Fritz Leiber - Swords and Ice Magic

He heard his name spoken falteringly close behind him and turning saw Mara standing there in her white smock looking woebegone and confused, as if she'd just been lifted from the pillar's top and set down there. As he spoke her name in answer, a voice came out of the air beside Mara and a little above her, speaking in the chilling and confounding tones of a familiar and beloved voice turned hateful in nightmare.

The sightless mountain princess Hirriwi said, “Woe to you, barbarian, for having come north again without first paying your respects at Stardock. Woe to you for coming at another woman's call, although we favor her cause. Woe for deserting your men to chase this girl-chit, whom we would have (and have) saved without you. Woe for meddling with demons and gods. And woe upon woe for lifting your hand to maim a prince of Stardock, to whom we are joined, though he is our dearest enemy, by bonds stronger than love and hate. A head for a head and a hand for a hand, think on that. Quintuple woe!”

During this recital, Mara had moved to Fafhrd, where he knelt upright, his face working as he stared at and hearkened to emptiness. He had put his arm about her shoulders and together they stared at the speaking gloom.

Hirriwi continucd, her voice less ritually passionate, but every whit as cold, “Keyaira heals and comforts our brother, and I go to join them. At dawn we will return you, journeying upon our fish of air, to your people, where you will know your weird. Until then, rest in the warmth of Hellfire, which is not yet a danger to you.”

With that she broke off and there was the sound of her going away. The torch flickered low, almost consumed, and great weariness took hold of Fafhrd and Mara and they lay down side by side and sleep was drawn up over them from their toes to their eyes.

Fathrd, at last thought, wondered why it should move him so strangely that Mara clutched his left hand, bent up beside his shoulder, in both of hers.

Next day Salthaven was a-bustle so early and so wildly — so fantastically — with preparations for the great sailing that it was hard to tell where the inspirations of nightmare and worry-dream ended and those of (hopefully) wide-eyed day began. Even the “foreigners” were infected, as if they too had been hearing the Mingols-to-their-deaths chant in their cireams, so that the Mouser had been impelled against his better judgment to man Fafhrd's Sea Hawk with the most eager of them under Bomar their “mayor” and the Ilthmart tavern-owner. He made Pshawri their captain with half the thieves to support his authority and two of the Mingols. Trenchi and Gavs, to help him con the ship.

“Remember you are boss,” he told Pshawri, “Make them like it or lump it — and keep to windward of me.”

Pshawri, his new-healed forehead wound still pink, nodded fiercely and went to take up his command. Above the salt cliff the eastern sky was ominously red with sunrise, while glooms of night still lingered in the west. The east wind blew strongly.

From Flotsam 's stern the Mouser surveyed the busy harbor and his fleet of fishing boats turned warships. Truly, they were a weird sight, their decks which had so recently been piled with fish now bristling with pikes and various impromptu weapons such as he'd seen Groniger's men shoulder yesterday.

Some of them had lashed huge ceremonial spears (bronze-pointed timbers, really) to their bowsprits — for use as rams, he supposed, the Fates be kind to ‘em! While others had bent on red and black sails, to indicate bloody and baleful intentions, he guessed — the soberest fisherman was a potential pirate, that was sure. Three were half wreathed in fishnets — protection against arrow fire? The two largest craft were commanded by Dwone and Zwaaken, his sub-admirals, if that could be credited. He shook his head.

If only he had time to get his thoughts straight! But ever since he'd awakened events (and his own unpredictable impulses) had been rushing, nay, stampeding him. Yesterday, he'd managed to lead Cif and the other three women safely out of the quaking and stinking cave-tunnels (he glanced toward Darkfire — it was still venting into the red sky a thick column of black smoke, which the east wind blew west) only to discover that they'd spent an unconscionable time underground and it was already evening. After seeing to Rill's hand, badly burned by the Loki-torch, they'd had to hurry back to Salthaven for conferences with all and sundry — hardly time to compare notes with Cif on the whole cavern experience….

And now he had to break off to help Mikkidu instruct the six Rimeland replacements for the thieves they'd lost to Sea Hawk —how to man the sweeps and so forth.

And that was no sooner done (matter of a few low-voiced instructions to Mikkidu, chiefly) than here came Cif climbing ahoard, followed by Rill, Hilsa, and Mother Grum — all of them save for the last in sailorly trousers and jackets with knives at their belts. Rill's right arm was in a sling.

“Here we are, yours to command, captain,” Cif said brightly.

“Dear councilwoman.” the Mouser answered, his heart sinking, “ Flotsam can't sail into possible battle with women aboard, especially—” He let a meaningful look serve for “—whores and witches.”

“Then we'li man Sprite and follow you after,” she told him, not at all downcast. “Or rather range ahead to be the first to sight the Sunwise Mingols — you know Sprite 's a fast sailer. Yes, perhaps that's best, a women's fighting-ship for soldieresses.”

The Mouser submitted to the inevitable with what grace he could muster. Rill and Hilsa beamed. Cif touched his arm commiseratingly.

“I'm glad you agreed,” she said. “I'd already loaned Sprite to three other women.” But then her face grew serious as she lowered her voice to say. “There is a matter that troubles me you should know. We were going to bring god Loki aboard in a firepot, as yesterday he traveled in Rill's torch—”

“Can't have fire aboard a ship going into battle,” the Mouser responded automatically. “Besides, look how Rill got burned.”

“But this morning, for the first time in over a year, we found the fire in the Flame Den unaccountably gone out,” Cif finished. “We sifted the ashes. There was not a spark.”

“Well,” said the Mouser thoughtfully, “perhaps yesterday at the great rock face after he flamed so high the god temporarily shifted his dwelling to the mountain's fiery heart. See how she smokes!” And he pointed toward Darkfire, where the black column going off westward was thicker.

“Yes, but we don't have him at hand that way,” Cif objected troubledly.

“Well, at any rate he's still on the Island,” the Mouser told her. “And in a sense, I'm sure, on Flotsam too,” he added, remembering (it made his fire-stung fingers smart anew) the black torch-end he still had in his pouch. That was another thing, he told himself, that wanted thinking about….

But just then Dwone came sailing close by to report the Rime fleet ready for action and hardly to be held back. The Mouser had perforce to get Flotsam underway, hoisting what sail she could carry for the beat against the wind, and setting his thieves and their green replacements to sweeping while Ourph beat time, so that she'd be able to keep ahead of the handier fishing craft.

There were cheers from the shore and the other ships and for a short while the Mouser was able to bask in self-satisfaction at Flotsam moving out so bravely at the head of the fleet, and his crew so well disciplined, and (he could see) Pshawri handling Sea Hawk nicely enough, and Cif standing beside him, glowing-eyed — and himself a veritable admiral, no less, by Mog!