"Fritz Leiber - FGM 4 - Swords Against Wizardry" - читать интересную книгу автора (Leiber Fritz)

mystic mountains, so that from their peaks it can spy out the lands of past
and future, and mayhaps other-world."
"I wish the mountains ahead of us were merely mystic," the little man
muttered. "Look, Fafhrd, I'm willing to squat here all night -- at any rate
for fifty more stinking breaths or two hundred bored heartbeats -- to
pleasure your whim. But has it occurred to you that we're in danger in this
tent? And I don't mean solely from spirits. There are other rogues than
ourselves in Illik-Ving, some perhaps on the same quest as ours, who'd dearly
love to scupper us. And here in this blind leather hut we're deer on a skyline
-- or sitting ducks."
Just then the wind came back with its fumblings and fingerings, and in
addition a scrabbling that might be that of wind-swayed branch tips or of dead
men's long fingernails a-scratch. There were faint growlings and wailings too,
and with them stealthy footfalls. Both men thought of the Mouser's last
warning. Fafhrd and he looked toward the tent's night-slitted skin door and
loosened their swords in their scabbards.
At that instant the hag's noisy breathing stopped and with it all other
sound. Her eyes opened, showing only whites -- milky ovals infinitely eerie
in the dark root-tangle of her sharp features and stringy hair. The gray tip
of her tongue traveled like a large maggot around her lips.
The Mouser made to comment, but the out-thrust palm-side of Fafhrd's
spread-fingered hand was more compelling than any shh.
In a voice low but remarkably clear, almost a girl's voice, the hag
intoned:
"For reasons sorcerous and dim
You travel toward the world's frost rim...."
_"Dim" is the key word there,_ the Mouser thought. _Typical witchy say-
nothing. She clearly knows naught about us except that we're headed north,
which she could get from any gossipy mouth_.
"You north, north, north, and north must go
Through dagger-ice and powder-snow...."
_More of the same,_ was the Mouser's inward comment. _But must she rub
it in, even the snow? Brr!_
"And many a rival, envy-eyed,
Will dog your steps until you've died...."
Aha, the inevitable fright-thrust, without which no fortune-tale is
complete!
"But after peril's cleansing fire
You'll meet at last your hearts' desire...."
_And now pat the happy ending! Gods, but the stupidest palm-reading
prostitute of Ilthmar could -- _
Something silvery gray flashed across the Mouser's eyes, so close its
form was blurred. Without a thought he ducked back and drew Scalpel.
The razor-sharp spear-blade, driven through the tent's side as if it
were paper, stopped inches from Fafhrd's head and was dragged back.
A javelin hurtled out of the hide wall. This the Mouser struck aside
with his sword.
Now a storm of cries rose outside. The burden of some was, "Death to
the strangers!" Of others, "Come out, dogs, and be killed!"
The Mouser faced the skin door, his gaze darting.