Swords Against the Shadowland by Robin W Bailey

Author:Robin W Bailey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 1998-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTEEN

SHROUDCLOTH

From the depths of sleep's black ocean, Fafhrd floated slowly toward wakefulness. Pain throbbed in the back of his head, a distant awareness at first, a mere discomfort. It grew sharp and constant as it spread down the right side of his face. Even his teeth ached. He fought waking, tried to sink back into blissful unconsciousness. Pain buoyed him upward.

Opening one eye, he winced at the sunlight that streamed through an open window. With a low groan, wondering where the hell he was, he opened the other eye. Too quickly, he sat up.

A lightning bolt of pain shot through his skull, and a wave of disorientation seized him. For a moment, the room whirled. He clutched at the side of the bed in which he found himself. Fearful, confused, he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the wave to pass. The pain subsided somewhat, and when he dared to open his eyes again, the room remained still.

He ran a palm over the colorful, finely pieced quilts that covered him as he took note of the thick feather mattress that made his bed. Seldom had so sumptuous an accommodation supported his head. Gilt-threaded embroidery decorated the pillow cases, and the sheets were of exquisite red silk.

The bed and all the room's furnishings betokened wealth. Plush carpets dyed a deep, royal blue covered the floor. Two matched intricately carved chairs fashioned from rare seahawk wood stood in opposite corners. A wardrobe and a desk, each of Quarmallian thorn-wood, stood against one wall.

Yet, a closer look revealed a fine patina of dust on the furnishings and carpets, and despite the open window, a vaguely stale odor lingered.

Fafhrd pushed back the blankets and carefully swung his legs over the bedside. The room began to spin ever so slightly, and he hesitated. Then, naked, he stood. Pain hammered the inside of his skull again. Raising a hand, he probed delicately at a goose-egg knot on the back of his head, wincing at the blood-crusted cut he found there.

He remembered the forbidden tower, the leeches and fire, falling. . . . Nothing beyond that. He scratched his chin, then his crotch, pompously pleased with himself that he had survived a plummet guaranteed to crack a lesser man open like an egg.

But where was he? Where, for that matter, was the Mouser?

With measured steps, he walked to the window, gaining confidence as the vertigo subsided. Leaning on the narrow sill, he peered out.

Below lay the ruins of a formal garden. Now weeds strangled the flowerbeds. Oranges, lemons, pears and persimmons hung brown and unpicked from untended fruit trees, or rotted on the ground. Flies and gnats swarmed. Marble fountains that once flowed with sweet water stood dry and stained, covered with bird shit and filth. Decayed leaves from the previous winter half-concealed the pebbled walkways while dead, broken limbs thrust up from the earth like old black bones.

From the trees hung rusted wind chimes and broken bells. When the breeze touched them, they played a

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