[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March
1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Sidenote: _Grimly Eric John Stark slogged toward that ancient Martian
city--with every step he cursed the talisman of Ban Cruach that flamed
in his blood-stained belt. Behind him screamed the hordes of Ciaran,
hungering for that magic jewel--ahead lay the dread abode of the Ice
Creatures--at his side stalked the whispering spectre of Ban Cruach,
urging him on to a battle Stark knew he must lose!_]
I
Through all the long cold hours of the Norland night the Martian had not
moved nor spoken. At dusk of the day before Eric John Stark had brought
him into the ruined tower and laid him down, wrapped in blankets, on the
snow. He had built a fire of dead brush, and since then the two men had
waited, alone in the vast wasteland that girdles the polar cap of Mars.
Now, just before dawn, Camar the Martian spoke.
"Stark."
"Yes?"
"I am dying."
"Yes."
"I will not reach Kushat."
"No."
Camar nodded. He was silent again.
The wind howled down from the northern ice, and the broken walls rose up
against it, brooding, gigantic, roofless now but so huge and sprawling
that they seemed less like walls than cliffs of ebon stone. Stark would
not have gone near them but for Camar. They were wrong, somehow, with a
taint of forgotten evil still about them.
The big Earthman glanced at Camar, and his face was sad. "A man likes to
die in his own place," he said abruptly. "I am sorry."
"The Lord of Silence is a great personage," Camar answered. "He does not
mind the meeting place. No. It was not for that I came back into the
Norlands."
He was shaken by an agony that was not of the body. "And I shall not
reach Kushat!"
Stark spoke quietly, using the courtly High Martian almost as fluently
as Camar.
"I have known that there was a burden heavier than death upon my
brother's soul."
He leaned over, placing one large hand on the Martian's shoulder. "My
brother has given his life for mine. Therefore, I will take his burden
upon myself, if I can."
He did not want Camar's burden, whatever it might be. But the Martian
had fought beside him through a long guerilla campaign among the harried
tribes of the nearer moon. He was a good man of his hands, and in the
end had taken the bullet that was meant for Stark, knowing quite well
what he was doing. They were friends.
That was why Stark had brought Camar into the bleak north country,
trying to reach the city of his birth. The Martian was driven by some
secret demon. He was afraid to die before he reached Kushat.
And now he had no choice.
"I have sinned, Stark. I have stolen a holy thing. You're an outlander,
you would not know of Ban Cruach, and the talisman that he left when he
went away forever beyond the Gates of Death."
Camar flung aside the blankets and sat up, his voice gaining a febrile
strength.
"I was born and bred in the Thieves' Quarter under the Wall. I was proud
of my skill. And the talisman was a challenge. It was a treasured
thing--so treasured that hardly a man has touched it since the days of
Ban Cruach who made it. And that was in the days when men still had the
lustre on them, before they forgot that they were gods.
"'Guard well the Gates of Death,' he said, 'that is the city's trust.
And keep the talisman always, for the day may come when you will need
its strength. Who holds Kushat holds Mars--and the talisman will keep
the city safe.'
"I was a thief, and proud. And I stole the talisman."
His hands went to his girdle, a belt of worn leather with a boss of
battered steel. But his fingers were already numb.
"Take it, Stark. Open the boss--there, on the side, where the beast's
head is carved...."
* * * * *
Stark took the belt from Camar and found the hidden spring. The rounded
top of the boss came free. Inside it was something wrapped in a scrap of
silk.
"I had to leave Kushat," Camar whispered. "I could never go back. But it
was enough--to have taken that."
He watched, shaken between awe and pride and remorse, as Stark unwrapped
the bit of silk.
Stark had discounted most of Camar's talk as superstition, but even so
he had expected something more spectacular than the object he held in
his palm.
It was a lens, some four inches across--man-made, and made with great
skill, but still only a bit of crystal. Turning it about, Stark saw that
it was not a simple lens, but an intricate interlocking of many facets.
Incredibly complicated, hypnotic if one looked at it too long.
"What is its use?" he asked of Camar.
"We are as children. We have forgotten. But there is a legend, a
belief--that Ban Cruach himself made the talisman as a sign that he
would not forget us, and would come back when Kushat is threatened. Back
through the Gates of Death, to teach us again the power that was his!"
"I do not understand," said Stark. "What are the Gates of Death?"
Camar answered, "It is a pass that opens into the black mountains beyond
Kushat. The city stands guard before it--why, no man remembers, except
that it is a great trust."
His gaze feasted on the talisman.