Graywand writhed in Fafhrd's grip, transforming itself into a ruby-eyed, tongue-lashing serpent. It coiled around Fafhrd's wrist and sank fangs deep into his bicep.
It was only an illusion, but the unexpectedness of it, coupled with Fafhrd's utter revulsion for snakes, proved an effective distraction.
Malygris ran.
EIGHTEEN
FESTIVAL’S END
Wrapped in his cloak, the Gray Mouser skulked through the shadows by the rutted road that ran parallel to the river. His keen eyes searched the riverbank. He sniffed the air. He listened, but except for the tranquil purling of that black ribbon of water, the night kept its silence.
Thin lips moved in a soundless curse.
Bad enough that Fafhrd had attempted to sneak past a sleeping Mouser without waking him. The Mouser's ego still smarted at that insult. Why, not so much as a rat, nay a roach on the floor, could slip by without stirring the Mouser, so lightly did he sleep!
But to actually have lost the great log-foot in the winding alleys east of Nun Street!
A brow furrowed under a gray hood, and one gray-gloved fist ground against a gloved palm. Disgusted with himself, the Mouser shook his head and prayed to Mog that Fafhrd hadn't purposefully given him the slip. He imagined the arrogant lummox crouching behind some barrel, chuckling to himself, then darting right into the shadows when the Mouser went left.
The Mouser knew he'd never hear the end of it, nor live down the shame if his partner had, indeed, tricked him.
Maybe he should have just stayed behind and spared himself potential embarrassment.
He scowled at another thought. What if Fafhrd was just sneaking out for some woman or a taste of the grape? Why partner or no partner, the Mouser would crown that splendid red head with the nearest wine-pot!
The thought of wine made him thirsty. Licking dry lips, he glided through thick grass down the riverbank’s gentle slope to the river's edge. Bending low, he put his fingers into the softly flowing water. Its strange warmth surprised him. Marveling, he drew his hand out and thrust it back in again, sending small ripples dancing into the darkness.
Blood warm, he thought morbidly. With a curious trepidation, he raised his wet fingers and put them in his mouth. Only water. He chided himself for an overly imaginative fool. Cupping one palm, he took a deeper drink and wiped his hand on his cloak as he rose.
Far down the shore, the faint light of a campfire glimmered. Gypsies, he expected. Still, lacking any other sense of Fafhrd's direction, he crept toward that flickering glow.
The fire reminded him sadly of Demptha's great burned library and the blaze at Sadaster's estate. So many books—so much knowledge lost. His heart ached at the loss, and his chest swelled with anger.
Yet, what was gained by anger alone? Once again, he put his mind to work searching for answers to questions he could barely form, convinced that Malygris alone was no longer their only foe. Sadaster and Demptha, he murmured to himself.
What was the connection?
Concealed by the grass and the darkness, a narrow drainage ditch crossed the Mouser's path, carrying sewage and run-off from the edge of the city to the river. The Mouser's next step landed several inches lower than anticipated, and his foot slipped in a black slime. The world tilted, and the sky spun sharply clockwise. Choking back an outcry, the Mouser toppled sideways with a muted splash.
Muttering curses, he dragged himself up and scrambled out of the ditch. A miasma swam in his nostrils. Mud covered his garments, saturated them. Disgust wrinkling his face, he shook black filth from his hands and fingers. "Capricious gods!" he grumbled as he bent down and wiped his hands in the grass. Unsatisfied, he went back to the river's shore and plunged them in the water.
Nothing could be done about his clothes. He sniffed himself and nearly gagged on the stench. Boots, trousers, sleeves, cloak—he took a mental inventory and cursed again. "What a world," he groused. "What a fine, pungent perfume for a dainty fellow like me!"
Muffled voices, born over the water, drew the Mouser's attention from his smelly plight. He turned his head toward the distant campfire again, slowly rising. Now he spied a second, smaller flame. A torch, perhaps?
He chewed his lower lip, listening, and his eyes narrowed suddenly. Despite the distance and the sound-distorting effect of the river, one of those voices carried a familiar note.
Forgetting his condition, he began to run. The sloping ground dipped and rolled under his feet. His sheathed sword slapped his leg, and his hood fell away from his face. In the darkness, he stumbled, caught his balance, and kept running toward the campfire and the voices, which now were shouts, and one of them unmistakably belonged to Fafhrd!
Cast by the campfire, elongated shadows shifted and stirred over the dark sward. At the heart of those shadows, Fafhrd spun and danced like a drunken fool with arms outstretched, hands grasping at the air, head thrown back with a drunkard's fascination for the stars.
With a natural caution, the Mouser stopped just beyond the reach of the light and crouched in the grass. Only an idiot rushed headlong into a fight without assessing the situation, and he considered himself no idiot.
But was this a fight? Though he had clearly heard two voices before, he saw no foe. Fafhrd shouted and cursed, and as the Mouser watched, the Northerner flung himself on the ground, twitching and kicking.
In horror, the Mouser cursed caution and prepared to rush to Fafhrd's side.
Before he could move, a chilling laugh rang out. "I can make this torment last all night," a voice said. "Tell me! Did you touch Laurian?"
The Mouser flattened himself in the grass, his gaze searching. At the very eastern edge of the campfire's glow, barely visible in the night, a figure stood with grim expression and bitter eyes, one arm extended, fingers clutching air in a menacing gesture.
Malygris!
The Mouser knew the wizard instantly and without doubt. Breath caught in his throat, and excitement quickened his heart. Here at last was their foe!
The wizard took a single step toward Fafhrd, crossing the tenuous border of darkness to stand just within the light of the campfire. His skin gleamed silver and orange, and the glow filled his angry gaze, lending it a queer quality.
The Mouser almost gasped aloud, recalling an image of Malygris that Sheelba had conjured from a campfire in the dark of night. For an instant, image and man made a perfect match, right down to the arrogant pose.
Then Malygris moved again and the match shattered. For one thing, the man was clothed in rags, and the Mouser noted the way he nursed an injured arm.
Fafhrd thrust his huge sword into the ground. Using it like a crutch, he attempted to rise and made it to his knees. "How long will your torment last?" he shouted in answer.
The Mouser ceased to listen. He rolled away from the edge of the light into deeper darkness. When he thought himself safely invisible, he rose and circled around behind Malygris, putting himself between the wizard and the city.
Fafhrd continued to shout, and his gaze darted off at strange angles as he reacted to things the Mouser couldn't see. Yet the Northerner climbed unsteadily to his feet and leaned on the sword.
Achieving the position he preferred, the Mouser drew his slender blade and crept down the easy slope, his boots making no sound in the soft grass and spongy earth. Malygris's broad back offered itself. If Fafhrd held the wizard's attention just a little longer, Scalpel would draw the precious, needed drop of heart-blood. Then let Sheelba work his magic and end this nightmare!
The wizard howled with a soul-deep pain and anger that froze the Mouser in his tracks before he could strike the fatal thrust. Then, clutching suddenly at that injured arm, Malygris howled a second time.