Instead of seeking to dodge or ward off the missile, the black statue lowered its sword and merely wove its head in a tiny circle.
The axe closely circled the lean black head, like a silver wood-tailed comet whipping around a black sun, and came back straight at Fafhrd like a boomerang—and rather more swiftly than Fafhrd had sent it.
But time slowed for Fafhrd then and he half ducked and caught it left-handed as it went whizzing past his cheek.
His thoughts too went for a moment fast as his actions. He thought of how his adversary, able to dodge every frontal attack, had not avoided the table or the coffin behind him. He thought of how the Mouser had not laughed now for a dozen clashes and he looked at him and saw him, though still dazed-seeming, strangely pale and sober-faced, appearing to stare with horror at the blood running down Fafhrd’s arm.
So crying as heartily and merrily as he could, “Amuse yourself! Join in the fun, clown!—here’s your slap-stick,” Fafhrd tossed the axe toward the Mouser.
Without waiting to see the result of that toss—perhaps not daring to—he summoned up his last reserves of speed and rushed at the black statue in a circling advance that drove it back toward the coffin.
Without shifting his stupid horrified gaze, the Mouser stuck out a hand at the last possible moment and caught the axe by the handle as it spun lazily down.
As the black statue retreated near the coffin and poised for what promised to be a stupendous counter-attack, the Mouser leaned out and, now grinning foolishly again, sharply rapped its black pate with the axe.
The iron head split like a coconut, but did not come apart. Fafhrd’s hand-axe, wedged in it deeply, seemed to turn all at once to iron like the statue and its black haft was wrenched out of the Mouser’s hand as the statue stiffened up straight and tall.
The Mouser stared at the split head woefully, like a child who hadn’t known knives cut.
The statue brought its great sword flat against its chest, like a staff on which it might lean but did not, and it fell rigidly forward and hit the floor with a ponderous clank.
At that stony-metallic thundering, white wildfire ran across the Black Wall, lightening the whole shop like a distant levinbolt, and iron-basalt thundering echoed from deep within it.
Fafhrd sheathed Graywand, dragged the Mouser out of the black coffin—the fight hadn’t left him the strength to lift even his small friend—and shouted in his ear, “Come on! Run!”
The Mouser ran for the Black Wall.
Fafhrd snagged his wrist as he went by and plunged toward the arched door, dragging the Mouser after him.
The thunder faded out and there came a low whistle, cajolingly sweet.
Wildfire raced again across the Black Wall behind them—much more brightly this time, as if a lightning storm were racing toward them.
The white glare striking ahead imprinted one vision indelibly on Fafhrd’s brain: the giant spider in the inmost cage pressed against the bloodred bars to gaze down at them. It had pale legs and a velvet red body and a mask of sleek thick golden hair from which eight jet eyes peered, while its fanged jaws hanging down in the manner of the wide blades of a pair of golden scissors rattled together in a wild staccato rhythm like castanets.
That moment the cajoling whistle was repeated. It too seemed to be coming from the red and golden spider.
But strangest of all to Fafhrd was to hear the Mouser, dragged unwillingly along behind him, cry out in answer to the whistling, “Yes, darling, I’m coming. Let me go, Fafhrd! Let me climb to her! Just one kiss! Sweetheart!”
“Stop it, Mouser,” Fafhrd growled, his flesh crawling in mid-plunge. “It’s a giant spider!”
“Wipe the cobwebs out of your eyes, Fafhrd,” the Mouser retorted pleadingly and most unwittingly to the point. “It’s a gorgeous girl! I’ll never see her ticklesome like—and I’ve paid for her! Sweetheart!”
Then the booming thunder drowned his voice and any more whistling there might have been, and the wildfire came again, brighter than day, and another great thunderclap right on its heels, and the floor shuddered and the whole shop shook, and Fafhrd dragged the Mouser through the trefoil-arched doorway, and there was another great flash and clap.
The flash showed a semicircle of Lankhmarians peering ashen-faced overshoulder as they retreated across the Plaza of Dark Delights from the remarkable indoor thunderstorm that threatened to come out after them.
Fafhrd spun around. The archway had turned to blank wall.
The Bazaar of the Bizarre was gone from the World of Nehwon.
The Mouser, sitting on the dank flags where Fafhrd had dragged him, babbled wailfully, “The secrets of time and space! The lore of the gods! The mysteries of Hell! Black nirvana! Red and gold Heaven! Five pennies gone forever!”
Fafhrd set his teeth. A mighty resolve, rising from his many recent angers and bewilderments, crystallized in him.
Thus far he had used Sheelba’s cobweb—and Ningauble’s tatter too—only to serve others. Now he would use them for himself! He would peer at the Mouser more closely and at every person he knew. He would study even his own reflection! But most of all, he would stare Sheelba and Ning to their wizardly cores!
There came from overhead a low “Hssst!”
As he glanced up he felt something snatched from around his neck and, with the faintest tingling sensation, from off his eyes.
For a moment there was a shimmer traveling upward and through it he seemed to glimpse distortedly, as through thick glass, a black face with a cobwebby skin that entirely covered mouth and nostrils and eyes.
Then that dubious flash was gone and there were only two cowled heads peering down at him from over the wall top. There was chuckling laughter.
Then both cowled heads drew back out of sight and there was only the edge of the roof and the sky and the stars and the blank wall.