Swords Against the Shadowland (Fritz Leiber's Lankhmar) (19 page)

The chamber seemed to swirl. The black teardrops on walls and ceiling and floor began to move. A strange humming rose, soft at first, but turning angry. The arched doors slammed shut, and a short, sharp scream followed as they crushed the head of the soldier Fafhrd had sent sprawling between them.

A weird chorus of unearthly whispers swelled over the humming and the Mouser's cursing and struggling.
Koh-Vombi,
those ancient, rasping voices called,
Koh-Vombi!

Fafhrd struggled to regain his balance. The soldiers reeled before him, their faces filled with terror. "Mouser!" Fafhrd called as he groped toward the altar where the whipping rods held his partner spread-eagled.

A ripple passed through the candelabras. Tiny red eyes snapped unnaturally open on eight serpentine faces, and gold-scaled forms untwined and collapsed to the floor. Of one will, however, the creatures undulated to the altar, and the rods forced the straining Mouser's wrists and ankles down toward wetly glittering fangs.

Koh-Vombi,
called the ancient voices,
Koh-Vombi!

With a mighty effort, Fafhrd lurched to the altar. Gripping Graywand's hilt in both hands, he swung the blade in a powerful arc and brought it smashing down on a golden rod. Metal rang on metal, and the force of his blow shivered up his arms. A second time, he struck the rod, and the Mouser screamed, feeling the impact in his wrist, but the rod snapped, and his left arm was free!

A flat, scaled head leered up over the side of the altar. With a shriek of near panic, the Gray Mouser snatched his rapier from his still-prisoned right hand and swung it. The creature's head flew across the chamber, spraying green ichor.

Three more swift blows freed the Mouser. The rods lashed wildly, like injured things, spraying the same horrible, warm fluid. Gathering his feet under him, the Mouser sprang from the altar, clearing the serpents by a goodly distance, and fell flat on his face among the struggling soldiers.

Fafhrd backed more slowly, carefully placing each foot, making sure of his balance. The serpents turned away from the altar to follow him. If he fell, their fangs would find him. But the chamber's swirling filled him with a senses-stealing sickness that threatened to topple him.

He dared to glance away from the serpents at the walls.

Kob- Vombi! Koh~ Vombil

The black teardrops moved like creatures in a hive. No longer flat, two-dimensional markings or bits of paint, they gleamed with a wet slime, and from the rapid beating of thin, membranous wings, issued that angry humming.

One of the Overlord's soldiers managed to rise unsteadily to his feet. Turning toward the door, intent on escape, he reeled unexpectedly to the left and fell on one of the chairs, which shattered under his weight.

A serpent came within reach of Graywand, and a second severed head splatted against the wall.

The rasping voices of unseen summoners rose in volume, chanting,
Koh-Vombi!

Black teardrops leaped from the walls, filling the air with furious flight.

Something smacked wetly on Fafhrd's neck. He grabbed for it and scraped it free, even as another struck his right cheek. Opening his fist, he found a pulpy shape and a smear of blood. "Leeches!" he shouted, horrified.

Flying leeches. They attacked the soldiers, the Gray Mouser, and Fafhrd.

Ripping away the beast on his face, Fafhrd lunged for a torch that lay on the floor and waved it desperately through the air. Touched by the flames, some of the leeches exploded, but more attacked Fafhrd's hands.

Two soldiers writhed screaming on the floor. One clutched his eyes, which were crawling black masses. The other clawed frantically at his ears. Another, working with the Mouser, tried to drag the corpse of the crushed soldier from between the doors while the Mouser threw his shoulder against them. They refused to open.

The remaining soldier, though covered hand and face with leeches, sought to fulfill his orders. Sword upraised, he lumbered toward the Mouser's unprotected back.

Screaming a warning, Fafhrd hurled Graywand. The long blade flashed across the chamber to slam forcefully between the soldier's shoulder blades even as the Mouser, alerted, spun and plunged Scalpel through the man's heart.

With one hand free, Fafhrd grasped the edges of his hood and drew it closer about his face. He felt the creatures striking him, attaching themselves to his clothes. More than a few had wormed their way under his garments.

He smashed the torch down on the head of another serpent, then snatched up a soldier's fallen sword to cleave its body in half. That still left five crawling about the room.

The Mouser was having no luck at the doors. Only the crushed body of the first soldier prevented them from closing and, no doubt, sealing them in.

Koh-Vombi!
chanted the voices,
Koh-Vombi!

"Koh-Vombi up your nose!" Fafhrd shouted at his invisible tormentors. He shot another look around the room. The last remaining soldier whirled blindly about, smashing chairs, tripping over a fallen comrade, screaming as he ripped leeches from his unprotected face. Coiled on the altar, a golden serpent hissed and showed its fangs.

Gripping the torch tightly, Fafhrd called to his comrade. "Look out, Mouser, I'm coming through!"

Running across the chamber, he leaped, hurling himself at the doors. Wood shattered and hinge-metal shrieked. Fafhrd struck the floor amid shards and splinters, and the Mouser flew over him to bound across the hall and up the staircase.

The voices followed them from the inner chamber. The hallway began to swirl with leeches.

Springing up, Fafhrd hit the staircase at a run, torch in hand, his new cloak thick and weighty with slimy bloodsuckers. Three at a time he took the stairs, climbing as fast as his legs would go.

"Want to go back for your sword?" the Mouser suggested sarcastically as Fafhrd overtook him.

"Want to go back for that damned jewel, you greedy-guts?" Fafhrd called over his shoulder as he passed his partner.

Leeches darted and dived at them. Bloated shapes covered the backs of Fafhrd's hands. Blood trickled down his neck. A wet warmth settled suddenly in his right eyebrow. With a gasp, he tore the bloodsucker away, and pushed himself to even greater speed.

"This way, Mouser!" he called desperately to his comrade, uncertain if the Mouser was still behind him. "This way!"

And ancient voices answered,
Koh-Vombi! Koh-Vombi! The
tower echoed with that sound. The very stones seemed to shiver with it.

At last, he found the window through which they had come. The Mouser slammed into him, nearly knocking him through it, as he struggled to free the line and grapnel from about his shoulders with one hand, while with the other he used the torch to fight off the leeches.

"Hurry!" the Mouser shouted, clutching his hood tightly about his face so that he saw only through the narrowest space of cloth. Fear and panic shone brightly in his dark eyes.

Setting the grapnel firmly on the sill, Fafhrd cast the line out. "Go!" he ordered, grasping the Mouser's shoulder, half-flinging him out the window.

While the Mouser scrambled over the edge and down the line, Fafhrd braced himself before the portal and swung the torch with both hands, igniting scores of leeches as they flew at him. Tiny burning bodies fell like stars at his feet, smoking and stinking with a hideously foul odor.

As many as he killed, though, far more struck his face, his hands, burrowed beneath his clothes. With fearful desperation, he touched the torch to one of the rafters overhead. The old wood took fire immediately. With a small curtain of flame burning before him, he threw down the torch and squeezed his great bulk through the window's slender space.

A leech slapped his nose and stuck.

Fafhrd's hands closed about the line. Without any control, he slid halfway down, burning his ungloved palms. The leech crawled toward his eye. In utter panic, he let go of the line with one hand and clawed at the creature. With only one tortured hand on the line, his weight and momentum proved too great.

The Mouser cried his name as Fafhrd fell.

ELEVEN

THE RAINBOW'S BLACK HEART

S
creaming his partner’s name, the Gray Mouser watched horrified as Fafhrd lost his grip on the line and, tangled in the folds of a fluttering black cloak, plummeted earthward. His horror doubled when a darkly violet hole opened in the star-flecked heavens beneath Fafhrd. The Northerner fell through it, vanishing in midair, and the hole blinked out of existence.

For an instant, the Mouser stared, open-mouthed. Then his own survival instinct asserted itself. Fafhrd was gone, beyond help for the moment, and the Mouser had to think of himself. Ripping away his garments, he scraped desperately at the black leeches that fed on his flesh.

To his amazement, they crumbled at his touch, flaking into pieces, then into a black, ashen powder. Trickles of blood and painful red blotches on his skin proved the creatures' menace. They had settled in his hair, wormed under his clothes, into his armpits, his crotch, even down inside his boots. But outside of the tower, beyond the range of whatever magic spawned them, they were dying a quick and strange death.

Naked, he gave a whoop of triumph and brushed the remains of the last leech from between his toes.

"Halt, criminal, in the name of the Overlord!"

At the sound of that authoritative command, the Mouser dived and rolled, reaching his weapons belt, drawing his rapier, Catsclaw, in one smooth motion as he came to his feet again. Swiftly, he saw his predicament and the futility of resistance.

A ring of soldiers stood knee-deep in the weeds inside the iron fence that surrounded the tower. A dozen grim-faced men-at-arms stood ready with pikes or drawn swords. Another dozen bowmen, bowstrings quivering with tension, sighted carefully down drawn shafts.

The Mouser glanced hopelessly to his left and right. Even if he could reach the fence, those archers would make a pin cushion of him before he could climb it. He looked back at the tower. Thick smoke poured from the window above his head, and tongues of red flame licked the sky.

"Damn you, Fafhrd," he muttered disgustedly. "Once again, you've left me in the lurch."

Scowling, he threw down his sword. Covering his groin with his hands, mindful of the arrows trained on him, he stood meekly until the Overlord's men seized him. A pair of guards roughly twisted his arms behind his back and applied ropes to his wrists. A soldier in a corporal's livery knotted another rope loosely about his neck and gave it a jerk. The Mouser's head snapped up. Forgetting himself, the Mouser cursed the corporal's unfaithful mother.

They beat him for that, slapping and punching him until he fell on the ground. They kicked him and jabbed him with the butts of pikes. Covering his vitals as best he could, he rolled on the harsh, broken paving stones and waited for it to end, biting his already bloody lip to keep from giving further offense.

Finally, the guards wearied of such easy sport. Using the rope around his neck, they hauled him cruelly to his feet, mocking him with great mirth. The guard whose mother he had insulted seized the leash and reeled the Mouser close until they stood nose to nose. He let fly a slimy wad straight into the Mouser's left eye, then turned away, laughing.

The Mouser burned with embarrassment and rage. His mouth quivered, and he bit his lower lip until his own teeth drew new streams of blood.
Puss and piss!
he thought bitterly, staring at the broad back of his abuser.
My sentence is already death for violating a forbidden tower.

He snapped his right foot up sharply, smashing his heel into the guard's lower spine. A wet crack! The man's scream achieved a satisfyingly high note, and he fell, arms and legs thrashing convulsively.

"No one spits on me," he warned in a cold, deadly voice. Ready to fight, no matter his bonds, he met their startled gazes steadfastly. "No one."

For a moment, they stared back, as if impressed. Then, of course, they beat him again, and quite thoroughly. But this time, no one laughed, and no one dared to spit on him.

When they were through, they dragged him to his feet again. Though he could barely stand on his own, the Mouser did his best to remain erect. Naked, bruised, and bleeding, he managed yet to look defiant.

Nearby, the corporal lay whimpering on the ground, his legs absolutely still, his arms twitching, eyes filled with pain and fear. A small circle of his fellows clustered around him, shaking their heads. A few knelt beside him, murmuring words of comfort.

The Mouser felt a twinge of guilt as he gazed at the fallen man and watched another guard quietly, secretively slide a knife from a belt sheath. Still murmuring assurances, he laid one hand across the corporal's eyes, then cleanly slid the blade deep into his comrade's windpipe and sliced sideways.

A moment of convulsion, a gurgling gasp, and the corporal's suffering ended. The rest of the soldiers turned accusing glares upon the Mouser. He knew by those looks that his suffering had just begun.

The soldier with the knife wiped his blade and sheathed it. The others looked to him for orders now, though he wore no officer's insignia. Someone gathered the Mouser's belongings. Someone else picked up the end of the rope around his neck. At a word from the new leader, they marched the Mouser to the north side of the tower and toward the iron fence.