Pulp Fantasy Library: The Seven Black Priests

My love for Fritz Leiber's tales of Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser know few bounds. As I've written on numerous previous occasions, I consider them perhaps the closest, in terms of content and, above all, feel to Gary Gygax's vision of the implied setting of Dungeons & Dragons. More than that, the Twain themselves behave in ways that remind me of the antics of player characters in a long-running and interesting campaign. This reveals most clearly in their interactions with one another. Steadfast friends who can be completely relied upon in moments of danger, Fafhrd and the Mouser nevertheless quibble and squabble with one another. They get on each others' nerves and sometimes even come to momentary blows – but, in the end, the reader knows they'll always be there when the going gets rough. That's probably why I consider them among the most appealing characters ever to appear in the annals of fantasy literature.

"The Seven Black Priests" first appeared in the May 1953 issue of Other Worlds, one of several magazines edited by Ray Palmer after his legendary run as editor of Amazing Stories. The story is initially told from the perspective of one of the eponymous priests, who finds himself drawn to "the rumble of singing" he hears in the snowy expanse near the Cold Waste. The source of the singing, we soon learn, is none other than Fafhrd, who is attempting to cheer up his friend, who did not like the snow and ice as he did. 

The aforementioned priest studies the pair for a short time before leaping, dagger drawn, upon them. A brief fight ensues, during which the priest slips and falls into a chasm, seemingly to his death. The Mouser is puzzled, both by why this man would suddenly attack them but also by his appearance: his skin was completely black. 

"But what was he?" the Mouser asked frowningly. "He looked like a man of Klesh."

"Yes, with the jungles of Klesh as far from here as the moon," Fafhrd reminded him with a chuckle. "Some maddened hermit frostbitten black, no doubt. There are strange skulkers in these little hills, they say."

The Mouser peered up the dizzily mile-high cliff and spotted the nearby niche. "I wonder if there are more of him?" he questioned uneasily.

As they get closer to the Cold Waste and its lava vents, they spot a "green hill with a glitter." Looking closer, they see that "there rose from it a stubby pillar of rock almost like an altar."

But something else was foremost in the Mouser's thoughts.

"The eye, Fafhrd. The glad, glittering eye!" he whispered, dropping his voice as though they were in a crowded street and some informer or rival thief might overhear. "Only once before have I seen such a gleam, and that was by moonlight, across a king's treasure chamber. That time I did not come away with a huge diamond. A guardian serpent prevented it. I killed the wiggler, but its hiss brought other guards.

"But this time there's only a little hill to climb. And if at this distance the gem gleams so bright, Fafhrd" – his hand dropped and gripped his companion's leg, at the sensitive point just above the knee, for emphasis – "think how big!"

Excited by the prospect of looting the diamond he is sure is there, the Mouser "went skipping gaily" toward his prize, while Fafhrd "followed more slowly, gazing steadily at the green hill." When the two of meet at the base of the hill, the Mouser finds "a flat, dark rock covered with gashes" that Fafhrd immediately recognizes as "the runes of tropic Klesh." If nothing else, this proves the man who attacked them probably was a Kleshite and not some madman blackened by frostbite. Together, they attempt to decipher the runes.

"The seven black …" Fafhrd read laboriously.

"... priests," the Mouser finished for him. "They're in it, whoever they may be. And a god or beast or devil – that writing hieroglyph means any one of the three, depending on the surrounding words, which I don't understand. It's very ancient writing. And the seven black priests are to serve the writhing hieroglyph, or to bind it – again either might be meant, or both."

"And so long as the priesthood endures," Fafhrd took up, "that long will the god-beast-devil lie quietly … or sleep … or stay dead … or not come up."

Reading all this makes the Mouser uneasy, who claims he has "lost [his] hunger" for the gem, dismissing it as "likely just a bit of quartz." Unfortunately for him, Fafhrd declares he has "only now worked up a good appetite" and determines to climb the hill and reach the gem, ominous Kleshite runes be damned. 

Needless to say, the gem is no ordinary diamond and the message of the runes is indeed a warning. The Twain's attempt to steal it results in the appearance of the seven black priests – "The six," Mouser reminds Fafhrd and the reader, "We killed one of them last night." – all of whom are dedicated to stopping them. Why they do this and indeed why they are so far from their southern home forms the remainder of the story, which is rollicking good bit of pulp fantasy. 

"The Seven Black Priests" is perhaps a little more humorous and little less grim than some of Leiber's efforts, but it still stands head and shoulders above most other yarns of this kind. In large part, that's because, as I stated at the start of this post, Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser are such delightfully realized characters. I enjoyed reading about their exploits no matter what they are doing and this story is no different. As exciting as the situations Leiber describes frequently are, it's his protagonists that keep me coming back for more – but then I would expect nothing less from the greatest thieves in all of Lankhmar!