by Fritz Leiber
At the same moment his Death struck, who had perfectly anticipated his victim’s every movement except the last inspired one. His dagger, instead of burying itself in Fafhrd’s back, struck rock in the shallow depression and its blade snapped. Staggered by that and vastly surprised, he fought for balance.
Fafhrd, glancing back, perceived the treacherous attack and rather casually booted his threatener in the thigh with a free foot. By the bone-white light of Murderers Moon, the Death of Fafhrd fell off Elvenhold and, glancingly striking the very steep grassy slope once or twice, was silhouetted momentarily, long limbs writhing, against the floor of white fog before the latter swallowed him up and the scream he’d started. There was a distant thud that nevertheless had a satisfying finality to it.
Fafhrd swung out again around the end of the cliff. Yes, his bearded star, though dimmed by the moonlight, was definitely discernible. He enjoyed it. The pleasure was, somewhat remotely, akin to that of watching a beautiful girl undress in almost dark.
‘Fafhrd!’ Then again, ‘Fafhrd!’
Skor’s shout, by Kos, he told himself. And Afreyt’s! He pulled himself back on the ledge and, securely footed there, called, ‘Ahoy! Ahoy below!’
23
Back at the barracks things were moving fast and very nervously, notably on the part of the Mouser’s Death. He almost dirked the vaunting idiot on sheer impulse in overpowering disgust at being shown that incredible mouse’s museum of trash as though it were a treasure of some sort. Almost, but then he heard a faint shuffling noise that seemed to originate in the building they were in, and it never did to slay when witnesses might be nigh, were there another course to take.
He watched the Mouser, who looked somewhat disappointed now (had the idiot expected to be praised for his junk display?), shut the closet door and beckon him back into the short hall and through a third door. He followed, listening intently for any repetition of the shuffling noise or other sound. The moving shadows the lamp cast were a little unnerving now; they suggested lurkers, hidden observers. Well, at least the idiot hadn’t deposited in his trash closet the gold and silver coins he’d won this night, so presumably there was still hope of seeing their ‘cell mates’ and some real treasure.
Now the Mouser was pointing out, but in a somewhat perfunctory way, the features of what appeared to be a rather well-appointed kitchen: fireplaces, ovens, and so forth. He rapped a couple of large iron kettles, but without any great enthusiasm, sounding their dull, sepulchral tones.
His manner quickened a little, however, and the ghost at least of a gleeful smile returned to his lips as he opened the back door and went out into the mist, signing for his Death to follow him. That one did so, outwardly seeming relaxed, inwardly alert as a drawn knife, poised for any action.
Almost immediately the Mouser stooped, grasped a ring, and heaved up a small circular trapdoor, meanwhile holding his lamp aloft, its beams reflecting whitely from the fog but not helping vision much. The Mouser’s Death, his nerves tortured beyond endurance, whipped out his dirk and next fell dead across the cesspool mouth with Cif’s dagger in his ear, thrown from where she stood against the wall hardly a dozen feet away.
And somewhere, along with these actions, there were a brief growl and a short dry laugh. But those were things Cif and the Mouser claimed afterward to have heard. At the present moment there was only the Mouser still holding his lamp and peering down at the corpse and saying as Cif and Pshawri and Mikkidu rushed up to him, ‘Well, he’ll never get his revenge for tonight’s gaming, that’s for certain. Or do ghosts ever play backgammon, I wonder? I’ve heard of them contesting parties at chess with living mortals, by Mog.’
24
Next day at the council hall Groniger presided over a brief but well-attended inquest into the demise of the two passengers on the Good News. Badges and other insignia about their persons suggested they were members not only of the Lankhmar Slayers’ Brotherhood, but also of the even more cosmopolitan Assassins’ Order. Under close questioning, the captain of the Good News admitted knowing of this circumstance and was fined for not reporting it to the Rime Isle harbormaster immediately on making port. A bit later Groniger found that they were murderous rogues, doubtless hired by foreign parties unknown, and that they had been rightly slain on their first attempts to practice their nefarious trade on Rime Isle.
But afterward he told Cif, ‘It’s as well that you slew him, and with his dagger in his hand. That way, none can say it was a feuding of newcomers to the Isle with foreigners their presence attracted here. And that you, Afreyt, were close witness to the other’s death.’
‘I’ll say I was!’ that lady averred. ‘He came down not a yard from us—eh, Skor?—almost braining us. And with his hand death-gripping his broken dagger. Fafhrd, in future you should be more careful of how you dispose of your corpses.’
When questioned about the cryptic warning he’d brought the Mouser and Fafhrd, old Ourph vouched, ‘The moment I heard the name Good News I knew it was an ill-omened ship, bearing watching. And when the two strangers came off and went into the Sea Wrack, I perceived them as dressed-up, slightly luminous skeletons only, with bony hands and eyeless sockets.’
‘Did you see their corpses at the inquest so?’ Groniger asked him.
‘No, then they were but dead meat, such as all living become.’
25
In Godsland the three concerned deities, somewhat shocked by the final turn of events and horrified to see how close they’d come to losing their chief remaining worshippers, lifted their curses from them as rapidly as they were able. Other concerned parties were slower to get the news and to believe it. The Assassins’ Order posted the two Deaths as ‘delayed’ rather than ‘missing,’ but prepared to make what compensation might be unavoidable to Arth-Pulgh and Hamomel. While Sheelba and Ningauble, considerably irked, set about devising new stratagems to procure the return of their favourite errand boys and living touchstones.
26
The instant the gods lifted their curses, the Mouser’s and Fafhrd’s strange obsessions vanished. It happened while they were together with Afreyt and Cif, the four of them lunching al fresco at Cif’s. The only outward sign was that the Twain’s eyes widened incredulously as they stared and then smiled at nothing.
‘What deliciously outrageous idea has occurred to you two?’ Afreyt demanded, while Cif echoed, ‘You’re right! And it has to be something like that. We know you two of yore!’
‘Is it that obvious?’ the Mouser inquired, while Fafhrd fumbled out, ‘No, it’s nothing like that. It’s…no, you’ve all got to hear this. You know that thing about stars I’ve been having? Well, it’s gone!’ He lifted his eyes. ‘By Issek, I can look at the blue sky now without having it covered with the black flyspecks of the stars that would be there now if it were dark!’
‘By Mog!’ the Mouser exploded. ‘I had no idea, Fafhrd, that your little madness was so like mine in the tightness of its grip. For I no longer feel the compulsion to try to peer closely at every tiny object within fifty yards of me. It’s like being a slave who’s set free.’
‘No more ragpicking, eh?’ Cif said. ‘No more bent-over inspection tours?’
‘No, by Mog,’ the Mouser asserted, then qualified that with a ‘Though of course little things can be quite as interesting as big things; in fact, there’s a whole tiny world of—’
‘Uh-uh, you better watch out,’ Cif interrupted, holding up a finger.
‘And the stars too are of considerable interest, my unnatural infatuation with ’em aside,’ Fafhrd said stubbornly.
Afreyt asked, ‘What do you think it was, though? Do you think some wizard cast a spell on you? Perchance that Ningauble you told me of, Fafhrd?’
Cif said, ‘Yes, or that Sheelba you talk of in your sleep, Mouser, and tell me isn’t an old lover?’
The two men had to admit that those explanations were distant possibilities.
‘Or other mysterious or even otherworldly beings may have had a hand
in it,’ Afreyt proposed. ‘We know Queen Skeldir’s involved, bless her, from the warning laughter you heard. And, for all you make light of him, Gusorio. Cif and I did hear those growlings.’
Cif said, the look in her eyes half wicked, half serious, ‘And has it occurred to any of you that, since Skeldir’s warnings went to you two men, that you may be transmigrations of her? and we—Skeldir help us!—of Great Gusorio? Or does that shock you?’
‘By no means,’ Fafhrd answered. ‘Since transmigration would be such a wonder, able to send the spirit of woman or man into animal, or vice versa, a mere change of sex should not surprise us at all.’
27
The backgammon box of the two Deaths was kept at the Sea Wrack as a curiosity of sorts, but it was noted that few used it to play with, or got good games when they did.
IV
The Mouser Goes Below
1
It is an old saw in the world of Nehwon that the fate of heroes who seek to retire, or of adventurers who decide to settle down, so cheating their audience of honest admirers—that the fate of such can be far more excruciatingly doleful than that of a Lankhmar princess royal shanghaied as cabin girl aboard an Ilthmar trader embarked on the carkingly long voyage to tropic Klesh or frosty No-Ombrulsk. And let such heroes merely whisper a hint about a ‘last adventure’ and their noisiest partisans and most ardent adherents alike will be demanding that it end at the very least in spectacular death and doom, endured while battling insurmountable odds and enjoying the enmity of the evilest archgods.
So when those two humorous dark-side heroes the Gray Mouser and Fafhrd not only left Lankhmar City (where it’s said more than half the action of Nehwon world is) to serve the obscure freewomen Cif and Afreyt of lonely Rime Isle on the northern rim of things, but also protracted their stay there for two years and then three, wiseacres and trusty gossips alike began to say that the Twain were flirting with just such a fate.
True, their polar expedition had seemed to begin well enough, even showily, with reports filtering back of them gathering and training (or taming) small bands of adventurers mad as themselves to serve them, and then word of a great victory where they turned back from the frigid island of philosophic fishermen a two-pronged invasion of suicidal Sea-Mingols, during which they enforced the service of two weird outlander gods outlandishly named Loki and Odin, and also played fast and loose with the five gold Ikons of Reason, which were atheist Rime Isle’s chiefest treasure, and otherwise made fools of the Isle’s gruff and slow-moving and -speaking dwellers.
But then, especially when they stayed on and on in the chilly north, second reports began to undercut and diminish all these feisty achievements. It was said that their victory had been a trivial psychological one, got by delaying maneuvers—what in a more familiar world would have been called Fabian tactics—and that in the end it never would have been won except for an unexpected unseasonal change in the winds, the simultaneous but fortuitous eruption of Rime Isle’s volcanoes Hellglow and Darkfire, and the coincidental surging of the Island’s notorious Great Maelstrom, which sucked under a few leading galleys in the Mingols’ advance squadron and so discouraged the rest.
That (so these second reports went) far from playing tricks on the Islanders, the Mouser and Fafhrd were making friends with them, copying their sober ways, and forcing their henchmen to do likewise—transforming these cutpurses and berserks into law-abiding sailors, fishermen, mechanics, even carpenters who’d built for themselves and their two masters a year-round barracks.
That instead of playing ducks and drakes with the gold Ikons, Fafhrd had actually rescued four of them from a thievish sea-demoness from the sunken empire of Simorgya, whom the Mouser had additionally thwarted in the course of a trading voyage to No-Ombrulsk to get timber and grain for the wood-poor, corn-hungry, sea-girt republic.
Furthermore, that he (the Mouser) had used the fifth Ikon, the Skeleton Cube of Square Dealing, enwedged with a cinder sacred to the stranger fire-god Loki and containing the essence of that alien god’s being, to sling into the centre of the Great Maelstrom after it had pulled under the Mingol picket ships and magically still forever its spinning whorls before they scuppered the rickety Rime fleet also. There the cube lay snuggled in sand and slickly slimed at whirlpool-maw’s centre seventeen fathoms down, a precious heavy handful, kernel for legends and bait for treasure seekers, locking the Maelstrom tight and prisoning a god.
Finally, that in place of swindling and abandoning Cif and Afreyt, as they’d been known to serve some earlier employers and lovers alike, the two disgustingly reformed rascals and rakes were busily courting the two freewomen, clearly with lasting relationships of mutual benefit in view.
These disquieting—nay, shocking—secondary rumours were what caused many to at last give credence to a widely disbelieved early report: that in the almost bloodless final battle with the Mingols, Fafhrd had somehow lost his left hand, eventually replacing it with a leather socket for his bow, fork, knife—a whole kit of tools. This was seen now as part of the working out of the old Nehwonian saw about the woes that afflict heroes who try to step down from their glorious and entertaining destinies. The luck of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser had turned at last, it was said, and they were on the road to oblivion.
The ones who believed this—and they were many—were also quick to accept the report that the wizardly mentors of the Twain, Sheelba of the Eyeless Face and Ningauble of the Seven Eyes, had turned against them in disappointment and disgust and moved their no-account gods—spiderish Mog, limp-wristed Issek, and lousy Kos—to inflict upon them the curse of old age, turning them into cranky old men before their time. Likewise the secret news that figures no less illustrious and powerful than the Overlord of Lankhmar and the Grandmaster of its Thieves Guild had sent assassins to Rime Isle to wipe them out. Even when word came drifting southward that the two tarnished heroes had somehow thwarted their assassins at the last moment and wriggled out from under the old-age curse, detractors were quick to point out that this was not to their credit since it could hardly have been managed without a lot of help from Cif, Afreyt, and those two ladies’ Moon Goddess.
No, these detractors maintained, Fafhrd and Mouser were on the skids (as good as dead) for disdaining their proper hero-villain roles and seeking a snug harbour for their declining years, and as soon as some proper god (Kos, Mog, and Issek were nobodies!) got the ear of Death in his low castle in the Shadowland and spoke a word into it, they were forever done for.
Now, if these criticisms and dire forecasts had been referred to the two heroes at whom they were directed, Fafhrd might well have replied that he’d come north on a dare and great challenge, and that since then problems and menaces had been coming at him hot and heavy, and as for his hand, he’d lost that saving the necks of his mistress Afreyt and her three girl acolytes of the Moon Goddess and he was trying to make the best of his deficiency, so why the criticism? While the Gray Mouser might well have answered, ‘What did the fools expect?’ He’d never worked as hard in his life at being a hero as he had up here in the shivery inclement arctic clime, taking responsibility not only for his twelve witless apprentice hero-thieves under their barely less imbecilic lieutenants Mikkidu and Pshawri and for his lady Cif and her dependents as well, but also from time to time for Fafhrd’s berserks too, and half the dwellers of Rime Isle besides.
Yet despite these protests each of the Twain felt a gloomy shiver stiffen his short hairs now and again, for both knew well how cruelly and unreasonably demanding audiences can be and how unendingly bitter the enmity of gods as the two of them fumbled with their twisted, slowly unravelling destinies in a world that from time to time imitates that of fancy and romance most cunningly, so as to keep its creatures concerned and moving to prevent their sinking into black despair or bored inaction.
2
Pshawri, the Gray Mouser’s slender young lieutenant, sat with head bowed and taking slow deep breaths on the aft thwart of the sailing dory Kringle, anchored i
n a dead calm two Lankhmar leagues east of Rime Isle above the dark centre of the Great Maelstrom, quiescent now for an unprecedented seventeen moons, though when a-spin, a ridgy, ship-devouring, roaring water monster.
The noonday sun of late summer’s Satyrs Moon beat down on his wiry nakedness as he studied the five smooth leadstone boulders, each big as his head, lying firm on the dory’s bottom. From a snug thong low around his middle hung a scabbarded and well-greased dirk and a bag of stout fishnet, its mouth marked and held open by a circlet of reed. With each belly-bulging inhalation the thong indented his slim side just above where three grayish moles made an inconspicuous equilateral triangle on his left hip.
Against the gunnel opposite him sprawled his sworn-to-secrecy sailing comrade, Fafhrd’s seven-foot second sergeant Skullick. This lean yet comically hulking one left off staring lazily yet doubtfully at Pshawri to turn half on his side and scan down through the near-pellucid saltwater at the sea floor seventeen fathoms below. It was mostly pale sand, green-tinged by depth. He could see Kringle’s tiny shadow and her anchor line going down almost vertically toward the dark cluster of savage rocks marking the whirlpool’s maw, and around that the dim shapes of gnawed wrecks waiting a long, long time now for storms and the whirlpool’s own action to break them up and drive their waterlogged timbers ashore on the Beach of Bleached Bones, there to be salvaged by the wood-starved Rimers.