by Fritz Leiber
Despite their many dissimilarities, it was obvious that the two men were comrades, that they were united by a bond of subtle mutual understanding, woven of melancholy, humor, and many another strand. The smaller rode a dappled gray mare; the larger, a chestnut gelding.
They were nearing a point where the narrow road came to the end of a rise, made a slight turn and wound down into the next valley. Green walls of leaves pressed in on either side. The heat was considerable, but not oppressive. It brought to mind thoughts of satyrs and centaurs dozing in hidden glades.
Then the gray mare, slightly in the lead, whinnied. The smaller man tightened his hold on the reins, his black eyes darting quick, alert glances, first to one side of the road and then to the other. There was a faint scraping sound, as of wood on wood.
Without warning the two men ducked down, clinging to the side harness of their horses. Simultaneously came the musical twang of bowstrings, like the prelude of some forest concert, and several arrows buzzed angrily through the spaces that had just been vacated. Then the mare and the gelding were around the turn and galloping like the wind, their hooves striking up great puffs of dust.
From behind came excited shouts and answers as the pursuit got underway. There seemed to have been fully seven or eight men in the ambuscade—squat, sturdy rogues wearing chain-mail shirts and steel caps. Before the mare and the gelding had gone a stone’s throw down the road, they were out and after, a black horse in the lead, a black-bearded rider second.
But those pursued were not wasting time. The larger man rose to a stand in his stirrups, whipping the yew bow from its case. With his left hand he bent it against the stirrup, with his right he drew the upper loop of the string into place. Then his left hand slipped down the bow to the grip and his right reached smoothly back over his shoulder for an arrow. Still guiding his horse with his knees, he rose even higher and turned in his saddle and sent an eagle-feathered shaft whirring. Meanwhile his comrade had placed a small leaden ball in his sling, whirled it twice about his head, so that it hummed stridently, and loosed his cast.
Arrow and missile sped and struck together. The one pierced the shoulder of the leading horseman and the other smote the second on his steel cap and tumbled him from his saddle. The pursuit halted abruptly in a tangle of plunging and rearing horses. The men who had caused this confusion pulled up at the next bend in the road and turned back to watch.
‘By the Hedgehog,’ said the smaller, grinning wickedly, ‘but they will think twice before they play at ambuscades again!’
‘Blundering fools,’ said the larger. ‘Haven’t they even learned to shoot from their saddles? I tell you, Gray Mouser, it takes a barbarian to fight his horse properly.’
‘Except for myself and a few other people,’ replied the one who bore the feline nickname of Gray Mouser. ‘But look, Fafhrd, the rogues retreat bearing their wounded, and one gallops far ahead. Tcha, but I dinted black beard’s pate for him. He hangs over his nag like a bag of meal. If he’d have known who we were, he wouldn’t have been so hot on the chase.’
There was some truth to this last boast. The names of the Gray Mouser and the Northerner Fafhrd were not unknown in the lands around Lankhmar—and in proud Lankhmar, too. Their taste for strange adventure, their mysterious comings and goings, and their odd sense of humor were matters that puzzled almost all men alike.
Abruptly Fafhrd unstrung his bow and turned forward in his saddle.
‘This should be the very valley we are seeking,’ he said. ‘See, there are the two hills, each with two close-set humps, of which the document speaks. Let’s have another look at it, to test my guess.’
The Gray Mouser reached into his capacious leather pouch and withdrew a page of thick vellum, ancient and curiously greenish. Three edges were frayed and worn; the fourth showed a clean and recent cut. It was inscribed with the intricate hieroglyphs of Lankhmarian writing, done in the black ink of the squid. But it was not to these that the Mouser turned his attention, but to several faint lines of diminutive red script, written into the margin. These he read.
‘Let kings stack their treasure houses ceiling-high, and merchants burst their vaults with hoarded coin, and fools envy them. I have a treasure that outvalues theirs. A diamond as big as a man’s skull. Twelve rubies each as big as the skull of a cat. Seventeen emeralds each as big as the skull of a mole. And certain rods of crystal and bars of orichalcum. Let Overlords swagger jewel-bedecked and queens load themselves with gems, and fools adore them. I have a treasure that will outlast theirs. A treasure house have I builded for it in the far southern forest, where the two hills hump double, like sleeping camels, a day’s ride beyond the village of Soreev.
‘A great treasure house with a high tower, fit for a king’s dwelling—yet no king may dwell there. Immediately below the keystone of the chief dome my treasure lies hid, eternal as the glittering stars. It will outlast me and my name, I, Urgaan of Angarngi. It is my hold on the future. Let fools seek it. They shall win it not. For although my treasure house be empty as air, no deadly creature in rocky lair, no sentinel outside anywhere, no pitfall, poison, trap, or snare, above and below the whole place bare, of demon or devil not a hair, no serpent lethal-fanged yet fair, no skull with mortal eye a-glare, yet have I left a guardian there. Let the wise read this riddle and forbear.’
‘The man’s mind runs to skulls,’ muttered the Mouser. ‘He must have been a gravedigger or a necromancer.’
‘Or an architect,’ observed Fafhrd thoughtfully, ‘in those past days when graven images of the skulls of men and animals served to bedeck temples.’
‘Perhaps,’ agreed the Mouser. ‘Surely the writing and ink are old enough. They date at least as far back as the Century of the Wars with the East—five long lifespans.’
The Mouser was an accomplished forger, both of handwriting and of objects of art. He knew what he was talking about.
Satisfied that they were near the goal of their quest, the two comrades gazed through a break in the foliage down into the valley. It was shaped like the inside of a pod—shallow, long, and narrow. They were viewing it from one of the narrow ends. The two peculiarly humped hills formed the long sides. The whole of the valley was green with maple and oak, save for a small gap toward the middle. That, thought the Mouser, might mark a peasant’s dwelling and the cleared space around it.
Beyond the gap he could make out something dark and squarish rising a little above the treetops. He called his companion’s attention to it, but they could not decide whether it was indeed a tower such as the document mentioned, or just a peculiar shadow, or perhaps even the dead, limbless trunk of a gigantic oak. It was too far away.
‘Almost sufficient time has passed,’ said Fafhrd, after a pause, ‘for one of those rogues to have sneaked up through the forest for another shot at us. Evening draws near.’
They spoke to their horses and moved on slowly. They tried to keep their eyes fixed on the thing that looked like a tower, but since they were descending, it almost immediately dropped out of sight below the treetops. There would be no further chance of seeing it until they were quite close at hand.
The Mouser felt a subdued excitement running through his flesh. Soon they would discover if there was a treasure to be had or not. A diamond as big as a man’s skull…rubies…emeralds…He found an almost nostalgic delight in prolonging and savoring to the full this last, leisurely stage of their quest. The recent ambuscade served as a necessary spice.
He thought of how he had slit the interesting-looking vellum page from the ancient book on architecture that reposed in the library of the rapacious and overbearing Lord Rannarsh. Of how, half in jest, he had sought out and interrogated several peddlers from the South. Of how he had found one who had recently passed through a village named Soreev. Of how that one had told him of a stone structure in the forest south of Soreev, called by the peasants the House of Angarngi and reputed to be long deserted. The peddler had seen a high tower rising above the trees. The Mouser recalled
the man’s wizened, cunning face and chuckled. And that brought to mind the greedy, sallow face of Lord Rannarsh, and a new thought occurred to him.
‘Fafhrd,’ he said, ‘those rogues we just now put to flight—what did you take them for?’
The Northerner grunted humorous contempt.
‘Run-of-the-manger ruffians. Waylayers of fat merchants. Pasture bravos. Bumpkin bandits!’
‘Still, they were all well armed, and armed alike—as if they were in some rich man’s service. And that one who rode far ahead. Mightn’t he have been hastening to report failure to some master?’
‘What is your thought?’
The Mouser did not reply for some moments.
‘I was thinking,’ he said, ‘that Lord Rannarsh is a rich man and a greedy one, who slavers at the thought of jewels. And I was wondering if he ever read those faint lines of red lettering and made a copy of them, and if my theft of the original sharpened his interest.’
The Northerner shook his head.
‘I doubt it. You are oversubtle. But if he did, and if he seeks to rival us in this treasure quest, he’d best watch each step twice—and choose servitors who can fight on horseback.’
They were moving so slowly that the hooves of the mare and the gelding hardly stirred up the dust. They had no fear of danger from the rear. A well-laid ambuscade might surprise them, but not a man or horse in motion. The narrow road wound along in a purposeless fashion. Leaves brushed their faces, and occasionally they had to swing their bodies out of the way of encroaching branches. The ripe scent of the late summer forest was intensified now that they were below the rim of the valley. Mingled with it were whiffs of wild berries and aromatic shrubs. Shadows imperceptibly lengthened.
‘Nine chances out of ten,’ murmured the Mouser dreamily, ‘the treasure house of Urgaan of Angarngi was looted some hundred years ago, by men whose bodies are already dust.’
‘It may be so,’ agreed Fafhrd. ‘Unlike men, rubies and emeralds do not rest quietly in their graves.’
This possibility, which they had discussed several times before, did not disturb them now, or make them impatient. Rather did it impart to their quest the pleasant melancholy of a lost hope. They drank in the rich air and let their horses munch random mouthfuls of leaves. A jay called shrilly from overhead and off in the forest a catbird was chattering, their sharp voices breaking in on the low buzzing and droning of the insects. Night was drawing near. The almost-horizontal rays of the sun gilded the treetops. Then Fafhrd’s sharp ears caught the hollow lowing of a cow.
A few more turns brought them into the clearing they had spied. In line with their surmise, it proved to contain a peasant’s cottage—a neat little low-eaved house of weathered wood, situated in the midst of an acre of grain. To one side was a bean patch; to the other, a woodpile which almost dwarfed the house. In front of the cottage stood a wiry old man, his skin as brown as his homespun tunic. He had evidently just heard the horses and turned around to look.
‘Ho, father,’ called the Mouser, ‘it’s a good day to be abroad in, and a good home you have here.’
The peasant considered these statements and then nodded his head in agreement.
‘We are two weary travelers,’ continued the Mouser.
Again the peasant nodded gravely.
‘In return for two silver coins will you give us lodging for the night?’
The peasant rubbed his chin and then held up three fingers.
‘Very well, you shall have three silver coins,’ said the Mouser, slipping from his horse. Fafhrd followed suit.
Only after giving the old man a coin to seal the bargain did the Mouser question casually, ‘Is there not an old, deserted place near your dwelling called the House of Angarngi?’
The peasant nodded.
‘What’s it like?’
The peasant shrugged his shoulders.
‘Don’t you know?’
The peasant shook his head.
‘But haven’t you ever seen the place?’ The Mouser’s voice carried a note of amazement he did not bother to conceal.
He was answered by another headshake.
‘But, father, it’s only a few minutes’ walk from your dwelling, isn’t it?’
The peasant nodded tranquilly, as if the whole business were no matter for surprise.
A muscular young man, who had come from behind the cottage to take their horses, offered a suggestion.
‘You can see tower from other side the house. I can point her out.’
At this the old man proved he was not completely speechless by saying in a dry, expressionless voice: ‘Go ahead. Look at her all you want.’
And he stepped into the cottage. Fafhrd and the Mouser caught a glimpse of a child peering around the door, an old woman stirring a pot, and someone hunched in a big chair before a tiny fire.
The upper part of the tower proved to be barely visible through a break in the trees. The last rays of the sun touched it with deep red. It looked about four or five bowshots distant. And then, even as they watched, the sun dipped under and it became a featureless square of black stone.
‘She’s an old place,’ explained the young man vaguely. ‘I been all around her. Father, he’s just never bothered to look.’
‘You’ve been inside?’ questioned the Mouser.
The young man scratched his head.
‘No. She’s just an old place. No good for anything.’
‘There’ll be a fairly long twilight,’ said Fafhrd, his wide green eyes drawn to the tower as if by a lodestone. ‘Long enough for us to have a closer look.’
‘I’d show the way,’ said the young man, ‘save I got water to fetch.’
‘No matter,’ replied Fafhrd. ‘When’s supper?’
‘When the first stars show.’
They left him holding their horses and walked straight into the woods. Immediately it became much darker, as if twilight were almost over, rather than just begun. The vegetation proved to be somewhat thicker than they had anticipated. There were vines and thorns to be avoided. Irregular, pale patches of sky appeared and disappeared overhead.
The Mouser let Fafhrd lead the way. His mind was occupied with a queer sort of reverie about the peasants. It tickled his fancy to think how they had stolidly lived their toilsome lives, generation after generation, only a few steps from what might be one of the greatest treasure-troves in the world. It seemed incredible. How could people sleep so near jewels and not dream of them? But probably they never dreamed.
So the Gray Mouser was sharply aware of few things during the journey through the woods, save that Fafhrd seemed to be taking a long time—which was strange, since the barbarian was an accomplished woodsman.
Finally a deeper and more solid shadow loomed up through the trees, and in a moment they were standing in the margin of a small, boulder-studded clearing, most of which was occupied by the bulky structure they sought. Abruptly, even before his eyes took in the details of the place, the Mouser’s mind was filled with a hundred petty perturbations. Weren’t they making a mistake in leaving their horses with those strange peasants? And mightn’t those rogues have followed them to the cottage? And wasn’t this the Day of the Toad, an unlucky day for entering deserted houses? And shouldn’t they have a short spear along, in case they met a leopard? And wasn’t that a whippoorwill he heard crying on his left hand, an augury of ill omen?
The treasure house of Urgaan of Angarngi was a peculiar structure. The main feature was a large, shallow dome, resting on walls that formed an octagon. In front, and merging into it, were two lesser domes. Between these gaped a great square doorway. The tower rose asymmetrically from the rear part of the chief dome. The eyes of the Mouser sought hurriedly through the dimming twilight for the cause of the salient peculiarity of the structure, and decided it lay in the utter simplicity. There were no pillars, no outjutting cornices, no friezes, no architectural ornaments of any sort, skull-embellished or otherwise. Save for the doorway and a few tiny windows set in u
nexpected places, the House of Angarngi was a compact mass of uniformly dark gray stones most closely joined.
But now Fafhrd was striding up the short flight of terraced steps that led toward the open door, and the Mouser followed him, although he would have liked to spy around a little longer. With every step he took forward he sensed an odd reluctance growing within him. His earlier mood of pleasant expectancy vanished as suddenly as if he’d stepped into quicksand. It seemed to him that the black doorway yawned like a toothless mouth. And then a little shudder went through him, for he saw the mouth had a tooth—a bit of ghostly white that jutted up from the floor. Fafhrd was reaching down toward the object.
‘I wonder whose skull this may be?’ said the Northerner calmly.
The Mouser regarded the thing, and the scattering of bones and fragments of bone beside it. His feeling of uneasiness was fast growing toward a climax, and he had the unpleasant conviction that, once it did reach a climax, something would happen. What was the answer to Fafhrd’s question? What form of death had struck down that earlier intruder? It was very dark inside the treasure house. Didn’t the manuscript mention something about a guardian? It was hard to think of a flesh-and-blood guardian persisting for three hundred years, but there were things that were immortal or nearly immortal. He could tell that Fafhrd was not in the least affected by any premonitory disquietude, and was quite capable of instituting an immediate search for the treasure. That must be prevented at all costs. He remembered that the Northerner loathed snakes.
‘This cold, damp stone,’ he observed casually. ‘Just the place for scaly, cold-blooded snakes.’
‘Nothing of the sort,’ replied Fafhrd angrily. ‘I’m willing to wager there’s not a single serpent inside. Urgaan’s note said, “No deadly creature in rocky lair”, and to cap that, “no serpent lethal-fanged yet fair”.’
