Lin Carter - The City Outside the World (12 page)

"How did they know I had the thing?" grunted Ryker.

The priest stared at him with eyes as cold as a serpent's.

"Long ago there was one among the
zhaggua
who rebelled from their evil ways, and who thieved the Keystone from its secret place. By it he came again into this world of ours, he and his followers. But we of the
hualatha,
we priests of the Timeless Ones, knew him for what he truly was from his eyes of evil golden flame, and slew him and all who followed him. We buried that one in unhallowed ground, together with all that he had carried with him out of Black Zhiam. My brothers of the
hualatha
in that long-ago time knew naught of the nature of the Keystone, and buried him with it, you see."

"No, I don't see," the Earthling said. "But keep talking."

"The Door to Zhiam was thus left open, and could not

be sealed again unless it was done with the Keystone. The
zhaggua,
the devil worshippers, they knew it was in the outside world, but not where, for although there exists a strange affinity between their
quaraphs
and the substance whereof the Keystone is wrought, the holy signs cut like sigils upon the doors of that man's tomb kept them from detecting the place where it was hidden."

Ryker nodded slowly: it was all beginning to make sense, at last.

"Go on," he said.

But Zarouk took up the tale.

Toying absently with his winecup, he said, "The moment you broke into the tomb and thus destroyed the magic of the priests, the Sensitives among the devil-men in Black Zhiam knew of it. In time their emissaries ventured out into the world of men once again, to search for you, and to rob you of the stone. They could come and go freely from Zhiam, as Dmu Dran has said, because the way was left open."

"And until the stone was theirs, and they could close the door again," said fat Houm softly, "they would not be safe from the vengeance of men, no, not even in far Zhiam."

"What is this Zhiam?" Ryker inquired.

The priest, the prince and the merchant exchanged a glance, then shrugged.

"No reason why you should not know," said Zarouk. ' 'It is the name of their land. We neither know where it is, nor how it has been kept hidden all this while. But we shall find it."

Ryker studied him curiously.

"Listen, Zarouk, there's something about all this that doesn't quite fit," he said.

"Ask, then," shrugged the desert prince.

"You don't strike me as particularly devout," said Ryker. "Why are you so interested in all of this? What's in it for you? There' s got to be something more than meets the eye in all this, something beyond just religion."

Zarouk grinned, then threw back his head and laughed, he slapped Ryker's shoulder, shaking his head.

"Earthling, may the Timeless Ones forgive me, but I like you—
F'yagh
or no
F'yaghl
We are alike, you and I, though we were born on different worlds. Of course, you know there is more here than just holy matters. Tell him, Houm."

The merchant fingered his small beard, eyes clever and
sly.

"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 j 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.

It was an uncanny experience for Ryker, watching himself perform acts uncontrolled by his conscious will. It was weird, but it was not frightening. The drug induced in him a dreamy, languid euphoria in which no strong emotion was possible.

His hands worked machinelike for hours over the piece of hard crystal, shaping it to the precise dimensions his mind remembered with such photographic clarity. And all the while his mind looked on bemused, drifting in a rosy haze of dreams, uncaring.

A second and, later, a third injection of the drug were required. Ryker neither knew nor cared what they were doing to him. In the gentle euphoria of the drug he floated into improbably gorgeous dreams. These, then, were the
phynol
dreams he had heard of. Men became easily addicted to the stuff, he dimly knew, but he cared not at all, drifting through a fairyland of his own creation.

After five hours, the replica was completed. Ryker's body had toiled without rest like a robot, and, if he had not

been insulated from reality by the
phynol,
he would have been fearfully aware that the muscles of his hands and wrists and arms were aching with an agonized exhaustion.

But he knew nothing, floating through sunset clouds.

"Sleep, now,
F'yagh
," crooned Dmu Dran.

Obediently, Ryker's mind submerged in waves of darkness which lapped up about him, soothing his weary hands. Every muscle relaxed utterly. He would sleep for hours now, and awaken weary and stiff, but unharmed.

' 'We could kill him now, lord,'' suggested Houm. ' 'He is a burden to us, and so long as he is alive, a danger to our plans."

"We could indeed, fat one," murmured the desert prince negligently. "What think you, priest?"

Dmu Dran sat hunched on a stool, cradling the precious oval talisman in his lap, fondling it with trembling hands like fleshless claws. He lifted dull eyes to his master at this query.

"Kill him for what purpose, lord?" whispered the priest in a dry croaking voice, for he too was weary, and for all the hours that the mindless hands of Ryker had toiled over the stone, Dmu Dran had not for one instant relaxed his vigilance.