Swords Against Wizardry by Fritz Leiber ...

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closely at the nearest tiny gray dust pile and shaking her head.
"Not even a gallstone," the Mouser echoed harshly. "My rune was dire."
"Not even a tooth," Ivivis reechoed, rubbing curiously if somewhat callously
through the pile. "Nothing to send their mothers."
"Their mothers can have their diapers to fold away with their baby ones," the
Mouser said irascibly though somewhat uncomfortably. "Oh, Ivivis, sorcerers
don't have mothers!"
"But what happens to our Lord Gwaay now that his protectors are gone?"
Ivivis demanded more practically. "You saw how Hasjarl's sendings struck him
last night when they but dozed. And if anything happens to Gwaay, then what
happens to us?"
Again the Mouser shrugged. "If my rune reached Hasjarl's twenty-four
wizards and blasted them too, then no harm's been done -- except to sorcerers,
and they all take their chances, sign their death warrants when they speak their
first spells -- 'tis a dangerous trade.
"In fact," he went on with argumentative enthusiasm, "we've gained. Twentyfour
enemies slain at cost of but a dozen -- no, eleven total casualties on our side -
- why, that's a bargain any warlord would jump at! Then with the sorcerers all out
of the way -- except for the Brothers themselves, and Flindach -- that warty
blotchy one is someone to be reckoned with! -- I'll meet and slay this champion of
Hasjarl's and we'll carry all before us. And if..."
His voice trailed off. It had occurred to him to wonder why he himself hadn't
been blasted by his own spell. He had never suspected, until now, that he might
be a sorcerer of the First Rank -- having despite a youthful training in countrysorceries
only dabbled in magic since. Perhaps some metaphysical trick or logical
fallacy was involved.... If a sorcerer casts a rune that midway of the casting blasts
_all_ sorcerers, _provided the casting be finished_, then does he blast himself
or...? Or perhaps indeed, the Mouser began to think boastfully, he was unknown
to himself a magus of the First Rank, or even higher, or --
In the silence of his thinking, he and Ivivis became aware of approaching
footsteps, first a multitudinous patter but swiftly a tumult. The gray-clad man
and the slavegirl had hardly time to exchange a questioning apprehensive look
when there burst through the draperies, tearing them down, eight or nine of
Gwaay's chiefest henchmen, their faces death-pale, their eyes staring like
madmen's. They raced across the chamber and out the opposite archway almost
before the Mouser could recover from where he'd dodged out of their way.
But that was not the end of the footsteps. There was a last pair coming down
the black corridor and at a strange unequal gallop, like a cripple sprinting, and
with a squushy slap at each tread. The Mouser crossed quickly to Ivivis and put
an arm around her. He did not want to be standing alone at this moment, either.
Ivivis said, "If your Great Spell missed Hasjarl's sorcerers, and their diseasespells
struck through to Gwaay, now undefended..."
Her whisper trailed off fearfully as a monstrous figure clad in dark scarlet
robes lurched by swift convulsive stages into view. At first the Mouser thought it
must be Hasjarl of the Mismated Arms, from what he'd heard of that one. Then
he saw that its neck was collared by gray fungus, its right cheek crimson, its left
black, its eyes dripping green ichor and its nose spattering clear drops. As the
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