The window allowed a commanding view of the court below. A pair of old shutters had been opened and pushed back against the outer wall. Seizing the right shutter by its latch, he eased it back and forth, testing its hinges. Metal protested noisily, then old wood sighed. The shutter came loose at the top and leaned outward away from Fafhrd's grasp. Its own weight too much, it pulled loose from the bottom and tumbled to the ground.
"I swear I can't take you anywhere," the Mouser said, placing the lantern in one corner on the floor and setting down the bag that contained the torches. "What will the landlord say?"
Fafhrd removed his sword, then spread his cloak upon the dusty floor. "Wake me if he wants to lodge a complaint," he said, curling up. Hugging the sheathed blade to his chest, he closed his eyes without another word, leaving the Mouser standing with hands on his hips, gaping open-mouthed.
Fafhrd woke drenched in sweat. Slowly, he sat up and wiped a hand over his face. Saturated with perspiration, his garments clung to him. The cloak on which he slept showed a clear, damp outline of his body. He didn't feel warm or feverish, but he shifted position, moving closer to the window.
The last colors of twilight lingered in the west as night moved in from the east. A strange sky, he thought, observing the mottled shades of gray, deep blues, and black. A bruised sky. A flock of blackbirds winged slowly, gracefully, overhead. Fafhrd watched them pass out of sight.
A soft evening breeze blew across the rooftops. It kissed his face and dried his sweat as he drew a deep breath of fresh air.
Long shadows filled the court below. He gazed toward the fountain. Not a single crumb of the food left there remained. Smiling to himself, he scanned the darkened windows and doors of the apartments opposite him. Far down the way, a small head lingered watchfully low in the corner of a third-floor shutterless square.
How many, he wondered. How many children—orphans and runaways—called these treacherous structures home? He felt the shiver of the wind through the old boards, the ever-so-slight swaying in the beams and timbers. A rare wave of pity swept over him, and he wished that he'd had more food to leave.
He, himself, had never known an orphan's existence.
Not so for his partner, he thought as he gazed across the darkening room. The Mouser slept sitting up in a corner, his back against the wall, feet crossed like an eastern philosopher, chin resting on his chest, arms hanging lank at his sides. The low flame of the lantern perched on the rickety table nearby downlit his somber, sleeping features.
The Mouser never talked at all about his early youth. He had never known his parents. He might have been the son of some starving whore that couldn't afford to keep him, or the secret cast-off shame of some noblewoman or queen. He didn't know his land of origin, or even if he had ever had a proper name. Like a small, ferocious animal he had fought and scrapped for every bite of food, for every moment of his cruel existence until the herb-wizard, Glavas Rho, stumbling upon the little savage in the alleys of Lankhmar and, seeing some spark in the boy, took him in, educated him, and gave him a taste for the finer things civilization offered.
Noting the sky's deepening color, Fafhrd rose slowly to his feet, careful not to make the old boards creak and thus disturb his friend. Retrieving his cloak, he fastened it about his shoulders, then chose a torch from the pair he had purchased earlier. Lastly, he fastened his sword in place on his hip and crept soundlessly to the apartment door. Pausing, he looked back.
The Mouser had not stirred. His slender chest rose and fell in a soft, even sleep-rhythm. His gray partner would be angry to wake and find himself alone, Fafhrd knew, but this one battle he felt he must fight alone. Only he, not the Mouser, had been touched by Malygris's curse. He would not risk exposing his good friend to the magical forces he intended to challenge this night.
He crept carefully down the stairs in utter darkness, feeling his way, testing every step lest his weight plunge him through some rotten wood. At the bottom, he paused in the doorway and gazed out over the courtyard. A pair of small shadows sat on a nearby stoop. Swift and alert as mice, they vanished inside as Fafhrd stepped into the open.
Feeling inside his purse, which was still full of Laurian's jewelry, he found a bracelet. Blood-red garnets depending from silver links glimmered darkly in the pale starlight that reached into the court. Fafhrd crossed the expanse and placed it on the very stoop where the children had sat.
"Take this bauble to Fisret the Fence on the Street of Honest Men," he whispered into the black opening of a doorway. "The profit should feed you all for a week if you spend wisely." He paused, listening, but expecting no answer. He had no doubt, though, that the children heard him. Finally he added, "Tell the old rat-face that Fafhrd of the Red Hair, to whom he owes a thousand favors, sent you. That will guarantee a fair-value trade."
He turned from the stoop, expecting no thanks. Such children as these trusted no one outside of their small band, least of all a huge adult of uncertain intentions with a sword longer than the tallest of them. He strode away, but after a few paces, glanced back over his shoulder and grinned as a tiny hand on a skinny arm shot out and snatched the treasure. "You're welcome," Fafhrd murmured.
Clutching his unlit torch, he left Crypt Court, feeling his way through alleys so narrow the walls brushed his shoulders. The sun had little chance to bake the ground in such close passages. Slime and filth mucked his boots. Wrinkling his nose against the pungent odors of mud and slop-jar leavings, he draped the hem of his cloak over one arm to avoid soiling it.
Like a fleet shadow, he crossed Nun Street, deftly avoiding the street lanterns and a patrol of soldiers marching south in tight formation. He watched their backs until they were out of sight, wondering what business they were about. Then, once more keeping to the alleys and back streets, he made his way past homes and apartments, shops and warehouses until he stood on the shore of the River Hlal.
A cool breeze kissed his face, and the lapping of little waves sounded like soft music. The dark water glimmered and gleamed under the rich spangle of stars that filled Lankhmar’s sky. Fafhrd drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, appreciating the serene beauty, tasting for just a brief moment the unending vastness of life represented by the river and the heavens.
After a moment, he began to wander the bank. He gathered pieces of driftwood, tore up small handfuls of dry grass and piled them together. With his sharp eyes, he searched the water's edge for the whitest, smoothest stones. Carefully, he rinsed them clean of any mud. Upon each stone, he blew a stream of breath, and when he had enough, he built a small, crude pyramid beside his pile of grass and driftwood.
Rummaging in his purse, digging past Laurian's jewels, he found the tinderbox he had purchased earlier that day and set to work over the grass and driftwood. When the grass at last took fire, he seized the pitch torch, which he had set aside, and lit it. He forced the end into the ground so that it stood beside his pyramid.
In his circle of light, Fafhrd knelt down and drew out his dagger. Extending his left arm over the pyramid, he drew the razor sharp blade across his flesh. A thin red stream splashed upon the white stones.
"Kos," he whispered, murmuring a prayer to that grim northern god of his ancestors as he watched his red essence seep over and around the stones. "I seldom call your name except for the most blasphemous of reasons. But taste this blood of your wayward son upon this small altar and hear me now. Reach out from the silence of the Icy Wastes, place your hoary hand in my enemy's back, and compel him to me."
He bent closer over the makeshift altar as a few more drops of blood splattered the stones. His green eyes glittered, and his copper curls shone like liquid gold in the firelight. "Cold Kos," he urged, "do this—and the next three virgins I take, I'll deflower in your name."
A sharp wind gusted at his back. The torch and the campfire fluttered wildly. A thin spray lifted from the river, dampening his neck, and a veil of dust swept upward from the grassy bank to roll inland.
Through that veil of du
st a cloaked form stood suddenly revealed.
"Your frozen god can't help you, barbarian," the figure hissed. With one hand, it pushed back a concealing hood. Firelight gleamed on a bald head and small spidery eyes.
A hideous smile turned up the corners of Fafhrd's lips. Rising calmly, he tossed back the edge of his cloak to reveal Graywand. He wrapped his fingers slowly, deliberately, around its hilt, not defensively, not out of surprise. From that cool gesture issued a deadly threat and promise of battle.
"Truly, the gods move in mysterious ways," Fafhrd said in a grim voice, "Kos is generous to have delivered you up so quickly." Touching the wound on the back of his sword arm with two fingers, he drew a pair of red streaks on each cheek, his gaze never leaving Malygris's face.
"Pathetic dog," the wizard said. "I've watched you all night and day and into this night again, since the moment you left Laurian's side, waited to punish you for daring to defile my true love!"
"As you have dared to defile the memory of my one true love!" Fafhrd shot back angrily. "I realized today. It isn't Vlana's ghost that haunts me through the city streets, but a damnable trick of your illusions!"
"Fool, and ranting fool!" Malygris answered bitterly. A hand thrust from under the folds of the wizard's cloak. In response, the small campfire flared. Tongues of flame shot outward, catching in the grass, burning with unnatural fury. A hot, crackling ring swiftly encircled Fafhrd.
Waves of heat whipped at the Northerner. For a reflexive instant, he threw up an arm to shield his eyes. Then grinning, he lowered his arm and drew Graywand from its sheath. The red light shimmered on the impressive length of steel.
"Spare me your cheap mirages," Fafhrd sneered, ignoring the circle of fire that drew ever tighter about him. He snatched up the torch standing at his side where he'd planted it in the earth. "Have some real fire," he said, flinging it.
The pitch torch whooshed through the night like a blazing missile, propelled by Fafhrd's might. A startled Malygris stared in wide-eyed disbelief, seemingly transfixed. At the last possible instant, voicing a small cry, he ducked and leaped aside. His foot caught in the grass, and as he tumbled backward, his cloak parted to reveal one arm bound tightly against his body. His face wrinkled in pain.
"So I did mark you," Fafhrd gloated, remembering that he'd hurled a stone and struck the wizard's elbow at their first meeting. "Well, I'll carve a deeper mark and rid Lankhmar of a rabid rat." Clutching Graywand in both hands, he swung the blade high. "Now a nightmare ends," he hissed.
Suddenly the world tilted. The ground began to spin. Earth and sky traded places and traded again. Fafhrd lurched backward, fighting for balance like a man on the deck of a tempest-tossed ship. He spun about, fell, landed on his back barely clinging to his sword as he cried out in rage and fear.
"Mock me now, barbarian." Malygris's voice laughed in his ears, but the wizard could not be seen. "You cannot even stand."
In a dim and desperate corner of his brain, Fafhrd realized that all he saw was still just illusion. He struggled to rise and toppled sideways again as the earth shifted under him and the sky whirled. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that would end the deception, but Malygris's power seared deeper into his mind. Though he fought disorientation, all his senses betrayed him. Still struggling, he opened his eyes again.
A ring of wizards surrounded him, all wearing the angry face of Malygris.
"I found you naked in her house," the wizards accused in chorus. "Tell me that you never touched her, and I'll kill you quickly."
"I can see you're beside yourself at the thought," Fafhrd answered sarcastically. By force of will, he fought to his knees. Gripping Graywand in both hands, he plunged it deep into the earth and clung. At least it was some small anchor, some point of reference, in this dizzying madness.
Instantly the world turned upside-down, and he screamed, expecting to find himself dangling from his sword's hilt. Instead, his posture relative to the weapon remained the same. With some relief, he stared at the ring of wizards. Which was the real one? How could he tell? Were any of them real?
A horrible thought struck him. The real Malygris, made invisible to him by illusion, might at this very moment be sneaking up on his backside. Clinging to Graywand with one hand, he grabbed his dagger and swung it in a wild arc as he tried to look around.
Malygris laughed again. "I can make this torment last all night," the wizard said. "Tell me! Did you touch Laurian?"
"How long will your torment last," Fafhrd shot back, "if I refuse to answer?" Again the world tilted. Desperately, he flung his arms around Graywand, his anchor, and tried to drive the illusion from his mind. "She chose Sadaster over you. What if she chose me over you, as well? What if she chose a thousand men, but never you?"
The images of Malygris threw back their heads and howled.
"I could tell you what an idiot you've been," Fafhrd muttered under his breath, feeling a growing sickness in his stomach. "Were I not about to lose my lunch."
"Laurian!"
The wizard's outcry startled Fafhrd. Even in his state, he heard the anguish and despair in that tortured shriek, and he wondered if, in some black corner of Malygris's evil heart, the wizard had, indeed, not merely coveted and desired Sadasters wife, but loved her.
Fafhrd swallowed. Steeling his courage, he gripped Graywand's hilt and carefully levered himself off his knees. At first, he crouched experimentally with his legs on either side of the sword. Then he stood precariously, not daring to let go.
"What kind of love," he said, his voice turning cold with contempt, "drives a man to murder? To lay a curse, not just upon his enemy, but upon uncounted innocent lives?"
Red anger flashed suddenly in the eyes of Malygris's images. "What do I care for innocent lives?" he shouted bitterly. "A spell got out of hand, that's all. To win Laurian's heart, I would burn Lankhmar to the ground!"
Fafhrd swallowed again. He thought of Vlana, his one true love, and a memory of her dark hair and bright eyes flashed softly through his mind. He smiled, recalling how he had climbed a high tree to catch his first sight of her as she danced in a tent for the men of his village.
His mother, Mor, had sought to keep him from that show and from the beautiful culture dancer. So Fafhrd and Vlana ran away from the show, from family, from the Cold Wastes—and from Mor, who in her anger and jealousy tried to kill them both with her ice magic.
Fafhrd shook his head. His mother, for all her faults, had been a good teacher, and her last lesson came home to him, suddenly clear.
It wasn't love that drove Malygris—only jealousy that had festered, poisoned, and turned into something monstrous.
"I touched her," Fafhrd said, a grim lie. "I topped her like a great ram. I rocked her bed until the walls shook with the force of our lust, and still she called out, 'More! More!'"
The wizards howled again. They flung out their good arms, and bolts of blue lightning lanced toward Fafhrd, burning him with furious cobalt energy.
But Fafhrd didn't burn, for these were the old, weaker illusions. '"Fafhrd! Fafhrd!' she cried. And once, 'Oh my poor Sadaster!'" He continued, mocking the wizard now, determined to cut Malygris deeper with words than any sword ever would. "Never once did she murmur your name."
For a moment, the spinning slowed and the world resumed its natural positioning. A single wizard stood before Fafhrd again, turmoil written in the wretched expression he wore. Malygris stared at the ground, his eyes filled with visions of lost opportunity and lost hope.
Fafhrd saw his chance. He still held his dagger. It sprouted from his fist like a steel thorn. Fighting through the after-effects of his disorientation, he drew back and threw the blade with all his strength.
Barely in time, Malygris recovered himself and twisted away. Instead of his heart, the dagger sank into his already injured arm, biting through the bandages deep into muscle and bone. His high-pitched scream rang with shock and pain.
Fafhrd ripped his sword from the ground, determined to finish this con
frontation. "One drop of your heart's blood," he said through clenched teeth. "Small payment for the suffering you've brought." He charged.
Graywand writhed in Fafhrd's grip, transforming itself into a ruby-eyed, tongue-lashing serpent. It coiled around Fafhrd's wrist and sank fangs deep into his bicep.
It was only an illusion, but the unexpectedness of it, coupled with Fafhrd's utter revulsion for snakes, proved an effective distraction.
Malygris ran.
EIGHTEEN
FESTIVAL’S END
Wrapped in his cloak, the Gray Mouser skulked through the shadows by the rutted road that ran parallel to the river. His keen eyes searched the riverbank. He sniffed the air. He listened, but except for the tranquil purling of that black ribbon of water, the night kept its silence.
Thin lips moved in a soundless curse.
Bad enough that Fafhrd had attempted to sneak past a sleeping Mouser without waking him. The Mouser's ego still smarted at that insult. Why, not so much as a rat, nay a roach on the floor, could slip by without stirring the Mouser, so lightly did he sleep!
But to actually have lost the great log-foot in the winding alleys east of Nun Street!
A brow furrowed under a gray hood, and one gray-gloved fist ground against a gloved palm. Disgusted with himself, the Mouser shook his head and prayed to Mog that Fafhrd hadn't purposefully given him the slip. He imagined the arrogant lummox crouching behind some barrel, chuckling to himself, then darting right into the shadows when the Mouser went left.
The Mouser knew he'd never hear the end of it, nor live down the shame if his partner had, indeed, tricked him.
Maybe he should have just stayed behind and spared himself potential embarrassment.
He scowled at another thought. What if Fafhrd was just sneaking out for some woman or a taste of the grape? Why partner or no partner, the Mouser would crown that splendid red head with the nearest wine-pot!
Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) Page 25