The First Book of Lankhmar

by Fritz Leiber

  He bowed his head…and saw, lying lightly on the springing grassblades, a plain green glove. He snatched it up and digging in his tunic drew forth another glove, darkly mottled and streakily bleached by sweat, and held them side by side. They were mates.

  His lips writhed back from his teeth and his gaze went again to the distant stronghold. Then he unseated a thick round of scraggy bark from the tree-trunk he’d been touching and delved shoulder-deep in the black cavity revealed. As he did these things with a slow tense automatism, the words came back to him of a reading Glavas Rho had smilingly given him over a meal of milkless gruel.

  ‘Mouse,’ the mage had said, firelight dancing on his short white beard, ‘when you stare your eyes like that and flare your nostrils, you are too much like a cat for me to credit you will ever be a sheep-dog of the truth. You are a middling dutiful scholar, but secretly you favor swords over wands. You are more tempted by the hot lips of black magic than the chaste slim fingers of white, no matter to how pretty a misling the latter belong—no, do not deny it! You are more drawn to the beguiling sinuosities of the left-hand path than the straight steep road of the right. I fear me you will never be mouse in the end but mouser. And never white but gray—oh well, that’s better than black. Now, wash up these bowls and go breathe an hour on the newborn ague-plant, for ’tis a chill night, and remember to talk kindly to the thorn bush.’

  The remembered words grew faint, but did not fade, as Mouse drew from the hole a leather belt furred green with mold and dangling from it a moldy scabbard. From the latter he drew, seizing it by the thong-wrapped grip, a tapering bronze sword showing more verdigris than metal. His eyes grew wide, but pinpoint-pupiled, and his face yet more masklike, as he held the pale-green, brown-edged blade against the red hump of the rising sun.

  From across the valley came faintly the high, clear, ringing note of a hunting horn, calling men to the chase.

  Abruptly Mouse strode off down the slope, cutting over to the trail of the hooves, moving with long hasty strides and a little stiff-leggedly, as if drunk, and buckling around his waist as he went the mold-furred sword-belt.

  A dark four-footed shape rushed across the sun-specked forest glade, bearing down the underbrush with its broad low chest and trampling it with its narrow cloven hooves. From behind sounded the notes of a horn and the harsh shouts of men. At the far edge of the glade, the boar turned. Breath whistled through its nostrils and it swayed. Then its half-glazed little eyes fixed on the figure of a man on horseback. It turned toward him and some trick of the sunlight made its pelt grow blacker. Then it charged. But before the terrible up-turning tusks could find flesh to slash, a heavy-bladed spear bent like a bow against the knob of its shoulder and it went crashing over half backward, its blood spattering the greenery.

  Huntsmen clad in brown and green appeared in the glade, some surrounding the fallen boar with a wall of spear points, others hurrying up to the man on the horse. He was clad in rich garments of yellow and brown. He laughed, tossed one of his huntsmen the bloodied spear and accepted a silver-worked leather wine flask from another.

  A second rider appeared in the glade and the Duke’s small yellow eyes clouded under the tangled brows. He drank deep and wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve. The huntsmen were warily closing their spear-wall on the boar, which lay rigid but with head lifted a finger’s breadth off the turf, its only movements the darting of its gaze from side to side and the pulse of bright blood from its shoulder. The spear-wall was about to close when Janarrl waved the huntsmen to a halt.

  ‘Ivrian!’ he called harshly to the newcomer. ‘You had two chances at the beast, but you flinched. Your cursed dead mother would already have sliced thin and tasted the beast’s raw heart.’

  His daughter stared at him miserably. She was dressed as the huntsmen and rode astride with a sword at her side and a spear in her hand, but it only made her seem more the thin-faced, spindle-armed girl.

  ‘You are a milksop, a wizard-loving coward,’ Janarrl continued. ‘Your abominable mother would have faced the boar a-foot and laughed when its blood gushed in her face. Look here, this boar is scotched. It cannot harm you. Drive your spear into it now! I command you!’

  The huntsmen broke their spear-wall and drew back to either side, making a path between the boar and the girl. They sniggered openly at her and the Duke smiled at them approvingly. The girl hesitated, sucking at her underlip, staring with fear and fascination too at the beast which eyed her, head still just a-lift.

  ‘Drive in your spear!’ Janarrl repeated, sucking quickly at the flask. ‘Do so, or I will whip you here and now.’

  Then she touched her heels to the horse’s flanks and cantered down the glade, her body bent low, the spear trained at its target. But at the last instant its point swerved aside and gouged the dirt. The boar had not moved. The huntsmen laughed raucously.

  Janarrl’s wide face reddened with anger as he whipped out suddenly and trapped her wrist, tightened on it. ‘Your damned mother could cut men’s throats and not change color. I’ll see you flesh your spear in that carcass, or I’ll make you dance, here and now, as I did last night, when you told me the wizard’s spells and the place of his den.’

  He leaned closer and his voice sank to a whisper. ‘Know, chit, that I’ve long suspected that your mother, fierce as she could be, was perhaps ensorceled against her will—a wizard-lover like yourself…and you the whelp of that burned charmer.’

  Her eyes widened and she started to pull away from him, but he drew her closer. ‘Have no fear, chit, I’ll work the taint out of your flesh one way or another. For a beginning, prick me that boar!’

  She did not move. Her face was a cream-colored mask of fear. He raised his hand. But at that moment there was an interruption.

  A figure appeared at the edge of the glade at the point where the boar had turned to make its last charge. It was that of a slim youth, dressed all in gray. Like one drugged or in a trance, he walked straight toward Janarrl. The three huntsmen who had been attending the Duke drew swords and moved leisurely toward him.

  The youth’s face was white and tensed, his forehead beaded with sweat under the gray hood half thrown back. Jaw muscles made ivory knobs. His eyes, fixed on the Duke, squinted as if they looked at the blinding sun.

  His lips parted wide, showing his teeth. ‘Slayer of Glavas Rho! Wizard-killer!’

  Then his bronze sword was out of its moldy scabbard. Two of the huntsmen moved in his way, one of them crying, ‘Beware poison!’ at the green of the newcomer’s blade. The youth aimed a terrific blow at him, handling his sword as if it were a sledge. The huntsman parried it with ease, so that it whistled over his head, and the youth almost fell with the force of his own blow. The huntsman stepped forward and with a snappy stroke rapped the youth’s sword near the hilt to disarm him, and the fight was done before begun—almost. For the glazed look left the youth’s eyes and his features twitched like those of a cat and, recovering his grip on his sword, he lunged forward with a twisting motion at the wrist that captured the huntsman’s blade in his own green one and whipped it out of its startled owner’s grasp. Then he continued his lunge straight toward the heart of the second huntsman, who escaped only by collapsing backward to the turf.

  Janarrl leaned forward tensely in his saddle, muttering, ‘The whelp has fangs,’ but at that instant the third huntsman, who had circled past, struck the youth with sword-pommel on the back of his neck. The youth dropped his sword, swayed and started to fall, but the first huntsman grabbed him by the neck of his tunic and hurled him toward his companions. They received him in their own jocular fashion with cuffs and slaps, slashing his head and ribs with sheathed daggers, eventually letting him fall to the ground, kicking him, worrying him like a pack of hounds.

  Janarrl sat motionless, watching his daughter. He had not missed her frightened start of recognition when the youth appeared. Now he saw her lean forward, lips twitching. Twice she started to speak. Her horse moved uneasily and whinnied
. Finally she hung her head and cowered back while low retching sobs came from her throat. Then Janarrl gave a satisfied grunt and called out, ‘Enough for the present! Bring him here!’

  Two huntsmen dragged between them the half-fainting youth clad now in red-spattered gray.

  ‘Coward,’ said the Duke. ‘This sport will not kill you. They were only gentling you in preparation for other sports. But I forget you are a pawky wizardling, an effeminate creature who babbles spells in the dark and curses behind the back, a craven who fondles animals and would make the forests mawkish places. Faugh! My teeth are on edge. And yet you sought to corrupt my daughter and—Hearken to me, wizardling, I say!’ And leaning low from his saddle he caught the youth’s sagging head by the hair, tangling in his fingers. The youth’s eyes rolled wildly and he gave a convulsive jerk that took the huntsmen by surprise and almost tumbled Janarrl out of the saddle.

  Just then there was an ominous crackling of underbrush and the rapid thud of hooves. Someone cried, ‘Have a care, master! Oh Gods, guard the Duke!’

  The wounded boar had lurched to its feet and was charging the group by Janarrl’s horse.

  The huntsmen scattered back, snatching for their weapons.

  Janarrl’s horse shied, further overbalancing its rider. The boar thundered past, like red-smeared midnight. Janarrl almost fell atop it. The boar swung sharply around for a return charge, evading three thrown spears that thudded into the earth just beside it. Janarrl tried to stand, but one of his feet was snagged in a stirrup and his horse, jerking clear, tumbled him again.

  The boar came on, but other hooves were thudding now. Another horse swept past Janarrl and a firmly-held spear entered near the boar’s shoulder and buried itself deep. The black beast, jarred backward, slashed once at the spear with its tusk, fell heavily on its side and was still.

  Then Ivrian let go the spear. The arm with which she had been holding it dangled unnaturally. She slumped in her saddle, catching its pommel with her other hand.

  Janarrl scrambled to his feet, eyed his daughter and the boar. Then his gaze traveled slowly around the glade, full circle.

  Glavas Rho’s apprentice was gone.

  ‘North be south, east be west. Copse be glade and gully crest. Dizziness all paths invest. Leaves and grasses, do the rest.’

  Mouse mumbled the chant through swollen lips almost as though he were talking into the ground on which he lay. His fingers arranging themselves into cabalistic symbols, he thumbed a pinch of green powder from a tiny pouch and tossed it into the air with a wrist-flick that made him wince. ‘Know it, hound, you are wolf-born, enemy to whip and horn. Horse, think of the unicorn, uncaught since the primal morn. Weave off from me, by the Norn!’

  The charm completed, he lay still and the pains in his bruised flesh and bones became more bearable. He listened to the sounds of the hunt trail off in the distance.

  His face was pushed close to a patch of grass. He saw an ant laboriously climb a blade, fall to the ground, and then continue on its way. For a moment he felt a bond of kinship between himself and the tiny insect. He remembered the black boar whose unexpected charge had given him a chance to escape and for a strange moment his mind linked it with the ant.

  Vaguely he thought of the pirates who had threatened his life in the west. But their gay ruthlessness had been a different thing from the premeditated and presavored brutality of Janarrl’s huntsmen.

  Gradually anger and hate began to swirl in him. He saw the gods of Glavas Rho, their formerly serene faces white and sneering. He heard the words of the old incantations, but they twanged with a new meaning. Then these visions receded, and he saw only a whirl of grinning faces and cruel hands. Somewhere in it the white, guilt-stricken face of a girl. Swords, sticks, whips. All spinning. And at the center, like the hub of a wheel on which men are broken, the thick strong form of the Duke.

  What was the teaching of Glavas Rho to that wheel? It had rolled over him and crushed him. What was white magic to Janarrl and his henchmen? Only a priceless parchment to be besmirched. Magic gems to be trampled in filth. Thoughts of deep wisdom to be pulped with their encasing brain.

  But there was the other magic. The magic Glavas Rho had forbidden, sometimes smilingly but always with an underlying seriousness. The magic Mouse had learned of only by hints and warnings. The magic which stemmed from death and hate and pain and decay, which dealt in poisons and night-shrieks, which trickled down from the black spaces between the stars, which, as Janarrl himself had said, cursed in the dark behind the back.

  It was as if all Mouse’s former knowledge—of small creatures and stars and beneficial sorceries and Nature’s codes of courtesy—burned in one swift sudden holocaust. And the black ashes took life and began to stir, and from them crept a host of night shapes, resembling those which had been burned, but all distorted. Creeping, skulking, scurrying shapes. Heartless, all hate and terror, but as lovely to look on as black spiders swinging along their geometrical webs.

  To sound a hunting horn for that pack! To set them on the track of Janarrl!

  Deep in his brain an evil voice began to whisper, ‘The Duke must die. The Duke must die.’ And he knew that he would always hear that voice, until its purpose was fulfilled.

  Laboriously he pushed himself up, feeling a stabbing pain that told of broken ribs; he wondered how he had managed to flee this far. Grinding his teeth, he stumbled across a clearing. By the time he had gotten into the shelter of the trees again, the pain had forced him to his hands and knees. He crawled on a little way, then collapsed.

  Near evening of the third day after the hunt, Ivrian stole down from her tower room, ordered the smirking groom to fetch her horse, and rode through the valley and across the stream and up the opposite hill until she reached the rock-sheltered house of Glavas Rho. The destruction she saw brought new misery to her white taut face. She dismounted and went close to the fire-gutted ruin, trembling lest she come upon the body of Glavas Rho. But it was not there. She could see that the ashes had been disturbed, as though someone had been searching through them and sifting them for any objects that might have escaped the flames. Everything was very quiet.

  An inequality in the ground off toward the side of the clearing caught her eye and she walked in that direction. It was a new-made grave, and in place of a headstone was, set around with gray pebbles, a small flat greenish stone with strange carvings on its surface.

  A sudden little sound from the forest set her trembling and made her realize that she was very much afraid, only that up to this point her misery had outweighed her terror. She looked up and gave a gasping cry, for a face was peering at her through a hole in the leaves. It was a wild face, smeared with dirt and grass stains, smirched here and there with old patches of dried blood, shadowed by a stubble of beard. Then she recognized it.

  ‘Mouse,’ she called haltingly.

  She hardly knew the answering voice.

  ‘So you have returned to gloat over the wreckage caused by your treachery.’

  ‘No, Mouse, no!’ she cried. ‘I did not intend this. You must believe me.’

  ‘Liar! It was your father’s men who killed him and burned his house.’

  ‘But I never thought they would!’

  ‘Never thought they would—as if that’s any excuse. You are so afraid of your father that you would tell him anything. You live by fear.’

  ‘Not always, Mouse. In the end I killed the boar.’

  ‘So much the worse—killing the beast the gods had sent to kill your father.’

  ‘But truly I never killed the boar. I was only boasting when I said so—I thought you liked me brave. I have no memory of that killing. My mind went black. I think my dead mother entered me and drove the spear.’

  ‘Liar and changer of lies! But I’ll amend my judgment: you live by fear except when your father whips you to courage. I should have realized that and warned Glavas Rho against you. But I had dreams about you.’

  ‘You called me Misling,’ she said faintl
y.

  ‘Aye, we played at being mice, forgetting cats are real. And then while I was away, you were frightened by mere whippings into betraying Glavas Rho to your father!’

  ‘Mouse, do not condemn me.’ Ivrian was sobbing. ‘I know that my life has been nothing but fear. Ever since I was a child my father has tried to force me to believe that cruelty and hate are the laws of the universe. He has tortured and tormented me. There was no one to whom I could turn, until I found Glavas Rho and learned that the universe has laws of sympathy and love that shape even death and the seeming hates. But now Glavas Rho is dead and I am more frightened and alone than ever. I need your help, Mouse. You studied under Glavas Rho. You know his teachings. Come and help me.’

  His laughter mocked her. ‘Come out and be betrayed? Be whipped again while you look on? Listen to your sweet lying voice, while your father’s huntsmen creep closer? No, I have other plans.’

  ‘Plans?’ she questioned. Her voice was apprehensive. ‘Mouse, your life is in danger so long as you lurk here. My father’s men are sworn to slay you on sight. I would die, I tell you, if they caught you. Don’t delay, get away. Only tell me first that you do not hate me.’ And she moved toward him.

  Again his laughter mocked her.

  ‘You are beneath my hate,’ came the stinging words. ‘I feel only contempt for your cowardly weakness. Glavas Rho talked too much of love. There are laws of hate in the universe, shaping even its loves, and it is time I made them work for me. Come no closer! I do not intend to betray my plans to you, or my new hidey holes. But this much I will tell you, and listen well. In seven days your father’s torment begins.’

  ‘My father’s torments—? Mouse, Mouse, listen to me. I want to question you about more than Glavas Rho’s teachings. I want to question you about Glavas Rho. My father hinted to me that he knew my mother, that he was perchance my very father.’