Swords Against the Shadowland

NINETEEN SHADOWLAND

The Mouser spun toward Demptha Negatarth. "What did he mean, you swore not to interfere?"

Demptha frowned as he hung his old head. He looked pathetically small suddenly in the too-large corporal's uniform he wore. Slowly, stiffly, he bent and retrieved the helmet that lay on the ground nearby.

"Nuulpha!" he called loudly, straightening. "Nuulpha!" Then, licking his lower lip, he finally met the Mouser's hard stare. "When Jesane was four summers old she developed a blood disease. My magic couldn't help her, but Malygris had a spell. He came to me in the night and offered it. Not only could it halt the effects of aging—you saw that in your dream of Laurian—but used in another manner, it could hold back death indefinitely."

"Wizards are stingy with their secrets," Fafhrd said scornfully. "He just gave you this powerful enchantment?"

Demptha Negatarth shook his head. "We bargained. He gave me the spell to save my daughter’s life. In exchange, I swore never to interfere in any of his undertakings. I knew it was a promise I would one day regret. Malygris was never to be trusted, and even then, I suspected his hatred for Sadaster, who was my friend. But to save Jesane's life, I dealt with the devil when he appeared on my doorstep."

The Mouser bent to collect one of Ivrian's fallen pearls from the grass. "Why didn't you ask Sadaster for the spell?" he questioned.

Demptha's frown deepened. "When Jesane was out of danger, I went to Sadaster, driven by a sense of guilt that I had bargained with his enemy, and he received me cordially. I meant to keep my word to Malygris, I told him, but as a gesture of regret, and in a spirit of atonement, I offered to share this new bit of arcana with him." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "What a joke on me it was—and a shock to my host—to learn that the spell was one of Sadaster's most closely guarded secrets. Not so closely guarded, however, that Malygris had not been able to steal it."

"There at least is the connection I sought," the Mouser mused as he pushed the pearl down inside his right glove. "It must have been Sadaster's spell . . ."—he looked at Demptha—"that very spell in the book that exploded in my hand and set fire to your library."

Fafhrd coughed unpleasantly into his fist, nodding. "I'll wager there was another copy of that same spell in Sadaster's library, which also burned."

Nuulpha came charging up the pebbled walkway, clad only in a loincloth, a soft tunic, and his boots with a brown nondescript cloak thrown around his shoulders. In his arms, he carried a bundle of clothes. "I heard your call," he said to Demptha, and the two men began exchanging clothes.

"My powers are not what they used to be," Demptha explained with some embarrassment as he disrobed. "Dressing in Nuulpha's garments reinforced the illusion that I was Nuulpha. I could never have gotten that close to Malygris, otherwise."

Nuulpha looked to the Mouser as he took his red corporal's cloak from Demptha and put the brown one around the older man. "There were two more fires yesterday. The Patriarch's private library in the Temple of Aarth burned. And Rokkarsh's private rooms in the Rainbow Palace—both small fires and quickly contained." He wriggled into blue pantaloons, and stomped into his boots again, then strapped on the sword belt Demptha had borrowed.

Dressed in simple brown robes, Demptha put on a troubled scowl as he looked at the Mouser. "Another connection there?"

The Mouser pulled up his hood, feeling the need to cloak his face from the others. The tiny weakness growing inside him, Malygris's curse, scared him more than he wanted the others to know. He listened to Fafhrd's ragged cough again and tried to steel himself against his fear.

"We're playing some game," he said at last, "without knowing the rules and without all the pieces. But at last, I know where we'll find the answers. When Malygris's curse touched me I felt something powerful, something Malygris could not possibly have created or conjured, something far beyond his ability. Something old—a terror I've experienced only once before."

"In the tunnels?" Nuulpha whispered in a dry, nervous voice.

The Mouser nodded.

"Tunnels?" Fafhrd noted with a distasteful grimace. "That red ball of light took Malygris under the ground."

"It surprised him as much as us," Demptha said. "He looked frightened."

"Ivrian, on the other hand," the Mouser replied bitterly, "ran to it eagerly." He stamped his foot on the spot where she had stood in that eerie crimson glow. "Wherever Malygris went, we are dead men if we don't follow, Fafhrd. His curse is upon us both."

Demptha stepped closer to the Mouser. "I'm also infected now, and I'll go with you, for I know those tunnels as well as Jesane knew them. Nuulpha, though, is untouched by this damned curse." He turned to the man who, though a soldier in service to the Overlord, had served him so well and faithfully. "Go home to your wife, Nuulpha. She needs you in her final hours."

Nuulpha's expression hardened. He drew his sword half out of its sheath as he appealed to Demptha. "These good men say a drop of blood from the wizard's heart can save her. Let my blade draw that drop and more."

Fafhrd touched Nuulpha's hand and pushed the sword back into its sheath. "I was not with my Vlana when she died," he said, "and I've never yet forgiven myself. If Malygris's hard heart can be pierced, we'll draw the medicine ourselves. Listen to Demptha."

Moving apart from the others, the Mouser kept silent. He too had been absent at that moment when Ivrian and Vlana died, and that guilt also ate at his soul. Only now he found that Ivrian lived, or a cruel version of her. How did he feel about her now? What had happened to his love?

He felt the hot sting of tears in his eyes and pulled his hood closer about his face. How could a man stand such confusion?

"Go home, Nuulpha," he said at last, his voice cracking with emotion. "Go home to your wife."

A conflicted look darkened the corporal's features, but he relinquished the grip on his sword's hilt. Shoulders sagging, he said to Demptha, "You've been like a father to me." He squeezed the old man's arm, unable to say more. The graveled path crunched under his boots as he turned and strode away.

Demptha sighed as he watched the corporal depart. "He's been like a son," he said quietly when only the Mouser and Fafhrd could hear. "I don't believe he ever realized that Jesane loved him."

"His wife is truly ill?" Fafhrd asked.

"Near death," Demptha affirmed.

"All the more reason to act swiftly," the Mouser said, "while the hot anger in our hearts shields us against the fear of what we must do."

Despite his paleness, Fafhrd grinned at Demptha. "The Mouser makes his prettiest speeches when he's mad." He threw back his head and laughed.

The streets of the Festival District were virtually empty. Even the taverns had shut up their doors and windows. Through the cracks of the shutters, muted lamplight filtered, and sometimes a silhouetted face peered suspiciously out.

A few blocks away, perhaps in the neighboring Plaza District, someone wandered through the streets calling, "Plague! Plague!" And from another voice farther away came the same cry. The echoes of those voices bouncing among the buildings conspired to trick the ears, and in the black hour after midnight, it seemed that some evil chorus was at work.

Leaving the taverns of the Festival District behind, Demptha Negatarth set a determined pace on the road that ran in the shadow of the Great Marsh Wall. On one side of the street, warehouses loomed, seemingly at unnatural angles, as if the earth had somehow tilted under them, and slanted rooftops seemed on the verge of sliding off the walls that supported them. Their windows, like square black eyes, seemed to watch the street and the odd trio that passed by, and huge doors gaped like black mouths.

Every shape and sight possessed an ominous air on this morbid night, and every slightest sound seemed a warning cry. The capricious wind felt like an unexpected breath on the back of the neck or the side of the face, and the smell of death hung over all like a tenuous perfume.

Thick clouds raced across the sky like massive phantoms, bringing an unseasonable chill, sending dust from the streets swirling.

High on the great wall's rampart, a nervous guard shouted down for them to identify themselves.

Fafhrd responded with a rude gesture. "Identify this!" he called back.

At last, they reached a familiar warehouse. The Mouser ran ahead of Demptha, down the narrow alleyway, and tugged open the door. With one hand on Graywand, Fafhrd slipped past the Mouser and entered the warehouse first. Following, Demptha stepped on the Mouser's foot.

A sharp breath hissed between the Mouser's lips as he bit back a curse.

"Sorry," Demptha whispered.

The Mouser continued to mutter under his breath as he pulled the door closed and slid home a wooden bolt. Now they were sealed inside. Little relief or consolation in that, however. The darkness inside the structure felt more imposing, more impenetrable, than the darkness in the streets.

"Over here," Demptha called.

Tugging on Fafhrd's sleeve, the Mouser limped to the corncrib that concealed Demptha's personal staircase to the underworld. He well remembered the last time he used that stair and recalled the horrible screaming, the numbing fear, the empty room, and a lot of vanished sick people.

"What happened in the Temple of Hates?" he asked abruptly as he balanced with his booted toes on the very edge of the first step. "What became of Mish and all your sick patients?"

"I don't know," came Demptha's pensive answer. "I left Jesane in charge while I stepped out for some air." He paused as if wondering whether to say more. At last he continued. "Strangest thing," he muttered, his voice dropping with a mixture of embarrassment and shame. "As it had so many nights of late, a heavy fog rolled in. Yet, this one seemed to bring with it peculiar thoughts and odd stirrings. An old whore came walking down the road in the midst of it. The lowest class of street-walker, working late I suppose. Suddenly I was diddling her on the very doorstep of the Rat God's temple!"

"Laurian's handiwork again," Fafhrd said with a sad shake of his head. Abruptly he changed the subject as he peered into the black stairwell. "You know I'm not a superstitious man, Mouser. But if your plan is to descend into this hole without any kind of light, I'd like a few moments to change your mind."

"Feel around in the corner near your foot, Fafhrd," Demptha instructed. "You should find an old lantern, battered and rusted, as if it had been discarded and forgotten years ago. But if you shake it, you'll find the reservoir still contains a small amount of oil."

Fafhrd crouched low and explored the corner of the crib with a broad sweep of his hand, encountering the lantern lying on its side. Holding it close to his ear, he shook it and smiled at the sloshing sound it made.

"How do you expect to fire the wick?" the Mouser asked.

Demptha Negatarth gave a low, mocking chuckle. "As some wise friend once said, wizards are stingy with their secrets."

A small flame sprang suddenly from the lantern's wick. An orange glow lit up Fafhrd's startled face. Hiding his own surprise, the Mouser blinked at the sudden light. Though it was hard to be sure, he thought he saw a tiny rain of fine black powder above the wick before Demptha withdrew his hand.

"A mere trick of prestidigitation," he scoffed, assuming a professional disinterest, though in truth he was considerably impressed.

"Your friend asked for light," Demptha replied with the slightest of smiles. "Not miracles."

Seizing the lantern by its bail, the Mouser turned the wick as high as it would go and lowered the glass shield around it. Then, drawing slender Scalpel from its sheath, he led the way down the narrow steps.

Demptha followed, and Fafhrd brought up the rear. The Northerner's great body nearly filled the tiny tunnel at the bottom. He bent low, and still his head brushed the ceiling. He thumped the close walls on either side with his fists.

"A worm burrowing through the earth has more room," he grumbled.

"But a worm lacks your charm and good nature," the Mouser said impatiently as he lifted the light high and started forward.

"Not to mention my good looks," Fafhrd shot back.

"The tunnels below Lankhmar are not always so cramped," Demptha explained as he gave Fafhrd's arm a sympathetic pat. "Some, however, are worse."

They stopped talking then. Their small light quivered, intimidated by the blackness ahead, but the Mouser pricked the dark with the point of his rapier and pushed it back with each nervously determined step. He felt the weight of Ivrian's pearl on the back of his right hand where he had thrust it under his glove and thought of her down here somewhere with Malygris— and with something still more dreadful.

The tunnel merged into another, then another. At last Fafhrd could stand straight as he walked. He gave a soft cough, stifling it as best he could with his hand. "Were I not already at Death's door," he whispered, "the quailing in my heart would send me clawing right up to the surface world again."

The Mouser said nothing. The same crushing fear that had filled these passages before still permeated them. He could barely breathe, for the choking hand of it held him by the throat. Only the thought of Ivrian drew him on.

The softest weeping rose from Demptha. "My poor Jesane," he murmured. "Even with her brave heart, she must have run from this terror, abandoning her charges."

"It caught up with her," the Mouser said, tight-lipped.

Against the strangling dark, they pressed on. Demptha's weeping ceased as they emerged into a cavern. "Is this the way to the Temple of Hates?" the Mouser asked doubtfully, for it lacked the look of the cavern that led to that place.

Demptha moved past the Mouser, turning his gaze toward the high ceiling, then all around as he walked to the very edge of the lantern's light and touched a stalagmite that stood twice his height. He shook his head. "This is wrong," he said, and a new fear shadowed his face as he turned back toward the light. "Yet it can't be. We came by the proper route."

"What is this mist rising from the ground?" Fafhrd said apprehensively.

The Mouser fairly jumped as he glanced downward at a creeping vapor that curled around his boots. Everywhere he looked, as far as the lantern let him see, a fine cold smaze seeped up through the cavern floor and filtered into the air, diffusing the quality of the lantern's light, leeching away the faint warmth it offered.

The very walls seemed to retreat into the deepening darkness. The ceiling, too, arched away from vision. Still the vapor rose, growing thicker, hiding the floor and the tops of their feet, climbing their ankles and shin bones.

The Mouser shivered as he lifted the lantern higher. "I think the way lies there," he said, pointing to the rightward side of the cavern with his sword. "I'm sure I saw the opening of another tunnel."

Every sense screamed to turn away, but the Mouser fixed his gaze ahead, and his comrades followed. Could this be one of Malygris's illusions? 'he briefly wondered. Then he dismissed that consideration. Their true foe, he felt sure, still remained unknown— and unnamed.

To his small relief, the passage on the far side of the cavern lay exactly where he thought it should. Yet, as he shone the lantern's light upon its threshold, he hesitated, alerted by a shadow.

An emaciated figure lurched from the tunnel into the cavern. Bulging, jaundiced eyes glared with a horrible light from a thinly bearded face.

"Mish!" Demptha Negatarth cried over the Mouser's shoulder as he recognized his missing friend, and the Mouser also gaped with surprise—a mistake.

With a sweep of his arm, Mish knocked the Mouser's sword away. A hand of astonishing strength seized the Mouser's tunic and flung him crashing to the rocky ground. His head struck against a towering stalagmite, filling his eyes with sparks of colored fire. The lantern rattled loudly and rolled to a stop against a jutting stone; the wick hissed; veiled beneath cold white vapor, the quivering flame threatened to go out.

"Turn away!" Mish howled at the Mouser. Then his unnatural gaze locked on Demptha Negatarth. His hands shot out. Catching the old wizard by the throat, he squeezed. "Ten more!" he cried.

Fafhrd leaped around Demptha, who stood in his way. Graywand whisked from its sheath as he moved, and the blade flashed.

Mish screamed. Stumbling back, he held up twin stumps of severed arms. Again he screamed, and the sound of his pain echoed desperately against the walls of earth and stone.

Demptha screamed, too, and fell to the ground, wrestling with the hands that still stubbornly tried to throttle him.

Fafhrd struck again. Swinging with all his fear-driven might, he sliced off Mish's head and sent it smashing against the same stalagmite where the Mouser struggled to sit up. It landed in his gray-clad lap between his very knees.

A sound of repulsion gurgled in the Mouser's throat. Hurling the head away, he scrambled to save the lantern.

Mish's corpse fell. It kept on falling, as if the mist were water, and a feathery white wave closed over it. Ripping free the hands that gripped him, Demptha dropped them into the unnatural stuff, and they too sank away as if into a rippling lake.

Rising with the lantern in one hand, his sword in the other, the Mouser walked cautiously to the spot and poked the rapier into it. The point scraped on solid stone. Licking his lips, looking to his comrades, he stamped his feet upon the place.

"Dance this way with that light," Fafhrd said, "and look at this." He held Graywand's broad blade to the amber glow. It gleamed cleanly. "No blood."

"Whatever that was," the Mouser said to Demptha, "it wasn't Mish." Yet in his heart, he wasn't so sure. He couldn't discount the radical change in Ivrian, once his true love.

Entering the new tunnel, the Mouser steeled himself against the terror that permeated this strange labyrinth. Once again, the stone walls pressed close, and the ceiling slanted gradually lower and lower. The mist thickened as they advanced, and the small lantern became virtually useless. Unable to see more than a few feet ahead, the Mouser waved his sword before him, tapping first one wall and then the other.

Suddenly metal rang on metal. The Mouser felt a shock rise up through his sword and into his arm. Barely keeping a grip on his weapon's hilt, he leaped back, colliding with an unwary Demptha. "Fall back! Fall back!" he cried. Shoving the lantern into Demptha's hands, he drew his dagger, Catsclaw.

A figure brandishing shield and a long dirk rushed screaming out of the fog at the Mouser. Behind that ferocious warrior, from the narrow tunnel, came four more, similarly armed. Blocking the dirk's thrust with Scalpel, he brought his foot up against the nearest shield and kicked the closest foe back into his companions.

The Mouser's eyes snapped wide. He recognized the face that appeared just over that shield rim. "The Ilthmarts!" he shouted. "The dead Ilthmarts!"

"Ilthmarts behind us, too!" Fafhrd answered grimly. "Five more!" There was no room in the tunnel for Graywand. He drew his dagger, instead. Bellowing a mighty roar, he charged straight into the five, slashing with the thin blade and smashing with his fists, using his huge body to clear a retreat back into the larger cavern.

Pushing Demptha Negatarth before him, the Mouser leaped past Fafhrd's victims before they could stir to their feet. "Out! Out!" he shouted at the wizard. "And take care to guard that light!"

A booming laugh filled the cavern as Fafhrd emerged and freed Graywand. Thrusting Demptha aside, he called to his partner as the Mouser emerged. "Hah, a good battle is a cure for the numbing fear-stink that fills this blasted maze!"

"Personally, I'm insulted," the Mouser answered diffidently. "Ilthmarts—and Ilthmarts we've already beaten."

Fafhrd laughed again and twirled Graywand in a showy one-handed arc as he fell back into a defensive posture. "It would be rude of me to point out that Laurian's magic defeated them when they had us cornered like a pair of rats."

"A treacherous slander!" the Mouser scoffed. "She merely interfered while I was catching my second wind."

A host of battlecries sounded, and the Ilthmart warriors charged into the cavern. Fafhrd met the first one, knocking him aside with a ringing blow on a shield. The second warrior tripped over the first, smacking his chin on the rocky floor. The third leaped screaming over the first two. With a dancer’s grace, the Mouser dropped to one knee and thrust upward, piercing flesh with Scalpel's point.

The fourth and fifth squeezed out behind the third. Both charged the Mouser. The rapier edge of Catsclaw swept in a sidewise arc, slipping beneath a shield to slice a muscled thigh before the Mouser rolled aside and jumped to his feet.

The rest of the Ilthmarts rushed clumsily from the narrow tunnel, pushing and shoving each other as they emerged. "Eight more!" they shouted. "Eight more for the Shadowland!"

"These fools can't count!" Fafhrd laughed as he waded into them, swinging left and right with Graywand. "We are but three!"

A dirk flashed through the air toward the Mouser. With a flick of his blade, he batted it aside in mid-flight, and with an advancing lunge, pushed his point through the throat of the thrower.

"Seven more!"

The odd count caught the Mouser's attention. Whirling about, he spied the Ilthmart that had voiced it. That warrior loomed over a cowering Demptha, dirk upraised, prepared to strike a death blow.

"No!" the Mouser shouted, too far away to help.

But Demptha did not cower. He merely stooped to set the lantern safely aside. Even as the Ilthmart stabbed downward, Demptha reached into his left sleeve. Out came a packet. Black powder showered over the Ilthmart. Bright star-like sparks flared, and a hideous scream tore through the cavern. Shield, dirk, clothes, and Ilthmart all burst into white flame.

Shielding his eyes against the sudden painful brightness and the crackling heat, the Mouser ran to Demptha's side and pulled him up. "Stay behind me!" he ordered.

On the distant side of the cavern, partially obscured by the gray vapor, a silhouetted Fafhrd gave a forceful shout. Graywand's blade and elaborate hilt sparkled like blue lightning as he cleaved an arc through the air and drove the sword through the final Ilthmart’s shoulder and deep into his torso, carving the man nearly in half.

For a moment, the two combatants stood as if frozen, still as statues, a captured tableau of desperation and death. Then the Ilthmart corpse slipped free of the great blade and fell out of sight under the mist.

For a moment more, Fafhrd remained unmoving. Finally, he lowered his sword and leaned heavily on it. A wracking cough shook his great form.

Before the Mouser could run to his friend, the burning Ilthmart, now the major source of light, screamed his last scream and fell face-forward into the thick mist, sinking into it just as Mish had done. A crushing blackness once more filled the cavern with nothing more than the lantern's small flame to hold it back. In the renewed dark, the Mouser rubbed a gloved fist over his eyes, unable to see. "Fafhrd!" he called.

"I'm here," Fafhrd answered, emerging from the mist into the small light of the lantern as Demptha raised it. A dark smear of blood stained his mouth and chin.

"You're wounded!" Demptha cried.

Fafhrd allowed a humorless smirk. "Not by any Ilthmart blade," he answered.

None of their foes remained. All the fallen had vanished, swallowed by the fleecy white river that flowed over the cavern floor.

Filled with concern for Fafhrd, the Mouser stared, sickened with worry at sight of the blood on those lips. He thought of suggesting a respite, a brief chance to let Fafhrd recover. However, Fafhrd would take it as an insult, so instead the Mouser stalled.

His quiet voice reverberated with surreal effect from the stone walls. "What means this count?" he wondered aloud. "Ten more, eight more, seven more."

"Aye," Fafhrd murmured. "And what happened to nine?"

The Mouser walked carefully over the area of battle. No bodies. No trace even of the shields and dirks. "How do ten dead men rise up and fight again, Fafhrd?"

Fafhrd fixed the Mouser with a gaze. His green eyes burned suddenly like those of a cat. "How is it, Mouser, that Vlana and Ivrian have risen up to haunt us?"

The lantern flame shivered suddenly in Demptha's hand as he turned. "How indeed," he whispered, pointing to the tunnel entrance.

Jesane floated there, her bare feet seeming to stand upon the misty sea. Tendrils of white vapor stirred modestly about her pale naked body, veiling her face as she tempted them with a dark-eyed look.

"I warned you," she whispered. Though her lips moved, her voice didn't seem to come from her, but unnaturally from the cavern itself. "Shadowland has come to the City of a Thousand Smokes—and you have come to Shadowland." Raising a slender arm, she crooked a finger and floated backward into the mouth of the tunnel, her gaze locking with her fathers.

"Now I know our enemy" Demptha Negatarth said without taking his eyes from Jesane. "I know my sin." Without a glance at his comrades, he followed after his daughter, taking the lantern with him.

As darkness closed around them, the Mouser gripped Fafhrd's brawny arm. "I've sometimes thought that we are two halves of the same soul, Fafhrd," he said as he stared after the disappearing light. "If we lose that one soul tonight, know that I think well of you."

Fafhrd nodded, sheathing Graywand and drawing his dagger once again. "Some few have joked that a certain pair of thieves were ill-met that night long ago in Lankhmar when they collided under a bridge on Gold Street. I have never thought so."

The time for sentiment was ended. The Mouser swallowed and peered down the tunnel after Demptha and Jesane, who could no longer be seen. The lantern gave only the dimmest glow from far ahead. Sheathing Scalpel but keeping Catsclaw in hand, he entered the passage a second time with Fafhrd right behind and Jesane's words in his mind.

Shadowland has come to the City of a Thousand Smokes.

In the world of Nehwon lay two great poles. In the far west lay Godsland, and all the gods, known and unknown, dwelled there, seldom venturing from that paradise. In the far east lay Nehwon's opposite pole, Shadowland—the land of the dead.

The soft whisper of Jesane's eerie voice drifted back to him. "Five more," she murmured with a dreamlike weariness.

What happened to six? the Mouser wondered, waving a hand to part the mist that swirled before his eyes. Six what?Five what?

Abruptly the tunnel ended. The Mouser stepped out warily, not into another tunnel or a larger cavern, but onto a vast and sprawling plain. A white sea of feathery vapor stretched as far as the eye could see, while overhead in a black velvet sky, stars as sharp and bright as diamonds glittered.

No familiar constellations, the Mouser noted, studying that awesome heaven. He directed his gaze farther afield, seeking the lantern's light. Hand in hand now, father and daughter stood patiently, as if waiting.

"In a dream," Fafhrd said as if to himself, "I've been here before." Stretching out an arm, he pointed. "A barge will come from there. I know it."

Indeed, a second faint light appeared in the distance. Slowly it approached, but smoothly, growing subtly brighter. Out of the blackness sailed a fantastic barge of black wood with gold fittings. A simple lantern fixed to its prow lit the way across the foggy sea.

Upon that barge sat an elaborate throne of the same black wood marked with gold and silver inlay, cushioned with fine pillows. Upon that lustrous seat a tall figure sat with casual posture, its features concealed under a hood and behind a shining black mask.

The barge stopped. Jesane floated up to the deck to stand before the seated figure. Her father clambered up the side, climbed over the ebony rail and remained there.

Without sail or oar, with no sound of water or wind, the barge turned toward Fafhrd and the Mouser.

For perhaps the first time in his life, the Mouser gave thanks for his short stature, for the fog rose up to his thighs and hid the trembling in his knees. Fafhrd stirred uneasily beside him. His friend had exchanged his dagger once again for the greater comfort, not to mention reach, of Graywand.

The barge drifted to an easy stop.

"Only four more," Jesane said to the figure on the throne. "A child comes, Pilsh her name."

Nodding, the seated figure rose and walked gracefully to the barge's fore. Involuntarily, the Mouser flung up an arm, averting his gaze from the piercing, evil eyes that stared from behind that glittering mask.

"No, little man," said a voice that came from behind that mask. "I am beyond mortal concepts of good and evil."

Fafhrd did not look away, but lifted his chin defiantly to meet the creature's stare. "Then who are you?" he shouted. "Where is Malygris?"

"Fafhrd, son of Mor and Nalgron," the figure answered. "We have fought before, you and I. And though it was only a game— no serious duel—you did well." He looked from Fafhrd to the Mouser and back again. "In truth, you both have done well, each playing your part."

"Answer my question," Fafhrd demanded.

Leaning over the barge's rail, the figure bowed ever so slightly. "Do you not recognize me?" A black-gloved finger rose to touch the mask. A light seemed to brighten around the creature's face.

"The ferryman!" Fafhrd cried, recoiling. "The pilot in my dream!"

Simultaneously, the Mouser cried. "Rokkarsh!"

The two friends looked at each other stupidly.

The masked figure laughed, and the sound of it boomed across his Shadowland. "Death has many names and many faces," he said.

Demptha Negatarth climbed over the side of the barge and came to stand beside the Mouser. "He is Death of Nehwon," the wizard said.

Death of Nehwon gave a small shrug. "Only a minor Death in the cosmic scheme of things," he said modestly. "But as with all other Deaths in all the worlds and dimensions, I serve my purpose."

Abruptly, Death of Nehwon held up a hand. Fathomless eyes closed behind a mask that was only a mask again. "A fisherman, Massek by name," he intoned. Then those horribly vast eyes opened again. "Now only two remain, and soon this play will end."

Death of Nehwon stretched out his hand to the sky.

A red light appeared in the heavens. Softly glowing, it sank from the firmament, wafting with a strangely lazy motion, and the Mouser knew it for Malygris's hideous ribbon of evil. Lower and lower it drifted, touching the misty sea near the barge, disappearing into it only to rise again.

With it rose a huge obloid, an egg whose white shell was laced with red streaks and veins of pulsing scarlet.

Death of Nehwon waved his hand. The ribbon fluttered away and disappeared. At the same time, cracks formed on the egg's surface, widening, deepening, filling the air with a sound like thunder. Suddenly it exploded, showering fragments into the air. They did not fall again.

On the remaining piece of shell, Malygris stood, confused and trembling. His gaze darted in nervous fear as he tried to discern his tormentors, gauge his situation. Biting his lip, he stared at last toward the ominous, masked barge-master.

"Here is a man who dared to affront me," Death of Nehwon said.

"There were others," Demptha Negatarth interrupted, finding his voice. He stepped toward the barge, craning his neck toward the ruler of Shadowland. "Sadaster, Aarth's Patriarch, Rokkarsh, myself!"

Death of Nehwon might have smiled behind that mask as he looked down upon Demptha. "Confession is good for the soul, is it not, mortal?"

Cowed by the sarcasm, Demptha hung his head and stepped back.

A sneering voice continued as Death of Nehwon stabbed a finger at Malygris. "In his jealousy and madness, this fool reached beyond his meager talents, creating a spell to strike at his enemy. So he thought. In truth, he unleashed a mindless force that destroyed uncounted lives."

Death of Nehwon paused and looked down upon the three men before him. "I took no interest in that. All mortals die in their time, and I am the Keeper of the Schedule."

The Mouser raised his fist. He had worked hard to piece the puzzle together, and he had no intention of being grandstanded, not even by such a being as he stood before.

"But there was another spell, wasn't there?" he called. "One you couldn't ignore. A secret that Sadaster possessed, and a secret that Malygris stole from him. A spell that Demptha bargained for with Malygris."

Death of Nehwon nodded appreciatively "You are shrewd for a mortal," he complimented. "I see why Fate has set her mark on you. But hear the rest of the story." He glanced toward Demptha. "Then a decision must be made."

"Well, tell it quickly," Fafhrd shouted. "Though you claim you've no interest in it, Malygris's curse works in my body, and I may shortly puke on the front of your fine boat."

Did a low chuckle issue from behind that mask? The Mouser could not tell.

"The rest is simple enough," Death of Nehwon said. "Or should I say, human enough. As your gray friend has figured out, Sadaster's spell not only erased the tracks of time from Laurian's lovely face, it held back the years."

"It held back death," the Mouser said. "It kept you at bay."

Death of Nehwon scoffed. "Oh, pish. Perhaps you are not so shrewd after all. Everyone's name is written in a book of my keeping, and every time is appointed. The life given each man is finite. Yet with this spell of Sadaster's, some few took time that didn't belong to them."

"And thus shortened the time of other innocents?" Demptha murmured, shame-faced. "I didn't know."

"Each man has an apportioned share of time. To add more to his own share meant diminishing someone else's—thus upsetting my precious schedule," said Death of Nehwon coldly. "That, I could not ignore. Selfish men stole time that rightfully belonged to others. Sadaster prolonged his own life and looks, as well as Laurian's. Jealousy drove Malygris to the same sin."

"And Aarth's Patriarch," the Mouser interrupted. "How does he fit into this?"

Death of Nehwon laughed. "The Patriarch, through his own magic, learned of Malygris's plan to kill Sadaster. Malygris bought his silence with the secret of prolonging life. The Patriarch, mortal fool that he was, then curried favor with the Overlord Rokkarsh by sharing it with him. Nor would it have ended there. Rokkarsh intended to share it with several of his nearest noble relatives."

A sigh came from behind the mask. "Their vanity earned them my annoyance. Now their souls are waiting table in the banquet halls of Hell."

"But I used the spell, too," Demptha said. "Why am I alive when Jesane is dead?"

"Your daughter is dead because her time expired years ago. When I extended my kingdom into Lankhmar's underworld, I found her with others whose time had expired in the place you call the Temple of Hates. I reached out my hand and claimed them. Surprisingly, Jesane slipped through my fingers for a few desperate moments, long enough to try to warn you." He inclined his head toward her. "Now as it happens, I look with favor on such devotion and courage. It pleases me, and I've made her my handmaiden."

Malygris took a sudden step forward, and the shell upon which he stood cracked loudly under his feet, causing him to retreat to his original place as all attention turned upon him. He wore a look of dawning terror. "Your schedule? Your kingdom? Who are you, monster? What is this dreary place?"

As if stirred by a wind, the mist swirled on the surface of the white sea. Forms and figures rose up with the mist, pale shapes, some with familiar faces. There was Mish again, whole with his arms and head. And Gamron with his Ilthmarts. A blond girl-child with bright eyes and a straw poppet in her arms.

"Sameel," Fafhrd whispered, his gaze fastening on a beautiful young woman who stood shyly apart from the other figures.

Scores, hundreds, perhaps more walked out of the fog and stood silently by as if to give witness. These were the ones from whom time and life had been stolen. Here also were the victims of Malygris's jealous evil.

The wizard gave a shrill scream, as if at last he understood, and the sound filled the Mouser with an icy satisfaction.

Death of Nehwon spoke again. "Only you, Demptha Negatarth, of those who possessed Sadaster's spell, used it for no selfish end. You wear the wrinkles you have earned and stoop beneath your properly accumulated years. Only for your daughter's benefit did you employ this insulting magic." He nodded ever so slightly, briefly closing his eyes as he did so. "I forgive you," he pronounced.

Jesane leaned close to Death of Nehwon, and the two appeared to confer. A moment later, she floated down from the barge and stood beside her father. Taking his hand in hers, she looked up to her master.

"Still, a price must be paid," Death of Nehwon proclaimed. "Two deaths yet remain before this play is ended. The despicable Malygris is only one."

Malygris clutched a fist to his heart, and a panicked gleam lit his eyes.

Demptha looked to his daughter, and tears sparkled on his old cheeks. "The other?" he asked.

Thick tentacles of mist whipped over the sides of the barge, seizing Death of Nehwon, hardening instantly to ice. The very air around creature froze, cocooning him in a glacial prison. More mist spiraled up from the shallow sea and froze, burying the barge under a crushing glacial mass.

"I spit upon your hidden face!" Malygris shouted defiantly. The shell shattered, loud as thunder beneath his running footsteps. "And piss upon your timetable; you'll not find my name written there, today or ever!"

The Mouser's blood rushed suddenly, and so did he to overtake the fleeing wizard. He had not come so far and through so much to this strange court only to lose his prey now. "Then I'll write it there, myself," he cried in challenge, brandishing Scalpel. "Stand still, Inkwell, and let me dip my pen."

A loud roar stopped the Mouser in his tracks. A serpent's head large as an elephant's, surged up from the mist on a green stalk of a neck. A red mouth gaped horribly, exposing white rapier teeth that dripped a milky venom. Yellow eyes burned. With dreadful speed, it lunged.

The Mouser dove into the thick mist. Submerged, but on solid substance, he rolled swiftly over and thrust upward with his blade, feeling the point bite into scaled flesh and carve a long scratch. He didn't need to see through the gray blanket, however, to know he did no serious damage. He scrambled up and shot a frantic look for the creature. It glared, undulating on its long neck and yawning to show its teeth again.

Now he got a good look at it, and his heart nearly stopped in his chest. A sea serpent from the Great Inner Sea. Not one, but two! Beyond it, he spied a wake, a subtle parting of the mist, and barely visible as it swam, a second reptilian form with hungry eyes fixed on him.

The Mouser called his partner's name. When no answer came, he risked a glance over his shoulder. A sickening sight greeted him.

A mighty eagle clung to Fafhrd's face, its pinions beating, its talons buried deep in the Northerner's eye sockets. Blood and humor gushed, and Fafhrd's mouth hung open in a strangely voiceless scream as he thrashed and tried to fight the raptor off. O grisly hell! Ignoring his own peril, the Mouser spun about, preparing to run to the aid of his comrade.

Then, in mid-step, he paused, and his lips curled back in an almost feral snarl. A bitter suspicion filled him. No mere bird could ever score such a victory upon mighty Fafhrd. Nor could sea serpents swim in that which was not truly a sea.

He spun again. "Malygris!" he shouted, ignoring the toothy monster that lunged at him. "My pen still needs a dipping!" He leaped away from the serpent's mouth. Though he swore it was only another of the wizard's illusions, why take chances? Dashing around it, leaping over the back of the second swimming monster, he overtook his foe.

The look on Malygris's face as he whirled about was barely human. "Fire!" he hissed.

As the Mouser raised his sword to strike, the steel burst into flame. In a heartbeat, he knew it for yet another damned illusion, but instinctively he dropped his weapon. Cursing, he hurled himself forward, arms grasping. His hands, though, closed on nothing. Malygris faded into nothingness, and a harsh, mocking laughter filled the Mouser's ears.

Then, another laugh rose over that, softer, pitched higher, yet somehow mad, more femininely savage.

Malygris became suddenly visible once more, and another figure, as well, blocking his way. Mist and darkness parted like curtains to reveal an ornate sarcophagus that gleamed like silver. Intricate latches, fashioned like hands and fingers, snapped eerily open. A long black crack appeared, widened, and the thing began to open.

A dark-haired woman, swathed in white linen, smiled a red-lipped smile as she emerged from that box.

On the verge of fleeing again, Malygris hesitated, then gasped. "Laurian?"

The woman held out her arms. "You've wanted me so long," she whispered. "Now I've come for you." She reached for him, her arms growing longer, unnaturally long, her fingers stretching, becoming claws. With a shriek, she flung herself upon the wizard. Her arms encircled him like ropes, her nails tore bloody grooves in his flesh. Her legs entangled him, as well, tripping him, bearing him down as her teeth sought his throat.

"No!" the wizard cried, a sound of pure despair.

The thing that was Laurian laughed. "Tell me how you love me!”

They both disappeared under the misty waves. For a moment, a turbulent froth churned over the spot, then all became tranquil. For a seeming long time, the Mouser stared in uncertain worry until another, deeper laugh made him turn.

The Mouser blinked. There stood Fafhrd, whole and un-bloodied, no sign of eagles or sea serpents. There was Scalpel, not dropped, but still in its sheath. And there before him, unruffled and calm, sat Death of Nehwon on his barge.

The Lord of Shadowland cast an amused glance toward Malygris where he yet stood on his arcane bit of shell. But now the wizard's eyes stared blankly, and if his face, once fearful, wore any expression at all, it was no more than a hint of sadness, or perhaps grief.

"The fool," Death of Nehwon murmured. "He thought his illusions could prevail over the stark reality I represent. Now his power is turned against him; he stands helpless in a hell of his own manufacture."

The Mouser rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. "I thought he'd nearly escaped us again."

Fafhrd leaned close and whispered, "I thought an eagle ate your civilized eyes."

So they had shared illusions. Had any time passed at all, the Mouser wondered? Though he recalled running and leaping and chasing, he seemed in fact not to have moved.

Demptha Negatarth drew his daughter closer. He seemed untouched or unaffected by what had just transpired. "You said another," he quietly reminded their host. "One more yet to die. I must know."

Death of Nehwon looked down. "Sabash, wife of Nuulpha."

Demptha looked as if he'd been struck a blow. "No!" he cried angrily. "She has no part in this! Let her live!"

Death of Nehwon said nothing, just stared upon Demptha Negatarth. All around, the souls of the dead waited and watched.

Demptha lifted his head as a sudden calm descended upon him. He took his daughter's hand again. "The price is mine to pay. Take whatever time I have left and give it to Sabash. Spare her a while longer."

An approving nod from Death of Nehwon. "You have made the right decision and thereby earned yourself a place, not in hell, but in the pleasure halls of my own palace." A black-gloved hand pointed into the distance. Through the mist appeared the vague outline of a distant structure, elaborate with its minarets and spires and turreted towers. "Your daughter will show you the way."

Demptha cast a final glance at Fafhrd and the Mouser. "Live well and long if you can, young heroes," he said. Then mist swirled around father and daughter, urging them on their journey. Three paces, and they began to fade from the Mouser's sight. Ten paces, and they were gone forever.

Death leaned on the rail of his barge. When he spoke, did the Mouser imagine it, or was there a note of weariness in his voice?

"The final deed is yours, Gray Mouser," he said. "Fate has declared that your dagger, Catsclaw, shall draw the heart blood Sheelba requires to save his life and yours."

The Mouser heard the voice of Death, and yet his thoughts turned elsewhere, to hell and pleasure halls.

"Hurry," Death of Nehwon urged. "Lest I pick up my book and find your names on tomorrow's page."

The Mouser swallowed. "Where is Ivrian?" he demanded. "I want to see her. And Fafhrd's Vlana, too."

The black hand of Nehwon's Death tightened on the barge's rail. "Like the soldiers I commanded with Rokkarsh's face, the women were but tools to delay and slow you, to occupy your thoughts and muddle your minds. Else with your cleverness you might have found Malygris too quickly. Like Fate, Sheelba chose his henchmen well." Death of Nehwon relaxed then and shrugged. "But for your hard work, I will reward you. Turn around."

The Mouser and Fafhrd exchanged looks, then slowly turned.

"Hello, my love," Vlana said. She held out her hand as Fafhrd reached to embrace her. "You may not touch me. For sins of my past, that was decreed before this began."

"Vlana!" Fafhrd cried. Despite her words, he started toward her with outstretched arms. But a force closed about him and prevented him from moving. "I love you, woman," he said finally. "My heart hasn't forgotten you."

The Mouser merely stared at Ivrian. He sheathed the dagger and sword he held and with gloved fingers, he made a pass at his eyes. The hard cruelty of Liara was gone from her face, and she stood before him purely, as his One True Love. "I'm not allowed to embrace you, either, am I?" he said.

"No, my little Mouse," she said with soft affection, using his boyhood name. "I am stripped again of the flesh I wore, and shortly my merciful master will strip me of the memories of the things he made me do to you."

"I love you," he whispered, extending his fingertips toward her, though he knew she wouldn't return his touch. "Forever."

"In Shadowland," she answered, "forever is a long, long time. Farewell. I loved you, too."

The Death of Nehwon interrupted any further lovemaking. "Now let them go," he said to Fafhrd and the Mouser. "They too have earned honored places in my halls."

Putting a hand to his mouth, Fafhrd gave an uneasy cough. "Save a place for me, Vlana," he said.

The mist shifted suddenly, and their true loves vanished, leaving an emptiness in the Mouser's heart that made him cry out with pain. Pushing the fingers of his right hand down inside his left glove, he drew out the large pearl he had saved from Ivrian's broken necklace. In nearly the same motion, he ripped free the leather thong that bound back his thick black hair.

As if reading his intention, Fafhrd moved to stop him. "Not your sling!" the Northerner hissed.

But not even Fafhrd was fast enough to stop him. Setting the pearl in the tiny pouch, the Mouser launched it with all his pent-up fury. "Monster!" he screamed.

The pearl streaked upward and smashed into powder against the black mask of Nehwon's Death. The looming figure said nothing, nor did he react at all.

Trembling with rage, the Mouser clenched his fists and glared at Shadowland's lord. The white stain on that mask did nothing to assuage his hurt. Jerking Catsclaw from its sheath once again, he turned toward the insensate Malygris. When Fafhrd caught his arm, he pulled free.

Not as Sheelba’s hireling, but as an aggrieved and half-maddened victim, he stood before the wizard and raised the fateful blade. It bothered him not at all that Malygris stood helpless, only that he stood entranced and unfeeling. "I wish you could feel this!" he whispered to the wizard as he prepared to strike.

The Mouser drew back to drive the blade deep. Then to his shock and startlement, Malygris's eyes snapped wide. An angry fire flared in those black pupils. With one hand, he caught the Mouser's wrist, stopping the thrust, while his other hand closed on the Mouser's windpipe and exerted a fierce strength. His yellow-toothed mouth opened. "Did you think I would meekly take your steel? Even Death's power cannot restrain me!"

"Take it any way you like," the Mouser grunted, recovering his wits. "Just take it!"

He twisted away from Malygris, breaking the grip on his throat, but before he could free his trapped wrist, the wizard leaped upon him, bearing him off-balance. A rain of fists fell on his head and face, teeth bit his neck and scalp, thumbs dug into his eyes. "If one more must die tonight," Malygris roared, "the name will not be mine!"

Through the ringing and the rush of blood in his ears, the Mouser heard Fafhrd's voice. "Hold on, Gray Mouser! I'll strike . . . !" Then a paroxysm of coughing stilled the Northerner's speech.

The bitter sound steeled the Mouser's resolve. With a cold determination, he flung Malygris away. The wizard tumbled head over heels and smashed to the ground, disappearing under the mist. The Mouser followed, finding Catsclaw still in his hand. He knew unerringly where his foe lay, and this time, he allowed for no chance. He didn't need, nor even want, to see beneath the blanketing mist.

All was silence now, silence and cold dampness, save for the heat of his anger, the steam of his perspiration, the rasp of his breath. No witticism, no challenge, no triumphant cry formed in his mouth. Indeed, there was nothing more to say, only an ending to make of it all.

Straddling Malygris's chest, he used his knees to pin the wizard's arms. He squeezed his eyes shut. The point of his blade seemed to find its own way, to press against Malygris's body, to angle itself properly downward toward a frantically beating heart, desperately, furiously beating,

Malygris drew a breath. "Please . . .!"

The Mouser shut his ears. With a grunt, he leaned on Catsclaw, driving it deep. The breath sighed from Malygris's lips, a short, soft song of release, and perhaps—did the Mouser, out of some unwarranted sense of guilt, imagine it?—relief. The wizard's chest sank, and his whole form seemed to grow smaller between the Mouser's knees.

At last, the Mouser found his voice. "Damn you," he said, no witticism, no challenge, no triumphant cry, just a fervent wish. "Damn you to hell."

Death of Nehwon laughed.

The chill mist of Shadowland swirled, filling the Mouser's eyes, obscuring the great barge and its master. The souls of the dead seemed to blow apart like smoke in a wind. Fafhrd cried the Mouser's name.

The Mouser barely heard, nor could he answer, and soon Fafhrd stopped calling. All was silence and mist.

And cold—the mist was so cold.