Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar)

by Robin Wayne Bailey

  Suddenly, as they passed the mouth of a narrow alley, another pair of shadows sprang out. The torch-bearer whirled, shoving fire into the face of Liara's largest suitor. In the fire-gleam, daggers flashed. The remaining suitor, his dagger free, slashed at the torch-bearer, and the torch went spinning into the street. The burned man’s screams turned into a bloody, choking gurgle. Then the second suitor went down, too.

  Liara struck with her own dagger at one of the shadows, but the figure caught her wrist and twisted it. The blade flew out of her fist, but with her other hand she clawed at his eyes and hurled herself upon him like a hellion.

  The second attacker slit the burned suitor’s throat to silence him, then tangled a hand in Liara's hair, jerked her head back and slapped her hard enough to knock her sprawling into the street.

  "Strip 'em of any valuables," the second man said gruffly to his partner, who wiped blood from several oozing scratches. "Then we'll strip this whore, an' have some fun."

  Liara rose up on one elbow, rubbing her smarting cheek. As a rough hand reached to rip her gown, a slender dagger suddenly sprouted from the man's neck. His eyes snapped wide, and with a choked cry, he fell upon her.

  The second thief had no more opportunity. Gray-gloved hands caught either side of his head and twisted sharply. A loud crack resulted, and the thief fell like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  The Mouser moved swiftly into the concealing fog again, certain that Liara had not seen him. With a string of curses that would have made Fafhrd grin, she pushed the first thief's body off, and got to her feet. With another curse, she put a delicate slipper forcefully into the dead torch-bearer's face.

  "Pick up the torch," the Mouser whispered, pressed out of sight near a wall. "I will see you safely to your home."

  "You'll see me?" Liara shot back nervously with nothing to address but a voice in the fog. "I can't see you."

  "Pick up the torch," he repeated. "I'll protect you. A beautiful woman should not walk these streets undefended."

  Liara snorted as she recovered the sputtering torch and lifted it. "Well, that at least tells me you're no god or spirit. Only a man would concern himself with my looks." Using the light, she glanced down at her murdered companions and picked up one of the thieves' daggers, a larger and more dangerous-looking blade than her own tiny sticker. "I thank you for this, mysterious defender. For all their vanity, these were good servants, undeserving of treachery and slaughter."

  "Servants?" the Mouser said with surprise. "I thought they were your paramours."

  She drew herself stiffly erect, her eyes blazing with pride. For a moment, the Mouser thought she might be able to see him where he hid. "I treat my servants as well as my paramours," she answered. "They give much better service for it."

  Turning, she started down Carter Street again, her blond hair mussed, her cloak ripped, but her bearing regal. There was no fear in her voice, only a hint of mockery and amusement when she whispered, "Are you still there, defender?"

  "Lead the way, lead the way," the Mouser answered softly, imitating the torch-bearer’s song as he withdrew Catsclaw from the thief's throat and wiped it clean.

  Liara gave a small, scoffing laugh. "And how much will I pay?" she asked, finishing the rhyme.

  The Mouser swallowed, his thoughts full of Ivrian, his eyes full of the Dark Butterfly. His heart pounded in his chest. Why did he hide in the fog when he might walk close beside her? He couldn't tell. The confusion that filled him swirled thicker than any mist in the street. Still, he dared a brazen response. "You may keep your tik-pennies," he said. "I will take the kiss."

  Liara laughed again, nodding to herself. "Yes," she murmured. "Though you conceal yourself, you are certainly a man."

  They walked in silence after that, the Mouser alert for any threat, Liara seemingly unconcerned. At Barter Street a throng of pedestrians crossed their path, swinging lanterns, singing as they headed toward the Festival District. Another pack of Aarth's maddened followers ran screaming after the celebrants, overtaking them, passing them, and disappearing in the fog.

  A gilt palanquin born on the shoulders of four slaves approached, surrounded by four more servants bearing torches. At a quietly spoken command from the palanquin's occupant, the bearers came to a crisp halt. Slender, well-manicured fingers parted the vehicle's gauzy curtains, and a face peered out. The torchlight reflected on an oiled beard and sharp features.

  "Liara," a voice said smoothly.

  The bearers lowered the palanquin until it rested on ornately carved legs, then stood at silent attention. One of the torch-bearers hurried forward, unrolled a small carpet on the ground and set a step stool upon it. The speaker parted the curtains a bit more, but did not get out. "By what strange whim of the gods do I find you alone and unescorted on this dreadful night?" Without waiting for an answer, he offered, "Come, give me your company, and let's see if we can't make it pass more pleasantly."

  The expensive, silver-trimmed black toga that enwrapped the man's shoulders revealed him as one of Lankhmar's highest ranking nobles. Only the Ten Families, the descendants of Lankhmar's ancient founders, were allowed the honor of the garment.

  Liara seemed unimpressed. "I am not alone, Belit," she answered in a familiar manner, disdaining even to call him lord. Such impudence from any other citizen would have brought a public whipping in Punishment Square. "I am protected by my shadow."

  Belit gave her a strange look, then leaned out of his vehicle to search the fog with his gaze. Shrugging, he straightened. "Another time, then," he said without further questioning. "But be careful. Attavaq has died this night, and his damned priests are running like hysterical demons through the city."

  Hidden in the fog, the Mouser listened and rubbed his chin. So it was Aarth's Patriarch, after all, for whom the great bell had rung.

  Belit waved a hand casually through closing curtains, and his bearers once more lifted his palanquin onto broad shoulders. A light-bearing servant expertly rolled up the carpet, snatched up the stool, and fell into step with the others as they proceeded into the mist.

  "You have powerful friends," the Mouser whispered as they resumed their journey.

  "I have no friends," Liara said coldly. "But I have the goods on powerful people." She laughed again, harshly. "Lankhmar is a marvelous place. A clever whore can excel here."

  The Mouser's voice dropped a note lower as he gazed upon her from the shadows. "I will never call you such a name."

  The Dark Butterfly laughed again and drew her purple silk cloak closer about her throat. "You have already proven yourself a fool," she said. "By following me thus."

  Leaving Carter Street, she turned up the narrow way that led to the entrance of the Plaza of Dark Delights. White gravel shifted softly under her slippered footsteps. Cautious as ever, the Mouser followed far to the side of the path, making no noise, hiding in the fog just beyond the flickering border of her torchlight.

  Tall, immaculate hedges and fantastically shaped topiaries dominated the plaza, which was actually a park on the edge of the Festival District. Secluded niches with marble benches offered privacy and solitude for lovers and philosophers alike, and in truth, at night the plaza was known more for debate and discourse than as a place for illicit assignations. The carefully maintained greenery blocked any view of the towers and rooftops of the city, nor did the hubbub of the city penetrate into the park. Indeed, a citizen could stop for a while to meditate and utterly forget that the greatest city on Nehwon swirled around them.

  By tradition, no one carried more than the dimmest of lanterns into the park. Liara's torch would have drawn scowls and curses had there been anyone in the plaza to complain, but only the mist occupied the niches tonight.

  "One should not pass this way," the Mouser whispered, "without speaking or hearing some sage word."

  Liara seemed not to hear, or chose not to answer. Or perhaps, the Mouser considered, her silence was an answer, and if so, there was wisdom of a sort in it. He peered around at
the giant topiaries that stood along the pebbled path. The fog and mist lent them a menace that made his skin crawl. They reminded him of tendrils rising up from the mist of another plaza; they reminded with a sudden shivering fear that the fog concealed something more than just himself.

  He stopped with an abrupt realization. Those tendrils had reached out only for the Ilthmarts. The fog had spared Fafhrd and himself—or saved them.

  "Why do you stop, my defender?" Liara said, turning. The torchlight lit up her features. Her eyes shone with reflected fire, and the amethyst at her throat gleamed as her cloak gaped open.

  Surprise prevented the Mouser from responding at once.

  She laughed that small, tinkling laugh. "Did you think I couldn't hear you? Oh, you're an excellent sneak, little defender, but I have sharp ears." She laughed again. "As every official in Lankhmar knows."

  The Mouser frowned. "Why do you say little?"

  "I hear the length and quickness of your stride," she answered. "Take it as no insult."

  "The wound," the Mouser admitted, "is to my pride, for I thought no man could hear my tread when I crept with earnest intent."

  "No man did," she said with dignified emphasis. Turning again, she continued through the park, from which they shortly emerged.

  Face-of-the-Moon Street made a paved crescent around the southeastern corner of the park. Elegant manses on one side of the street faced the great circling hedge that defined the park's circumference. These were not the dwellings of nobles or wealthy merchants, however, but houses of pain-pleasure where men could experience darker enjoyments than those commonalities found on Whore Street.

  Such a place was the House of Night Cries. In keeping with the park across the way, a hedge separated the manse's grounds from the street. Among its leafy greenery bloomed black-petaled and white-tipped mooncrisps, called by some Roses of the Shadowland. Droplets of mist shimmered on the petals under Liara's torchlight.

  At the entrance, she paused.

  "Step into my light," she commanded.

  The Mouser hesitated, licking his lower lip uncertainly, suddenly nervous. Yet, he obeyed. She stood a few inches taller than he, and he gazed up into the brightness of her eyes, his heart hammering, his loins full of desire.

  Perfunctorily, she leaned forward and kissed his right cheek. "I have paid your hire," she said, straightening, turning to leave him.

  He caught her hand.

  Liara jerked away, anger contorting her beautiful features as she raised the torch like a weapon and backed a step. "You are paid!" she shouted, clutching the hand he had grabbed to her breast as if he had injured her.

  "I only touched..."

  She lowered the torch, but her anger did not subside. "No man touches me for free!" she cried. "No man!"

  Hurt, surrendering to his own rising anger, the Mouser shoved a hand into his purse, found a coin and tossed it at her feet.

  The torchlight gleamed on a silver smerduk, and she laughed again with a harsh sound. "That would not get you in my door." Then, Liara seemed to relent somewhat. Snatching a black mooncrisp from the hedge, she flung it into the Mouser's hands. "I cannot be courted with coins, my gray defender," she said with softer gentility. "If you wish, bring me a gift, and I will not turn you away. But when you choose your gift, be mindful that I have entertained the wealthiest men in Lankhmar. Then, come to me again. Come to me, and I will show you the finest perfections of love."

  The Mouser opened his hands and let the mooncrisp fall into the street. "The Dark Butterfly," he said with bitter sadness. "You are only a harlot with a fancy nick-name."

  Her eyes narrowed again. "You said you would never call me a whore."

  Turning away, he spoke over his shoulder as he started back toward the park. "And I kept my word," he said specifically.

  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.

  "Nothing finer for me and you

  Than the belly-jig danced by two,

  Unless, of course, it be

  The belly-jig danced by three—

  Me and thee and thee!"

  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.