by Fritz Leiber
‘Old wives’ tale?’ the Mouser exploded. ‘When we were but now three endless nights harried by Khahkht’s monstrous galley and sank it at last on your very doorstep. His invasion came that close to success. Did you not observe the universal blackness and hell-wind when he conjured the sun out of heaven three days running?’
‘We saw some dark clouds blowing up from the south,’ Groniger said, ‘under whose cover you approached Salthaven. They vanished when they touched Rime Isle—as all things superstitious are like to do. As for invasion, there were rumors of such an eruption some months back, but our council sifted ’em and found ’em idle gossip. Have any of you heard aught of a Sea-Mingol invasion since?’ he asked loudly, looking from side to side at his fellow Rime Islers. They all shook their heads.
‘So pay up!’ he repeated, jogging his outthrust palm, while those behind him wagged their quarterstaves, firming their grips.
‘Shameless ingratitude!’ the Mouser rebuked, taking a moral tone as a leader of men. ‘What gods do you worship here on Rime Isle, to be so hard-hearted?’
Groniger’s answer rang out distinct and cool. ‘We worship no gods at all, but do our business in the world clearheadedly, no misty dreams. We leave such fancies to the so-called civilized people—decadent cultures of the hot-house south. Pay up, I say.’
At that moment Fafhrd, whose height permitted him to see over the crowd, cried out, ‘Here are those coming who hired us, harbor master, and will give the lie to your disclaimers.’
The crowd parted respectfully to let through two slender, trousered women with long knives at their belts in jeweled scabbards. The taller was clad all in blue, with like eyes, and fair hair. Her comrade was garmented in dark red, with green eyes and black hair that seemed to have gold wires braided in it. Skor and Pshawri, still stupid with fatigue, took note of them and it was impossible to mistake the message in the sea-dogs’ kindling eyes: Here were the northern angels come at last!
‘The eminent councilwomen Afreyt and Cif,’ Groniger intoned. ‘We are honored by their presence.’
They approached with queenly smiles and looks of amiable curiosity.
‘Tell them, Lady Afreyt,’ said Fafhrd courteously to the one in blue, ‘how you commissioned me to bring Rime Isle twelve—’ Suppressing the word ‘berserk,’ he smoothly made it, ‘—stout northern fighters of the fiercest temper.’
‘And I twelve…nimble and dextrous Lankhmar sworders and slingers, sweet Lady Cif,’ the Mouser chimed in airily, avoiding the word ‘thief.’
Afreyt and Cif looked at them blankly. Then their gazes became at once anxious and solicitous.
Afreyt commented, ‘They’ve been tempest-tossed, poor lads, and doubtless it has disordered their memories. Our little northern gales come as a surprise to southerners. They seem gentle. Use them well, Groniger.’ Looking intently at Fafhrd, she lifted her hand to adjust her hair and in lowering it hesitated a finger for a moment crosswise to her tightly shut long lips.
Cif added, ‘Doubtless privation has temporarily addled their wits. Their ships have seen hard use. But what a tale! I wonder who they are? Nourish them with hot soup—after they’ve paid, of course.’ And she winked at the Mouser a green dark-lashed eye on the side away from Groniger. Then the two ladies wandered on.
It is a testimony to the fundamental levelheadedness and growing self-control of the Mouser and Fafhrd (now having, as captains, to control others) that they did not expostulate at this astounding and barely-tempered rebuff, but actually each dug a hand into his purse—though they did look after the two strolling females somewhat wonderingly. So they saw Skor and Pshawri, who had been dazedly following the two apparitions of northernly delight, now approach these houris with the clear intent of establishing some sort of polite amorous familiarity.
Afreyt struck Skor aside in no uncertain fashion, but only after leaning her face close enough to his head to hiss a word or two into his ear and grasp his wrist in a way that would have permitted her to slip a token or note into his palm. Cif treated Pshawri’s advances likewise.
Groniger, pleased at the way the two captains were now dragging gold pieces from their purses, nevertheless admonished them, ‘And see to it that your crewmen offer no affront to our Salthaven women, nor stray one step beyond the bounds of the traders’ quarter.’
Paying up took the last of the Rime Isle gold that Cif had given them back at the Silver Eel in Lankhmar, while the Mouser had to piece out his seven with two Lankhmar rilks and a Sarheenmar dubloon.
Groniger’s eyebrows rose as he scanned the take. ‘Rime Isle coinage! So you’d touched here before and knew our harbor rules and were only seeking to bargain? But what made you invent such an unbelievable story?’
Fafhrd shrugged and said shortly, ‘Not so. Had ’em off an Eastern trading galley in these waters,’ while the Mouser only laughed.
Nevertheless, a thought struck Groniger, and he looked after the two Rime Isle councilwomen speculatively as he said shortly, ‘Now you may feed your men.’
The Mouser called toward Flotsam, ‘Ho, lads! Fetch your bowls, cups, and spoons. These most hostful Rime Islanders have provided a feast for you. Orderly now! Pshawri, attend me.’
While Fafhrd commanded likewise, adding, ‘Forget not they’re our friends. Do ’em courtesies. A word with you, Skor.’ Never do to show resentment, though that ‘tub’ still rankled with the Mouser, despite it being a very fine description of the broad-beamed, sweep-propelled Flotsam.
When the Mouser and Fafhrd had seen all their men eating and served a measure of grog to celebrate safe arrival, they turned to their somewhat doleful lieutenants, who with only a show of reluctance yielded up the notes they’d been slipped—as the Twain had surmised—along with the words, ‘For your master!’
Unfolded, Afreyt’s read, ‘Another faction controls the Rime Isle council, temporarily. You do not know me. At dusk tomorrow seek me at the Hill of the Eight-Legged Horse,’ while Cif’s message was, ‘Cold Khahkht has sowed dissension in our council. We never met—play it that way. You’ll find me tomorrow night at the Flame Den if you come alone.’
‘So she does not speak with the voice of Rime Isle after all,’ Fafhrd commented softly. ‘To what fiery female politicians have we joined our destinies?’
‘Her gold was good,’ the Mouser answered gruffly. ‘And now we’ve two new riddles to solve.’
‘Flame Den and Eight-Legged Horse,’ Fafhrd echoed.
‘Tub, he called her,’ the Mouser mused bitterly, his mind veering. ‘What godless literal-minded philosophers are we now supposed to succor in spite of themselves?’
‘You’re a godless man too,’ Fafhrd reminded him.
‘Not so, there was once Mog,’ the Mouser protested with a touch of his old playful plaintiveness, referring to a youthful credulity, when he had briefly believed in the spider god to please a lover.
‘Such questions can wait, along with the two riddles,’ Fafhrd decided. ‘Now let’s curry favor with the atheist fishermen while we can.’
And accompanied by the Mouser, he proceeded ceremoniously to offer Groniger white brandy fetched from Flotsam by old Ourph the renegade Mingol. The harbor master was prevailed upon to accept a drink, which he took in slow sips, and by way of talk of repair docks, watering, crew dormitories ashore, and the price of salt fish, the conversation became somewhat more general. With difficulty Fafhrd and the Mouser won license to venture outside the traders’ quarter, but only by day, and not their men. Groniger refused a second drink.
Inside Its icy sphere, which would have cramped a taller being, Khahkht roused, muttering. ‘Rime Isle’s new gods are treacherous—betray and re-betray—yet stronger than I guessed.’
It began to study the dark map of the world of Nehwon depicted on the sphere’s interior. Its attention moved to the northern tongue of the Outer Sea, where a long peninsula of the Western Continent reached toward the Cold Waste, with Rime Isle midway between. Leaning Its spidery face close to the tip of
that peninsula, It made out on the northern side tiny specks in the dark blue waters.
‘The armada of the Widdershins Sea-Mingols invests Sayend,’ It chuckled, referring to the easternmost city of the ancient Empire of Eevamarensee. ‘To work!’
It wove Its thickly black-bristled hands incantingly above the gathered specks and droned, ‘Harken to me, slaves of death. Hear my word and feel my breath. Every least instruction learn. First of all, Sayend must burn! Against Nehwon your horde be hurled, next Rime Isle and then the world.’ One spider-hand drifted sideways toward the small green island in ocean’s midst. ‘Round Rime Isle let fishes swarm, provisioning my Mingol storm.’ The hand drifted back and the passes became swifter. ‘Blackness seize on Mingol mind, bend it ’gainst all humankind. Madness redden Mingol ire, out of cold come death by fire!’
It blew strongly as if on cold ashes and a tiny spot on the peninsula tip glowed dark red like an uncovered ember.
‘By will of Khahkht these weirds be locked!’ It grated, sealing the incantment.
The ships of the Widdershins Sea-Mingols rode at anchor in Sayend harbor, packed close together as fish in a barrel, and as silvery white. Their sails were furled. Their midships decks, abutting abeam, made a rude roadway from the precipitous shore to the flagship, where Edumir, their chief paramount, sat enthroned on the poop, quaffing the mushroom wine of Quarmall that fosters visions. Cold light from the full moon south in the wintry sky revealed the narrow horse-cage that was the forecastle of each ship and picked out the mad eyes and rawboned head of the ship’s horse, a gaunt Steppe-stallion, thrust forward through the wide-set irregular bars and all confronting the east.
The taken town, its sea-gate thrown wide, was dark. Before its walls and in its sea-street its small scatter of defenders sprawled as they’d fallen, soaked in their own blood and scurried over by the looting Sea-Mingols, who did not, however, bother the chief doors behind which the remaining inhabitants had locked and barred themselves. They’d already captured the five maidens ritual called for and dispatched them to the flagship, and now they sought oil of whale, porpoise, and scaly fish. Puzzlingly, they did not bring most of this treasure-trove down to their ships, but wasted it, breaking the casks with axes and smashing the jars, gushing the precious stuff over doors and wooden walls and down the cobbled street.
The lofty poop of the great flagship was dark as the town in the pouring moonlight. Beside Edumir his witchdoctor stood above a brazier of tinder, holding aloft a flint and a horseshoe in either hand, his eyes wild as those of the ship-horses. Next him crouched a wiry-thewed warrior naked to the waist, bearing the Mingol bow of melded horn that is Nehwon’s most feared, and five long arrows winged with oily rags. While to the other side was an ax-man with five casks of the captured oil.
On the next level below, the five Sayend maidens cowered wide-eyed and silent, their pallor set off by their long dark braided hair, each in the close charge of two grim she-Mingols who flashed naked knives.
While on the main deck below that, there were ranked five young Mingol horsemen, chosen for their honor because of proven courage, each mounted on an iron-disciplined Steppe-mare, whose hoofs struck random low drum-notes from the hollow deck.
Edumir cast his wine cup into the sea and very deliberately turned his long-jawed, impassive face toward his witchdoctor and nodded once. The latter brought down horseshoe and flint, clashing them just above the brazier, and then nurtured the sparks so engendered until the tinder was all aflame.
The bowman laid his five arrows across the brazier and then, as they came alight, plucked them out and sent them winging successively toward Sayend with such miraculous swiftness that the fifth was painting its narrow orange curve upon the midnight air before the first had struck.
They lodged each in wood and with a preternatural rapidity the oil-drenched town flared up like a single torch, and the muffled, despairing cries of its trapped inhabitants rose like those of Hell’s prisoners.
Meanwhile the she-Mingols guarding her had slashed the garments from the first maiden, their knives moving like streaks of silver fire, and thrust her naked toward the first horseman. He seized her by her dark braids and swung her across his saddle, clasping her slim, naked back to his leather-cuirassed chest. Simultaneously the ax-man struck in the head of the first cask and upended it above horse, rider, and maiden, drenching them all with gleaming oil. Then the rider twitched reins and dug in his spurs and set his mare galloping across the close-moored decks toward the flaming town. As the maiden became aware of the destination of the wild ride, she began to scream, and her screams rose higher and higher, accompanied by the rhythmic, growling shouts of the rider and the drumbeat of the mare’s hoofs.
All these actions were repeated once, twice, thrice, quarce—the third horse slipped sideways in the oil, stumbled, recovered—so that the fifth rider was away before the first had reached his goal. The mares had been schooled from colthood to face and o’erleap walls of flame. The riders had drunk deep of the same mushroom wine as Edumir. The maidens had their screams.
One by one they were briefly silhouetted against the red gateway, then joined with it. Five times the name of Sayend rose higher still, redly illuminating the small bay and the packed ship and the staring Mingol faces and glazed Mingol eyes, and Sayend expired in one unending scream and shout of agony.
When it was done, Edumir rose up tall in his fur robes and cried in trumpet voice, ‘East away now. Over ocean. To Rime Isle!’
Next day the Mouser and Fafhrd got their ships pumped out, warped to the docks assigned them, and work began on them early. Their men, refreshed by a long night’s sleep ashore, set to work at repairs after a little initial grumbling, the Mouser’s thieves under the direction of his chief lieutenant Pshawri and small Mingol crew. Presently there was the muffled thud of mallets driving in tow, and the stench of tar, as the loosened seams of Flotsam were caulked from within, while from the deck of Sea Hawk came the brighter music of hammers and saws, as Fafhrd’s vikings mended upper works damaged by the icy projectiles of Khahkht’s frost monstreme. Others reaved new rigging where needed and replaced frayed stays.
The traders’ quarter, where they’d been berthed, duplicated in small the sailors’ quarter of any Nehwon port, its three taverns, two brothels, several stores and shrines staffed and loosely administered by a small permanent population of ill-assorted foreigners, their unofficial mayor a close-mouthed, scarred captain named Bomar, from the Eight Cities, and their chief banker a dour black Keshite. It was borne in on Fafhrd and the Mouser that one of these fisherfolks’ chief concerns, and that of the traders too, was to keep Rime Isle a valuable secret from the rest of Nehwon. Or else they had caught the habit of impassivity from their fisher-hosts, who tolerated, profited from them, and seldom omitted to enforce a bluff discipline. The foreign population had heard nothing of a Sea-Mingol eruption, either, or so they claimed.
The Rime Islanders seemed to live up to first impressions: a large-bodied, sober-clad, quiet, supremely practical and supremely confident people, without eccentricities or crochets or even superstitions, who drank little and lived by the rule of ‘Mind your own business.’ They played chess a good deal in their spare time and practiced with their quarterstaves, but otherwise they appeared to take little notice of each other and none at all of foreigners, though their eyes were not sleepy.
And today they had become even more inaccessible, ever since an early-sailing fishing boat had returned almost immediately to harbor with news that had sent the entire fleet of them hurrying out. And when the first of these came creaming back soon after noon with hold full of new-caught fish, swiftly salted them down (there was abundance of salt—the great eastern cliff, which no longer ran with hot volcanic waters) and put out to sea again, clapping on all sail, it became apparent that there must be a prodigious run of food fish just outside the harbor mouth—and the thrifty fishers determined to take full advantage of it. Even Groniger was seen to captain a boat out.
Individually busy with their supervisings and various errands (since only they could go outside the traders’ quarter), the Mouser and Fafhrd met each other by a stretch of seawall north of the docks and paused to exchange news and catch a breather.
‘I’ve found the Flame Den,’ the former said. ‘At least I think I have. It’s an inner room in the Salt Herring tavern. The Ilthmart owner admitted he sometimes rents it out of a night—that is, if I interpreted his wink aright.’
Fafhrd nodded and said, ‘I just now walked to the north edge of town and asked a grandad if he ever heard of the Hill of the Eight-Legged Horse. He gave a damned unpleasant sort of laugh and pointed across the moor. The air was very clear (you’ve noticed the volcano’s ceased to smoke? I wonder that the Islers take so little note of it), and when I’d located the one heathered hill of many that was his finger’s target (about a league northwest), I made out what looked like a gallows atop it.’
The Mouser grunted feeling fully at that grim disclosure and rested his elbows on the seawall, surveying the ships left in the harbor, ‘foreigners’ all. After a while he said softly, ‘There’s all manner of slightly strange things here in Salthaven, I trow. Things slightly off-key. That Ool Plerns sailing-dory now—saw you ever one with so low a prow at Ool Plerns? Or a cap so oddly-visored as that of the sailor we saw come off the Gnampf Nor cutter? Or that silver coin with an owl on it Groniger gave me in change for my dubloon? It’s as if Rime Isle were on the edge of other worlds with other ships and other men and other gods—a sort of rim…’
Gazing out likewise, Fafhrd nodded slowly and started to speak when there came angry voices from the direction of the docks, followed by a full-throated bellow.
‘That’s Skullick, I’ll be bound!’ Fafhrd averred. ‘Got into what sort of idiot trouble, the gods know.’ And without further word he raced off.