No, it was best to change his hiding place. He waited only for the moon and the stars to verify his judgment.
But glancing up, he frowned. A thin veil of mist dimmed the stars. He shot a look toward the river, and his heart quailed. A thick white fog crawled over the banks, swallowing ships, wharves. The fishing district faded from sight, and still it came on, unstoppable.
One by one, the stars vanished. The fog advanced, approaching his tower, swallowing everything in its path. Malygris cried aloud in despair and thrust out his hands as if to hold back the massive tide. It swept around him, soft and warm as breath.
Cursing, he flung up the roof's trap door and descended into a large, round room, the tower's uppermost. A dozen candles illuminated the chamber. A crude pallet marked the place where he slept. A small stack of books and parchments lay scattered around it. Tiny pieces of down drifted in the air, and scattered about the floor lay small bones and the plucked corpses of raw, half-eaten birds.
Malygris waved a hand under his nose, silently cursing the thick smell of smoke that pervaded the air. He paced nervously back and forth. An overwhelming sense of danger buzzed like a wasp in the back of his head. Chewing his lip, he began to gather his books, which, like everything else, smelled of smoke. From hiding place to hiding place he had carried them, his few treasures, and now they were nearly ruined with the horrible reek. Dumping them disgustedly on his blanket, he tied the corners and shouldered the bundle.
Then, slowly he set it down again.
A strange feeling of calm settled over him. He turned back to the steps that led through the trap door to the roof, climbed them. The door, so old and rarely used, hung warped and swollen upon its horizontal jamb. He had neglected to close it carefully. Wisps of vapor floated at its edges where one corner gapped. It mattered nothing to him. Pushing the door back, he ascended and stepped out into the white night.
The fog reduced Lankhmar's skyline to a few ghostly silhouettes. In the thick mist that drifted through the air, the distorted shapes of towers and minarets seemed to waver. The nearest rooftops appeared and disappeared as the thinnest of breezes stirred the currents.
Staring northward from the parapet, Malygris felt a rush of joy. He whispered a name. "Laurian."
The fog quivered as if in response, white as Laurian's skin, soft as the body of the woman Malygris loved. He closed his eyes as he thought of her. Was it her perfume he smelled riding on the vapor? Her cool touch that brushed, delicate as a feather, over his face and throat?
His eyes snapped open, and he chided himself. Why was he hiding? Sadaster was dead, and—however inadvertently—most of Lankhmar s mages with him. What mattered if his greatest working had somehow gone awry? He was still Malygris, and the city feared him.
"Laurian," he whispered again as he gazed longingly in the direction of her house. He licked his lips. Her name in his mouth tasted sweet as honey. His heartbeat quickened with a building desire.
He had allowed her time—a proper period to mourn and to forget her husband. A year this very night since the Great Casting of his spell, and six months since Sadaster's funeral. The time for mourning was over.
He clutched his fists, shivering inside even as his skin seemed to burn, and his mind churned with thoughts of love. Out of courtesy, he had denied himself long enough. No longer would he wait to claim his heart's desire.
Forgetting all else, he climbed the parapet and plunged head-first over the side. But he did not fall. Spider-like, he crawled down the side of the ancient tower, defying nature. Even the mist seemed to recoil in revulsion from the scuttling shape he made on the crumbling black stone. Once he paused, and his head jerked back and forth as he surveyed the empty, fog-bound streets. When he reached the ground, he laughed softly.
The fence that surrounded the tower offered no greater challenge. Climbing it, he strode up Nun Street and into the heart of the River District. Even in the fog, he knew the way to her estate. In his mind, in his heart, in his dreams he had made this trip a thousand times, a groom going to claim his bride.
On the street-side of a white wall, he stopped. Again, his gaze swept cautiously up and down the misty avenue. No sign of life, not even a sound. The fog smothered everything. He might have been walking through a dead city.
A leer that resembled a snarl curled his lips. Considering the power and effect of his Great Casting, the analogy was apt.
Employing his peculiar talent, he climbed the wall and scuttled down the other side to stand within Sadaster’s estate.
Through one window only, a light shone. That lonely amber beam spilled down through the limbs of dead lemon and orange trees, through the twisted and brittle branches of lifeless rose bushes, to weave upon the ground a shadowy webwork that spread throughout the ruined garden.
Malygris drew himself erect. Boldly, he strode forward, crushing old mint and juniper under his tread, scattering old leaves, brushing aside the limbs. A sense of triumph filled him. Reaching the house, he looked up again at that window, whose shutters were thrown wide in invitation. In a matter of moments he crouched upon the sill.
His heart soared! In the center of the room in which he found himself, stood all his dreams and hopes fulfilled. Breath caught in his throat, and his heart hammered.
The lamplight played with dazzling effect upon the diamonds in the folds of white that draped his bride. Veiled, Laurian turned toward him and lifted her arms.
"I've been waiting for you," she said, silken-voiced. "Come, and receive my Wedding Vow."
Malygris sprang forward, passion burning in his blood, desire expelling all reason. Laurian's arms went around him, and he caught the edge of her veil, seeking the taste of her lips.
"Receive now, my Wedding Vow," she said as he drew the concealing cloth from her face.
Malygris gasped as she turned her eyes upward. Horror surged through him—he saw his own handiwork in those blind, blood-specked orbs. He tried to recoil, but her arms tightened about him. A sharp pain lanced into his back. Screaming, he pushed her away. "What. . . ?"
"My dagger," Laurian hissed, brandishing the bloodied blade. Droplets of red splattered upon her shimmering dress. "I named it for the occasion." She threw herself at him, catching his garments with a determined grip. With all her force she drove the blade upward. "Now receive it again!"
In Sameel's bed, Fafhrd rose suddenly up on his elbows, pleasure forgotten, as a shrill scream reverberated in the corridors. Before he could react, a second and higher-pitched shriek followed.
Sameel's eyes widened with fear. "Mistress!" she cried.
Instantly, Fafhrd threw back the sheets and sprang to the floor. Grabbing his sword with one hand and his breeches in the other, he flung open the door and raced for the library on the upper story.
Launching himself up the marble stairs, taking them two and three at a time, he tripped on the topmost step, fell heavily, and rolled to his feet again, leaving his garment behind. Down the hall he ran with Laurian's scream still echoing in his ears, straight for the library.
Fafhrd smashed through the ornate doors and whipped Sadaster's sword from its sheath.
A ragged, shriveled figure bent over Laurian's half-prone form, fingers locked and squeezing her throat as he cursed her with incoherent snarls. Blood spattered Laurian's white dress. Even as she gurgled for desperate breath, she beat one fist at her attacker's face and groped with the other hand for a dagger just inches beyond her reach.
Thin tendrils of fog, reaching in through the window, curled about the invader's waist, one arm, an ankle. Another snaked about his neck. Quivering and weak, they tried to drag the man off Laurian, but he resisted with a hideous strength, tightening his deadly grip.