The First Book of Lankhmar

by Fritz Leiber

  ‘That is, if it is a hill,’ Fafhrd added softly. ‘And in any case, whether a courtesan of Klesh or hill, she has several faces.’

  The point was well taken. The hill’s green flanks were formed of crags and hummocks which the imagination could shape into monstrous faces—all the eyes closed save the one that twinkled at them. The faces melted downward like wax into huge stony rivulets—or might they be elephantine trunks?—that plunged into the unruffled acid-seeming water. Here and there among the green were patches of dark red rock that might be blood, or mouths. Clashing nastily in color, the hill’s rounded summit seemed to be composed of a fleshily pink marble. It too persisted in resembling a face—that of a sleeping ogre. It was crossed by a stretch of vividly red rock that might be the ogre’s lips. From a slit in the red rock, a faint vapor rose.

  The hill had more than a volcanic look. It seemed like an upwelling from a more savage, primal, fiercer consciousness than any that even Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser knew, an upwelling frozen in the act of invading a younger, weaker world—frozen yet eternally watchful and waiting and yearning.

  And then the illusion was gone—or four-faces-out-of-five gone and the fifth wavering. The hill was just a hill again—an odd volcanic freak of the Cold Waste—a green hill with a glitter.

  Fafhrd let out a gusty sigh. He surveyed the farther shore of the lake. It was hillocky and matted with a dark vegetation that unpleasantly resembled fur. At one point there rose from it a stubby pillar of rock almost like an altar. Beyond the hairy bushes, which were here and there flecked with red-leafed ones, stretched the ice and snow, broken only occasionally by great rocks and rare clumps of dwarfed trees.

  But something else was foremost in the Mouser’s thoughts.

  ‘The eye, Fafhrd. The glad, glittering eye!’ he whispered, dropping his voice as though they were in a crowded street and some informer or rival thief might overhear. ‘Only once before have I seen such a gleam, and that was by moonlight, across a king’s treasure chamber. That time I did not come away with a huge diamond. A guardian serpent prevented it. I killed the wriggler, but its hiss brought other guards.

  ‘But this time there’s only a little hill to climb. And if at this distance the gem gleams so bright, Fafhrd’—his hand dropped and gripped his companion’s leg, at the sensitive point just above the knee, for emphasis—‘think how big!’

  The Northerner, frowning faintly at the violent squeeze as well as at his doubts and misgivings, nevertheless sucked an icy breath in appreciative greed.

  ‘And we poor shipwrecked marauders,’ continued the Mouser raptly, ‘will be able to tell the gaping and envious thieves of Lankhmar that we not only crossed the Bones of the Old Ones, but picked them on the way.’

  And he went skipping gaily down the skimpy ledge that merged into the narrow, lake-edged, rocky saddle that joined this greater mountain with the green one. Fafhrd followed more slowly, gazing steadily at the green hill, waiting for it to turn back into faces again, or to turn to no faces at all. It did neither. It occurred to him that it might have been partly shaped by human hands and, after that, the notion of a diamond-eyed idol seemed less implausible. At the far end of the saddle, just at the base of the green hill, he caught up with the Mouser, who was studying a flat, dark rock covered with gashes which a moment’s glance told Fafhrd must be artificial.

  ‘The runes of tropic Klesh!’ the Northerner muttered. ‘What should such hieroglyphs be doing so far from their jungle?’

  ‘Chiseled, no doubt, by some hermit frostbitten black, whose madness taught him the Kleshic language,’ the Mouser observed sardonically. ‘Or have you already forgotten last night’s knifer?’

  Fafhrd shook his head curtly. Together they pored over the deep-chopped letters, bringing to bear knowledge gained from the perusing of ancient treasure-maps and the deciphering of code-messages carried by intercepted spies.

  ‘The seven black…’ Fafhrd read laboriously.

  ‘…priests,’ the Mouser finished for him. ‘They’re in it, whoever they may be. And a god or beast or devil—that writhing hieroglyph means any one of the three, depending on the surrounding words, which I don’t understand. It’s very ancient writing. And the seven black priests are to serve the writhing hieroglyph, or to bind it—again either might be meant, or both.’

  ‘And so long as the priesthood endures,’ Fafhrd took up, ‘that long will the god-beast-devil lie quietly…or sleep…or stay dead…or not come up…’

  Abruptly the Mouser bounded straight into the air, fanning his feet. ‘This rock is hot,’ he complained.

  Fafhrd understood. Even through the thick walrus soles of his boots he was beginning to feel the unnatural warmth.

  ‘Hotter than the floor of hell,’ the Mouser observed, hopping first on one foot and then the other. ‘Well, what now, Fafhrd? Shall we go up, or not?’

  Fafhrd answered him with a sudden shout of laughter. ‘You decided that, little man, long ago! Was it I who started to talk about huge diamonds?’

  So up they went, choosing that point where a gigantic trunk, or tentacle, or melted chin strained from the encasing granite. It was not an easy climb, even at the beginning, for the green stone was everywhere rounded off, showing no marks of chisel or axe—which rather dampened Fafhrd’s vague theory that this was a hill half-formed by human-wielded tools.

  Upward the two of them edged and strained, their breath blowing out in bigger white clouds although the rock was uncomfortably hot under their hands. After an inch-by-inch climb up a slippery surface, where hands and feet and elbows and knees and even toasted chin must all help, they stood at last on the lower lip of one of the green hill’s mouths. Here it seemed their ascent must end, for the great cheek above was smooth and sloped outward a spear’s length above them.

  But Fafhrd took from the Mouser’s back a rope that had once guyed the mast of their shipwrecked sloop, made a noose in it, and cast it up toward the forehead above, where a stubby horn or feeler projected. It caught and held. Fafhrd put his weight on it to test it, then looked inquiringly at his companion.

  ‘What have you in mind?’ the Mouser asked, clinging affectionately to the rock-face. ‘This whole climb begins to seem mere foolishness.’

  ‘But what of the jewel?’ Fafhrd replied in pleasant mockery. ‘So big, Mouser, so big!’

  ‘Likely just a bit of quartz,’ the Mouser said sourly. ‘I have lost my hunger for it.’

  ‘But as for me,’ Fafhrd cried, ‘I have only now worked up a good appetite.’

  And he swung out into emptiness, around the green cheek and into thin, brilliant sunlight.

  It seemed to him as if the still lake and the green hill were rocking, instead of himself. He came to rest below the face’s monstrously pouchy eyelid. He climbed up hand over hand, found good footing on the ledge that was the eyelid pouch, and twitched the end of the rope back to the Mouser, whom he could no longer see. On the third cast it did not swing back. He squatted on the ledge, bracing himself securely to guy the rope. It went tight in his hands. Very soon the Mouser stepped onto the ledge beside him.

  The gaiety was back in the small thief’s face, but it was a fragile gaiety, as though he wanted to get this done with quickly. They edged their way along the great eye-pouch until they were directly below the fancied pupil. It was rather above Fafhrd’s head, but the Mouser, nimbly hitching himself up on Fafhrd’s shoulders, peered in readily.

  Fafhrd, bracing himself against the green wall, waited impatiently. It seemed as if the Mouser would never speak. ‘Well?’ he asked finally, when his shoulders had begun to ache from the Mouser’s weight.

  ‘Oh, it’s a diamond, all right.’ The Mouser sounded oddly uninterested. ‘Yes, it’s big. My fingers can just about span it. And it’s cut like a smooth sphere—a sort of diamond eye. But I don’t know about getting it out. It’s set very deep. Should I try? Don’t bellow so, Fafhrd, you’ll blow us both off! I suppose we might as well take it, since we’ve come so far. But it w
on’t be easy. My knife can’t…yes, it can! I thought it was rock around the gem. But it’s tarry stuff. Squidgy. There! I’m coming down.’

  Fafhrd had a glimpse of something smooth, globular and dazzling, with an ugly, ragged, tarry circlet clinging to it. Then it seemed that someone flicked his elbow lightly. He looked down. Momentarily he had the strangest feeling of being in the green steamy jungle of Klesh. For protruding from the brown fur of his cloak was a wickedly barbed little dart, thickly smeared with a substance as black and tarry as that disfiguring the diamond eye.

  He quickly dropped flat on the ledge, crying out to the Mouser to do the same. Then he carefully tugged loose the dart, finding to his relief that, although it had nicked the thick hide of his cloak beneath the fur, it had not touched flesh.

  ‘I think I see him,’ called the Mouser, peering down cautiously over the protected ledge. ‘A little fellow with a very long blowgun and dressed in furs and a conical hat. Crouching there in those dark bushes across the lake. Black, I think, like our knifer last night. A Kleshian, I’d say, unless he’s one more of your frostbitten hermits. Now he lifts the gun to his lips. Watch yourself!’

  A second dart pinged against the rock above them, then dropped down close by Fafhrd’s hand. He jerked it away sharply.

  There was a whirring sound, ending in a muted snap. The Mouser had decided to get a blow in. It is not easy to swing a sling while lying prone on a ledge, but the Mouser’s missile crackled into the furry bushes close to the black blowgunner, who immediately ducked out of sight.

  It was easy enough then to decide on a plan of action, for few were available. While the Mouser raked the bushes across the lake with sling shots, Fafhrd went down the rope. Despite the Mouser’s protection, he fervently prayed that his cloak be thick enough. He knew from experience that the darts of Klesh are nasty things. At irregular intervals came the whirr of the Mouser’s casts, cheering him on.

  Reaching the green hill’s base, he strung his bow and called up to the Mouser that he was ready in his turn to cover the retreat. His eyes searched the furry cliffs across the lake, and twice when he saw movement he sent an arrow from his precious store of twenty. Then the Mouser was beside him and they were racing off along the hot mountain edge toward where the cryptically ancient glacial ice gleamed green. Often they looked back across the lake at the dubious furry bushes spotted here and there with blood-red ones, and twice or thrice they thought they saw movement in them—movement coming their way. Whenever this happened, they sent an arrow or a stone whirring, though with what effect they could not tell.

  ‘The seven black priests—’ Fafhrd muttered.

  ‘The six,’ the Mouser corrected. ‘We killed one of them last night.’

  ‘Well, the six then,’ Fafhrd conceded. ‘They seem angry with us.’

  ‘As why shouldn’t they be?’ the Mouser demanded. ‘We stole their idol’s only eye. Such an act annoys priests tremendously.’

  ‘It seemed to have more eyes than that one,’ Fafhrd asserted thoughtfully, ‘if only it had opened them.’

  ‘Thank Aarth it didn’t!’ the Mouser hissed. ‘And ’ware that dart!’

  Fafhrd hit the dirt—or rather the rock—instantly, and the black dart skirred on the ice ahead.

  ‘I think they’re unreasonably angry,’ Fafhrd asserted, scrambling to his feet.

  ‘Priests always are,’ the Mouser said philosophically, with a sidewise shudder at the dart’s black-crusted point.

  ‘At any rate, we’re rid of them,’ Fafhrd said with relief, as he and the Mouser loped onto the ice. The Mouser leered at him sardonically, but Fafhrd didn’t notice.

  All day they trudged rapidly across the green ice, seeking their way southward by the sun, which got hardly a hand’s breath above the horizon. Toward night the Mouser brought down two low-winging arctic birds with three casts of his sling, while Fafhrd’s long-seeing eyes spied a black cave-mouth in an outcropping of rock under a great snowy slope. Luckily there was a clump of dwarfed trees, uprooted and killed by moving ice, near the cave’s mouth, and soon the two adventurers were gnawing tough, close-grained brown bird and watching the flickering little fire in the cave’s entrance.

  Fafhrd stretched hugely and said, ‘Farewell to all black priests! That’s another bother done with.’ He reached out a large, long-fingered hand. ‘Mouser, let me see that glass eye you dug from the green hill.’

  The Mouser without comment reached into his pouch and handed Fafhrd the brilliant tar-circled globule. Fafhrd held it between his big hands and viewed it thoughtfully. The firelight shone through it and spread from it, highlighting the cave with red, baleful beams. Fafhrd stared unblinkingly at the gem, until the Mouser became very conscious of the great silence around them, broken only by the tiny but frequent crackling of the fire and the large but infrequent cracking of the ice outside. He felt weary to death, yet somehow couldn’t consider sleep.

  Finally Fafhrd said, in a faint unnatural voice, ‘The earth we walk on once lived—a great hot beast, breathing out fire and spewing molten rock. Its constant yearning was to spit red-hot stuff at the stars. This was before all men.’

  ‘What’s that?’ the Mouser queried, stirring from his half-trance.

  ‘Now men have come, the earth has gone to sleep,’ Fafhrd continued in the same hollow voice, not looking at the Mouser. ‘But in its dream it thinks of life, and stirs, and tries to shape itself into the form of men.’

  ‘What’s that, Fafhrd?’ the Mouser repeated uneasily. But Fafhrd answered him with sudden snores. The Mouser carefully teased the gem from his comrade’s fingers. Its tarry rim was soft and slippery—repugnantly so, almost as if it were a kind of black tissue. The Mouser put the thing back in his pouch. A long time passed. Then the Mouser touched his companion’s fur-clad shoulder. Fafhrd woke with a swift shudder. ‘What is it, small one?’ he demanded.

  ‘Morning,’ the Mouser told him briefly, pointing over the ashes of the fire at the lightening sky.

  As they stooped their way out of the cave, there was a faint roaring sound. Looking over the snow-rim and up the slope, Fafhrd saw hurtling down toward them a vast white globe that grew in size in the very brief time while he watched. He and the Mouser barely managed to dive back into the cavern before the earth shook and the noise became ear-splitting and everything went momentarily dark as the huge snowball thundered over the cave mouth. They both smelled the cold sour ashes blown into their faces from the dead fire by the globe’s passing, and the Mouser coughed.

  But Fafhrd instantly lunged out of the cave, swiftly stringing his great bow and fitting to it an arrow long as his arm. He sighted up the slope. At the slope’s summit, tiny as bugs beyond the wickedly-barbed arrow head, were a half-dozen conical-hatted figures, sharply silhouetted against the yellow-purple dawn.

  They seemed busy as bugs too, fussing furiously with a white globe as tall as themselves.

  Fafhrd let out half a breath, paused, and loosed his arrow. The tiny figures continued for several breaths to worry the stubborn globe. Then the one nearest it sprang convulsively and sprawled atop it. The globe began to roll down the slope, carrying the arrow-pierced black priest with it and gathering snow as it went. Soon he was hidden in the ever-thickening crust, but not before his flailing limbs had changed the globe’s course, so that it missed the cave-mouth by a spear’s length.

  As the thundering died, the Mouser peered out cautiously.

  ‘I shot the second avalanche aside,’ Fafhrd remarked casually. ‘Let’s be moving.’

  The Mouser would have led the way around the hill—a long and winding course looking treacherous with snow and slippery rock—but Fafhrd said, ‘No, straight over the top, where their snowballs have cleared a path for us. They’re much too cunning to expect us to take that path.’

  However, he kept an arrow nocked to his bow as they made their way up the rocky slope, and moved quite cautiously as they surmounted the naked crest. A white landscape green-spotted with glacial ice op
ened before them, but no dark specks moved up it and there were no hiding places nearby. Fafhrd unstrung his bow and laughed.

  ‘They seemed to have scampered off,’ he said. ‘Doubtless they’re running back to their little green hill to warm themselves. At any rate, we’re rid of them.’

  ‘Yes, just as we were yesterday,’ the Mouser commented dryly. ‘The fall of the knifer didn’t seem to worry them at all, but doubtless they’re scared witless because you put an arrow into another of their party.’

  ‘Well, at all events,’ Fafhrd said curtly, ‘granting that there were seven black priests to begin with, there are now but five.’

  And he led the way down the other side of the hill, taking big reckless strides. The Mouser followed slowly, a stone rocking in his dangled sling and his gaze questing restlessly to every side. When they came to snow, he studied it, but there were no tracks as far as he could see to either side. By the time he reached the foot of the hill, Fafhrd was a sling’s cast ahead. To make up the distance, the Mouser began a soft-footed, easy lope, yet he did not desist from his watchfulness. His attention was attracted by a squat hummock of snow just ahead of Fafhrd. Shadows might have told him whether there was anything crouched behind it, but the yellow-purple haze hid the sun, so he kept on watching the hummock, meanwhile speeding up his pace. He reached the hummock and saw there was no one behind it almost at the moment he caught up with Fafhrd.

  The hummock exploded into a scatter of snow-chunks and a black sag-bellied figure erupted out of it at Fafhrd, ebony arm extended for a knife-slash at the Northerner’s neck. Almost simultaneously the Mouser lunged forward, whirling his sling backhanded. The stone, still in the leather loop, caught the slasher high in the face. The curved knife missed by inches. The slasher fell. Fafhrd looked around with mild interest.

  The attacker’s forehead was so deeply indented that there could be no question of his condition, yet the Mouser stared down at him for a long time. ‘A man of Klesh, all right,’ he said broodingly, ‘but fatter. Armored against the cold. Strange they should have come so far to serve their god.’ He looked up and without raising his arm from his side, sharply twirled his sling—much as a bravo might in some alley as a warning to skulkers.