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 agai
n. "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.
TWENTY
HEROES' REPOSE
The Mouser hung suspended in a misty limbo, an impossible neverland without time or sensation, dimension or vista. A death-like chill rimed his senses. He saw nothing but gray vapor, heard no sound, smelled only the anaesthetic dampness, felt nothing but the cold.
Only one other thing touched his awareness—Malygris's curse. Like a sharp-toothed worm, it ate at his vitals with a voracious, desperate hunger. He felt it working faster, devouring him, as if it knew with some vague, obscene intelligence that its time was running out.
A soft wind blew through the void, tearing and scattering the fog. Pieces of mist ripped away and formed little whirling dervishes; thin vaporous wisps darted ab
out briefly, like forlorn ghosts reluctant to quit a haunting. The rest of the fog rippled and fluttered like an unnatural veil as it slowly dissolved.
The world of Nehwon resolved itself under the Mouser's feet. Like a man waking from a long dream, he looked around. A veritable sea of tall grass waved before him. The stars—all his precious, familiar constellations—peppered the night sky. A deeply velvet, cobalt shimmer on the eastern horizon heralded the approach of dawn.
To his right, in the distance, he spied the yellow winking and twinkling of glow-wasps. Equally distant to his left stood the long black silhouette of Lankhmar’s walls.
Fafhrd spoke from behind him. "Dare we believe that we stand in the Great Salt Marsh?"
The Mouser didn't answer. He raised one incarnadined hand before his eyes. In the starlight, dripping Catsclaw glistened wetly in his fist. His once-gray glove, his sleeve, were black and sticky. Blood spotted his tunic, his trousers, and his cloak. A streak of moistness slowly dried on his left cheek.
A scream boiled up from deep inside. He fought to suppress it, but it rose, forced itself up to his lips. Still he resisted, muttering, "No! No!" The scream would not be denied.
Throat raw, he sank to his knees in the spongy marsh soil, vaguely aware of Fafhrd's comforting hands on his shoulders. In his mind, he saw Malygris's horror-stricken face at the moment of death, and he saw his own hand drenched in the wizard's blood. Revulsion filled him, that he had killed a helpless man, even one such as Malygris, who couldn't act to defend himself.
Yet, as he wept, he knew his tears were not for Malygris. "Ivrian," he whispered. "Ivrian!" Death had torn her from his side yet again. To see her, to hold her, and to lose her all over! How could a heart bear that?
Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) Page 30