The Second Book of Lankhmar

by Fritz Leiber

  ‘Yes, but what exactly did I say? What were my words?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t tell you that,’ she protested. ‘It was so all of a piece that no one thing stood out—I’ve quite forgotten the details. Content you, it was perfect.’

  Later on he ventured to inquire of Groniger, ‘At what point did my arguments begin to persuade you?’

  ‘How can you ask that?’ the grizzled Rimelander rejoined, a frown of honest puzzlement furrowing his brow. ‘It was all so supremely logical, clearly and coldly reasoned. Like two and two makes four. How can one point to one part of arithmetic as being more compelling than another?’

  ‘True, true,’ the Mouser echoed reluctantly, and ventured to add, ‘I suppose it was the same sort of rigorous logic that persuaded you to accept the gods Odin and Loki?’

  ‘Precisely,’ Groniger confirmed.

  The Mouser nodded, though he shrugged in spirit. Oh, he knew what had happened all right, he even checked it out a little later with Rill.

  ‘Where did you light your torch?’ he asked.

  ‘At the god’s fire, of course,’ she answered. ‘At the god’s fire in the Flame Den.’ And then she kissed him. (She wasn’t too bad at that either, even though there was nothing to the whole kissing business.)

  Yes, he knew that the god Loki had come out of the flames and possessed him for a while (as Fafhrd had perhaps once been possessed by the god Issek back in Lankhmar) and spoken through his lips the sort of arguments that are so convincing when voiced by a god or delivered in time of war or comparable crisis—and so empty when proclaimed by a mere mortal on any ordinary occasion.

  And really there was no time for speculation about the mystery of what he’d said, now that there was so much to be done, so many life-and-death decisions to be made, so many eventful trains of action to be guided to their conclusions—once these folk had got through celebrating and taken a little rest.

  Still, it would be nice to know just a little of what he’d actually said, he thought wistfully. Some of it might even have been clever. Why in heaven’s name, for instance, and to illustrate what, had he taken the queller out of his pouch and whirled it around his head?

  He had to admit it was rather pleasant being possessed by a god (or would be if one could remember any of it) but it did leave one feeling empty, that is, except for the ever-present Mingols-to-their-deaths jingle—that he’d never get shut of, it seemed.

  Next morning Fafhrd’s band got their first sight of Cold Harbor, the sea, and the entire Mingol advance force all at once. The sun and west wind had dissipated the coastal fog and blew it from the glacier, on the edge of which they were now all making their way. It was a much smaller and vastly more primitive settlement than Salthaven. To the north rose the dark crater-summit of Mount Hellglow, so lofty and near that its eastern foothills still cast their shadows on the ice. A wisp of smoke rose from it, trailing off east. At the snowline a shadow on the dark rock seemed to mark the mouth of a cavern leading into the mountain’s heart. Its lower slopes were thickly crusted with snow, leading back to the glacier which, narrow at this point, stretched ahead of them north to the glittering gray sea, surprisingly near. From the glacier’s not-very-lofty foot, rolling grassy turf with occasional clumps of small northern cedars deformed by the wind stretched off to the southwest and its own now-distant snowy heights, wisps of white fog blowing eastways and vanishing across the rolling sunlit land between.

  Glimpses of a few devastated and deserted hill farms late yesterday and early this morning, while they’d been trailing and chivvying the retreating Mingol marauders, had prepared them for what they saw now. Those farmhouses and byres had been of turf or sod solely, with grass and flowers growing on their narrow roofs, smokeholes instead of chimneys. Mara, dry-eyed, pointed out the one she’d dwelt in. Cold Harbor was simply a dozen such dwellings atop a rather steep hill or large mound backed against the glacier and turf-walled—a sort of retreat for the country-dwellers in times of peril. A short distance beyond it, a sandy beach fronted the harbor itself and on it three Mingol galleys had been drawn ashore, identified by the fantastic horse cages that were the above-deck portion of their prows.

  Ranged round the mound of Cold Harbor at a fairly respectful distance were some fourscore Mingols, their leaders seemingly in conference with those of the twoscore who’d gone raiding ahead and but now returned. One of these latter was pointing back toward the Deathlands and then up at the glacier, as if describing the force that had pursued them. Beyond them the three Steppe-stallions free from their cages were cropping turf. A peaceful scene, yet even as Fafhrd watched, keeping his band mostly hid (he hoped) by a fold in the ice (he did not trust too far Mingol aversion to ice) a spear came arching out of the tranquil-seeming mound and (it was a prodigious cast) struck down a Mingol. There were angry cries and a dozen Mingols returned arrow fire. Fafhrd judged that the besiegers, now reinforced. would surely try soon a determined assault. Without hesitation he gave orders.

  ‘Skullick, here’s action for you. Take your best bowman, oil, and a firepot. Race ahead for your life to where the glacier is nearest their beached ships and drop fire arrows in them, or attempt to. Run!

  ‘Mara, follow them as far as the mound and when you see the ships smoke, but not before, run down and join your friends if the way is clear. Careful!—Afreyt will have my head if aught befalls you. Tell them the truth about our numbers. Tell them to hold out and to feint a sortie if they see good chance.

  ‘Mannimark! Keep one man of your squad and maintain watch here. Warn us of Mingol advances.

  ‘Skor and the rest, follow me. We’ll descend in their rear and briefly counterfeit a pursuing army. Come!’

  And he was off at a run with eight berserks lumbering after, arrow-quivers banging against their backs. He’d already picked the stand of stunted cedars from the cover of which he planned to make his demonstration. As he ran, he sought to run in his mind with Skullick and his mate, and with Mara, trying to make the timing right.

  He arrived at the cedars and saw Mannimark signaling that the Mingol assault had begun. ‘Now howl like wolves,’ he told his hard-breathing men, ‘and really scream, each of you enough for two. Then we’ll pour arrows toward ’em, longest range and fast as you can. Then, when I give command, back on the glacier again! as fast as we came down.’

  When all this was done (and without much marking of consequences—there was not time) and he had rejoined Mannimark, followed by his panting band, he saw with delight a thin column of black smoke ascending from the beached galley nearest the glaciers. Mingols began to run in that direction from the slopes of the beleaguered mound, abandoning their assault. Midway he saw the small figure of Mara running down the glacier to Cold Harbor, her red cloak standing out behind her. A woman with a spear had appeared on the earth wall nearest the child, waving her on encouragingly. Then of a sudden Mara appeared to take a fantastically long stride, part of her form was obscured, as if there were a blur in Fafhrd’s vision there, and then she seemed to—no, did!—rise in the air, higher and higher, as though clutched by an invisible eagle or other sightless predatory flier. He kept his eyes on the red cloak, which suddenly grew brighter as the invisible flyer mounted from shadow into sunlight with his captive. He heard a muttered exclamation of sympathy and wonder close beside him, spared a sidewise glance, and knew that Skor also had seen the prodigy.

  ‘Keep her in sight, man,’ he breathed. ‘Don’t lose the red cloak for one moment. Mark where she goes through the trackless air.’

  The gaze of the two men went upward, then west, then steadily east toward the dark mountain. From time to time Fafhrd looked down to assure himself that there were no untoward developments requiring his attention of the situations at the ships and at Cold Harbor. Each time he feared his eyes would never catch sight of the flying cloak again, but each time they did. Skor seemed to be following instructions faithfully. The red patch grew smaller, tinier. They almost lost it as it dipped into the shadow again. F
inally Skor straightened up.

  ‘Where did it go?’ Fafhrd asked.

  ‘To the mouth of the cave at the snowline,’ Skor replied. ‘The girl was drawn there through the air by what magic I know not. I lost it there.’

  Fafhrd nodded. ‘Magic of a most special sort,’ he said rapidly. ‘She was carried there, I must believe, by an invisible flier, Ghoul-related, an old enemy of mine, Prince Faroomfar of lofty Stardock. Only I among us have the knowledge to deal with him.’

  He felt, in a way, that he was seeing Skor for the first time: a man an inch taller than himself and some five years younger, but with receding hairline and a rather scanty straggling russet beard. His nose had been broken at some time. He looked a thoughtful villain.

  Fafhrd said, ‘In the Cold Waste near Illek-Ving I hired you. At No-Ombrulsk I named you my chief lieutenant and you swore with the rest to obey me for Sea Hawk’s voyage and return.’ He locked eyes with the man. ‘Now it comes to the test, for you must take command while I seek Mara. Continue to harry the Mingols but avoid a full engagement. Those of Cold Harbor are our friends, but do not join with them in their fort unless no other course is open. Remember we serve the lady Afreyt. Understood?’

  Skor frowned, keeping his eyes locked with Fafhrd’s, then nodded once.

  ‘Good!’ Fafhrd said, not sure at all that it was so, but knowing he was doing what he had to. The smoke from the burning ships was less—the Mingols seemed to have saved her. Skullick and his fellow came running back with their bows, grinning.

  ‘Mannimark!’ Fafhrd called. ‘Give me two torches. Skullick!—the tinder-pouch.’ He unbuckled the belt holding his long-sword Graywand. He retained his ax.

  ‘Men!’ he addressed them. ‘I must be absent for a space. Command goes to Skor by this token.’ He buckled Graywand to that one’s side. ‘Obey him faithfully. Keep yourselves whole. See that I’m given no cause to rebuke you when I return.’

  And without more ado he made off across the glacier toward Mount Hellglow.

  The Mouser forced himself to rise soon as he woke and to take a cold bath before his single cup of hot gahveh (he was in that sort of mood). He set his entire crew to work, Mingols and thieves alike, completing Flotsam’s repairs, warning them that she must be ready to sail by the morrow’s morn at least, in line with Loki god’s promise: ‘In three days the Mingols come.’ He took considerable pleasure in noting that several of them seemed to be suffering from worse hangovers than his own. ‘Work them hard, Pshawri,’ he commanded. ‘No mercy to slug-a-beds and shirkers!’

  By then it was time to join with Cif in seeing off Afreyt’s and Groniger’s overland expedition. He found the Rimelanders offensively bright-eyed, noisy, and energetic, and the way that Groniger bustled about, marshalling them, was a caution.

  Cif and Afreyt were clear-eyed and smiling also in their brave russets and blues, but that was easier to take. He and Cif walked a ways with the overland marchers. He noted with some amusement and approval that Afreyt had four of Groniger’s men carrying a curtained litter, though she did not occupy it as yet. So she was making the men pay for yesternight’s false (or at least tactless) accusations, and would cross the Deathlands in luxurious ease. That was more in his own style.

  He was in an odd state of mind, almost feeling himself a spectator rather than a participant in great events. The incident of the stirring speech he had made last night (or rather the oration that the god Loki had delivered through his lips while he was blacked out) and didn’t remember (and couldn’t discover) a word of still rankled. He felt like the sort of unimportant servant, or errand boy, who’s never allowed to know the contents of the sealed messages he’s given to deliver.

  In this role of observer and critic he was struck by how grotesque was the weaponry of the high-stepping and ebullient Rimelanders. There were the quarterstaves, of course, and heavy single-bladed spears, but also slim fishing spears and great pitchforks and wickedly hooked and notched pikes, and long flails with curious heavy swiples and swingles a-dangle from their ends. A couple even carried long narrow-bladed and sharp-looking spades. He remarked on it to Cif and she asked him how he armed his own thief-band. Afreyt had gone on a little ahead. They were nearing Gallows Hill.

  ‘Why, with slings,’ he told Cif. ‘They’re as good as bows and a lot less trouble to carry. Like this one,’ and he showed her the leather sling hanging from his belt. ‘See that old gibbet ahead? Now mark.’

  He selected a lead ball from his pouch, centered it in the strap and, sighting quickly but carefully, whirled it twice round his head and loosed. The thunk as it struck square on was unexpectedly loud and resounding. Some Rimelanders applauded.

  Afreyt came hurrying back to tell him not to do that again—it might offend god Odin. Can’t do anything right this morning, the Mouser told himself sourly.

  But the incident had given him a thought. He said to Cif, ‘Say. maybe I was demonstrating the sling in my speech last night when I whirled the cube of square dealing a round on its cord. Do you recall? Sometimes I get drunk on my own words and don’t remember too well.’

  She shook her head. ‘Perhaps you were,’ she said. ‘Or perhaps you were dramatizing the Great Maelstrom which will swallow the Sun Mingols. Oh, that wondrous speech!’

  Meanwhile they had come abreast of Gallows Hill and Afreyt had halted the march. He strolled over with Cif to find out why and for farewells—this was about as far as they’d planned to come.

  To his surprise he discovered that Afreyt had set the two men with spades and several others to digging up the gallows, to unrooting it entire, and also had had its bearers set down the litter in front of the little grove of gorse on the north side of the hill, and part its curtains. While he watched puzzledly, he saw the girls May and Gale emerge from the grove, walking slowly and carefully and going through the motions of assisting someone—only there was no one there.

  Except for the men trying to rock the gallows loose, everyone had grown quite silent, watchfully attentive.

  In low undertones Cif told the Mouser the girls’ names and what was going on.

  ‘You mean to say that’s Odin god they’re helping? and they’re able to see him?’ he whispered back. ‘I remember now. Afreyt said she was taking him along, but—Can you see him at all?’

  ‘Not very distinctly in this sunlight,’ she admitted. ‘But I have done so, by twilight. Afreyt says Fafhrd saw Odin most clearly in the dusk, evening before last. It’s given only to Afreyt and the girls to see him clearly.’

  The strange slow pantomime was soon concluded. Afreyt cut a few spiny branches of gorse and put them in the litter (‘So he’ll feel at home,’ Cif explained to the Mouser) and started to draw the curtains, but, ‘He wants me inside with him,’ Gale announced in her shrill childish voice. Afreyt nodded. the little girl climbed in with a shrug of resignation, the curtains were drawn at last, and the general hush broke.

  Lord, what idiocy! the Mouser thought. We two-footed fantasies will believe anything. And yet it occurred to him uneasily that he was a fine one to talk, who’d heard a god speak out of a fire and had his own body usurped by one. Inconsiderate creatures, gods were.

  With a rush and a shout the gallows came down and its base up out of the earth, spraying dirt around, and a half dozen stalwart Rimelanders lifted it onto their shoulders and prepared to carry it so, marching single file after the litter.

  ‘Well, they could use it as a battering ram, I suppose,’ the Mouser muttered. Cif gave him a look.

  Final farewells were said then and last messages for Fafhrd given and mutual assurances of courage until victory and death to the invader, and then the expedition went marching off in great swinging strides, rhythmically. The Mouser, standing with Cif as he watched them go toward the Deathlands, got the impression they were humming under their breaths, ‘Mingols to their deaths must go,’ song and stepping to its tune. He wondered if he’d begun to say those verses aloud, so that they’d picked it up from him. He shook his hea
d.

  But then he and Cif turned back alone, and he saw it was a bright day, pleasantly cool, with the breeze ruffling the heather and wildflowers waving on their delicate stems, and his spirits began to rise. Cif wore her russets in the shape of a short gown, rather than her customary trousers, and her dark golden-glinting hair was loose, and her movements were unforced and impulsive. She still had reserve, but it was not that of a councilman, and the Mouser remembered how thrilling last night’s kiss had been, before he’d decided it didn’t mean anything. Two fat lemmings popped out just ahead of them and stood on their hind legs, inspecting them, before ducking behind a bush. In stopping so as not to overrun them, Cif stumbled and he caught her and after a moment drew her to him. She yielded for a moment before she drew away, smiling at him troubledly.

  ‘Gray Mouser,’ she said softly, ‘I am attracted to you, but I have told you how you resemble the god Loki—and last night when you swayed the Isle with your great oratory that resemblance was even more marked. I have also told you of my reluctance to take the god home with me (making me hire Hilsa and Rill, two familiar devils, to take care of him). Now I find, doubtless because of the resemblance, a kindred hesitation with respect to you, so that perhaps it is best we remain captain and councilwoman until the defense of Rime Isle is accomplished and I can sort you out from the god.’

  The Mouser took a long breath and said slowly that he supposed that was best, thinking meanwhile that gods surely interfered with one’s private life. He was mightily tempted to ask her whether she expected him to turn to Hilsa and Rill (devils or no) to be comforted, but doubted she would he inclined to allow him a god’s liberties to that degree (granted he desired such), no matter how great the resemblance between them.

  In this impasse, he was rather relieved to see beyond Cif’s shoulder that which allowed him to say, ‘Speaking of she-demons. who are these that are coming from Salthaven?’