Swords Against the Shadowland

SIX DEATH KNELLS

Fog once again moved through the streets of Lankhmar. Tendrils of mist crept up every lane, poured into every plaza, seeped through the smallest alleys. The heavy gray blanket extinguished the moon and stars, dimmed the watchfires that burned atop the city walls, threatened to swallow even the tiny flames in the lanterns of the few citizens who dared to venture forth.

Once more crouched in a shadowed doorway near the intersection of Cash and Nun streets, the Mouser growled a low curse. The midnight hour was far off; the deepening fog had forced them to hasten their plans.

In the shadows beside him, Fafhrd stood ready with a newly purchased line and iron grapnel. "Getting over the fence would be easy," the Northerner whispered. "But in this pea soup, I can’t even see the tower, let alone pitch a hook through a third-story window."

Fafhrd exaggerated their predicament only slightly. Only the lower portion of the tower remained visible, and that was little more than a silhouette. The fog thoroughly concealed the upper half.

The Mouser cursed again, marveling at how swiftly the damned stuff had moved up from the river and into the city. Even as he watched, it seemed to swirl languidly around the forbidden tower, engulfing it. The lower portion, too, vanished from sight.

"There's no adventure for us here this night," Fafhrd muttered, shifting nervously in the doorway.

A sharp cough from the far side of the street caught the Mouser's attention. He tugged the hood of his cloak over his head as he rose from his crouched position. "Not so," he answered. "If we can't get into the temple, let's see if we can discover the identities of its guardians."

With Fafhrd close on his heels, he darted to the far side of Cash Street and pressed himself against a wall. An upward glance told his companion what he planned. In cupped hands, Fafhrd accepted the Mouser's foot and boosted him to the low roof. Once secure in his perch, the Mouser reached down and took the grapnel his partner extended to him. Then, with a powerful jump, Fafhrd caught the edge of the gutter. For an instant, he hung there. Then, silently he muscled his huge body upward.

A moment later, the two squatted side by side. "A fine pair of gargoyles we make," Fafhrd murmured as he took the grapnel and line back from the Mouser.

"I'm too good-looking for a gargoyle," the Mouser whispered in reply. "You're just about right, though." Rising with a grin on his face, he quickly tip-toed away over the rooftop before Fafhrd could form a rejoinder.

The shops in this part of the city stood close together, many sharing adjoining walls. Moving carefully over the mist-slick tiles, the pair of adventurers crouched down again and peered over the edge of a certain lacework establishment facing Nun Street. Needlessly, the Mouser glanced at Fafhrd and, holding a finger to his lips, cautioned silence.

Soft, muttering voices rose up from the doorway just below their rooftop perch. Stretching out on his belly, pushing back his hood, the Mouser crawled forward as far as he dared and peeked downward. Two cloaked men sat on the small stoop, casually swapping stories of fishing in the Hlal. One balanced a sheathed sword across his knees.

The Mouser crawled away from the edge and sat up again. Farther up on the roof, a patient Fafhrd sat cross-legged, lovingly stroking a thin gray cat that was curled up in his lap. Luminous eyes blinked as the beast settled its head upon a brawny thigh and purred.

"Where did that come from?" the Mouser dared to whisper.

Fafhrd drew his fingers gently between the cat's ears, down its neck, along its furry spine. "I seem to attract gray mousers," he answered. Then he put a finger to his lips exactly as the Mouser had done earlier, but whether to warn against disturbing the cat or the men below, the Mouser wasn't sure.

Leaving Fafhrd with his newfound friend, the Mouser crawled back to the roof's edge and stretched out on his belly again. Perhaps if he listened long enough he might learn something from the conversation on the stoop. The voices droned boringly on about the weather, the fog, the river, the coming midsummer celebration.

Without warning, a weight suddenly landed in the middle of the Mouser's back. Every hair on his neck stood on end, and he barely stifled an outcry. On his belly, he could reach neither sword, nor dagger.

The sound of purring touched the Mouser's ears. His attacker was none other than Fafhrd's cat. The impudent little animal walked in a circle on the Mouser's spine before curling up comfortably in the small of his back.

This is carrying kinship too far, the Mouser thought. About to shoo the creature away, he froze abruptly to listen as the conversation below took a more interesting turn.

"Damn this fog," one of the voices said. "There's beer and warmth back at the barracks."

The stoop creaked as someone shifted. "Quench your thirst at the fountain," said the second voice in a weary tone.

The Mouser pursed his lips in a thoughtful frown. Any number of Lankhmar's nobles quartered their own private guards, but surely such a casual reference to barracks indicated the involvement of the city's guards. His frown deepened.

Shifting position, Fafhrd sat down near the edge and proceeded to stroke the cat again. Fickle as only a cat can be, it rose, flexed one claw in the Mouser's right buttock, then transferred itself to the Northerner's lap once more.

The pale gleam of lanterns penetrated the thick fog. Six tall men in nondescript cloaks emerged from the mist, walking south on Nun Street. Without a word to the others, two separated from the party and approached the laceworks shop.

"Report," said one of the newcomers.

A now-familiar voice answered wearily. "All's quiet from this station."

"Take the lantern then," said the newcomer, "and remember you're celebrants, albeit quiet ones. Return by a roundabout course to the Rainbow Palace."

With the lantern's light to guide them through the fog, the men on the stoop walked around the corner to Cash Street while the newcomers made themselves comfortable in the doorway below.

Putting the cat aside, Fafhrd rose and beckoned the Mouser away from the roof's edge. But he didn't stop when they were safely out of hearing. Indeed, not until they had reached Cash Street, themselves, and dropped to the ground did Fafhrd speak.

There was no sign of a lantern's glow in the fog, which continued to grow ever thicker. "These are the Overlord's men," he stated, adjusting the grapnel, which was now slung by its coiled line over his shoulder.

"Your ears are sharp as ever," the Mouser answered.

A gray streak leaped from the roof, rebounded from the rim of a rain barrel, and landed between their feet. The Mouser jumped back, his narrow blade flashing out of its sheath.

Unimpressed, the cat blinked and gave a quiet meow before it rubbed against Fafhrd's ankle.

Grinning at his partner’s startled reaction, Fafhrd shrugged. "Think of him as a mascot," he suggested.

The Mouser slammed his sword back into its sheath. "Think of him as victuals," he responded. He wagged a finger at the cat. "One more time ..."

Fafhrd drew the Mouser against the wall. A dull amber glimmer, coming from the direction of Nun Street, warned of someone's approach. Drawing up his hood, the Mouser crouched down by the rain barrel. When he glanced back for his friend, Fafhrd was simply gone.

The lantern and still another pair of men passed right by the Mouser's hiding place. He might have put out one foot and tripped them, they came so close. Unaware, they wandered on until the night swallowed them.

The cat rubbed its head against the Mouser's rump.

Fafhrd swung lithely down from the rooftop, where he had taken refuge. "Why would the Overlord keep a round-the-clock watch on a forbidden temple?" he asked.

"Why are the guards out of uniform?" the Mouser replied.

Fafhrd rubbed his bearded chin. "To trap and apprehend Malygris?" Fafhrd suggested uncertainly.

An ugly scowl settled over the Mouser's face as suspicion filled him. He picked up the cat and hugged it close. His dark eyes, narrowing to slits, burned almost as luminously as the feline's. "Or to protect him?" he said sharply. Pushing the cat into Fafhrd's arms, he started down Cash Street again. "Come on, there's nothing more we can do here tonight."

The black shapes of buildings loomed as Fafhrd and the Mouser made their way through the thickening fog back toward the Silver Eel. Here and there, the silhouette of a minaret or an obelisk jutted up half-seen. In the murk, a statue affixed to a fountain at the intersection of Cash and Gold Streets took on a menacing appearance. To the north, the ten-story Spire of Rhan, the tallest structure in Lankhmar, rose barely visible over the shadowy rooftops to stand like a spear upon which the misty night had impaled itself. Over it all hung the palest silvery moon, its weakening light causing the air to glisten and sparkle.

Voices, then the high-pitched sound of a woman's laughter came out of the fog near the corner of Cheap Street. Fafhrd and the Mouser paused to watch in silence as four men and two ladies, all in cloaked finery, passed by with lanterns to light their way to the Festival District. Their gay spirits were a distinct contrast to the depressing weather.

An unexpected beam of frosty light suddenly lit the street, causing the Mouser and Fafhrd to glance skyward. A brief rent widened in the mist and clouds, and the moon, like some brightly turning pupil in an arcane eye, stared down upon the city. The clouds moved in again, and the rent sealed from the top to the bottom, as if that godlike eye had slowly closed.

The cat in the Mouser's arms gave a soft meow, and he gently scratched the soft fur beneath its chin. The greedy creature encouraged his strokes by lifting its head to give him freer access to the tender parts of its throat as it began audibly to purr.

Fafhrd glanced up toward the sky again, then his gaze seemed to comb the shadowy mists as if he were watching for something. The Mouser thought he had never seen his friend quite so tense.

"That woman's laughter," Fafhrd explained slowly. "Coming out of the fog like that. It..." he paused, and when he spoke again there was an odd note in his voice. "... reminded me of someone."

"Lord Hristo's whorish wife?" the Mouser guessed.

Fafhrd offered no response, just started forward again. With a puzzled shrug, the Mouser followed, but before they took ten paces, another sound caused them to stop in their tracks and stare northward.

The deep tone of a huge bell sent a chill creeping up the Mouser's spine. Once, twice, three times it rang, and still it did not stop. Precisely spaced and measured, those dreadful tones echoed across the city. Not even the thick fog could muffle the lonely sound, and the air seemed to shiver with every mournful stroke.

"... nine . . . ten . . . eleven ..." Fafhrd counted, murmuring each number.

Even the cat in the Mouser's arms pricked up its ears. No longer purring, it arched its back, as if aware of the bell's significance. "The Voice of Aarth," the Mouser said reverently, speaking the name of the great bell, which resided in the highest minaret of Lankhmar s most important temple. "A priest has died."

The doleful chime continued, but Fafhrd stopped counting and shook his head. "Not even those egotistical shave-heads would disturb the city in the dead of night for a mere priest."

"The Patriarch?" the Mouser wondered aloud.

The grim look on Fafhrd's face was agreement enough, and the Mouser admitted his companion was probably correct. The bell continued for twelve more strokes while they stood listening, unwilling to move, as if frozen by the sound.

Then Aarth's Voice went silent. For a long moment, the night seemed to hold its breath. Nothing moved, not even the fog; the dense vapors ceased to swirl and eddy, and lay leaden in the streets.

From far across the city, a new sound came, shrill and sharp as a blade, to tear the stillness. A lone voice cried out a trilling zaghareet. Before the eerie cry died, another voice joined it, then another, and another as the priests and followers of Aarth took to the streets to fill the night with the almost inhuman sounds of their mourning.

Fafhrd drew his cloak closer about his shoulders. "If there are any ghosts in this fog tonight," he muttered half to himself, "that noise will surely drive them away."

The Mouser frowned. "The death knells have not yet faded from my ears," he scolded, "and you talk of ghosts. You'll bring bad luck with your careless words."

"Superstition, Mouser?" Fafhrd mocked. "From a son of the civilized south?"

The Mouser squared his shoulders and drew a hand along the gray-furred spine of his newfound pet. The cat resumed its purring. "You northern barbarians are not the only ones that pick up pins and study the way the crow flies at dawn," he said defensively. "You have no corner on irrational beliefs."

The light-hearted exchange brought a certain sense of relief. Both friends breathed sighs and clapped each other's arms. "Back to the Silver Eel?" Fafhrd suggested, shouldering the weight of the grapnel and its line under his cloak.

The Mouser nodded. "That finely seasoned lamb Cherig served for dinner was exquisite," he said, trying to relieve the tension with small talk. "I could barely taste the near-rot. Perhaps he has some left."

"I leave the lamb to you," Fafhrd answered. "Nothing but a keg, or even two, of our host's strongest beer will settle me this night."

The mournful zaghareets of Aarth's faithful, spreading southward from the Street of the Gods, served to hasten the footsteps of Fafhrd and the Mouser as they hurried toward Cheap Street. Like the muffled cries of wind demons, the weird sound bounced among buildings, echoed from rooftops and towers. Distorted by distance and the fog, it chilled the blood and fueled the imagination until every shadow became a crazed and menacing shape poised to attack.

A gray, misty sea hid the plaza where Cash and Cheap Streets intersected. The shops and apartments on the far side of the square could not be seen at all. Hesitating, the Mouser looked down and bit his lower lip. The mist curled with intimate familiarity about his thighs. He could not see his own knees.

"Give me your hand, that we might not get separated," Fafhrd said, his voice little more than a whisper.

"Am I some maiden?" the Mouser answered curtly. "As if I could lose a mountain like you, even in this soup. Lead on, Mountain."

They moved up Cheap Street, nearly missing the entrance to Dim Lane, down which lay the Silver Eel. Wishing for a lantern, the Mouser tugged at Fafhrd's sleeve. "This way," he insisted, turning into the narrow lane.

A muted percussion reached their ears. Dumbek drums rumbled under furious hands, brass zills clashed, and tambourines rattled. Up ahead, a weak lantern lit the sign above the Silver Eel's entrance.

"Sounds like a celebration," the Mouser commented, quickening his step now that their destination was in sight.

But Fafhrd caught a piece of the Mouser's cloak and jerked him backward. With a sweep of his other arm, the huge Northerner intercepted a spreading rope net that dropped from a rooftop. Catching its edge, he flung the net aside and reached for his sword.

Four men stepped out of the shadows before them. Crouching for action, they brandished clubs or short swords—darkness and fog made it impossible to tell which. "Four more behind us," Fafhrd whispered. His huge sword made a whisking sound as he whipped it from its sheath. The Mouser glanced upward. On the rooftop, two more men stood in plain sight, silhouetted against the gray-black sky.

"These walls are too close for that great skewer," the Mouser murmured to his companion as he calmly stroked the cat and watched the eight men on the ground advance menacingly. He turned ever so slightly so that he could keep a better eye on the men at their back while Fafhrd watched the four at their front. The pair on the roof offered no immediate threat unless they decided to jump.

Down the lane, behind the thin door of the Silver Eel, the dumbeks and zills and tambourines strained toward a feverish tempo.

With his own weapon still sheathed, the Mouser murmured again, "Be ready, my friend. They are almost upon us."

Taking a two-handed grip on Graywand's hilt, Fafhrd responded with sarcasm. "Some might think it impolite of you to greet such gentlemen with empty hands."

"Tut, tut, my dear Fafhrd," the smaller man said. "My hands are full of weapons."

With that, he spun suddenly about and flung the cat, which let out a horrible screeching as it found itself flying through the air. Claws dug deeply into the face of the nearest man, who let out a shriek to match the cat's. "Demons!" he screamed in terror. Wrestling with the beast that ripped his flesh, he leaped back into two of his comrades, sending them toppling.

The Mouser hit the fourth man with his shoulder, smashing him into the wall before he could recover from his surprise. The Gray One ran toward Dim Lane's entrance into Cheap Street.

One of the figures on the roof leaped into Fafhrd's path. Before his feet even quite touched the ground, a heavy pommel broke his jaw. A huge hand caught the shoulder of a rough tunic and hurled the slack-faced man into the paths of the other team of four as they rushed forward.

"Amateurs!" Fafhrd called, taunting them as they scrambled to get up. A knife whished by his ear suddenly, and his grin vanished. Spinning about, he ran back up the lane, pausing long enough to put a boot in the face of the man the Mouser had downed, and to sweep up the cat.

The Mouser waited for him at the mouth of the lane, his narrow sword drawn now, his breathing quick, his eyes bright with excitement.

"I think this belongs to you," Fafhrd said, delivering the cat into his arms. But the beast gave a growl, leaped away, and disappeared into the fog.

Footsteps raced toward them. Their attackers were not yet discouraged.

"The puss is on his own," the Mouser declared, forgetting about the cat as the first foe charged out of the fog. A blade cut toward the Mouser's head. Ducking the swing, he put a boot between the wielder's legs. "The better part of valor?" he suggested, inclining his head in the direction of the plaza.

"But of course!" Fafhrd called over his shoulder, his heels already ringing on the paving stones as he ran.

The plaza was a virtual fog-bound limbo, an ocean of gray mist. Neither intersecting Cash Street, nor the other end of Cheap Street could be seen. "Where?" Fafhrd cursed, his head whipping from side to side as he searched for the best course.

The Mouser whirled to meet their onrushing attackers, who surged into the plaza right behind them. The ten formed a circle around them. The weapons they carried were plainly swords now, not clubs, and the looks in their eyes were murderous.

The broken-jawed man stepped slightly forward and pointed his sword toward Fafhrd. "Ah wan' ma cloak, 'ou filthy barbar-an! An' ma ring! Then ah wan' yer miserble lives for the embar-rassmen you've caused me!"

"It's our Ilthmart friend," the Mouser said in a tone of mockery as he turned back-to-back with Fafhrd.

"Aye," Fafhrd answered, "and nine of his dumbest, ugliest sisters.

"Ugly I may well be, you ignorant lummox," one of the nine said harshly. "But I take offense at 'dumb.'" With serpentine quickness, a length of rope flashed from his hands, uncoiling, whiplike, to snap around Fafhrd's sword. The blade went flying.

The Ilthmarts charged. The Mouser's blade rang against another. A knife flashed at his ribs. Twisting, he avoided the thrust and slammed his elbow into a face. Pain flashed across his left bicep, and the warm rush of blood poured down his sleeve. A fist toppled him to the street, and for a moment, he was submerged in a foggy sea under a pile of bodies. A knee pinned his sword-hand to the ground, and a knife waved before his eyes. A vaguely familiar face appeared suddenly close to his, and the Mouser recognized the other Ilthmart who'd tried to rob him in the alley behind the Silver Eel.

"That's twice ye or yer pal have put a boot in me family treasures, shorty," the Ilthmart said angrily. "Now I'm gonna slice yers off an' wear 'em fer earrings!"

But before the Ilthmart could carry out his threat, his eyes widened with fear, and he leaped away. All the Mouser's attackers fell back as a whirring sound filled the air, growing louder, deeper. Rising first on an elbow, then to a nervous crouch, the Mouser gripped his wound and stared.

Standing protectively over him, Fafhrd swung the heavy grapnel on its length of rope around and around. Letting out more line with each rotation, he drove the Ilthmarts back. A blow from that weight meant crushed bones or death. Just beyond the lethal arc, the Ilthmarts cringed, but kept their weapons ready, looking for some opening to renew their attack.

The grapnel whooshed; Fafhrd's breath came out in great exhalations as he whirled the makeshift weapon, letting it out to the full length of its line. On the ground, the Mouser groped for his sword, finding Graywand as well as Scalpel.

Just out of the grapnel's range, the Ilthmart's broken-jawed leader raged. "Ge' in there!" he encouraged his men. "Cu’ their damn throa's! Avenge the honor of Ilthmar'!"

In his enthusiasm, he caught the arm of the nearest man and propelled him forward—straight into the path of the grapnel. The weighty prongs missed the startled unfortunate, but the line arced around his throat and upper body, snapping his neck before the grapnel finally tangled itself.

Giving a tug on the line, Fafhrd found it would not come free. "Oops," he said with a shrug to the Mouser. He extended a hand for Graywand.

The Ilthmarts stared in disgust at their leader. Nevertheless, they now had something more than mere honor to avenge. Gripping their weapons, they stalked forward with fiercely determined expressions.

Then, from the foggy sea, dense tendrils of mist snaked languidly upward, surrounding the Ilthmarts. Like the tentacles of some horrid sea squid, those tendrils coiled about the terrified men with such impossible power that some were lifted from the very ground. The Ilthmarts screamed, those whose throats were not gripped. Spines and ribs, arms and necks cracked with brittle snapping.

Back to back with Fafhrd, even the Mouser cried out in fear and horror. Cold sweat ran down his neck; wide-eyed, dry-mouthed, he watched the killing, his ears ringing with screams, his hammering heart near to bursting. He shrank from the arcane tendrils, cowering against his trembling partner, his sword useless in a fear-numbed hand.

The last scream ended with a strangulated gurgle and a gasp. Not a single Ilthmart remained alive. Their deadly work completed, the tendrils lost their seeming solidity, dissolved, and melted away into the murky night.

The Mouser turned slowly to stare at Fafhrd. The Northerner, pale of face, shivering like a child in the cold, stared briefly back. As if with one thought, they ran from the plaza, ran up Cheap Street, ran as fast as their legs would carry them down Dim Lane for the warmth and light of the Silver Eel. Bursting through the door, the Mouser tripped over the threshold and spilled full upon the floor. Fafhrd slammed the door shut. Ignoring his small partner's plight, he braced his muscled frame against the wood as if to hold it against a pursuing foe.

The Mouser raised his head, suddenly aware of a powerful quiet. Every pair of eyes in the hotly crowded tavern locked on them. Around the room, men half-risen from their chairs put hands to swords or daggers. A dancer, raven hair plastered to her bare, sweating shoulders, stood frozen in the middle of a movement. Behind her, a band of drummers hesitated in mid-beat over now-silent dumbeks. Another trio of scantily clad women ceased to shake tambourines.

On the far side of the inn, Cherig waved his hook in the smoky air. "It's only my favorite tenants," he called merrily to his customers. "Play on! Play on!"

Like a tableau come back to life, the drummers struck their hides, and the dancer resumed without seeming to miss a step. Gruff men pushed their weapons back into sheaths, sat down again, and turned their gazes once more to shimmying hips and breasts, some clapping appreciatively to the throbbing beat of the dumbeks, others sipping beer or thin wine. Near the door, a comely woman leaned on the arm of a pot-bellied noble, but the wink she gave Fafhrd held no subtlety.

Red-faced with embarrassment, the Mouser banged his forehead on the floor three times before he drew a deep breath, got to his feet, and sheathed his slender blade. "I pray," he said to Fafhrd, summoning an air of bravado as he straightened his cloak and tunic and patted his stomach with one hand, "let Cherig have some of that seasoned lamb ..."

He didn't finish the thought. Across the tavern in the gloomy corner near the rear door, standing between a pair of handsome young men, he spied the Dark Butterfly.