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 dust 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.