Fafhrd had taken advantage of the shocks to seize his sword and ax from the ones holding them nervelessly, and to push forward by Hasjarl as if properly to ward him standing alone and unshielded in front of his men. Now Fafhrd lightly nudged Hasjarl and whispered through his bag-mask, “Take him up on it, you were best. I’ll win your stuffy loathy catacomb kingdom for you—aye, and once rewarded depart from it swifter ever than Gwaay!”
Hasjarl grimaced angrily at him and turning toward Flindach shouted,—”I am Lord Paramount here, and no need of lots to determine it! Yes, and I have my arch-magi to strike down any who sorcerously challenge me!—and my great champion to smite to mincemeat any who challenge me with swords!”
Fafhrd threw out his chest and glared about through red-ringed eyeholes to back him up.
The silence that followed Hasjarl’s boast was cut as if by keenest knife when a voice came piercingly dulcet from the unstirring low mound on the litter, cornered by its four impassive tread-slaves, or from a point just above it.
“I, Gwaay of the Lower Levels, am Lord Paramount of Quarmall, and not my poor brother there, for whose damned soul I grieve. And I have sorceries which have saved my life from the evilest of his sorceries and I have a champion who will smite his champion to chaff!”
All were somewhat daunted at that seemingly magical speaking except Hasjarl, who giggled sputteringly, twitching a-main, and then as if he and his brother were children alone in a playroom, cried out, “Liar and squeaker of lies! Effeminate boaster! Puny charlatan! Where is this great champion of yours? Call him forth! Bid him appear! Oh confess it now, he’s but a figment of your dying thoughts! Oh, ho, ho, ho!”
All began to look around wonderingly at that, some thoughtful, some apprehensive. But as no figure appeared, certainly not a warlike one, some of Hasjarl’s men began to snigger with him. Others of them took it up.
The Gray Mouser had no wish to risk his skin—not with Hasjarl’s champion looking a meaner foe every moment, side armed with ax like Fafhrd and now apparently even acting as counselor to his lord—perhaps a sort of captain-general behind the curtain, as he was behind Gwaay’s—yet the Mouser was almost irresistibly tempted by this opportunity to cap all surprises with a master surprise.
And in that instant there sounded forth again Gwaay’s eerie bell-voice, coming not from his vocal cords, for they were rotted away, but created by the force of his deathless will marshaling the unseen atomies of the air:
“From the blackest depths, unseen by all, in very center of the Hall—Appear, my champion!”
That was too much for the Mouser. Ivivis had reassumed her hooded black robe while Flindach had been speaking, knowing that the terror of her hag-mask and maiden-form was a fleeting thing, and she again stood beside the Mouser as his acolyte. He handed her his wand in one stiff gesture, not looking at her, and lifting his hands to the throat of his robe, he threw it and his hood back and dropped them behind him, and drawing Scalpel whistling from her sheath leaped forward with a heel-stamp to the top of the three steps and crouched glaring with sword raised above head, looking in his gray silks and silver a figure of menace, albeit a rather small one and carrying at his belt a wineskin as well as a dagger.
Meanwhile Fafhrd, who had been facing Hasjarl to have a last word with him, now ripped off his red bag-mask, whipped Graywand screaming from his sheath, and leaped forward likewise with an intimidating stamp.
Then they saw and recognized each other.
The pause that ensued was to the spectators more testimony to the fearsomeness of each—the one so dreadful-tall, the other metamorphosed from sorcerer. Evidently they daunted each other greatly.
Fafhrd was the first to react, perhaps because there had been something hauntingly familiar to him all along about the manner and speech of the Black Sorcerer. He started a gargantuan laugh and managed to change it in the nick into a screaming snarl of, “Trickster! Chatterer! Player at magic! Sniffer after spells. Wart! Little Toad!”
The Mouser, mayhap the more amazed because he had noted and discounted the resemblance of the masked champion to Fafhrd, now took his comrade’s cue—and just in time, for he was about to laugh too—and boomed back,
“Boaster! Bumptious brawler! Bumbling fumbler after girls! Oaf! Lout! Big Feet!”
The taut spectators thought these taunts a shade mild, but the spiritedness of their delivery more than made up for that.
Fafhrd advanced another stamp, crying, “Oh, I have dreamed of this moment. I will mince you from your thickening toenails to your cheesy brain!”
The Mouser bounced for his stamp, so as not to lose height going down the steps, and skirled out the while, “All my rages find happy vent. I will gut you of each lie, especially those about your northern travels!”
Then Fafhrd cried, “Remember Ool Hrusp!” and the Mouser responded, “Remember Lithquil!” and they were at it.
Now for all most of the Quarmallians knew, Lithquil and Ool Hrusp might be and doubtless were places where the two heroes had earlier met in fight, or battlefields where they had warred on opposing sides, or even girls they had fought over. But in actuality Lithquil was the Mad Duke of the city of Ool Hrusp, to humor whom Fafhrd and the Mouser had once staged a most realistic and carefully rehearsed duel lasting a full half hour. So those Quarmallians who anticipated a long and spectacular battle were in no wise disappointed.
First Fafhrd aimed three mighty slashing blows, any one enough to cleave the Mouser in twain, but the Mouser deflected each at the last moment strongly and cunningly with Scalpel, so that they whished an inch above his head, singing the harsh chromatic song of steel on steel.
Next the Mouser thrust thrice at Fafhrd, leaping skimmingly like a flying fish and disengaging his sword each time from Graywand’s parry. But Fafhrd always managed to slip his body aside, with nearly incredible swiftness for one so big, and the thin blade would go hurtlessly by him.
This interchange of slash and thrust was but the merest prologue to the duel, which now carried into the area of the dried-up fountain pool and became very wild-seeming indeed, forcing the spectators back more than once, while the Mouser improvised by gushing out some of his thick blood-red toadstool wine when they were momentarily pressed body-to-body in a fierce exchange, so that they both appeared sorely wounded.
There were three in the Ghost Hall who took no interest in this seeming masterpiece of duels and hardly watched it. Ivivis was not one of them—she soon threw back her hood, tore off her hag-mask, and came following the fight close, cheering on the Mouser. Nor were they Brilla, Kewissa and Friska—for at the sound of swords the two girls had insisted on opening their door a crack despite the eunuch’s solicitous apprehensions and now they were all peering through, head above head, Friska in the midst agonizing at Fafhrd’s perils.
Gwaay’s eyes were clotted and the lids glued with ichor, and the tendons were dissolved whereby he might have lifted his head. Nor did he seek to explore with his sorcerous senses in the direction of the fight. He clung to existence solely by the thread of his great hatred for his brother, all else of life was to him less than a shadow-show; yet his hate held for him all of life’s wonder and sweetness and high excitement—it was enough.
The mirror image of that hate in Hasjarl was at this moment strong enough too to dominate wholly his healthy body’s instincts and hungers and all the plots and images in his crackling thoughts. He saw the first stroke of the fight, he saw Gwaay’s litter unguarded, and then as if he had seen entire a winning combination of chess and been hypnotized by it, he made his move without another cogitation.
Widely circling the fight and moving swiftly in the shadows like a weasel, he mounted the three steps by the wall and headed straight for the litter.
There were no ideas in his mind at all, but there were some shadowy images distortedly seen as from a great distances—one of himself as a tiny child toddling by night along a wall to Gwaay’s crib, to scratch him with a pin.
He did not spare a glance for the tread-slaves, and it is doubtful if they even saw, or at least took note of him, so rudimentary were their minds.
He leaned eagerly between two of them and curiously surveyed his brother. His nostrils drew in at the stench, and his mouth contracted to its tightest sphincter yet still smiled.
He plucked a wide dagger of blued steel from a sheath at his belt and poised it above his brother’s face, which by its plagues was almost unrecognizable as such. The honed edges of the dagger were tiny hooks directed back from the point.