Swords Against Wizardry

by Fritz Leiber

  Brilla was admirably placed to observe all that occurred. To his right, projecting from the wall of the courtyard, was the balcony from which Hasjarl and Gwaay would watch the consuming of their father’s body; to his left, likewise projecting, was the platform from which Flindach would direct the rituals. Brilla sat almost next to the door whence the prepared and purified body of Quarmal would be borne for its final fiery cleansing. He wiped the sweat from his flabby jowls with the hem of his under tunic and wondered how much longer it would be before things started. The sun could not be far from the top of the wall now, and with its first beams the rites began.

  Even as he wondered there came the tremendous, muffled vibration of the huge gong. There was a craning of necks and a rustling as many bodies shifted; then silence. On the left balcony the figure of Flindach appeared.

  Flindach was cowled with the Cowl of Death and his garments were of heavy woven brocades, somber and dull. At his waist glittered the circular fan-bladed Golden Symbol of Power, which while the Chair of Quarmall was vacant, Flindach as High Steward must keep inviolate.

  He lifted his arms toward the place where the sun would in a moment appear and intoned the Hymn of Greeting; even as he chanted, the first tawny rays struck into the eyes of those across the courtyard. Again that muffled vibration, which shook the very bones of those closest to it, and opposite Flindach, on the other balcony, appeared Gwaay and Hasjarl. Both were garbed alike but for their diadems and scepters. Hasjarl wore a sapphire-jeweled silver band on his forehead, and in his hand was the scepter of the Upper Levels, crested with a clenched fist; Gwaay wore a diadem inlaid with rubies, and in his hand was his scepter surmounted by a worm, dagger-transfixed. Otherwise the twain were dressed identically in ceremonial robes of darkest red, belted with broad leather girdles of black; they wore no weapons nor were any other ornaments permissible.

  As they seated themselves upon the high stools provided, Flindach turned toward the gate nearest Brilla and began to chant. His sonorous voice was answered by a hidden chorus and reechoed by certain of the bands in the courtyard. For the third time the monstrous gong was sounded, and as the last echoes faded the body of Quarmal, litter-borne, appeared. It was carried by the six Lankhmar slavegirls and followed by the Mingols; this small band was all that remained of the many who had slept in the bed of Quarmal.

  But where, Brilla asked himself with a heart-bounding start, was Kewissa the Ilthmarix, the old Lord’s favorite? Brilla had ordered the marshaling of the girls himself. She could not—

  Slowly through a lane of prostrate bodies the litter progressed toward the pyre. The carcass of Quarmal was propped in a sitting posture, and it swayed in a manner horribly suggestive of life as the slavewomen staggered under their unaccustomed load. He was garbed in robes of purple silk, and his brow bore the golden bands of Quarmall’s Lord.

  Those lean hands, once so active in the practice of necromancy and incantations, were folded stiffly over the Grammarie which had been his bible during life. On his wrist, hooded and chained, was a great gyrfalcon, and at the feet of its dead master lay his favorite coursing leopard, quiet in the quietness of death. Even as was the falcon hooded, so with waxlike lids were the once awesome eyes of Quarmal covered; those eyes which had seen so much of death were now forever dead.

  Although Brilla’s mind was still agitated about Kewissa, he spoke a word of encouragement to the other girls as they passed, and one of them flung him a wistful smile; they all knew it was an honor to accompany their master into the future, but none of them desired it particularly; however there was little they could do about it except follow directions. Brilla felt sorry for them all; they were so young, had such luscious bodies and were capable of giving so much pleasure to a man, for he had trained them well. But custom must be fulfilled. Yet how then had Kewissa—? Brilla shut off that speculation.

  The litter moved on up the ramp. The chanting grew in volume and tempo as the top of the pyre was reached, and the rays of the sun, now shining full onto the dead countenance of Quarmal, as the litter turned toward it, reflected from the bright hair and white skin of the Lankhmar slavegirls, who had with their companions thrown themselves at the feet of Quarmal.Suddenly Flindach dropped his arms and there was silence, a complete and total silence startling in its contrast to the measured chant and clashing gongs.

  Gwaay and Hasjarl sat motionless, staring intently at the figure that had once been the Lord of Quarmall.

  Flindach again raised his arms and from the gate opposite to that from whence had come the body of Quarmal, there leaped eight men. Each bore a flambeau and was naked but for a purple cowl which obscured his face. To the accompaniment of harsh gong notes they ran swiftly to the pyre, two on each side and, thrusting their torches into the prepared wood, cast themselves over the flames they created and clambering up the pyramid embraced the slavegirls wantonly.

  Almost at once the flames ate into the resinous and oil-impregnated wood. For a moment through the thick smoke the interlocking writhing forms of the slaves could be perceived, and the lean figure of dead Quarmal staring through closed lids directly into the face of the sun. Then, incensed by the heat and acrid fumes, the great falcon screamed in vicious anger and wing-flapping rose from the wrist of its master. The chains held fast; but all could see the arm of Quarmal lifted high in a gesture of sublime dismissal before the smoke obscured. The chanting reached crescendo and abruptly ended as Flindach gave the sign that the rites were finished.

  As the eager flames swiftly consumed the pyre and the burden it bore, Hasjarl broke the silence which custom had enjoined. He turned toward Gwaay and fingering the knuckly knob of his scepter and with an evil grin he spoke.

  “Ha! Gwaay, it would have been a merry thing to have seen you leching in the flames. Almost as merry as to see our sire gesticulating after death. Go quickly, Brother! There’s yet a chance to immolate yourself and so win fame and immortality.” And he giggled, slobbering.

  Gwaay had just made an unapparent sign to a page nearby, and the lad was hurrying away. The young Lord of the Lower Levels was in no manner amused by his brother’s ill-timed jesting, but with a smile and shrug he replied sarcastically, “I choose to seek death in less painful paths. Yet the idea is a good one; I’ll treasure it.” Then suddenly in a deeper voice: “It had been better that we were both stillborn than to fritter our lives away in futile hatreds. I’ll overlook your dream-dust and your poppy hurricanes, and e’en your noisome sorceries, and make a pact with you, O Hasjarl! By the somber gods who rule under Quarmall’s Hill and by the Worm which is my sign I swear that from my hand your life is sacrosanct; with neither spells nor steel nor venoms will I slay thee!” Gwaay rose to his feet as he finished and looked directly at Hasjarl.

  Taken unaware, Hasjarl for a second sat in silence; a puzzled expression crossed his face; then a sneer distorted his thin lips and he spat at Gwaay:

  “So! You fear me more even than I thought. Aye! And rightly so! Yet the blood of yon old cinder runs in both our bodies, and there is a tender spot within me for my brother. Yes, I’ll pact with thee, Gwaay! By the Elder Ones who swim in lightless deeps and by the Fist that is my token, I’ll swear your life is sacrosanct—until I crush it out!” And with a final evil titter Hasjarl, like a malformed stoat, slid from stool and out of sight.

  Gwaay stood quietly listening, gazing at the space where Hasjarl had sat; then, sure his brother was well gone, he slapped his thighs mightily and, convulsed with silent laughter, gasped to no one in particular, “Even the wiliest hares are caught in simple snares,” and still smiling he turned to watch the dancing flames.

  Slowly the variegated groups were herded into the passageways whence they had come and the courtyard was cleared once again, except for those slaves and priests whose duties kept them there.

  Gwaay remained watching for a time, then he too slipped off the balcony into the inner rooms. And a faint smile yet clung to his mouth corners as if some jest were lingering in his mind pleasantly.


  “…And by the blood of that one whom it is death to look upon…”

  So sonorously invoked the Mouser, as with eyes closed and arms outstretched he cast the rune given him by Sheelba of the Eyeless Face which would destroy all sorcerers of less than First Rank of an undetermined distance around the casting point—surely for a few miles, one might hope, so smiting Hasjarl’s warlocks to dust.

  Whether his Great Spell worked or not—and in his inmost heart he strongly mistrusted that it would—the Mouser was very pleased with the performance he was giving. He doubted Sheelba himself could have done better. What magnificent deep chest tones—even Fafhrd had never heard him declaim so.

  He wished he could open his eyes for just a moment to note the effect his performance was having on Gwaay’s magicians—they’d be staring open-mouthed for all their supercilious boasting, he was sure—but on this point Sheelba’s instructions had been adamant: eyes tightly shut while the last sentences of the rune were being recited and the great forbidden words spoken; even the tiniest blink would nullify the Great Spell. Evidently magicians were supposed to be without vanity or curiosity—what a bore!

  Of a sudden in the dark of his head, he felt contact with another and a larger darkness, a malefic and puissant darkness, of which light itself is only the absence. He shivered. His hair stirred. Cold sweat prickled his face. He almost stuttered midway through the word “slewerisophnak.” But concentrating his will, he finished without flaw.

  When the last echoing notes of his voice had ceased to rebound between the domed ceiling and floor, the Mouser slit open one eye and glanced surreptitiously around him.

  One glance and the other eye flew open to fullness. He was too surprised to speak.

  And whom he would have spoken to, had he not been too surprised, was also a question.

  The long table at the foot of which he stood was empty of occupants. Where but moments before had sat eleven of the very greatest magicians of Quarmall—sorcerers of the First Rank, each had sworn on his black Grammarie—was only space.

  The Mouser called softly. It was possible that these provincial fellows had been frightened at the majesty of his dark Lankhmarian delivery and had crawled under the table.

  But there was no answer.

  He spoke louder. Only the ceaseless groan of the fans could be sensed, though hardly more noticeable after four days hearing them than the coursing of his blood. With a shrug the Mouser relaxed into his chair. He murmured to himself, “If those slick-faced old fools run off, what next? Suppose all Gwaay’s henchmen flee?”

  As he began to plan out in his mind what strategy of airy nothing to adopt if that should come to pass, he glanced somberly at the wide high-backed chair nearest his place, where had sat the boldest-seeming of Gwaay’s arch-magi. There was only a loosely crumpled white loincloth—but in it was what gave the Mouser pause. A small pile of flocculent gray dust was all.

  The Mouser whistled softly between his teeth and raised himself the better to see the rest of the seats. On each of them was the same: a clean loincloth, somewhat crumpled as if it had been worn for a little while, and within the cloth that small heap of grayish powder.

  At the other end of the long table, one of the black counters, which had been standing on its edge, slowly rolled off the board of the thought-game and struck the floor with a tiny tick. It sounded to the Mouser rather like the last noise in the world.

  Very quietly he stood up and silently walked in his ratskin moccasins to the nearest archway, across which he had drawn thick curtains for the Great Spell. He was wondering just what the range of the spell had been, where it had stopped, if it had stopped at all. Suppose, for instance, that Sheelba had underestimated its power and it disintegrated not only sorcerers, but…

  He paused in front of the curtain and gave one last over-the-shoulder glance. Then he shrugged, adjusted his swordbelt, and, grinning far more bravely than he felt, said to no one in particular, “But they assured me that they were the very greatest sorcerers.”

  As he reached toward the curtain, heavy with embroidery, it wavered and shook. He froze, his heart leaping wildly. Then the curtains parted a little and there was thrust in the saucy face of Ivivis, wide-eyed with excited curiosity.

  “Did your Great Spell work, Mouser?” she asked him breathlessly.

  He let out his own breath in a sigh of relief. “You survived it, at all events,” he said and reaching out pulled her against him. Her slim body pressing his felt very good. True, the presence of almost any living being would have been welcome to the Mouser at this moment, but that it should be Ivivis was a bonus he could not help but appreciate.

  “Dearest,” he said sincerely, “I was feeling that I was perchance the last man on Earth. But now—”

  “And acting as if I were the last girl, lost a year,” she retorted tartly. “This is neither the place nor the time for amorous consolations and intimate pleasantries,” she continued, half mistaking his motives and pushing back from him.

  “Did you slay Hasjarl’s wizards?” she demanded, gazing up with some awe into his eyes.

  “I slew some sorcerers,” the Mouser admitted judiciously. “Just how many is a moot question.”

  “Where are Gwaay’s?” she asked, looking past the Mouser at the empty chairs. “Did he take them all with him?”

  “Isn’t Gwaay back from his father’s funeral yet?” the Mouser countered, evading her question, but as she continued to look into his eyes, he added lightly, “His sorcerers are in some congenial spot—I hope.”

  Ivivis looked at him queerly, pushed past, hurried to the long table, and gazed up and down the chair seats.

  “Oh, Mouser!” she said reprovingly, but there was real awe in the gaze she shot him.

  He shrugged. “They swore to me they were of First Rank,” he defended himself.

  “Not even a fingerbone or skullshard left,” Ivivis said solemnly, peering closely at the nearest tiny gray dust pile and shaking her head.

  “Not even a gallstone,” the Mouser echoed harshly. “My rune was dire.”

  “Not even a tooth,” Ivivis reechoed, rubbing curiously if somewhat callously through the pile. “Nothing to send their mothers.”

  “Their mothers can have their diapers to fold away with their baby ones,” the Mouser said irascibly though somewhat uncomfortably. “Oh, Ivivis, sorcerers don’t have mothers!”

  “But what happens to our Lord Gwaay now that his protectors are gone?” Ivivis demanded more practically. “You saw how Hasjarl’s sendings struck him last night when they but dozed. And if anything happens to Gwaay, then what happens to us?”

  Again the Mouser shrugged. “If my rune reached Hasjarl’s twenty-four wizards and blasted them too, then no harm’s been done—except to sorcerers, and they all take their chances, sign their death warrants when they speak their first spells—’tis a dangerous trade.

  “In fact,” he went on with argumentative enthusiasm, “we’ve gained. Twenty-four enemies slain at cost of but a dozen—no, eleven total casualties on our side—why, that’s a bargain any warlord would jump at! Then with the sorcerers all out of the way—except for the Brothers themselves, and Flindach—that warty blotchy one is someone to be reckoned with!—I’ll meet and slay this champion of Hasjarl’s and we’ll carry all before us. And if…”

  His voice trailed off. It had occurred to him to wonder why he himself hadn’t been blasted by his own spell. He had never suspected, until now, that he might be a sorcerer of the First Rank—having despite a youthful training in country-sorceries only dabbled in magic since. Perhaps some metaphysical trick or logical fallacy was involved…. If a sorcerer casts a rune that midway of the casting blasts all sorcerers, provided the casting be finished, then does he blast himself or…? Or perhaps indeed, the Mouser began to think boastfully, he was unknown to himself a magus of the First Rank, or even higher, or—

  In the silence of his thinking, he and Ivivis became aware of approaching footsteps, first a m
ultitudinous patter but swiftly a tumult. The gray-clad man and the slavegirl had hardly time to exchange a questioning apprehensive look when there burst through the draperies, tearing them down, eight or nine of Gwaay’s chiefest henchmen, their faces death-pale, their eyes staring like madmen’s. They raced across the chamber and out the opposite archway almost before the Mouser could recover from where he’d dodged out of their way.

  But that was not the end of the footsteps. There was a last pair coming down the black corridor and at a strange unequal gallop, like a cripple sprinting, and with a squushy slap at each tread. The Mouser crossed quickly to Ivivis and put an arm around her. He did not want to be standing alone at this moment, either.

  Ivivis said, “If your Great Spell missed Hasjarl’s sorcerers, and their disease-spells struck through to Gwaay, now undefended…”

  Her whisper trailed off fearfully as a monstrous figure clad in dark scarlet robes lurched by swift convulsive stages into view. At first the Mouser thought it must be Hasjarl of the Mismated Arms, from what he’d heard of that one. Then he saw that its neck was collared by gray fungus, its right cheek crimson, its left black, its eyes dripping green ichor and its nose spattering clear drops. As the loathy creature took a last great stride into the chamber, its left leg went boneless like a pillar of jelly and its right leg, striking down stiffly though with a heel splash, broke in midshin and the jagged bones thrust through the flesh. Its yellow-crusted, red-cracked scurfy hands snatched futilely at the air for support, and its right arm brushing its head carried away half the hair on that side.

  Ivivis began to mewl and yelp faintly with horror and she clung to the Mouser, who himself felt as if a nightmare were lifting its hooves to trample him.