Swords Against Wizardry by Fritz Leiber ...

ABBYY PDF Transformer 2.0
Click here to buy
w w w.A BBYY.co m
Gwaay possessed that enviable ability to do all things well, with little exertion
and less practice. In a way he was much worse than his brother: for while Hasjarl
slew with tortures and slow pain and an obvious personal satisfaction, he at least
attached some importance to life because he was so meticulous in its taking;
whereas Gwaay smiling gently would slay, without reason, as if jesting. Even the
group of sorcerers which he had gathered about him for protection and
amusement was not safe from his fatal and swift humors.
Some thought that Gwaay was a stranger to fear, but this was not so. He
feared the Lord of Quarmall and he feared his brother; or rather he feared that he
would be slain by his brother before he could slay him. Yet so well were his fear
and hatred concealed that he could sit relaxed, not two yards from Hasjarl, and
smile amusedly, enjoying every moment of the evening. Gwaay flattered himself
on his perfect control over all emotion.
The chess game had developed beyond the opening stage, the moves coming
slower, and now Hasjarl rapped down a rook on the seventh rank.
Gwaay observed gently, "Your turreted warrior rushes deep into my territory,
Brother. Rumor has it you've hired a brawny champion out of the north. With
what purpose, I wonder, in our peace-wrapped cavern world? Could he be a sort
of living rook?" He poised, hand unmoving, over one of his knights.
Hasjarl giggled. "And if his purpose is to slash pretty throats, what's that to
you? I know naught of this rook-warrior, but 'tis said -- slaves' chat, no doubt -that
you yourself have had fetched a skilled sworder from Lankhmar. Should I
call him a knight?"
"Aye, two can play at a game," Gwaay remarked with prosy philosophy and
lifting his knight, softly but firmly planted it at his king's sixth.
"I'll not be drawn," Hasjarl snarled. "You shall not win by making my mind
wander." And arching his head over the board, he cloaked himself again with his
all-consuming calculations.
In the background slaves moved silently, tending the lamps and replenishing
the founts with oil. Many lamps were needed to light the council room, for it was
low-celled and massively beamed, and the arras-hung walls reflected little of the
yellow rays and the mosaic floor was worn to a dull richness by countless
footsteps in the past. From the living rock this room had been carved; longforgotten
hands had set the huge cypress beams and inlaid the floor so cunningly.
Those gay, time-faded tapestries had been hung by the slaves of some ancient
Lord of Quarmall, who had pilfered them from a passing caravan, and so with all
the rich adornments. The chessmen and the chairs, the chased lamp sconces and
the oil which fed the wicks, and the slaves which tended them: all was loot. Loot
from generations back when the Lords of Quarmall plundered far and wide and
took their toll from every passing caravan.
High above that warm, luxuriously furnished chamber where Gwaay and
Hasjarl played at chess, the Lord of Quarmall finished the final calculations
which would complete his horoscope. Heavy leather hangings shut out the stars
that had but now twinkled down their benisons and dooms. The only light in that
instrument-filled room was the tiny flare of a single taper. By such scant
illumination did custom bid the final casting be read, and Quarmal strained even
his keen vision to see the Signs and Houses rightly.
ABBYY PDF Transformer 2.0
Click here to buy
w w w.A BBYY.co m