The First Book of Lankhmar

by Fritz Leiber

  The crew, staring silently now, drew closer together. The ragged procession became a tight knot. Then Lavas Laerk called mockingly, ‘Where are your guards, Simorgya? Where are your fighting men?’ and walked straight up the stone steps. After a moment of uncertainty, the knot broke and the men followed him.

  On the massive threshold Fafhrd involuntarily halted, dumbstruck by realization of the source of the faint yellow light he had earlier noticed in the high windows. For the source was everywhere: ceiling, walls, and slimy floor all glowed with a wavering phosphorescence. Even the carvings glimmered. Mixed awe and repugnance gripped him. But the men pressed around and against him, and carried him forward. Wine and leadership had dulled their sensibilities and as they strode down the long corridor they seemed little aware of the abysmal scene.

  At first some held their weapons ready to meet a possible foray or ambush, but soon they lowered them negligently, and even sucked at the wineskins and jested. A hulking oarsman, whose blond beard was patched with yellow scud from the surf, struck up a chantey and others joined in, until the dank walls roared. Deeper and deeper they penetrated into the cave or castle, along the wide, winding, ooze-carpeted corridor.

  Fafhrd was carried along by a current. When he moved too slowly, the others jostled him and he quickened his pace, but it was all involuntary. Only his eyes responded to his will, turning from side to side, drinking in details with fearful curiosity: the endless series of vague carvings, wherein sea monsters and unwholesome manlike figures and vaguely anthropomorphic giant skates or rays seemed to come alive and stir as the phosphorescence fluctuated; a group of highest windows or openings of some sort, from which dark slippery weeds trailed down; the pools of water here and there; the still-alive, gasping fish which the others trod or kicked aside; the clumps of bearded shells clinging to the corners; the impression of things scuttling out of the way ahead. Louder and louder the thought drummed in his skull: surely the others must realize where they were. Surely they must know the phosphorescence was that of the sea. Surely they must know that this was the retreat of the more secret creatures of the deep. Surely, surely they must know that Simorgya had indeed sunk under the sea and only risen up yesterday—or yester-hour.

  But on they marched after Lavas Laerk, and still sang and shouted and swilled wine in quick gulps, throwing back their heads and lifting up the sacks as they strode. And Fafhrd could not speak. His shoulder muscles were contracted as if the weight of the sea were already pressing them down. His mind was engulfed and oppressed by the ominous presence of sunken Simorgya. Memories of the legends. Thoughts of the black centuries during which sea life had slowly crept and wriggled and swum through the mazes of rooms and corridors until it had a lair in every crack and cranny and Simorgya was one with the mysteries of the ocean. In a deep grotto that opened on the corridor he made out a thick table of stone, with a great stone chair behind it; and though he could not be sure, he thought he distinguished an octopus shape slouched there in a travesty of a human occupant, tentacles coiling the chair, unblinking eyes staring glisteningly.

  Gradually the glare of the smoky torches paled, as the phosphorescence grew stronger. And when the men broke off singing, the sound of the surf was no longer audible.

  Then Lavas Laerk, from around a sharp turn in the corridor, uttered a triumphant cry. The others hastened after, stumbling, lurching, calling out eagerly.

  ‘Oh, Simorgya!’ cried Lavas Laerk, ‘we have found your treasure house!’

  The room in which the corridor ended was square and considerably lower-ceilinged than the corridor. Standing here and there were a number of black, soggy-looking, heavily-bound chests. The stuff underfoot was muckier. There were more pools of water. The phosphorescence was stronger.

  A blond-bearded oarsman leaped ahead as the others hesitated. He wrenched at the cover of the nearest chest. A corner came away in his hands, the wood soft as cheese, the seeming metal a black smeary ooze. He grasped at it again and pulled off most of the top, revealing a layer of dully-gleaming gold and slime-misted gems. Over that jeweled surface a crablike creature scuttled, escaping through a hole in the back.

  With a great, greedy shout, the others rushed at the chests, jerking, gouging, even smiting with their swords at the spongy wood. Two, fighting as to which should break open a chest, fell against it and it went to pieces under them, leaving them struggling in jewels and muck.

  All this while Lavas Laerk stood on the same spot from which he had uttered his first taunting cry. To Fafhrd, who stood forgotten beside him, it seemed that Lavas Laerk was distraught that his quest should come to any end, that Lavas Laerk was desperately searching for something further, something more than jewels and gold to sate his mad willfulness. Then he noted that Lavas Laerk was looking at something intently—a square, slime-filmed, but apparently golden door across the room from the mouth of the corridor; upon it was the carving of some strange, undulant blanket-like sea monster. He heard Lavas Laerk laugh throatily and watched him stride unswervingly toward the door. He saw that Lavas Laerk had something in his hand. With a shock of surprise he recognized it as the ring Lavas Laerk had taken from him. He saw Lavas Laerk shove at the door without budging it. He saw Lavas Laerk fumble with the ring and fit the key part into the golden door and turn it. He saw the door give a little to Lavas Laerk’s next push.

  Then he realized—and the realization came with an impact like a rushing wall of water—that nothing had happened accidentally, that everything from the moment his arrow struck the fish had been intended by someone or something—something that wanted a door unlocked—and he turned and fled down the corridor as if a tidal wave were sucking at his heels.

  The corridor, without torchlight, was pale and shifty as a nightmare. The phosphorescence seemed to crawl as if alive, revealing previously unspied creatures in every niche. Fafhrd stumbled, sprawled at full length, raced on. His fastest bursts of speed seemed slow, as in a bad dream. He tried to look only ahead, but still glimpsed from the corners of his eyes every detail he had seen before: the trailing weeds, the monstrous carvings, the bearded shells, the somberly staring octopus eyes. He noted without surprise that his feet and body glowed wherever the slime had splashed or smeared. He saw a small square of darkness in the omnipresent phosphorescence and sprinted toward it. It grew in size. It was the cavern’s portal. He plunged across the threshold into the night. He heard a voice calling his name.

  It was the Gray Mouser’s voice. It came from the opposite direction to the wrecked galley. He ran toward it across treacherous ledges. Starlight, now come back, showed a black gulf before his feet. He leaped, landed with a shaking impact on another rock surface, dashed forward without falling. He saw the top of a mast above an edge of darkness and almost bowled over the small figure that was staring raptly in the direction from which he had just fled. The Mouser seized him by the shoulder, dragged him to the edge, pulled him over. They clove the water together and swam out to the sloop anchored in the rock-sheltered lee. The Mouser started to heave at the anchor but Fafhrd slashed the line with a knife snatched from the Mouser’s belt and jerked up the sail in swift, swishing rushes.

  Slowly the sloop began to move. Gradually the ripples became wavelets, the wavelets became smacking waves. Then they slipped past a black, foam-edged sword of rock and were in the open sea. Still Fafhrd did not speak, but crowded on all canvas and did all else possible to coax speed from the storm-battered sloop. Resigned to mystification, the Mouser helped him.

  They had not been long underway when the blow fell. The Mouser, looking sternward, gave a hoarse incredulous cry. The wave swiftly overtaking them was higher than the mast. And something was sucking the sloop back. The Mouser raised his arms shieldingly. Then the sloop began to climb; up, up, up until it reached the top, overbalanced and plummeted down on the opposite side. The first wave was followed by a second and a third, and a fourth, each almost as high. A larger boat would surely have been swamped. Finally the waves gave way to a choppy, foam
ing, unpredictable chaos, in which every ounce of effort and a thousand quick decisions were needed to keep the sloop afloat.

  When the pale foredawn came, they were back on the homeward course again, a small improvised sail taking the place of the one ripped in the aftermath of the storm, enough water bailed from the hold to make the sloop seaworthy. Fafhrd, dazedly watching for the sunrise, felt weak as a woman. He only half heard the Mouser tell, in snatches, of how he had lost the galley in the storm, but followed what he guessed to be its general course until the storm cleared, and had sighted the strange island and landed there, mistakenly believing it to be the galley’s home port.

  The Mouser then brought thin, bitter wine and salt fish, but Fafhrd pushed them away and said, ‘One thing I must know. I never looked back. You were staring earnestly at something behind me. What was it?’

  The Mouser shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know. The distance was too great and the light was queer. What I thought I saw was rather foolish. I’d have given a good deal to have been closer.’ He frowned, shrugged his shoulders again. ‘Well, what I thought I saw was this: a crowd of men wearing big black cloaks—they looked like Northerners—came rushing out of an opening of some sort. There was something odd about them: the light by which I saw them didn’t seem to have any source. Then they waved the big black cloaks around as if they were fighting with them or doing some sort of dance…I told you it was very foolish…and then they got down on their hands and knees and covered themselves up with the cloaks and crawled back into the place from which they had come. Now tell me I’m a liar.’

  Fafhrd shook his head. ‘Only those weren’t cloaks,’ he said.

  The Mouser began to sense that there was much more to it than he had even guessed. ‘What were they, then?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Fafhrd.

  ‘But then what was the place, I mean the island that almost sucked us down when it sank?’

  ‘Simorgya,’ said Fafhrd and lifted his head and began to grin in a cruel, chilly, wild-eyed way that took the Mouser aback. ‘Simorgya,’ repeated Fafhrd, and pulled himself to the side of the boat and glared down at the rushing water. ‘Simorgya. And now it’s sunk again. And may it soak there forever and rot in its own corruption, till all’s muck!’ He trembled spasmodically with the passion of his curse, then sank back. Along the rim of the east a ruddy smudge began to show.

  VII

  The Seven Black Priests

  Eyes like red lava peered from a face black as dead lava down the sheer mountainside at the snowy ledge that narrowed off into chilly darkness barely touched by dawn. The black priest’s heart pounded its rib cage. Never in his life nor his priest-father’s before him had intruders come by this narrow way that led from the Outer Sea across the mountains known as the Bones of the Old Ones. Never in three long returns of the Year of the Monsters, never in four sailings of the ship to tropic Klesh to get them wives, had any but he and his fellow-priests trod the way below. Yet he had always guarded it as faithfully and warily as if it were the nightly assault-route of blasphemy-bent spearmen and bowmen.

  There it came again—and unmistakably!—the rumble of singing. To judge from the tone, the man must have a chest like a bear’s. As if he had drilled for this nightly (and he had) the black priest laid aside his conical hat and stepped out of his fur-lined shoes and slipped off his fur-lined robe, revealing his skinny-limbed, sag-bellied, well-greased frame.

  Moving back in the stony niche, he selected a narrow stick from a closely-shielded fire and laid it across a pit in the rock. Its unsputtering flame revealed that the pit was filled to a hand’s breath of the top with a powder that glittered like smashed jewels. He judged it would take some thirty slow breaths for the stick to burn through at the middle.

  He silently returned to the edge of the niche, which was the height of three tall men—seven times his own height—above the snowy ledge. And now, far along that ledge, he could dimly distinguish a figure—no, two. He drew a long knife from his loincloth and, crouching forward, poised himself on hands and toes. He breathed a prayer to his strange and improbable god. Somewhere above, ice or rocks creaked and snapped faintly, as if the mountain too were flexing its muscles in murderous anticipation.

  ‘Give us the next verse, Fafhrd,’ merrily called the foremost of the two snow-treaders. ‘You’ve had thirty paces to compose it, and our adventure took no longer. Or is the poetic hoot owl frozen at last in your throat?’

  The Mouser grinned as he strode along with seeming recklessness, the sword Scalpel swinging at his side. His high-collared gray cloak and hood, pulled close around him, shadowed his swart features but could not conceal their impudence.

  Fafhrd’s garments, salvaged from their sloop wrecked on the chilly coast, were all wools and furs. A great golden clasp gleamed dully on his chest and a golden band, tilted awry, confined his snarled reddish hair. His white-skinned face, with gray eyes wide set, had a calm bold look to it, though the brow was furrowed in thought. From over his right shoulder protruded a bow, while from over his left shoulder gleamed the sapphire eyes of a brazen dragonhead that was the pommel of a longsword slung on his back.

  His brow cleared and, as if some more genial mountain than the frozen one they traveled along had given tongue, he sang:

  Oh, Lavas Laerk

  Had a face like a dirk

  And of swordsmen twenty-and-three,

  And his greased black ship

  Through the waves did slip—

  ’Twas the sleekest craft at sea;

  Yet it helped him naught

  When he was caught

  By magic, the Mouser, and me.

  And now he feeds fishes

  The daintiest dishes,

  But—

  The words broke off and the Gray Mouser heard the hissing scuff of leather on snow. Whirling around, he saw Fafhrd hurtled over the side of the cliff and he had a moment to wonder whether the huge Northerner, maddened by his own doggerel, had decided to illustrate dramatically Lavas Laerk’s plunge to the bottomless deeps.

  The next moment Fafhrd caught himself with elbows and hands on the margin of the ledge. Simultaneously, a black and gleaming form hit the spot he had just desperately vacated, broke its fall with bent arms and hunched shoulders, spun over in a somersault, and lunged at the Mouser with a knife that flashed like a splinter of the moon. The knife was about to take the Mouser in the belly when Fafhrd, supporting his weight on one forearm, twitched the attacker back by an ankle. At this the small black one hissed low and horribly, turned again, and lunged at Fafhrd. But now the Mouser was roused at last from the shocked daze that he assured himself could never grip him in a less hatefully cold country. He dove forward at the small black one, diverting his thrust—there were sparks as the weapon struck stone within a finger’s width of Fafhrd’s arm—and skidding his greased form off the ledge beyond Fafhrd. The small black one swooped out of sight as silently as a bat.

  Fafhrd, dangling his great frame over the abyss, finished his verse:

  But the daintiest dish is he.

  ‘Hush, Fafhrd,’ the Mouser hissed, stooped as he listened intently. ‘I think I heard him hit.’

  Fafhrd absentmindedly eased himself up to a seat. ‘Not if that chasm is half as deep as the last time we saw its bottom, you didn’t,’ he assured his comrade.

  ‘But what was he?’ the Mouser asked frowningly. ‘He looked like a man of Klesh.’

  ‘Yes, with the jungle of Klesh as far from here as the moon,’ Fafhrd reminded him with a chuckle. ‘Some maddened hermit frostbitten black, no doubt. There are strange skulkers in these little hills, they say.’

  The Mouser peered up the dizzy mile-high cliff and spotted the nearby niche. ‘I wonder if there are more of him?’ he questioned uneasily.

  ‘Madmen commonly go alone,’ Fafhrd asserted, getting up. ‘Come, small nagger, we’d best be on our way if you want a hot breakfast. If the old tales are true, we should be reaching the Cold Waste by sunup—
and there we’ll find a little wood at least.’

  At that instant a great glow sprang from the niche from which the small attacker had dropped. It pulsed, turning from violet to green to yellow to red.

  ‘What makes that?’ Fafhrd mused, his interest roused at last. ‘The old tales say nothing of firevents in the Bones of the Old Ones. Now if I were to give you a boost, Mouser, I think you could reach that knob and then make your own way—’

  ‘Oh no,’ the Mouser interrupted, tugging at the big man and silently cursing himself for starting the question-asking. ‘I want my breakfast cooked over more wholesome flames. And I would be well away from here before other eyes see the glow.’

  ‘None will see it, small dodger of mysteries,’ Fafhrd said chucklingly, letting himself be urged away along the path. ‘Look, even now it dies.’

  But at least one other eye had seen the pulsing glow—an eye as large as a squid’s and bright as the Dog Star.

  ‘Ha, Fafhrd!’ the Gray Mouser cried gaily some hours later in the full-broken dawn. ‘There’s an omen to warm our frozen hearts! A green hill winks at us frosty men—gives us the glad eye like a malachite-smeared dusky courtesan of Klesh!’

  ‘She’s as hot as a courtesan of Klesh, too,’ the huge Northerner supplemented, rounding the brown crag’s bulging shoulder in his turn, ‘for she’s melted all the snow.’

  It was true. Although the far horizon shone white and green with the snows and glacial ice of the Cold Waste, the saucer-like depression in the foreground held a small unfrozen lake. And while the air was still chilly around them, so that their breath drifted away in small white clouds, the brown ledge they trod was bare.

  Up from the nearer shore of the lake rose the hill to which the Mouser had referred, the hill from which one star-small point still reflected the new-risen sun’s rays at them blindingly.