Swords Against Wizardry by Fritz Leiber ...
Swords Against Wizardry by Fritz Leiber ...
Swords Against Wizardry by Fritz Leiber ...
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myself sole Lord of Quarmall -- and of all within it -- demon or man!"<br />
Then Hasjarl started to turn, most likely to order forward some of his guards<br />
to seize Gwaay's party, or perhaps to wave an order to his sorcerers to strike them<br />
down magically, but in that instant the Mouser clapped his hands together loudly.<br />
At that signal, Ivivis, who'd stepped between him and the litter, threw back her<br />
cowl and opened her robe and let them fall behind her almost in one continuous<br />
gesture -- and the sight revealed held everyone spellbound, even Hasjarl, as the<br />
Mouser had known it would.<br />
Ivivis was dressed in a transparent black silk tunic -- the merest blackly opal<br />
gleaming over her pale flesh and slimly youthful figure -- but on her face she wore<br />
the white mask of a hag, female yet with mouth a-grin showing fangs and with<br />
fiercely staring eyes red-balled and white-irised, as the Mouser had swiftly<br />
repainted them at the direction of Gwaay, speaking from his silver statua. Long<br />
green hair mixed with white fell from the mask behind Ivivis and some thin<br />
strands of it before her shoulders. Upright before her in her right hand she held<br />
ritualistically a large pruning knife.<br />
The Mouser pointed straight at Hasjarl, on whom the eyes of the mask were<br />
already fixed, and he commanded in his deepest voice, "Bring that one here to<br />
me, oh Witch-Mother!" and Ivivis stepped swiftly forward.<br />
Hasjarl took a backward step and stared horror-enchanted at his approaching<br />
nemesis, all motherly-cannibalistic above, all elfin-maidenly below, with his<br />
father's eyes to daunt him and with the cruel knife to suggest judgment upon<br />
himself for the girls he had lustingly done to death or lifelong crippledness.<br />
The Mouser knew he had success within his grasp and there remained only<br />
the closing of the fingers.<br />
At that instant there sounded from the other end of the chamber a great<br />
muffled gong-note deep as Gwaay's had been silvery-high, shuddering the bones<br />
<strong>by</strong> its vibrancy. Then from either side of the narrow black archway at the opposite<br />
end of the hall from Gwaay's litter, there rose to the ceiling with a hollow roar<br />
twin pillars of white fire, commanding all eyes and shattering the Mouser's spell.<br />
The Mouser's most instant reaction was inwardly to curse such superior<br />
stage-management.<br />
Smoke billowed out against the great black squares of the ceiling, the pillars<br />
sank to white jets, man-high, and there strode forward between them the figure<br />
of Flindach in his heavily embroidered robes and with the Golden Symbol of<br />
Power at his waist, but with the Cowl of Death thrown back to show his blotched<br />
warty face and his eyes like those in Ivivis' mask. The High Steward threw wide<br />
his arms in a proud imploring gesture and in his deep and resonant voice that<br />
filled the Ghost Hall recited thus:<br />
"Oh Gwaay! Oh Hasjarl! In the name of your father burned and beyond the<br />
stars, and in the name of your grandmother whose eyes I too bear, think of<br />
Quarmall! Think of the security of this your kingdom and of how your wars<br />
ravage her. Forego your enmities, abjure your brotherly hates, and cast your lots<br />
now to settle the succession -- the winner to be Lord Paramount here, the loser<br />
instantly to depart with great escort and coffers of treasure, and journey across<br />
the Mountains of Hunger and the desert and the Sea of the East and live out his<br />
life in the Eastern Lands in all comfort and high dignity. Or if not <strong>by</strong> customary<br />
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