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bow and laughed.
"They seemed to have scampered off," he said. "Doubtless they're running back
to their little green hill to warm themselves. At any rate, we're rid of
them."
"Yes, just as we were yesterday," the Mouser commented dryly. "The fall of the
knifer didn't seem to worry them at all, but doubtless they're scared witless
because you put an arrow into another of their party."
"Well, at all events," Fafhrd said curtly, "granting that there were seven
black priests to begin with, there are now but five."
And he led the way down the other side of the hill, taking big reckless
strides. The Mouser followed slowly, a stone rocking in his dangled sling and
his gaze questing restlessly to every side. When they came to snow, he studied
it, but there were no tracks as far as he could see to either side. By the
time he reached the foot of the hill, Fafhrd was a sling's cast ahead. To make
up the distance, the Mouser began a soft-footed, easy lope, yet he did not
desist from his watchfulness. His attention was attracted by a squat hummock
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of snow just ahead of Fafhrd. Shadows might have told him whether there was
anything crouched behind it, but the yellow-purple haze hid the sun, so he
kept on watching the hummock, meanwhile speeding up his pace. He reached the
hummock and saw there was no one behind it almost at the moment he caught up
with Fafhrd.
The hummock exploded into a scatter of snow-chunks and a black sag-
bellied figure erupted out of it at Fafhrd, ebony arm extended for a knife-
slash at the Northerner's neck. Almost simultaneously the Mouser lunged
forward, whirling his sling backhanded. The stone, still in the leather loop,
caught the slasher high in the face. The curved knife missed by inches. The
slasher fell. Fafhrd looked around with mild interest.
The attacker's forehead was so deeply indented that there could be no question
of his condition, yet the Mouser stared down at him for a long time.
"A man of Klesh, all right," he said broodingly, "but fatter. Armored against
the cold. Strange they should have come so far to serve their god." He looked
up and without raising his arm from his side, sharply twirled his sling --
much as a bravo might in some alley as a warning to skulkers.
"Four to go," he said and Fafhrd nodded slowly and soberly.
All day they trod across the Cold Waste -- watchfully, but without further
incident. A wind came up and the cold bit. The Mouser pulled in his hood so
that it covered his mouth and nose, while even Fafhrd hugged his cloak closer
around him.
As the sky was darkening to umber and indigo, Fafhrd suddenly stopped and
strung his bow and let fly. For a moment the Mouser, who was a bit bothered by
his comrade's bemused air, thought that the Northerner was shooting at mere
snow. Then the snow leaped, kicking four gray hooves, and the
Mouser realized Fafhrd had brought down white-furred meat. He licked his numb
lips greedily as Fafhrd swiftly bled and gutted the animal and slung it over
his shoulder.
A little way ahead was an outcropping of black rock. Fafhrd studied it for a
moment, then took an axe from his belt and struck the rock a careful blow with
the back of the head. The Mouser eagerly gathered in the corner of his cloak
the large and small chunks that flaked off. He could feel their oiliness and
he felt warmed by the mere thought of the rich flame they would make.
Just beyond the outcropping was a low cliff and at its base a cave-
mouth slightly sheltered by a tall rock perhaps two spears' lengths in front
of it. The Mouser felt a great glow of anticipated content as he followed
Fafhrd toward the inviting dark orifice. He had greatly feared, being numb
with cold, aching with fatigue, famished, that they might have to camp out and
content themselves with the bones of yesternight's birds. Now in an
astonishingly short space they had found food, fuel, shelter. So wonderfully
convenient...
And then, as Fafhrd rounded the sheltering rock and strode toward the
cave-mouth, the thought came to the Mouser: Much too convenient. Without
further thought, he dropped the coal and sprang at his comrade, hurling the
huge fellow flat on his face.
A dart hissed close over him and clicked faintly against the sheltering rock.
Again without pause the Mouser darted into the cave-mouth, whipping his sword
Scalpel from its sheath. As he entered the cave he zigged a bit to the left,
then zagged suddenly to the right and flattened himself against the rocky wall
there, slashing prudently at the darkness as he tried to pierce it with his
gaze.
Across from him, on the other side of the mouth, the cave bent back in an
elbow, the end of which, to the Mouser's amazement, was not dark but dimly lit
by a pulsing light that seemed neither that of fire nor the outer twilight. If
anything, it resembled the unnatural glow they had seen back in the Bones of
the Old Ones.
But unnatural or not, it had the advantage of silhouetting the Mouser's
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antagonist. The squat fellow was now gripping a curved knife rather than a
blowgun. As the Mouser sprang at him, he scuttled back along the elbow and
dodged around the corner from behind which the pulsing glow came. To the
Mouser's further amazement, he felt not only a growing warmth as he pursued
but also moistness in the air. He rounded the corner. The black priest, who'd
stopped just beyond it, lunged at him. But the Mouser was prepared for this
and Scalpel took his adversary neatly in the chest, just off center,
transfixing him, while the curved knife slashed only steamy air.
For a moment the fanatic priest tried to work his way up along the thin blade
and so get within striking distance of the Mouser. Then the nefarious glare
died in the priest's eyes and he slumped, while the Mouser distastefully
whipped out the blade.
The priest tottered back into the steamy glow, which the Mouser now saw came
from a small pit just beyond. With a blood-choking gargling moan the black one
stepped back into the pit and vanished. There was a scuff of flesh against
rock, a pause, and then a faint splash, and then no sound at all, except for
the soft, distant bubbling and seething that the Mouser now realized came
steadily from the pit -- that is, until Fafhrd came clumping up belatedly.
"Three to go," the Mouser informed him casually. "The fourth is cooking at the
bottom of that pit. But I want broiled dinner tonight, not boiled, and
besides, I haven't a long enough fork. So fetch in the black stones I
dropped."
Fafhrd objected at first, eyeing the steam-and-fire vent almost
superstitiously, and urged that they seek other lodging. But the Mouser argued
that to spend the night in the now-empty, easily scanned cave was far better
than to risk ambush in the outer dark. To the Mouser's relief Fafhrd agreed
after peering down the pit for possible handholds that might help a live or
boiled attacker. The small man had no desire to leave this pleasantly steamy
spot.
The fire was built against the outer wall of the cave and near the mouth, so
that no one could creep in without being revealed by its flames.
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