for the Lost City, where, according to a prearranged plan, Houm and his fake caravan were loitering.
Goro was needed, for only he had actually seen the three devil worshippers, and only he could identify them for certain. Once he and Zarouk had seen Valarda dance, the search was over. And that very night, just before dawn, the trap had closed, and the hawks had seized their prey.
It would have gone beautifully, save for the maverick behavior of Ryker. But in the end, all things even out. And now, even though Valarda and Melandron and Kiki had escaped, it was known where they were headed.
North.
Beyond the dust desert of Meroe.
Across the narrow isthmus that connects the twin continental land masses of Casius and Boreosyrtis.
And into the shadow haunted, the trackless, the unmapped, the mysterious boreal desert called Umbra.
Umbra—the Shadowed Land.
They had named it uncannily well, had the old Earthling astronomers and mapmakers. For that dim arctic realm has been under the shadow of an ancient curse and an age-old mystery since Mars was young and warm and burgeoning with life.
Into the Umbra the Lost Nation had ridden, long ago.
Somewhere in the Umbra they had vanished from human ken, in the morning of time.
And there, in that bleak arctic waste, pockmarked with ancient craters, where the dry dust drifted under a cold, whispering wind, rose the timeless enigma of the Ptera-ton, the Sphinx of Mars.
Did it mark the entrance to an underground world?
12, The Keystone
They crossed the desert, retracing the flight of Ryker and the others, and ascended to the top of the plateau, their beasts scrambling awkwardly up the steps of the eroded rock strata.
That night they camped on top of the narrow isthmus that once, perhaps, had linked two small continents, and against whose ancient and crumbling ramparts the long vanished oceans of Mars had once broken in flying foam.
Ryker wasn't sure why they had let him live, or why they bothered to bring him along, but he didn't much care. Revenge filled his heart like cold, heavy lead, and at least when Zarouk caught up with the three devil worshippers, Ryker would be in at the kill.
He shared wine that night with Zarouk, and fat Houm, and the little priest. Oddly, the desert prince seemed no longer to bear him any ill will. The red, terrible ordeal at the whipping post, perhaps, had satisfied Zarouk's hunger for revenge against the F'yagh who had spoiled his fun, captured and humiliated him.
For the moment, anyway, he seemed satisfied. But Ryker wasn't so sure. Men like Zarouk seldom forget a grudge. There would be a final reckoning later on, he thought. Right now, probably Zarouk kept him alive because he thought he might have a use for him.
When Xinga, the chief of the caravan guards, whom Ryker now understood to be one of Zarouk's chieftains, came to fetch him to the tent of the prince for wine, Ryker
went without a word. He could not be more completely in Zarouk's power than he was already, so what the hell.
The wine was cold and sour and strong, and Ryker savored it, listening to the conversation.
Zarouk asked what he knew of Valarda's ultimate destination, and Ryker told him—truthfully enough—that he knew nothing at all. Oddly, Zarouk seemed to believe him. So Ryker tried a question of his own, testing this new spirit of acceptance.
"Was it your men who hunted me out of the New City, and herded me into Yeolarn?" he asked. And he was surprised at the reply.
Zarouk burst out laughing, a harsh bark of laughter, true enough, but there was genuine humor in it.
"Poor dupe, it was the boy all the time—didn't you know?" he grinned.
Ryker blinked,
"The boy? What boy?"
"Valarda's imp, what's his name—"
"Kiki, d'you mean?"
The desert prince nodded.
"Didn't you even guess that? The little devil—why do you think the woman brought him along?"
Ryker didn't know, and said as much.
Dmu Dran spoke now, his voice a thin whisper.
"The creature is a quaraph ," he
Goro was needed, for only he had actually seen the three devil worshippers, and only he could identify them for certain. Once he and Zarouk had seen Valarda dance, the search was over. And that very night, just before dawn, the trap had closed, and the hawks had seized their prey.
It would have gone beautifully, save for the maverick behavior of Ryker. But in the end, all things even out. And now, even though Valarda and Melandron and Kiki had escaped, it was known where they were headed.
North.
Beyond the dust desert of Meroe.
Across the narrow isthmus that connects the twin continental land masses of Casius and Boreosyrtis.
And into the shadow haunted, the trackless, the unmapped, the mysterious boreal desert called Umbra.
Umbra—the Shadowed Land.
They had named it uncannily well, had the old Earthling astronomers and mapmakers. For that dim arctic realm has been under the shadow of an ancient curse and an age-old mystery since Mars was young and warm and burgeoning with life.
Into the Umbra the Lost Nation had ridden, long ago.
Somewhere in the Umbra they had vanished from human ken, in the morning of time.
And there, in that bleak arctic waste, pockmarked with ancient craters, where the dry dust drifted under a cold, whispering wind, rose the timeless enigma of the Ptera-ton, the Sphinx of Mars.
Did it mark the entrance to an underground world?
12, The Keystone
They crossed the desert, retracing the flight of Ryker and the others, and ascended to the top of the plateau, their beasts scrambling awkwardly up the steps of the eroded rock strata.
That night they camped on top of the narrow isthmus that once, perhaps, had linked two small continents, and against whose ancient and crumbling ramparts the long vanished oceans of Mars had once broken in flying foam.
Ryker wasn't sure why they had let him live, or why they bothered to bring him along, but he didn't much care. Revenge filled his heart like cold, heavy lead, and at least when Zarouk caught up with the three devil worshippers, Ryker would be in at the kill.
He shared wine that night with Zarouk, and fat Houm, and the little priest. Oddly, the desert prince seemed no longer to bear him any ill will. The red, terrible ordeal at the whipping post, perhaps, had satisfied Zarouk's hunger for revenge against the F'yagh who had spoiled his fun, captured and humiliated him.
For the moment, anyway, he seemed satisfied. But Ryker wasn't so sure. Men like Zarouk seldom forget a grudge. There would be a final reckoning later on, he thought. Right now, probably Zarouk kept him alive because he thought he might have a use for him.
When Xinga, the chief of the caravan guards, whom Ryker now understood to be one of Zarouk's chieftains, came to fetch him to the tent of the prince for wine, Ryker
went without a word. He could not be more completely in Zarouk's power than he was already, so what the hell.
The wine was cold and sour and strong, and Ryker savored it, listening to the conversation.
Zarouk asked what he knew of Valarda's ultimate destination, and Ryker told him—truthfully enough—that he knew nothing at all. Oddly, Zarouk seemed to believe him. So Ryker tried a question of his own, testing this new spirit of acceptance.
"Was it your men who hunted me out of the New City, and herded me into Yeolarn?" he asked. And he was surprised at the reply.
Zarouk burst out laughing, a harsh bark of laughter, true enough, but there was genuine humor in it.
"Poor dupe, it was the boy all the time—didn't you know?" he grinned.
Ryker blinked,
"The boy? What boy?"
"Valarda's imp, what's his name—"
"Kiki, d'you mean?"
The desert prince nodded.
"Didn't you even guess that? The little devil—why do you think the woman brought him along?"
Ryker didn't know, and said as much.
Dmu Dran spoke now, his voice a thin whisper.
"The creature is a quaraph ," he
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