The Scorpion King

"With the noble poise of his handsome head upon those broad shoulders, and the fire of life and intelligence of those fine, clear eyes, he might readily have typified some demi-god of a wild and warlike bygone people."

—Edgar Rice Burroughs

_{SNOW BEAST}

L

ord Memnon's outposts stretched from the desert to the snowpacked mountain ranges that marked the edge of the known world. Along the periphery of that craggy border, where winter winds whistled and ice embraced the bare branches of trees, a log fortress played home to a tribe of fierce warriors aligned with the great warlord. These men would one day be known as Copts; in these ancient times they were known only as murderers.

Their stronghold—a formidable, ominous land­mark of barbarian-style civilization in the stark land­scape—was a windowless three floors where warriors plotted pillage, tortured the occasional pris­oner and even, between atrocities, partook of savage revelries.

On this frigid afternoon, fires roared within the rustic walls and so did egos, as these bad men consumed good wine and pawed at the voluptuous har­lots who traveled from camp to camp—hard, soft beauties used to such vile-smelling, rat's-nest-bearded warriors as these, furs flung aside to reveal battle-scarred cuirasses. Here and there, spears, swords, and scimitars rested against rough-hewn ta­bles and log walls; now and then a fight broke out among the scruffy soldiers, over a woman or a spoil of war or just a he one of them had told that had gone down poorly, like a chunk of spoiled venison.

Outside, in the howling, ice-flecked wind, one un­lucky warrior had been chosen to guard the only door on that side of the massive structure. Though he was only a single man, this was nonetheless a massive, intimidating guard, wearing the red turban of Memnon's guards, his beard and furs caked with ice, his face seemingly frozen in a vicious, ill-tempered expression.

In reality, that expression had less to do with his temper than with his frustration at having been as­signed guard duty during a spree like the one going on within those timber walls. Now and then—as the squeals of women and the bellows of men indicated everyone having a fine time (except, of course, a poor bastard assigned guard duty in the bitter cold), he would turn toward the building, gaze longingly if angrily at the door, and then turn his eyes back to the barren vista where (it seemed to him) no fool was likely to show himself.

Shrill feminine laughter pulled the guard's eyes toward that door once again, and he shook his head, cranky with the thought of three more hours of sen­try duty to stand in this cold, returning his perhaps less than watchful gaze to where it belonged ...

... just in time to receive a metal throwing star, which had come whirring, whirling toward him, to slam deadly deep into his forehead, between his eyes. His last action was to cross those eyes, to try to see what bug had stung him; but death took him before any cognizance could form.

The guard keeled over and hands reached from a nearby snowbank to yank him to a waiting grave of white.

Inside the fortress, the partying warriors knew nothing of this intrusion; they knew only of wenches doing belly dances—sometimes on the laps of the warriors—and food being gobbled and wine guz­zled, as the reflection of flames painted the brown walls a flickering orange.

Right now a fight had erupted at one table, and— in true fashion for warriors of such high ethics— three of them were attacking one. The argument seemed to be over a woman—or was it over that platter of mutton? Hard to tell, when such a fine time was being had by all.

Well, perhaps not by all: outside the fortress, an­other huge guard, also denied this party, traipsed through the snow, where no footprints or marks other than his own could be seen. Grumbling at pull­ing such duty during a feast, the bearded guard came to a stop—had he heard something, over the whistle of wind through dead vegetation?

That was as far as the guard got with his thought process, before a bear-like claw shot up out of the snowbank between the warrior's legs and yanked him down by his ... well, for decorum's sake, we will merely figure that he was dragged down under the snow, where he vanished in a flurry of punches and exploding powdery white, bones snapping and cracking, before a deathly still ensued.

No one was around to see the huge, white crea­ture rise up from out of the snow. Had anyone on the periphery witnessed this, however, the impres­sion would have been that a Yeti had just snagged its prey. The Yeti—that half ape, half human crea­ture some called the Abominable Snowman—was thought to be legendary by many; a few knew these creatures actually existed. One of those few was an Akkadian warrior called Mathayus, who had himself killed one.

In fact, the skin of that slain Yeti was the one Mathayus was wearing right now, a cape over his bare, bronzed chest, his massively muscled legs in leather breeches. Dark-eyed, with the heroic features of a carved statue, Mathayus breathed steam, mus­cles rippling; he might—for all his handsomeness— have been an evil beast. He was not; he is instead the hero of our tale.

And he had come to this terrible place to rescue a brother Akkadian; for though he was as fearsome as any warrior in those days, Mathayus had the heart of a king—noble, compassionate, yet resolute.

Within the fortress, the captain of this garrison—a monolith among these monstrous men—rose from the head of the main table and stepped in front of the massive stone fireplace whose flames licked as if they were as greedy as the reveling soldiers.

His voice was an arrogant growl. "We have killed Babylonians!"

Well-remembering, the crowd responded with drunken, enthusiastic glee.

"We have killed Mesopotamians!" their leader re­minded them.

And again they responded with brutal gaiety.

"But.. . never before have we had the uncom­mon pleasure of killing an Akkadian."

The captain gestured to their "guest": an Akka­dian—leanly muscular with a stoic, weathered face, his battle-scarred chest heaving—strapped spread-eagle on a cross beam. Almost smugly unflinching, the Akkadian—his name was Jesup—glared at his hosts with what might have been pity.

"Let me go," Jesup said, "or face a wrath from which none of you shall survive."

The disheveled warriors merely smiled at this, though the wenches—who had been around battle and strife as long as the soldiers—stared at the Ak­kadian with respectful fear.

"You face a ruthless fury," Jesup warned them, as stern as a displeased parent, "... relentless . . . merciless ... such as even the gods would dare not provoke."

The captain grunted a laugh. "For a man about to die ... slowly .. . you're awfully damned full of yourself."

Now the drunken audience did dare to laugh— not the women, though, who were glancing about the chamber for a corner to hide in.

"Oh," Jesup said, apparently amused, looking the captain square in the eyes, "I wasn't talking about me."

The soldiers at the tables only laughed all the more, and even the women joined in, albeit ner­vously; but as their leader held the gaze of his pris­oner, the captain felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with winter.

Outside, another of the massive bearded sentries came up behind one of his brother soldiers, a fellow named Fydor, relieving himself, making yellow de­signs in the show.

"Fydor! Why the hell have you left your post?"

The guard grabbed Fydor by a shoulder and spun him around—only it wasn't Fydor after all.

The Akkadian intruder had abandoned his Yeti cape for the furs of the sentry he'd killed—the late Fydor—and right now he was facing another of those guards, and rather rudely sending a stream of steaming urine at the man's legs.

The put-upon, peed-upon guard reflexively looked down at his breeches, giving Mathayus just the moment he needed to head-butt the bastard into unconsciousness. The crack of it echoed off the sur­rounding mountains like small thunder.

The guard dropped into the snow like the dead weight he was, and Mathayus returned to his current mission—that is, finishing the piss he was taking. A man could not go into battle, after all, with any dis­tractions.

Within the log fortress, the captain was removing from the flames of the fireplace his scimitar, which he had heated up until the steel glowed a pulsing red. Grasping the scimitar's hilt, the captain fought his growing discomfort with some braggadocio, slic­ing the air all around Jesup, tauntingly.

"Which limb do I take first?" the captain said, not so much to the Akkadian as to the crowd, like a musician soliciting requests.

"The right leg!" one drunken warrior cried.

"The left!" yelled another.

Others seemed to prefer the arms, with prefer­ences running (not surprisingly) to the right or the left.

Throughout all of this, the prisoner remained un­moved. The captain, for all his boasting before his men, was wondering: What does the Akkadian know that we don't?

Outside, another guard wore a pensive expres­sion, as if he too were pondering that question; this was, however, an illusion, as—despite his wide-open eyes—the man was quite dead, propped up to appear to still be on guard, despite the spear of an icicle stuck into the side of his turban, a little blood around the entry, frozen and black now.

The man who had accomplished this, of course, was Mathayus, in a hooded cloak, who at the moment was climbing an exterior wall of the timber citadel, two ropes dragging behind him tied to a huge boulder that the Akkadian towed behind him. The weight of the boulder made the warrior's feat all the more difficult, as—two floors up now—he grasped for purchase between logs.

At that moment, the spread-eagled Jesup was watching the captain approach him with that red-hot scimitar. Soon its sizzling blade was just under the prisoner's chin. The captain flashed rotten teeth in a sadistic smile, as if to say, "I don't fear you or your big talk."

Jesup merely returned the smile.

And said, "Maybe the gods will have pity on you ... because my brother will not."

The captain tried to laugh at that, through his fetid smile; but the laugh caught in his throat—there was something deadly serious in the Akkadian's words that told the warrior this was no boast. And it was not.

For on the roof, at that very moment, Mathayus sat on the lip of the black-billowing chimney; in his hands, the boulder was held high over his head, as if he were trying to impress small children with a strongman stunt.

But it was not children he sought to impress— however childish the minds of these enemy warriors might be.

Taking a deep breath, Mathayus scooted forward and dropped down into the chimney, still holding that massive stone over his head, so that as he disappeared down, the boulder stayed behind, and plugged up the chimney, blocking it until only the tiniest wips of smoke found escape.

Almost immediately within the chamber below, thick black smoke began to plume outward from the fireplace. The captain forgot his prisoner, for the moment, and with everyone else in the room turned his attention to the massive stone fireplace and the gathering fumes.

Despite the dark acrid clouds already swarming to engulf the room, the captain bravely stepped for­ward, toward the threat, and when the arrow came streaking out from the billowing smoke, it was as if the captain had sought the death that now hit him so hard he was hurled like a snowball across the room.

Jesup smiled; the smoke smelled wonderful to him. He enjoyed the view from his place of honor, as three more warriors—standing at a counter drink­ing wine—were thrust off their feet by arrows from the fireplace, the smoke consuming air like ink in water.

The other warriors were on their feet, drawing their swords—if they wore them—or scrambling for them, if the weapons had been resting somewhere. The women froze, all thought of finding hiding places banished out of fear.

A quartet of warriors bravely charged into the blackness of the smoke, screaming war cries that got cut off in the clattering clash of steel on steel. Then the warriors stumbled out of the dark fumes; Jesup smiled wider, the wenches screamed, as the four men—headless!—pitched to the rough floor where blood spilled from their necks like knocked-over wine bottles.

The other warriors—while brave—were under­standably unnerved by this, and in their moment of hesitation, Mathayus—his muscular frame cloaked in soot—stepped out of the puffing blackness, a massive bow in one hand, scimitar in the other. With the orangeness of flames glowing through the dark smoke, he was wreathed in a hellish aura, his pant-legs on fire, hood too, a demonic vision for these superstitituous fools to consider, along with the headless evidence of their fellow soldiers scattered on the floor before them.

Out of his soot-covered face came wide white eyes and a wider white smile—seemingly crazed— and he said, "I... am ... death!"

That was all it took.

The rest of the warriors, the wenches too, went running for the door, the effect almost comic as they crawled over each other, squeezing out the passage. Few of them bothered grabbing their furs, and ran willingly into the freezing wilderness.

"Hey!" Jesup said, struggling at his bindings. "Don't let them go!"

Mathayus, patting out the flames on his legs and hood, ignored this.

"I promised you'd kill them all," Jesup told him. "Don't make a damned liar out of me!"

Mathayus sighed, and snarled in mock disgust. "Lucky for you we share the same mother."

And the soot-covered Akkadian cut his brother's bonds.

Soon they were on horseback with the fortress in flames at their back—the logs burnt well. Jesup, poised to gallop to freedom, glanced at his brother, who had hesitated for some reason, those dark, piercing eyes studying the sky.

"What is it?" Jesup asked.

Slowly scanning the faded blue above, Mathayus said, softly, "I feel.. . like I am being ... watched."

"Well, if you are," Jesup said, "perhaps we should leave."

Mathayus shrugged, cracked the reins, and they pulled away, dragging behind them a wooden sleigh-like apparatus piled with dead warriors. They were mercenaries, after all, and had a bounty to col­lect.

And far away, in the fabled city of Gomorrah, a sorcerer in a winged collar, lost in a vision, indeed watched the Akkadian warrior called Mathayus.

Watched, and waited.

T

oday, many centuries after our tale was lived, the Middle East remains a cauldron of hate, fear and turmoil. How little has changed: before the civilizing time of the Pharaohs, centuries prior to Genghis Khan cutting his bloody swath, long preceding the conquests of Alexander, these barren lands some­how inspired conflict, a wasteland where a score of warring tribes sought dominion.

Imagine, then, a golden papyrus map of that re­gion—at that ancient time, three thousand years be­fore Christ, such a map would depict the entire known world—encompassing the fabulous storied kingdoms of Babylon, Mesopotamia and those most infamous of cities, Sodom and Gomorrah. Such realms seem the stuff of legend, yet ancient books of truth—the Bible is but one—say different; these were places as real as the world around us, and just as dangerous.

Picture now that map stained with blood, and fol­low a glistening red trail of destruction, whose path leaches out, soaking up everything in its way. Look deeper and imagine the hordes of charging horsemen, a horizon lined with archers sending ar­rows streaking into the sky, and multitudes of foot soldiers, marching inexorably onward.

The warlord who commanded these armies was called "Teacher of Men "—Memnon, in their ancient tongue—but the lessons he taught were strict indeed... how destruction could pave the way for conquest, how death could vanquish one people and make way for another, invading one. Memnon im­parted his wisdom by taking male prisoners only to put them to death, to "liberate" females for purpose of ravishment and slavery... the sword and chains were his teaching tools.

The populace all across those bleak lands took these lessons to heart—men of every race and color and creed gathered their wives and children and fled their homes, running in panic, in terror, and some­times escaping. Sometimes. Other men stayed to fight, as soldiers, in defense of their homes, their land... and were defeated.

And those soldiers who did not die in battle—and were not officers, earmarked for execution—would line the roadside beyond their burned, looted vil­lage, waiting under a scorching sun for the victors to pronounce sentence. Trembling, terrified, their bravery beaten out of them, they would stand wea­ponless, smoke and flames rising from the ruins to lick the sky, as if hungry for more conquest.

And among them would move a giant on a snort­ing steed, a human nightmare with a scarred battle-shield of a face, his red turban signaling his allegiance to the invading army.

His name was Thorak, and he had long since lost count of the men he had killed. And to the van­quished army he would bellow, "Kneel before Lord Memnon!"

As if presenting an actor on a stage, Thorak would gesture behind him as the warlord himself, astride a regal black Arabian, seemed to materialize among them, clip-clopping through the smoke of combat. Not the brute that his second-in-command was, Lord Memnon—glittering in gold chain mail— looked no less fearsome, a muscular man with carved handsome features, sides of his head shaved, a shock of dark hair riding a fine skull, a beautiful man, yet virile. Around him, some on horseback, some on foot, a phalanx of red-turbaned guards, each man a vicious exemplar of fighting prowess, provided protection; yet somehow Memnon seemed above them ...as if he could fend for himself, and only put up with the armed guard for purposes of ceremony.

Inevitably, the defeated soldiers would drop to their knees—better to pay obeisance to Lord Mem­non, better to join his fearsome ranks, than to stay here in the charred ruins of a home that was theirs no longer, and douse the land uselessly with their blood.

Memnon would stare at them, from horseback, as if considering whether their addition might be worth his trouble, weighing whether or not to simply slay them. And sometimes this would indeed be his de­cision. But more often the great teacher accepted these pupils into his school of slaughter, nodding to Thorak, then wheeling his horse around and thun­dering away through the sea of his own soldiers.

In less than ten years, Memnon had conquered all but a few scattered tribes, and only one solitary kingdom remained—and if you will again picture that map, imagine only the tiniest corner remaining, free of blood, free of Memnon. . . a scrap of land near the Red Sea called the Kingdom of Ur.

This tiny corner, and a few brave men and women, were all that separated Memnon from the destiny he sought to claim: to be king of the known world, to fulfill the ancient prophecy:

By tolling bell and thunder's swell,

a flaming star falls from the sky.

By a full moon's glow, in House of Scorpio,

Kneeling men bow to the King on High.

THE SCORPION KING

_{The Akkadian Assassins}

F

lame shadows flickered in the night across the seven obelisks, giant rock shards embedded in the earth, ranging from ten to fifteen feet high, like spears of stone hurled down by giants or perhaps gods. And onto the obelisks had been carved faces, the images of gods chiseled there by primitive men long before the people of Ur had come here. These god faces seemed to stare at the village of tents nearby, hundreds of nomadic tarp-structures repre­senting various clans—the last great tribes who had not fallen to the warlord Memnon—gathered on this dark night at this site of council.

Warriors in varying styles of helmet and leather cuirass, shields and swords at their sides, created a human circle around the assembly of their tribal leaders. Torches rode shafts, flames snapping at the coolness of the desert after dark, and a central fire pit threw orange and yellow at the blueness of the night.

Pheron of Ur, warrior king—a noble if grizzled figure, his white beard and a simple golden crown speaking volumes about his station—sat on a throne of stone, presiding over the council, gathered about the circle of fire. A debate was raging—and it was getting out of hand, reasoned discussion blazing into heated words and unruly outbursts.

"Silence!" King Pheron demanded.

The tide of quarreling did not roll back, however, and Takmet, a young, lightly bearded warrior, his breastplate unscarred, stepped forward. "My father calls for silence!"

The roar of rancor fell to a rumbling grumbling.

"Discord must cease!" Pheron said, putting as much force into his words as he could, war weary as he was. "We have come together in this sacred place to put our differences aside."

Deep breaths were let out, and men began to nod at this wisdom.

"There is still time for us, my brothers," Pheron said, "to unite against this tyrant—for without us . .. the last of the free tribes ... the world is lost."

From the darkness stepped a Nubian woman of regal bearing and great physical beauty: Queen Isis. Her hair was long, well past her shoulders, and black as a raven's wing, her strong slender form bound in the leathers of war. Around Isis were a small army of dark female warriors, lovely, fierce. Like her.

"Memnon's soldiers," Isis said, "outnumber our own combined forces—ten to one... I am sorry, Pheron. Your heart is strong, your intentions noble . . . but warriors must choose their stands wisely. And we choose not to join you in this battle of futility."

"Will you flee, then?" King Pheron asked. "Like frightened females?"

The eyes of the dark queen flared.

But Pheron continued: "Because surely you know that Memnon will bring conquest to your door... You have only one choice, Isis. Stand and fight... or run."

The queen, her eyes tight, considered this.

The weathered king—he was an old man, past forty—looked at the gathering of tribal leaders, saw the struggle-hardened, often bearded faces, took in the helmets, the breastplates, the shields, the swords, and knew he faced warriors. "The tribes must stand, and fight, together!"

All eyes were on the king; the only sounds, other than his voice, were the night wind and the crackle of flames.

"Alone," Pheron said, "we will be like the rest of these human sheep . . . slaughtered. Memnon will continue his sweep to sea ... and he will destroy our tribes, one by one."

A nomadic chieftain with a face as leathery as his cuirass rose from his seat and stoically said, "Brave words, Pheron—but what of the sorcerer? The de­mon at Memnon's side, who sees with the eyes of gods . .. and foretells the outcome of every battle?"

Another tribal leader called out, "As long as that damned sorcerer is with him, no mortal can defeat Memnon!"

The king looked from face to face—soldier-rulers who wore the hard-earned scars of conflict, and the tribal markings of war. They were not cowards; they were brave fighting men, a relative handful, facing a merciless conqueror who seemingly had the su­pernatural on his side.

"And if this sorcerer," Pheron said, "were to die? What then?"

A deep voice from the darkness growled, "An­other of your schemes, Pheron? Too late. Too little."

Seething, Takmet stood and shook a fist. "You will show my father respect!"

The man who had spoken also rose, and moved into the light of the fire. This was Balthazar—the warrior of warriors, in this or any group, a Nubian mountain of a man whose leathers barely concealed a seven-foot frame thick with muscle. Battle beads looping an impossibly thick neck, his face might have been a carved mask, with its slitted eyes and broad flat nose and snarl of mouth, cheeks bearing decorative scars, an otherwise shaved head topped by ropy braids.

"The truth respects no one," Balthazar said, his deep voice resonating. "It is only the truth ... and men who deny the truth deserve no respect."

Pheron said, "Nor do men who will not listen to reason."

"Listen to the truth, Pheron," Balthazar said, "if you are, as you claim, a man of reason. And the truth is this: My eyes have seen Memnon's army devour this land like hungry locusts. With the hordes at his command, facing Memnon with our meager numbers assures us of only one thing . .. defeat."

"Where would you run, Balthazar?" Pheron asked, with mock gentleness. "Where would you flee in a world ruled by Memnon?"

Eyes and nostrils flaring, the huge warrior said, "Balthazar and his people will not run.... I will continue to do as I have done these many months . .. raid the bastard's caravans, and weaken his supply chain. This I will do ... but what I will not do, for any man, for any men, is send my people to their certain death."

The king's son stepped forward, boldly, as he was much smaller than the looming Nubian. One hand on his sword hilt, the other holding a goblet of wine (the possible source of his courage), Takmet faced the giant, saying defiantly, "Your people, Balthazar? You talk like a ruler."

"I am their king, little man."

Takmet laughed up at him. "You are king of nothing ... the ruler of a pile of sands and rocks."

Balthazar's hand barely blurred in firelight, so astonishingly fast did the big man move; his massive hand had clamped itself over the smaller man's hand, the one holding the golden goblet.

And Balthazar began to squeeze.

"If I am no king," the giant asked, as if genuinely curious, "why are you kneeling before me?"

By now Takmet was on his knees, howling in agony.

As the king's guards bolted to their feet, drawing their swords, the giant reached back—almost casu­ally—for his sword, which rested against a tree trunk. The air crackled with not just the sound of flames, but with the promise of bloodshed....

An object flew from the darkness and slammed into the tree trunk above Balthazar's sword—an iron kama ... a hatchet-sized scythe ... quivering there menacingly, just above the sword hilt, between it and the fingers of the giant.

A voice—not as deep as Balthazar's, but deep enough, and quietly threatening, in a confident, al­most low-key fashion—said, "So much talk ... Memnon may just wait for you fools to kill each other."

Through the guards, who reared away more in surprise than fear, came a trio of hooded figures, like gray ghosts floating through the night, all three of them tall but the center one the tallest, rivaling Bal­thazar himself. They even moved with a ghostly grace, though these were not phantoms but men— the swords and other weapons clanking at their cui­rasses said as much.

They stood at the edge of the tribal council and flipped back their hoods—at left and right were war­riors; the man in the middle ... who had hurled the kama...

This man was Mathayus, and he is the hero we have met. Massive yet supple, he presented a bearing at once regal and forceful, his skin a burnished copper, made even more bronze by the firelight, his dark eyes piercing, cheekbones high, chin cleft, brow furrowed .. . and proud.

Balthazar drew away from the tree ... and his sword. His deep voice betrayed a certain awe. "Ak­kadians ... I thought they were wiped out long ago."

"They are the last of their kind," King Pheron said. "And by their hand, Memnon's sorcerer will die."

Balthazar frowned at the king. "You would put your faith in a clan of cutthroats? Men who kill not to defend their land and their people... but for money?'

Mathayus trained his eyes on the giant, fixing a cold glare on the man ... but he said nothing.

"They are more than simple 'cutthroats,' " the king said. "They are skilled assassins . . . trained for generations in the deadly arts."

Balthazar snorted. "Your words do not change the truth of it: these are men who kill for money. And such men are not to be trusted."

The king's son was on his feet, now, and—trying to regain some dignity—strode forward, to meet the cloaked trio. He stood before Mathayus and looked into his face.

"You," Takmet said to the tall Akkadian, and dis­respect tinged his tone. "The others have faces marked for war. Why don't you wear your clan's markings?"

"Perhaps," Mathayus said, "I have not earned the right."

"Oh?"

Resting his hand on the pommel of his sword, Mathayus said, "Perhaps one must first kill enough men who ask stupid questions."

Takmet, noting the hand on the hilt, scrambled back to his father, addressing him with a distinct lack of the respect that the son had earlier demanded of others for this king. "And how much will these, these .,. mercenaries cost?"

Quietly King Pheron stated, "Twenty blood ru­bies."

And the old man held out a leather pouch, at which his son stared, shocked, dismayed.

"Father!" Takmet gasped. "That... that's the last of our treasury!"

The king's frown exercised every deep line in his face. "Silence, boy!"

Takmet stood there staring at his father, for sev­eral long moments, as if he'd been slapped by the man; perhaps, in a sense, he had. The king's son was trembling with embarrassment, and fighting to hold back his fury at what he considered to be his father's stupidity.

Then Takmet turned and stormed away, fuming, leaving the circle of fire.

Again, King Pheron addressed the tribal leaders, figures washed in the orange of firelight in the blue of night. "If the Akkadians kill the sorcerer ... then will you come together? Will you fight as one?"

It did not happen all at once. Murmured discus­sion followed; but then, slowly, gradually, heads be­gan to nod, as one by one they agreed with Pheron's proposal... even the lovely Queen Isis. Only one tribal leader had not responded to the question ...

. .. Balthazar.

And finally all faces turned toward the Nubian giant, waiting. His eyes like cuts in his scarred vis­age, Balthazar released a deep sigh, and then... nodded.

King Pheron turned his gaze upon the Akkadian trio, nodding himself.

"So be it," the king said.

The eldest of the Akkadian trio, Jesup, stepped forward, going to the king, accepting the offered pouch of rubies. Half bowing to the monarch, Jesup pledged the Akkadian's blood oath.

"As long as one of us breathes," Jesup swore to the king, "the sorcerer will die."

Jesup rejoined his fellow Akkadians, and the cloaked trio began to take their leave, again moving through the armed guards, who stepped aside for them.

"Assassin!" a deep voice called out.

Mathayus spun and Balthazar hurled the kama back at him, the scythe whipping and whirring and whirling...

... until the unmarked Akkadian plucked it from the air, like a ball a boy had tossed him.

Mathayus raised a single eyebrow as he studied the giant Nubian, who did his best to hide his amazement.

To Pheron, Mathayus said, "If you should want him killed ... that we'll do for free."

And then the cloaked trio was swallowed by the night, leaving behind a circle of fire and an aston­ished tribal council.

_{The Sorcerer's Secret}

T

he desert location, where the encampment of Memnon's army was last known to be, meant a full day's ride through hill country. Starting at dawn, the Akkadians made their steady way across the rug­ged, rocky terrain, Jesup and Rama on horseback, Mathayus—a massive, intricately carved bow slung over his shoulder, five arrows attached to its side in a clip—astride an albino camel.

This mount—the bag of rubies had been tucked away into a hiding place of the saddle by Matha­yus—was called Hanna by his master, who consid­ered the camel a magnificent albeit stubborn creature. The elder Akkadian, the hard-bitten Jesup, deemed Hanna a filthy beast.

"When are you going to get rid of that moth-eaten bag of fleas?" Jesup had asked at daybreak, just as the broad-shouldered Akkadian was mounting her.

Hanna—who understood at least as many words as the average five-year-old child—turned toward Jesup with regal condescension and spat at him.

Mathayus laughed as the older Akkadian, on horseback, reared back; and the camel's master had no recriminations for the animal, whose neck he pat­ted, settling her.

"Steady, girl," Mathayus said. "He doesn't mean anything by it."

But Jesup's expression had said, Like hell!

Still, even the veteran Akkadian warrior would have had to admit—if pressed—that the dromedary was far better suited for navigating the craggy, scraggy terrain than his and Rama's steeds.

As the morning turned to afternoon, the rocks gave way to sand and the sun seemed like a hole in the sky letting the fire of the gods blast through. The custom of the Akkadians was not to wear the peplum common for so many warriors in those days; rather they had shunned tunics for leather breeches ... though under so severe a sun, even a brawler like Mathayus could understand the appeal of a skirt for a man. On the other hand, when the sun fell, so did the temperature, and the wind had a startling bite, the night vivid with a moon-touched blueness that turned the desert a surreal, deceptively soothing shade of sapphire.

From the crest of a dune, they saw Memnon's city of tents, with campfires whose numbers rivaled the stars. And yet the three Akkadians advanced, a tiny assault force against an army. They performed reconnaissance, noting the positions of the various sentries ringing the encampment, perched on their individual dunes, warriors in breastplates and hel­mets and peplum, surrounded by torches on staffs stuck in the sand.

Poor strategy, Mathayus thought; for whatever warmth and close-by light those torches would pro­vide, so too would the flames blind the sentries of advancing trespassers . .. like the Akkadians....

The mustached Rama, the lightest-skinned of the trio, had darkened his face with black war paint, to better blend into the night. Neither Jesup nor Ma­thayus bothered with this—their bronze complex­ions were a natural camouflage—but then Rama would have to get in closer, at first anyway.

The nearest dune-positioned sentry yawned—no doubt complacent in his duties .. . after all, what en­emy remained to attack the horde that had con­quered all but a tiny corner of the world? And he merely frowned and turned, curiously, at the strange whirring that flew out of the darkness like a desert bird.

This was no bird, however—the iron bola.. . flung by Rama ... came spinning out of the dark­ness to wrap its chain around the guard's head, with whiplash speed, the iron ball at either end knocking the man in either temple, thwap!, thwap!

The sentry tumbled to the sand—his leather ar­mor made more noise than he did, and then very little—landing flat on his back, as if he were lounging there, to consider the night sky.

Within moments, Mathayus—who had edged in under cover of darkness to the bottom of the dune, prior to Rama's bola attack—scrambled up the hill of sand and sat the sentry up, propping him in part by placing the man's spear back in his hand ... still on duty, if sitting down on the job.

The white camel came loping up the dune after her master, just as Mathayus was unwrapping the bola from around the sentry's skull. Hanna groaned and nose-nudged the assassin—it was as if the beast were saying, after its long day's journey, No time for fun and games now... we should be setting camp for the night!

"Easy, girl," the Akkadian whispered.

The camel's response was typically stubborn: she

folded her spindly legs and sat down. Mathayus

shook his head, knowing this was no time to try to

reason with the beast... or discipline her, either. As

with any woman, there were simply things a man

had to put up with__

Mathayus looked to the left, where—some dis­tance away at the camp's perimeter—a crude wooden lookout platform bore a single sentry. To the right, a neighboring dune also sported a sentry ... again, a bored guard who stood at the center of torches speared into the sand, his vision bedimmed by the flames. This sentry would be next.

The Akkadian's long low whistle might have been a nocturnal bird ...

... and not a signal which spurred Rama to fur­ther action.

Again, a bola whirled through the night to whip around the head of a guard, who flopped backward onto the sand.

Another nocturnal bird seemed to issue its mournful cry: Rama signaling "all clear" to Matha­yus.

But Hanna's displeasure with the activities of the evening manifested itself with a honking groan, and her master clasped a hand over the camel's mouth.

"Be good!" the Akkadian whispered, glaring at the beast, who frowned a pout in response, before flapping her gums and settling.

Hanna's action almost covered the soft hiss of movement just behind Mathayus, but the Akkadian's ears were finely tuned, honed to the night, and he spun around, hand on his scimitar hilt.

But it was only the elder warrior, Jesup, who asked, "Ready?"

Mathayus nodded, and gestured toward the sentry on the wooden platform. "That one's mine."

Jesup nodded back, reminding the younger man, "Wait for the signal."

"Yes."

"Live free," Jesup said, initiating the traditional Akkadian farewell.

Then the two men gripped forearms, the leather wristguards snapping against each other.

"Die well," Mathayus replied, completing the rit­ual.

As Jesup slipped away, vanishing into the dark­ness, Mathayus quickly unslung his magnificent bow and notched an arrow ... not just any arrow. This one bore an iron tip with no feathered tail—an eye-bolt through which was tied a catgut tether line.

Powerful as he was, Mathayus always felt the strain drawing back the taut bowstring—though the weapon was all but a part of him, its use remained a challenge. And when he finally released the bow­string, the arrow seemed to burn through the night, with an impossible power and swiftness ... trailing its catgut tether.

A good quarter mile away, the arrow struck deep, embedding itself firmly in the thickness of a wooden lodge pole. Mathayus's smile was tight as he gazed across the encampment, the tether now bisecting the tent city from this dune to that distant pole. It cut past the sentry platform, just above and to one side of it... but the bored guard had not noticed, at least not yet.

Soon the Akkadian was tying his end of the tether line onto the pommel of his saddle. Slipping the bola over the tied tether—making a decent handgrip of its two iron balls—he nudged the camel to attention. No argument this time, as Hanna pushed to her feet.

Mathayus tested the line, to see if the tether ... and the camel. .. could take his weight. Hanna groaned in protest, but he gave her a hard look— now and then, he had to remind the beast who was boss.

"Stay," he said, firmly, and the animal and the man locked eyes.

And the beast nodded, or seemed to ... and that was good enough for the Akkadian.

He backed up, and began to run and grabbed onto the iron bola balls and went gliding down the tether line, off the dune and over the sands and toward the encampment. Hanna was staying put, and this was easy ... almost fun ... and the Akkadian risked holding on with one hand, to remove from his waist­band his hatchetlike kama.

When he swooped past that sentry platform, Ma­thayus wielded the nonlethal side of the kama, using it like a war club, whacking the guard across the shoulders, knocking the man off his post, sending him spinning head over heels into the darkness, to either unconsciousness or death.

A few minutes prior, elsewhere in the encamp­ment, two of Memnon's most lovingly sadistic tor­turers—a pair of fat, greasy, bearded, sweaty brutes as interchangeable as a right and left sandal—were heating up a poker in the coals of a campfire. Look­ing on with considerable interest was a skinny little weasel of a man, his leathers shabby, his face wis-pily bearded; his name was Arpid, and at the mo­ment his world was turned upside down.

Literally.

For Arpid—a thief by trade, a horse thief by spe­cialty—was suspended over the fire, his head so near the flames his scraggly hair was getting singed. Tied by the ankles and hanging from a post like an overripe fruit, Arpid watched from his upended per­spective as one of the fat torturers withdrew the poker and displayed its glowing orange tip to his colleague.

Both of the fat brutes gazed lovingly at the fiery tip of the poker. To some men, work is but a job; to these two, imparting affliction was a calling.

They seemed a bit surprised, when a deep, im­perial voice emanated from the dangling horse thief. "Stop! You must stop and heed my words—I am a high priest of Set!"

The torturers exchanged expressions of raised eyebrows and crinkled-chin consideration.

"Spare me," the suspended man intoned, "and the gods shall rain fortune upon thee, for all the rest of thy days!"

Now the torturers laughed, and the one with the poker began to raise its fiery tip toward the bare soles of the skinny man's bound-at-the-ankles feet.

Panic shook the skinny swinging frame, and an entirely different voice emerged from the victim, a reedy, whiny thing: "Please! No! Stop! Wait! I was not stealing that horse. I swear ... I was just doing the decent thing."

Now the torturers traded wide-eyed looks; "de­cent," was it?

"I was just moving that poor animal into the shade," the skinny prisoner avowed. "It was so very hot that day ..."

"Not as hot as tonight," the torturer with the poker pointed out.

As Arpid closed his eyes and waited for the sear­ing pain, an Akkadian assassin—sliding down into the camp on a tether tied to a camel—was nearing this tableau of torture. And Mathayus would have glided on by, had the camel called Hanna not de­cided, at that moment, that enough was enough. The strain of that tether and all that weight was simply too much stress to endure, even to please her master, and the albino camel sat down.

So did Mathayus—in a way. The tether suddenly slack, the Akkadian was tossed onto the sand, in a rude pile, landing—as an impish fate would have it—right alongside those two fat greasy torturers, who paused prior to burning Arpid's bare feet just long enough to look at Mathayus in amazement.

Their surprise quickly turned to fury, and now both torturers had red-hot pokers in their hands, raised and ready to charge the intruder.

The intruder was having none of that. Mathayus whipped his scimitar from its sheath and dispatched both brutes, who were dead and draining their blood into the sand with nary a cry of alarm from either set of slobbering lips.

The dangling horse thief—the slashing sounds had pried open his eyes—gazed at his upside-down savior with adoring appreciation.

"Thank you, kind sir!" he burbled.

Mathayus glanced at the skinny creature hanging over the flames like a pig being roasted—a scrawny one.

Arpid thanked his rescuer profusely, babbling, "For the mercy you have shown me, the gods shall rain fortune on you for—"

"Quiet," Mathayus said, and elbowed the man in the face, knocking him out cold—or perhaps warm, considering the flames licking up at the thief's hair.

With the tether hopelessly slack, Mathayus aban­doned it and slipped into the darkness, heading for the point of rendezvous; soon, deep within the en­campment, he had hooked up with his two fellow Akkadians. The trio stood within the shadows and studied a corridor of sorts, between rows of tents.

"That one," Mathayus whispered, and pointed.

The other two saw immediately why Mathayus had singled out this particular tent—this shelter was unlike any other in this camp, and different from any these Akkadians had ever seen. A dome-shaped patchwork of hides, the good-size tent was decorated with symbols of astrology and ideograms of the oc­cult.

Clearly the home of a sorcerer...

They moved stealthily across the open area be­tween tent rows, the only sound the soft snick as they drew their knives, as they closed in quickly on the sorcerer's tent. As they dropped back into shad­ows, Mathayus's eyes were everywhere, taking in even the rustle of a tent flap, stirred by the night breeze .. .

... revealing the feet of dozens of guardsmen ly­ing in wait!

"Back," Mathayus whispered, halting, arms spread, as he realized the trap they had walked into.

And the other Akkadians stopped short, as well; but it was too late to retreat.

A flap running the length of the domelike tent snapped suddenly open—exposing a dozen archers who instantly let fly their arrows. At almost the same moment, a similar flap along a tent on the opposite side of the corridor snapped open and yanked up­ward and a dozen more archers were sending arrows their way, catching the Akkadians in a deadly cross fire.

Mathayus had the reflexes of youth on his side, and he leaped up, grasping the overhang of a large tent, flipping onto its tarpaulin roof, arrows flying just beneath him, barely missing him ...

... but not missing his two brother Akkadians, cutting them down.

And Mathayus could only stare down in horror as his companions were overwhelmed by the arrows. No help he could give would save them now . .. they were lost... and he could only surge forward, scampering like a cub across the sagging top of the tent.

So swift had Mathayus's action been, taking him­self up and out of harm's way, the soldiers below— moving out from their hiding place into that open area—had not seen his escape. It was as if the third Akkadian had simply disappeared; they searched among the tents, not realizing the tall assassin was high above them, clinging to the very crest of the sorcerer's dome.

With his knife Mathayus cut through the hides and created an opening, through which he droppeddown, landing like a big cat, almost silently, on the hide-covered floor.

It was if he had entered another world, a strange, shadowy, yet golden tent-chamber where elaborate drapes and tapestries hung, ornate benches and fur­nishings lending a palatial feel, while a central fire created a smoky ground-level fog that added to an undeniable occult atmosphere.

Rising to a crouch, Mathayus unslung his for­midable bow and notched an arrow. Clearing a hanging tapestry, he realized he was not alone. A figure with its back to him, in a long flowing cape with a high ornate stiff collar, decorated with moon signs and other enigmatic symbols, began to swivel around to him, with an unnatural fluidity, as if float­ing.

The sorcerer.

Closing one eye, the master archer took aim, as the figure turned fully to him...

... and the sorcerer, it seemed, was a sorceress.

As fully concealed as this figure had been with its cloaked back to him, now was it fully revealed. Barely clad, much of her golden-hued skin exposed, her form was slender yet shapely, high firm breasts half-concealed by a glittering halter, loins also girded in gilt. An oval face of such breathtaking beauty he had never seen—wide-set almond eyes as large as they were dark, delicate nose, small perfect lips, all framed by shoulder-length obsidian hair topped by a golden headdress.

Her eyes held his, hypnotically—was she a dream?

Entranced, thunderstruck by such rare beauty, Mathayus allowed his grip on the bowstring to loosen, slightly; then he squeezed his eyes shut, try­ing to regain, and maintain, his concentration.

This was sorcery ... and he had, after all, come to kill a sorcerer. Who was to say this was not a man, an evil magician, casting a spell of feminine illusion?

"I am Cassandra," she said. Her voice was mu­sical, and as she stepped forward, tiny toe-ring cym­bals kept time, chiming as she moved. On her hands were gloves of gold . .. with silver claws.

He had come here to kill. Once again he aimed his arrow at her heart....

"You have been betrayed, Mathayus," she said.

But her lips were not moving!

The voice, the lovely, musical voice, was in his mind! He squeezed shut his eyes, opened them, and sighted down the drawn arrow as he spoke.

"You know my name?" he asked her.

She nodded. In his head, her voice said, "And I know why you're here... but I'm afraid you will not find me so easily slain."

As he stared at his beautiful target, Mathayus felt a strange, perhaps sorcery-induced sensation ... time seemed to slow, even while his mind raced.

"So kill me," she said, aloud this time. "If you can.

Her eyes seemed to delve deep within him, to his very soul; he felt weak, the strain on his arm, how­ever massively muscular, was enormous.

He let the arrow fly ... but his target was not the sorceress.

A red-turbaned guard had stepped inside the tent, just behind Cassandra, and the arrow took him off his feet and out of this life.

As Mathayus—alert, himself again—notched an­other arrow, the sorceress viewed him with ineffable sadness.

"I am sorry, Akkadian," she said aloud, as if she meant the words. As if she had wanted to die. "You lost your chance."

Another guard in helmet and leathers came charg­ing at him, sword swinging. Mathayus threw down the bow, and whipped his scimitar from its sheath, with his right hand, and with his left withdrew the kama. When the guard was upon him, Mathayus de­flected the sword blow with the scimitar, and swung the kama into the man's midsection, dropping him to the smoky floor to bleed and die.

The next one came up from behind, and the Ak­kadian swiveled and traded blows of blades with the man, then slashing him across the chest and elbow­ing him to the ground. Two more were on him then, their swords flashing, and the assassin swung his blade around, killing one instantly, wounding the other, but dropping both men. He finished the sur­viving one—the sorceress was chilled by the ice-cold expression of the assassin hard at work—with a downward stabbing blow, and was catching his wind, when suddenly they were everywhere, red tur­bans streaming into the tent.

Like a machine designed for killing, he fought them with a skill and ferocity that astounded the sorceress, much as her beauty had taken his breath away.

But their numbers overwhelmed Mathayus, until they swarmed over him within the confined space, and he did not see Memnon himself enter, in the company of his second-in-command, the scarred hu­man demon called Thorak, who—trident in hand— advanced toward the one-man army.

Surrounded by red-turbaned guards, who had fought him to a standstill, Mathayus was preparing for one last glorious assault, to carve a bloody breech through them on his way to dying well, when the trident thrust forward, and its three prongs pinned him to the central tent post.

And in his mind he heard the voice of the sor­ceress again, genuinely sorrowful: / am sorry, Ak­kadian. I am sorry.

_{Desert Death}

T

he sea of soldiers parted around Mathayus, who remained pinned by Thorak's trident to the tent post, allowing him to see his host approaching. No introduction was needed: the man in golden chain mail, whose regal bearing did not diminish the aus­tere cruelty of his handsome features, could be no one but Memnon himself.

The Teacher of Men paused, appraising his brawny guest, saying, "A living, breathing Akkadian ... What a rarity ... what an uncommon pleasure."

And Memnon strode forward to Mathayus and planted himself before the warrior with a fearless­ness that had nothing to do with the assassin's cap­tive state.

"I have heard," Lord Memnon said, "that your kind trains itself to bear great pain." With a smile as small as it was nasty, Memnon nodded to his massive second-on-command, Thorak, gesturing for him to remove the trident. "Well, we'll put your capacity to withstand pain to the test. . .."

Mathayus spat in the warlord's face.

A tiny sneer preceded Memnon's response— which was to backhand the Akkadian, a blow of such power that blood spattered the tent wall nearby.

"You bleed like any other man," Memnon pointed out.

Mathayus sneered, too—not a tiny one, though ... a bloody snarl of defiance.

That look vanished, however, as the Akkadian heard a familiar voice: "What? No more cold, daring words from the heartless assassin?"

The sarcasm had come from a young, lightly bearded man in noble leathers, just entering the room, with a cowhide sack—large enough for a good-size water jug—gripped by its draw ties.

Takmet! The son of King Pheron of Ur ...

And Mathayus now understood why the sorceress had spoken of treachery.

"You, Takmet," Mathayus said, his eyes wide. "You are our betrayer?"

This seemed to amuse the king's son, who an­swered by way of a sarcastic half bow.

In the brutal world in which Mathayus had lived his life, a man's word, his honor, was all that sep­arated him from the animals, even the human ones. "You would betray your own father?"

Takmet shrugged. "My father was a forgetful old fool."

The words chilled Mathayus ... one word, any­way: was.

"He deserved no better from the son he slighted." The slender heir to the throne of Ur turned to the warlord. "The old man paid for underestimating me ... he was terribly shocked. You can tell by the look on his face."

And Takmet dipped his hand into the leather pouch and withdrew the head of his father.

Indeed, the expression on King Pheron's face was one of surprise.

Sickened, Mathayus scowled at this excuse for a man, and the guards around, even Thorak himself, frowned; the sorceress turned away, not in womanly fright but in distaste. Only Lord Memnon seemed pleased . .. and darkly amused.

Brandishing the severed head high, clutching it by its gray hair, Takmet said, rather formally, "With my father's head, I pledge my allegiance!"

With a casual gesture, Memnon said, 'Takmet, your loyalty is proven.... You shall command my left wing, and serve as governor over Ur, after its capture."

Thorak, at Mathayus's side, frowned a little.

Perhaps glimpsing this, Memnon turned toward his second-in-command, saying, "And with Thorak leading my right wing, we shall lay waste to all who dare challenge our might."

Mathayus despised this creature who was Mem­non, but even he knew the man had a charismatic way about him—the red-turbaned guards were hanging on the warlord's every word.

"And by the rise of the demon moon," the Great Teacher was saying, "my armies will sweep to the sea... and I will ascend the throne as the king of ancient legend, favored ruler of the gods.... Just as the prophecy decrees."

Across the smoky floor of the canvas-and-animal-hide chamber, Cassandra nodded her confirmation.

Then, a tent flew back, and—in a clatter of leather armor and steel weaponry—a pair of guards dragged in a prisoner.

Jesup.

Within him, Mathayus felt a wave of despair rise, seeing his brother, his fellow warrior, held by either arm, hauled in like a sack of grain, more dead than alive, body pockmarked with the red wounds of ar­rows. Barely conscious, the elder Akkadian man­aged to raise his head and look across the tent at Mathayus.

One of the guards at Jesup's side spoke: "As you can see, my lord, this one still lives."

"How interesting," Memnon said, strolling across the fog-draped floor, stopping to pick up one of Ma­thayus's knives, dropped in combat. "For a race that has all but disappeared from the earth, these Akka­dians seem surprisingly difficult to kill."

Mathayus, gripped on either side by a guard, watched ruefully as the warlord examined the small throwing blade, an exquisite example of the Akka­dian art of weapon-making.

"Beautiful," Memnon said, his admiration sincere, flipping the blade in his palm. "Bring the warrior to me. I wish to honor him."

Rage bursting within him, Mathayus surged for­ward, but the soldiers managed to hold back the caged lion. He watched helplessly as his brother was dragged across the smoky ground and brought be­fore Memnon. Jesup's half-lidded eyes locked with those of Mathayus .. . and the elder's eyes opened bright and strong.

"Live free," Jesup said.

"Die well," Mathayus said, resignedly. "My brother.

And in one vicious if fluid move, the Great Teacher swept forward and slashed with the cap­tured blade.

Mathayus had lived with death every day of his life; but the pain he felt, as that blade sliced open the elder Akkadian's throat, sent a madness, in both senses ... rage, insanity .. . searing through his brain, his being.

The brave Mathayus—unknowingly mirroring the reaction of the sorceress—could only turn away from the sight, feeling in the pit of his stomach as though that blade had just been buried there.

He did not see the sorceress experience her own wave of psychic pain. Cassandra's eyes squeezed tight shut, and she raised a hand to her head, as if testing for a fever—she sensed a deep rumbling, ex­perienced the sound as if it had come from without, a resonant thunder, like the plates of the earth were shifting.

But when she opened her eyes, she could clearly see that no one else in the tent had heard or sensed this aural sensation, even as its echo reverberated in her mind, blotting out the voices of the men around her.

Much as she wished to avoid the sight of blood­shed, her eyes suddenly flew to Lord Memnon, who held in his hand the dagger dripping liquid rubies. What she saw no one else in the room beheld: Mem­non's face was edged in silver—his head, ringed with a shimmering halo of light.

"Never have I used a blade so sharp as this," Memnon was saying, studying the knife. "I wonder if using it has dulled its edge ... if it will hold that edge, a second time ..."

And the Great Teacher stepped forward, raising the dagger, his eyes on Mathayus's throat.

Die well, Mathayus thought, and he quickly but thoroughly shifted his gaze from one man to the next—Thorak, Takmet, finally Memnon—and said through a smile, "I will see all of you again... in the underworld."

Memnon returned the smile. "Oh, but not for a very long time, Akkadian."

Now the warlord brandished the knife, preparing for a sideways slash across the prisoner's throat.

"Stop!"

The sorceress's voice was as sharp as the blade itself; all eyes turned toward her.

"Wait!" Her voice carried authority, as did her stance, chin up, beautiful eyes narrowed yet hard, glittering like dark precious jewels. "Mathayus shall not die tonight."

"If that is your prophecy," Memnon said, poised to slash, "perhaps I need a new occult adviser. ..."

And yet the warlord stayed his blade.

"Change your future," she said coolly, "if you wish."

Memnon looked quickly toward her.

"Should Mathayus die by your hand," she said, "or by any hand you command . .. misfortune will fall upon you. The gods are watching, my king."

The red-turbaned guards—these mighty warriors who had slain so many, and spilled so much blood— were cowed by the musical voice of this witch. Ma­thayus was almost amused by the awe and even fear on their faces. Memnon noticed this, too ... and the warlord knew, as his soldiers knew, that his battle­field successes had been advanced, in part at least, by the supernatural wisdom of this woman.

Memnon lowered the knife, but his eyes locked with those of his prisoner. "A puzzle, then ... how to kill you, without using my hand ... or any hand I command . .. What was it you said, Akkadian? Die well?"

Mathayus said nothing, but his gaze conveyed all the contempt he could muster.

The warlord responded with an air of mock con­cern. "Dying well, a noble death, that's important to you, eh? ... I will do my best to serve you."

Mathayus watched as Memnon turned, moving toward the sorceress, and the Akkadian did not see the blow coming, when Thorak swung his fist into the prisoner's jaw, knocking him not into the next world, but a dark mind-chamber of this one.

When the assassin came to, the sun was bright above—Mathayus had been unconscious for many hours, because the night had been replaced not by morning, but day—and he knew at once he was im­mobilized. His vision, low to the ground, took in a view of a gully of sand and rocks and the occasional sun-bleached skull, sticking up out of the desert floor.

Those skulls, disconcerting though they might be, were not the worst of it: surrounding him in the shallow pitlike gully were at least a dozen earthen hills, cones ranging from three to six feet in height, with openings at the top. Into and out of these por­tals scurried large insects—fire ants—scampering with the intensity of their well-focused existence.

And by now the Akkadian realized he was buried in the sand—up to his neck.

A pair of red-turbaned guards sat on rocks along the lip of the gully. One of them rose from his boul­der perch and made his way through the cones and rocks, carrying some oily rags in one hand and bear­ing a torch, flaming like the sun, in the other. Method­ically, the guard began setting fire to the rags ... and dropping them down into the cones.

A reedy voice to his right spoke to the Akkadian, almost casually: "Fascinating, isn't it?"

Turning his head slightly to one side was about the only movement Mathayus was capable of mak­ing, and he did so, taking in the sight of that horse thief, the one who'd been suspended over those flames last night, also buried up to his scrawny neck, beside the Akkadian.

"The smoke spooks the ants," the horse thief was saying, in a detached manner, "making 'em abandon their homes. You see?"

The guard was jumping back, as the huge insects, thousands of them, came boiling up out of the cones.

"All the sooner," the thief said, "to feast on our naked heads."

Mathayus had barely been listening to this, more intent on trying to free himself, though his strug­gling seemed in vain. "You find this funny, do you?"

"You're Akkadian, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"I heard the guards talking. I thought your kind was all dead."

"Not yet."

"Not till those ants get you, you mean?"

"Your humor eludes me."

"Name's Arpid. Honest man accused of theft. You are?"

"Mathayus ... Laugh at me, please. The anger may help me escape."

"I don't think so. You see, that's what I find funny. A pitiful specimen like me, and a brawny brute like you ... and yet I am about to escape ...

while you are about to die a horrible death, no doubt brought about by a dire destiny earned by you for leaving me to die last night!"

"You? You're about to escape."

"That's right. Men like you... all muscle, no brains ... poor man, you only see the surface, don't you?" The wispily bearded thief managed to nod toward the two guards seated on their rocks around the gully's edge. "They're just like you . .. While they were burying us, I was pretending to be a-sleep.. . only I was actually sucking air into my lungs, till they were the size of a camel's bladder."

The guard who'd been distributing the fiery rags to the anthills was now returning to his rock at the gully's edge. Mathayus watched as the man lifted a wineskin and drank. The other guard was examining the haul they'd made: a cache of weapons that had been Mathayus's ... including the massive bow, which the guard quickly discovered he couldn't be­gin to draw back.

A tiny smile etched itself on the Akkadian's lips, but it didn't last long: now, striding into the buried assassin's view, came rows of fire ants, an army marching from the surrounding cones with a single objective: Mathaysus's head.

"If you're going to escape," Mathayus said to his fellow prisoner, as the ants moved toward him, "what are you waiting for?"

"You see that one?" Arpid asked, referring not to one of the oncoming ants, but to the nearer of the two guards, the fellow drinking wine from a skin.

"What about him?"

"Nothing. Just, he's been drinking that yak piss for about an hour now, and very soon nature's going to run its course and . .. ah! What did I tell you."

The guard was rising from his rock, heading over to another pile of boulders; soon, he was relieving himself, his back to the prisoners down in the sandy gully.

"Damned if you weren't right..." Mathayus be­gan, turning toward his fellow prisoner ...

... but he was talking to an empty hole in the ground! Arpid was gone, slithered up and out of that hole that would seem only large enough for a man's head. But if that slender fellow had truly filled him­self with air...

And now Mathayus was alone down in the gully—or almost alone: he still had his friends, the fire ants, less than twenty feet away.

The Akkadian was as brave as any man in his world, but nonetheless, panic consumed him, in ad­vance of the ants doing the same, and he struggled madly within his prison of sand, to no success.

"Hey!" someone yelled.

It was the guard, on his way back from his piss, having noticed the absence of the horse thief, Arpid. The other guard was busy, sitting on the ground, using his feet to try to draw back Mathayus's bow, still without any luck.

The guard moved a few feet down the slope, eyes searching a landscape littered with stones, skulls, ants and one buried-to-his-head Akkadian.

"Where did that little turd go?" the guard asked Mathayus, as if the prisoner weren't already busy staring at a moving mound of fire ants, fifteen feet away, the insects closing the distance at a slow but determined pace.

In fact, Mathayus didn't see, at first, Arpid com­ing up behind the red-turbaned guard, hauling a thick tree branch, which the thief swung into the back of the man's head, as if hitting a ball. The guard dropped onto the rocks, face first, dead to the world.

The other guard, his attention finally drawn away from the massive bow with which he was struggling, abandoned the effort and scrambled to his feet. But he wasn't quick enough, as another swing of the tree branch sent him toppling down the incline, into the gully, colliding with ... and knocking over .. .sev­eral of the massive anthills. Within moments the guard was blanketed with swarming insects, who seemed undeterred by the man's screaming and thrashing about.

Another tide of fire ants, however, was rolling in an inexorable black wave toward the Akkadian, steadily closing the distance ...

"Arpid!" Mathayus yelled. "Come on!"

The thief was now sitting on the same rock the knocked-cold guard had been, sipping from the fel­low's wineskin, enjoying a long, slow pull. When he'd finished the drink, he wiped his skimpily bearded face with the back of a hand, and glanced down at Mathayus with an expression that said, Oh—are you still here?

"Get me the hell out of this!" the Akkadian yelled, ants marching toward him.

Arpid arched an eyebrow, perched casually on the rock. "And why should I do that?"

Stunned by this response, Mathayus stared up at him for a moment, then howled, furiously, "Because if you don't, I'll kill you!"

Two ants, real leaders among their species, had gone out on a scouting mission, and were climbing the Akkadian's head; he shook it violently, and they responded with stings and bites.

Arpid shook his head in mock sympathy. "You're going to have to survive those hideous bugs to do me any harm ... and that doesn't seem likely. You see, skeletons don't get up and walk around, much less kill someone."

And indeed that swarm of ants had devoured the flesh of the fallen guard, leaving him a pile of bones draped with precious few shreds of flesh.

"Isn't that disgusting?" Arpid said, and shivered.

"Get... me ... out... of... here!"

Arpid seemed to be considering that possibility. He plucked a torch from the sand, where one of the guards had embedded it, and took a few quick steps down into the pit. Then he paused.

"Mathayus ..."

"Yes!"

"What would you give me for helping you?"

"You'd bargain for my life! You little weasel..."

"Don't you know you get more with honey than vinegar? Ask your little friends ... they'll tell you— between bites."

Mathayus had managed to fling the two ants off himself, but the others were advancing, a grotesque battalion of antennae and bug eyes and pinchers. .. .

"Forget it," Arpid was saying, heading back up.

"Wait! Wait!"

Arpid stopped, turned, glanced back down the slope. Eyebrows lifted.

In the midst of a slow burn, Mathayus reached inside himself and found a smile. "Where are my manners?"

The swarm of flesh-eating death was less than three feet away, now. The Akkadian gritted his teeth and forced that smile onward....

"Good sir," the assassin said through his glazed smile. "If you please ... would you kindly get me the hell out of here?"

Arpid shrugged. "That was a little better.. . Promise not to kill me?"

"Yes! On my oath!"

"You're an Akkadian, remember—you make an oath, you always keep it, right? That's your way, your code, huh?"

"Yes. Yes. That's right."

Another scouting party of ants was climbing the Akkadian now, perhaps a dozen, or a baker's dozen, nibbling at him, just warming up. Blinking, shaking his head, Mathayus did his best to cast them off. One climbed his lips and he bit the thing in two and spat it out.

"When you make an oath," Arpid said, in a rhe­torical tone, "do you honor it, even if it's one you come to regret?"

"Yes! Yes!"

The little thief, torch in hand, was approaching. "Then promise to take me with you... as your trusted partner and companion . . . and share with me, equally, the spoils of battle."

"Fine! I swear! I promise!"

Arpid thrust the torch in the path of the ants, which sent them scurrying away. Then he knelt be­fore the head sticking up out of the sand.

"All right, Akkadian ... hold still."

And the thief began carefully picking the ants off the assassin's face.

Within minutes, Mathayus was up the slope and gathering his weapons, while the surviving guard re­mained an unconscious sprawl on the rocks and sand. The scrawny horse thief was animated, filled with enthusiasm, though not helping the Akkadian in his recovery efforts.

"What a splendid turn of events," the thief was saying. "Wherever you go, there'll be death, and lots of it! I mean, look at you—strapping specimen. And where there's death, there's bodies, and where there are bodies, there are pockets, waiting to be emptied ... gold, silver, who knows what treasures we'll share! After all, we'll split everything straight down the middle, both money and work. I'll handle the stealing and you . . . well, you'll take care of the slaughter. Fair enough?"

Mathayus's intricately carved bow caught the eye of the bouncy little thief, who went over to it and picked up the massive weapon.

Then somebody was picking the thief up—by the scarf around his neck—and hauling him several feet off the ground.

Mathayus glared at the thief, nose to nose now, and plucked away the bow and said to him, "Don't touch this again. Not ever."

Arpid managed to speak, through the narrow hole of his choked-off windpipe. "Well... I think we're off to a very good start... don't you?"

Mathayus let loose of the thief, as if discarding him. Then the Akkadian whistled, loud, sharp. The thief glanced about.

"Who are you calling?" Arpid asked.

"My ride," Mathayus said.

Before long the albino camel came loping up over a nearby ridge. The assassin walked to his mount, stroked the beast's neck, and swung up into the sad­dle.

And rode off.

"So!" Arpid called. "Where are we headed?"

Mathayus said nothing; he nudged the camel to more speed, and the animal complied.

"Hey!" the thief yelled. "We struck a bargain!"

The little man on foot trotted after the bigger man astride the albino camel.

"All right," the thief chattered breathlessly as he ran after the Akkadian, "I'll tell you where we're going! You came to kill that woman—that witch! Only you failed ... You saw how comely she was, and your bread started to rise, and you choked!"

Mathayus glowered back, as he rode; then he spurred the camel to a full gallop.

Desperately, Arpid ran faster, too, yelling, "So now you have to save your honor! And kill the wench!... Only, you don't know where she is, where Memnon's taking her... and I do!"

Scowling to himself, Mathayus kept right on rid­ing.

But slower.

Sin City

T

hough its reputation was of sin and decadence, Gomorrah bespoke order and control, or at least its outward appearance did. At the heart of a rocky valley, as spectacular as it was imposing, this for­tress city—heavily guarded by the red-turbaned minions of Memnon—was dominated by the battle­ments and turrets of the Great Teacher's palace.

The sandstone throne room of that palace was a magnificent space worthy of so renouned a war­lord—gilded, pilastered, adorned with stark, muted (though colorful) designs that anticipated Egyptian culture of centuries to come; torch lamps—dark metal bowls of fire on spindly legs—threw a golden hue across the vast chamber, rife with lush drapes, intricate tapestries, oversize urns, and furnishings of strong simple design.

Along one wall slept two chained young beasts— a tiger and a lion—barely bigger than cubs, but not the pets of a commonplace man, not even a com­monplace ruler. A huge, ornate golden throne, over­seen by a shieldlike symbol, and bookended by ivory tusks pointing left and right, provided a loom­ing perch fit for the king Memnon meant to be; along one side of the throne room, a spacious bal­cony looked out across the spires of the city ... the fabled city of sin that now belonged to Lord Mem­non.

At a small round table near that balcony sat the sorceress, Cassandra, poring over a parchment map on which she arranged agates and jade and other smooth stones, in a manner, a pattern, flowing in­stinctively from an unearthly source within her. Clad in a diaphanous robe, her breasts and loins covered in glittering chain mail, regal in her golden head­dress, she was attended by two similarly underclad beauties with feathered fans, soothing her from the warmth of the desert clime. But their presence, like the heat itself, did not penetrate her preoccupied, almost trancelike state.

With delicate gold-and-jewel-bedecked fingers she ran her searching touch across the face of the map, and the rune stones she had arranged there . . .

... summoning a vision: the warrior queen, Isis, on horseback, at full gallop, riding toward a forest, beyond which (Cassandra somehow knew) a settle­ment awaited. Then the queen drew up her steed, as smoke streamed into the sky from the decimated vil­lage. Around her, at her side, were her sister warriors, her tribal council; but coming toward her were more of the female fighters she ruled, and they showed the ragtag signs of battle, the blood, the soot, the despair. Slung across one saddle was a mortally wounded warrior; and on the queen's face anger and sadness fought for dominion.

Cassandra opened her eyes. She could feel the anguish of Queen Isis, but she kept that shared sor­row within her: no tears fell. Like so many seers, Cassandra had erected defensive walls—otherwise, she would be a slave to her visions.

A familiar voice boomed across the throne room: "And what news from my sorceress, today?"

She turned, nodding to her attendants, who slipped away, even as Lord Memnon—a warrior king in black leathers—strode across his throne room with his right-hand man, Thorak, and left-hand man, Takmet, at his appropriate sides.

Remaining seated, she swiveled toward Memnon, regarding him with half-lidded eyes. "The forces of Queen Isis are scattered to the four winds."

Memnon grinned, like a greedy child, exchanging satisfied nods with both his chief advisers.

"The people of Ur," she said, "are reeling from the death of their king."

At this mention of the father he'd murdered, Tak­met smiled a little. The sorceress did not reveal her repulsion, merely continued.

"Pheron's tribes are evacuating their villages," she said. "They are without direction... . Leaderless."

Memnon's eyes tightened. "And what of the Nu­bian?"

Cassandra shook her head, and her dangling ear­rings made small music. "Balthazar ... and his peo­ple ... remain hidden from my sight."

The warlord's eyes flared. "Do the gods shield them?"

She offered him a tiny shrug. "My gift does not reveal this, my lord."

Memnon drew in a deep breath, then let it out, before throwing a smiling glance at, first, Takmet, then Thorak. "Give our generals the news of this disarray in Ur. Have them make ready my armies."

"Yes, my lord," Takmet said.

Thorak said the same.

As the advisers made their exit, Memnon ap­proached Cassandra and touched her shoulder, his smile surprisingly gentle. "You think me cruel?"

"I rarely think of you at all," she said, though her tone lacked the apparent contempt of her words.

He strolled to a table of food and ripped a shank of venison from a platter. "You sorely test my good nature, Cassandra."

"I am here only to fulfill a purpose."

He turned to her, holding the shank of meat like a club. "Yes? Perhaps you've forgotten what life is like, outside these palace walls."

The warlord tossed the venison across the room, and his young lion and tiger began to scuffle over it, until finally they were snarling and snapping at the meat and each other.

"That is what it is like out there, my pet," he said to her. "Heartless ... ignornant... savage ..."

What an apt description of Memnon himself, the sorceress thought; but she did not share this view with her host.

With a wave, Memnon summoned guards from the periphery who separated the two beasts, yanking them back on their chains; one guard cleaved the remainder of the shank of meat with his sword, and gave each animal its share.

Memnon returned to the seated woman's side. "That ignorance . .. that barbarism ... I can change it all. Am I not called the Teacher of Men? I can transmute savagery into civilization, in our lifetimes. Just as the prophecy says ..."

As if not even listening, Cassandra rose and wan­dered to that table of food and drink; she poured herself a goblet of wine. But her words indicated she had indeed paid attention to her lord: "I know the prophecy."

"You should," he said, going to her. "The vision, after all, was yours, Cassandra. ... Say it."

"Don't you know it, my lord? Don't the words ring in your mind at every moment?"

"Say it!"

She sighed. " 'By tolling bell, and thunder's swell... a flaming star falls from the sky. By a full moon's glow, in House of Scorpio ... kneeling men bow, to the king ... on high.' "

"Such lovely words," he said, and with the back of his hand he stroked her cheek. "Such a lovely woman ... what a queen you'll make. For I am that king of legend, my love ... celebrated by the gods themselves."

She looked at him, her lovely face blank, her eyes unblinking, and said nothing.

"When that time comes, when the prophecy is fulfilled," he said, "you shall take your place beside me.... On a throne, of course .. . and in my bed."

She smiled—a tiny smile. "Only a virgin can be blessed with second sight. My lord, in your bed of delight, I would lose my gift .. . and you would lose your advantage on the field of battle."

He returned the smile and studied her perfect features. "Ah, my beautiful sorceress ... When I am king of the world, I will no longer need your visions ... all I will require is the vision of loveli­ness that you are."

And Memnon ran his hand up the expanse of her bare arm, fingers gentle on her flesh; but even as he savored the thought of the ecstasies that awaited him . . . them ... the sorceress flinched, feeling a chill, and a wave of revulsion.

She drew away from the warlord, brushing the hilt of a knife on his belt, unaware that this weapon was the confiscated throwing knife that had be­longed to the Akkadian, Mathayus.

And contact with a belonging of the assassin's sparked a psychic contact, and a new vision seized her mind, her being, took her at once to the desert, where she saw . ..

... a scrawny, scruffily bearded man running alongside a strange, white camel on which rode the Akkadian—Mathayus!

So the assassin lived! Was her life still threat­ened, then? she wondered.

But she did not share the vision—threat or not— with Memnon, even when—noting the surprise in her eyes, sensing another vision had come—he asked, "What is it?"

Instead she merely informed her lord that she was tired from their journey.

Memnon searched the woman's face for deceit or trickery, but saw nothing, and suggested she rest.

"I will have need of you tomorrow," he told her, "when my generals come caning."

She bowed her head. "Thank you, my lord,"

When she turned and walked away from him, the warlord called to her. "Cassandra)"

She stopped, but she did not turn to him.

He said, quietly, "Your well-being is of the ut­most importance to me. You know that, don't you?"

That was as close as this proud warlord could come to telling the woman that he loved her. Ad­mitting his thirst for her—the lust in him—was far easier than acknowledging the tender emotions he felt, which shamed him.

"Yes, my lord," she said, hating him. "You are most generous."

And as she glided from the throne room, the mighty warlord watched her go, drinking in every supple curve of her body, relishing the bounce of her dark hair on her shoulders and the tinkle of her jewelry and the grace of her movements.

Like a drunk who has forsworn the bottle, this strong man wallowed in the weakness of loving her, and longed for the day her purity would no longer matter, when he could love and defile her.

At the crest of a rocky slope, Mathayus—leading his camel, tagged along after by the horse thief-— paused to survey the valley below ... and the for­tified, walled city whose structures, humble and grand, were lorded over by a castellated palace.

"So," the Akkadian said with dry bitterness, "this is the house of the hollow king."

"Gomorrah," Arpid said, taking in the view with wide, appreciative eyes. "Grandest city in the world."

To Mathayus there was nothing grand about it— not even the palace, which to the assassin was noth­ing more than a box for him to crack open and shake that rogue warlord out.

But the scruffy little horse thief was still rhap­sodizing, sighing like a man remembering his kiss. kiss. "Let me tell you, partner—after a hard day of looting and pillaging, there's no better place to un­wind than Gomorrah..." He frowned in thought. ".. . except for maybe Sodom."

Massive bow already over his shoulder, Matha­yus turned to Hanna and began arming himself from the camel's backpacks—knives, arrows, kama, and more. The sight of this seemed to take some of the steam out of the thief.

"Yes, Gomorrah's something, all right," Arpid said, stepping away from the assassin. "And I really do wish I could join you ..."

The Akkadian was paying the man no heed; right now the assassin was withdrawing his long, hooded cloak. As Mathayus slipped into it, his companion plucked a knife from one of the packs and executed a few slashes at invisible adversaries.

"Believe me," Arpid was saying, "I'd like to even up the score with those red guards, myself. .. but with the price on my head, I'd never make it through the gates."

Mathayus turned and finally acknowledged the thief. "Oh, but I have faith in you ... partner."

"I'm afraid my notoriety would only bring you unwanted attention. You should sneak in the back way."

"We're going to Gomorrah, not Sodom."

"Really, Mathayus—I would not want to impede you...."

The Akkadian rested a massive hand on the little man's bony shoulder. "You'll get us in, thief. The front way."

Before long they were approaching the Gomorrah gate, the hooded cloak obscuring Mathayus's face as he walked the camel, the thief following along, hiding behind the Akkadian's bulk.

From beneath the hood, the assassin's eyes took it all in: the detachment of red-turbaned guards checking the people as they entered, searching carts, scrutinizing individuals and their baggage alike; and a line of archers on the ledge overlooking the gated entryway—with a nod from the guards below, these bowmen could turn any troublemaker into an instant pincushion.

"You see, Mathayus?" the horse thief whispered, from behind him. "Memnon has the city locked up tight as a blood-gorged tick. . . . We need to turn back."

"But I'm depending on you."

"I know, and I wish there was something I could do."

Mathayus turned to the thief and his smile was broad and terrible. "Oh, but there is."

And the Akkadian drew his arm back and punched Arpid in the face, knocking him instantly out.

Moments later, with the unconscious thief slung over Hanna's saddle, the cloaked Akkadian walked the camel by its reins up to the guards at their gate station. They viewed him with suspicion—but then they viewed everyone with suspicion, so that was to be expected.

"What business have you in Gomorrah?" the bur­lier of the guards demanded.

"I have come for a bounty," Mathayus said. He nodded toward the figure draped over the camel's saddle. "Arpid—the horse thief. He is a wanted man, I understand."

Another of the guards stepped forward and lifted up the thief's head by its hair, for inspection—Arpid didn't seem to mind, slumbering as he was.

"I know this dog," the guard said. He let out a single nasty laugh. "They'll behead the bastard for sure, this time!"

Mathayus patted the unconscious man's skull with mock affection. "And how much prettier he'll be, for the alteration."

The guards all laughed at that—the Akkadian had judged their sense of humor well—and they waved him on through the gate.

Soon the Akkadian found himself in a buzzing, bustling bazaar, leading his camel and his still-slumbering companion through an exotic array of belly dancers, flame blowers, snake charmers, fire walkers and sword swallowers, an open-air market where vendors sold fruit and vegetables and woven baskets and fine carpets and every other commodity known to man, and perhaps a few previously un­known as well. Dens of iniquity offered sustenance, if one could survive the clientele, and outside one of these rough bars, Mathayus stopped at a horse trough.

The Akkadian dragged the dazed thief down off the camel and dunked his head into the water, bring­ing the man suddenly around.

"What... what," Arpid sputtered, "what hap­pened?"

"Thanks to your wiles," Mathayus said, "we got past the guards. You got us in."

"Ah ... yes." Water trailed down his face from his sodden hair. "A man who lives by his wits is hard to defeat!"

"Such true words," Mathayus said, lifting the lit­tle thief by the scuff of the neck and hauling him over to a crude wooden stool outside the bar, de­positing him there.

The Akkadian called out to the proprietor. "A jug of your finest wine for my road weary friend, here!"

Arpid just sat there, dripping wet, bleary-eyed, getting bis bearings, as Mathayus tied up the albino camel at a nearby hitching post. Carefully the as­sassin removed the pouch of rubies from the hiding place beneath his saddle, and tied the precious bag securely to his belt.

"Watch Hanna for me," Mathayus told his groggy companion, who remained seated on that rough-wood stool.

"You can .. . can count on me," Arpid said, ten­derly testing his jaw, which seemed to be sore, for some reason.

"Always," the Akkadian said with a smile, and slipped into the chaos of the crowd.

The little thief stayed at his stool, blinking his way back to a more or less alert state. "Wait a min­ute!" he said, calling to Mathayus, though the as­sassin had already disappeared into the flurry of activity that was the marketplace. "The last thing I remember was this enormous fist..."

From the bar, carrying a jug of wine, came a gen­erously shapely, serviceably attractive serving girl overflowing her harem-like attire. She filled a glass for Arpid, who stared up at her appealing if slat­ternly countenance, already forgetting about the indignity of that Akkadian fist in his face.

"Please, sir," she said, with a sublimely false smile of little-girl innocence, "let me know if there's anything else you'd like."

The horse thief sighed and returned the smile; he seemed dazed again, but it was no longer the effects of Mathayus's fist.

"It is so good," he mused to her, "to be back in the big city again."

Elsewhere, the Akkadian was winding through the whirlpool of commerce, sin and decadence that was the bazaar, making his way toward the palace gates.

"Here they are," a seller of swords was saying, "the finest steel in the land . .. You can't get respect in Gomorrah without a quality blade on your hip!"

But Mathayus was already armed to the teeth, and ignored all such come-ons in the main square, where one could buy anything from damask to damsels; he strode single-mindedly toward the citadel that was Memnon's palace. Finally he stood, hands on his hips, looking up at the heavily armed red turbaned guards walking the ramparts, guarding the gates of this imposing structure, half castle, half fortress.

And just as he was studying the lay of the land, a brood of street urchins manifested itself out of nowhere—the youngest ragamuffin might have been six, the oldest no more than ten, a blur of dirty faces and nimble feet, swirling around him, stirring dust.

"Guide, sir?" one said.

"You need a guide, sir," said another.

'To find your way in Gomorrah, sir," yet another bleated.

Mathayus knelt and summoned the leader of the smudged-faced flock with a curl of a finger. "You, lad—are you a smart enough guide to show me a way into the palace?"

Dark eyes glittered in the dirty, dark face. "A smart guide wouldn't, sir—or he'd get a tour ... of Lord Memnon's dungeon!"

The little gaggle of urchins laughed like magpies, and Mathayus was smiling at them when one along­side him sneaked in and, in a flash of steel, cut the pouch of rubies from the Akkadian's belt!

The culprit sprinted off, and Mathayus raced right after him; but those urchins tagged along, laughing, running, catching up with the boy who'd snagged the pouch and—in a dazzling display of misdirec­tion—began to hand the booty off between them­selves, until it was impossible for the Akkadian to tell which boy had wound up with the rubies.

Half guessing, he pursued one of the little brig­ands, winding through stalls, upending carts and ta­bles of fruit and vegetables, finally catching up with the lad. Taking him by the ankles, Mathayus hauled him in the air and held him upside down—was this how Arpid had started?—and shook the boy; a few coins spilled from the child's pockets, but no pouch.

Frightened, the dangling boy pointed to another, older urchin; this one looked about twelve, and was darting through the stalls with impressive dexterity. The Akkadian dropped his prisoner rudely to the ground, and took off after the older boy ... only to have another of the urchins dash by going in the opposite direction.

The Akkadian, twisted this way and that by the acrobatic street gang, stopped running and leaned against a cart, trying to focus. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted a flicker of movement, and his hand snapped out and caught a boy just darting from behind the stand. Latching onto the gamin's shirt, Mathayus yanked him off the ground and lifted him to his face and looked right into the boy's dark, jumping eyes.

The child smiled, sheepishly, and held out his hand... proferring the precious pouch.

Mathayus took his property back, and put the boy down, the Akkadian's hard gaze instructing him not to run. After Mathayus had again tied the pouch to his belt, he gripped the urchin's jaw in one hand, prying it open, and reached the fingers of his other hand in ... to withdraw a ruby.

The child shrugged and grinned. Couldn't blame a boy for trying, right?

Mathayus grinned back at him and held up the glittering jewel. "How would you like to keep this one?"

The boy nodded enthusiastically.

Mathayus glanced back tellingly at the looming palace. "Then I hope you're a better 'guide' than you are a thief...."

Harem Fling

T

he elevated gardens of Memnon's palace were lush and beautiful, dappled golden by the setting sun, which protested its imminent death by sending swordlike shafts of brilliant light bouncing off the marble pathways leading to a small central arena, one edge of which provided a view of the city. Here Lord Memnon—regal, despite the simplicity of his dark leather battle garb—held court... not to dis­pense wisdom, chart the course of war, or otherwise deal with matters of state. Rather, he exercised his own considerable warrior skills, in full view of an array of soldiers and courtiers, unafraid to test his mettle in front of them, for he knew he would not fail.

Right now Memnon—a quarterstaff in either hand—was trading blows with a likewise-armed master of martial arts brought here from the East some months ago, part of an expedition designed to bring specific rare provisions to Memnon's court magician, Philos. The Oriental master, his head shaved, his lithe form a mystery in flowing robes, had instructed Memnon in the numerous arts of war, including the one in which they were currently en­gaged.

The time had come, however, for the Great Teacher to instruct the master.

Memnon charged the smaller man, spinning the staffs dizzingly, a display of martial skill that wid­ened the eyes of the courtiers and soldiers looking on. With brutal ease, the warlord disarmed and struck down the master.

The usual Oriental etiquette—bows and such, which Memnon found amusingly inappropriate— were dispensed with, as a pair of soldiers hauled away the injured "master," to the sound of the de­lighted courtiers' applause.

With a nod, Memnon signaled a bare-chested, red-turbaned bowman to begin the next test of the warlord's expertise. The muscular, trim-bearded archer withdrew a formidable bow from a large, or­nately carved wooden weapons box, in which nu­merous arrows and bows resided.

Lord Memnon tossed away the two staffs, which were quickly retrieved and carried off by a pair of slaves, and walked to the center of the garden court­yard. He stretched his arms wide, as if welcoming a loved one. Then, slowly, he drew his hands to­gether, arms stiff, until his open palms were separated by perhaps a foot, held out directly in front of his chest.

The warlord's gaze locked with that of the archer.

The courtiers were gasping, murmuring among themselves, marveling, and fearful. The Great Teacher's outstretched arms formed a virtual path­way for the archer's arrow! Could Lord Memnon possibly intend to...

He did so intend. The warlord held his position, just as his eyes held those of the archer, who drew back his bow.

As this tableau unfolded itself, a new guest—on a balcony overlooking the garden courtyard—was adding himself to the assemblage of spectators. Emerging from a small tower doorway onto the bal­cony, Mathayus smiled tightly as he handed his guide, the street urchin, the promised ruby, which the grinning gamin snatched in his fist, and disap­peared back the way they'd come.

The Akkadian crept close to the edge of the bal­cony wall, one hand on the sandstone ledge, as he peered cautiously over at the unfolding scene below. At first the Akkadian did not comprehend the po­tentially deadly exercise that Memnon had arranged for himself; all the assassin saw was the warlord ... his quarry, finally within his reach.

Emotions leaped in Mathayus—joy at his suc­cess; rage at seeing the man who had butchered his brother Akkadians....

But then, as he fought back the almost uncon­trollable fury, summoning the passionless, professional disposition a true assassin needed to practice his art, Mathayus finally noticed the bizarre game that seemed about to play itself out.

For brief moments, Mathayus wondered if Mem­non was facing an executioner; had a palace revolt negated the assassin's own efforts at revenge? Then he realized the arrogant, proud Memnon was risking his life to impress his people, to demonstrate his superhuman capabilities; and Mathayus could hardly believe the absurdity, the asininity of such ego ...

Below, the red-turbaned guards and the audience of courtiers were struck dumb, awed by the daring of their lord and master.

Memnon nodded ...

... and the archer let fly!

Mathayus reared back, startled as he saw the un­blinking Memnon snap his hands shut and catch the arrow, inches from a breastplate that would not have sufficiently shielded the warlord's heart.

The Great Teacher nodded to the archer, who re­turned the gesture, but deeper, as the courtyard rang with applause.

As for Mathayus, he was not clapping; he was notching his own arrow into his mighty bow, his smile as taut as the bowstring, knowing even a man of such skills as Memnon could not catch an arrow he didn't see coming ... well, not catch it in his hands....

But as Mathayus aimed at his nemesis, sighting the man with precision and pleasure, a commotion below distracted him. The Akkadian ignored the disruption, regaining his concentration, steadying his aim, drawing a bead, pulling back the impossibly taut bowstring .. . through the neck would be nice....

And then a pair of red-turbaned guards dragged a struggling prisoner into full view below, to face Lord Memnon. Since his high angle on his target was not hindered, the Akkadian initially intended to go ahead and shoot.

But then he saw who the prisoner was—the boy!

The street urchin who had aided him, guided him through that rear doorway into just the right tower, providing him this perch ...

Damn!

Now the guards, hauling the boy, were periodi­cally blocking the assassin's line of sight, and he paused, muscles straining as he held the tense bow­string in place, waiting to fire, ready to fire.

Right now, however, one of the guards was dis­playing to Memnon the ruby, which they'd obvi­ously found on the boy.

"Why waste my time?" Memnon snapped, speak­ing to the guards but looking straight at the raga­muffin. "Why test my patience? You know the penalty for thievery."

The guards dragged the boy to a nearby table and forced him to stretch his small arm out, straight. From the back of the row of red-turbaned guards, a burly example of their brethren emerged, with a large ax in hand, its edge catching the dying sunlight and glinting, making the watching Akkadian blink.

The ax-wielding guard raised his implement high, and Mathayus—face darkening, frustrated—swore under his breath as he shifted his aim and let the arrow fly.

The power of the Akkadian's arm, the swiftness of the arrow's flight, the sturdiness of its shaft, its razor-keen point, all did their appointed tasks: the arrow hit the ax handle, hard, knocking it from the guard's grasp and sending it whanging into a tree, where the blade quivered and held.

Not a second passed before every eye was on that balcony (allowing the boy to scramble away), the presence of an intruder sparking an immediate alarm. With an impressive implementation of pro­cedure, half the guards swarmed their lord and mas­ter, and swept him from the garden; the rest flew into pursuit.

Bow slung back over his shoulder, scimitar in hand, the Akkadian was racing down the balcony walkway, where he soon spotted a small entry in a tower at his path's dead end. In the corridor beyond, he hustled along, and the first door he came to, he shouldered open, and thrust himself inside.

He shut the door and lowered the wooden beam— which had thankfully not been in place—that se­cured it. Then, breathing hard, he turned and took in his surroundings, and strange surroundings they were indeed.

Mathayus had never seen the like of what he could not recognize as a primitive but prophetic lab­oratory, scattered with strange, imaginative inventions that centuries from now would have been worthy of da Vinci; the largest of these was a weapon Mathayus did not recognize, because it had only recently been invented (by the chamber's oc­cupant): a large wooden catapult. On rough wood-slab tables bubbled and burbled various potions and mixtures, brewing colorfully over a series of oil lamps. The chemical smells that permeated the mod­est chamber were unknown to Mathayus, and sent his nose twitching like a rabbit's.

Then one of the vials cooking over a flame re­acted, minorly but impressively, creating a hisssss that turned into a pooof, spewing acrid smoke.

As we have said, Mathayus was as brave a war­rior as any; but such witchcraft spooked this excep­tional man whose only schooling was in the ways of battle, and he was looking about him for a means of escape when someone—the smoke was getting thick—began to cough.

The Akkadian spun, and as a figure emerged from the chemical fog, the warrior thrust his scimitar and stopped the man's movement. Mathayus did not cut down the eccentric-looking creature, however, rather just stopped him there, touching the tip of the sword's blade to the man's throat.

Small, with unkempt white hair, his slight frame bound up in unprepossessing robes, the little man said, "Good lord . .. what a stench! Price of progress ... I am Philos! Can I help you, sir?"

Gazing into the odd little fellow's guileless eyes, Mathayus somehow how knew he'd blundered onto someone whom he could risk trusting. In any event, the magician ... for surely that was who this human curiosity was ... seemed no threat.

"I need a way to get of here," Mathayus said, frankly.

But before his host could answer, a banging at the barred door interrupted, and rough voices called, "Open up! Open up in there!"

The Akkadian swung around, scimitar poised, ready to fight.

"Oh my," Philos said.

"Go ahead," Mathayus said, always ready to die well. "Open it."

"No! No, no, no ... there'll be none of that here, no violence.... Here, come this way."

Moments later, Philos unbarred his door and gra­ciously gestured for his callers to come in, which they did, in a rush, red-turbaned guards piling in, with the much-feared Thorak at their lead.

"Oh," Philos groaned. "Thorak ... must you be a brute in your every waking moment? Cannot you leave me in peace?"

"You'd rest in peace, if I had my way, magician," Thorak said, as his men began to search the cluttered laboratory, treating Philos's precious inventions with rough disdain.

"Please!" Philos said. 'Take care with those."

"Guard your tongue," Thorak growled. "My pa­tience is thin today."

"How unusual," Philos said under his breath.

The scarred-faced Thorak strode to a table of experiments and lifted up a dish of black powder, pinching some of the substance, sniffing it.

"Careful, there!" Philos cried. "That's extremely dangerous! Magic powder from China!"

Thorak smirked at the magician, blowing the powder onto the flame of a nearby candle; the action made a small, not particularly impressive poof. This summoned another smirk from the massive head of the guards.

Philos shrugged. "Well, I haven't quite ciphered the correct compound, as yet."

Contempt colored Thorak's expression as a force­ful hand swept the dish of powder to the hard floor, where it shattered.

Then the scarred guard stepped up threateningly to the little magician until the former's breastplate brushed the nose of the latter. "You are fortunate that Lord Memnon has a taste for your magic."

"I prefer to call it science."

"Science, then. Call it what you will, little man ... it's all a sham."

The other guards were looking toward their leader, with shrugs; they had found no one. Thorak stalked the chamber, having one last look around, moving past the catapult, the launching spoon of which was covered by a tarpaulin.

Quickly Philos caught Thorak's attention. "Well, you and I must put our differences aside. We both serve our lord Memnon, each in his own way."

Thorak strode back to the magician... or was that scientist? "The day will come, little man, when the Great Teacher's patience for idiocy will run out... and I will see your bones bleach in the sun."

Philos swallowed. "And a good day to you, sir, as well."

Thorak strutted out and his fellow guards fol­lowed him, though their leader waited for them to exit so he could personally slam the door.

Which Philos again secured with the wooden beam. He listened as their footsteps faded away, and then he said, "We seem to be alone again. At last."

Mathayus peeled away the tarp and revealed him­self nestled in the catapult's spoon. He did not move from this position, relishing a few moments of rest. He would be on the move again, soon enough.

"Thank you," the Akkadian said to the scientist.

The little man sighed and walked over to join his guest, shaking his head as he came, his kind face lined with sadness and, yes, fright.

"Dark days, my friend," the scientist said. "More heads have rolled in this age of Memnon's 'peace' than I have seen in all my days .. . even days of war."

"I will not forget your goodwill, old man."

Philos sighed again, heavily, but mustered a smile. "How can we face ourselves, if we are to simply cast our fellowman to the winds?"

And then the scientist sat down on the catapult, leaning back against its release lever ...

... sending the mechanism's central arm flinging forward with a whump!, hurling Mathayus straight through the window and into the air.

"Oh dear," Philos said, standing, touching fingers to his lips. "Well... he did say he needed a way out of here ..."

The Akkadian, eyes wide, was flying; no bird could rival him, as he hurtled over the towers and minarets of the palace. But even as he enjoyed the view, he knew his landing could not rival that of the birds, unless he was very, very lucky.

And he was, though a less sturdy man might have suffered injuries, where Mathayus merely crashed into the large awning, on the far side of a high mas­sive wall, the awning giving way, collapsing, but at an angle, sending him smashing through the exqui­sitely carved filigree-wooden shutters of a chamber whose purpose would soon be revealed to him.

Seated unceremoniously on the floor in a pile of splintered wood, the Akkadian—pleased that his bow had made the trip with him, intact—glanced about at the huge circular room, whose ceiling hung with satin drapes. The floor was marble, all but cov­ered with loose cushions, around a small but elab­orately fashioned central fountain. To one side a huge gong stood, as if at guard.

None of this impressed the Akkadian much, how­ever—he was too riveted by the tenants of this sim­ple yet somehow lavish den. Around him, seated on those pillows, lounging along the lip of the fountain, or just strolling aimlessly, were beautiful women, a dozen at least, in the delightfully skimpy attire of the harem girls they obviously were.

He gazed at them in wonderment—so much female beauty in one place, spread before him like a buffet of pulchritude. For a moment he wondered if he had died on impact and gone to some wonderful afterlife; or was he merely unconscious, perhaps dy­ing, and dreaming one last sweet dream before the underworld claimed him?

"A man!" the damsel nearest him chirped.

Mathayus clamped a hand over her pretty mouth. "Quiet, now."

Then he realized they seemed to be staring at him much as he had at them—in wonderment. He had not the slightest idea why, having no sense of what a magnificent male specimen he must have seemed to the fetching young women.

He took his hand off the girl's mouth, and she remained silent. Good. Rising, drawing his scimitar, he looked all about. "What is this place?"

Another of the girls whispered, "Lord Memnon's harem, of course."

They were all around him now, a beautiful swarm.

"But you'd never know it was," another said. "Our lord so seldom visits...."

Another exquisite creature said, "He has better things to do, it would seem."

And another stroked the assassin's bare arm, say­ing, "Always off on his campaigns of war. No time for us ... we get so lonely."

The girl who had first spoken now said, "We long for a man's touch," and she gently took his free hand—the other held the scimitar—and brought his palm up to rest on a firm, full breast. Reflexively, he cupped it, as she covered her hand with his and held it there.

She was squealing with girlish delight, just as he pulled his hand away, saying to her, "You're won­derful, but... This isn't a good time."

"What better time," one of the them said, eyes sparkling over her veil, "could you imagine?"

"It could be a very good time," another said, and they were surging forward, crowding him, crying out to him, Stay here! Stay with us! We will pleasure you! We know how to please a man!

As they fawned over him, disrobing him he thought, he was drunk with the sight of them, the scents, the exotic delights that seemed to hover like shimmering dreams; and—great warrior that he was, he was a man after all, only a man—he did not realize they were in reality disarming him, plucking his knives, his metal, from his belt. Nor did he sense the mighty bow and its quiver leave his shoulders, as another wench slipped them off, behind his back.

"Stay with us," a green-eyed one was cooing,

"and we will make your every fantasy come

true__ "

Then one of them, in a sudden, almost savage move, yanked the scimitar from his grasp, while a few steps away one of her sisters pulled a large tas­sel and rang the huge gong, sending waves of sound radiating across, seemingly, the entire world.

And now these sweet harem girls became vicious creatures, no less lovely, but clawing now, scratching and biting, a multitude of ferocious cats attack­ing.

In one swift movement, swinging both his arms, Mathayus disentangled himself, flinging them here and there like rag dolls, and they tumbled pretty end over pretty end, landing awkwardly on the scattered pillows.

He had regained his scimitar and several daggers, but not his mighty bow, when half a dozen archers burst into the harem den ... and in their lead was the brutal Thorak.

Thorak's scar turned white as surprise and rage seized him. "It's the Akkadian] ... He lives ... but not for long—kill him!"

As the archers let fly with their arrows, the as­sassin dove toward that huge gong, tumbling behind it; with a sweep of his scimitar, he cut the ropes binding the golden sphere to its pedestal, from which he snatched the huge shieldlike object. Roll­ing the gong swiftly along, hiding behind it as ar­rows pinged and danced off its outer surface, Mathayus made his way to the harem doors, through which he sent the gong crashing, making an ungodly music.

When the guards followed into the corridor, Ma­thayus was again spiraling his golden shield along, making their arrows ineffectual. At the end of the hall, the Akkadian dove from behind the revolving orb, allowing it to clatter to a resounding stop as he pitched through waiting doors.

Again he found himself within a strange room of the palace, and he slammed the doors shut and bar­ricaded them with an ornate chest.

He turned to get his bearings.

This was no magician's lair... and yet it was. This was a golden-hued sandstone chamber whose hieroglyph decorations seemed feminine, a sensation enhanced by delightful scents of oil and flowers and incense. He knew at once he was in Cassandra's quarters; not in her bedroom, or living chamber, no—this was an indoor bathing pool.

And he knew it belonged to the sorceress, be­cause Cassandra herself lay within the huge bath, her lovely head and a shoulder looming above a sur­face covered with rose petals.

Her almond eyes grew large—she may have been a prophet, but she had clearly not anticipated his entry into her quarters, and was dumbstruck.

But, then, so was he.

The sorceress's handmaidens, who'd been tend­ing her alongside the pool, which took up most of the floor space in the modest-sized chamber, were not struck dumb: they screamed like frightened chil­dren, and ran into the adjacent rooms of their mis­tress's quarters.

Quickly the regal Cassandra regained her poise, and she rose from the rose-cloaked water, throwing back the damp mane of her long dark hair, display­ing every inch of her golden, well-formed flesh, per­fect breasts, narrow waist, the flare of hips, flawless skin pearled with moisture, every female secret shared.

She stood with her arms at her sides and her chin, and her breasts, held high. No woman had ever been more at ease with her beauty as she said, "Well, assassin? Are you going to kill me, or just stare?"

Mathayus sighed; first the harem girls . .. now this. "Decisions," he said, "decisions."

Then someone knocked at the door—rammed at it, actually; guards beyond were yelling as they did their best to batter their way inside.

And now her voice called to him, the defiance, the pride gone; something sweet, something mysti­cal, like a gentle wind drifting across the landscape of his soul. "Akkadian ... Akkadian ..."

He frowned, and he quietly, all but drowned out by the battering-ram sounds, said, "Oh no, witch ... Not this time."

And he dove into the pool, pulling her down un­der, sweeping them both below the rose-petaled skin of the water. The woman cried in surprise, but her scream was cut off abruptly, before it was much of anything really, just a yelp before she disappeared under the petals and water.

It took a while for the guards to butt through that door, and by the time they had, that rosy surface had settled, and the bath appeared empty.

Thorak strode in, sword in hand, looking around the room, frowning in frustration. Lord Memnon had joined the search, personally, and entered the bath chamber on his trusted adviser's heels.

Under the water, Mathayus slipped the tip of the scimitar under an iron grating at the base of pool, prying it open. At once, the bathwater began to rush down the narrow spillway below.

As the pool drained, the shadowy forms under the water began to reveal themselves, and Memnon cried, "Kill him!"

That spillway was not so narrow, though, that the Akkadian and the sorceress couldn't slide down in, and he didn't even have to convince the woman, as they were both carried by its flow.

And when Memnon's red-turbaned guards slashed at the draining water with their swords, they were too late.

Mathayus and Cassandra were gone, sliding, ca­reening down a twisting drain, swept along with the tide.

Valley of the Dead

F

rom his high window in the tower room where he kept his primitive but visionary laboratory, Philos—that self-proclaimed man of science— gazed down at the source of the noise that had at­tracted his attention.

A phalanx of guards had gathered below, and one of them pointed up at the scientist's window, and then dispatched several of the well-armed, red-turbaned brutes, obviously on their way to come calling.

"Oh my," Philos said to himself, blinking. "I'm going to have to assume my tenure here is over...."

And he went to the carpetbag he kept snugged under a nearby wooden table and began to quickly pack, taking time to include a certain Chinese parch­ment. ...

Elsewhere, in the open-air marketplace of Gomorrah, outside a wine merchant's tent, the scrawny thief Arpid sat on a bench, drinking. He was not quite drunk, but neither was he entirely sober; how­ever, when the horns and trumpets of the palace guard began to blow their piercing alarm, the horse thief snapped to alertness.

Then Arpid sighed, thinking, Well. .. I warned the fool.

He rose and raised his glass to his fellow tavern-crawling reprobates and said, "A toast—to my friend the Akkadian... let him rest in peace. Or pieces, as would seem more likely."

The drunks and bandits and general lowlifes around him responded with a hoist of their goblets. This was a group that would drink to anyone, even a member of the Akkadian tribe, who all men knew (except this idiot proposing the toast) had long since vanished from the earth.

The wine of his toast had barely passed Arpid's lips when a cluster of red-turbaned guards came clat­tering through the bazaar, brandishing their weap­ons. The thief shielded his face until the soldiers had rushed on; then he rose, bowed to his distinguished fellow scoundrels, saying, "Alas, gentle friends, I must now take my leave...."

And he left.

On a nearby street, just over from the market­place, bedouin women were washing their clothes in a large, central fountain. Even when the soldiers of Memnon were on the march, a cry of alarm blaring through the city, life went on. The child of one of these women, tagging along with his mother, studied a tarnished coin that he'd found on the dusty street.

The hoy had never had a coin before, and didn't know what to do with it; but as he studied the foun­tain, he suddenly knew: a wish!

The boy tossed the coin, and—seemingly in cause-and-effect fashion—from beneath a floating linen garment, a beautiful naked woman burst from the water.

"Gods be praised!" the boy said, and for the rest of his life he would be a believer.

Cassandra leaned on the fountain, heaving for breath, as the wide-eyed boy took in the unclad de­lights of her lithe form. Then, from behind her, gasp­ing for breath, came the Akkadian.

The boy frowned and shook his head, disap­pointed by this additional apparition. Then his mother covered the child's eyes and hustled him away. A crowd began to congregate, but at the same time gave this magnificent materialized god and goddess breathing room.

They stood panting for a while—the pair had had quite a ride down that drain, flying out a hole in a wall, splash-landing inside a dank water chamber, finally finding their way up and through to air and sunlight—and now it was as if they were living stat­ues adorning the fountain.

Then the sorceress—her long hair streaming with water, her golden skin beaded with droplets— whirled at Mathayus, no longer in the grip of their shared predicament, her regal bearing returning in full force. Her long-nailed fingers turned to claws and her hands flew toward the assassin's face.

Mathayus gripped her wrists, tight, hard, even as she exploded in fury.

"How dare you touch me!" she snarled. "Your head will ride a post, your eyes will feed the birds, your entrails will be strung from the highest—"

He yanked her close, as if to kiss her; but instead he spoke softly, if firmly, his message for her, not the gathering crowd.

"Sorceress," he said sweetly, "I am an Akkadian engaged to kill you."

Her eyes flared, outrage wedded with fear.

"Now I find myself in a position where you are of more use to me alive," he said, "than dead.... Try not to give me cause to change my mind."

She said nothing, her chin high... but trembling, perhaps with the chill of the water ... perhaps from something else.

"I suggest we find you something to wear," he said. "You may catch cold in your bare skin ... and more unwanted attention."

A few coins bought bedouin robes and scarves from a washerwoman, and within minutes the Ak­kadian and his hostage were at the front gates of Gomorrah, which was conveniently understaffed at the moment. Apparently those horns pealing general alarm had summoned the bulk of the gate guards to other duty.

So it was that Mathayus the Akkadian and Cas­sandra the Sorceress—wrapped in the robes and scarves of simple desert people—departed from the city of Gomorrah, unimpeded, walking past the guards, seemingly lost in a lovers' embrace, made no less intimate by the dagger the assassin held to the witch's side.

As for the Akkadian's "partner," the little horse thief had already benefited from the slack attention of the guards at the undermanned gate. Leading a camel as he was, looking deceptively respectable, Arpid had tagged along with a wealthy fellow astride a horse.

Beyond the gates, Arpid attempted to turn the wealthy traveler into a customer, offering the vile creature Hanna to him for a mere forty duranas. It wasn't that the thief couldn't use a ride, even when provided by a beast like this; but the camel was uncooperative, would not allow him to mount her. Better to let someone else beat sense into the animal, while Arpid would buy a horse, a decent mode of transport, even if he would have to sneak back into the city to do it.

The wealthy rider, however, was ignoring him.

"Did I say forty duranas?" the thief asked hum­bly. "Sir, what I meant to say was thirty. Have you ever seen its like? These white camels are rare, good sir. . . ."

No response.

And Arpid could barely pull the stubborn creature any farther.

He yelled to his potential customer: "Why, at that price, this camel is practically stolen!"

No sale.

"Come on, you fleabag," Arpid said to Hanna, yanking on the camel's reins, doing his best to make her move.

But Hanna's only response was to bellow'—a loud, indignant, honking cry ...

... that echoed across the harsh landscape to where the Akkadian and his beautiful hostage trudged along, in their bedouin garb.

"Stop," Mathayus told her, raising a hand.

She obeyed.

The assassin listened, and the wind carried him a familiar snort; then another....

He grinned. 'That's my camel, all right."

"What?"

"Quiet..." And the Akkadian lifted two fingers to his lips and let go with a loud, firm, distinctive whistle.

And, a distance away, Hanna—paying the pleas and tugs of the horse thief no mind—snapped her head around, ears perking at the familiar sound-

"What... ?" Arpid shook his head. "What is it now, you mangy ... hey!"

The camel had tugged back on those reins, and now the little thief was yanked off his feet as the camel sprinted off, heeding her master's summons.

Before long, Mathayus—who had been waiting patiently, hands on his hips—grinned wide as his beloved camel came pounding over the nearest rise. The creature was dragging something, or—some­one .. . Mathayus squinted, to see through the sand dust his camel was stirring... ah! The horse thief, Arpid, was being hauled rudely along by the reins.

The camel came to a stop at his master's side, and the Akkadian reached up and scratched the an­imal's neck.

"Good girl," the Akkadian said. He glanced back at Cassandra. "You see? She knows how to behave."

The sorceress folded her arms and glowered at him, then turned her gaze away, in disgust.

In the meantime, in a pile at Mathayus's feet, Arpid had come to his own sliding stop, and was busy coughing up dust. Finally the thief was able to speak, and he smiled up at the assassin, displaying what in more civilized days would come to be de­scribed as a shit-eating grin.

"Well! God be praised...." The thief coughed. "We were just looking for you...."

"You found me," the Akkadian said.

Arpid climbed painfully to his feet, the assassin offering no help. As he was brushing himself off, the thief finally noticed the beautiful woman in their midst.

"Well, well," he said. "Who's your comely friend?"

"That's the sorcerer," the Akkadian said flatly.

The thief's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"I mean what I said: that's Memnon's sorcerer. Sorceress." And now he turned to the woman, nod­ding toward Hanna. "Climb on."

With a sigh of resignation, the lovely woman stepped forward, the feminine shape of her playing wonderful tricks under the loose robes.

"Hurry up," the Akkadian said. "Night is com­ing."

She allowed him to lift her up on the camel.

Arpid was staring at the woman, agape. "Great gods ... You've stolen the warlord's sorcerer! I don't know whether to laugh or cry."

"Choke, for all I care," Mathayus said.

"Partner... why so cross with me?"

The Akkadian was examining his mount, check­ing to see if Hanna was all right. "You were running off with my camel, thief."

Brushing himself off some more, Arpid said, mildly miffed, "If you were paying any attention at all, my friend, you'll know that your camel was run-ning off with me."

Mathayus swung up into the saddle, behind the sorceress; the nomadic affair was large enough to accommodate them both, if snugly.

Then the Akkadian nudged the camel to motion, and they trotted away, leaving the thief behind, yet again. He scrambled after them, crying, "So ... part­ner ... friend—where to now?"

"The Valley of the Dead," the Akkadian said ca­sually.

Arpid frowned, slowed. "The ..."

"Valley."

"... of the..."

"Dead. Yes. Join us, if you like."

As the Akkadian and his lovely hostage rode off, Arpid stopped and yelled at them, and at the sky. "Are you a madman? Nobody enters the Valley of the Dead . . . that's why they call it the Valley of the Dead! You go in alive, you stay in there, dead! ... Even Memnon's army wouldn't dare go there!"

Mathayus, bouncing along, granted the thief a backward glance. "Not even to regain his sorceress? The source of his battle prowess?"

Arpid trotted after them, a few hesitant steps. "Well..."

"Of course he would! Memnon would send his men to the ends of the earth to get her back—to their deaths, if need be!"

Arpid swallowed, jogging along unenthusiasti­cally. "It's not their deaths that trouble me, partner. .. . What about ours?"

But Mathayus had no answer for that, and rode along in silence. The sorceress said nothing either, and even Arpid had naught to say... though tag along he did.

Night had fallen on Gomorrah, and in the majestic throne room of Memnon, the warlord's two most trusted military advisers awaited his orders. That faithful servant, the scarred Thorak, stood by, wait­ing, hanging on his master's every word, every movement. That more recent addition to the inner circle, the patricidal Takmet, lounged at a table, sip­ping wine, as if disaster had not fallen.

But it had.

Troubled on his throne, the Great Teacher sat studying squirming scorpions in a glass bowl on the wide stone armrest beside him. He withdrew from his belt the dagger he'd appropriated from the Ak­kadian, and he sent it lancing down, spearing one of the wriggling arachnids. The deliberateness of that act now seemed at odds with his facial expression, as the warlord lifted the dagger with the writhing, dying scorpion impaled there, watching it with seemingly idle interest.

'Take a dozen of your best men," Memnon said suddenly, and Thorak snapped to attention and Tak­met looked up, "track him down ... kill him ... and bring Cassandra back to me."

Thorak nodded a curt bow. "Yes, my lord."

Memnon drew the thin sharp blade down the ab­domen of the scorpion, splitting it open to the tail, ending its struggle.

"Send our fastest rider back to me, with word of his death," Memnon said. "And of her safety."

Memnon reached into a quiver next to the throne and withdrew an arrow, the tip of which he poked into the venom sac of the dead scorpion. He twisted the arrow's tip, turned it, thoroughly soaking it in the poison.

"My lord," Takmet said, rising finally, "rumors have spread to our armies that Cassandra has been taken."

Memnon turned sharply to Thorak. "Is that true? Do such rumors fly?"

The scarred commander glared at his fellow ad­viser, conveying his aggravation at Takmet's stirring up trouble; then his gaze returned to his master, and he said, "Yes, my lord. Of course, our generals, and our officers in the field, will need to know of her abduction ... in order to rescue her."

"They will not rescue her—you will. And the men you ride with need not know, until the sorceress has been restored to our custody."

"Yes, my lord."

The warlord frowned in thought. "Silence these rumors. Kill those with traitorous tongues, at your discretion. The people must believe the prophetess is here, even if we can only sustain the deception a short while."

Thorak nodded.

"And when you see the Akkadian," Memnon added, "give him this for me."

And the warlord handed his adviser the poison-tipped arrow, which Thorak handled judiciously, shielding the tip in a leather cover.

Within the hour, Thorak and his personal cadre of his toughest, most trusted men—chosen from among the red-turbaned royal guards—galloped from the fortress city, into the night. Into the un­derworld, if necessary.

And in his imperial chamber, the Teacher of Men stood ponderingly at a heavy stone tablet, displayed in a golden frame near his throne. This inscribed slab was ancient, even in these ancient times, and bore a crude form of hieroglyphics only the most learned scholars could decipher.

The warlord's fingers ran slowly across the symbols, his touch respectful, almost tender, his expres­sion that of a man in a spell. His fingertips lingered on an etching of a man, whose arms were raised in triumph, seemingly mimicked by tongues of fire ris­ing behind him.

Then Memnon's fingers came to rest upon a carved moon emblem, at the very bottom of the in­scribed tablet.

A very short time now, he thought, and all would be his .. . starting with the woman, Cassandra, and ending with the world itself.

By the middle of the next day, the trio of travelers had crossed the nomadic plains and would soon en­ter the desert. The Akkadian had built some grudg­ing respect for the little thief, who had managed to keep pace, as the camel loped along.

Of course Hanna—bearing both Mathayus and, seated in front of him, Cassandra—was slowed by the burden; and from time to time Mathayus had walked, himself, leading the camel bearing the sor­ceress along.

At the crest of a rugged hilltop, three twelve-foot poles awaited them—warning signs for those who would enter the forbidden land ahead, the Valley of the Dead of legend. Each wooden shaft bore various human skulls intertwined with small animal bones, snakes mostly, and the dried skins of men who had dared pass this way.

The little horse thief did not find this a tempting invitation, saying, "I'm guessing this means we've gone far enough."

From the ridge they could see the unforgiving landscape that awaited them—pockmarked earth scattered with mud hills, stretching to a desolate ho­rizon. Beyond that, a devastating desert awaited, if the map Mathayus held could be trusted.

Rolling the lambskin back up, and replacing it in his saddlebag, the Akkadian said to the thief, "No, partner... We're just getting started. Consider this a welcome."

"A welcome," Arpid said, glancing from one pole of impaled skulls to another. "Well, why not push on? Your friend is a sorceress, and you're a trained assassin, not to mention a hulking barbarian. Who among us could get hurt, in the endeavor?"

Mathayus shrugged. "Who indeed?"

"Oh, I don't know ... the skinny thief, perhaps?"

"You're free to make your own way," the Ak­kadian reminded him, as he stood alongside the beautiful hostage stride the camel. He reached up and brushed her long hair away from the side of her face, and she looked sharply at him, startled, of­fended.

"Don't touch me," she said, and caught his wrist.

Firmly—but not roughly—he freed his hand, and he brushed her hair away, again, and slipped the golden hoop earring from her lobe.

Confused, she frowned at him, and grabbed for her belonging, unsuccessfully.

Now the Akkadian moved forward, to the nearest of the fetish poles, and reached up and deftly hooked the hook over the top of the shaft.

"You beast," she snapped. "What in the name of the gods are you doing?"

"Nothing, in the name of the gods." Mathayus gave her the slightest smile. "Just marking the way for your lord and master."

She reared back, almond eyes narrowed, chin crinkled in contempt. "No man is my master."

"Perhaps not," he said, as he slung himself up behind her, onto the generous nomadic saddle, "but your view is unimportant... How Memnon sees you is all I care about."

And the Akkadian jogged his camel into motion, heading down into the desolate valley. Rough as the ride was, it was not as blistering—literally—as the desert they soon found themselves in, where the sand blazed under the sun, and the skeletons of those who had tried to come this way before them had left their remains as grotesque sun-bleached markers.

Cassandra stiffened as she saw a scorpion crawl from the eye socket of one human skull, and Ma­thayus asked, amused, "Afraid of a little bug?"

She said nothing; and certainly did not reveal that a flash, a shard of a vision, had knifed through her consciousness. The man behind her was somehow tied to that scorpion; but she knew not how. ...

From time to time, Mathayus relented and walked as the thief rode. The little man had come this far; that much the Akkadian had to hand him. That Ar­pid would face the vast empty desert with them, trudge along at their side, rarely complaining, had made him one of them. Even the woman was no trouble. Only the sun, that burning sun, seemed his enemy.

Thorak and his band of a dozen good men were several hours behind the little party. A forward tracker reached the ridge of fetish poles by sunset, and he snatched the sorceress's golden hoop from the skull atop one pole, and rode back to the line of red-turbaned men to deliver it to his commander.

The scar on Thorak's face stood out whitely in his flushed face, as rage crawled through him like an invader, the warrior well aware the Akkadian was baiting him, taunting him. ...

Normally they would have made camp now, but Thorak pushed his troops onward; they would ride until the sun was a memory.

In the cool night blueness of the desert dunes, under a sky glittering with more jewels than any warlord could secure, the Akkadian, the thief, the woman and the camel slept. Or at least the thief slept, on his side of the fire, his deafening snoring making slumber more difficult for the others.

Still, Mathayus managed to sleep—his scimitar crossed on his chest, ready for any attack—and so did Cassandra, at least until a particularly loud snort from the snoozing thief popped her eyes open.

Wide-awake, suddenly, she glanced over at Ma­thayus, who—despite the logs Arpid was noisily sawing in his sleep—did not stir. She rose as silent and graceful as a gentle wind, watching the Akkadian all the while, seeing that sleep continued....

At first she walked, looking back at the fire and the camp, the sand brushing her feet lightly; then she began to run. She knew Memnon would send his men looking for her; if she could get as far away as possible from the assassin, before daybreak, per­haps ...

... perhaps fifteen feet from camp, she fell face first into the sand, a silk line tied around her left ankle having pulled taut.

She turned over, breathing hard, and pulled at that line, as if a big fish might be at the other end; and she was right: Mathayus materialized out of the night, standing in front of her, the other end of the silk cord tied around his own left ankle.

"Where are you headed, sorceress?" he asked lightly. "You think you'll find your king out here in the desert, somewhere? Do you miss your beloved?"

Her eyes flared with anger, and she stood and swung a hard tiny fist at him; he caught the fist, but with her other hand she clawed at him, her nails long, sharp, her ferocity intense, almost over­whelming.

Surprised by the force, the frenzy of her attack, he lifted her off the ground, and hurled her up and over his shoulder, like a sack of grain. She landed with a rolling thump.

Trying to straighten out the line that bound them, Mathayus walked to her, where she turned over— painfully—and, wincing with discomfort yet still prideful, she said, "Memnon is not my beloved .. . not my lover. I am a virgin."

He might have laughed at that, had she not been so obviously, indignantly sincere.

"My powers stem from my purity," she said. "Even that monster Memnon would not dare defile me."

Monster Memnon.... ?

"Apologize to me," she demanded. "Now!"

The Akkadian studied the beauty, asprawl on the sand, disheveled but no less fetching in the ivory-washed blue of the night. Her conviction was im­pressive, no denying.

"I am sorry," he said. "Truly."

She swallowed, her eyes searching his face for sarcasm, for insincerity, finding neither. Her head lowered. Her voice trembled when she spoke.

"I was eleven," she said, "when Memnon heard the stories of the child, the girl, with eyes like the gods. ... He rode into my village and lined up four of his soldiers, before me. He said, "Tell me the names of these men. Each wrong answer means that man's death.' "

"His own men," Mathayus whispered, aghast.

"His own men," she said, with a nod. "I was ter­rified, but what could I do? I told him the names, all four."

"You saved their lives."

"Yes. And, afterward, those same four soldiers killed my family, as I was taken away."

The Akkadian felt stunned, as though he'd suffered a terrible physical blow; his heart ached for her—she had suffered Memnon's cruelty as much as any man, or woman.

Softly he said, "The 'Great Teacher' has taught his lessons to us all, has he not?"

And he bent to her, and untied the line from her ankle.

Then he walked back to the camp, the fire and his blankets; she returned, slowly, sitting where be­fore she had slept, clutching her knees to herself.

He had turned his back to her. "Run, if you like— you're no longer my prisoner...." He glanced back at her, tellingly. "But keep in mind—there are worse dangers, out there, than me."

Then, his back still to her, he went to sleep, snor­ing a little, though the snort-snoring of the thief— who had dozed through all the fuss—drowned him out.

And for a long, long time, the sorceress sat and studied her captor, wondering what kind of man this was, after all. Who was he, this man who dared stand up to Lord Memnon?

Yet, for all her visions, for all her prophecies, Cassandra was unaware that she now loved the Ak­kadian. That her future was bound with his.

Gathering Storm

B

y midmorning the next day, Thorak and those dozen red-turbaned warriors had all but caught up with their quarry; as they trudged up the slope of a large dune—a wind shifting the sands omi­nously, sun beating down without mercy—they were not aware of their seeming imminent success. Their prey, however, was aware of them: from a nearby dune, Mathayus—astride Hanna, the sorcer­ess sharing his saddle, riding behind him now, her arms wrapped around his midsection, her standof-fishness a memory—picked up on sounds, carried by wind. His keen senses were more finely honed than those of the thief, trudging along trying to ig­nore the blistering heat, while the woman seemed lost in her mystical musings. He wheeled the albino beast around and saw a cloud of dust—distant, but not so distant as to pose no threat.

Still, the Akkadian only smiled; in fact, he grinned. "Thorak ..."

The horse thief turned, saw the gathering cloud of dust, and shook his head, with the weary resig­nation of the put-upon. "What a surprise . .. how­ever could he have found us? ... Oh, yes, you left him that marker. ..."

"Yes, and the fool is walking right into danger."

Arpid looked up at Mathayus as if questioning his fellow traveler's sanity. "Oh, he is, is he?"

"Certainly."

"How many men does he have, would you say?"

The assassin frowned at the distant dust cloud. "Only a dozen, I'd say."

"Ah. Only a dozen of the finest warriors of Mem­non's Red Guard. And there are three of us, includ­ing one woman and a sniveling coward...."

Mathayus shook his head. "The fool is riding right into a storm."

The sorceress was studying him with childlike curiosity. "A storm?"

"Pardon me for saying," the thief said, "but, for­midable as you are, partner... you're no storm. You're just one man. A man among many, I grant you .. . but one man."

The Akkadian grinned down at his scruffy com­panion, then he lifted his eyes away from the dust cloud Thorak and his men were raising, toward the opposite horizon.

Sighing, shaking his head, the thief muttered, "This is, without a doubt, the worst fix you've gotten me into yet!"

And now Arpid looked up, his attention drawn to the direction in which the Akkadian was gazing, and grinning; what was that fool so happy about, any­way?

The thief's eyes took in that horizon, where he saw a dark brown shimmering fine, like a living thing, moving inexorably toward them.

"Perhaps I spoke to soon," Arpid said, agape. "I believe you have managed to outdo yourself, Ak­kadian—this is without a doubt the worst fix I've ever been in!"

"The day is young, thief," Mathayus said, reining Hanna.

"Gods save us," Cassandra said, eyes huge as she took in the ominous, gathering darkness, as if an impatient night had decided to rush in, hours early. "It's a sandstorm!"

"And right on time," the assassin said.

The sound was growing, a hollow, eerie roaring, like a hoarse scream.

"Ah, yes!" the thief said, throwing his hands in the air. "Just what we needed! Who wouldn't want this? I was just thinking, if only we could have a sandstorm along about now...."

Mathayus looked pointedly at his partner. "Fend for yourself, thief." He glanced back at the sorceress, sharply. "I must leave you here."

The sorceress seemed struck by that thought. "Leave me . . . ?"

The Akkadian hopped down off Hanna, and helped the woman down, and from a saddlebag withdrew a blanket, which he handed her. His eyes held hers, speaking volumes; but the only words he gave her were: "Cover up."

Then he swung back up into the saddle and spurred Hanna down off the dune.

As he rode, the Akkadian reached down into an­other saddlebag and plucked out a narrow strip of leather, greased, odd looking—a slitted cut across it, making an eyehole. Though the sand guard's prime function was protection, it also served as a bizarre battle mask, providing the assassin a fearsome vis­age. He tied it on with one hand as he spurred Hanna, even harder, her hooves pounding the sand, stirring tiny storms of their own.

On a flat stretch of desert, the red-turbaned com­pany of twelve had paused, when their leader held up a hand—he'd heard something ... someone'... fast approaching. Thorak knew it couldn't be the Akkadian—a man alone would not dare attack thir­teen; it must be a courier from one of the armies, sent by Memnon.

A red-turbaned warrior pointed. 'There!"

And coming down over a slope was one man— a leather-masked brute on a white camel... the Ak­kadian! Was he mad, charging them like a one-man army?

"He's attacking ... alone?" one warrior said to another.

"The sun has baked his brain," the other said, the tracker among them. "He's been seized by desert madness...."

And from their midst came Thorak's booming voice: "A thousand duranas to the man who brings me his head!"

Thorak's men were loyal, that was unquestioned; but the smell of money sparked these warriors to seek new heights of valor. Swords whipped from belts and the bare-chested, red-turbaned warriors spurred their horses and galloped toward the lunatic, soldiers bellowing war cries that would have chilled the blood of any normal man.

Mathayus, of course, was no normal man: he was the last of the Akkadians, on a blood mission, gal­loping at full speed. But he was not, as his foes surmised, a man alone—he rode at the head of an army of his own ... an army of sand.

As he came down over the rise, the sandstorm— the length of the horizon, a brown swirl of destruc­tion—came up behind him, miles wide, as tall as Memnon's palace, a churning, burning wall of flying particles.

A thousand duranas or not, the riders panicked— the sight of the madman—featureless in the ghostly leather mask with the narrow eye slit, hunkered over, waving a scimitar, and racing toward them, with a sandstorm at his back—was a living night­mare, and they reined in their horses.

Then the sandstorm overtook the Akkadian, rac­ing on ahead of him, and even as the brown swirl enveloped camel and rider, the two did not break stride.

Staggered by the man's audacity, realizing at once the assassin's bold plan, Thorak watched in helpless shock as the charging warrior disappeared into the storm, while Thorak's fabled Red Guard broke their own charge, their horses rearing, their ranks scattering as the whirlwind hit full force, swal­lowing them, the world a harsh vortex of sand, bit­ing the flesh, blinding the eyes, the wind knocking men from saddles, onto the desert floor, and when they tried to stand, knocked them down again.

But Thorak did not succumb—he remained astride his fine steed, a battle-ax in one hand, reins in the other—and he screamed, "Akkadian bastard," and rode into the storm, searching in naught visibil­ity for the object of his rage.

The world was a terrifying, blinding blur of fall­ing bodies, whipping sand, and frightened, rearing horses. The supreme fighting men who were Tho­rak's red-turbaned warriors had been reduced to whimpering fools, wheeling about in isolation though the screams of others were all around them, only a few still on horseback.

And Mathayus—prepared for this hellish wind, relishing it—popped in and out of the pockets of iso­lation, looming over his disoriented adversaries like the personification of grim death itself. His blade flashed, splashing the brown world with red. He leaped from his saddle and tackled two of the sol­diers, taking them down, scimitar slashing, flashing, the dagger in his other hand doing the same.

Then he disappeared, only to emerge here, and there, blades in both hands flashing, three warriors going down at once under the onslaught of steel, bodies dropping away into a wall of swallowing sand that offered the fresh corpses instant burial. The screams of slaughter were otherworldly as Ma­thayus and the storm became one, delivering their brutal sentences of death with simultaneous dearth of mercy.

Thorak—for all his courage no less a victim of the stinging sand, all but blinded now—spun his horse in rage, his battle-ax in hand, his frustration unbearable as around him the bloodcurdling cries of his men melded with the shrieking wind. He spurred his steed and rode toward the screams.

And then appearing before him, as if the sand parted to reveal him just for Thorak, stood the Ak­kadian, scimitar slicing another brave man to an un­dignified death. Thorak bore down on him, charged him, swinging the battle-ax in a blow the assassin could surely not have seen coming.

But the Akkadian sensed him, and spun, answer­ing steel with steel. They flailed away at each other, the warrior on horseback, the barbarian on the ground, Mathayus like a force of nature, cutting and ripping, rivaling the whirlwind around them.

Yet somehow the scarred-faced commander held his own—due in part to the advantage of horseback— and battle-ax clanged against scimitar, every blow met, every parry responded to with skill and precision. Worthy warriors, they might well have ad­mired each other's skills, if they had not been so busy trying to kill each other.

Thorak saw an opening, took it, and Mathayus anticipated the move, knocking the battle-ax from the warrior's grasp, and thrust forward, with massive force that pierced the man's leather armor.

Pummeled by sand, lanced with pain, Thorak tumbled from his horse, and fell to the shifting ground, dying. The Akkadian turned away, looking for new victims; but Thorak still had seconds to live, and he used them....

Memnon's most trusted adviser of war took his last moments to withdraw an arrow, a certain arrow, from its quiver, removing the leather covering that shielded its tip. And using the arrow like a knife, he stabbed upward, catching the Akkadian in the thigh.

The assassin winced in pain, and dropped to his knees, as if in prayer. Around them the only sound was the screaming sand—the red-turbaned guard all lay dead, most of them already half-buried.

Thorak's last sight was that of the wounded Ak­kadian—perhaps they would continue this duel in the underworld—and then the sandstorm consumed them all.

Before long, the wind of sand had moved on, leav­ing the desert's tan skin to shift under a more gentle breeze, whose fingers drew meaningless pictures and patterns on the restless dunes. The field of battle lay still as the death the sands covered; it was as if no one had ever been here—that, minutes before, a fu­rious clash had taken place at this site seemed an impossibility.

Nearby, where the Akkadian had left his com­panions to wait for the outcome, the sands seemed similarly empty of life. Then fingers began to pro­trude from the dune's surface, like a corpse rising from its grave. A single eye blinked open, the rest of the face it belonged to covered by the sand.

The horse thief sat up, amazed and delighted to be alive, and took some time brushing himself off, before giving any thought to either of his compan­ions. He stood at the highest point of the dune and shielded his eyes from the sun with the side of his hand, surveying the battlefield.

A female voice said, "Arpid ..."

He turned toward the sound, suddenly remem­bering the sorceress, who was coughing, saying, "Help me ... please," half-buried in the sand, the blanket Mathayus had provided her having long since blown away.

Actually feeling a little guilty about forgetting her, the thief ran to the woman, helped her up; it took her a moment to get her feet steady under her.

Then, alarm and concern coloring her voice, she asked, "The Akkadian—what of the Akkadian?"

"The battlefield is deserted," Arpid said, with a shrug. "It's as if the sandstorm grabbed them up and cast them away, to some distant place."

"We must look," she said firmly. "We must search."

"Of course," he said, agreeing, feeling a strange emptiness at the pit of his stomach. Did he feel some emotion about that damned Akkadian? The bastard had treated him poorly, Arpid only hanging around him for protection's sake.

So why did he feel worried? Sad? Experiencing such emotions, where another person was con­cerned, was new to the thief, and as such the sen­sation was disconcerting.

The sorceress and the thief walked the battlefield, which on closer examination was not so empty, after all: half a dozen half-buried bodies presented them­selves. They walked carefully, gingerly, through this instantaneous graveyard. Then, suddenly, the sand shifted before them!

A horse emerged from out of a small dune, and reared up, whinnying; this prompted another horse to do the same, and another, unburying themselves. The men had perished, but their steeds, many of them, had survived.

"We'll have mounts, at least," the thief told the woman.

Another small dune dissolved itself as yet another beast rose out of the sand: Hanna!

Arpid ran to the mount; hard to believe he was

actually pleased to see the fleabag ... but he was,

he was__

Cassandra, at Arpid's side as he held the camel by its reins, said, "No sign of her master."

"He has to be here somewhere," Arpid said. "At least, his body does. ..."

She frowned. "I don't sense him dead. Keep look­ing."

Arpid gazed up at the camel. "Why don't you help? Where is he, old girl? Where's your master?"

Hanna bellowed impatiently, and they realized, all at once, that the beast was standing next to a rounded hump of sand. They watched, astounded, as a shape rose, sand pouring off him, a battered, bloodied, bruised warrior emerging. ...

Mathayus.

Arpid and Cassandra exchanged wide-eyed, de­lighted expressions.

As the Akkadian stepped away from his burial site, another warrior revealed himself, interred be­low him: wide-eyed in death, Thorak himself.

"For an ugly brute," Arpid said, "he makes a pretty sight."

Mathayus had gone to the woman. "Are you all right? Are you hurt? Did they ... ?"

"No," she said. "I'm ... untouched."

And the sorceress was struck by his concern, the depth of feeling in the dark eyes of the assassin. Had he gone through all of this because of his mission? For gain, for vengeance?

Or simply to save her?

"I'm fine, thanks," Arpid said to the Akkadian, who had not spoken to him. "Really appreciate your concern."

Cassandra was looking at Mathayus carefully— he seemed unsteady. "Are you ... ?"

"I am well," he said.

Then she noticed the arrow, sticking out of the side of his leg—not terribly deep, but embedded there.

"You need help," she gasped.

The Akkadian reached down and gripped the ar­row and, gritting his teeth, ripped it free from his flesh. Heroic as this effort was, the brawny barbarian nonetheless screamed in pain, a sound that echoed across the desert.

The woman, out of respect, looked away from this cry of anguish; the thief, out of squeamishness, did the same.

The Akkadian staggered over to the half-buried corpse of Thorak; an amulet around his adversary's neck bore the insignia of the red-turbaned troops. Ripping it from Thorak's cold throat, he said, "Help me find his horse."

"There it is," the thief said, pointing.

Thorak's black steed, a distinctive beast, was among those milling around the battle site. The Ak­kadian walked to the horse, and examined the area around the saddle.

"Another survivor," he said, with satisfaction.

As Arpid and Cassandra joined him, they saw what he was talking about: a falcon, its head covered by a cowl, was thonged to the saddle. Mathayus un­tied the bird and attached Thorak's insignia to the metal band around its foot.

The sorceress touched the assassin's arm. "What are you doing?"

"Sending Lord Memnon a message," he said; but his voice sounded weak, his eyes seemed cloudy.

Nonetheless, Mathayus managed to remove the bird's cowl and launch the falcon into the air; it wheeled, flapped regally, and flew away.

The Akkadian stood with his hands on hips, watching the bird wing toward Gomorrah, and he laughed a deep, hearty laugh that turned, startlingly, into a cough.

"Mathayus!" Cassandra cried.

The assassin, seized by a cramping of his abdom­inal muscles, doubled over.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

His fingers indicated the wound, from the arrow. "Poi... poisoned ..."

And the mighty warrior, legs buckling, pitched forward into the sand.

Touch of Magic

As sunset painted the rocky landscape around the great city of Gomorrah a vivid orange, as if the earth itself had caught fire, a falcon flew over the fortified walls and to its familiar perch within the turreted palace of Memnon. The marketplace was closing down—excluding the dens of sin, of course—and soon all but the most dedicated lechers would have retired behind walls of stone, for time with friends and family, for food and rest.

Lord Memnon, however, did not rest—he had as­sembled his generals in the great throne room, where maps were spread out over a large table. Most press­ing, of course, was Ur—the only unconquered land—and the warlord was sharing his latest strategies with his battle chiefs. As usual, his gen­erals paid rapt attention; but one of them—Toran— seemed strangely quiet, even preoccupied. And this troubled the Great Teacher, who preferred his pupils hang on his every word.

Takmet, the heir to the empty throne of Ur, was present, but he too seemed to have his mind elsewhere, and did not crowd around the map table with the rest. Of course, Memnon had already informed Takmet of these strategies; even so, the man’s nervous pacing was a distraction.

And of this assembly, of course, only Takmet knew the why of Cassandra’s absence . . . that the Akkadian had stolen her away.

A falconer entered, with the regal, recently arrived bird on his arm. Approaching the warlord, then half bowing, he said, “A message from Thorak.”

“Finally,” Memnon said, with a sigh of satisfaction. “The Akkadian is dead. . . .”

But the warlord soon realized he was looking at Thorak’s insignia – his blood-spattered insignia – and nothing else. Rage and even a kind of sadness rose in him – the scarred warrior had been at his right hand for many years, and now the Akkadian had slain him, and sent this taunting message.

Crushing the bloody amulet in a powerful hand, Memnon stood lost in thought for long moments, before General Toran stepped forward.

“My lord,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

The warlord banished the emotions from himself, and glanced impassively at his generals; he even summoned a small smile. “No – quite the opposite. All is in order.”

The generals exchanged glances.

"And I think, gentlemen," Memnon said, "this meeting is at an end."

The generals half bowed and were making their way across the throne room, toward the doors, when Toran stopped and turned, the other men halting as well, though their expressions were tentative.

With a boldness none of them had ever before dared, General Toran said, "My lord, it is customary for the seer to attend these meetings. We all know how valuable her council has been."

Takmet paused in his pacing to look tellingly Memnon's way.

"Why," the general was brazenly asking, "is the sorceress not with us tonight?"

Around him, the other generals were nodding their heads.

Memnon, hiding his anger at this affront, said only, "She is indisposed."

The generals again exchanged anxious glances, and Toran asked, the suspicion obvious in his voice, "Nothing ... serious, I hope?"

Memnon smiled, though his eyes were hard. "If it was serious, you would be informed.. .. Are you not my most trusted advisers of war?"

General Toran again half bowed. "Yes, my lord."

And the other generals did and said the same, and went out.

With a growl of fury, Memnon swept the maps from his table and hurled the wadded-up leather in­signia at Takmet, who flinched.

The wispily bearded adviser said, "I said nothing! I revealed nothing!"

"Would that I could trade your worthless life for Thorak's," the warlord said bitterly. "Go! Leave me.

And Takmet, who for all his faults was no fool, did as he was told.

That night, in the surprising coolness of the sunless desert, under the purple star-tossed sky, the full moon touching the sands with a chalky ivory, the horse thief Arpid found himself in the unusual po­sition of taking charge of their little camp. He built a fire, as the Akkadian lay shaking under a blanket, lost in fever's labyrinthian halls, beads of perspira­tion jeweling his copper-hued flesh.

Kneeling beside the assassin, the sorceress tended his wound, cleansing it with water from a goatskin pouch, bandaging it with cloth torn from the scarf­like bedouin robes she wore. Mathayus mumbled in his delirium, with only the occasional word compre­hensible—but among them were "Memnon" and "Cassandra."

Watching her as she patted a damp rag to the Akkadian's forehead, surprised by her tenderness, the thief settled himself down in his own blankets. He wondered if the woman knew that she loved this man....

Gently, Arpid asked, "Can you save him, sorcer­ess?"

She glanced toward the little thief, her dark eyes leaping in the firelight. "Perhaps ... but his fever is strong. The poison is made from the venom of the scorpion."

He frowned in curiosity. "How could you identify the poison? What, from the signs of his sickness ... ?"

She shook her head. "I know, that is all.. .. This man is tied to the scorpion, in some mystical way even I cannot fathom. This may be a good thing— if he survives, that venom will always be within him."

"A poison in the blood is a good thing?"

She wrung out the cloth. "It may give him the strength of the scorpion ... and a resistance to any future poisoning."

"But will he survive?"

'Tonight will tell."

Arpid sat up. "Well, you better work your magic, woman. He's our only way out of this desert—he dies, we die."

Cassandra sat back, pausing in her ministering, as if considering the little thief's words; then she gazed up at the full moon, her lovely features bathed in its ivory glow. She might have been listening to words only she could hear—Arpid could not be sure. He knew only that she was lost in a near trance....

And then she seemed to relax, her shoulders set­tling, and her expression was tranquil as she turned to the thief and said, quietly, "He will not die."

Arpid frowned. "But he's poisoned, you said...."

"Hush now, little thief," she said, her voice both musical and kind. "Do not interrupt."

"Interrupt what... ?"

"Hush."

And Cassandra lay one hand over the Akkadian's heart and another over the nasty wound on his thigh; she closed her eyes, and drew within herself. The moonlight now seemed to provide an aura around her, her entire body haloed in its glow; or was the sorceress herself emanating that radiance ... no, surely, it was just the moon....

Yet Arpid knew, somehow, that the sorceress was healing the assassin—that she was calling upon all her powers, every particle of her very being, to use her magic as a cure.

Not far from their campsite, another figure trudged, a small figure with wild white hair and modest robes and an enormous pack on his back, the likes of which would half cripple a mule. And yet Philos the scientist had no means of transport beyond his sandaled feet, though he had a better sense of direction than most travelers.

Partly that was due to the detailed maps in his backpack; but also he was guided by one of his own inventions, an instrument that in slightly different form would one day be known as a compass. The scientist's strange instrument, fashioned of wood and glass, included a primitive dial, with a needle that pointed to magnetic north.

Right now, however, that needle wavered, strangely, pulled away, drawn to the east.

Under the purple sky and the ivory moon, the odd little figure halted. Philos turned toward the direction the needle of his invention indicated—something was happening out there, in the dark desert night, something big . . . something that wasn't science... .

At the small campsite, Arpid sat up, watching the sorceress do her mysterious work; suddenly the glowing aura disappeared, and the slender woman seemed almost to collapse, though really she only slumped, her shoulders slack, her head drooping, as she remained seated there on the sand. It was as if all of the energy in her, every ounce of air, had suddenly vanished, like the snuffing out of a can­dle's flame.

The little horse thief believed in magic, no ques­tion; but had never seen it so plainly at work, and he was wide-eyed with astonishment. He didn't speak for a while, afraid to, as she sat there, slouched, reeling from the intensity of her healing efforts.

Tentatively, Arpid spoke. "Is he ... cured?"

For long moments, the sorceress said nothing. She felt depleted, used up .. . and she had glimpsed into the assassin's soul, and memories and images from his violent past were spinning through her mind. Such a brutal being.. . and yet an innate goodness ... she had much to ponder.

Cassandra arose and went to her own bedroll, and lay down, preparing for sleep.

"Well?" Arpid asked. "Will he live?"

"It is in the hands of the gods," she said.

And she turned away from him.

But the little thief had seen whose touch had con­veyed the magic to the feverish Akkadian, and it hadn't been the hands of gods ... had it?

Mathayus awoke at dawn.

It was a slow waking, blinking and bleary-eyed, and Arpid thought the Akkadian looked to be suf­fering the worst hangover since time began; but the man was, at least, alive.

When Mathayus's eyes came into focus, a scraggedy-bearded face was hovering over him, and gave him a start. "Ahhh!"

"She cured you," the owner of the face said. The horse thief. "I knew it! I could feel her magic ... I could see it!"

Slowly, falteringly, the Akkadian propped him­self up on an elbow. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, fighting grogginess. "Cured me? She..."

"She's not just a pretty face, partner."

Mathayus looked across the now dwindled camp­fire at the still-slumbering Cassandra. She looked in­nocent, somehow, and if he had ever seen a lovelier creature, he couldn't recall it. Of course, he did have a blinding headache....

She seemed to feel his eyes on her, and came awake; her eyes went directly to his, and their gazes locked. Her relief at his survival was evident, as a tiny, tender smile flickered across her lips.

Feeling awkward, suddenly, the Akkadian said, "We should break camp."

And they did, without any talk of the remarkable events of the day previous. Perhaps an hour later— Mathayus astride Hanna, with Cassandra and Arpid riding horses bequeathed them by Thorak and his dead warriors—they were again under the desert sun, jogging along. Mathayus was still without fo­cus—surprised to be alive, not yet forming his next move. For the first time in days, his mind was not filled with Memnon.

"I want to thank you," the Akkadian said to the sorceress.

She turned away, smiling to herself, happy for his gratitude, but not willing to let him know it. Then she looked at him, her face a beautiful blank mask, and said, "No thanks needed... It was self-preservation. If you had died, where would—"

But an explosion interrupted her—a loud roar that seemed to rock the desert floor.

The thief looked up at the clear sky, confused. "Thunder? Without clouds?"

Mathayus was noting a billowing of black smoke over a nearby dune. He sniffed the air and a familiar chemical scent tickled his nostrils. "That is not thun­der ... but I think I know who caused it...."

A tiny fellow came running out of the black cloud, like a figure fleeing a burning house; only Philos the scientist was not terrified, rather he was ecstatic. "It works! ... It finally works!"

Running gleefully down the sandy slope, the soot-smudged little man saw the trio before him and his happiness only grew. As he ran up to them, he all but did a little dance.

"Ah, I knew it!" the scientist said. "I knew you were close, my lady—I felt it last night. .. and an invention of mine confirmed it... so I headed this way."

The scientist bowed, a low, respectful gesture, be­fore Cassandra, saying, "My lady oracle .. . And you, barbarian—hello!... You see? I have per­fected the Chinese compound! My magic powder works!"

The three travelers responded to this ball of en­thusiastic energy with a stunned silence.

"By the way," the scientist said casually, "would any of you happen to have any water? I'm utterly out."

Their goatskin water pouch was near dry, too, but the scientist suggested they watch for birds, and fol­low them, for "our winged friends" would surely know the way to the nearest oasis.

And within an hour, they had reached an oasis so beautiful, so perfect, it should have been a mirage; but it was not, it was real, as the birds circling over its ring of palms confirmed. Just beyond the oasis, mountains rose steeply, and the desert seemed only part of the world, now, not its entirety.

Along the rock-bottomed pool, crystal waters shimmering under the sun, Cassandra knelt, cupping her hands with cool liquid. She glanced up at Mathayus, standing beside her, still moving on wobbly legs, but clearly on the mend.

She asked, "Do we dare drink? Or is it poi­soned?"

Before the assassin could answer, the little thief came running by and hurled his fetid body into the water, making a huge splash, submerging himself.

"It is now," Mathayus said.

Nonetheless she drank the water down, and the Akkadian crouched beside her and filled his goatskin pouch and several water bottles.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," he admitted.

"Well... what will we do next? Where will go?"

"I feel as though I've returned from the under­world, prematurely ... and I admit... I can't think clearly, yet."

She touched his arm. Her smile was as glorious as this perfect oasis. "You will. Time. Just a little time..."

Perfect oasis, he thought. Too perfect?

She began to say something, and he said, "Quiet, woman," his eyes slowly scanning their surround­ings. His hand moved toward his scimitar.. .

... and around them, sand seemed to explode from the ground, ringing the water spot!

Men in leathers and animal skins, hard and fierce, rose from the holes they'd hidden in, tossing off rattan sand-colored mats, and aiming crossbows and slings at the little party.

"Oh dear," said Philos, on his knees by the wa­terside.

"Bandits," Mathayus breathed. But he had seen their like before... he knew these markings, the bone-and-bead necklaces....

Cassandra held tight to his arm as the bandits closed in on them—no escape possible, no fighting a crossbow aimed at the throat, not even if Mathayus had been in his full fighting form.

"I'm alive!" Arpid said, bursting up out of the water, capering like a child.

Then he saw the bandits and stopped splashing.

"For the moment," Arpid said, as water streamed down his face like tears.

_{Cave Men}

M

athayus, Cassandra, Arpid and Philos—that un­likely quartet of desert travelers—were ushered from the oasis to the mountain range that rose from the idyllic water hole's edge. Here, massive rocks combined with the natural camouflage of hanging vines and the drapery of vegetation to shield a siz­able entrance into a cavern. A caravan could spend the night at the oasis, and never suspect the nearness of the mountain lair of these bandits ... that is, the caravan lucky enough not to fall prey to their hidden hosts.

Their scruffy captors led the little party through a dark, dank passageway, lighted by torch, until— astonishingly—the cave opened into a natural open-air amphitheater, the late-afternoon sun dappling an incredible temple-size area playing home to a stag­gering network of tents and walkways, a sheltered world of bare timber, rope, twine, and canvas, en­compassed by greenery climbing, then succumbing to, the cliffsides surrounding. Booty was stacked and stored here and there and everywhere—stolen, no doubt, from Memnon's caravans . . . which to the Akkadian seemed as noble a pursuit as any bandit might choose.

This shared enemy, however, made the assassin and his companions no less prisoners.

Mathayus and his improbable band were led by armed guards to a central place, around which scores of dwellers clustered ever nearer. The crowd con­sisted of warrior-bandits bearing shields and spears and wearing the war paint and leathers of numerous tribes, their women and children mixed in, swarming for a closer, openly suspicious look. Surprisingly, some of the faces—the females and the offspring particularly—were filled with fear; no warrior among this lot could compare in size and physique with the Akkadian ... and no woman could compare with the exotic beauty of Cassandra.

On the other hand, few were as puny as Arpid and Philos.

Nearby was the largest of the tents, a central canvas-timber structure, the door flap of which drew back, revealing a figure all too familiar to Matha­yus ...

... the Nubian giant, Balthazar, with whom the Akkadian had traded barbed badinage—and poten­tially deadly tosses of the kama—at the late King Pheron's tribal council.

Balthazar remained the same formidable figure— ropy dreadlock braids on an otherwise bald skull, massive muscles carved from ebony, ritualistic dec­orative scars on a face dominated by slitted eyes and a broad flat nose, battle beads looped around a tree-trunk neck, shoulders so broad you had to look at them one at a time.

For a moment the Nubian king froze, as dark an­ger rose through him like smoke through a burning building. Then the man mountain's upper lip curled in a sneer.

"Assassin," he said, his voice deep, resonant. "The gods are good to me. When last we met, you were so kind as to offer to kill me..." The giant sat heavily on a timber-and-twine throne. "And now I have the chance to repay your kindness."

Cassandra glanced at Mathayus, expecting him to respond; but the Akkadian said nothing, keeping his eyes focused straight and unblinkingly ahead.

"My scouts," Balthazar said, leaning forward, a hand on one knee, "tell me you have failed in your mission. It is said the sorcerer lives."

Mathayus did not reply. And Cassandra began to wonder if she would be in danger, should the Nu­bian discover her identity....

"My scouts also say your two brothers were slain... and yet you took the same oath—that as long as blood ran in the veins of any one of you, the magician would die. . . . How is it you survived?"

"Give me a sword," Mathayus said, "and I will do my best to explain."

"Bold words!" The Nubian king shifted in his wooden throne. "Brazen boasts from one who tres­passes."

"We do not trespass—your people brought us here."

"Silence!" Balthazar shook a thick finger at the Akkadian. "Our survival depends on keeping this location a secret. So you present a problem, Akka­dian—as long as you're alive, at least."

The little thief stepped forward, tentatively. "Par­don me, sir—just so you know, since I'm sure you mean to be fair ... I have no idea how we got here. I just wasn't paying attention, and, besides, I'm nearly blind...."

Balthazar scowled at the little man, his expression as hard as the rock walls surrounding.

The scientist now stepped forward, smiling ner­vously. "What my awkward friend is attempting to express is our embarrassment and regret for stum­bling into your sanctum. Kind sir, if you would spare our lives, we would be perfectly delighted to forget we ever saw any of your, uh, charming little enclave. So ... if we're agreed ... we'll be on our way."

"That," the king said, "is not a prospect open to you."

And Balthazar rose, his face firmly set, as if a decision had been made....

From a corner of his eye, Mathayus noticed someone was pushing through the crowd—no, not someone: a group, perhaps half a dozen knifing through the mob, parting them rudely.

"Balthazar!" a strong female voice cried.

Queen Isis emerged—that dark regal beauty, un-derclad in leather armor; and around her were what remained of her woman warriors, fierce beauties whose numbers had dwindled since the Ur tribal council.

She stood proudly, hands on her hips, gazing up at the looming Nubian king. "You violate your own laws, if you slaughter these visitors. You know full well this is a place of sanctuary for the enemies of Memnon."

Balthazar, trembling with a quiet rage, said noth­ing; but his gaze remained locked with hers.

"The winds have carried the stories," Isis said, "of the Akkadian's brave stand against the men of Memnon.... Now, I know that there are those among us .. . yourself included, Balthazar... who have no great love for my tribe. Some men fear strong women."

"Isis," Balthazar said, "you try my good na­

ture__ "

She went on, as if he had not spoken, her words more for those congregated, than for the king. "I am not fond of the people of the western moun­tains. ..." And she gestured toward a face-painted group among the crowd. "Yet we accept them, as we accept all of those who come here, for shelter, in this time of Memnon's atrocities ... whatever our personal feelings might be."

Balthazar shook his head. "The Akkadian is dif­ferent," he said. "He is an assassin, whose loyalty is within reach of the highest bidder.... As such, he is dangerous."

But Isis was shaking her head, now. "Your judg­ment on this matter is clouded...."

The Nubian king threw his head back and roared, "It is my judgment that keeps all of you alive!"

And now Balthazar strode over to the prisoners; he planted himself before them and said, 'Take the woman and the other two away."

The Akkadian stepped out in front of Cassandra and said, an ominous edge in his voice, "Fair warn­ing, king—the first hand to touch her, I'm cutting off."

Cassandra looked at Mathayus anew: the caring, the passion, in his voice and eyes, were undeniable. Could this man . .. love her?

Balthazar withdrew his huge sword, grinning ruthlessly. "I could hope for no finer invitation, Ak­kadian."

Mathayus darted to one side, and as deftly as picking an apple from a tree, plucked a sword from the belt of a guard. The crowd instantly drew away, creating a larger arena, as the Akkadian charged for­ward without fear toward the giant Nubian, who ran at the oncoming threat, his own sword raised high.

The swords collided with a shattering impact— literally, the powerful blades fragmenting like glass under the blows of these two powerful warriors.

Mathayus reeled backward, and his opponent did the same—each man startled to see the broken-at-the-hilt sword in his respective grasp.

In a moment of frozen time, the two stared at each other, as if wondering what to do; then they made a simultaneous decision, and again ran at each other, this round with fists raised. The massed on­lookers thundered with pleasure—rough people al­ways ready to watch and relish a fight-to-the-death between well-matched warriors.

The Akkadian was shorter than the Nubian, but not by much; and the Nubian's muscled frame was thicker than that of the Akkadian, who seemed damn near lithe in comparison. Bulk made the king's blows more powerful than the assassin's, but the lat­ter's grace and speed kept the hand-to-hand exchange even, the flurry of blows staggering both warriors, but neither falling, and no man gaining the upper hand.

Frustrated, Balthazar grabbed an iron pot from an open campfire and smashed it into the head of the Akkadian, on his next charge; stunned, Mathayus staggered backward into the side of a tent, taking the canvas structure down with him. In the mean­time, one of Balthazar's men threw his king a staff, and the Nubian stepped forward with it, bearing down on Mathayus, who rolled back and forth across the fallen canvas, nimbly dodging the striking stick.

As he rolled, the Akkadian discovered, within the fallen tarp, the tent's pole, which he snatched up and used to parry the attacks of the Nubian and his staff. They seemed about to fight to yet another stalemate, as the two men expertly thrust and parried with their staffs, an exchange that only served to emphasize how evenly matched the warriors were.

Now it was the Akkadian's turn to feel frustra­tion, and he summoned the fury within him to blot out the chivalrous give-and-take the duel had risen to, screaming in primal rage and laying into the Nu­bian, hacking away like a scythe at jungle grass, knocking the surprised giant backward, the Akka­dian's ferocity trumping the superior strength of the king, and—with a blow that snapped his own make-do tent-pole staff in half—knocking the Nubian's staff out of his grasp and beyond his reach, driving Balthazar against a wall of timber ...

. .. and the ragged, jagged yet pointed half staff was poised at the Nubian's throat, dimpling the flesh.

Around them, the bandit amphitheater had gone dead silent. Every man there—including, and espe­cially, Balthazar—knew that in an instant, with a simple thrust, the king would be dead.

But the Akkadian, while keeping that point pressed to the king's throat, chose instead to speak. "We are brothers, Balthazar, in the same cause."

"Brothers?" the defiant warrior said bitterly. "You have brought death to my people—as surely as night follows day, Memnon will follow you."

"I have killed those he has sent; their bones bleach in the desert sand."

The Nubian's eyes and nostrils flared. "Memnon will send more troops! He will not stop, until he has her... his sorceress."

Though pinned to the wall, the big man managed to point toward the aghast Cassandra.

"Yes, Akkadian ... I know who she is. She is no mere wench whose honor you defend—this is the oracle who Memnon will have back, at any cost."

"And once he has her," Mathayus said, "and her powers of vision... he will come here, more swiftly, more deadly, than ever before."

Mathayus withdrew the threat from the king's throat, turning to the crowd, addressing them in a loud, strong voice.

"Memnon will stop at nothing!" He prowled the open area, staff in hand. "Hide here as long as you can, but hear me when I say that he will find you . .. unless he is stopped. If not... he will sweep across this land like a terrible sickness, and wipe out all of you!"

A deep laugh rumbled from the Nubian king's chest. "And who will stop him, Akkadian?"

Mathayus turned to Balthazar, an eyebrow cocked.

"Will you stand alone before the fury of his ar­mies?" the king asked, laughter replaced by a som­ber timbre.

Without hesitation, Mathayus gazed directly at Balthazar and said, "Yes."

The refugee camp around him looked on in awed silence. Cassandra felt a chill—a voice within her said she had just witnessed the birth of a king.

And even Balthazar seemed to regard the Akka­dian in a new light; after all, no warrior had ever before fought the giant to a standstill.

The Nubian king heaved a sigh, having been granted his life, now granting a small concession. "One night's sanctuary ... and then pray to the gods, Akkadian, that our paths never cross again."

And the king disappeared back within his tent, as the guards fell away, and Mathayus and his party joined the rest of the assembled tribes. As bandits, these people had raided and stung Memnon; but now, among them, they knew . .. one braver than themselves had proclaimed himself ready to face the warlord and all his minions, alone if need be.

When night's purple star-studded cloak fell across the open-air cliffbound chamber, music echoed across the campfires, flutes and drums, percussive yet melodic, primitive yet civilized. An atmosphere of goodwill—or at least better will—accompanied nightfall, the enmity of the clash between their king and the Akkadian having muted into a truce, any­way, if not quite an alliance.

The visitors had been provided a tent, and Cas­sandra was strolling toward it, enjoying the music, the camaraderie; she paused at a cooking fire where a congenial group had gathered, roasting three pigs on one long skewer. The little horse thief was among them, having made friends, and currently was arm-wrestling one of Queen Isis's fierce yet beautiful woman warriors. The queen herself was looking on, rooting for her soldier, while the eccentric scientist sat cheering Arpid on. The camel, Hanna, was nearby, grazing at a feed bag, not terribly interested. No sign of Mathayus, though.

Philos was saying, "Leverage, my boy! Leverage! It's not just strength, it's science, too...."

And with that, Arpid's fist was slammed to the tabletop by the laughing female. Philos shook his head and chuckled, as the thief flexed his sore hand, saying, "A gentlemen always allows a lady to win." Then, to the lovely warrior, he asked optimistically, "Best two out of three?"

Smiling at the little thief's antics, Cassandra strolled on. She was perhaps halfway to the tent when a child of four or five scampered up to her, and tugged at her sleeve.

She looked down, where he was gazing up ador­ingly with big dark eyes, offering her dates from a bowl, and wondered if she had ever seen a more adorable child.

She smiled and accepted the gift, then tousled the boy's hair. For a moment, she was not a lady oracle, just a woman, a young woman, thinking about mar-riage and children of her own ... half Akkadian, perhaps...

But as she touched the boy, her fingers in his scalp, a vision seized her ...

... and she found herself kneeling, at the very spot where she'd stood accepting the boy's gift, and her hand was again on the child's head, fingers in his hair, but now he lay cold and still with death. Around them in the bandit hideaway, the night was rent with screams and flames consumed the tents and walkways.

Her eyes turned skyward, to ask the gods why, and a full moon blazed mutely back at her. She turned her gaze to the camp around her, where men, women and children lay sprawled in death, blood everywhere. Nearby, the horse thief lay with his eyes wide in death, his small torso twisted.

At the pounding of hoofbeats, she turned as Mem­non himself rode straight for her, red-turbaned war­riors on his either side, their brethren rampaging through the camp, killing anything that breathed.

And the warlord glared at her, furious with his sorceress, yet intent on her capture—racing toward her, to retrieve his oracle. She recoiled as he reached down from his galloping steed to snatch her up into his arms, and she turned away in horror ... ... and was back in the camp, where the only fires were cooking food or providing warmth, and the only shrieks were of laughter. The little boy looked up at her strangely, afraid now—her trance had spooked him, and he backed away.

On quick but unsure feet, she found her way to the tent, perched by a campfire among some rocks, and went in and sat on the ground, looking up through the open flap at the moon ... the almost full moon....

Sometime later, Mathayus entered and sensed her discomfort, asking, "Is something wrong?"

She did not look at him, her eyes on the moon. "Memnon knows I'm here ... or at least, he will— soon." She pointed to the sky. 'The moon is enter­ing the House of Scorpio. Tomorrow is the night when what I saw in my vision will come to pass ... Memnon will release his armies, and they will ride into the heart of this camp . .. and rip it out."

Mathayus knelt beside her. "The moon is just... the moon. And Memnon will die, at these hands, prophecy be damned."

She turned her gaze upon him, admiring his brav­ery, but knowing his disbelief in the spiritual was foolish; without her magic, after all, he would not be alive....

"I must know," she said.

"Know what?"

And she lay her fingers gently against his cheek, closing her eyes, summoning a vision that, in a flash of white, filled her mind ...

... Memnon stood atop an altar, erected in the elevated courtyard of his palace, the city of Gomor­rah spread out before him like a banquet; his hands were raised to the night sky, where a huge moon. .. a full moon, ringed in silver... glowed so intensely, the sun was not its rival.

"Great gods above," Memnon cried, his voice ringing out above his city, "look down upon me!. .. And make me one with you."

Behind the warlord, Mathayus silently crept across the courtyard, sword in hand, approaching the steps that led up to the altar where Memnon, his back to the Akkadian, stood.

Cassandra shuddered, as the vision continued, but shifted, as now ...

. .. a red-turbaned soldier, bow in hand, quiver of arrows on his back, ran through a palace hall­way, lined with leaping flames, to burst out a door­way onto the courtyard, stepping on a small yellow flower, growing up between stones in the floor. The archer could see Mathayus, coming up behind the warlord, sword raised.

The archer notched an arrow, and let fly. ..

..'. and the arrow found purchase in the Akka­dian's back! As Mathayus fell to the palace floor, Cassandra screamed, "No!"

In the moonlight filtering through the tent flap, the Akkadian held the woman by her arms, but the sorceress turned away, eyes squeezed shut, a single jewel of tear trickling down her smooth cheek.

"What did you see?" the Akkadian demanded.

Swallowing, trembling, refusing to look at him, she said, "If you go up against Memnon ... you will fail. You will die. That, Akkadian, is your destiny."

He spoke her name, and turned her to him, cup­ping her chin, lifting her face to his, her eyes tor­tured, her lashes pearled with tears.

"Hear me," he said, and despite the dire proph­ecy, no fear was in his face—only a faint smile that seemed to challenge any vision that might try to master him. "I make my own destiny."