The Second Book of Lankhmar

striders, several of whom still smoldered and flickered, and doffed their black hoods and mantles.
    Fafhrd's face broke into a grin that would have seemed most inappropriate to one knowing he feared an apparition of Death, but not knowing his experiences of the last few days.
    Seated on the three black horses were three tall skeletons gleaming white in the moonlight, and with a lover's certainty he recognized the first as being Kreeshkra's.
    She might, of course, be seeking him out to slay him for his faithlessness. Nevertheless, as almost any other lover in like circumstances—though seldom, true, near the midst of a natural-supernatural battle—he grinned a rather egotistic grin.
    He lost not a moment in beginning his descent.
    Meanwhile Kreeshkra, for it was indeed she, was thinking as she gazed at the Gods of Lankhmar, Well, I suppose brown bones are better than none at all. Still, they seem a poor fire risk. Ho, here come more rats! What a filthy city! And where oh where is my abominable Mud Man?
    The black kitten mewed anxiously at the temple's foot where he awaited Fafhrd's arrival.
    Glipkerio, calm as a cushion now, completely soothed by Frix's massage and Hisvet's piping, was halfway through signing his name, forming the letters more ornately and surely than he ever had in his life, when the blue drapes in the largest archway were torn down and there pressed into the great chamber on silent naked feet the Mouser's and Reetha's forces.
    Gilpkerio gave a great twitch, upsetting the ink bottle on the parchment of the surrender terms, and sending his quill winging off like an arrow.
    Hisvin, Hisvit, and even Samanda backed away from him toward the porch, daunted at least momentarily by the newcomers—and indeed there was something dire about that naked, shaven youthful army be-weaponed with kitchen tools, their eyes wild, their lips a-snarl or pressed tightly together. Hisvin had been expecting his Mingols at last and so got a double shock.
    Elakeria hurried after them, crying, “They've come to slay us all! It's the revolution!"
    Frix held her ground, smiling excitedly.
    The Mouser raced across the blue-tiled floor, sprang up on Glipkerio's couch and balanced himself on its golden back. Reetha followed rapidly and stood beside him, menacing around with her skewer.
    Unmindful that Glipkerio was flinching away, pale yellow eyes peering affrightedly from a coarse fabric of criss-crossed fingers, the Mouser squeaked loudly, “Oh mighty overlord, no revolution this! Instead, we have come to save you from your enemies! That one"—he pointed at Hisvin—"is in league with the rats. Indeed, he is by blood more rat than man. Under his toga you'll find a tail. I saw him in the tunnels below, member of the Rat Council of Thirteen, plotting your overthrow. It is he—”
    Meanwhile Samanda had been regaining her courage. Now she charged her underlings like a black rhinoceros, her globe-shaped, pin-skewered coiffure more than enough horn. Laying about with her black whip, she roared fearsomely, “Revolt, will you? On your knees, scullions and sluts! Say your prayers!”
    Taken by surprise and readily falling back into an ingrained habit, their fiery hopes quenched by familiar abuse, the naked slim figures inched away from her to either side.
    Reetha, however, grew pink with anger. Forgetting the Mouser and all else but her rage, envenomed by many injuries, she ran after Samanda, crying to her fellow-slaves, “Up and at her, you cowards! We're fifty to one against her!” And with that she thrust out mightily with her skewer and jabbed Samanda from behind.
    The palace mistress leaped ponderously forward, her keys and chains swinging wildly from her black leather belt. She lashed the last maids out of her way and pounded off at a thumping run toward the servants’ quarters.
    Reetha cried over shoulder, “After her, all!—before she rouses the cooks and barbers to her aid!” and was off in sprinting pursuit.
    The maids and pages hardly hesitated at all. Reetha had refired their hot hatreds as readily as Samanda had quenched them. To play heroes and heroines rescuing Lankhmar was moonshine. To have vengeance on their old tormentor was blazing sunlight. They all raced after Reetha.
    The Mouser, still balancing on the fluted golden back of Glipkerio's couch and mouthing his dramatic oration, realized somewhat belatedly that he had lost his army and was still only doll size. Hisvin and Hisvet, drawing long knives from