Swords Against the Shadowland

EIGHT A SHIP ON THE SEA OF MISTS

Fafhrd kissed Ayla and patted the belly-dancer's backside playfully as he opened his room's door and let her out into the dimly lit hallway. Flashing a smile, she wrapped herself in her veils and hurried downstairs.

In the darkness near the bed, Sharmayne fastened a blue silken cloak around her shoulders and pulled up the hood to conceal her face. Approaching the big Northerner, the noblewoman rose on tiptoe and lightly pressed her lips against his. "That was what I call a midsummer celebration," she whispered before she, too, hurried away.

Grinning, smugly pleased with himself, Fafhrd closed the door. Alone, with only a tiny lamplight for illumination, he drew a deep breath and sighed. Idly, he wondered where the Gray Mouser had gone and if his partner's evening had proved as pleasant.

Throwing the covers over the rumpled bed, he discovered a small quantity of wine remaining in one of the three bottles on the floor. With a single pull, he drained the last drop. Then gathering the empty bottles, he carried them to the window, pushed back the shutters, and cast them into the narrow alley below.

He lingered at the window, taking mischievous pleasure in the shattering crashes as the bottles exploded. The feather-soft touch of a random breeze played over his bare chest. Drawing a deep, refreshing breath, he sighed.

The fog still blanketed the city. As he watched, a thick finger of mist stole across the sill, dissipating even as it seemed to spill down the wall and flow over the floor. Abruptly, he stepped back, heart hammering, his brows knitting with suspicion and dread.

The wisp of fog in his room, no more than a tenuous vapor now, rose ghost-like into the air, like a spirit uncurling itself to stand erect. A shiver ran up Fafhrd's spine. Then some unlikely draft swirled through the room, caught the vapor, and bore it back outside.

With a carefully maintained calm, Fafhrd closed the shutters and locked them. The fight at the Cheap Street Plaza was still a fresh memory in his mind. He remembered the arcane tendrils of mist that had risen to crush and strangle the Ilthmarts. The screaming still echoed in his ears.

Not even the charms of two beautiful women, he discovered somewhat guiltily, had driven that terror from his heart. He had used Ayla and Sharmayne as distractions to hide from his fear. In their arms he had tried to forget what he had seen, what he had heard. But Ayla and Sharmayne were gone, and now his fear returned.

He couldn't quite explain it. He had seen men die horribly before, and he himself had faced vile deaths. Yet all the superstitious dread he thought he had left behind in the Cold Wastes seemed once again to press in upon him, and he could not shake a peculiar premonition.

Something lurked in the fog beyond his window, waiting. It waited for him.

Quietly, he walked to the lamp and turned the wick higher. Although the taller flame brightened the room a little, the shadows also seemed to darken and grow in number. Each time the light wavered or the wick sputtered, the shadows stirred, shifted, striking macabre poses on the walls, the ceiling, the floor.

Attempting to shake his black mood, Fafhrd picked up his lute and settled down on the bed with his back against the wall. His fingers brushed softly over the strings as stubbornly he tried to ignore the shadows. Instead, he thought of the noble-blooded Sharmayne and Ayla the dancer, the fine wine they had shared, the laughter that had so softly blessed his ears. The sweet smell of Sharmayne's perfume yet lingered in the bedclothes, mingled with the odor of passion-sweat. Barely audible, Fafhrd sang in a low voice.

Abruptly, he stopped and listened. Not a sound drifted up through the floor from the tavern below; apparently, the customers had all gone home. Even the infernal cries of Aarth's followers seemed to have ceased. The unexpected silence hung about his shoulders like an oppressive weight.

He set his fingers to the strings again and prepared to pluck a note.

Fafhrd. ...

A draft teased the lamp's flame; the shadows whirled around the room and settled down again. Was it Fafhrd's imagination, or did they strike new and improbable postures? He was drunk, he decided, disgusted with himself. Setting the lute against the wall near the head of the bed, he crossed to the table and turned the wick down again.

"Take that, you tormenters or poor, inebriated sots," he said to the shadows. The deepening darkness seemed to drain them of life. Before he could truly gloat, a disharmonic chord, powerful of volume, rang through the small room with eerie effect. The Northerner jumped, nearly bashing his head on the low ceiling. When he spun about, he spied his lute, which had slipped from the place where he had leaned it and now lay upon the floor, its strings still vibrating faintly.

Fafhrd. . . .

His heart skipped a beat, and his mouth went dry. The darkness quivered and rippled, as if the shadows it had swallowed were struggling to get out. The room seemed suddenly too close, too small. The weak and tiny light retreated even farther into the lamp. The walls themselves began to pulse, and a labored, breathing sound whispered from the boards.

"Blood of Kos!" Fafhrd cried.

At Fafhrd's outburst, the room stilled. Then it all began again—darkness writhing like something alive, the breathing louder than ever. The pulsing became a painful thunder that filled his head and set his senses to swirling.

With a shout of terror, Fafhrd snatched up his sword from where it lay buried beneath the pile of his clothes. He whipped the blade from its sheath. For a moment, he hesitated, half in a panic. The walls of the room, like the chambers of some monstrous heart, throbbed. With another cry, he lunged, driving his point deep into the woodwork.

The pulsing ceased instantly. The room seemed to give a final long sigh, then a gasp that faded away.

Fafhrd pulled his sword free. For a long moment, he stood in the center of the room, breathing hard, his gaze darting nervously to every gloomy corner. Rubbing thumb and forefinger over his eyes, he shook his head as if to clear it. Perhaps he was drunk, after all.

Sheathing his sword, he sat down on the edge of the bed. With his hands wrapped around the guard-tangs, he leaned his head wearily on the weapon's pommel and closed his eyes. It had to be near dawn, he figured. A little sleep would help to clear his head and let him see things more rationally.

Hugging the sword to his chest, he tipped sideways and curled up on the blanket. The bed creaked under his shifting weight, but the soft feather mattresses embraced him with comfortable warmth. The pillow beneath his head smelled pleasantly of Sharmayne's expensive perfume, and a strand of Ayla's dark hair tickled his nose until he brushed it away. He turned over twice, finally settling on his back, and threw one arm over his eyes. At last, he lay still.

The lamplight flickered. The wick sputtered and hissed.

Slowly, Fafhrd uncovered his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. Had he slept? He wasn't sure. But something had disturbed him, not a sound or a movement, something else. He sniffed, and inhaled the odor of a sweet perfume that was not Sharmayne's.

He knew that fragrance, though—Vlana's perfume.

The lamplight flickered once more. With careful deliberation, Fafhrd turned his head toward the window. The shutters, which he had closed and locked, hung open. Beyond the sill, the fog stirred and eddied.

Fafhrd. ...

It was not wind, nor the lute-strings, nor the effect of too much wine, nor his imagination. Vlana whispered his name. From somewhere in the dark and misty night, his one true love called him to rise from his bed and join her. How such a thing could be when she was dead, he did not understand, but he reached for his trousers and his boots. Wordless, he pulled them on.

Strapping Graywand around his waist, he went to the window and leaned out, seeing nothing but the fog. He would go down to her then, find her wherever she might be, make whatever amends he could for his part in her cruel and untimely death.

Leaving the room, he made his way down the stairs. Empty wine bottles, beer mugs, overturned stools and chairs lay scattered about the Silver Eel's floor. There was no sign of Cherig One-hand. With all his customers gone, no doubt he had retired to his own bed, leaving the clean-up until morning. Only an old brown dog glanced up at Fafhrd before it resumed eating the scraps that littered the floor.

Fafhrd slipped through the passage beneath the steps and opened the back door to emerge into Bones Alley. His open window and Vlana's whispering voice had suggested she might be waiting here, but he saw no one.

He thought he better understood the strange occurrence in his room now that he knew who was behind it. The fear he had earlier felt was gone, replaced almost by a sense of relief. He thought he understood now the strange occurrences in the Cheap Street Plaza and in his room. Something indeed waited in the fog. Or rather, someone. And she waited for him.

He did not yet see Vlana, nor did she speak his name again. As he gazed up and down the mist-filled alley, a lingering grief compelled him to speak.

"Why do you haunt me, love?" he whispered to the fog. "What do you want from me?"

A little way down the alley, the mist parted like a slowly opening curtain to reveal his beloved. A wind he couldn't feel teased the folds of diaphanous white silk that clothed her form, and black tresses whipped about her face. With mesmeric grace, her arms rose and fell in a serpentine undulation, while her hips floated in a tantalizing circle. One pale hand waved in the air, a gesture that seemed to invite him closer even as it warned him away.

"Vlana ..." he said, taking a single step before halting again.

She spun in a triplet pirouette and stopped, flinging out her arms, her eyes flashing like ice in sunlight. Pressing her palms firmly together beneath her chin, she began a new, far less sensuous dance. Her bare feet moved in a series of intricate patterns, while she held her upper body with rigid, courtly formality.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice pleading.

Again she stopped. Her cold gaze fixed him accusingly across the distance. With a dramatic toss of her head, she bent at the waist, and swung all her hair forward to conceal her face. Then straightening, she parted it with her hands. Vlana's face was gone, replaced by a glaring red-eyed skull whose teeth chattered an angry rhythm.

Fafhrd gave a cry of despair, but before the sound had escaped his lips, Vlana spun again. When she stopped, she wore her own beautiful face again. Reaching up with one hand, she drew down a piece of the mist and drew it teasingly across her face like a dancer’s veil. With a flourish, she tossed it away. Her fingers began to move with dazzling speed. Unable to tear his gaze away, Fafhrd watched, feeling stirrings, a strange excitement. Like frantic birds, her hands worked in the air, fluttering, fingers darting between fingers, nails tapping on palms, tips snapping together.

Only once before during their too-short time together had he seen Vlana perform the subtle and beautiful finger-dances of Tisilinit. A culture dancer of immeasurable talent and reputation, she held in her repertoire dances and dance-tales from scores of Nehwon's many lands and nations. She danced alone now and made no effort to approach him, but played upon the palms and fingers of a lover, the movements were said to bring on an erotic passion unmatched by any herb or aphrodisiac.

He remembered the night when he first saw her dancing on a crude stage with poor lighting for the benefit of even cruder men who could not possibly appreciate her art. With a caravan of traders she had come, just one of a small troupe of actors and entertainers, to the village of the Snow Clan in the Cold Wastes. Only the adult men had been invited to the performance, but he had climbed a high tree, shinnied out on a limb, and from such a precarious perch, he fell in love.

How different his life would have been without her, he realized. It was Vlana who had lured him away from his mother, his clan, from the plain village girl to whom he had been betrothed, from a life devoid of hope, empty of dreams, Vlana who had severed the chains of expectation and lifted the yoke of duty from around his neck. It was she who had brought him to the southlands and the warmer climes, ultimately to the exotic city of Lankhmar and taught him the ways of civilization.

In return, he had sworn always to love and protect her. Succeeding in the first, he had failed horribly in the second.

"Even with death’s chilly rime on your lips," he murmured, "grant me forgiveness with a kiss."

Resolutely, he walked toward her. Vlana ceased her dance. The fire went out in her eyes, and a look of horror flashed over her face. Holding out a hand to warn him away, she took an involuntary step backward. At the same time, the fog seemed to thicken and rush in from all sides, snatching her away.

Fafhrd ran forward until he stood on the spot where she had danced. The fog swirled about him, filling his eyes with a cold, numbing vapor, blinding him, choking his lungs. Stumbling, he fell to his knees.

From out of the night came a harsh, mocking laughter.

Coughing, rubbing his fists against his half-frozen eyes, Fafhrd looked up. The high walls of Bones Alley no longer loomed over him. Indeed, he could not say exactly where he was, in Lankhmar, or even on Nehwon. A shallow sea of cold mist flowed around him, gently tossing with low, smoky waves. From horizon to horizon, as far as he could gaze, it rolled beneath a featureless, fog-filled sky.

Struggling to his feet, Fafhrd closed one fist around the hilt of his sword. Again the night reverberated with derisive laughter. Knee-deep in streaming white fog, he turned toward the sound.

Far off in the darkness, a lamp burned dimly. Yet even as Fafhrd watched, it drew nearer and nearer. In its sickly amber glow, he spied the prow of a boat or a barge, a black shape sailing upon the fog. Barely visible in the lamp’s glow, a pale figure stood in the prow.

Closer and closer the ship drew. The unmoving figure stood stiff as a mast in a white silk gown that billowed, sail-like. As the vessel continued to approach, the brightening lamplight reflected on heavy steel chains and manacles locked about the figure's wrists and neck, and on raven hair that streamed about proud and shapely shoulders.

Sad eyes turned Fafhrd's way.

"Vlana!" he cried, his heart brimming with anger and despair.

Another, taller figure worked in the vessel's stern. Until now, the brilliance of the lantern had prevented Fafhrd from seeing him. The black robes he wore snapped in the wind like the wings of a huge vulture, and a voluminous hood concealed his features. From his sleeves jutted a skeleton's bony hands and forearms. Leaning upon a long pole, he propelled the unusual boat forward.

The vessel's low, black rails gleamed with intricately worked gold and silver inlay. Amidship, a slender mast spired upward. Without sail or rigging, it was covered with the same swirling inlay work as the rails, indeed, the rest of the ship. Immensely old and beautiful, it also gave off a sense of alienness.

Without word or warning, the pilot lifted his pole from the misty sea and swung it. Vlana's face contorted with pain as the end struck her in the side, yet she made no sound at all as the impact sent her sprawling upon the boat's deck.

Fafhrd drew his sword. "Villain!" he shouted. As rapidly as he could manage against the currents and eddies that worked unseen beneath the surface of the strange sea, he waded toward the boat. On its present course, he feared that it would sail right past before he could reach it. "Damned villain!"

From within the black folds of the pilot's hood came a now familiar mocking laugh. Setting aside his pole, the creature bent down and effortlessly lifted a huge iron anchor, which he threw over the side. It disappeared without a splash or crash, and the anchor chain drew tight. The boat jerked to a stop. Once more, the creature took up his pole.

"Let her go!" Fafhrd demanded as he struggled toward the eerie craft. Over the low, wooden rail he could see the limp form of his one true love, and he fought all the harder to reach the ship.

A raspy voice spoke from within the hood. "Will you fight me for her, barbarian?" the creature said. "Is your blade as strong as your heart?"

Fafhrd did not answer with words. At last, he stood within sword-reach of the vessel. Gripping Graywand's hilt in both hands, he swung the blade high and brought it smashing down on the rail. The boat rocked under the impact; wood splinters and bits of gold and silver flew into the air. Impossibly, they sparked with brilliant, white-hot fire and flared out.

Reflexively, Fafhrd flung up an arm to protect his eyes from the unexpected light and heat.

The creature laughed. The pole whirled in his skeletal hands, becoming a blur. Then one end lashed downward at Fafhrd's head. At the last instant, Fafhrd recovered his senses and brought his great sword up in a defensive block. Pole and steel clashed. Again, searing sparks leaped at the contact.

"You can't win back the lovely Vlana," the figure taunted him. "You'll fail her again, just as you did before."

"No!" Fafhrd screamed. Desperately, he swung Graywand again, striking at the creature's legs. At the same time, he caught the side of the boat with his free hand and tried to pull himself aboard. Deftly evading Fafhrd's cut, the creature smashed downward at Fafhrd's fingers.

Barely in time, Fafhrd let go of the rail and jerked his hand away. The other end of the pole came spinning toward his unprotected head. Voicing a deep grunt, he brought his sword up in a mighty swing. With powerful force, wood and steel met again. Shimmering sparks seemed to set fire to the mist before fading, and the ship's inlay flashed.

They fought in earnest now, the creature striking from his higher vantage with both ends of his weapon, Fafhrd swinging his sword with consummate skill, thwarting every attack. The boat rocked precariously, and the lantern, depending from a peg on the mast, cast a pendulum of light over the gray sea.

Yet, strive as he might, Fafhrd could gain no advantage from his lower position. Finally, he risked a dangerous gambit. Chopping at his foe's knees, he drove the creature back a step. Then, springing up with all the power in his muscular legs, he threw himself across the boat's rail. Under his sudden weight, the vessel tipped violently. Still clinging to his pole, the creature catapulted over the side, wildly aflutter in his robes, and sank out of sight beneath the sea of mist.

Sword ready, Fafhrd whirled, his gaze locked on the spot where his foe had disappeared under the gray waves. Not for a moment did he believe he could vanquish such an opponent so easily. He ventured only the swiftest glance toward Vlana, who cowered with her arms wrapped around the base of the slender mast, her eyes wide with terror.

With lightning quickness, one end of the pole arced upward out of the mist, and whistled toward his skull. Fafhrd hurled himself backward. Still, a stinging blow glanced off his brow. Dazed, he caught himself on the side of the boat.

The robed and hooded being rose laughing out of the river of mist. Fafhrd had yet to win even a glimpse of the face within those funereal garments.

"What are you, monster?" Fafhrd shouted, stalling for time while his vision cleared. He gripped Graywand's hilt in both hands and swayed lightly back and forth on the balls of his booted feet.

The creature’s laughter ceased. The voice that issued from within the black hood turned grim. "I am the Inevitable," it said pompously, "that all men must face."

"Spare me your riddles," Fafhrd said. He lunged, describing an elusive circle with the point of his broad blade, hoping to slip past the creature's defense and drive home through its heart, if it had one.

"No one will be spared," the creature said. "Not even the most innocent, the newest born." Undeceived by Fafhrd's tactic, it slammed the pole downward, intercepting the fatal thrust, diverting it.

But Fafhrd only pressed his attack. With renewed fury, he rained deadly blows upon his foe, driving him backward away from the ship. Again and again, pole and blade met, and the darkness glowed with the heat and lightning they created.

"Vlana must be spared," Fafhrd cried.

"Fool," the creature said coldly. "She is already dead."

With an anguished shout, Fafhrd swung Graywand with all his might. One more time, sword and pole met. Fire and heat erupted, and a thunderblast shook the night. Steel cleaved through wood; a fragment of the pole exploded into flame and spun across the sky like an arcane comet.

For an instant, the creature stared in amazement at the shattered weapon. Fafhrd didn't hesitate. Putting the entire weight of his giant body into a back-handed effort, he sliced through his foe's chest.

But the blade met little resistance. Black robes buckled inward, like a sack containing nothing. The creature, whatever it was, fell forward into the sea with the remains of its pole, and the mist swallowed it.

With a triumphant bellow, Fafhrd turned toward the boat, intent on a successful rescue of his one true love. His heart swelling, he thought of breaking her chains and gathering her in his arms, of tasting the ruby wine of her lips once more.

The boat, however, was already far away, its anchor and chain neatly curled on deck. Vlana stood amidships, watching him from the mast, while a cadaverous pilot in black robes propelled the vessel with a long pole.

"I beat you!" Fafhrd shouted, bitter with frustration and renewed grief. "Let her go! I fought for her, and I won!"

The much-hated sound of the creature's laughter rolled back across the mist, followed by a rasping voice. "You lost, son of Nalgron." The sea itself seemed to carry the words to him. "Before this little amusement began, you had already lost."

The boat sailed onward, growing smaller and smaller, until only its lamp could be seen, and even that passed out of sight.

"Vlana!" The desperate shout ripped from Fafhrd's throat as the lamp's light vanished.

Alone in a gray limbo, he tried to think what he should do. Slowly he turned, attempting to spy some landmark in this desolate, featureless place by which he could navigate. Nothing caught his eye, no sound touched his ears, no odor wafted through the air. Even the pale, thin grayness that pervaded this world—wherever it might be—was fading, leaving him in darkness, deep and impenetrable.

Blind, guided by nothing except hope and determination, he started in the direction he thought the boat and Vlana had gone. How far he walked, he could not guess, nor for how long before the chill fog began to freeze his legs, and the cold crept into his lungs and all through his extremities.

With Vlana's name on his rime-caked lips, his weary limbs gave out, and he stumbled. Falling, sinking, the shallow sea seemed suddenly to have no bottom at all.

The mist enfolded him in a feathery soft embrace as unseen currents caught and carried him—somewhere. Yet again I fail you, Vlana, he thought bitterly as consciousness left him. Yet again, I fail.