F&tGM06—Where the Wind Blows
By VStarTraveler

Summary: Escaping from the City of Sarheenmar in their stolen vessel, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser dodge pursuers, pirates, storms, and old memories in search of new adventures. A new series of loosely connected one-shots.

"Story #1: Escapes" is my entry in the Caesar's Palace Monthly Oneshot Contest for August 2018.

Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction, written totally for fun and not for profit. This interpretation of Fafhrd, the Gray Mouser, and world of Nehwon is entirely my own. They remain the property of their respective owners.

Author's Note: This story picks up a short time after the end of the "flashback" portion of "F&tGM05—For the Greater Good," when the boys would have been around 30 years old. Fans of Fafhrd & the Gray Mouser may wish to read that story prior to reading this one.

Story #1: Escapes

It had been a leisurely month, but the month was over and so was the Sarheenmarian king's indulgence.

Rather than stay until morning and face his wrath, the owners of a small ship slipped out of the harbor with the late evening tide. In a matter of hours, the two labored to change the ship's appearance, transforming it, to the extent possible in the time available, with different paint, sails, rigging, figurehead, and name, as had been prepared even before their initial arrival.

The pair themselves had also undergone a transformation, with both taking on their usual appearance, a somewhat different look than they had sported during their time in the city. It was almost morning when the pair finally started to relax, having, with a favorable wind, put many miles between themselves and the angry monarch. While both were tired from their efforts, neither was sleepy.

The relative quiet of the Inner Sea—the sound of waves, the prow of the little ship cutting through the water, the occasional slap of a line or the flap of a sail, the light mechanical rasp of the iron-shod tiller in the oiled oarlock, the sound of a swig from a jug—was broken by Fafhrd's question: "Cat got your tongue?"

With his fingers laced behind his head and lying prone on the deck, the Gray Mouser was lost in contemplative thought as he stared up at the countless stars in the cloudless, moonless sky above. Fafhrd's question brought his thoughts back down to Nehwon and the troubles the friends were—hopefully—leaving behind. He waved a hand in acknowledgment to the question before returning his hand behind his head, but said nothing in reply.

"You're thinking of her, aren't you? The blon—"

"No, not at all," came Mouser's urgent interruption, as if purposefully avoiding the suggested thought. "Nor of Ivrian or any of the others since. No, my thoughts were centered on long ago and far away. We spent over a month in that city, but I didn't see anything that brought back any memories. Not one thing."

"What do you mean?"

"Mokker, the Prince of Pimps, or maybe one of his many women—I don't remember which—once told me that, based on the origins of the slave caravan that they thought brought me to Lankhmar, I might have originally been born in Tovilyis...or, perhaps, Sarheenmar."

In the darkness of the night, Fafhrd's eyes narrowed and he took another drink from his jug. "Ah. So your excursions into the city really weren't to seek to wine and women?"

"Well...not entirely." Mouser rose from the deck and moved to the rail, looking out over the star-lit sea. He accepted the jug Fafhrd offered, took a drink, and continued, "There was that...and games of chance...and a few fat purses that needed relieving."

Fafhrd chuckled softly. "Of course. But you were primarily looking for anything that might look familiar? For any signs of your past?"

Bracketed by the stars, Mouser's silhouette nodded. "Anything, but finding nothing at all. Not one thing looked even vaguely familiar beyond the small part I saw, quite briefly, some years ago when passing through on the way to the Shadowland. If it was the point of my origin, I'll never know."

"You've rarely spoken of your roots or even much about your childhood. Is it important to you now?"

"I don't know if important is the right term. I was there and I thought about the possibilities of discovering more about my background to take my mind off other things."

It was Fafhrd's turn to nod. "Considering what—no, who—that other thought was about, that is quite understandable. Do we need to go south to Tovilyis to do the same? To see if any sights there trigger memories or stir your soul?"

Mouser's eyes searched the distant horizon, where the stars fell away into the sea. He seemed lost in thought as he took another swig and dropped the jug down to his side.

It was Fafhrd's turn to remain silent as he slowly moved the tiller to-and-fro to keep the boat on course. He'd known Mouser long enough to know that the little man would loose his tongue and free his thoughts in his own time. It wasn't long before his patience was rewarded, both with Mouser's reply and the return of his jug.

"No, no need to venture so far. Whether the slavers obtained me in Sarheenmar, Tovilyis, or the gods only know where else, the caravan or luck brought me to Lankhmar, my home and those who became my family. I was little when Mokker bought me and put me in the care of his women."

"Little, eh?" teased Fafhrd. "So were you six months, six years, or sixteen, little man?"

Mouser laughed. "Let's say 'a little tot.' Mokker told me I was probably about three when he purchased me from the curiosity dealers, and that it was even possible they'd bought or stolen me off of the streets of Lankhmar. They were known to do that at times."

"What do you mean? Curiosity dealers?" asked the barbarian. "I'm not familiar with that trade in Lankhmar beyond the sellers of trinkets and such, who try to build interest in their wares by using fancy names. Surely, traders of such goods wouldn't deal in children, too?"

"I'm sure most would not, but these two didn't deal in trinkets. Instead, they sold children to those who wanted to indulge in certain cruel 'pleasures.' This was bad enough but those that didn't sell were put to other pursuits. These were...scarred, disfigured...maimed...and sold to circuses and traveling shows as oddities for their side shows. Morbid curiosity and horror of horrors were their selling points, but the true horror was what became of those forced into that life."

"I'm sorry," said Fafhrd, feeling ill at the thought. While he could kill almost without thought when needed, deliberately harming children was beyond the realm of his imagination. "Who would do such a thing? And do it to a young child?"

"Two cruel, foul masters by the names of Yusk and Shish. I wouldn't remember their names at all but Mokker told me some years later when I inquired of him. I was almost ten years of age at the time when I learned their names and their true natures."

Fafhrd rubbed his beard slowly. "I can't say I recall hearing those names in Lankhmar. Are they still in business?"

"No, they departed for other climes right about the time I turned ten. Their business was shut down rather abruptly and their last children were freed. Most of those that survived are beggars now, but some have adapted to other walks of life. Whichever way they went, they had a rough path to tread."

Fafhrd felt his blood beginning to boil as Mouser continued to tell the horrid tales of a few of the unfortunates. Hands became flippers, a nose becamed gilled, and ears were partially amputated and sewn into fin-like protusions; the oddity of a fish-boy was 'born.' His other examples were even worse. The little man's voice trailed off when he was done.

Choosing a course, Fafhrd asked, conspiratorially, "This Yusk and his partner—do you know where they went? I wonder if we might like to pay them a visit to repay even a modest portion of their cruelty."

In the first light of the new day, Fafhrd saw a lone cloud on the horizon to the northeast and that Mouser's mouth was set in a hard, thin line before the little man spoke. "Where they went, my friend, we would not wish to follow. As for their cruelty, a small part, or more, was repaid them before their...journey." When he was done, a curiously cruel but satisfied smile settled on Mouser's face. With the silence lengthening, Fafhrd was about to change to another subject but Mouser spoke again.

"I was one of the lucky ones. While there was little normal about my childhood growing up as I did on Whore Street, Mokker gave me a birthdate so I could feel at least a bit like a normal child on one special day each year. His women raised me, teaching me various and sundry useful skills from an early age. The cats, then, were my playmates, hunting companions, and only true friends."

"A guess: the prince of pimps' women—hmmm, whores?—taught you cooking, cleaning, and laundry?" suggested Fafhrd with a laugh as he handed the jug back to his friend.

"Well, those, too. Eventually," grinned Mouser before taking another swig. "Mokker himself was, I suppose, my father figure; he took on most of the rest of my training in weapons, thievery, and tricks and trades. I became his right-hand man, but then I met the great Glavas Rho and turned to a life of sorcery. At least for a while."

Fafhrd's face fell for a moment, for he knew well of the death of Mouser's master and how his friend's training in the sorcerous arts had been abruptly ended. "When you apprenticed with your hedge wizard, you were ready to move on to a better life?"

"Yes, perhaps. Different and more focused on what I thought were my goals, anyway. Looking back, I don't think my childhood was bad, but in a way, I escaped from the worst parts, tolerated most with general indifference, and still carry the skills I learned and the few sweet memories earned with me. However, I must admit, if Sheelba or your Ningauble were to somehow give me the opportunity, I would not go back."

Fafhrd was nodding in understanding as he said, "Speaking of going back, the little cloud on the horizon grows behind us and adjusts course with us. If we don't wish to go back to the city, most likely in chains, we should add more sail."

Mouse was immediately on the move, stowing the jug, pulling ties, and dropping the remaining sails in place, while Fafhrd changed course by a few degrees to take maximum advantage of the wind. With the tiller tied off, both men adjusted yardarm, boom, and lines and the additional sails were soon filling with wind, scooting the little ship along at a faster pace.

"Now I see why you suggested we use a patrol ship instead of one of the larger vessels," said Mouser as the distant sails slowly started to recede. The sailors on that vessel appeared to be adding more sail, too, and the ship's wizard was no doubt attempting to add to its velocity, but the larger ship was built for strength in war rather than sustained speed on the sea, and within four hours, it had dropped back, lost beyond the horizon.

Mouser retrieved the jug and handed it to his friend. "So, Fafhrd, are you ready to explain why we left so abruptly and why the king would be mad at you? You seemed to get along well in your 'negotiations,' though I'm not sure how much of that was your own bravado and how much was his ale and the other spirits from his cellar."

"Despite my personal feelings of the man, we got along quite well, and I got on even better with some of his wines." Two fingers touched his lips. "As one of the court types said, 'Divine!'" He chuckled at his own exaggerated impression and then took a drink from the jug. "The problem occurred when the chamberlain discovered me in the boudoir of what turned out to be the king's favorite mistress—"

Mouser's eye roll gave the big barbarian pause. "It wasn't on purpose! King Rodrack had apparently kept it secret, so how was I to know? Knowing the king and his reputation, I wasn't one to wait around to beg for his forgiveness. When the chamberlain escaped from the closet, or the woman from the silk bonds with which I bound her, the palace was, I'm sure, ablaze with furor and gossip, and that just from the kept women of the harem. The king, too, was almost certainly furious. Therefore, I made my escape from her room, and we ours from the city, before that great hubbub could begin."

Mouser was grinning but a powerful yawn suddenly interrupted him. When it faded, he waved off the jug and said, "Well, my barbarian friend, we kept this little ship fully provisioned, which is good. On the other hand, we can't return to Sarheenmar, we might want to avoid most of the Eight Cities for a while, and we best not take this vessel back to Lankhmar—someone might recognize it, after all, despite the changes we have made. Therefore, where do we go from here?"

Fafhrd, who had been wondering the same thing as they fled their pursuer, replied, "We know of reports of pirates to the west, rumors of ancient ruins in the jungles far to the south, and tales of smugglers to the north. Any of these might lead to adventure, profit, wine, and women."

The Gray Mouser nodded. "Good." He yawned again. "It seems we have ample opportunities."

"Assuredly so. Do you have a preference, little man?"

"None," replied Mouser through another yawn, "other than bed. Since you woke me up to join you on this expedition and ruined my own plans for a late night rendezvous with another of those lovely courtesans, I'm going down below to take a nap. Wake me in a couple of hours and I'll relieve you for a while. Until then, you steer, my friend, and let's go where the wind takes us."

The End

Follow-up Note: Thanks for reading as always. Please let me know your thoughts on the story. Thanks!

The story of Mouser's childhood was expanded in 1978 when Fritz Leiber invited his friend and co-creator of the characters and world of Nehwon, Harry Otto Fischer, to write his version of the Gray Mouser's origin. It was a dark tale that dovetailed nicely into the beginning of "The Unholy Grail," which originally introduced the Gray Mouser at about age 17 or 18. A number of the elements of Fischer's story, which was endorsed by Leiber and published in Dragon Magazine #18, are touched upon in this tale. A copy of the story is archived in the Dragon Magazine archive at

annarchive dot com / files / Drmg018 dot pdf (convert dots to periods and remove the spaces before using in your browser)

Whatever happened to Yusk and Shish was not told in Fischer's story and neither ever appeared in another tale, but it was revealed that Mouser had killed his first enemy at age eight, and was considered "a sly assassin who slew swiftly and surely" by the age of nine. Perhaps my speculation on their "departure" was as Harry Otto Fischer, with Fritz Leiber's blessing, originally intended.

Finally, the prompt for this story was:

"I do not miss childhood, but I miss the way I took pleasure in small things, even as greater things crumbled. I could not control the world I was in, could not walk away from things or people or moments that hurt, but I took joy in the things that made me happy."

—Neil Gaiman, "The Ocean at the End of the Lane"