Eric John Stark

by Leigh Brackett

  “Ban Cruach,” Stark said softly, as though he had not heard the name before. “And a shrine. You spoke of a talisman?”

  Lugh motioned to the soldiers to march nearer to the statue. The pedestal on which it stood was not a solid block of masonry, but a squat building having a small barred window in each side and no door that Stark could see. Entrance to the chamber must be through some hidden passageway below.

  “The talisman,” Lugh said, “was the gift of Ban Cruach to the city. As long as it is here, Kushat will never fall to an enemy.”

  “Why?” asked Stark.

  “Because of the power of the talisman.”

  “And what is that?” asked Stark, the rude barbarian, simple and wondering.

  Lugh answered with unquestioning certainty, “It will unlock the power that lies beyond the Gates of Death.”

  “Oh,” said Stark. He leaned close to the little barred window. “That must be a great power indeed.”

  “Great enough,” said Lugh, “that no enemy has ever dared to attack us, and no enemy ever will as long as the talisman is there.” His voice was defiant, a little too emphatic. Stark wondered. Did Lugh really believe that this was the talisman, or was he only trying to believe it, trying very hard?

  “I thought that yesterday in the market place I heard someone say…”

  “A wild rumor started by the rabble in the Thieves’ Quarter. You can see for yourself. It is there.”

  Certainly something was there, set on a block of polished stone. An oval piece of crystal, very like the talisman in shape and size, so much alike that they could not be told apart except that this was a bit of crystal and nothing more, inert, hollow, reflecting the light with shallow brightness. Remembering the eerie glow, the living flickering shifting radiance of the talisman, Stark smiled inwardly. And paused to wonder how under heaven Camar had managed to steal the thing.

  “I see,” said Stark aloud. “It is. And those are coming who will test its strength—and yours.” He glanced at Lugh. “How is it used to unlock this power you speak of?”

  “When the time comes to use it,” Lugh said curtly, “it will be used. Come, the Lord Rogain is waiting.”

  In other words, Stark thought, you don’t know how it is used any more than I do.

  As he moved to fall in again with the soldiers, Lugh added with positive viciousness. “And I do not believe in your barbarian army any more than the captain does.”

  He strode off, the soldiers matching step behind him. They marched across the square and into the courtyard of a massive building on its eastern side, where the stone figures of men in ancient mail stood sentry, some without their heads, or arms, some shattered into fragments by the cracking frosts of a thousand winters. Here the soldiers were left behind, and Lugh escorted him through high draughty corridors hung with dim tapestries and through a series of guard rooms where men-at-arms halted them and made Lugh give his name, rank, company, and errand. At length a guard swung open a massive bronze-plated door and Stark found himself in a surprisingly small room, heavily curtained against the cold, smelling of smoke from a couple of braziers, and filled with an assortment of irritated men.

  Stark recognized the captain of the guard. The others, old, young, and intermediate, wore various harness indicating rank, and all of them looked as though they hated Eric John Stark, whether for presenting them with unpleasant problems or for routing them out of their warm beds at such an early hour he did not know. Probably both.

  Behind a broad table that served as a desk sat a man who wore the jeweled cuirass of a noble. He had a nice, kind face. Gray hair, mild scholarly eyes, soft cheeks. A fine man, Stark thought, but ludicrous in the trappings of a soldier.

  Lugh saluted. “Here is the man, sir,” he said. Rogain nodded and thanked him, and dismissed him with a flick of the hand. Stark stood still, waiting, and Rogain studied him, taking his time, his gaze probing and thoughtful.

  “How are you called?” he asked.

  Stark told him.

  “You are not of the Norlands.”

  “No. Not of Mars. My parents came from the third planet. I was born on the world nearest the sun.” He paused, meeting Rogain’s eye without either arrogance or deference. “I say this because I wish you to understand that I am a wanderer by birth and by nature.”

  Rogain nodded, with just the hint of a smile. “In other words, I need not enquire what business you had on the northern moors in winter. Or any other time, for that matter.”

  The captain of the guard muttered something audible about the business of rogues and outlaws. Stark said to Rogain, “Ask what you will. I was in the south, where I had come to fight with the Drylanders in a war against the Border States. But things went wrong, and that war was never fought. There was nothing for me to do there, and I had never seen this part of Mars. So I came north.”

  “You are a mercenary, then?” asked Rogain, and one of the others, a heavy-jawed man with insolent, stupid eyes, made a gesture of relief.

  “There is your answer, Rogain. He brings a great tale of war in the hope of selling his services.”

  “What do you say to that, Stark?” asked Rogain mildly.

  Stark shrugged. “I say that the proof of my story is easily gained. Only wait a day or two.” He looked from one to the other of the assembled faces, finding them hopelessly wanting. They were civilized men, all of them, good, bad, and indifferent—so civilized that the origins of their culture had been forgotten half an age before the first clay brick was laid in Sumer. Too civilized, Stark thought, and far too long accustomed to the peace Ban Cruach had bequeathed them, a peace that had drawn their fangs and cut their claws, leaving even the best of them unfit for what was coming.

  “You will defend Kushat or not, as you choose,” he said. “But in either case, my services are not for sale.”

  “Oh?” said Rogain. “Why?”

  Very softly Stark said, “I have a personal quarrel with Ciaran of Mekh.”

  The man who had spoken before gave a derisive laugh. Rogain turned to look at him with pointed interest. “Can you no longer recognize a man when he stands before you?” he asked, and shook his head. The man’s wattles turned a dull red, and the others looked startled. Rogain turned again to Stark.

  “Sit down,” he said, pointing to a chair beside the desk. “Now. I would like to hear the story from your own lips.”

  Stark told it, exactly as he had told the captain. When he was finished Rogain asked him questions. Where was the camp? How many men? What were the exact words of the Lord Ciaran, and who was he? Why had he ordered Stark to be scourged? Stark found answers for them all that were truthful and yet made no mention of Otar and the talisman. Rogain sat then for some time, lost in thought, while the others waited impatiently, not quite daring to offer their opinions. Stark watched Rogain’s hand moving abstractedly among the seals and scrolls upon his desk—a scholar’s hands, without a callus on them. Finally he sighed and said, “I will arm the city. And if the attack comes, Kushat will owe you a debt for the warning, Stark.” An astonishingly unpleasant look came into his eyes. “If it does not come—we will talk further about the matter then.”

  Stark smiled, rather cruelly. “You still hope that I am lying.”

  “This part of the world has laws of its own, which you neither know nor understand, and therefore it is possible for you to be mistaken. Firstly…”

  “No one makes war in the winter,” Stark said. “That is exactly why Ciaran is doing it.”

  “Quite possibly,” said Rogain. “But there is another thing. We have a power here that guards our city. It has sufficed in all the time past.” His voice was very quiet, deceptively unemotional. “Why now should the barbarians suddenly lose their fear of the talisman?”

  There was now a stillness in the room, a sense of held breath and stretching ears, of eyes that glanced swiftly at Stark�
�s face and then away again, afraid to be caught looking lest they betray the intensity behind them. A duller man than Stark would have been able to smell the trap that had opened so innocently under his feet. Stark gave no notice that he was aware of anything, but any thought he might have had of telling Rogain the truth and surrendering the talisman to its rightful owners died then and there. He was on the edge of a trap, but these men were in one. They had lied to their own people to save their skins, and they did not dare admit it. If he told them that Ciaran knew the talisman was gone they would kill him to keep the word from spreading. If he gave them the true talisman, they would weep with relief and joy, and kill him even quicker. The last thing they could afford was to have word get about the city that the true talisman had returned.

  So Stark said, “The Lord Ciaran is no common barbarian, and he is a hungry man, far too hungry for fear. If your talisman is as powerful as you say, I would guess he means to take it for himself.” The stillness hurt his ears. He sat with his heart pounding and the sweat flushing cold on his skin, and he added casually, “Sooner or later there is always someone to challenge a tradition.”

  It was as though the room relaxed and drew breath. Rogain nodded curtly and said, “We shall see. For the moment, that is all.”

  Stark rose and went out. Lugh was waiting to march him out of the building and across the square under the looming statue of Ban Cruach, past the shrine, and back to the grimy Quarter under the wall.

  VI

  At the foot of the stair Lugh stopped and gave Stark one last bitter look.

  “Sleep well,” he said, “while better men than you walk freezing on the Wall.”

  He marched his men away and Stark looked after them, hearing the petulance in the clang of Lugh’s iron-shod boots on the stones. He could find it in his heart to pity this young man, who was going to be forced so soon to dirty his beautiful armor with blood. Then he turned and climbed the stair, and was appalled at the effort it took. Twice he had to stop and hold on to keep from falling.

  Part of his faintness was from hunger. He knew that as he entered the room and saw Thanis bent over a brazier stirring something savory in a blackened pot. Balin sprawled gracefully on the bench bed that ran along one crooked wall. He sprang up to catch Stark’s arm and steady him to a seat, and Stark muttered something about food, unable to remember how long it was since he had eaten. Thanis waited on him gladly, and they did not speak until he was finished, drinking the last of his wine and feeling human again, feeling strong enough to think, and thinking, scowling into his cup.

  And Balin asked, “What happened?”

  “They will arm the city,” Stark said.

  “Will they hold it?”

  Thanis said, “Of course they’ll hold it. We still have the Wall.”

  “Walls,” said Balin, “are no stronger than the men who defend them.” He asked again. “Will they hold it?”

  Stark shook his head. “They’ll try. Some of them will even die gloriously. But they’re sheep, and the wolves will tear them. This is my belief.”

  He rose abruptly and went to stand by the window, looking out at the ancient uneven roofs, above them to the distant towers of the King City, and then beyond to the black line of the cliffs. The cold air stirred his hair, and he shivered and said, “Balin, could they hold it if they had the talisman?”

  There was a quiet, in which he could hear the wind chafing and whining at the walls outside. He pulled the curtain tight and turned, and Balin was looking at him with smoky cat eyes, his body poised like a bent bow.

  “This is your city, Balin. You know. I can only guess. Could they hold it?”

  Slowly and softly Balin answered, while Thanis sat stiff and still as ivory, and as pale, watching the two men.

  “They are sheep, Stark. And they’re worse than that. They’re liars. And they have forgotten the knowledge that was entrusted to them. They do not remember any more how the talisman was used, not what it called forth from beyond the Gates of Death. If they had ten talismans, they could not hold the city.”

  And he added, “Why do you ask that question?”

  “Because,” said Stark grimly, “I have decided to trust you with my life.” He slipped the belt from around his waist. “I’ve done what I promised. I have finished a journey for a friend—a man named Camar, who had a burden on his soul.” He saw Thanis start at the sound of that name, but Balin did not stir and his eyes never wavered from Stark’s. The silence thrummed between them. Stark’s nerves twitched and tightened, and his fingers curved around the hollow boss of the buckle.

  “The talisman belongs to Kushat. But on that journey I bought a small share in it, Balin, with my blood. Both Otar and Ciaran were sure I could give it to them, and they did their best to make me. Now I say that if the city falls to Ciaran he must not get the talisman. And someone—you or I, someone, must live to use it against him.” He paused. “If there truly is a power beyond the Gates of Death…”

  “For an outlander,” Balin said, “you have a strong love for Kushat.”

  Stark shook his head. “Kushat may stand or fall as it will without breaking my heart. But I have a score to settle with Ciaran, and I will hale the devil out of hell to do it, if I have to.”

  “Well,” said Balin, and smiled, and was suddenly relaxed and easy. “In that case our ways lie close enough together that we can walk them side by side.” Casually he laid back the covering on the couch beside him, and the thin sharp blade of a throwing knife glittered in the chill light. He picked it up and placed it in his girdle. “Oh,” he said, “and Stark, don’t be too concerned about trusting me with your life.” His fingers plucked something from the folds of his tunic and held it up—a bit of crystal, gleaming with subtle witch-fire, seeming to draw to itself all the light in the room.

  Thanis cried out, “Balin…!” and then was still, her eyes as wide as moons.

  “I knew Camar too,” said Balin. “He once showed me the secret of that buckle. So I have had your life in my hands since last night.”

  Thanis whispered, “And you did not tell me…”

  “Of course not,” said Balin. “I might have had to kill him, and I recognize the light in your eye, little sister. These things are unpleasant enough without additional fussing.” He leaned forward, placing the talisman on a low table, and then looked up at Stark.

  “As you say, Kushat is my city.”

  Stark said slowly, “I will be damned.” He stared at Balin, as though he were looking at a new and different man. Then he laughed and flung himself down on the couch, being careful to avoid the talisman. “Very well, comrade. How do we plan?”

  “If the Wall holds and the city stands, then the plan is simple enough and Narrabhar’s high seat will be quickly emptied. But if the city falls…” Balin sipped his wine reflectively. “We here in the Quarter are more like rats than sheep, and so perhaps poverty is useful, since it has kept our teeth sharp. I think that we are the ones who must survive, Stark.” He looked at the talisman and added in a strangely awed and almost frightened voice, “We are the ones who will have to carry that beyond the Gates of Death.”

  “So long as I go with you,” Stark said.

  “We need you,” Balin said simply. “We are thieves by trade, killers only by accident. I myself have never drawn blood in anger. You will have to make us into fighting men.”

  “If you have the will,” Stark said, “the method is not hard to teach.” He yawned.

  “The will we have.”

  “Good.” Stark lay back on the soft furs. “There will be very little time. What we do must be done quickly. Talk to your people, Balin, the best men. Assume that the Wall will be breached. Arrange a rallying place, and if it is possible, plan a way out of the city. We’ll need supplies, food and warm clothing, all we can carry without being burdened. And no more women and children than you can help. They’re more likely t
o die in the mountains than they are here, and we must be able to move fast.”

  Balin had risen. He looked down at Stark and said, “Friend, I’ve been at this since I found the talisman.”

  “So much the better.” Stark said, and swore. “I hate this planning to the dark. I can see clearly enough between Kushat and the Gates of Death, and after that I am in darkness. Is it possible, Balin—truly possible, that no one ever goes into that pass even a little way, to tell us what it’s like? Even Otar didn’t say he had.”

  Balin shrugged. “From time to time men have tried it, in spite of the tabu. Sometimes their bodies return to us in the spring floods. Mostly they never come back at all. The law and the legend of Ban Cruach both say that Kushat was built to guard the pass, and that only with the talisman can a man go through it and live.”

  “Does the legend say,” said Stark, “why Kushat guards the pass?”

  “Didn’t Camar tell you that?”

  “He said no one remembered why, except that it was a great trust.”

  “And that is true. But one may guess that the power hidden beyond the pass is too great to be loosed by chance or whim, and so must be protected. In the beginning, of course, Ban Cruach gained that power for himself somehow, and used it to build his own fame in the Norlands…”

  “Which Ciaran hopes to do again.” Stark nodded. “Otar has turned his brain with desire.”