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himself up the oar, hand over hand.
His legs were numb from the blows; he feared he would be unable to swim.
And he was still bewitched by what he saw. For the moment he forgot the Mouser
and the sloop entirely. He shook off the greedy waves, reached the side of the
galley, caught hold of the oarhole. Then he looked back and saw, in a kind of
stupid surprise, the disappearing stern of the sloop and the Mouser's gray-capped
face, revealed by a close swing of the lantern, staring at him in blank
helplessness.
What happened next ended whatever spell had held him. A hand that carried
steel struck. He twisted to one side and caught the wrist, then grasped the side of
the galley, got his foot in the oarhole, on top of the oar, and heaved. The man
dropped the knife too late, clawed at the side, failed to get a secure hold, and was
dragged overboard, spitting and snapping his jaws in futile panic. Fafhrd,
instinctively taking the offensive, sprang down onto the oarbench, which was the
last of ten and half under the poop deck. His questioning eyes spied a rack of
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swords and he whirled one out, menacing the two shadowy figures hastening
toward him, one from the forward oarbenches, one from the poop. They attacked
with a rush, but silently, which was strange. The spray-wet weapons sparkled as
they clashed.
Fafhrd fought warily, on guard for a blow from above, timing his lunges to the
roll of the galley. He dodged a swashing blow and parried an unexpected back-
handed slash from the same weapon. Stale, sour wine fumes puffed into his face.
Someone dragged out an oar and thrust it like a huge lance; it came between
Fafhrd and the two swordsmen, crashing heavily into the sword rack. Fafhrd
glimpsed a ratlike, beady-eyed, toothy face peering up at him from the deeper
darkness under the poop. One of the swordsmen lunged wildly, slipped and fell.
The other gave ground, then gathered himself for a rush. But he paused with his
sword in midair, looking over Fafhrd's head as if at a new adversary. The crest of
a great wave struck him in the chest, obscuring him.
Fafhrd felt the weight of the water on his shoulders and clutched at the poop
for support. The deck was at a perilous tilt. Water gushed up through the opposite
oarholes. In the confusion, he realized, the galley had gotten into the troughs, and
was beginning to take the seas broadside. She wasn't built to stand that. He
vaulted up out of another breaking wave onto the poop and added his strength to
that of the lone struggling steersman. Together they strained at the great oar,
which seemed to be set in stone instead of water. Inch by inch, they fought their
way across the narrow deck. Nonetheless, the galley seemed doomed.
Then something -- a momentary lessening of the wind and waves or perhaps
a lucky pull by a forward oarsman -- decided the issue. As slowly and laboriously
as a waterlogged hulk the galley lifted and began to edge back into the proper
course. Fafhrd and steersman strained prodigiously to hold each foot gained.
Only when the galley was riding safe before the wind did they look up. Fafhrd saw
two swords leveled steadily at his chest. He calculated his chances and did not
move.
It was not easy to believe that fire had been preserved through that
tremendous wetting, but one of the swordsmen nevertheless carried a sputtering
tarry torch. By its light Fafhrd saw that they were Northerners akin to himself.
Big raw-boned fellows, so blond, they seemed almost to lack eyebrows. They wore
metal-studded war gear and close-fitting bronze helmets. Their expressions were
frozen halfway between a glare and a grin. Again he smelled stale wine. His
glance strayed forward. Three oarsmen were bailing with bucket and hand crane.
Somebody was striding toward the poop -- the leader, if one could guess from
gold and jewels and an air of assurance. He sprang up the short ladder, his limbs
supple as a cat's. He seemed younger than the rest and his features were almost
delicate. Fine, silky blond hair was plastered wetly against his cheeks. But there
was feline rapacity in his tight, smiling lips, and there was craziness in his jewel-
blue eyes. Fafhrd hardened his own face against their inspection. One question
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