A faint smile danced over the too-handsome face of Lankhmar's Overlord. Abruptly, he lowered the sword he held, turned, and climbed the few steps to his throne. Languidly, he sank upon it, throwing one arm over its high, velvet-cushioned back.
"Malygris undertook to rid me of important rivals and enemies," he said with a bemused grin. "The Patriarch of Aarth, for one, that meddling old fool." He gazed down upon the Mouser to measure the effect of his words as he touched the golden circlet he wore with a fingertip. "This rests a little easier on my brow with certain priests and powerful wizards out of my way. And if a few insignificant fortune-tellers and herb-witches have been incidentally brushed aside by Malygris's spell . . ."—he hesitated, looked thoughtful, then waved a hand—"well, their sacrifices are for the betterment of the state."
As he glared at the monster on the throne above him, the Mouser trembled with poorly hidden anger. "You fool!" he hissed. His life was forfeit; he knew that now beyond all hoping. Rokkarsh would not have confessed so much, otherwise. "Your ass disgraces the honored throne upon which it sits!"
Rokkarsh selected a new peach from the bowl close at hand and took a deep bite. Juice squirted upon his chin and dribbled downward. Contemptuously, he spat the pit at his prisoners feet.
The Mouser cursed his inept, swollen fingers because they couldn't manage the knots. How he wished he could squeeze Rokkarsh's neck and choke the breath from his body. "You stationed soldiers around the tower to protect Malygris," the Mouser accused. "Your villainy is even blacker than his!"
Rokkarsh inclined his head indifferently. "As the only wizard who can safely practice his art, he has some value to me." Setting aside the sword that dangled from one hand, he clapped his palms together sharply. "You, however, have no value at all. While you pose no real threat to a mage of Malygris s caliber, I can hardly let you run around the streets screaming 'plague!' and upsetting the citizenry."
On either side of the Mouser the nearest of the tall, fluted columns suddenly popped open. Unseen in the smooth stone, narrow doors flung back. From each, a giant emerged, men as tall as Fafhrd, clad only in loincloths and gleaming with sweat. Each carried an axe of impressive size.
The Mouser shot a worried look over his shoulder, wondering how many more of the scores of columns supporting the massive roof also housed a defender. Shouldering their axes, the pair of giants seized him roughly by his arms, lifting him up to the very tips of his toes. "Take a bath, pigs," the Mouser said, clenching his teeth against the pain that shot up into his joints. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "You've been in your larders too long."
Rokkarsh chuckled softly. "They can't answer you," he said. "They surrendered their tongues to better serve their Overlord."
"Good at keeping secrets, huh?" the Mouser said, wincing as the pair lifted his bound hands high, forcing him to bend forward.
"Very," Lankhmar's Overlord agreed. "I trust them to repeat nothing said within these walls." Throwing back his head, he laughed.
The Mouser's head slumped forward, and droplets of sweat rolled from his brow onto the floor as despair and anger filled his heart. Then slowly, even as his arms were twisted higher still, he lifted his head and glowered at Rokkarsh. "One way or another," he promised, "I'll see you in hell."
The Overlord ceased his laughter and rose slowly from his throne, and when he stood erect, in the brazier's flickering red glow, he seemed to keep on rising, growing until he filled all the Mouser's tortured vision. "Indeed you will," he whispered in low, dangerous tones that echoed through all the hall. "Indeed."
He gestured to the pair of giants. "Take him to the dungeons below," he instructed. "Strike off his head and cast his corpse into the worm pits." Sinking down on his throne again, he seemed to resume his normal size once more. He reached for a fresh peach, took a bite, and threw one leg over the carved arm of his royal seat, half-reclining. "Ah," he sighed, paying the Mouser no more attention. "I am in need of a nap."
The axemen jerked the Mouser off his feet and dragged him away, his heels scrabbling and kicking futilely on the marble tiles. Out of the great hall and through a darkened archway they went and into a shadowy passage illumined only by regularly placed, low-burning cressets. The axemen paused long enough to put the Mouser on his feet, then still gripping his arms, they escorted him at a brisk pace through windowless corridors, down flights of stone steps, deep into the bowels of the Rainbow Palace.
A damp, foul-smelling seepage coated the rough floor of the lowest sub-basement. From lightless, locked cells soft murmurings and groans issued as the Mouser's muttered cursing and the footsteps of his guards disturbed prisoners who had not seen the sunlight in countless days.
The sound chilled the Mouser's soul. He grew quiet as he eyed those cold, iron-barred doors, imagining the half-starved and tormented humans shut behind them. Suddenly he felt the pain in his bruised ribs again, the cuts and lacerations on his face, all the places where Rokkarsh's soldiers had punched and kicked and beaten him.
His guards dragged him into another chamber. More locked cells, barely perceived shuffling behind the bolted doors— someone pacing mindlessly. Rats, licking at the slime on the floor, scuttled out of the way, squeaking in protest. Here stood instruments of torture. Chains, racks, strappados, thumbscrews and ankle-vices, other devices unidentifiable even to the Mouser.
The next chamber contained only one device, a wooden platform with manacles for arms and legs. The Mouser's eyes widened in fear. He lunged against one of his guards, knocking him sideways, and turned to make a desperate escape. A huge hand caught his long hair, halting him painfully, and a meaty fist slammed against the side of his face. The Mouser hit the floor hard, his vision full of a red haze and bright pinpoints of light like a bloody sky burning with stars.
He felt himself lifted, placed on the platform. Manacles snapped around his ankles, then a knife swiftly cut his ropes. Forced down upon his back, cold iron bracelets clamped around his wrists. One of the giants laughed now, a harsh and ugly sound. From above the other guard fitted a leather strap under the Mouser's chin and jerked it tight, forcing the Mouser's head back until it nearly cut off his breath, and the muscles of his throat stood out with the tension.
The Mouser stared upward, terror gripping his heart. What a devilish device, to force the victim to witness the descent of the blade that meant his own execution. The largest of the giants stepped close, chuckling low as he regarded his helpless captive, an ugly sound from a tongueless mouth. He raised the axe in his two hands, chest swelling, muscles tensing, and swung it down.
Despite himself, the Mouser screamed.
A scant inch from the Mouser's throat, the axeman checked his swing. Looking to his partner, he chuckled again. The second guard ripped a piece of string from the hem of his loincloth and measured the distance from the Mouser's Adam's apple to the edge of the axe. Marking the string with his thumb, he handed it to the first guard and, taking up his own axe, moved into killing position.
Though he bit his lip, swearing not to give them the pleasure of a second scream, the Mouser nevertheless cried out as gleaming death hurtled down upon his offered throat.
Again, the axeman checked his swing, and his partner measured an even shorter distance with the piece of string. Swallowing, the Mouser could just feel the sharp metal edge brushing his skin. Grumbling, the first guard took up his axe again.
A movement near the chamber entrance caught the Mouser's attention. A black-cloaked figure swept into the room, its features concealed beneath a hood. A long-bladed sword arced high and whistled down upon the first guard's unprotected neck. A spray of hot blood fountained into the air.