“Treasure, Ryker. And more than gold, much more: power. Power enough to break the hold of the accursed F‘yagha on this world, and drive them hence. Power enough to topple the Nine Princes, and weld their hordes into one empire, under one throne—with a warlord to lead them such as this planet has not seen in thrice ten thousand years!”
Ryker grinned without humor. This was talk he could understand. These were motives he knew and believed in.
“And on that throne … Zarouk the Hawk?” he guessed.
The eyes of the desert prince flashed proud fires. Then he smiled cunningly, yet approvingly.
“I told you that this man was for us,” he said purringly. “I sensed it in my blood. In my bones! Yes, Ryker, power. Power enough to take this world apart, and put it back together again—for us. Houm is in it for the wealth, being Houm; and Dmu Dran is in it for the extermination of an ancient heresy, being what he is. And I mean to rule this world, someday … then, ah, then! Those who scorned me, and derided me, and named me outlaw and renegade, and cast me out, and hunted me, and made war upon me: well, there will come a reckoning, Ryker. And it will be sweet, that reckoning!”
His purring voice was sleek as silk. But the rasp of steel was in the sound of it, and Ryker grinned a little, showing his teeth. It would not be comfortable to be Zarouk’s enemy, when the day of his power dawned.
“The power of their magic, aye, accursed and devil-bought though it may be,” the prince continued softly. “Once, with strange weapons of power, they broke the nations, though it was nine against one. They would have conquered, too, but something went wrong. We know not what, but they retreated into the north, into Zhiam. They still possess those weapons. And with them the Hawk of the Desert shall not spare the Nine Nations, as once the devil-people of Zhiam spared them! Oh, no! With that unholy magic I shall shatter the world to bits, and mold my empire from the fragments. And you, Ryker, there is a place in all of this for you. You can share in the glory of my triumph. Wealth, Ryker, and women! Everything you want, everything that you have ever desired. I will give it all to you, and a place near the throne, as well.”
“I thought we’d be getting around to me sooner or later,” Ryker grunted. “I knew you hadn’t kept me alive just because you like my face. Well, let’s get down to it. What use do you have for me?”
“The stone, Ryker, the black seal. The Keystone. They will have used it to lock the Door to Zhiam behind them. We need you for that.”
Ryker stared at the hawk-faced prince.
“But … I don’t have it!” he burst out. “They took it from me, there when we camped that night, when they took my guns!”
“I know,” smiled Zarouk. “But the secret of the Key stone lies within your brain, Ryker. The mind never forgets, the priests tell us. Everything the eyes have seen, are preserved in the memories of the mind—flawless, perfect, to the last detail.”
“The stone whereof the Key was fashioned is the same Mack crystal stuff whereof the zhaggua made Pteraton,” said Houm. “We believe the power of the Keystone resides in the substance of that stone, and in the exact proportions of the design and the inscription.”
“And we mean to have it from you, F’yagh,” said the gaunt priest. “Willingly, we hope, for that will make it easier. But willingly or not, we mean to have it. If we have to tear it from your mind with hot red pain, F’yagh—”
“But, surely, it will not come to that,” said Zarouk, soothingly. “Ryker is a man of sense: a man like unto us, my brothers! He wants from life the good things gold can buy, is it not so? And there will be much gold, Ryker, when the very world is ours … gold enough to drown a man in, Ryker … and women, Ryker, women like tawny cats … women as smooth as silk, as warm as satin. …”
Despite himself, the throb of desire stirred Ryker’s pulse, but he was thinking of only one woman. And Zarouk smiled, guessing the direction of his thoughts.
“Aye, Ryker, you can even have Valarda if you want her,” he smiled. “After I am done with her, of course.”
13. Into the Shadowed Land
With dawn the next day, Zarouk’s outlaws broke camp and continued across the isthmus to its northern edge. Here they were only a league or less from the maximum southernmost edge of the polar cap, and the cliff wall on this side of the plateau was deeply eroded by the extremes of heat and cold.
They descended the cliffs, and entered into the desert-land of Umbra.
In truth, this was the Shadowed Land. The dim, cool sun of Mars lay very low on the southern horizon, and the cliffs of the ancient plateau cast long shadows into the north, bathing the parched dust of the desert in purple gloom and filling the innumerable impact craters, large and small, with lakes of shadow.
Nowhere did they discern the slightest signs of life. Even the reptiles that make the Southlands dangerous could not exist here, within only a few degrees of the pole. Nor could the hardy lichens, the rubbery pod-vines, the weird blue vegetation of Mars that, by comparison, grew thick and lush in the southern latitudes, cling to life in this empty and desolate dry hell of burning cold.
How, then, could the devil worshippers of the Lost Nation live here? Even in the deepest crater, valley or ravine, the dry burning chill penetrated. It was a mystery.
But, then, the land of legend they called Zhiam had always been that—a mystery.
Ryker had been left alone to think things over. They let him ride alone, with desert hawks behind him, but his hands were not bound. It was safe enough: in this dry hell, there was no place to go.
He wanted revenge on Valarda for her treachery, her betrayal, yes. As for her people, he cared nothing. Why, after all, should he? For him it had always been a matter of taking care of himself first of all. It was simply a question of survival.
Besides, what did he owe to this unknown people he had never met, never seen? Let them fend for themselves, defend themselves, it was nothing to him what became of them.
The only members of their race he had ever known had lied to him, tricked him, robbed him, and left him bound and helpless, to die. Let Zarouk’s hawks swoop down upon them, to rend and slash and tear, to burn and rape and pillage! It was nothing to him.
Why, then, did he feel uneasy—obscurely troubled— unsatisfied at heart?
Well, for one thing, he knew he could not trust Zarouk to keep his bargain. Even if Ryker helped him recreate the lost Keystone, there would be no gold or women for Ryker, once Zarouk had from him the service he wanted. There would be a swift knife in the back, and a lonely grave under the shadowy skies.
But in the whirl of battle, the turmoil and confusion of the attack which Zarouk had planned against Black Zhiam, might there not be opportunities aplenty for Ryker to elude his watchers, and get away?
He hoped so. Because it was probably his only chance at living a while longer.
That night he agreed to cooperate with Zarouk in recreating the lost Keystone.
It was the hunched, gaunt priest, the fanatical Dmu Dran, who unlocked his memories, while Houm and Zarouk and burly Xinga watched with fascination.
A drug called phynol was used. This Zarouk’s raiders had thieved from a CA interrogation team. It was a derivative of nitrobarb, chemically allied to sodium pentothal, but very much more effective. All Ryker knew was that he became sleepier and sleepier, finally sinking into a trance state in which his volition was suspended and his unconscious rose to the fore. His conscious mind watched on while, at Dmu Dran’s bidding, Ryker’s hands took up a chunk of black crystal and began to carve.