The Second Book of Lankhmar

column of black smoke ascending from the beached galley nearest the glaciers. Mingols began to run in that direction from the slopes of the beleaguered mound, abandoning their assault. Midway he saw the small figure of Mara running down the glacier to Cold Harbor, her red cloak standing out behind her. A woman with a spear had appeared on the earth wall nearest the child, waving her on encouragingly. Then of a sudden Mara appeared to take a fantastically long stride, part of her form was obscured, as if there were a blur in Fafhrd's vision there, and then she seemed to — no, did! — rise in the air, higher and higher, as though clutched by an invisible eagle or other sightless predatory flier. He kept his eyes on the red cloak, which suddenly grew brighter as the invisible flyer mounted from shadow into sunlight with his captive.
           He heard a muttered exclamation of sympathy and wonder close beside him, spared a sidewise glance, and knew that Skor also had seen the prodigy.
           "Keep her in sight, man," he breathed. "Don't lose the red cloak for one moment. Mark where she goes through the trackless air."
           The gaze of the two men went upward, then west, then steadily east toward the dark mountain. From time to time Fafhrd looked down to assure himself that there were no untoward developments requiring his attention of the situations at the ships and at Cold Harbor. Each time he feared his eyes would never catch sight of the flying cloak again, but each time they did. Skor seemed to be following instructions faithfully. The red patch grew smaller, tinier. They almost lost it as it dipped into the shadow again.
           Finally Skor straightened up.
           "Where did it go?" Fafhrd asked.
           "To the mouth of the cave at the snowline," Skor replied. "The girl was drawn there through the air by what magic I know not. I lost it there."
           Fafhrd nodded. "Magic of a most special sort," he said rapidly. "She was carried there, I must believe, by an invisible flier, Ghoul-related, an old enemy of mine, Prince Faroomfar of lofty Stardock. Only I among us have the knowledge to deal with him." He felt, in a way, that he was seeing Skor for the first time: a man an inch taller than himself and some five years younger, but with receding hairline and a rather scanty straggling russet beard. His nose had been broken at some time. He looked a thoughtful villain.
           Fafhrd said, "In the Cold Waste near Illek-Ving I hired you. At No-Ombrulsk I named you my chief lieutenant and you swore with the rest to obey me for Sea Hawk 's voyage and return." He locked eyes with the man. "Now it comes to the test, for you must take command while I seek Mara. Continue to harry the Mingols but avoid a full engagement. Those of Cold Harbor are our friends, but do not join with them in their fort unless no other course is open. Remember we serve the lady Afreyt. Understood?" Skor frowned, keeping his eyes locked with Fafhrd's, then nodded once.
           "Good!" Fafhrd said, not sure at all that it was so, but knowing he was doing what he had to. The smoke from the burning ships was less — the Mingols seemed to have saved her. Skullick and his fellow came running back with their bows, grinning.
           "Mannimark!" Fafhrd called. "Give me two torches. Skullick! — the tinder-pouch." He unbuckled the belt holding his longsword Graywand. He retained his ax.
           "Men!" he addressed them. "I must be absent for a space. Command goes to Skor by this token." He buckled Graywand to that one's side. "Obey him faithfully. Keep yourselves whole. See that I'm given no cause to rebuke you when I return."
           And without more ado he made off across the glacier toward Mount Hellglow.

             * * * *

            The Mouser forced himself to rise soon as he woke and to take a cold bath before his single cup of hot gahveh (he was in that sort og mood). He set his entire crew to work, Mingols and thieves alike, completing Flotsam 's repairs, warning them that she must be ready to sail by the morrow's morn at least, in line with Loki god's promise: "In three days the Mingols come." He took considerable pleasure in noting that several of them seemed to be suffering from worse hangovers than his own. "Work them hard, Pshawri," he commanded. "No mercy to slug-abeds and shirkers!"
           By then it was time to join with Cif in seeing off