"Fafhrd!" the Mouser croaked, straining at his manacles, twisting his head as far as the strap beneath his chin allowed.
The figure made no answer. Knocking the corpse of the first guard aside before it could fall, his rescuer leaped upon the platform, nearly putting a boot in the Mouser's stomach as he swung his sword again. The second guard ducked and tried to swing his axe. Before he could lift it, a bolt sprouted from his left eye.
Surprised, the Mouser strained to twist his head again. Another cloaked figure stood in the doorway, a crossbow still braced against one shoulder. "You're not Fafhrd!" he said, rolling his eyes toward his nearer savior.
A gloved hand pushed back a concealing hood. Nuulpha grinned, his face flush with excitement. "Want me to leave?" he said.
The Mouser did his best to shrug. "As long as you're here ..."
Nuulpha's partner found a ring of keys on a peg near the entrance and tossed them. "Hurry!" the second figure insisted, shooting a nervous glance back over one shoulder.
Nuulpha fumbled with the keys, trying one after another in the manacles until he found one that fit the locks. Freed, the Mouser sat up, and with Nuulpha's help, stood.
"Aarth!" Nuulpha muttered. "Your face . . .!"
The Mouser touched his right cheek and winced. His right eye was nearly swollen shut, too. His whole face felt like overripe fruit. "You're not so pretty, yourself," he said, forcing a grin. Then he shook his head. "No, forget that. Right now, you're the prettiest thing I've ever seen."
"Kiss him later," hissed the figure guarding the doorway as it loaded a new bolt on the string. "Let's get out of here."
"Can you walk?" Nuulpha asked.
The Mouser nodded, relaxing his steadying grip on Nuulpha's arm. "If you don't particularly mind, I'd rather run. This damp environment is bad for my complexion."
"Walk or run. Just be prepared to fight," said the second figure, in a harsh whisper. Sweeping back one side of a cloak, a slender arm tossed a bundle toward the Mouser.
"Scalpel!" the Mouser exclaimed, as he unrolled his gray cloak and found his weapons. "Catsclaw!"
Nuulpha took the Mouser's arm again and steered him into the next chamber with an urgency. "When I heard someone had tried to break into the forbidden tower on Nun Street," Nuulpha whispered as they hurried through the dungeon, "I knew it was you. At the North Barracks I found your weapons and learned that Rokkarsh, himself, had demanded to see you."
A body sprawled in the corridor, blood oozing slowly from one ear to pool on the slimy floor. From the leather apron and the keyring at its side, the Mouser guessed Nuulpha had jumped the jailor.
Glancing at that keyring the Mouser asked, "Is there time to open some of these cells?"
"No!" said Nuulpha's partner, who prowled the corridor ahead as an advance scout. "Now shut up—before we're all caught!" Reaching the bottom of the staircase, the partner ignored the steps and instead ducked into the shadows below the stone cascade.
The sound of well-oiled gears turning shivered faintly through the air, followed by a barely audible scraping. A gleam of light drew a line near the floor, illuminating the partner's boots, then calves, knees, and thighs as it widened. A door, hidden beneath the stairs, rose. Just beyond its threshold, a lantern, suspended on a peg, limned Nuulpha's partner with a golden radiance.
With concealment no longer an advantage, the partner pushed back the concealing hood and shook free a curly mass of black hair before seizing the lantern and beckoning them onward.
The Mouser gaped, taking a full instant to realize through the surrounding light, that the face before him belonged to a young woman. Before he could say anything, she turned away and hurried down a narrow, stone-lined tunnel whose ceiling hung so low it nearly brushed her head.
Stepping into the tunnel, Nuulpha leaned on an iron lever embedded in the dusty floor. A narrow panel, seemingly made of thinly sliced granite, dropped into place with a clinking of chains. But for the lantern's light, which was moving ever farther up the tunnel, darkness ruled.
Crouching to avoid banging his head in the low passage, Nuulpha touched the Mouser's arm and urged him after the light. The Mouser, quickly as his aching muscles and injuries allowed, chased after that singular glow with his friend and rescuer close on his heels. As he went, he strapped on his weapons and tossed his light cloak over his shoulders, feeling a little better in familiar accoutrements.
"What is the lady's name?" the Mouser whispered over his shoulder as they strove to overtake Nuulpha's swiftly moving partner.
"Jesane is a lot of things," Nuulpha answered, "but she's no lady."
"Even better," the Mouser said with a grin. "Women with crossbows excite me. I've got a quarrel I'd like to fit to her string."
"You'll have more than a quarrel if she overhears you," Nuulpha warned, nudging him along. "Limp faster."
A narrow, stone-lined archway marked another passage that abruptly forked off to the right. Slowing his step, the Mouser stared into impenetrable darkness and repressed a shiver. Though he could not say how, he felt sure that something unseen not so far down that tunnel stared back at him, a malevolence so cold and ancient that he perceived it on a level deeper and more primitive than any of his five senses.
Humor deserted him. He hurried on until he stood at last in the umbra of Jesane's lantern, and when he spoke again, he kept his voice to the barest of whispers for fear of disturbing things best left undisturbed. "No rats," he muttered, eyeing the tunnel floor. In a place like this there should be hundreds of rats, thousands of rats. A queer urgency crept into his words. "Where are the rats?"
Neither Nuulpha, nor Jesane, answered, but in the lantern's yellow glow the Mouser caught the look on the soldier's face. He noted the grip Nuulpha kept on his sword and the manner in which Jesane held her cocked crossbow ready.
Swallowing nervously, he put a hand on his own slender sword and loosened it in its sheath. The walls seemed closer than ever, and he felt the weight of earth and rock above him as surely as if it rested on his shoulders.
Another archway and another darkness-filled passage branched off to the left. Only a few paces beyond that, yet another passage offered itself. Jesane led them under its low arch, and they soft-footed in a new direction. The lantern seemed a tiny shield against the overpowering blackness, and the Mouser found himself praying someone had remembered to fill its reservoir. The thought of getting lost down here. . . .
They turned into yet another tunnel, and the floor turned slick with slime, then muddy.
Without warning, the darkness burst with a glittering and glimmering. Neat pinpoints and jagged shimmering streaks of brilliance flared to sudden life. Jesane lifted the lantern higher as the Mouser caught his breath.
They walked no longer in a man-made tunnel, but in a natural cavern whose roof dripped spectacularly with stalactites. Bits of quartz and mica embedded in the formations, in the walls and roof, caught and scattered the lantern's glow, creating an eerie and awesome display.
"The underworld of Lankhmar," Nuulpha whispered. "A honeycomb of man-made tunnels, natural caves, and deep caverns. A secret closely guarded by the Overlord and the Great Noble Families with the cooperation of the high priests of certain powerful religions."
Instinctively the Mouser softened his step, and his gaze searched the shadows and gloom-filled crannies, the upper reaches, and the unyielding darkness beyond the reach of Jesane's small light. Such horrible, mysterious grandeur! Putting out a hand, he dragged his fingertips over the rough limestone surface and the jagged point of a stalagmite that rose as high as his waist. An overwhelming sense of age shivered through him.
Letting go of the stalagmite, he gazed upward again and imagined himself in a stygian mouth, between powerful jaws, monstrous teeth about to crush out his life.