For a moment, the two combatants stood as if frozen, still as statues, a captured tableau of desperation and death. Then the Ilthmart corpse slipped free of the great blade and fell out of sight under the mist.
For a moment more, Fafhrd remained unmoving. Finally, he lowered his sword and leaned heavily on it. A wracking cough shook his great form.
Before the Mouser could run to his friend, the burning Ilthmart, now the major source of light, screamed his last scream and fell face-forward into the thick mist, sinking into it just as Mish had done. A crushing blackness once more filled the cavern with nothing more than the lantern's small flame to hold it back. In the renewed dark, the Mouser rubbed a gloved fist over his eyes, unable to see. "Fafhrd!" he called.
"I'm here," Fafhrd answered, emerging from the mist into the small light of the lantern as Demptha raised it. A dark smear of blood stained his mouth and chin.
"You're wounded!" Demptha cried.
Fafhrd allowed a humorless smirk. "Not by any Ilthmart blade," he answered.
None of their foes remained. All the fallen had vanished, swallowed by the fleecy white river that flowed over the cavern floor.
Filled with concern for Fafhrd, the Mouser stared, sickened with worry at sight of the blood on those lips. He thought of suggesting a respite, a brief chance to let Fafhrd recover. However, Fafhrd would take it as an insult, so instead the Mouser stalled.
His quiet voice reverberated with surreal effect from the stone walls. "What means this count?" he wondered aloud. "Ten more, eight more, seven more."
"Aye," Fafhrd murmured. "And what happened to nine?"
The Mouser walked carefully over the area of battle. No bodies. No trace even of the shields and dirks. "How do ten dead men rise up and fight again, Fafhrd?"
Fafhrd fixed the Mouser with a gaze. His green eyes burned suddenly like those of a cat. "How is it, Mouser, that Vlana and Ivrian have risen up to haunt us?"
The lantern flame shivered suddenly in Demptha's hand as he turned. "How indeed," he whispered, pointing to the tunnel entrance.
Jesane floated there, her bare feet seeming to stand upon the misty sea. Tendrils of white vapor stirred modestly about her pale naked body, veiling her face as she tempted them with a dark-eyed look.
"I warned you," she whispered. Though her lips moved, her voice didn't seem to come from her, but unnaturally from the cavern itself. "Shadowland has come to the City of a Thousand Smokes—and you have come to Shadowland." Raising a slender arm, she crooked a finger and floated backward into the mouth of the tunnel, her gaze locking with her fathers.
"Now I know our enemy" Demptha Negatarth said without taking his eyes from Jesane. "I know my sin." Without a glance at his comrades, he followed after his daughter, taking the lantern with him.
As darkness closed around them, the Mouser gripped Fafhrd's brawny arm. "I've sometimes thought that we are two halves of the same soul, Fafhrd," he said as he stared after the disappearing light. "If we lose that one soul tonight, know that I think well of you."
Fafhrd nodded, sheathing Graywand and drawing his dagger once again. "Some few have joked that a certain pair of thieves were ill-met that night long ago in Lankhmar when they collided under a bridge on Gold Street. I have never thought so."
The time for sentiment was ended. The Mouser swallowed and peered down the tunnel after Demptha and Jesane, who could no longer be seen. The lantern gave only the dimmest glow from far ahead. Sheathing Scalpel but keeping Catsclaw in hand, he entered the passage a second time with Fafhrd right behind and Jesane's words in his mind.
Shadowland has come to the City of a Thousand Smokes.
In the world of Nehwon lay two great poles. In the far west lay Godsland, and all the gods, known and unknown, dwelled there, seldom venturing from that paradise. In the far east lay Nehwon's opposite pole, Shadowland—the land of the dead.
The soft whisper of Jesane's eerie voice drifted back to him. "Five more," she murmured with a dreamlike weariness.
What happened to six? the Mouser wondered, waving a hand to part the mist that swirled before his eyes. Six what?Five what?
Abruptly the tunnel ended. The Mouser stepped out warily, not into another tunnel or a larger cavern, but onto a vast and sprawling plain. A white sea of feathery vapor stretched as far as the eye could see, while overhead in a black velvet sky, stars as sharp and bright as diamonds glittered.
No familiar constellations, the Mouser noted, studying that awesome heaven. He directed his gaze farther afield, seeking the lantern's light. Hand in hand now, father and daughter stood patiently, as if waiting.
"In a dream," Fafhrd said as if to himself, "I've been here before." Stretching out an arm, he pointed. "A barge will come from there. I know it."
Indeed, a second faint light appeared in the distance. Slowly it approached, but smoothly, growing subtly brighter. Out of the blackness sailed a fantastic barge of black wood with gold fittings. A simple lantern fixed to its prow lit the way across the foggy sea.
Upon that barge sat an elaborate throne of the same black wood marked with gold and silver inlay, cushioned with fine pillows. Upon that lustrous seat a tall figure sat with casual posture, its features concealed under a hood and behind a shining black mask.
The barge stopped. Jesane floated up to the deck to stand before the seated figure. Her father clambered up the side, climbed over the ebony rail and remained there.
Without sail or oar, with no sound of water or wind, the barge turned toward Fafhrd and the Mouser.
For perhaps the first time in his life, the Mouser gave thanks for his short stature, for the fog rose up to his thighs and hid the trembling in his knees. Fafhrd stirred uneasily beside him. His friend had exchanged his dagger once again for the greater comfort, not to mention reach, of Graywand.
The barge drifted to an easy stop.
"Only four more," Jesane said to the figure on the throne. "A child comes, Pilsh her name."
Nodding, the seated figure rose and walked gracefully to the barge's fore. Involuntarily, the Mouser flung up an arm, averting his gaze from the piercing, evil eyes that stared from behind that glittering mask.
"No, little man," said a voice that came from behind that mask. "I am beyond mortal concepts of good and evil."
Fafhrd did not look away, but lifted his chin defiantly to meet the creature's stare. "Then who are you?" he shouted. "Where is Malygris?"
"Fafhrd, son of Mor and Nalgron," the figure answered. "We have fought before, you and I. And though it was only a game— no serious duel—you did well." He looked from Fafhrd to the Mouser and back again. "In truth, you both have done well, each playing your part."
"Answer my question," Fafhrd demanded.
Leaning over the barge's rail, the figure bowed ever so slightly. "Do you not recognize me?" A black-gloved finger rose to touch the mask. A light seemed to brighten around the creature's face.
"The ferryman!" Fafhrd cried, recoiling. "The pilot in my dream!"
Simultaneously, the Mouser cried. "Rokkarsh!"
The two friends looked at each other stupidly.
The masked figure laughed, and the sound of it boomed across his Shadowland. "Death has many names and many faces," he said.
Demptha Negatarth climbed over the side of the barge and came to stand beside the Mouser. "He is Death of Nehwon," the wizard said.
Death of Nehwon gave a small shrug. "Only a minor Death in the cosmic scheme of things," he said modestly. "But as with all other Deaths in all the worlds and dimensions, I serve my purpose."