“Now tell me I can’t hawk by full moon!” he cried out in great good humor. “I don’t know what happened in the room, or what luck you had, but as for the black bird that went in and came out—Lo! It is here!”
He pushed at a limp bundle of black feathers with his foot.
The Mouser hissed the names of several gods in quick succession, then asked, “But the jewel?”
“I don’t know about that,” said Fafhrd, brushing the matter aside. “Ah, but you should have seen it, little man! A wondrous fight!” His voice regained its enthusiasm. “The other one flew swift and cunningly but Kooskra here rose like the north wind up a mountain pass. For a while I lost them in the fray. There seemed to be something of a fight. Then Kooskra brought him down.”
The Mouser had dropped to his knees and was gingerly examining Kooskra’s quarry. He slipped a small knife from his belt.
“And to think,” continued Fafhrd, as he adjusted a leather hood over the eagle’s head, “that they told me these birds were demons or fierce phantasms of darkness! Faugh! They’re only ungainly, night-flying crows.”
“You talk too loudly,” said the Mouser. Then he looked up. “But there’s no gainsaying that tonight the eagle beat the fishpole. See what I found in this one’s gullet. He kept it to the end.”
Fafhrd snatched the ruby from the Mouser with his free hand and held it up to the moon.
“King’s ransom!” he cried. “Mouser, our fortune’s made! I see it all. We shall follow these birds as they rob and let Kooskra rape them of their booty.” He laughed aloud.
This time there was no warning beat of wings—only a gliding shadow which grazed Fafhrd’s upraised hand and slid silently away. It almost came to rest on the roof, then flapped powerfully upward.
“Blood of Kos!” cursed Fafhrd, waking from his dumbfounded amazement. “Mouser, he’s taken it!” Then, “At him, Kooskra! At him!” as he swiftly unhooded the eagle.
But this time it was apparent from the first that something was wrong. The beat of the eagle’s wings was slow, and he seemed to have difficulty gaining height. Nevertheless he drew near the quarry. The black bird veered suddenly, swooped, and rose again. The eagle followed closely, though his flight was still unsteady.
Wordlessly Fafhrd and the Mouser watched the birds approach the massive, high-reared tower of the deserted temple, until their feathered forms were silhouetted against its palely glowing, ancient surface.
Kooskra seemed then to recover full power. He gained a superior position, hovered while his quarry frantically darted and wheeled, then plummeted down.
“Got him, by Kos!” breathed Fafhrd, thumping his knee with his fist.
But it was not so. Kooskra struck at thin air. At the last moment the black bird had slipped aside and taken cover in one of the high-set windows of the tower.
And now it was certain beyond doubt that something was wrong with Kooskra. He sought to beat about the embrasure sheltering his quarry, but lost height. Abruptly he turned and flew out from the wall. His wings moved in an irregular and convulsive way. Fafhrd’s fingers tightened apprehensively on the Mouser’s shoulder.
As Kooskra reached a point above them, he gave a great wild scream that shook the soft Lankhmar night. Then he fell, like a dead leaf, circling and spinning. Only once again did he seem to make an effort to command his wings, and then to no avail.
He landed heavily a short distance from them. When Fafhrd reached the spot, Kooskra was dead.
The barbarian knelt there, absently smoothing the feathers, staring up at the tower. Puzzlement, anger, and some sorrow lined his face.
“Fly north, old bird,” he murmured in a deep, small voice. “Fly into nothingness, Kooskra.” Then he spoke to the Mouser. “I find no wounds. Nothing touched him on this flight, I’ll swear.”
“It happened when he brought down the other,” said the Mouser soberly. “You did not look at the talons of that ugly fowl. They were smeared with a greenish stuff. Through some small gouge it entered him. Death was in him while he sat on your wrist, and it worked faster when he flew at the black bird.”
Fafhrd nodded, still staring at the tower. “We’ve lost a fortune and a faithful killer, tonight. But the night’s not done. I have a curiosity about these death-dealing shadows.”
“What are you thinking?” asked the Mouser.
“That a man might easily hurl a grapnel and a line over a corner of that tower, and that I have such a line wound around my waist. We used it to mount Muulsh’s roof, and I shall use it again. Don’t waste your words, little man. Muulsh? What have we to fear from him? He saw a bird take the jewel. Why should he send guards to search the roofs?
“Yes, I know the bird will fly away when I go after him. But he may drop the jewel, or you may get in a lucky cast with your sling. Besides, I have a special notion about these matters. Poison claws? I’ll wear my gloves and cloak, and carry a naked dagger. Come on, little man. We’ll not argue. That corner away from Muulsh’s and the river should do the trick. The one where the tiny broken spire rises. We come, oh tower!” And he shook his fist.
The Mouser hummed a fragment of song under his breath and kept glancing around apprehensively, as he steadied the line by which Fafhrd was mounting the wall of the tower-temple. He felt decidedly ill at ease, what with Fafhrd on a fool’s errand, and the night’s luck probably run out, and the ancient temple silent and desolate.
It was forbidden on pain of death to enter such places, and no man knew what evil things might lurk there, fattening on loneliness. Besides all that, the moonlight was too revealing; he winced at the thought of what excellent targets he and Fafhrd made against the wall.
In his ears droned the low but mighty clamor of the waters of the Hlal, which swished and eddied past the base of the opposite wall. Once it seemed to him that the temple itself vibrated as though the Hlal were gnawing at its vitals.
Before his feet yawned the dark, six-foot chasm separating the warehouse from the temple. It allowed a sidewise glimpse of the walled temple-garden, overgrown with pale weeds and clogged with decay.
And now as he glanced in that direction he saw something that made him raise his eyebrows and sent a shiver crawling over his scalp. For across the moonlit space stole a manlike but unwholesomely bulky figure.
The Mouser’s impression was that the strange body lacked the characteristic human curves and taperings of limb, that its face lacked features, that it was unpleasantly froglike. It seemed to be colored a uniform dull brown.
It vanished in the direction of the temple. What was it, the Mouser could not for the moment conjecture.
Intent on warning Fafhrd, he looked up, but the barbarian was already swinging into the embrasure at a dizzy height above. Disliking to shout, he paused undecided, half of a mind to skin up the line and join his comrade. All the while he kept humming a fragment of song—one used by thieves and supposed to enforce slumber on the inmates of a house being robbed. He wished fervently that the moon would get under a cloud.
Then, as if his fear had fathered a reality, something roughly grazed his ear and hit with a deadened thump against the temple wall. He knew what that meant—a ball of wet clay projected by a sling.
As he let his body collapse, two similar missiles followed the first. Close range, he could tell from the impact, and designed to kill rather than stun. He scanned the moonlit roof, but could see nothing. Before his knees touched the roof he had decided what he must do if he were to help Fafhrd at all. There was one quick way of retreat and he took it.
He grasped the long slack of the rope and dove into the chasm between the buildings, as three more balls of clay flattened against the wall.
As Fafhrd warily swung into the embrasure and found solid footing, he realized what had been bothering him about the character of the weatherworn carvings on the ancient wall: in one way or another they all seemed to be concerned with birds—raptorial birds in particular—and with human beings having grotesque avian features: beaked heads, batlike wings, and taloned limbs.
There was a whole border of such creatures around the embrasure, and the projecting stone ornament over which the grapnel was caught represented the head of a hawk. This unpleasant coincidence loosened the stout gates of fear within him and a faint sense of awe and horror trickled into his mind, extinguishing a part of his anger at Kooskra’s repellent death. But at the same time it served to confirm certain vague notions that had come to him earlier.