People of the Talisman

XIV

The name crashed in metallic echoes from the surrounding walls. The creatures started back, swaying this way and that, and their huge eyes fixed on the talisman. Now that he was closer, Stark could see the vestigial noses and the small mouths, reptilian in their neatness of tight lips and little even teeth.

“Ban Cruach,” he said again.

They swayed and fluted among themselves. The talisman glowed between Stark’s hands. Their thought-voices clamored in his head.

“He has the Word of Power!”

“The talisman! He holds the talisman…”

“What are these creatures? What do they want here?”

“They have his form. Perhaps they’re his people.” The same thought was suddenly arrived at and projected by several of them together, and it was full of fear. “They’ve come to take him away from us!”

“No!” said Stark. He made gestures of negation, having no idea whether they would understand. They stopped fluting and stared at him. He came closer, close enough to be aware of their bodies as living things, breathing, stirring, smelling oddly of a dry dusty perfume like the odor of fallen leaves. They horrified him, not because of their physical difference but because he had eavesdropped on their unguarded conversations and knew at least a fraction of the things these bodies were capable of doing. The creature who had first mentioned Ban Cruach was ornamented with streamers of blue and green, attached to his arms and legs and around his body with no possible function other than ornamentation. His conical cap was pink. Stark set his teeth on his rising gorge and approached him. He indicated that he should touch the talisman.

He did, with four long golden fingers and a thumb like a gamecock’s spur, tipped with an artificial talon of razor-sharp steel.

“Do you understand me now?” Stark asked aloud.

The dark moon eyes regarded him, alert and frighteningly clever but without comprehension.

“What is it trying to do?” said one of the aliens. This one wore a green cap, a long strip of coral down the front, and a set of amethyst-blue streamers that went down the back and then on down both legs, where they were fastened to the ankles by jeweled bands. Stark realized all of a sudden that this was a female. There was remarkably little difference. She swayed her thin gold body with a strange angular grace, her arms moving like a dancer’s, expressing fear.

“Kill him,” said a third one, dressed in russet and brown. “Drive your spur in, Hrillin. Take away their power…”

Stark stepped back abruptly, with the talisman, and half drew his sword. The one called Hrillin looked at him with a sudden blaze of understanding.

“Now I see! When we speak, you hear us, through the talisman.” His long arms were motioning his fellows to silence, warning them. “If this is so, raise your hand three times.”

Stark obeyed.

“Ah,” said Hrillin. He stared at Stark, and stared, and then he laughed. “And is this the true nature of the talisman?”

Complete amazement, echoed by the others. More than amazement. Consternation. And the female in coral and amethyst-blue fluted on a shrill note of panic.

“But if that is true…”

“We shall see,” said Hrillin, smoothly shutting her off. “It is certain he understands what we say.”

“His talisman speaks for us,” said another, this one enveloped in a great swirl of flame-colored silk that hid him completely from neck to heels. “Perhaps our talisman will speak for him.”

Well, and of course, thought Stark. One tuned to their wave-output, one to ours, because the two systems are not compatible. I should have realized that. Otherwise I would have picked up all the human chatter around me as well.

Hrillin was watching him. He raised his hand again, three times.

Hrillin beckoned. “Come then.”

Stark beckoned in his turn, to Balin and the others.

“No,” said Hrillin. “Only you. Let the others rest.”

Stark shook his head. He smiled mockingly and made certain motions, remembering one or two of the things he had learned from the talisman during the time that he listened to the voices of the city.

Hrillin and some of the others laughed. It was a sound as musical as falling water, but Stark did not find it at all pleasant. They turned and moved up the broad street with their swaying, capering steps. Hrillin called to his fellows down the street to let the others come.

“Remember,” he said to Stark. “We can destroy you all, in one second, if we wish.”

Stark raised his hand, saying yes. But to Balin he said, “Maybe.” He explained what Hrillin had said. “It’s possible. Pass the word down to stay together. No panic, and no provocations. But there’s something wrong here. They’re frightened.”

The thin gold woman tossed her arms like the branches of a wind-torn tree, pantomiming destruction.

They moved in a long line down the avenue. Stark repeated what had been said, so that Balin and the others would know.

“Ban Cruach protects them?” said Balin. “They have a talisman?” He seemed unable to believe this. So did Thanis, and those others like Lugh who were close enough to hear. Only Ciaran said, “Ban Cruach appears to have been a generous man. Let us hope that he keeps his promises—all of them.”

Stark warned them to silence when the aliens should hold their talisman.

It was growing dark. In the shadowy cross-streets and the squares along the way, more and more of the thin tall figures gathered, circling, following, watching. All at once, all over the city, lights sprang on.

Thanis gasped, and then whispered, “How can anything so hateful be so beautiful?”

The streets were filled now with a soft radiance of color. The tall thin shapes in their fluttering silks moved through pools of gold and green, blue and violet, orange and blood-red. All the windows of the buildings showed a clear silver-white against the colors. Rank after rank they passed by, giving a million narrow glimpses into public halls with many slender pillars, and the odd-shaped rooms of houses, all deserted.

Stark listened to the fluting calls of the creatures who followed.

“There are not many of them,” he said quietly. “I think not as many as we. They seem to have no real leader. Hrillin happened to be the first to see us, so that apparently entitles him to lead for this…” He hesitated. “ ‘Game’ is the only word.” The wild disorder of their talk was appalling. “Their whole existence here seems to be one great anarchic game. They murder for fun. Not simple murders. They do all kinds of things for fun, and physical torture is one of the least of them. They’ve had thousands of years to invent perversions.”

“I heard them,” Balin said. “Only briefly, but enough.”

Lugh said, “But if they have no leader, and they are so few, how do they force the victims…”

“They don’t have to,” Stark said. “The victims get more fun out of it than anybody. It seems to be their moment of supreme fulfillment.”

Thanis said furiously, “Ban Cruach would never have promised his help to these monsters.”

“That was a long time ago,” Stark said. “I doubt that they were monsters then.” He looked around at the city, with the massive bulk of the tower rising over it. “They live in prison. They die in prison. They’ve been dying for a long time. It’s small wonder they’ve gone mad with it.”

“I do not pity them,” Balin said with a shiver of repulsion.

“Nor I,” said Stark. “Any more than they would pity me while they were watching me die.”

They came into an enormous circle. In the center of the circle was a pavilion, the roof curved and peaked, upheld on many columns, the whole thing done in shades of purple. Hrillin beckoned Stark and the others on, and from all sides now the aliens began to gather closer. Broad stripes of gold like sunrays laid into the pavement led to the heart of the pavilion, where there was a low dais holding a glitter of crystal.

Embedded in the crystal was the body of a man, a human man, and quite old, dressed in antique armor. Stark recognized him. He had seen that face before, carved in stone and turned forever toward the Gates of Death. He was looking at Ban Cruach.

A wave of awe swept over the people of Kushat. They pushed and crowded, delicately, as though they were in a temple, but determinedly, surrounding the crystal coffin, and all through what followed there was a constant motion as those in front gave way to others moving up from behind to see.

From some secret niche beside the coffin Hrillin took the mate to Ban Cruach’s talisman and held it up, and stared while it warmed and glowed between his hands.

“Now,” said Stark, “do you understand me, Hrillin?”

The alien flinched, as though he found the impact of human speech as distasteful as Stark had found theirs.

“I understand.”

“This is as Ban Cruach and your forefathers wished. Your people made these things we call talismans so that our two races might talk together.”

Hrillin glanced aside at Ban Cruach, lying still in his crystal bed.

“He promised to protect us,” Hrillin said. “He promised to guard the Gates of Death so that his world could never trespass onto ours.”

The aliens echoed that, swaying and tossing their arms. The fluting voices rang from the pavilion roof. “He promised! By the power of the talisman…”

“And he kept that promise,” Stark said, “as long as his people held Kushat.”

Hrillin started. He stared at Stark.

“Kushat? Kushat has fallen?”

A wild crying broke out among the aliens. They pressed closer around Hrillin, around the humans. Some of them, apparently in an ecstasy of excitement, pricked themselves and each other with their steel nails, drawing blood.

“Yesterday,” Stark said.

“Yesterday,” repeated Hrillin. “Yesterday Kushat fell.” Suddenly he swayed forward and screamed. “You had no right! You had no right to let it fall!”

The fluting voices shrieked in rage, in hysteria and fear. The tall thin bodies swayed wildly, whirled and tossed. Stark thought the creatures were going to attack, and perhaps they might have, but the men of Kushat drew their weapons and the aliens moved back, circling round and round. More began to gash themselves. The game was not going quite as they had thought, Stark felt. And yet they were becoming more and more excited by it, perhaps simply because it was unpredictable and new.

He said to Hrillin, “The men of Kushat died defending their city. They could hardly do more.” He could not keep all of what he was thinking out of what he was saying; the words formed themselves in his mind and Hrillin read them before he could suppress them. Some inscrutable emotion flickered in Hrillin’s eyes.

“We do not like each other,” he said. “Let it rest at that.”

“Very well. But now we come to you because Ban Cruach made us a promise, too.”

“A promise? A promise?” Hrillin was scornful. “His promise was to us. We gave him a strong weapon to fight his wars, and in exchange he gave us peace.” He placed his hand with the cruel thumb-spur affectionately on the coffin. “When he was an old man he left his people and came to us. We were a great city, then. All this valley was warm and populous. He walked our streets and talked to our philosophers and wise men. It is said that he wrote our history, in the human tongue, though no one knows if that is true.” He paused, looking at the humans. “We are the oldest race on Mars. We knew you before you walked erect. We built our cities when you lived in holes in the rock and barely understood fire.”

The aliens swayed, lifting their long arms.

“But,” said Hrillin, “you bred faster. And we grew old. We built our towers in the cold lands, and for a long time we were not troubled. But even the planet grew old, and men were everywhere, and one by one we abandoned our cities because there was no one left to live in them. This valley was our last stronghold.”

“It is a stronghold no longer,” Stark said. “Men are on their way. And this was Ban Cruach’s promise to us, the other side of your bargain. If ever need arose, we were to bring the talisman through the Gates of Death, and the great power Ban Cruach once had would be given to us again.”

He held up the talisman in a gesture of finality.

“Give us that power. We will drive away these men who are enemies to us both, and Kushat will continue to guard the Gates as she always has. Otherwise…”

He let his hands fall.

“Otherwise you must fight this battle by yourselves.”

“Fight,” said the fluting voices. There was a whirl of laughter, strange and cruel.

“Give them the power, Hrillin, why not?”

“Yes, give them the power!”

“Let them be strong like Ban Cruach and fight the world away from us.”

“Shall I?” said Hrillin, swaying, dancing where he stood, gesturing with malicious arms. “Shall I?” He bent to Stark. “Will you go?”

“Give us the weapons, Hrillin, and we’ll go.”

“Very well,” said Hrillin, and turned to his people. “Give them the weapons! Bring all we have. Give them! These are the sons of Ban Cruach our protector. Give them the weapons!”

They began to chant. “Give them the weapons!” Those who carried the bulky tubes pressed them into human hands. Others ran away and returned quickly with more. In a few minutes the men of Kushat had forty of the globed weapons.

“Are you joyous now?” asked Hrillin, and thrust the last of the tubes into Stark’s hand. “See, thus and thus do you do with it, but be careful. It will kill much more than you think.”

He drew back. All the aliens drew back. Balin held a tube in his own hands. He looked at it, his face alight with triumph, and then he turned to the crystal coffin where Ban Cruach lay. “He did it, Stark. He kept his promise.” There was a glitter of tears in his eyes. “I thank you,” he said to the aliens. “We of Kushat all thank you.” He turned suddenly and faced Ciaran. “Now you can watch your red wolves die.”

He shouted to the people, “You have the power now—the power of Ban Cruach! Let us go and take Kushat!”

The people roared. They started to move out of the pavilion and into the street, with Balin running on to lead them. They shouted, “Kushat! Kushat!” until the echoes struck through the city like the ringing of flawed bells. They poured back along the avenue. And now Stark was at the rear of the march with Ciaran, and Lugh and Rogain, who were armed with the alien weapons. Thanis had raced ahead to be with Balin, seeing already the way her room would look with everything back as it had been before.

The people were in a hurry and they moved fast, through the pools of colored light. Stark watched from side to side, and he saw that Ciaran was doing so too.

He could not see anything. There seemed to be no reason for alarm. Yet he was alarmed. And in his hand the talisman of Ban Cruach brought him not one single word.

He had a horrid picture of the aliens bending and swaying with their fingers pressed to their lips, their eyes bright with the excitement of playing a game where no one was allowed to speak.

Still they went on, and nothing happened.

The people began to pick up their burdens again from where they had left them. They put on their cloaks and shared their bundles and hurried along toward the terminus of the warm zone. They were in high spirits, their mouths full of the sweet taste of victory. Ciaran walked with her head high and her face a mask of stone. Lugh and Rogain fondled the strange weapons. Stark, impatient and nervous, kept looking back and seeing nothing, and straining toward the clean cold air ahead.

Perhaps half the people had left the city when the talisman brought Stark one unguarded cry, quickly silenced.

The cry was “Now, now!", and it held such a note of hungry eagerness that Stark did not wait for more. He shouted to the people to leave their belongings and run. He pushed Ciaran ahead of him, yelling at Lugh and Rogain to be ready with their weapons. They all began to run. And then all at once the lights went out.

Stark blundered into someone and stopped. It was as though he had been struck blind. He looked up at the sky. The stars were hidden by a shimmering cloud and the whole city was black as the pit. People were stumbling about, yelling, on the edge of panic.

Then the screaming began.

Stark felt something close by him, smelled a scene like the odor of dry leaves, and he knew suddenly that they were all around, keeping very quiet, their narrow feet soundless on the pavement, moving among the people. They must have come by secret ways of their own, through the empty houses and the unused halls. Now, above his head in the darkness, there was a little sound of suppressed laughter, horribly like a giggling child. A long thin finger brushed his face.

He yelled and lashed out violently with the globed weapon that he could not fire because of his own people. But the sharp thumb-spur had already pricked his neck, and whatever drug was on it acted very swiftly. He did not know whether the blow landed. Vaguely, very vaguely, as long arms wrapped around him and dragged him into unconsciousness, he heard the sounds of panic as the people of Kushat rushed blindly toward the outer night.