by Fritz Leiber
While in the flames, continually renewed, he began to see faces, or rather one face which changed expression a good deal—a youthfully handsome face with very mobile lips, sometimes open and amiable, sometimes convulsed by hatreds and envies (the flames shone green awhile), sometimes almost impossibly distorted, like a face seen through hot air above a very hot fire. Indeed once or twice he had the fancy that it was the face of an actual person sitting on the opposite side of the fire from him, sometimes half rising to regard him through the flames, sometimes crouching back. He was almost tempted to get up and walk around the fire to check on that, but not quite.
The strangest thing about the face was that it seemed familiar to the Mouser, though he could not place it. He gave up racking his brains over that and settled back, listening more closely to the flame-voice and trying to attune its fancied words to the movements of the flame-face’s lips.
Mother Grum got up again and moved back, bowing. There entered without stooping a lady whose russet cloak was drawn across the lower half of her face, but the Mouser recognized the gold-shot green eyes and he stood up. Cif nodded to Mother Grum and the two harlots, walked to the Mouser’s table, cast her cloak atop his, and sat down in the third chair. He poured for her, refilled his own tankard, and sat down also. They drank. She studied him for some time.
Then, ‘You’ve seen the face in the fire and heard its voice?’ she asked.
His eyes widened and he nodded, watching her intently now.
‘But have you guessed why it seems familiar?’
He shook his head rapidly, sitting forward, his expression a most curious and expectant frown.
‘It resembles you,’ she said flatly.
His eyebrows went up and his jaw dropped, just a little. That was true! It did remind him of himself—only when he was younger, quite a bit younger. Or as he saw himself in mirror these days only when in a most self-infatuated and vain mood, so that he saw himself as unmarked by age.
‘But do you know why?’ she asked him, herself intent now.
He shook his head.
She relaxed. ‘Neither do I,’ she said. ‘I thought you might know. I marked it when I first saw you in the Eel, but as to why—it is a mystery within mysteries, beyond our present ken.’
‘I find Rime Isle a nest of mysteries,’ he said meaningfully, ‘not the least your disavowal of myself and Fafhrd.’
She nodded, sat up straighter, and said, ‘So now I think it’s high time I told you why Afreyt and I are so sure of a Mingol invasion of Rime Isle while the rest of the council disbelieves it altogether. Don’t you?’
He nodded emphatically, smiling.
‘Almost a year ago to the day,’ she said, ‘Afreyt and I were walking alone upon the moor north of town, as has been our habit since childhood. We were lamenting Rime Isle’s lost glories and lost (or man-renounced) gods and wishing for their return, so that the Isle might have surer guidance and foreknowledge of perils. It was a day of changeable winds and weather, the end of spring, not quite yet summer, all the air alive, now bright, now gloomed over, as clouds raced past the sun. We had just topped a gentle rise when we came upon the form of a youth sprawled on his back in the heather with eyes closed and head thrown back, looking as if he were dying or in the last stages of exhaustion—as though he had been cast ashore by the last great wave of some unimaginably great storm on high.
‘He wore a simple tunic of homespun, very worn, and the plainest sandals, worn thin, with frayed thongs, and a very old belt dimly pricked out with monsters, yet from first sight I was almost certain that he was a god.
‘I knew it in three ways. From his insubstantiality—though he was there to the touch, I could almost see the crushed heather through his pale flesh. From his supernal beauty—it was…the flame-face, though tranquil-featured, almost as if in death. And from the adoration I felt swelling in my heart.
‘I also knew it from the way Afreyt acted, kneeling at once like myself beside him across from me—though there was something unnatural in her behavior, betokening an amazing development when we understood it aright, which we did not then. (More of that later.)
‘You know how they say a god dies when his believers utterly fail him? Well, it was as if this one’s last worshipper were dying in Nehwon. Or as if—this is closer to it—all his worshippers had died in his own proper world and he whirled out into the wild spaces between the worlds, to sink or swim, survive or perish according to the reception he got in whatever new world whereon chance cast him ashore. I think it within the power of gods to travel between the worlds, don’t you?—both involuntarily and also by their own design. And who knows what unpredictable tempests they might encounter in dark mid-journey?
‘But I was not wasting time in speculations on that day of miracles a year ago. No, I was chafing his wrists and chest, pressing my warm cheek against his cold one, prising open his lips with my tongue (his jaw was slack) and with my open lips clamped upon his (and his nostrils clipped between my finger and thumb) sending my fresh, new-drawn breaths deep into his lungs, the meanwhile fervently praying to him in my mind, though I know they say the gods hear only our words, no thoughts. A stranger, happening upon us, might have judged us in the second or third act of lovemaking, I the more feverish seeking to rekindle his ardor.
‘Meanwhile Afreyt (again here’s that unnatural thing I mentioned) seemed to be as busy as I across from me—and yet somehow I was doing all the work. The explanation of that came somewhat later.
‘My god showed signs of life. His eyelids quivered, I felt his chest stir, while his lips began to return my kisses.
‘I uncapped my silver flask and dribbled brandy between his lips, alternating the drops with further kisses and words of comfort and endearment.
‘At last he opened his eyes (brown shot with gold, like yours) and with my help raised up his head, meanwhile muttering words in a strange tongue. I answered in what languages I know, but he only frowned, shaking his head. That’s how I knew he was not a Nehwon god—it’s natural, don’t you think, that a god, all-knowing in his own world, would be at a loss at first, plunged into another? He’d have to take it in.
‘Finally he smiled and lifted his hand to my bosom, looking at me questioningly. I spoke my name. He nodded and shaped his lips, repeated it. Then he touched his own chest and spoke the name “Loki”.’
At that word the Mouser knew feelings and thoughts similar to those of Fafhrd hearing ‘Odin’—of other lives and worlds, and of Karl Treuherz’s tongue and his little Lankhmarese-German, German-Lankhmarese dictionary that he’d given Fafhrd. At the same moment, though for that moment only, he saw the fire-face so like his own in the flames, seeming to wink at him. He frowned wonderingly.
Cif continued, ‘Thereafter I fed him crumbs of meat from my script, which he accepted from my fingers, eating sparingly and sipping more brandy, the whiles I taught him words, pointing to this and that. That day Darkfire was smoking thick and showing flames, which interested him mightily when I named it. So I took flint and iron from my script and struck them together, naming “fire.” He was delighted, seeming to gather strength from the sparks and smouldering straws and the very word. He’d stroke the little flames without seeming to take hurt. That frightened me.
‘So passed the day—I utterly lost in him, unaware of all else, save what struck his fancy moment by moment. He was a wondrously apt scholar. I named objects both in our Rime tongue and Low Lankhmarese, thinking it’d be useful to him as he got his vision for lands beyond the Isle.
‘Evening drew in. I helped the god to his feet. The wan light washing over him seemed to dissolve a little his pale flesh.
‘I indicated Salthaven, that we should walk there. He assented eagerly (I think he was attracted by its evening smokes, being drawn to fire, his trumps) and we set out, he leaning on me lightly.
‘And now the mystery of Afreyt was made clear. She would by no means go with us! And then I saw, though only very dimly, the figure she had been succo
ring, tending and teaching all day long, as I had Loki—the figure of a frail old man (god, rather), bearded and one-eyed, who’d been lying close alongside Loki at the first, and I empowered to see only the one and she the other!’
‘A most marvelous circumstance indeed,’ the Mouser commented. ‘Perhaps like drew to like and so revealed itself. Say, did the other god by any chance resemble Fafhrd?—but for being one-eyed, of course.’
She nodded eagerly. ‘An older Fafhrd, as ’twere his father. Afreyt marked it. Oh, you must know something of this mystery?’
The Mouser shook his head, ‘Just guessing,’ and asked, ‘What was his name—the older god’s?’
(She told him.)
‘Well, what happened next?’
‘We parted company. I walked the god Loki to Salthaven, he leaning on my arm. He was still most delicate. It seems one worshipper is barely enough at best to keep a god alive and visible, no matter how active his mind—for by now he was pointing out things to me (and indicating actions and states) and naming them in Rimic, Low Lankhmarese—and High as well!—before I named them, sure indication of his god’s intellect.
‘At the same time he was, despite his weakness, beginning to give me indications of a growing interest in me (I mean, my person) and I was fast losing all doubts as to how I’d be expected to entertain him when I got him home. Now, I was very happy to have got, hopefully, a new god for Rime Isle. And I must needs adore him, if only to keep him alive. But as for making him free of my bed, I had a certain reluctance, no matter how ghostly-insubstantial his flesh turned out to be in closest contact (and if it stayed that way)!
‘Oh, I suppose I’d have submitted if it had come to that; still, there’s something about sleeping with a god—a great honor, to be sure, but (to name only one thing) one surely couldn’t expect faithfulness (if one wanted that)—certainly not from the whimsical, merry and mischievous god this Loki was showing himself to be! Besides, I wanted to be able to weigh clearheadedly the predictions and warnings for Rime Isle I hoped to get from him—not with a mind dreamy with lovemaking and swayed by all the little fancies and fears that come with full infatuation.
‘As things fell out, I never had to make the decision. Passing this tavern, he was attracted by a flickering red glow and slipped inside without attracting notice (he was still invisible to all but me). I followed (that got me a look or two, I being a respectable councilwoman) and pressed on after him as he followed the pulsing fire-glow into this inner room, where a great bawdy party was going on and the hearth was ablaze. Before my eyes he melted into the flames and joined with them!
‘The revelers were somewhat taken aback by my intrusion, but after looking them over with a smile I merely turned and went out, waving my hand at them and saying, “Enjoy!”—that was for Loki too. I’d guessed he’d got where he wanted to be.’
And she waved now at the dancing flames, then turned back to the Mouser with a smile. He smiled back, shaking his head in wonder.
She continued, ‘So I went home, well content, but not before I’d reserved the Flame Den (as I then learned this place is called) for the following night.
‘Next day I hired two harlots for the evening (so there’d be entertainment for Loki) and Mother Grum to be our doorwoman and ensure our privacy.
‘That night went as I’d guessed it would. Loki had indeed taken up permanent residence in the fire here and after a while I was able to talk with him and get some answers to questions, though nothing of profit to Rime Isle as yet. I made arrangements with the Ilthmart for the Flame Den to be reserved one night each week, and like bargains with Hilsa and Rill to come on those nights and entertain the god and keep him happy. Hilsa, has the god been with you tonight?’ she called to the woman feeding the fire, the one with red stockings.
‘Twice,’ that one replied matter-of-factly in a husky voice. ‘Slipped from the fire invisibly and back again. He’s content.’
‘Your pardon, Lady Cif,’ the Mouser interposed, ‘but how do these professional women find such close commerce with an invisible god to be? What’s it like? I’m curious.’
Cif looked toward them where they sat by the fire.
‘Like having a mouse up your skirt,’ Hilsa replied with a short chuckle, swinging a red leg.
‘Or a toad,’ her companion amended. ‘Although he dwells in the flames, his person is cold.’ Rill had laid aside her cat’s cradle and joined her hands, fingers interweaving, to make shadow-faces on the wall, of prick-eared gigantic werewolves, great sea serpents, dragons, and long-nosed, long-chinned witches. ‘He likes these hobgoblins,’ she commented.
The Mouser nodded thoughtfully, watching them for a while, and then back to the fire.
Cif continued, ‘Soon the god, I could tell, was beginning to get the feel of Nehwon, fitting his mind to her, stretching it out to her farthest bounds, and his oracles became more to the point. Meantime Afreyt, with whom I conferred daily, was caring for old Odin out on the moor in much the same way (though using girls to comfort and appease him instead of full-grown women, he being an older god), eliciting prophecies of import.
‘Loki it was who first warned us that the Mingols were on the move, mustering horse-ships against Rime Isle, mounting under Khahkht’s urgings toward a grand climacteric of madness and rapine. Afreyt put independent question to Odin and he confirmed it—they were together in the tale at every point.
‘When asked what we must do, they both advised—again independently—that we seek out two certain heroes in Lankhmar and have them bring their bands to the Isle’s defence. They were most circumstantial, giving your names and haunts, saying you were their men, whether or not you knew it in this life, and they did not change their stories under repeated questioning. Tell me, Gray Mouser, have you not known the god Loki before? Speak true.’
‘Upon my word, I haven’t, Lady Cif,’ he averred, ‘and am no more able than you to explain the mystery of our resemblance. Though there is a certain weird familiarity about the name, and Odin’s too, as if I’d heard them in dreams or nightmares. But however I rack my brains, it comes no clearer.’
‘Well,’ she resumed after a pause, ‘the two gods kept up their urgings that we seek you out and so half a year ago Afreyt and I took ship for Lankhmar on Hlal—with what results you know.’
‘Tell me, Lady Cif,’ the Mouser interjected, rousing himself from his fire-peerings, ‘how did you and tall Afreyt get back to Rime Isle after Khahkht’s wizardrous blizzard snatched you out of the Silver Eel?’
‘It transpired as swiftly as our journey there was long,’ she said. ‘One moment we were in his cold clutch, battered and blinded by wind-driven ice, our ears assaulted by a booming laughter. The next we had been taken in charge by two feminine flying creatures who whirled us at dizzying speed through darkness to a warm cave where they left us breathless. They said they were a mountain king’s two daughters.’
‘Hirriwi and Keyaira, I’ll be bound!’ the Mouser exclaimed. ‘They must be on our side.’
‘Who are those?’ Cif inquired.
‘Mountain princesses Fafhrd and I have known in our day. Invisibles like our revered fire-dweller here.’ He nodded toward the flames. ‘Their father rules in lofty Stardock.’
‘I’ve heard of that peak and dread Oomforafor, its king, whom some say is with his son Faroomfar an ally of Khahkht. Daughters against father and brother—that would be natural. Well, Afreyt and I after we’d recovered our breath made our way to the cavern’s mouth—and found ourselves looking down on Rime Isle and Salthaven from a point midway up Darkfire. With some little difficulty we made our way home across rock and glacier.’
‘The volcano,’ the Mouser mused. ‘Again Loki’s link with fire.’ His attention had been drawn back to the hypnotic flames.
Cif nodded. ‘Thereafter Loki and Odin kept us informed of the Mingols’ progress toward Rime Isle—and your own. Then four days ago Loki began a running account of your encounters with Khahkht’s frost monstreme. He made i
t most vivid—sometimes you’d have sworn he was piloting one of the ships himself. I managed to reserve the Flame Den the succeeding nights (and have it now for the next three days and nights also), so we were able to follow the details of the long flight or long pursuit—which, truth to tell, became a bit monotonous.’
‘You should have been there,’ the Mouser murmured.
‘Loki made me feel I was.’
‘Incidentally,’ the Mouser said casually, ‘I’d think you’d have rented the Flame Den every night once you’d got your god here.’
‘I’m not made of gold,’ she informed him without rancor. ‘Besides, Loki likes variety. The brawls that others hold here amuse him—were what attracted him in the first place. Furthermore, it would have made the council even more suspicious of my activities.’
The Mouser nodded. ‘I thought I recognized a crony of Groniger’s playing chess out there.’
‘Hush,’ she counseled him. ‘I must now consult the god.’ Her voice had grown a little singsong in the later stages of her narrative and it became more so as, without transition, she invoked, ‘And now, O Loki god, tell us about our enemies across the seas and in the realms of ice. Tell us of cruel, cold Khahkht, of Edumir of the Widdershin Mingols and Gonov of the Sunwise. Hilsa and Rill, sing with me to the god.’ And her voice became a somnolent two-toned, wordless chant in which the other women joined: Hilsa’s husky voice, Rill’s slightly shrill one, and a soft growling that after a bit the Mouser realized came from Mother Grum—all tuned to the fire and its flame-voice.
The Mouser lost himself in this strange medley of notes and all at once the crackling flame-voice, as if by some dream magic, became fully articulate, murmuring rapidly in Low Lankhmarese with occasional words slipped in that were as hauntingly strange as the god’s own name.
‘Storm clouds thicken round Rime Isle. Nature brews her blackest bile. Monsters quicken, nightmares foal, niss and nicor, drow and troll.’ (Those last four nouns were all strange ones to the Mouser, specially the bell-toll sound of ‘troll.’) ‘Sound alarms and strike the drum—in three days the Mingols come, Sunwise Mingols from the east, horse-head ship and human beast. Trick them all most cunningly—lead them to the spinning sea, to down-swirling dizzy bowl. Trust the whirlpool, ’ware the troll! Mingols to their deaths must go, down to weedy hell below, never draw an easy breath, suffer an unending death, everlasting pain and strife, everlasting death in life. Mingol madness ever burn! Never peace again return!’