Stark looked at him with distaste, but he, like Ciaran, was too occupied with his dreams to notice.
And Ciaran said, “Now the city is naked, and I will take it, and talisman or not, I will go beyond the Gates of Death to see what may be there.”
He paused again, the dark mask inscrutable and compelling, turned toward Stark.
“Ride with me,” he said abruptly. “Yield up the talisman, if indeed you can, and be the shield at my back. I have offered no other man that honor.”
Stark asked slowly, “Why do you choose me?”
“We are of one blood, Stark, though we are strangers.”
The Earthman’s cold eyes narrowed. “What would your red wolves say to that? And what would Otar say? Look at him, already stiff with jealousy and fear lest I answer ‘Yes’.”
“I do not think you would be afraid of either of them.”
“On the contrary,” said Stark, “I am a prudent man.” He studied Ciaran. “Very prudent. So much so that I will bargain with no man until I have looked into his eyes. Take off your helm, Ciaran. Then perhaps we will talk.”
Otar’s breath made a snakelike hissing between his toothless gums, and the hands of the Lord Ciaran tightened on the haft of the axe.
“No,” he whispered. “That I can never do.”
Otar rose to his feet, and for the first time Stark felt the full strength that lay in this strange old man.
“Would you look upon the face of destruction?” he thundered. “Do you ask for death? Do you think a thing is hidden behind a mask of steel without a reason, that you demand to see it?”
He turned. “My Lord,” he said. “By tomorrow the last of the clans will have joined us. After that, we must march, as it was planned. But I think it likely that this man is lying. I think it likely that he knows where the talisman is. Give him to Thord for the time that remains.”
The blank, blind mask was unmoving, and Stark thought that from behind it came a faint sound that might have been a sigh.
Then…
“Thord!” cried the Lord Ciaran, and lifted up the axe.
III
The flames leaped high from the fire in the windless gorge. Men sat around it in a great circle. The wild riders out of the mountain valleys of Mekh, sitting with the curbed and quivering eagerness of wolves around a dying quarry. Their eyes were intent, and now and then their teeth showed in a kind of silent laughter.
“He is strong,” they whispered, one to the other. “He will live the night out, surely!”
On an outcrop of rock sat the Lord Ciaran, wrapped in a black cloak, holding the great axe in the crook of his arm. Beside him, Otar huddled in the snow.
Close by, the long spears had been driven deep and lashed together to make a scaffolding, and upon this frame was hung a man. A big man, iron-muscled and very lean, the bulk of his shoulders filling the space between the bending shafts. Eric John Stark of Earth, out of Mercury.
He had already been scourged without mercy. He sagged of his own weight between the spears, breathing in harsh sobs, and the trampled snow around him was stained with red.
Thord was wielding the lash. He had stripped off his own coat and his body glistened with sweat in spite of the cold. He cut his victim with great care, making the long lash sing and crack. He was proud of his skill.
Stark did not cry out.
Presently Thord stepped back. He wiped the sweat from his face and looked at the Lord Ciaran. And the black helm nodded.
Thord dropped the whip. He went up to the big dark man and lifted his head by the hair.
“Stark,” he said, and shook the head roughly. “Stranger!”
Eyes opened and stared at him, and Thord could not repress a slight shiver. It seemed that the pain and indignity had wrought some evil magic on this man. He had seen exactly the same gaze in a big snow-cat caught in a trap, and he felt suddenly that it was not a man he spoke to, but a predatory beast.
“Stark,” he said. “Where is the talisman of Ban Cruach?”
The Earthman did not answer.
Thord laughed. He glanced up at the sky, where the moons rode low and swift.
“The night is only half gone. Do you think you can last it out?”
The cold, cruel, patient eyes watched Thord. There was no reply.
Some quality of pride in that gaze angered the barbarian. It seemed to mock him, who was so sure of his ability to loosen a reluctant tongue. It seemed to say, I have shamed you once before the Lord Ciaran; now I shame you again.
“You think I cannot make you talk,” Thord said softly. “You don’t know me, stranger. You don’t know Thord, who can make the rocks speak out if he will.”
With his free hand he struck Stark across the face.
It seemed impossible that anything so still could move so quickly. There was an ugly flash of teeth and Thord’s wrist was caught above the thumb-joint. He bellowed, and the iron jaws closed down, worrying the bone.
Suddenly Thord screamed, not for pain but for panic. The rows of watching men swayed forward, and even the Lord Ciaran rose up, startled.
“Hear!” ran the whispering around the fire. “Hear how he growls!”
Thord had let go of Stark’s hair and was beating him about the head with his clenched fist. His face was white.
“Werewolf!” he screamed. “Beast-thing! Let me go!”
But the dark man clung to Thord’s wrist, snarling, and did not hear. After a bit there came the dull snap of bone.
Stark opened his jaws. Thord ceased to strike him. He backed off slowly, staring at the torn flesh. Stark had sunk down to the length of his arms.
With his left hand, Thord drew his knife.
The Lord Ciaran stepped forward. “Wait, Thord!”
“It is a thing of evil,” whispered the barbarian. “Warlock. Werewolf. Beast.”
He sprang at Stark.
The man in armor moved, very swiftly, and the great axe went whirling through the air. It caught Thord squarely where the cords of his neck ran into the shoulder, caught and sheared on through.
There was a silence in the valley.
The Lord Ciaran walked slowly across the trampled snow and took up his axe again.
“I will be obeyed,” he said. “And I will not stand for fear, not of god, man, nor devil.” He gestured toward Stark. “Cut him down. And see that he does not die.”
He strode away, and Otar began to laugh.
From a vast distance, Stark heard that shrill, wild laughter. His mouth was full of blood and he was mad with a cold fury.
A cunning that was purely animal guided his movements then. His head fell forward and his body hung inert against the thongs. He might almost have been dead.
A knot of men came toward him. He listened to them. They were hesitant and afraid. Then, as he did not move, they plucked up courage and came closer, and one of them prodded him gently with the point of his spear.
“Prick him well,” said another. “Let us be sure.”
The sharp point bit a little deeper. A few drops of blood welled out and joined the small red streams that ran from the weals of the lash. Stark did not stir.
The spearman grunted. “He is safe enough now.”
Stark felt the knife blades working at the thongs. He waited. The rawhide snapped, and he was free.
He did not fall. He would not have fallen then if he had taken a death wound. He gathered his legs under him and sprang.
He picked up the spearman in that first rush and flung him into the fire. Then he began to run toward the place where the scaly mounts were herded, leaving a trail of blood behind him on the snow.
A man loomed up in front of him. He saw the shadow of a spear and swerved and caught the shaft in his two hands. He wrenched it free and struck down with the butt of it and went on. Behind him he heard voices shouting and the beginning of turmoil.