The First Book of Lankhmar

Hringorl's. They stopped at the brink. Hringorl swung his torch in a great circle of flame. The light showed the face of Harrax beside him. Once, twice, thrice, as if in signal to someone far south down the canyon. Then they raced for the stable.
           Fafhrd ran for Godshall. There was a harsh cry behind him. He stopped and turned again. Out of the stable galloped a big horse. Hringorl rode it. He dragged by rope a man on skis: Harrax. The pair careened down the New Road in a flaring upswirl of snow.
           Fafhrd raced on until he was past Godshall and a quarter way up the slope leading to the Tent of the Women. He cast off his pack, opened it, drew his skis from it and strapped them to his feet. Next he unwrapped his father's sword and belted it to his left side, balancing his pouch on right.
           Then he faced Trollstep Canyon where the Old Road had gone. He took up two of his ski sticks, crouched, and dug them in. His face was a skull, the visage of one who casts dice with Death.
           At that instant, beyond Godshall, the way he had come, there was a tiny yellow sputtering. He paused for it, counting heartbeats, he knew not why.
           Nine, ten, eleven — there was a great flare of flame. The rocket rose, signaling tonight's Show. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three — and the tail-flame faded and the nine white stars burst out.
           Fafhrd dropped his ski sticks, picked up one of the three rockets he'd stolen, and drew its fuse from its end, pulling just hard enough to break the cementing tar without breaking the fuse.
           Holding the slender, finger-long, tarry cylinder delicately between his teeth, he took his fire-pot out of his pouch. The bubblestone was barely warm. He unlaced the top and brushed away the ashes below until he saw — and was stung by — a red glow.
           He took the fuse from between his teeth and placed it so that one end leaned on the edge of the fire-pot while the other end touched the red glow. There was a sputtering. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve — and the sputtering became a flaring jet, then was done.
           Setting his fire-pot on the snow, he took up the two remaining rockets, and hugged their thick bodies under his arms and dug their tails into the snow, testing them against the ground. The tails were truly as stiff and strong as ski sticks.
           He held the rockets propped parallel in one hand and blew hard on the glowing fire-patch in his fire-pot and brought it up toward the two fuses.
           Mara ran out of the dark and said, "Darling, I'm so glad my kin didn't catch you!"
           The glow of the fire-pot showed the beauty of her face.
           Staring at her across it, Fafhrd said, "I'm leaving Cold Corner. I'm leaving the Snow Tribe. I'm leaving you."
           Mara said, "You can't."
           Fafhrd set down the fire-pot and the rockets.
           Mara stretched out her hands.
           Fafhrd took the silver bracelets off his wrists and put them in Mara's palms.
           Mara clenched them and cried, "I don't ask for these. I don't ask for anything. You're the father of my child. You're mine!"
           Fafhrd whipped the heavy silver chain off his neck, laid it across her wrists, and said, "Yes. You're mine forever, and I'm yours. Your son is mine. I'll never have another Snow Clan wife. We're married."
           Meanwhile he had taken up the two rockets again and held their fuses to the fire-pot. They sputtered simultaneously. He set them down, thonged shut the fire-pot and thrust it in his pouch. Three, four...
           Mor looked over Mara's shoulder and said, "I witness your words, my son. Stop!"
           Fafhrd grabbed up the rockets, each by its sputtering body, dug in the stick ends and took off down the slope with a great shove. Six, seven...
           Mara screamed, "Fafhrd! Husband!" As Mor shouted, "No son of mine!"
           Fafhrd shoved again with the sputtering rockets. Cold air whipped his face. He barely felt it. The moonlit lip of the jump was close ahead. He felt its up-curve. Beyond it, darkness. Eight, nine...
           He hugged the rockets fiercely to his sides, under his elbows, and was flying through darkness. Eleven, twelve...
           The rockets did not fire. The moonlight showed the opposite wall of the canyon rushing toward him. His skis were directed at a point just