, he was practically a prince.

Slowly he lowered the morsel from his mouth and placed it beside the remains of their meal. There was still some fish left, some bread, and plenty of cheese. Taking his own dagger, he carved the cheese and bread into neat slices and arranged it all along the fountain's wall.

"What are you doing?" the Mouser asked, setting the gahvey jar aside and reaching for another bite of fish.

Fafhrd rapped the Mouser's knuckles with the flat of the dagger's blade. "A good deed," he explained. "You've stuffed yourself enough. A fat partner will be useless to me later."

The Mouser stuck out his tongue. Then patting his stomach, he released a loud belch in Fafhrd's direction. "Speaking of useless," he said, pointing to his companion's other purchases, "why buy torches? The lantern will serve us well and safely come nightfall, but an unshielded firestick could send this entire court up in flames. And between us, I've seen enough fire for one day."

"The lantern's to light our newfound nest," Fafhrd said. "The torches are for another purpose." Without offering further explanation, he drained the last of the gahvey and rose to his feet. "I propose to sleep," he announced, stretching. "I think we have a long night ahead of us."

Still seated, the Mouser leaned back on his hands and regarded Fafhrd queerly. "I think you have some plan stewing in that fine brain of yours," he said.

"Leave the leftovers for the children," Fafhrd continued as if the Mouser had not spoken. Leaning over the fountain, he filled the jar with water. "And light the lantern now before I douse our little fire. There's oil enough in it to last."

Rising slowly, the Mouser shrugged. "Well, if we feed them a little now, maybe they won't try to knock us in the head while we sleep." Selecting a small burning twig from the fire, he touched it to the lantern's wick and lowered the perforated metal shield over the flame.

Fafhrd upended the jar. A loud hissing and sputtering followed as fire and water met. A cloud of steam and smoke boiled upward, and the air smelled of ash.

Again, Fafhrd thought of the splendid books in Sadaster's library, all lost to flames, and once more, he grieved. But when melancholy threatened to descend upon him, he fought it off with a little song.

With the fire extinguished and the lantern lit, they made their way out of the sunlight and into the gloom of the ramshackle building the Mouser had chosen for them. The wooden stairs creaked and shivered under their weight as they climbed to a third-floor apartment.

"Don't touch the bannister," the Mouser warned again, his voice automatically dropping to a whisper. He placed his palm on the once-ornate support to show how loose and rotten it had become.

"The finest suite in Lankhmar," Fafhrd said, frowning as he followed his partner into their rooms. Just past the threshold, a man-sized hole perforated the floor. Pausing, he peered down into the dirty rooms below, then stepped carefully around it, feeling the boards give menacingly beneath his every step. "I hope the rats appreciate such luxury."

The window allowed a commanding view of the court below. A pair of old shutters had been opened and pushed back against the outer wall. Seizing the right shutter by its latch, he eased it back and forth, testing its hinges. Metal protested noisily, then old wood sighed. The shutter came loose at the top and leaned outward away from Fafhrd's grasp. Its own weight too much, it pulled loose from the bottom and tumbled to the ground.

"I swear I can't take you anywhere," the Mouser said, placing the lantern in one corner on the floor and setting down the bag that contained the torches. "What will the landlord say?"

Fafhrd removed his sword, then spread his cloak upon the dusty floor. "Wake me if he wants to lodge a complaint," he said, curling up. Hugging the sheathed blade to his chest, he closed his eyes without another word, leaving the Mouser standing with hands on his hips, gaping open-mouthed.

Fafhrd woke drenched in sweat. Slowly, he sat up and wiped a hand over his face. Saturated with perspiration, his garments clung to him. The cloak on which he slept showed a clear, damp outline of his body. He didn't feel warm or feverish, but he shifted position, moving closer to the window.

The last colors of twilight lingered in the west as night moved in from the east. A strange sky, he thought, observing the mottled shades of gray, deep blues, and black. A bruised sky. A flock of blackbirds winged slowly, gracefully, overhead. Fafhrd watched them pass out of sight.

A soft evening breeze blew across the rooftops. It kissed his face and dried his sweat as he drew a deep breath of fresh air.

Long shadows filled the court below. He gazed toward the fountain. Not a single crumb of the food left there remained. Smiling to himself, he scanned the darkened windows and doors of the apartments opposite him. Far down the way, a small head lingered watchfully low in the corner of a third-floor shutterless square.

How many, he wondered. How many children—orphans and runaways—called these treacherous structures home? He felt the shiver of the wind through the old boards, the ever-so-slight swaying in the beams and timbers. A rare wave of pity swept over him, and he wished that he'd had more food to leave.

He, himself, had never known an orphan's existence.

Not so for his partner, he thought as he gazed across the darkening room. The Mouser slept sitting up in a corner, his back against the wall, feet crossed like an eastern philosopher, chin resting on his chest, arms hanging lank at his sides. The low flame of the lantern perched on the rickety table nearby downlit his somber, sleeping features.

The Mouser never talked at all about his early youth. He had never known his parents. He might have been the son of some starving whore that couldn't afford to keep him, or the secret cast-off shame of some noblewoman or queen. He didn't know his land of origin, or even if he had ever had a proper name. Like a small, ferocious animal he had fought and scrapped for every bite of food, for every moment of his cruel existence until the herb-wizard, Glavas Rho, stumbling upon the little savage in the alleys of Lankhmar and, seeing some spark in the boy, took him in, educated him, and gave him a taste for the finer things civilization offered.

Noting the sky's deepening color, Fafhrd rose slowly to his feet, careful not to make the old boards creak and thus disturb his friend. Retrieving his cloak, he fastened it about his shoulders, then chose a torch from the pair he had purchased earlier. Lastly, he fastened his sword in place on his hip and crept soundlessly to the apartment door. Pausing, he looked back.

The Mouser had not stirred. His slender chest rose and fell in a soft, even sleep-rhythm. His gray partner would be angry to wake and find himself alone, Fafhrd knew, but this one battle he felt he must fight alone. Only he, not the Mouser, had been touched by Malygris's curse. He would not risk exposing his good friend to the magical forces he intended to challenge this night.

He crept carefully down the stairs in utter darkness, feeling his way, testing every step lest his weight plunge him through some rotten wood. At the bottom, he paused in the doorway and gazed out over the courtyard. A pair of small shadows sat on a nearby stoop. Swift and alert as mice, they vanished inside as Fafhrd stepped into the open.

Feeling inside his purse, which was still full of Laurian's jewelry, he found a bracelet. Blood-red garnets depending from silver links glimmered darkly in the pale starlight that reached into the court. Fafhrd crossed the expanse and placed it on the very stoop where the children had sat.

"Take this bauble to Fisret the Fence on the Street of Honest Men," he whispered into the black opening of a doorway. "The profit should feed you all for a week if you spend wisely." He paused, listening, but expecting no answer. He had no doubt, though, that the children heard him. Finally he added, "Tell the old rat-face that Fafhrd of the Red Hair, to whom he owes a thousand favors, sent you. That will guarantee a fair-value trade."

He turned from the stoop, expecting no thanks. Such children as these trusted no one outside of their small band, least of all a huge adult of uncertain intentions with a sword longer than the tallest of them. He strode away, but after a few paces, glanced back over his shoulder and grinned as a tiny hand on a skinny arm shot out and snatched the treasure. "You're welcome," Fafhrd murmured.

Clutching his unlit torch, he left Crypt Court, feeling his way through alleys so narrow the walls brushed his shoulders. The sun had little chance to bake the ground in such close passages. Slime and filth mucked his boots. Wrinkling his nose against the pungent odors of mud and slop-jar leavings, he draped the hem of his cloak over one arm to avoid soiling it.

Like a fleet shadow, he crossed Nun Street, deftly avoiding the street lanterns and a patrol of soldiers marching south in tight formation. He watched their backs until they were out of sight, wondering what business they were about. Then, once more keeping to the alleys and back streets, he made his way past homes and apartments, shops and warehouses until he stood on the shore of the River Hlal.

A cool breeze kissed his face, and the lapping of little waves sounded like soft music. The dark water glimmered and gleamed under the rich spangle of stars that filled Lankhmar’s sky. Fafhrd drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, appreciating the serene beauty, tasting for just a brief moment the unending vastness of life represented by the river and the heavens.

After a moment, he began to wander the bank. He gathered pieces of driftwood, tore up small handfuls of dry grass and piled them together. With his sharp eyes, he searched the water's edge for the whitest, smoothest stones. Carefully, he rinsed them clean of any mud. Upon each stone, he blew a stream of breath, and when he had enough, he built a small, crude pyramid beside his pile of grass and driftwood.

Rummaging in his purse, digging past Laurian's jewels, he found the tinderbox he had purchased earlier that day and set to work over the grass and driftwood. When the grass at last took fire, he seized the pitch torch, which he had set aside, and lit it. He forced the end into the ground so that it stood beside his pyramid.

In his circle of light, Fafhrd knelt down and drew out his dagger. Extending his left arm over the pyramid, he drew the razor sharp blade across his flesh. A thin red stream splashed upon the white stones.

"Kos," he whispered, murmuring a prayer to that grim northern god of his ancestors as he watched his red essence seep over and around the stones. "I seldom call your name except for the most blasphemous of reasons. But taste this blood of your wayward son upon this small altar and hear me now. Reach out from the silence of the Icy Wastes, place your hoary hand in my enemy's back, and compel him to me."

He bent closer over the makeshift altar as a few more drops of blood splattered the stones. His green eyes glittered, and his copper curls shone like liquid gold in the firelight. "Cold Kos," he urged, "do this—and the next three virgins I take, I'll deflower in your name."

A sharp wind gusted at his back. The torch and the campfire fluttered wildly. A thin spray lifted from the river, dampening his neck, and a veil of dust swept upward from the grassy bank to roll inland.

Through that veil of dust a cloaked form stood suddenly revealed.

"Your frozen god can't help you, barbarian," the figure hissed. With one hand, it pushed back a concealing hood. Firelight gleamed on a bald head and small spidery eyes.

A hideous smile turned up the corners of Fafhrd's lips. Rising calmly, he tossed back the edge of his cloak to reveal Graywand. He wrapped his fingers slowly, deliberately, around its hilt, not defensively, not out of surprise. From that cool gesture issued a deadly threat and promise of battle.

"Truly, the gods move in mysterious ways," Fafhrd said in a grim voice, "Kos is generous to have delivered you up so quickly." Touching the wound on the back of his sword arm with two fingers, he drew a pair of red streaks on each cheek, his gaze never leaving Malygris's face.

"Pathetic dog," the wizard said. "I've watched you all night and day and into this night again, since the moment you left Laurian's side, waited to punish you for daring to defile my true love!"

"As you have dared to defile the memory of my one true love!" Fafhrd shot back angrily. "I realized today. It isn't Vlana's ghost that haunts me through the city streets, but a damnable trick of your illusions!"

"Fool, and ranting fool!" Malygris answered bitterly. A hand thrust from under the folds of the wizard's cloak. In response, the small campfire flared. Tongues of flame shot outward, catching in the grass, burning with unnatural fury. A hot, crackling ring swiftly encircled Fafhrd.

Waves of heat whipped at the Northerner. For a reflexive instant, he threw up an arm to shield his eyes. Then grinning, he lowered his arm and drew Graywand from its sheath. The red light shimmered on the impressive length of steel.

"Spare me your cheap mirages," Fafhrd sneered, ignoring the circle of fire that drew ever tighter about him. He snatched up the torch standing at his side where he'd planted it in the earth. "Have some real fire," he said, flinging it.

The pitch torch whooshed through the night like a blazing missile, propelled by Fafhrd's might. A startled Malygris stared in wide-eyed disbelief, seemingly transfixed. At the last possible instant, voicing a small cry, he ducked and leaped aside. His foot caught in the grass, and as he tumbled backward, his cloak parted to reveal one arm bound tightly against his body. His face wrinkled in pain.

"So I did mark you," Fafhrd gloated, remembering that he'd hurled a stone and struck the wizard's elbow at their first meeting. "Well, I'll carve a deeper mark and rid Lankhmar of a rabid rat." Clutching Graywand in both hands, he swung the blade high. "Now a nightmare ends," he hissed.

Suddenly the world tilted. The ground began to spin. Earth and sky traded places and traded again. Fafhrd lurched backward, fighting for balance like a man on the deck of a tempest-tossed ship. He spun about, fell, landed on his back barely clinging to his sword as he cried out in rage and fear.

"Mock me now, barbarian." Malygris's voice laughed in his ears, but the wizard could not be seen. "You cannot even stand."

In a dim and desperate corner of his brain, Fafhrd realized that all he saw was still just illusion. He struggled to rise and toppled sideways again as the earth shifted under him and the sky whirled. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that would end the deception, but Malygris's power seared deeper into his mind. Though he fought disorientation, all his senses betrayed him. Still struggling, he opened his eyes again.

A ring of wizards surrounded him, all wearing the angry face of Malygris.

"I found you naked in her house," the wizards accused in chorus. "Tell me that you never touched her, and I'll kill you quickly."

"I can see you're beside yourself at the thought," Fafhrd answered sarcastically. By force of will, he fought to his knees. Gripping Graywand in both hands, he plunged it deep into the earth and clung. At least it was some small anchor, some point of reference, in this dizzying madness.

Instantly the world turned upside-down, and he screamed, expecting to find himself dangling from his sword's hilt. Instead, his posture relative to the weapon remained the same. With some relief, he stared at the ring of wizards. Which was the real one? How could he tell? Were any of them real?

A horrible thought struck him. The real Malygris, made invisible to him by illusion, might at this very moment be sneaking up on his backside. Clinging to Graywand with one hand, he grabbed his dagger and swung it in a wild arc as he tried to look around.

Malygris laughed again. "I can make this torment last all night," the wizard said. "Tell me! Did you touch Laurian?"

"How long will your torment last," Fafhrd shot back, "if I refuse to answer?" Again the world tilted. Desperately, he flung his arms around Graywand, his anchor, and tried to drive the illusion from his mind. "She chose Sadaster over you. What if she chose me over you, as well? What if she chose a thousand men, but never you?"

The images of Malygris threw back their heads and howled.

"I could tell you what an idiot you've been," Fafhrd muttered under his breath, feeling a growing sickness in his stomach. "Were I not about to lose my lunch."

"Laurian!"

The wizard's outcry startled Fafhrd. Even in his state, he heard the anguish and despair in that tortured shriek, and he wondered if, in some black corner of Malygris's evil heart, the wizard had, indeed, not merely coveted and desired Sadasters wife, but loved her.

Fafhrd swallowed. Steeling his courage, he gripped Graywand's hilt and carefully levered himself off his knees. At first, he crouched experimentally with his legs on either side of the sword. Then he stood precariously, not daring to let go.

"What kind of love," he said, his voice turning cold with contempt, "drives a man to murder? To lay a curse, not just upon his enemy, but upon uncounted innocent lives?"

Red anger flashed suddenly in the eyes of Malygris's images. "What do I care for innocent lives?" he shouted bitterly. "A spell got out of hand, that's all. To win Laurian's heart, I would burn Lankhmar to the ground!"

Fafhrd swallowed again. He thought of Vlana, his one true love, and a memory of her dark hair and bright eyes flashed softly through his mind. He smiled, recalling how he had climbed a high tree to catch his first sight of her as she danced in a tent for the men of his village.

His mother, Mor, had sought to keep him from that show and from the beautiful culture dancer. So Fafhrd and Vlana ran away from the show, from family, from the Cold Wastes—and from Mor, who in her anger and jealousy tried to kill them both with her ice magic.

Fafhrd shook his head. His mother, for all her faults, had been a good teacher, and her last lesson came home to him, suddenly clear.

It wasn't love that drove Malygris—only jealousy that had festered, poisoned, and turned into something monstrous.

"I touched her," Fafhrd said, a grim lie. "I topped her like a great ram. I rocked her bed until the walls shook with the force of our lust, and still she called out, 'More! More!'"

The wizards howled again. They flung out their good arms, and bolts of blue lightning lanced toward Fafhrd, burning him with furious cobalt energy.

But Fafhrd didn't burn, for these were the old, weaker illusions. '"Fafhrd! Fafhrd!' she cried. And once, 'Oh my poor Sadaster!'" He continued, mocking the wizard now, determined to cut Malygris deeper with words than any sword ever would. "Never once did she murmur your name."

For a moment, the spinning slowed and the world resumed its natural positioning. A single wizard stood before Fafhrd again, turmoil written in the wretched expression he wore. Malygris stared at the ground, his eyes filled with visions of lost opportunity and lost hope.

Fafhrd saw his chance. He still held his dagger. It sprouted from his fist like a steel thorn. Fighting through the after-effects of his disorientation, he drew back and threw the blade with all his strength.

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.