now, Fafhrd? Shall we go up, or not?'
Fafhrd answered him with a sudden shout of laughter. “You decided that, little man, long ago! Was it I who started to talk about huge diamonds?'
So up they went, choosing that point where a gigantic trunk, or tentacle, or melted chin strained from the encasing granite. It was not an easy climb, even at the beginning, for the green stone was everywhere rounded off, showing no marks of chisel or axe — which rather dampened Fafhrd's vague theory that this was a hill half-formed by human-wielded tools.
Upward the two of them edged and strained, their breath blowing out in bigger white clouds although the rock was uncomfortably hot under their hands. After an inch-by-inch climb up a slippery surface, where hands and feet and elbows and knees and even toasted chin must all help, they stood at last on the lower lip of one of the green hill's mouths. Here it seemed their ascent must end, for the great cheek above was smooth and sloped outward a spear's length above them.
But Fafhrd took from the Mouser's back a rope that had once guyed the mast of their shipwrecked sloop, made a noose in it, and cast it up toward the forehead above, where a stubby horn or feeler projected. It caught and held. Fafhrd put his weight on it to test it, then looked inquiringly at his companion.
“What have you in mind?” the Mouser asked, clinging affectionately to the rock-face. “This whole climb begins to seem mere foolishness.'
“But what of the jewel?” Fafhrd replied in pleasant mockery. “So big, Mouser, so big!'
“Likely just a bit of quartz,” the Mouser said sourly. “I have lost my hunger for it.'
“But as for me,” Fafhrd cried, “I have only now worked up a good appetite.'
And he swung out into emptiness, around the green cheek and into thin, brilliant sunlight.
It seemed to him as if the still lake and the green hill were rocking, instead of himself. He came to rest below the face's monstrously pouchy eyelid. He climbed up hand over hand, found good footing on the ledge that was the eyelid pouch, and twitched the end of the rope back to the Mouser, whom he could no longer see. On the third cast it did not swing back. He squatted on the ledge, bracing himself securely to guy the rope. It went tight in his hands. Very soon the Mouser stepped onto the ledge beside him.
The gaiety was back in the small thief's face, but it was a fragile gaiety, as though he wanted to get this done with quickly. They edged their way along the great eye-pouch until they were directly below the fancied pupil. It was rather above Fafhrd's head, but the Mouser, nimbly hitching himself up on Fafhrd's shoulders, peered in readily.
Fafhrd, bracing himself against the green wall, waited impatiently. It seemed as if the Mouser would never speak. “Well?” he asked finally, when his shoulders had begun to ache from the Mouser's weight.
“Oh, it's a diamond, all right.” The Mouser sounded oddly uninterested. “Yes, it's big. My fingers can just about span it. And it's cut like a smooth sphere — a sort of diamond eye. But I don't know about getting it out. It's set very deep. Should I try? Don't bellow so, Fafhrd, you'll blow us both off! I suppose we might as well take it, since we've come so far. But it won't be easy. My knife can't… yes, it can! I thought it was rock around the gem. But it's tarry stuff. Squidgy. There! I'm coming down.'
Fafhrd had a glimpse of something smooth, globular and dazzling, with an ugly, ragged, tarry circlet clinging to it. Then it seemed that someone flicked his elbow lightly. He looked down. Momentarily he had the strangest feeling of being in the green steamy jungle of Klesh. For protruding from the brown fur of his cloak was a wickedly barbed little dart, thickly smeared with a substance as black and tarry as that disfiguring the diamond eye.
He quickly dropped flat on the ledge, crying out to the Mouser to do the same. Then he carefully tugged loose the dart, finding to his relief that, although it had nicked the thick hide of his cloak beneath the fur, it had not touched flesh.
“I think I see him,” called the Mouser, peering down cautiously over the protected ledge. “A little fellow with a very long blowgun and dressed in furs and a conical hat. Crouching there in those dark bushes across the lake. Black, I think, like our knifer last night. A Kleshian, I'd say, unless he's one more of your frostbitten hermits. Now he lifts the gun to his lips. Watch yourself!'
A second dart pinged against the rock above them, then dropped down close by Fafhrd's hand. He jerked it away sharply.
There was a whirring sound, ending in a muted snap. The Mouser had decided to get a blow in. It is not easy to swing a sling while lying prone on a ledge, but the Mouser's missile crackled into the furry bushes close to the black blowgunner, who immediately ducked out of sight.
It was easy enough then to decide on a plan of action, for few were available. While the Mouser raked the bushes across the lake with sling shots, Fafhrd went down the rope. Despite the Mouser's protection, he fervently prayed that his cloak be thick enough. He knew from experience that the darts of Klesh are nasty things. At irregular intervals came the whirr of the Mouser's casts, cheering him on.
Reaching the green hill's base, he strung his bow and called up to the Mouser that he was ready in his turn to cover the retreat. His eyes searched the furry cliffs across the lake, and twice when he saw movement he sent an arrow from his precious store of twenty. Then the Mouser was beside him and they were racing off along the hot mountain edge toward where the cryptically ancient glacial ice gleamed green. Often they looked back across the lake at the dubious furry bushes spotted here and there with blood-red ones, and twice or thrice they thought they saw movement in them — movement coming their way. Whenever this happened, they sent an arrow or a stone whirring, though with what effect they could not tell.
“The seven black priests—” Fafhrd muttered.
“The six,” the Mouser corrected. “We killed one of them last night.'
“Well, the six then,” Fafhrd conceded. “They seem angry with us.'
“As why shouldn't they be?” the Mouser demanded. “We stole their idol's only eye. Such an act annoys priests tremendously.'
“It seemed to have more eyes than that one,” Fafhrd asserted thoughtfully, “if only it had opened them.'
“Thank Aarth it didn't!” the Mouser hissed. “And ‘ware that dart!'
Fafhrd hit the dirt — or rather the rock — instantly, and the black dart skirred on the ice ahead.
“I think they're unreasonably angry,” Fafhrd asserted, scrambling to his feet.
“Priests always are,” the Mouser said philosophically, with a sidewise shudder at the dart's black-crusted point.
“At any rate, we're rid of them,” Fafhrd said with relief, as he and the Mouser loped onto the ice. The Mouser leered at him sardonically, but Fafhrd didn't notice.
All day they trudged rapidly across the green ice, seeking their way southward by the sun, which got hardly a hand's breath above the horizon. Toward night the Mouser brought down two low-winging arctic birds with three casts of his sling, while Fafhrd's long-seeing eyes spied a black cave-mouth in an outcropping of rock under a great snowy slope. Luckily there was a clump of dwarfed trees, uprooted and killed by moving ice, near the cave's mouth, and soon the two adventurers were gnawing tough, close-grained brown bird and watching the flickering little fire in the cave's entrance.
Fafhrd stretched hugely and said, “Farewell to all black priests! That's another bother done with.” He reached out a large, long-fingered hand. “Mouser, let me see that glass eye you dug from the green hill.'
The Mouser without comment reached into his pouch and handed Fafhrd the brilliant tar-circled globule. Fafhrd held it between his big hands and viewed it thoughtfully. The firelight shone through it and spread from it, highlighting the cave with red, baleful beams. Fafhrd stared unblinkingly at the gem, until the Mouser became very conscious of the great silence around them, broken only by the tiny but frequent crackling of the fire and the large but infrequent cracking of the ice outside. He felt weary to death, yet somehow couldn't consider sleep.
Finally Fafhrd said, in a faint unnatural voice, “The earth we walk on once lived — a great hot beast, breathing out fire and spewing molten rock. Its constant yearning was to spit red-hot stuff at the stars. This was before all men.'
“What's that?” the Mouser queried, stirring from his half-trance.
“Now men have come, the earth has gone to sleep,” Fafhrd continued in the same hollow voice, not looking at the Mouser. “But in its dream it thinks of life, and stirs, and tries to shape itself into the form of men.'
“What's that, Fafhrd?” the Mouser repeated uneasily. But Fafhrd answered him with sudden snores. The Mouser carefully teased the gem from his comrade's fingers. Its tarry rim was soft and slippery — repugnantly so,
