A gray, misty sea hid the plaza where Cash and Cheap Streets intersected. The shops and apartments on the far side of the square could not be seen at all. Hesitating, the Mouser looked down and bit his lower lip. The mist curled with intimate familiarity about his thighs. He could not see his own knees.
"Give me your hand, that we might not get separated," Fafhrd said, his voice little more than a whisper.
"Am I some maiden?" the Mouser answered curtly. "As if I could lose a mountain like you, even in this soup. Lead on, Mountain."
They moved up Cheap Street, nearly missing the entrance to Dim Lane, down which lay the Silver Eel. Wishing for a lantern, the Mouser tugged at Fafhrd's sleeve. "This way," he insisted, turning into the narrow lane.
A muted percussion reached their ears. Dumbek drums rumbled under furious hands, brass zills clashed, and tambourines rattled. Up ahead, a weak lantern lit the sign above the Silver Eel's entrance.
"Sounds like a celebration," the Mouser commented, quickening his step now that their destination was in sight.
But Fafhrd caught a piece of the Mouser's cloak and jerked him backward. With a sweep of his other arm, the huge Northerner intercepted a spreading rope net that dropped from a rooftop. Catching its edge, he flung the net aside and reached for his sword.
Four men stepped out of the shadows before them. Crouching for action, they brandished clubs or short swords—darkness and fog made it impossible to tell which. "Four more behind us," Fafhrd whispered. His huge sword made a whisking sound as he whipped it from its sheath. The Mouser glanced upward. On the rooftop, two more men stood in plain sight, silhouetted against the gray-black sky.
"These walls are too close for that great skewer," the Mouser murmured to his companion as he calmly stroked the cat and watched the eight men on the ground advance menacingly. He turned ever so slightly so that he could keep a better eye on the men at their back while Fafhrd watched the four at their front. The pair on the roof offered no immediate threat unless they decided to jump.
Down the lane, behind the thin door of the Silver Eel, the dumbeks and zills and tambourines strained toward a feverish tempo.
With his own weapon still sheathed, the Mouser murmured again, "Be ready, my friend. They are almost upon us."
Taking a two-handed grip on Graywand's hilt, Fafhrd responded with sarcasm. "Some might think it impolite of you to greet such gentlemen with empty hands."
"Tut, tut, my dear Fafhrd," the smaller man said. "My hands are full of weapons."
With that, he spun suddenly about and flung the cat, which let out a horrible screeching as it found itself flying through the air. Claws dug deeply into the face of the nearest man, who let out a shriek to match the cat's. "Demons!" he screamed in terror. Wrestling with the beast that ripped his flesh, he leaped back into two of his comrades, sending them toppling.
The Mouser hit the fourth man with his shoulder, smashing him into the wall before he could recover from his surprise. The Gray One ran toward Dim Lane's entrance into Cheap Street.
One of the figures on the roof leaped into Fafhrd's path. Before his feet even quite touched the ground, a heavy pommel broke his jaw. A huge hand caught the shoulder of a rough tunic and hurled the slack-faced man into the paths of the other team of four as they rushed forward.
"Amateurs!" Fafhrd called, taunting them as they scrambled to get up. A knife whished by his ear suddenly, and his grin vanished. Spinning about, he ran back up the lane, pausing long enough to put a boot in the face of the man the Mouser had downed, and to sweep up the cat.
The Mouser waited for him at the mouth of the lane, his narrow sword drawn now, his breathing quick, his eyes bright with excitement.
"I think this belongs to you," Fafhrd said, delivering the cat into his arms. But the beast gave a growl, leaped away, and disappeared into the fog.
Footsteps raced toward them. Their attackers were not yet discouraged.
"The puss is on his own," the Mouser declared, forgetting about the cat as the first foe charged out of the fog. A blade cut toward the Mouser's head. Ducking the swing, he put a boot between the wielder's legs. "The better part of valor?" he suggested, inclining his head in the direction of the plaza.
"But of course!" Fafhrd called over his shoulder, his heels already ringing on the paving stones as he ran.
The plaza was a virtual fog-bound limbo, an ocean of gray mist. Neither intersecting Cash Street, nor the other end of Cheap Street could be seen. "Where?" Fafhrd cursed, his head whipping from side to side as he searched for the best course.
The Mouser whirled to meet their onrushing attackers, who surged into the plaza right behind them. The ten formed a circle around them. The weapons they carried were plainly swords now, not clubs, and the looks in their eyes were murderous.
The broken-jawed man stepped slightly forward and pointed his sword toward Fafhrd. "Ah wan' ma cloak, 'ou filthy barbar-an! An' ma ring! Then ah wan' yer miserble lives for the embar-rassmen you've caused me!"
"It's our Ilthmart friend," the Mouser said in a tone of mockery as he turned back-to-back with Fafhrd.
"Aye," Fafhrd answered, "and nine of his dumbest, ugliest sisters.
"Ugly I may well be, you ignorant lummox," one of the nine said harshly. "But I take offense at 'dumb.'" With serpentine quickness, a length of rope flashed from his hands, uncoiling, whiplike, to snap around Fafhrd's sword. The blade went flying.
The Ilthmarts charged. The Mouser's blade rang against another. A knife flashed at his ribs. Twisting, he avoided the thrust and slammed his elbow into a face. Pain flashed across his left bicep, and the warm rush of blood poured down his sleeve. A fist toppled him to the street, and for a moment, he was submerged in a foggy sea under a pile of bodies. A knee pinned his sword-hand to the ground, and a knife waved before his eyes. A vaguely familiar face appeared suddenly close to his, and the Mouser recognized the other Ilthmart who'd tried to rob him in the alley behind the Silver Eel.
"That's twice ye or yer pal have put a boot in me family treasures, shorty," the Ilthmart said angrily. "Now I'm gonna slice yers off an' wear 'em fer earrings!"
But before the Ilthmart could carry out his threat, his eyes widened with fear, and he leaped away. All the Mouser's attackers fell back as a whirring sound filled the air, growing louder, deeper. Rising first on an elbow, then to a nervous crouch, the Mouser gripped his wound and stared.
Standing protectively over him, Fafhrd swung the heavy grapnel on its length of rope around and around. Letting out more line with each rotation, he drove the Ilthmarts back. A blow from that weight meant crushed bones or death. Just beyond the lethal arc, the Ilthmarts cringed, but kept their weapons ready, looking for some opening to renew their attack.
The grapnel whooshed; Fafhrd's breath came out in great exhalations as he whirled the makeshift weapon, letting it out to the full length of its line. On the ground, the Mouser groped for his sword, finding Graywand as well as Scalpel.
Just out of the grapnel's range, the Ilthmart's broken-jawed leader raged. "Ge' in there!" he encouraged his men. "Cu’ their damn throa's! Avenge the honor of Ilthmar'!"
In his enthusiasm, he caught the arm of the nearest man and propelled him forward—straight into the path of the grapnel. The weighty prongs missed the startled unfortunate, but the line arced around his throat and upper body, snapping his neck before the grapnel finally tangled itself.
Giving a tug on the line, Fafhrd found it would not come free. "Oops," he said with a shrug to the Mouser. He extended a hand for Graywand.