The First Book of Lankhmar

forbidding her ascent. They called my father the Legend Breaker and shrugged wisely when he died on White Fang.... Truly, my memory's not so good for those days, Mouser — I got many a mind-shattering knock on my head before I learned to deal all knocks first ... and then I was hardly a boy when the clan left the Cold Waste — though the rough hard walls of Obelisk Polaris had been my upended playground...."
           The Mouser nodded doubtfully. In the stillness they heard their tethered ponies munching the ice-crisped grass of the hollow, then a faint unangry growl from Hrissa the ice-cat, curled between the tiny fire and the piled baggage — likely one of the ponies had come cropping too close. On the great icy plain around them, nothing moved — or almost nothing.
           The Mouser dipped gray lambskin-gloved fingers into the bottom of his pouch and from the pocket there withdrew a tiny oblong of parchment and read from it, more by memory than sight:
    "Who mounts white Stardock, the Moon Tree,
    "Past worm and gnome and unseen bars,
    "Will win the key to luxury:
    "The Heart of Light, a pouch of stars."
           Fafhrd said dreamily, "They say the gods once dwelt and had their smithies on Stardock and from thence, amid jetting fire and showering sparks, launched all the stars; hence her name. They say diamonds, rubies, smaragds — all great gems — are the tiny pilot models the gods made of the stars ... and then threw carelessly away across the world when their great work was done."
           "You never told me that before," the Mouser said, looking at him sharply.
           Fafhrd blinked his eyes and frowned puzzledly. "I am beginning to remember childhood things."
           The Mouser smiled thinly before returning the parchment to its deep pocket. "The guess that a pouch of stars might be a bag of gems," he listed, "the story that Nehwon's biggest diamond is called the Heart of Light, a few words on a ramskin scrap in the topmost room of a desert tower locked and sealed for centuries — small hints, those, to draw two men across this murdering, monotonous Cold Waste. Tell me, Old Horse, were you just homesick for the miserable white meadows of your birth to pretend to believe 'em?"
           "Those small hints," Fafhrd said, gazing now toward White Fang, "drew other men north across Nehwon. There must have been other ramskin scraps, though why they should be discovered at the same time, I cannot guess."
           "We left all such fellows behind at Illik-Ving, or Lankhmar even, before we ever mounted the Trollsteps," the Mouser asserted with complete confidence. "Weak sisters, they were, smelling loot but quailing at hardship."
           Fafhrd gave a small headshake and pointed. Between them and White Fang rose the tiniest thread of black smoke.
           "Did Gnarfi and Kranarch seem weak sisters? — to name but two of the other seekers," he asked when the Mouser finally saw and nodded.
           "It could be," the Mouser agreed gloomily. "Though aren't there any ordinary travelers of this Waste? Not that we've seen a man-shaped soul since the Mingol."
           Fafhrd said thoughtfully, "It might be an encampment of the ice gnomes ... though they seldom leave their caves except at High Summer, now a month gone...." He broke off, frowning puzzledly. "Now how did I know that?"
           "Another childhood memory bobbing to the top of the black pot?" the Mouser hazarded. Fafhrd shrugged doubtfully.
           "So, for choice, Kranarch and Gnarfi," the Mouser concluded. "Two strong brothers, I'll concede. Perhaps we should have picked a fight with 'em at Illik-Ving," he suggested. "Or perhaps even now ... a swift march by night ... a sudden swoop — "
           Fafhrd shook his head. "Now we're climbers, not killers," he said. "A man must be all climber to dare Stardock." He directed the Mouser's gaze back toward the tallest mountain. "Let's rather study her west wall while the light holds.
           "Begin first at her feet," he said. "That glimmering skirt falling from her snowy hips, which are almost as high as the Obelisk — that's the White Waterfall, where no man may live.
           "Now to her head again. From her flat tilted snowcap hang two great swelling braids of snow, streaming almost perpetually with avalanches, as if she combed 'em day and night — the Tresses, those are called. Between them's a wide ladder of dark