by Fritz Leiber
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.
Finally 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 longsword 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 og 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-abeds 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 highstepping and ebuliient Rimelanders. There were the quarteastaves, 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 Gailows Hill.
“Why, with slings,’ he told Cif. “They're as good as bows and a lot less trouhle to carry. Like this one,” and he showed her the leather sling hanging from his belt. “See that old gihbet 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, spr
aying 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 head.
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 hegan to rise. Cif wore her russets in the shape ofa 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 hefore she drew away, smiling at him troubledly.
“Gray Mouser,” she said softly, “I am attracted to you, but I have told you how you resemhle 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 wiih 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 Joubted she would he inclined to allow him a god's liberties to that degree (granted he desired such), no matter how Freat 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?”
Cif turned at that, and therr true enough were Rill and Hilsa hurrying toward them through the heather, with Mother Grum plodding along behind, dark figure to their colorful ones. And although it was bright day three hours and more, Rill carried a lit torch. It was hard to see the flame in the sunlight. but they could mark by the way its shimmer made the heather waver beyond. And as the two harlots drew closer, it was evident that their faces were brimming with excitement and a story to tell, which was poured forth on their arrival and on the Mouser asking drily: “Why are you trying to light up the day, Rill?”
“The god spoke to us but now, most clearly from the Flame Den fire,” she began, “saying, ‘Darkfire, Darkfire, take me to Darkfire. Follow the flame—"’
Hilsa broke in. “'—go as it bends,’ the god said cracklingly, ‘turn as it wends, all in my name.’ “ Rill took it up again, “So I lit a fresh torch from the Flame Den blaze for him to travel in, and we carefully marked the flame and followed as it leaned, and it has led us to you!”
“And look,” Hilsa broke in as Mother Grum came up,"now the flame would have us go to the mountain. It points toward her!” And she waved with her other hand north toward the icefall and the silent black scoriac peak beyond with its smoke-plume blowing west.
Cif and the Mouser dutifully looked at the torch's ghostly flame, narrowing their eyes. After a bit, “The flame does lean over,” the Mouser said, “but I think that's just because it's burning unevenly. Something in the grain of the wood or its oils and resins—”
No, indubitably it motions us toward Darkfire,” Cif cried excitedly. “Lead on, Rill,” and the women all turned sharply north. making for the glacier.
“But ladies, we have hardly time for a trip upmountain,” the Mouser called after protestingly, “what with preparations to be made for the Isle's defense and tomorrow's sailing against the Mingols.”
“The god has commanded,” Cif told him overshoulder. “He knows best.”
Mother Grum said in her growly voice, “I doubt not he intends us to make a closer journey than mountaintop. Roundabout is nearer than straight, I ween.”
And with that mystifying remark the women went on, and the Mouser shrugged and perforce followed after, thinking what fools these women were to be scurrying afer a burning bush or branch as if it were the very god, even if the flame did bend most puzzlingly. (And he had heard fire speak, night before last.) Well, at any rate, he wasn't really needed for today's repairs on Flotsam; Pshawri could boss the crew as well as he, or at least well enough. Best keep an eye on Cif while this odd fit was on her and see she — or her three strangely sorted god-servants — came to no harm.
Such a sweet, strong, sensible, ravishing woman, Cif, when not godstruck. Lord, what troublesome, demanding and captious employers gods were, never a-quiet. (It was safe to think such thoughts, he told himself, gods couldn't read your thoughts — everyone had their privacy — though they could overhear your slightest word spoken in undertone — and doubtless make deductions from your starts and grimaces.)
Up from the depths of his skull came the wearisome compulsive chant, “Mingols to their deaths must go,” and he was almost gaateful to the malicious little jingle for occupying his mind troubled by the vagaries of gods and women.
The air grew chilly and soon they were at the icefall and in front of it a dead scrubby tree and a mounded upthrust of dark purplish rock, almost black, and in its midst a still blacker opening wide and tall as a door.
Cif said, “This was not here last year,” and Mother Grum growled, “The glacier, receding, has uncovered it,” and Rill cried, “The flame leans toward the cave!” and Cif said, “Go we down,” and Hilsa quavered, “It's dark,” and Mother Grum rumbled, “Have no fear. Dark is sometimes best light, and down best way go up.”
The Mouser wasted no time on words, but broke three branches from the dead tree (Loki-torch might not last forever) and shouldering them, followed swiftly after the women into the rock.
* * *
Fafhrd doggedly climbed the last, seemingly endless slope of icy stone below Mount Hellglow's snowline. Orange light from the sun near setting beat on his back without warmth, and bathed the mountainside and the dark peak above with its wispy smoke blowing east. The rock was tough as diamond with frequent hand-holds — made for climbing — but he was weary and beginning to condemn himself for having abandoned his men in peril (it amounted to that) to come on a wild romantical goose-chase.
Wind blew from the west, crosswise to his climb.
This was what came of taking a girl on a dangerous expedition and listening to women — or one woman, rather. Afreyt had been so sure of herself, so queenly-commanding — that he'd gone along with her against his better judgment. Why, he was chasing after Mara now mostly for fear of what Afreyt would think of him if aught befell the girl. Oh, he knew all right how he'd justified himself this morning in giving himself this job rather than sending a couple of his men. He'd jumped to the conclusion it was Prince Faroomfar had kidnapped Mara and he'd had the hope (in view of what Afreyt and Cif had told about heing rescued from Khahkht's wizardry by flying mountain-princesses) that Princess Hirriwi, his beloved of one glorious night long gone, would come skimming along sightlessly on her invisible fish-of-air to offer him her aid against her hated brother.
That was another trouh
le with women, they were never there when you wanted or really needed them. They helped each other, all right, but they expected men to do all sorts of impossible feats of derring-do to prove themselves worthy of the great gift of their love (and what was that when you got down to it? — a fleeting clench-and-wriggle in the dark, illuminated only by the mute, incomprehensible perfection of a dainty breast, that left you bewiidered and sad).
The way grew steeper, the light redder, and his muscles smarted. The way it was going. darkness would catch him on the rock-face, and then for two hours at least the mountain would hide the rising moon.
Was it solely on Afreyt's account that he was seeking Mara? Wasn't it also because she had the same name as his first young sweetheart whom he'd ahandoned with his unborn child when he'd left Cloud Corner as a youth to go off with yet another woman, whom he'd in turn abandoned — or led unwittingly to her death, really the same thing? Wasn't he seeking to appease that earlier Mara by rescuing this child one? That was yet another trouble with women, or at least the women you loved or had loved once — they kept on making you feel guilty, even beyond their deaths. Whether you loved them or not, you were invisibly chained to every woman who'd ever kindled you.
And was even that the deepest truth about himself going after the girl Mara? — he askcd himselt forcing his analysis into the next devious cranny, even as he forced his numbing hands to seek out the next holds on the still steepening face in the dirty red light.
Didn't he really quicken at thought of her. Just as god Odin did in his senile lubricity? Wasn't he and no other chasing after Faroomfar because he thought of the prince as a lecherous rival for this delicate tidbit of girl flesh?
For that matter, wasn't it Afreyt's girlishness — her slenderness dcspite her height, her small and promising breasts, her tales of childhood make-believe maraudings with Cif, her violet-eyed romancing, her madcap bravado — that had attractcd him even in far-off Lankhmar? That and her Rime Isle silver had chained him, and set him on the whole unsuitable course of becoming a responsible captain of men — he who had been all his days a lone wolf with lone-leopard comrade Mouser. Now he'd revertcd back to it, abandoning his men. (Gods grant Skor keep his head and that some at least of his disciplines and preachments of prudence had taken effect!) But oh, this lifelong servitude to girls whimsical, innocent. calculating, icicle-eyed and hearted, fleeting, tripping little demons! White, slim-necked, sharp-toothed, restlessly bobbing weasels with the soulful eyes of lemurs!
