Swords Against Wizardry by Fritz Leiber ...

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in the archway with Ivivis at his side, though not supporting him. The young
Lord's face gleamed as silvery clear in the dimness as the massy silver mask of
him that hung in the niche above the arch.
"Stand aside, Gray Mouser, I'll jog the sluggard," he cried in a rippingly bright
voice and snatching up a small obsidian jar tossed it toward the drowsy sorcerer.
It should have fallen no more than halfway between them. Did he mean to
wake the ancient by its shattering? the Mouser wondered. But then Gwaay stared
at it in the air and it quickened its speed fearfully. It was as if he had tossed up a
ball, then batted it. Shooting forward like a bolt fired point-blank from a sinewy
catapult it shattered the ancient's skull and spattered the chair and the Mouser
with his brains.
Gwaay laughed, a shade high-pitched, and cried lightly, "I must curb my
excitement! I must! I must! Sudden recovery from two dozen deaths -- or twentythree
and the Nose Drip -- is no reason for a philosopher to lose control. Oh, I'm
a giddy fellow!"
Ivivis cried suddenly, "The room swims! I see silver fish!"
The Mouser felt dizzy himself then and saw a phosphorescent green hand
reach through the archway toward Gwaay -- reach out on a thin arm that
lengthened to yards. He blinked hard and the hand was gone -- but now there
were swimmings of purple vapor.
He looked at Gwaay and that one, frowny-eyed now, was sniffling hard and
then sniffling again, though no new drop could be seen to have formed on his
nose-end.
Fafhrd stood three paces behind Hasjarl, who looked in his bunched and
high-collared robe of earth-brown toweling rather like an ape.
Beyond Hasjarl on the right there trotted on a thick wide roller-riding leather
belt three slaves of monstrous aspect: great splayed feet, legs like an elephant's,
huge furnace-bellows chests, dwarfy arms, pinheads with wide toothy mouths
and with nostrils bigger than their eyes or ears -- creatures bred to run
ponderously and nothing else. The moving belt disappeared with a half twist into
a vertical cylinder of masonry five yards across and reemerged just below itself,
but moving in the opposite direction, to pass under the rollers and complete its
loop. From within the cylinder came the groaning of the great wooden fan which
the belt whirled and which drove life-sustaining air downward to the Lower
Levels.
Beyond Hasjarl on the left was a small door as high as Fafhrd's head in the
cylinder. To it there mounted one by one, up four narrow masonry steps, a line of
dusky, great-headed dwarves. Each bore on his shoulder a dark bag which when
he reached the window he untied and emptied into the clamorous shaft, shaking
it out most thoroughly while he held it inside, then folding it and leaping down to
give place to the next bag-bearer.
Hasjarl leered over his shoulder at Fafhrd. "A nosegay for Gwaay!" he cried.
"'Tis a king's ransom I strew on the downward gale: powder of poppy, dust of
lotus and mandragora, crumble of hemp. A million lewdly pleasant dreams, and
all for Gwaay! Three ways this conquers him: he'll sleep a day and miss my
father's funeral, then Quarmall's mine by right of sole appearance yet with no
bloodshed, which would mar the rites; his sorcerers will sleep and my infectious
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