The Star Magicians

3. TALISMAN OF GREEN MAGIC

DRASK PALED. Consternation showed on the white faces of the Star Rovers. The invisible voice that seemed to haunt the great hall rang out again, mockery and menace blending in its weird, sibilant tones.

“Calastor strikes in the hour appointed … but it is not yet. Until that grim hour dawns … farewell.”

As Drask stood, sword-hilt in hand, a dim shadow of terror seemed to pass from the hall … and was gone. The torch-flames brightened perceptibly. Sounds became clearer, as if the very presence of the voice had muffled all other audition. But, although the ghostly shadow was gone, the heart had gone out of the feast. Frozen in their places, with eyes that glinted fear, the barbarians had no stomach for meat or drink.

Drask shrugged. “Words cannot frighten us, brothers! Nor can deeds. If this cowardly ghost dares show his face, we’ll feed him Rim-world steel. What say you?”

His words rang out like a fierce trumpet-call, rousing fire in the chilled spirits of his men. The shaggy chieftains grinned, and as one man they ripped their swords out and let them flash in the torch-light, giving him the victor’s salute.

“Hai-King!”

The warlord relaxed, grinning down at his men with a wolfish leer of bared teeth. And if the salute had not been as full-throated as he was used to, if some of the warriors unobtrusively signed their breast with the Sigil of Maryash, Lord of Protection, he gave no sign that he had noticed.

“Now am I done with feasting, and would sleep. First, I need a wench to warm my bed. You—Gurthan!—drag that corpse thither. Fling it to the kogors—the Princess of Argion shall share their pens instead of my bed this night.”

His eye flashed over the dancing girls, and lingered on one slim maiden with hair of ashen silver. Perion recognized the slim, fawn-eyed girl as the one who had stood too near the dais, and who had shrieked when the blood of the Princess had besplattered her nude thighs with scarlet.

“You!” Drask commanded, pointing at the girl.

She paled, then blushed fiery-red. Her large, limpid eyes flashed desperately about the hall from side to side, as if seeking a means to escape. Guards stood at every door with crossed axes. She bowed her head, and mounted the dais quietly. Perion grinned impishly.

Now Drask turned to the scrawny little Piper. He plucked a fat purse from his girdle, clinked it between his fingers, and tossed it at the Piper, who deftly snatched it from the air.

“There, Piper, a purse of iridium dahlers for your service. No reward is fitting to fully reward one who saves the life of a King, but fear not. You are in my service from this hour, and a fair share of our future booty will be yours. Take heart—there are many fat worlds in the wide Galaxy, waiting to be won!”

Perion bowed, speechless. There was a Prince’s ransom in the purse! He tried to stammer out his thanks, glib tongue paralyzed for once, but Drask cut him off with a short gesture.

“Enough. Leave me—all of you. Come, girl!”

Drask bent and caught the girl’s white shoulder in one lean hand, but she writhed from his grasp. He laughed and grasped her about the slim waist with brawny arms. She struck at his chest with small fists—and in one fist there was the sudden flash of steel!

Drask mouthed an oath and cuffed her hand away. A slim, small blade tinkled against the marble steps of the dais. The blade was broken: the miniature dagger she had held concealed in her fist had shivered against the massive iridium-and-cairngorm brooch that fastened the Warlord’s furry cloak about his throat.

Drask stared at the blade, astonished. The Rover growled, Tonguth surging near, shouldering his way through his comrades to hover protectively by his Lord.

“Again?” Drask rumbled. “Twice in one night a wench attempts my life?”

His burly chieftain moaned, eyes rolling.

“Wh-what did I say, M-Master?” Tonguth muttered. “A feast of knives, in very truth—the words of the Book—”

The Warlord shrugged irritably. “Swallow that superstitious drivel, fool. You’ll be turning priest next, and foreswearing manhood.” He turned to the girl, who stood panting, disheveled, wide-eyed, and cuffed her sharply. With a little cry she sank to her knees, huddling before him. Drask stooped to pick up the tiny dagger—then froze, snatching his hands away from the weapon as if it were red-hot and he feared to singe his fingers.

“Look!”

Those standing near—Perion, Abdekiel and Tonguth among them—saw that in the dagger’s hilt a strange green stone glimmered. It flashed like a cat’s eye in the silver setting, pulsing weirdly as if animated with some luminous pseudo-life.

The bland shaman drew in his breath sharply.

“You recognize it, shaman?” the Warlord asked sharply.

Abdekiel nodded. “Yes, Lord … although it has been years since last I saw its like.”

“What is it—speak, sorcerer!” Tonguth urged.

In the fat yellow mask that was his face, the shaman’s eyes gleamed with alert, reptilian intelligence. “The talisman of Niamh of Malkh, the World of Green Magic. It denotes that the girl is a member of Her sisterhood.”

“The Green Goddess!” Drask mused, rubbing his jaw. “First this White Wizard, this skulking shadow, Calastor— and now the Lady of Malkh. Is She against me, too? Has the Emerald Queen joined forces with the Adepts of Parlion to unseat me? Speak, girl!”

Ringed in with her enemies, the slender dancing girl gazed up at him with wide, frightened eyes. And standing behind the others, still clutching his purse of coins, Perion thought swiftly, shrewd eyes dancing with mischief.

“Answer me, wench!” Drask seized the girl’s wrist, crushing it with iron fingers. White teeth bit into a lush lower lip, but the girl remained silent, wincing against the pain of his vise-like grip. Her firm, round breasts rose and fell as she panted.

“Great Master—beware the emerald talisman!” Perion cried suddenly, pointing a trembling finger at the pulsing gem.

“What?”

“I have heard of the Lady of Green Magic, and somewhat of Her powers,” the Piper said swiftly. “All of Her agents bear one of these stones—they are Her eyes and ears among the stars! Some sort of magical sympathy exists between the Goddess and each of these talisman-gems. Through them She observes Her agents at work—sees what they see—hears what they hear—and through that stone She may be watching us at this moment!”

With a hoarse oath, Drask snatched his hands away from the kneeling girl. Tonguth and Abdekiel recoiled from the gem, which pulsed like a clot of verdant flame there on the marble step.

For a moment they hovered, watching the lambent, shifting fires of the magic emerald. Then Perion said breathlessly, “Shatter it! Smash the jewel, Lord! She may come to the aid of Her maid and strike with magic fires through the stone!”

From Tonguth’s leathern girdle, Drask caught up an iron mace with a spiked ball for a head. He brought it down on the throbbing jewel—crushing it with brutal, smashing blows. The silver hilt bent into a smear of shapeless metal, flattened beneath the mace’s hammer-blows. The jewel itself shattered into powder with a brief, blinding flash of intense emerald light that made them cry out. There was a puff of oily smoke from the dagger-hilt, as whatever cunningly-miniaturized micro-components the hilt contained shorted out beneath the mace’s stroke … and then the throbbing fires of the shattered gem died, like a burning coal crushed beneath a bootheel into a smear of coal. Naught remained to fear, only a dull green powder. Tonguth released a long-pent breath and Drask relaxed.

“My thanks for your warning, Piper. Again you have served me well.” He turned away. “Leave me now, Piper, Tonguth—all of you, save for the shaman. Out!”

They bowed out of the hall, leaving the girl alone with the Warlord and his first chieftain. Muttering between themselves, the remaining few barbarians slunk out, Perion scampering behind them, clutching his purse to his bony chest, glancing back at the pitiful figure of the kneeling girl with bright, malicious and inquisitive eyes. And when all were gone, the Warlord fixed his stern gaze on her. Beside him, the bald shaman eyed her curiously.

“Now, wench, what’s your name?”

“Lurn.”

“How long have you served the Green Lady?”

“I do not serve Her, great King. I know nothing of …”

Drask stirred the green dust with his foot. “Then where did you get this talisman?”

Her great eyes flashed with a touch of fear. Wetting her soft lips, she said: “I—don’t know—I—”

He cuffed her across the face with a ringing slap.

“Don’t lie to me, slut. Where did you get the dagger?”

“It was—during the loot of Argion, Lord—when your great ships were raining down death, and all the townspeople were going mad with panic and despair. I—I found it on a dead man … I took it; no one saw… . I thought I could sell the jewel, and …”

Drask glanced at the yellow-skinned conjuror beside him. Abdekiel smiled complacently.

“She lies, Dread Lord,” he said pleasantly. “The Lady of Green Magic is only served by women. No man could own the talisman.”

Drask slapped her again, snapping her head back sharply. Lurn gasped at the shock. He twisted his hand into her long, thick hair, gathering a fistful and pulling her face forward almost into his. His hot eyes burned into her face as he spoke slowly, clearly.

“I warn you, wench. No more lies. A sword-blade heated white in the fire and touched against your belly will wring the truth out of you fast enough. The truth, now!”

He released her, and she shrank back.

“I … lied. I got the thing from … my mistress. She was killed in the bombings. I … robbed her body … for jewels. I took the dagger … to protect me against the gangs that were looting the rubble. I never knew the jewel was anything more than … a jewel. It’s the truth—I swear it!”

Drask cocked an eyebrow at the shaman.

“Well, Abdekiel?”

The sorceror bent over the girl, observing her with slitted eyes. Terrified, she returned his gaze with wide, black-lashed eyes like a startled fawn. Then he stretched out one soft hand and touched the tip of his forefinger to her brow … then to a place above her heart. Under his breath he muttered a few words in some uncouth, guttural tongue. A dim mist of light glowed in the white valley between her breasts: glowed and … faded.

He straightened, smiling. “Lord, she lies again,” he said softly.

Drask balled his fist and struck out with a savage blow that stretched her out stunningly against the steps. Sobbing, she struggled to her knees again, an angry bruise empurpling her cheek and tears welling from her eyes.

“I’ll not play games with you, slut,” Drask snarled. “An electrode clamped to your tongue will teach it truth soon enough. Now speak—my patience is exhausted!”

Lurn lifted a trembling hand to her mouth, and her fingers came away scarlet with blood. Then, before even Drask’s eagle eye could observe her actions, she slipped a crystal phial from her gauze girdle about her loins—and drained it at a gulp. Drask reached for her, but she slid from his grasp and sprawled limply on the cold marble. The phial tinkled against the stone, a scintillating drop of jade fluid spilling from it to stain the pave.

He raised her, slapping her cheeks. But her face was closed, still, drained of life. The girl was either unconscious—or dead.

Abdekiel bent to examine her, rolling back one heavy-lashed lid to peer into her eye, listening to her heart. Then he bent, wheezing with effort, to dabble a fingertip in the jade liquid. He sniffed at it, and gingerly touched the tip of his tongue to the green stain on his hand.

“Well?” Drask demanded.

“She sleeps, Lord. Nor can she be wakened for hours.”

“What was that stuff?”

The shaman shrugged. “A simple decoction of the green lotus, a mild narcotic native to the worlds of the Hercules Cluster. A rare, expensive potion for a dancing-girl to possess, in these days when space travel is declining and only princely merchants dare risk our Rover-fleets to ply between the stars.”

“In other words, you believe she is indeed a servant of Niamh the Green Goddess?”

Abdekiel shrugged again. “What else, mighty Lord?”

Drask stood erect, bawling for the guard in the hall beyond.

“We shall put her away safely, and when she wakes perhaps a heated blade against her flesh will wring the truth from her …” He broke off, letting his hawk-fierce eyes wander slowly over her soft limbs as she lay helpless and unconscious before him, her almost-nude body open to his eyes. His gaze lingered, and a warm smile touched his lips.

“And perhaps … somehow I think questioning her will not be a boresome task, eh shaman?”

Abdekiel’s thin lips twisted into an obsequious smile. “And when you are done with her, Mighty One?”

“Then I shall throw her to my men, for their pleasure. Ah! There’s nothing more we can do tonight.” He turned to the guard. “You—Ygurm! Take this wench and lock her in the Red Tower, above the Caravan Gate. Tell your Captain to mount a watch over her cell. If anything happens to her, I’ll see the hearts of those who guarded her are cut out and fed to the kogors. Move!”

Ygurm closed both hands on his chest and bowed in the Rovers’ salute. “Aye, Master!”

“Remember! No one—no one—is to see her, or speak to her. And when she wakes, bring word to me.”

The guard picked up the girl, her head lolling lifelessly off his arm, her long ash-silver hair trailing to the floor, and bore her away.

“And now, Great One?” the shaman asked.

“The hour is late and I am weary. But I would have a word with you on these troubles. Come with me to my chambers.” His black fur-cloak belling out behind him, Drask led the way from the hall. They went through a long corridor past saluting guards, the shaman gliding at his heels, hands tucked in his deep sleeves.

The door to the Warlord’s private chambers was a great slab of silverwood set with massy studs of gold. A fire sizzled and crackled across the long, low-raftered room of gray stone, where logs of fragrant incense-wood blazed on brazen andirons wrought in the likeness of grinning gargoyles. Dragon-heads of carven stone leered from lintel and wall, with oil lamps of fretted silver hanging from their grinning jaws. Once eternal lights of atomic lamps had brightened these rooms, when lords of the Imperial Province of the Wyvern Stars had gathered here for council … but those days were past, and the rooms now served as temporary camp for the King of the space-roving barbarians.

Drask gestured the sorceror to a cushioned chair. He flung off his cloak of furs and removed his weapons-belt, throwing them into a corner. He sprawled across the silken bed, rubbing his brow wearily.

“Pour me wine, shaman. What of this Green Woman?”

Abdekiel filled an ornate gold chalice with sparkling yellow wine, handed it to his Master and tucked his arms into his gray robe. When he spoke, his voice was as colorless as his garments: a soft, sibilant undertone, hissing slightly over the softer consonants as do all from his twilight world of Shamanis.

“The Goddess of Malkh is as much a mystery as Calastor himself,” he commented. “She is not of human stock—that much we know. Rumor has it that when the first Earthmen came from the legended Mother World, they found Her … alone on her dim, mystic planet … ageless as the everlasting stars.”

Drask grunted, hooded eyes brooding on the firelight.

“Now the Adepts are a curious lot,” Abdekiel continued thoughtfully, “but we know the cause for which they combat us. These Adepts of the White Order serve The Light. They have meddled with the affairs of the Galaxy for many centuries. Some say they strive to manipulate history for their own cryptic purpose … perhaps to build a New Empire out of the ruin of the Old. If that be so, ‘tis easy to comprehend the motive of their leader, this Calastor. He pits himself against the Star Rovers because they are the Scourge of the Stars. World after world, Dread Lord, you have crushed beneath your iron heel. On planet after planet, the wan, enfeebled light of civilization has wavered before your blast, and flickered out.

“But Niamh has never before opposed the Rovers. Perhaps She fears us, and would align Herself with the White Wizard before we overwhelm Her green star. If so, the girl, Lurn, may be here as spy. Or assassin. Or as both.”

Drask swirled the wine, moodily peering into its glittering golden depths. Then he drained the chalice and tossed it away to clang hollowly against the tiled floor.

“Perhaps this girl knows Her purpose,” Drask growled.

“I doubt not she belongs to the Green Sisterhood, but, from her youth, she is doubtless a mere novice and probably would not be partner to her Mistress’ secret plans. However, in her we have the key that may unlock many secrets… .”

“Aye,” Drask growled. “If the key break not under the pressure of prying open the lock.”

Suddenly there came a cry, and the thud and scuffle of running feet pounding down the long corridor. The door burst open, showing the guard, Ygurm, his white and frightened face pale against brown scruff of beard and eyes bulging.

“Lord—Lord!”

Drask sprang from the bed. “What is it? Well, speak, man—don’t stand there gasping as if Calastor himself were at your heels. What is it?”

“The girl—”

“What of her?” With one stride Drask was across the room. Seizing a handful of Ygurm’s scarlet cape, he dragged the burly guard from his feet, shaking him as a chorn shakes a sand-rat, till his teeth rattled in his head.

“What’s happened? If you’ve let her escape, you dull-witted cur, I swear by Thaxis’ bowels I’ll have you spitted on your own standard! Speak!”

“She’s gone—gone—vanished into this air, before my eyes!” Ygurm stammered, cold terror flaming on his face.