The First Book of Lankhmar

warning. Fafhrd and he looked toward the tent's night-slitted skin door and loosened their swords in their scabbards.
           At that instant the hag's noisy breathing stopped and with it all other sound. Her eyes opened, showing only whites  —  milky ovals infinitely eerie in the dark root-tangle of her sharp features and stringy hair. The gray tip of her tongue traveled like a large maggot around her lips.
           The Mouser made to comment, but the out-thrust palm-side of Fafhrd's spread-fingered hand was more compelling than any shh.
           In a voice low but remarkably clear, almost a girl's voice, the hag intoned:
    "For reasons sorcerous and dim
    You travel toward the world's frost rim...."
           "Dim" is the key word there, the Mouser thought. Typical witchy say-nothing. She clearly knows naught about us except that we're headed north, which she could get from any gossipy mouth .
    "You north, north, north, and north must go
    Through dagger-ice and powder-snow...."
           More of the same, was the Mouser's inward comment. But must she rub it in, even the snow? Brr!
    "And many a rival, envy-eyed,
    Will dog your steps until you've died...."
           Aha, the inevitable fright-thrust, without which no fortune-tale is complete!
    "But after peril's cleansing fire
    You'll meet at last your hearts' desire...."
           And now pat the happy ending! Gods, but the stupidest palm-reading prostitute of Ilthmar could  — 
           Something silvery gray flashed across the Mouser's eyes, so close its form was blurred. Without a thought he ducked back and drew Scalpel.
           The razor-sharp spear-blade, driven through the tent's side as if it were paper, stopped inches from Fafhrd's head and was dragged back.
           A javelin hurtled out of the hide wall. This the Mouser struck aside with his sword.
           Now a storm of cries rose outside. The burden of some was, "Death to the strangers!" Of others, "Come out, dogs, and be killed!"
           The Mouser faced the skin door, his gaze darting.
           Fafhrd, almost as quick to react as the Mouser, hit on a somewhat irregular solution to their knotty tactical problem: that of men besieged in a fortress whose walls neither protect them nor permit outward viewing. At first step, he leaped to the tent's central pole and with a great heave drew it from the earth.
           The witch, likewise reacting with good solid sense, threw herself flat on the dirt.
           "We decamp!" Fafhrd cried. "Mouser, guard our front and guide me!"
           And with that he charged toward the door, carrying the whole tent with him. There was a rapid series of little explosions as the somewhat brittle old thongs that tied its rawhide sides to its pegs snapped. The brazier tumbled over, scattering coals. The hag was overpassed. The Mouser, running ahead of Fafhrd, threw wide the door-slit. He had to use Scalpel at once, to parry a sword thrust out of the dark, but with his other hand he kept the door spread.
           The opposing swordsman was bowled over, perhaps a bit startled at being attacked by the tent. The Mouser trod on him. He thought he heard ribs snap as Fafhrd did the same, which seemed a nice if brutal touch. Then he was crying out, "Veer left now, Fafhrd! Now to the right a little! There's an alley coming up on our left. Be ready to turn sharp into it when I give the word. Now!" And grasping the door's hide edges, the Mouser helped swing the tent as Fafhrd pivoted.
           From behind came cries of rage and wonder, also a screeching that sounded like the hag, enraged at the theft of her home.
           The alley was so narrow that the tent's sides dragged against buildings and fences. At the first sign of a soft spot in the dirt underfoot, Fafhrd drove the tent-pole into it, and they both dashed out of the tent, leaving it blocking the alley.
           The cries behind them grew suddenly louder as their pursuers turned into the alley, but Fafhrd and the Mouser did not run off over-swiftly. It seemed certain their attackers would spend considerable time scouting and assaulting the empty tent.
           They loped together through the outskirts of the sleeping city toward their own well-hidden camp outside it. Their nostrils sucked in the chill, bracing air funneling down from the best pass through the Trollstep Mountains, a craggy chain which walled off the Land of