The Scorpion King

She winced at the words, shaking her head slowly—it was if he spoke a foreign language. How could he think such a thing, much less say the words? She had spent her life in the company of men who paid her prophecies the strictest heed— who feared her words, and everything they might portend.

Yet to this man, this special man, the words of the gods were subservient to his will—the future something that could be molded. Was he right? she wondered. Could a person . .. a mortal. . . change the course of destiny?

"Haven't you had enough of visions?" he asked her, that small smile still on his lips, something else—something fervent—in his tone.

"What... what do you mean?"

The Akkadian swept her into his arms and kissed her, deeply, passionately ... and she responded, clutching him desperately, returning his kisses with the same hunger. As they embraced, he lowered her to the sandy floor and, as firelight jumped and danced, as if in celebration, their souls, and much more, entwined.

As they lay in each other's arm, Cassandra watched this brave, foolish man as he slept, his slumber deep; for him to have battled Balthazar, in the wake of nearly dying the night before, was a feat few men could survive. All it seemed to mean for Mathayus, however, was the need for a good night's sleep.

She could not risk kissing him, not even his fore­head or his cheek, for he might wake; instead, her heart aching and yet so full, she slipped from his slumbering embrace and out into the moonlight.

She felt different—more a woman, perhaps less a mystic. Still, she believed in the world beyond this one, and walked out to the edge of a precipice, where, washed in the moon's ivory, she lighted a candle, in ceremony, kneeling to place it on a rock. Supine before the flickering flame, she whispered a silent prayer.

This man, she told the almost full moon, believes that the future you have shown me can be changed. Guide me, mother—though your daughter is a woman now. Guide me, still, and tell me what to do.

She listened, and—within her mind—thoughts grew, whether from a mystic mother or herself, who can say? Yet she did pledge herself to a course of action, dictated by those thoughts, perilous though that might be, since she hoped now to change the future by her own means.

Cassandra blew out the candle, and smiled.

Before long she had found her way to the corral where the bandits kept their horses and camels. She of course went to the white beast, and stood beside Hanna, stroking the camel's snout, gently.

"You love him, too, don't you?" she asked the animal.

The camel shook its head—perhaps a reflex, or an answer.

"Then," the sorceress whispered into the camel's ear, "you must help me save him."

And, in an action heretofore reserved for Matha­yus alone, Hanna bent down—any cantankerousness

gone, only the most docile response—and Cassandra climbed aboard.

Soon, the white camel—her lovely rider looking albino herself in the rays of the almost-full moon— was galloping away from the oasis, toward Gom-morah.

And the man she despised as much she loved the Akkadian.

_{The Oracle's Return}

B

althazar—snoring in a kingly cot the size of a boat, his arms around one of the two beautiful wenches with whom he slept—had trained himself to be stirred from his slumber, no matter how deep, by the slightest suspicious sound, no matter how small. At dawn, a rustling around a campfire, well across the amphitheater-like hideaway, was all it took to rouse the sleeping giant.

From a precipice near his tent, hands on his hips, the Nubian loomed over his camp, surveying the tranquil, unwoken world of the coalition of tribes, this ragtag crew upon whom rested the hopes of a future without Memnon. The only sign of life in the clear light of dawn was a single fire, around which the horse thief, the scientist and the Akkadian con­ferred.

And the latter seemed to be gathering his weap­ons, preparing for battle.

Balthazar quickly slung on his own sword, and headed down the pathway, prepared to deal with this problem, once and for all.

He strode up to the Akkadian, who was arranging his belt with daggers and kama, the massive scimitar already in place. "What strife are you stirring now, assassin?"

Mathayus did not respond; the huge warrior standing before him might not have existed.

Fury began to rise like steam within the Nubian, but suddenly Queen Isis was next to him, her fingers on his arm; it was as if she had materialized.

"The sorceress is gone," she said, in a hushed, somber tone. "Returned to Gomorrah."

Balthazar snorted a laugh. "Back to Memnon's bed, no doubt!"

The Akkadian whirled, fire in his eyes. "She is not his woman—she never has been, and never will!"

The Nubian frowned. "If she is your woman, Ak­kadian, where is she now? What sends her flying back to the safety of Gomorrah?"

"Safety is not what she seeks," the assassin said. "She is braver than any of us ... than all of us, com­bined. Hear me, king—she saw your people de­stroyed."

"What? How—"

"In a vision, last night. She saw Memnon here, in this place, slaughtering all around us, to find her, and gather her back to his snake's den ... and to stop that nightmare from coming true, she went back to him ... to her cage."

Balthazar tried to fathom this. "She ... sacrificed her freedom for us?"

Arpid raised an eyebrow. "At least."

Mathayus had returned to arming himself, pre­paring his things for departure. "I'm getting her back, before he ... I'm going after her."

The king snorted another laugh, though the de­rision was out of it. "I see—and you now expect me, and my people, to help you. Because some crazy woman saw a vision."

"I don't expect anything from you." The Akka­dian paused and looked hard at the Nubian. "And yesterday she was not a 'crazy woman'—but the sorceress who you feared would lead Memnon to this hideout. Well, she's spared you ... so spare me your 'wisdom' ... O great king."

And the assassin strode away, to saddle up one of the horses inherited from the men of Memnon who'd been slaughtered in the sandstorm battle.

Balthazar felt a strange mix of emotions—annoy­ance at the Akkadian's sarcastic disrespect; and yet an admiration for his bravery. And, too, he did feel humbled by the lady oracle's sacrifice for the tribal people....

The Nubian shook his head, and said to Isis, "The fool. Would he face Memnon alone?"

But it was the thief who, matter-of-factly, replied: "He said he would."

And Philos added, gravely, "He is nothing if not a man of his word."

Balthazar felt the eyes of Isis on him, and he turned to her; their gazes locked. Then the Nubian sighed heavily, and nodded to her .. . and the lovely warrior queen smiled.

Within minutes, Mathayus was spurring his speed toward the opening in the rocks, which led to the dank cavern connecting with the oasis, and the de­sert beyond. From behind those rocks, in the eerie flickering of torches that lighted the way, Balthazar emerged, holding his hands up, in "stop" fashion.

Reining back, impatient, the Akkadian said, "Move aside. I have no time for our petty argu­ment."

Then Queen Isis stepped out beside Balthazar, a united front. The assassin frowned—this woman had supported Mathayus before . .. was she now his en­emy?

Taking advantage of the pause Isis provoked in the barbarian, Balthazar said firmly, "You are riding to your death, Akkadian. If I let you go alone . .." And now the king smiled grimly. "... what glory will be left for me?"

Stunned, the Akkadian said, "You would join me in my fight?"

"As you have said, the fight is not yours—it is ours."

Still reining back his horse, frowning in thought, the Akkadian said, "I am trained to fight in small groups—I know nothing of leading an army"

"Ah—so now you proclaim yourself leader?"

No menace tightened the features of the assassin, as he gazed down from horseback at his adversary of the day before. "I do not mean offense. But we do not have the numbers to stand against Memnon's army. I suggest, instead, stealth—a band of us infil­trating his city ... his very palace .. . and when I have taken the head from his shoulders, his reign will end, and your people will need not ride to their slaughter."

"We have indeed inflicted more damage upon Memnon with our raids," Balthazar said, thought­fully, "than any foolhardy head-on attack... I see the sense of it, Akkadian."

Queen Isis strode forward. "I suggest we make haste. On our journey, there will be sufficient time for planning our strategies."

Mathayus said, "Agreed."

Then the king nodded his own assent, and they returned to camp, to select their crew.

As the blazing orange ball of the sun went to its rest, and the blue shadows of encroaching night crept across Gomorrah, the elevated courtyard of Memnon's palace played host to a grand giddy party, tables arranged in a square and laden with a literal king's banquet, an array of food and drink to stagger the imagination, and challenge the digestion. The courtiers groaned from this orgy of a repast, and the guests of honor—Memnon's generals—put aside their staid military manner to indulge in fine, ever-flowing wine, their eyes hungrily taking in the bevy of beautiful belly dancers performing before them. Flutes and cymbals joined in a percussive mu­sic that provided inspiration to the undulating female forms, which in turn inspired the generals to per­spiration.

The son of the late King Pheron sat at Memnon's side, fiddling with various playthings—a pair of vo­luptuous wenches on loan from the king's personal stash of concubines, and a mammoth, intricately carved bow. The two women were fondling the slen­der prince, lavishing him with attention, but Tak­met's own focus was on that bow—as he tried, unsuccessfully, to draw back its taut string.

The bow, of course, was the Akkadian's—left be­hind, when he'd been trapped in Memnon's harem.

Everyone seemed to be having a fine time, a memorable, remarkable time ... except for the bringer of the feast, himself. Lord Memnon had eaten little, and imbibed less, sitting at the center of the head table, on a throne of gold, lost in tense concentration and even anxiety.

Somewhere, beyond the city gates, across the de­sert, his sorceress remained in the clutches of the Akkadian. Had the bastard defiled her, ruined her as a seer, and robbed him of a pleasure of which he had long dreamed? Was she a prisoner, or a willing slave of that copper-skinned spawn of camel and goat?

As the dancing girls finished their performance, and applause rang across the stone courtyard, the Great Teacher rose from his chair of gold. The wenches ran off, in a tinkle of toe cymbals and chain-mail halters and loincloths; and the guests qui­eted, turning their attention to their host, clad in black leather armor.

'Tonight," Memnon said, his voice notched to a volume suited to public speaking, "is the first night of the House of Scorpio."

Above, a bright nearly full moon sent its ivory fingers down to touch the courtyard. Memnon ges­tured to the glowing orb.

"When the moon is at its peak," he said, his voice resonant, rolling across the guests, "I will stand on that very altar..."

And now the warlord pointed to the wide steps to the altar constructed in the courtyard.

"... and the gods will reach down to me... and appoint me, anoint me .. .the Scorpion King!"

A hush fell across the assemblage. This had been a display of such megalomania, that the proper re­sponse was uncertain—to applaud might lessen the moment, to laugh would get one killed. And right now Memnon was casting a look of steel around the courtyard.

"And the very earth," he said, his voice low, but every ear hanging on each word, "shall crack at my feet."

Another respectful, cowed hush followed, only to be rudely—surprisingly—broken, as a chair scraped the stone floor. Eyes flew to General Toran, who was standing.

"My lord," the general said, "all of that is well and good. .. but there is something I must share with you—something that is troubling our troops."

The guests exchanged nervous glances. This was either foolhardy, or brave, of General Toran; whis­pered comments wondered if too much wine was involved....

"How distressing," Memnon said, in a normal tone of voice. "I am of course concerned—anything that troubles my men, troubles me. Please tell— what is it?"

Toran seemed uneasy by this seemingly off­handed response.

"My lord," the general said, "it has been said that the sorceress is no longer at your side."

Memnon shrugged. "Soldiers often fall prey to palace gossip .. . You have my word that she is safe."

"With all due respect, my lord—if our men are to fight, to die, they may need more than that."

The air seemed suddenly chill; a desert breeze ruffled the flames of torches and candles.

Memnon stepped down from his golden chair and walked, slowly, to the general; his expression seemed friendly, calm. When he reached the man, Memnon asked, "My word—is it not enough?"

And now the general seemed to know how dan­gerous these waters were, and he began to tread them... yet he could not back down. "It is not that—your word is unquestioned. It is just... the oracle is a symbol from which the men derive cour­age ... and symbols are most effective, my lord, when they are in full view."

Memnon seemed to ponder that for a moment. Then he said, "It concerns me, general, that the men have so little faith that they—"

A voice cut him off—a feminine, familiar one: "My lord? My apologies."

All eyes turned, Memnon among them—he could not conceal his shock—as the lovely sorceress ... underclad in a sheer gown over shimmering golden halter and tiny skirt, long hair capped as usual with a gilt headdress ... strode regally across the court­yard.

When she reached Memnon's side, she said, "I am here, as you requested—forgive my lateness." She turned her placid, regal gaze to rest on the assembled generals. "And gentlemen, forgive my absence, of late, at our councils. I have not been well... but know that my spirit has been heartened by our impending victory."

The eyes of the generals were wide and locked upon her; Toran seemed almost to stumble back, at the sight of her.

To the generals, Memnon said lightly, "Is this sufficient to placate your men?" Then he turned to Cassandra. "Please tell my generals what you have seen, my sorceress."

Her eyes traveled slowly across the assembled guests; torchlight flickered, throwing dark shadows over a courtyard cloaked by the moon's ivory. "I see a great victory.... Your enemies will reveal themselves before you."

The slightly inebriated generals did not perceive the ambiguity of this statement, and shared confident smiles, and touched wine goblets.

General Toran still stood, but his head hung in chagrin. Sheepishly, he said, "My sincerest apolo­gies, my lord."

Memnon lifted his left hand, waving that off magnanimously. "I understand, old friend. It is only human, to be fearful, weak...."

And with his other, the warlord thrust the Ak­kadian's dagger into the general's chest, piercing his heart. Toran had only a moment to be surprised be­fore, dead, he pitched back onto the table, knocking a goblet of wine to bleed its contents on the court­yard floor.

"And anyone with such weak traits as that," Memnon said, "is of no use to me as a general." He casually looked from the face of one stunned com­mander to another, and said, "Consider this a sym­bol, in full view. I trust it's effective. . .. Now—are there any others among you who doubt my word?"

Looking sideways at one another, the generals shook their heads, murmuring their loyalty, their be­lief in their lord.

"How reassuring," Memnon said. "And now . .. the feast is over. To your beds, my generals ... take a wench with you, if you like, but rest well. For tomorrow ... we conquer."

The guests—grandly entertained by all of this— clapped and applauded their drunken approval.

Memnon turned to Cassandra, and said so softly that only she heard: "Wait for me in my chambers."

"... My lord?"

'There is a subject I would discuss with you."

"Yes, my lord." She half bowed, and moved away, disappearing within the palace. Memnon, having watched her go with a cold, wary gaze, now turned to Takmet.

"Fortify the palace guard," the warlord said.

Takmet, still fiddling unsuccessfully with the Ak­kadian's bow, said, "It is done, my lord," and tossed the pair of wenches off his lap.

Memnon did not bid his guests any further good­bye; lost in dark thought, he made his way into the palace, following the path of his sorceress.

Outside the fortified walls of Gomorrah—along the forward parapet of which four archers were posi­tioned—a horse-drawn cart, covered by a tattered tarp, creaked and groaned up to the main gates. Half a dozen red-turbaned, heavily armed guards walked up to the small, skimpily bearded man holding the reins of the horses. Seated next to him was another slight, unthreatening-looking creature, with a thatch of unruly white hair.

"What's in the cart?" one of the guards asked.

Arpid glanced at the fearsome fellow. "What's in the cart?"

"You heard me!" And the guard's hand went to his sword hilt; the other red-turbaned sentries did the same.

Nervously, Arpid glanced behind him at the tarp. "You want to know what's in the cart.. . . Truth be told, it's a kind of... surprise."

As the guards moved in closer, suspicion prick­ling the backs of their necks, the archers above no­ticed this confrontation in the making, and moved into position, watching the cart, ever vigilant.

Toward the end of the parapet, however, one of those guards thought he heard something—the clink of metal, on stone? As his three comrades trained their attention on the horse-drawn cart below, this archer moved into the dark shadows at the far side of the ledge, investigating alone.

Down by the gate, Arpid was hopping from the cart, where he now—unhesitatingly, his nervousness vanished—yanked back the tarp, revealing half a dozen women. These were (for the most part) raving beauties, in the haremlike, belly-dancer-style attire that drove the men of those times (and other times, as well) to distraction.

The red-turbaned guards had no inkling that these beauties were Queen Isis and her fierce female war­riors—dressed, as they were, for the bedroom, not the battlefield.

"A royal gift for tonight's revelry," the horse thief said, with a pompous bow that made several of the sentries chuckle. "They are to be delivered to Prince Takmet."

"Lucky bastard," one of the guards said.

Arpid turned to the cart, which brimmed with pulchritude, the "girls" cooing and waving at the guards. "Ladies," he said, "come down and say hello to our brave soldiers—where would the kingdom be without them?"

The guards helped the girls down and they quickly paired off, talking, flirting, while above the archers looked down in envy.

In the meantime, in the shadows off to one side, that lone archer had discovered—clinging to the lip of the wall—a grappling hook. Looking down over the edge, he could see the rope swinging, as if some­one had just let loose of it. Wheeling to warn his compatriots, the archer never got a word out—Ma­thayus, in the slitted leather mask, broke the man's neck from behind, the tiny crack lost in a night alive with the sound of the guards and "harem" beauties mingling.

The Akkadian tossed the man off the side of the ledge, where the corpse fell almost silently to the sand.

One of the sentries—his tastes running to larger women, these scrawny creatures so popular nowa­days doing little for him—approached a broad-shouldered girl, saying, "Well, now, finally! A wench with some meat on her bones ... Let's see that pretty face, hah?"

The guard lifted the veil away and exposed the battle-scarred visage of Balthazar.

"Satisfied?" the Nubian "wench" asked.

And he drove a massive fist into the guard's belly, dropping him to the ground.

With this, the warrior women—each having si­dled up to a guard—quickly, efficiently executed the fools, slitting throats, piercing hearts, taking no pris­oners. Several died with smiles on their faces.

Above, the lead archer—startled by the sudden carnage—cried, "Attack!"

The three archers, lined up in an orderly row, notched arrows and aimed down. Before any arrows could fly, however, one dagger after another flew from the darkness, the first archer, and the second, catching blades in their backs, with deadly thunks. The leader whirled and fired off an arrow, but the Akkadian snatched up a wooden drain cover from the parapet floor, and used it as a shield, batting the projectile away.

The archer was notching a new arrow when the assassin's knife sank solidly into his heart, with such force it sent him toppling to the sand outside the city gates.

It had all happened so quickly—the gentle sci­entist, sitting on the horse cart, was stunned by this incredible display of skill... and death.

"By the gods," he said, amazed, wondering how it had come to pass that he would be riding into battle with such men.

From the parapet, Mathayus stood and surveyed the landscape on both sides of the wall, ascertaining whether their killing had been silent enough. Apparently it had. Then he raised two fingers to his lips and whistled.

Tied to a hitching post in the midst of the bazaar, the albino camel perked her ears at the shrill familiar sound. The beast promptly reared up on her hind legs, and brought her front hooves down, hard, on the hitching post, smashing it to splinters.

Then, dragging what little remained of the post, Hanna galloped off into the darkness, summoned by her master.

The Akkadian climbed down the rope, to join his friends just outside the gate. Hanna suddenly ap­peared beneath him, and he dropped onto her back; he stroked her neck—he felt complete again ... or as complete as he could, without the other female he loved.

"Well done," Mathayus told the little group. "Ev­eryone know what to do? ... Balthazar?"

"Cripple the guard," the Nubian said.

"Isis?"

"Secure the door," the warrior queen replied.

"Philos?"

"Seal them in," the scientist said.

"Arpid?"

But the little thief was staring at his sandals.

"Something wrong, partner?" Mathayus asked, guiding the camel over to the little man.

"Nothing ... no." Arpid was shuffling his feet.

"Look at me."

Arpid raised his head, but still did not look di­rectly at the Akkadian; his eyelashes were damp. "It's just... no one has ever trusted me, before— not with something this important."

"Partner."

Now Arpid's eyes met the assassin's.

With a simple and absolute confidence so typical of him, Mathayus said, "I trust you."

The thief seemed filled with a new confidence. "I won't let you down."

"I know." To the entire group of warriors—for even the thief and scientist were warriors now, a small army taking on a mighty fortress city—the Akkadian said, "All right, my friends—this is the time. Be careful. Keep your eyes sharp."

Balthazar said, "Akkadian . .."

Mathayus turned toward the giant in the harem outfit. Would the Nubian protest his leadership, at this late stage?

But all the mountain of a man said was, "Watch yourself."

Mathayus could only smile. 'Thank you for your concern, miss... . Hyah!"

And the camel took his master into the city.

"He's going to pay for that," Balthazar grunted, and reattached his veil.

Back up in the cart now, Queen Isis and her women did their best not to smile, and Arpid climbed up next to Philos, who slapped the reins, and the rig rumbled forward into Gomorrah.

Daughter of the Furies

I

nto the torchlit golden-hued sandstone throne room, Memnon—who had caught up with his sor­ceress in a corridor of the palace—escorted Cassan­dra, a hand firmly on her arm. She could not yet tell if she was a welcome guest or just another prisoner. But it did not take a psychic to sense the Great Teacher's suspicion.

Memnon dismissed the guards and servants, say­ing, "Leave us!"

And they were alone.

She wandered to the small round table with her jars of runic stones, waiting in its usual position for her return... or had it been left there, in her ab­sence, to suggest to others she still remained?

Memnon did not take his throne; rather he prowled the chamber, like an anxious panther. "I am relieved to see you unharmed," he said, the kindness of his words undercut by an edge in his tone. "I'm surprised the Akkadian did not kill you."

"What good could I have done him dead?" she asked. "It was you he sought—and I was his bait, his pawn."

An eyebrow arched. "And yet you escaped his grasp."

She turned to smile at the warlord, a tiny yet sig­nificant smile. "I am not without my own ways ... my own wiles."

The smile he gave her in return was a nasty one. "Oh yes ... of that I am well aware. You gained his confidence.; .."

"Yes—and slipped away in the desert night."

"Where did he take you? To an enemy camp?"

"No—some desert oasis, where palms and waters and my own sympathetic words lulled him into com­placency."

Memnon walked to the balcony, his back to her. "Did you witness the slaying of my loyal adviser— Thorak?"

"I know of the tragedy, my lord—it took place during a sandstorm. The Akkadian attacked your brave soldiers under its cover; I was buried in sand, and could not run ... not until later."

For a long while Memnon said nothing. Then he turned to her and asked, "And the barbarian did not... soil you?"

Her eyes lowered. "No, my lord. My purity re­mains."

"As does your vision?"

"Yes, my lord—as I have said, I have seen your great victory."

"Ah yes ... ah yes. So you say."

Memnon went to the door and summoned a ser­vant, and whispered words to him that Cassandra could not hear. Then the servant half bowed and hurried off, and the warlord marched past her, on his way to his throne.

"We shall see, my dear... . Take a seat at your mystic table. Relax yourself, and wait."

"Wait, my lord? For what?"

He was on his throne now, a hand on either for­midable sandstone armrest. "Just wait, my dear.. . just wait."

And she sat at her round table, feeling a chill that had nothing to do either with the evening breeze or any clairvoyant sense.

In the main square of the city, near the palace, the horse-drawn cart with its lovely cargo and its scrawny drivers trundled past the shuttered stalls of the marketplace. Soon Philos pulled the wagon to a stop near the palace gates, where four of the Red Guard were on duty.

The scientist turned to speak, softly, to Queen Isis, who sat just behind him; the admirable poste­riors of the female warriors were perched, as on pil­lows, on soft bags that might have contained flour but did not. The tarp concealed the supine Balthazar, his harem outfit gone, traded for a cloak under which was leather armor; the Nubian king was not about to go into battle femininely attired. Isis's warrior women had discarded their sheer veils and, though still underclad, their breasts and loins were garbed in the dark leathers that accompanied them into combat.

Philos said to Isis, "That's it—over there."

He was pointing to a large metal grate on the street, not far from the royal guards. The scientist had played a large role in their preparations for this invasion by the small raiding party—as Memnon's former court magician, Philos had knowledge of the palace that had proved invaluable.

The queen and her warrior women jumped down from the cart, and one of the red-turbaned guards— his attention already caught—strode over, calling, "You there! You wenches!"

Isis turned and regarded him with a steely stare; the guard drew his sword as he approached. Resting the tip of the weapon to the queen's slender throat, the guard growled, "And what are you up to, you women?"

"Remove your sword from my neck," the queen commanded.

He frowned. "No female tells me what to do!"

She leaned forward, causing the point of the sword to dimple her own flesh, her eyes flashing as she said, "There's always a first time."

Then she leaned away from the blade and, in a move as swift as it was graceful, a blur in the star­tled guard's eyes, Isis swung around her right leg and her foot caught the man's wrist, sending his sword flying end over end into the air.

And when the weapon came down, the queen snatched it into her grasp, as easy as picking a grape off a bunch, the pommel making a nice fit in her hand. The guard barely had time for any of this to register, before Isis returned his sword to him—driv­ing it deep into his chest.

She regarded his startled expression, and the wide empty eyes, in the guard's face; then she said, "A first time, and a last," and pushed him to the ground.

The other guards regarded this with amazement for a few moments, then belatedly drew their swords and rushed over, as the warrior women—lithe and graceful as any harem-girl dancers—drew their own blades, dispatching the sentries quickly, all but si­lently. Blood tan and glistened in the moonlight, as Philos—shaken by such butchery, however noble its cause—helped Arpid unload the cart of the sacks the women had been seated upon ...

... sacks of black powder, that formula from China the scientist had finally mastered.

In the meantime, the cloaked Balthazar was grip­ping that metal grate in the street with both powerful hands, pulling it free with a creak, nothing more. For all that had happened in these fast minutes, the sounds had been minimal; their presence remained undetected ... by anyone still alive, at least.

Torch in hand, Arpid scrambled up beside the Nubian and they exchanged glances. Then the little man hopped down into the cavity provided by Balthazar's removal of that grating. He used his torch to get his bearings down there, then found a place to prop the flaming light. His face, reflected orange, looked up from beneath the street.

"All right," he said to Balthazar. "Let's go."

The broad-shouldered king directed the women warriors to pass along the bags of powder, one to the other from the cart. Arpid took the first of these bags, which was leaking the black substance. The thief took a pinch and flicked it at the torch, which flared brightly, delighting Arpid.

"Did you see that?" he asked.

Philos, nearer the cart, said, "Yes, wonderful... Keep lighting that powder for fun, and see if you can't kill us all, why don't you?"

Isis was handing down another bag of powder to the little thief, who responded with a pout, mum­bling, "Just an experiment. .. Where would that fool be without experiments?"

But Philos didn't hear this remark. At the big Nubian's side, the scientist—frowning in concern— asked, "Do you think Mathayus will rescue her in time?"

Even as they spoke, the albino camel, Hanna, was standing next to a far wall of the palace, her head tilted to watch her master, a hundred feet above, climbing the stones of the palace, an impossible task a spider might envy.

"That depends on what unexpected dangers he may face," the Nubian replied. "And it depends, too, on the Akkadian's skills ... which are considerable. I speak from experience."

"Well, they best be 'considerable' indeed, or he'll be trapped inside, and he and his woman will ride the explosion to the next world."

Balthazar's eyes tightened in the scarred battle mask of his face. "That black dust is that powerful?"

Philos smiled. "With a wallop enough to shake the gates of Gomorrah—and create a confusion to cover our stealing the sorceress away."

Balthazar's eyes hardened. "And you, little ma­gician—you are prepared for your mission?"

"In most battles, brawn like yours is a good thing. But, my friend, only pipsqueaks like Arpid and my­self can sneak through those rat holes into Mem­non's palace."

And soon the Nubian was helping lower the sci­entist into the grating passage; eight bags of powder had been handed down there. The two little men, their faces smudged, looked up at the brute king of the bandits, who nodded at them reassuringly.

"The Akkadian has an adage," the Nubian said. Isis was at his side, looking down at the two brave sewer rats. "Live free ..."

Isis completed the ritual: "Die well."

"If you don't mind," Arpid said, snatching his torch from its perch, "I'll work a little harder on the first part."

And then the two scrawny, unlikely heroes dis­appeared into the darkness below the street... and below the palace. Memnon sat on his throne, regarding his sorceress with searching eyes, as she sat at her table. Moments before, a servant had entered, whispered to his lord, and exited.

Fingers tented, smiling enigmatically, the Great Teacher said, "So . .. tomorrow my victory will be complete."

Cassandra did not meet his gaze, merely said, "As I have told you—that is what I saw."

"That is your ... vision."

Now she turned toward him. "Yes, my lord. I have seen it."

He studied her face. "Have you?"

Their eyes locked—both of these strong people gave nothing away in their expressions, sharing only blank visages with each other.

"And yet," Memnon said gently, "I sense a change in you. You seem, somehow .. . how should I put it? ... Diminished."

"I assure you, my lord... I am myself. Un­tainted. Unspoiled."

"How very pleased I am to hear it. Then a small demonstration should be no trouble for you."

The warlord stepped down from the throne and walked to a side wall, where a curtain concealed an alcove. He drew back the drape, and displayed an­other round table, much larger than the one at which she sat.

On the table were six substantial stone urns, each one lidded.

Memnon clapped once, a loud crack of a clap, and two copper-skinned slaves in square cloth head­dresses entered, heavily leathered, bearing a big wicker cage within which wriggled and thrashed a host of deadly serpents—cobras, asps, vipers—slith­ering sinuously over each other, in a boiling deadly pile.

Using a stick with a small rope looped at its end, one of the slaves expertly reached in and plucked out a huge king cobra, who hissed its displeasure, its hood extended. The other slave removed the lid from one of the half-dozen identical urns, and the snake handler dropped the twisting, spitting reptile down into the pot, the other slave quickly slamming the lid on.

Cassandra stood now, watching in horror, though she tried not to reveal her feelings.

Memnon wasn't hiding his—he was grinning, mockingly nostalgic as he said, "Having you back... working your wonders ... it's like old times."

And she watched, with open eyes, as various ven­omous serpents were dropped, writhing with rage, into all but two of the pots.

Elsewhere in the palace, in the lower catacomblike corridors, Arpid and Philos were even now scurry­ing, each little man lugging four stacked bags of powder. As they reached a fork in the passageway, Philos stopped, got his bearings for a moment, then pointed to the right. "This way," he said.

Arpid frowned, studying the scientist. "You're sure?"

"Of course I am," he said, mildly offended. "I used to live here!"

And down another corridor they scampered.

With a wave the Great Teacher dismissed the snake-handling slaves to wait along the periphery, and he went to his sorceress, taking her by the arm, walking her over to the alcove, as if escorting her to a dinner of state. But the big round table, with the half-dozen massive urns, was no banquet, unless one considered terror a suitable main course.

He moved away from her and gripped the edge of the table ... and spun it!

This was, it seemed, a meal of sorts, after all—a revolving serving table had been perverted by the warlord into a wheel of spinning doom.

Memnon's eyes flicked from her face to the ro­tating table and back again, as he said, "And so, my sorceress . .. my seer—let us see what you can see."

She watched, mesmerized, as the table slowly came to a halt.

"Which two, my oracle? Which two of these urns are empty?"

She drew a deep breath, exhaled, then stepped forward. Walking slowly around the table, apprais­ing each urn, she stopped at one and lay her hands on the pottery.

Memnon watched intently, and when her eyes snapped open, he wondered—was something wrong?

Something was indeed wrong, though Cassandra strove not to show it. She closed her eyes and touched the urn once more—and her mind was a blank. The ancient myth had proved true: only a virgin could possess the gift of second sight; and she had given herself to the Akkadian. And thrown her gift to the winds ...

Glancing at Memnon, she knew one need not be a soothsayer to read his inquiring gaze. If she re­fused this test, that would be an admission, and she would surely die; perhaps the gods who had granted her vision were still with her, even if her gift had come to its end.

Cassandra prayed to them, silently—not to return her vision, but to guide her hand ... because there was no eluding this test.

She reached out and lifted the lid from the urn, and she gazed down into the unknown depths of its stygian interior, which seemed to stare back up at her.

Then she plunged her arm into the urn!

Memnon watched, an eyebrow arched, perspira­tion beading his forehead, his smile a conflicted one—who could say whether the Great Teacher hoped she would pass or fail his examination?

Her fingers scraped the bottom of the empty urn, and she withdrew her arm.

"Excellent," Memnon said, though she could not tell if he was truly pleased by her success.

The warlord removed the empty urn, pitching it to the floor in careless abandon, where it shattered.

The sound made her shudder, as did his strangely gleeful expression. Five pots remained—four con­taining poisonous snakes—and Memnon viewed them with apparent pleasure, saying, "Just one left."

And again he spun the table.

Why he did this a second time, other than to un­nerve her further, she could not say; perhaps he thought she had managed to keep track of the pots with snakes, when he first whirled the tabletop. But she had not—she had seen only a blur, and luck— or the gods—had been with her.

Now, as the table slowed and then stopped, Mem­non led her back to the table, close by her side as she moved around it, studying her choices. Finally she hovered between two urns, listening for an inner voice or any instinct that might guide her. Her hand reached out—tremblingly.

The warlord seemed amused as he said, "I am no sorcerer—but I will tell you what I see ..."

Ignoring him, she placed a hand on one of the urn lids.

"...fear."

Had he not spoken, she might have heard the sub­tle shift of scales against hard clay ... but she did not.

And, with a defiant glare at Memnon, Cassandra reached her hand into the urn.

She froze.

Memnon, watching intently, took several steps back. Had she been biten?

The sorceress withdrew her hand from the urn, and turned slowly, and displayed her arm to the war­lord ...

... Like an elaborate masterwork of the jew­eler's art, a cobra coiled around her forearm, its hooded head near her hand, but ignoring it, instead spitting and hissing at the close-by Memnon.

This turn of events catching him off balance, both literally and figuratively, Memnon staggered back several paces, and cried, "What magic is this?"

Cassandra, her chin high, unafraid, said, "My magic."

Moving away, circling around her, he sought safety.

Now she stalked the warlord, her eyes ablaze. "I am a daughter of the furies, foolish mortal. I see the world's fate in the stars!"

Memnon drew his sword, a defensive posture, as he continued to retreat; behind him, a few yards, was a shuttered window ...

... and through that window, Cassandra could see the figure there, his eyes locking with hers: Ma­thayus!

Outside, the Akkadian gripped the upper window ledge, and tensed the mighty muscles of his legs, and swung away from the wall, soles of his sandaled feet aimed at those shutters.

"I see your fate, O hollow king," a determined Cassandra was saying quietly. "And its time has come. . . ."

And Mathayus came smashing, thundering through the shutters, splintering them, and slamming into Memnon, feet first, sending the warlord careen­ing, tumbling across the throne room, his sword fly­ing from his fingers.

The snake-handler slaves, seeing the amazing ar­rival of the intruder, reacted at once; one of them ran out the door, the other going to a long hanging cord, yanking it, and alarm bells began to peal. Cas­sandra, her ears filled with the raised alarm, flung the cobra from her wrist, and it went slithering off, wanting nothing of these humans.

The Akkadian rolled to his feet, and yanked the scimitar from his belt, filling his hand with steel. Across the sumptuous throne room, the would-be king of the world staggered to his feet, and looked into the glare of his uninvited guest, whose great blade winked with reflected torchlight.

Then the Akkadian glanced toward Cassandra, and by the assassin's concerned gaze—she nodded to the assassin that she was all right—the warlord was informed of the nature of their alliance, and knew he had been betrayed ... by lovers.

Mathayus was moving slowly toward him, bran­dishing the scimitar. "I've come for the woman," the Akkadian said. "And your head ..."

The warlord knew very well that a pair of ancient but serviceable swords hung nearby, where they dec­orated a sandstone wall.

"The assassin and the sorceress," Memnon said. "How sweet—how romantic ..."

And with reflexes worthy of those slithering snakes, he whirled and grabbed both swords from their pegs, and wheeled with warrior grace, a blade in either hand, spinning the two weapons expertly, not beaten yet, not hardly.

"I will be sure," Memnon said, "to inter you to­gether."

And the the warriors ran at each other, their swords clashing and clanging, ringing throughout the chamber even as the alarm bells continued their own toll of death.

_{Noble Effort}

A

s the alarm bells echoed through the palace and beyond, the raiding party of Balthazar, Queen Isis and her warrior women—outside the walls, shrouded in night shadows, awaiting the explosion that would signal their attack—reacted with dismay.

"Oh no," Queen Isis said.

"Damn," Balthazar breathed, as he saw a phalanx of the red-turbaned guards come running at them from around the corner of the palace, in full battle array, swords high.

Shoulders arching with feline grace, the nearly unclad fighting females—looking as lovely as they did deadly in the light of the moon and the flicker of torch flame—positioned themselves on the steps of the palace, spears and swords poised, ready to take on attack from within and without the turreted edifice.

But it was Balthazar himself—flinging away his cloak to reveal his massive frame in black leather armor—who stepped forward to receive this well-armed welcome.

Though there were ten of them, the Red Guards staggered to a halt at the sight of the giant Nubian, who raised his sword and grinned at the soldiers, in eager anticipation.

"All right, then," he said pleasantly. "Which lucky one of you dies first?"

Even outnumbering him as they did, the guards froze for several long moments, as if hoping this apparition would disappear, a figment of their imag­inations and the night.

But Balthazar wasn't going anywhere, except through them, and the leader of the guards yelled, "Attack," and they did, rushing forward with swords waving.

Queen Isis had seen the Nubian in full battle form before; but even she could only be impressed by his frightening skills. A massively muscled right arm raised and lowered and swung and carved that blade with swift, spectacular precision; Balthazar's strat­egy was impeccable, using one body to block and unhinge another opponent, until they were literally falling over themselves, the living onto the dead.

And soon the elite red-turbaned guards lay scat­tered across the bottom of the palace steps like hu­man refuse, while the Nubian king loomed above them like an unforgiving god.

Balthazar gave a solemn nod to his fallen foes, saying, "We will meet again in the underworld," and then he strode, two at a time, up the steps of the palace, to the golden doors at the top landing.

"Wait!" Isis called to him. "What are you doing? Where are you going?"

Balthazar turned; at the crest of those steps he looked more like a great guard than the invader he was. "The magician's powder should have worked its magic by now—we must modify our battle plan."

Eyes flaring, Isis asked, "In what way?"

"I am going inside," the Nubian said, "and aid the Akkadian."

The queen gestured to her warriors, the women here and there about the steps. "Shall we come, too?"

"No."

"You would do this alone?"

"Yes—just as the Akkadian said he would stand alone against Memnon and his armies."

"But..."

"Woman! Do I have a choice? ... Guard these doors!"

And Isis stood guard, as the Nubian king, unan­nounced, went calling on Lord Memnon.

When the alarms bells went off, Philos and Arpid were in the lower halls of the palace, stacking their bags of powder in a position deemed by the scientist as ideal for their destructive purposes.

Arpid had no opinions to express: he accepted his lot, and placed the powder sacks wherever he was

told. He had one of the sacks in hand when the echoing peal interrupted them. "What in the name of the gods is that?"

"That's the alarm for the Red Guard," Philos said. "We must hurry!"

Doing as he was told, Arpid spun quickly, and— thanks to a small hole in the bag, which he held like a baby—a spray of black powder freckled Philos's face.

"Be careful, you fool!" The scientist wiped the dangerous stuff from his cheeks. "There's a hole in that sack. We're not here to blow ourselves to noth­ing!"

"Well, maybe we should patch it." The thief grabbed a torch from the wall and used it to see where the rip might be, and in so doing twisted around—like a dog chasing its tail—leaking a black powder trail.

"No," Philos said, "don't—"

But somehow, in the process, a drop of burning oil fell from the torch onto the black line, lighting it. Arpid yelled and—still cradling the very bag leaking black—began to run away from the ever-following, sparking line of powder.

As Arpid ran screaming down the corridor—the alarm bells adding to the chaos—the scientist shook his head and raced after him, snatching the sack from the thief's grasp, and stomping out the spark­ing powder.

Arpid, breathing heavily, smiled sheepishly. "Sorry."

The scientist regarded the thief with rising irri­tation. "I should have teamed up with the Akka­dian's smarter partner."

"What? Who?"

"The camel! ... Calm yourself."

Philos took the bag he'd confiscated from Arpid, and—as this was the last one—used a knife to slice the top of it off, and began to lay his own fuse trail ... back to the pile of sacks they'd arranged down the corridor.

Finished, Philos viewed his handiwork with some pride; but he was nonetheless anxious. "Come on, thief. I only hope we're not too late."

And Philos headed off, and Arpid hurried after him.

Neither of them noticed that the thief's sandal had cut through the powder trail, severing it.

In the throne room, the alarm bells had finally stopped, but the battle raged on.

Wielding his two swords, Lord Memnon pressed his attack on the Akkadian. Both men were skilled warriors, fueled by hatred of each other, and they traded the advantage regularly, their swords flying in expert onslaught, sparks flying from the colliding blades.

Cassandra, free of the snake—where had it gone?—surreptitiously helped the Akkadian's cause in two key ways, neither of which Memnon—busy with battle—noticed. First, she barred the throne-room doors, to keep this fight limited to just the two men. Second, she slipped a slender, filigree-adorned sword from a wall, and held it behind her, as she attempted to position herself behind Memnon ... though as energetic as the duel was, that position was ever changing.

But her hope was to drive that sword into the warlord's back, and change the future, defying her prophecy....

Outside the palace, Queen Isis knelt before two un­common commoners, helping Philos and Arpid up out of the grate.

"It is finally done," the scientist told her. Looking around, at the warrior women posted on the palace steps, flame-lamps on the upper landing casting flut­tering shadows in the cool breeze off the desert, the scientist noted the Nubian's absence.

"When your powder did not go off as planned," the queen said, "Balthazar entered the palace to help Mathayus."

"Why, that palace crawls with Red Guards!"

"Yes ... but do not underestimate our friend." And the queen nodded toward the shadowy area, along the outer wall, where the ten dead guards, slain by Balthazar, slept the sleep from which one never wakes.

Always taken aback by such carnage, nonetheless the scientist said, "Well, he is a remarkable fellow, at that." And Philos withdrew from under his robe a small hourglass, turning it over.

As the sand began to trickle down the narrow throat of the glass, Philos said, "When this runs out ... more or less ... we should have a considerable distraction."

Isis sighed, looking toward the palace. "They can use the help."

The scientist nodded. "Come on, boys," he said to himself, speaking to the absent Mathayus and Balthazar. "Time is running out...."

Which, in the hourglass, it was.

But in the halls where the bags of powder had been set, the fire was out. No rush at all.

Cassandra and her blade could not seem to get be­hind the the hated Memnon, but Mathayus likely would make her efforts immaterial. The Akkadian had the upper hand now, his mighty scimitar forcing Memnon back against a massive golden six-foot-tall statue of a ram, which regarded the contest with dis­interest from the periphery.

Then something crashed against the doors to the throne room, a resounding whump, as men beyond tried to knock them open, possibly with a battering ram.

As they traded blows, Memnon—despite his in­ferior position at the moment, hearing his men at the door—grinned wolfishly at his opponent. "A noble effort, Akkadian... but my palace guards are the fiercest warriors alive."

"Oh I know," Mathayus grunted, over the clang of his blade against the warlord's. "I soaked the de­sert with your best soldiers' blood."

"Ah," Memnon said, parrying both words and swords, "but how will you fight them all?"

At that, the throne-room doors crashed open, and the battering ram revealed itself as Balthazar, locked in hand-to-hand combat with four guards who were hanging on to him, as if for dear life, when in reality they were doing their best to bring the mountain down. His sword was still in hand, but the guards had grabbed onto him, pinning his arms, and the Nubian was, if not helpless, severely hampered.

The big man yelled in rage and flung the four men off him, and they scattered around the throne-room floor, like toy soldiers discarded by a jaded child.

Balthazar—his sword in hand unencumbered now—moved into the throne room, getting his bear­ings, wheeling around, waiting for the next assault.

He did not have long to wait: more guards poured in from the corridor, and the ones he'd cast off were getting to their feet again, their own swords at the ready. The Nubian smiled, as if in welcome, and charged them with his sword, cutting them down like weeds.

One of the guards who'd just entered moved past the Nubian battling his fellows, and marched men­acingly toward Cassandra.

"You!" the guard said to her, his voice com­manding, rising above the metallic clank of swords. "Sorceress! Get out of here, now! This is no place for a woman—it is not safe."

"I believe you're right, kind friend," Cassandra said, and in a fluid movement that hypnotized the guard with its swift grace, the sword came from be­hind her back, and made two silent swipes.

The guard, surprised, slipped to the floor, as if for a nap—albeit a permanent one.

The entrance of the huge Nubian—a one-man army cutting a swath of death through his best guards—shook Memnon's confidence—Mathayus had not come alone! How many invaders would there be... ?

Mathayus drove forward, hacking at Memnon, like he was a stubborn tree in his path, pressing him back again, as that golden ram looked on, diffident in the midst of so much mayhem.

And in front of the palace, where the reinforcements awaited an explosion, none had taken place.. . though the sand had indeed run out in the hourglass.

The thief regarded the device in the scientist's hand, asking him, "Doesn't that mean that our pow­der should have gone off?"

"I had to allow for the time we spent, moving through the passage, but..."

Queen Isis was looking on, disapprovingly.

Philos shook his head. "How can this be?"

"Could it be that you're a crazy old muttonhead?" Arpid asked, his patience worn thin playing second fiddle to this fraud. "A fool who doesn't know the first thing about magic powder?"

But the scientist seemed not to have heard, and only repeated, louder, "How can this be?"

Isis frowned. "What can be done?"

"We must go back," the scientist said, "and in­spect the explosives."

Arpid's eyes grew huge. "What? And have them go off in our faces?"

Philos didn't seem to hear that, either. In fact, the thief had barely gotten his question out—much less had it answered—when Philos went running back up the steps, into the palace, through the front doors this time, weaving in and around the positioned war­rior women.

Arpid looked at Isis and shook his head. "Well, this is going well."

"Go in with him," the queen said.

"What? I don't want to get killed!"

Isis gestured with a dagger. "Exactly my ... point."

Arpid swallowed. "The old boy may need help, at that."

And the thief scurried up after him.

Isis sighed. "Men," she said, and her warriors rolled their eyes and nodded.

Within moments, Arpid had caught up with Phi­los, and—using a different route, but a more direct one, thanks to the scientist's knowledge of the pal­ace—they were soon back in the lower recesses of the grand structure. It did not take long for Philos to locate where a footprint marked the spot where the line of fuse powder had been disrupted.

Quickly the scientist repaired the damage, and re­lighted it with a torch borrowed from the wall. The powder burst into flame and obediently raced away, toward its final destination.

"That was easy," Arpid said, relieved not to have been blown to smithereens.

"It was your stupid feet that did it!" Philos snapped.

"Look," the thief said, "casting blame won't solve—"

"Neither will talking. Unless you would like to wait to hear the explosion, from this closer vantage point."

"No!"

"Then go, fool—go!"

They went—Arpid running on ahead, the older man trailing after.

"Come on, old man!" Arpid yelled back. "If you don't want to get hurt, hurry up!"

At which point the thief ran headlong into a low-hanging rafter, knocking himself out.

The scientist jogged up and looked down at his sprawled cohort. "Unbelievable," he said, sighed, and bent down, to hoist the little thief up onto his own scrawny shoulders.

Truly, he thought, lugging his unconscious cargo down the passageway, the camel would have been a better choice.

In the throne room, the battle raged on, the sword fight between the Akkadian and the warlord contin­uing past a point where lesser men would have collapsed and likely died from such a colossal physical effort.

Theirs was not the only superhuman campaign undertaken in this room: Balthazar continued his solo slaughter of the palace guard, skilled red-turbaned swordsman falling in bloody shreds as the Nubian's deft skill, powered by superior strength, took down one after another.

Then, lost in his killing frenzy, Balthazar bumped into someone, a foe coming up behind him he sur­mised, and he whirled, ready to kill yet another guard. The Nubian was already swinging his sword when he realized the blade was slicing down toward the spine of the Akkadian, who had been driven back into Balthazar by Memnon.

But Mathayus—without even looking—raised his sword over his head, to swiftly block the blow; then returned to parry another of the warlord's thrusts.

Over the clang of blades, the assassin called out to the Nubian, "Try to just kill them, please!"

And now the two men were fighting, back-to-back, as several guards pressed forward, as Baltha­zar dueled two of them at once, and Memnon continued his attack.

"You bumped into me, Akkadian!" the Nubian said, between blows. "You are the clumsiest assassin I ever saw. ..."

Mathayus flicked a look at Balthazar, whose face clenched with something unusual for him: fear.

Then the Nubian blurted, "Look out!"

A guard was swinging a sword at the Akkadian's face, coming in to aid his lord, and Mathayus jumped back a step, at which time he heard the hiss­ing, and realized what Balthazar had really been warning him about....

That king cobra was sitting up, near the Akka­dian's feet, and it seemed very irritated to be caught in the middle of all this commotion.

Then two snakes struck at the same time—the cobra and Memnon. Mathayus deftly dodged them both; but now he found himself trading thrusts and parries with the warlord even as the hissing snake slithered around, seemingly only attracted to the Ak­kadian's nearby calves.

This distraction cost Mathayus dearly—his coun­terblows were weakened, as he tried to avoid not only Memnon but the venomous serpent. The war­lord had seen the snake, but it held little if any threat for him, as it was much closer to the Akkadian. At any rate, the warlord's battle leathers protected his calves. He took the advantage and delivered several slicing blows to the assassin's torso, nothing fatal, but wounds oozed blood, adding pain to the distrac­tions already plaguing the barbarian.

Balthazar would have helped the Akkadian and cut that cobra to ribbons, if he could; but his atten­tion was on the doorway, through which a steady stream of reinforcements came, even as he drove— and chopped down—the guards already in the chamber back toward that entry.

The great Nubian warrior was starting to feel the cost of the struggle—his arms aching, his wind heaving. How many of these bastards must he kill? Left and right, they fell—and still they kept coming!

The Akkadian, in the meantime, had worked his way to an oil lamp, both the snake and the warlord following him. He kicked the spindly legs out from under the lamp, sending the bowl of fire crashing to the floor, burning oil washing toward the snake, droplets stinging it, spitting back at the serpent.

And the cobra had had enough—it slithered away. Let the humans battle all they wanted.

There was no time, however, for Mathayus to feel any sense of relief, as Memnon—who seemed to have gotten a second wind—was bearing down on him again.

The lamp Mathayus had toppled, having done its work with the cobra, now sought new victories, as flames spread, tickling the bottom of a huge hanging wall tapestry. Within seconds the tapestry was a sheet of flame, and the fire spread to other wall hangings, until the very walls themselves seemed ablaze.

A barrier of fire separated Mathayus and Memnon now, and the Akkadian might have snatched up the sorceress, and left the final defeat of the warlord for later, if those flames hadn't separated him from his beloved, as well. Fire cracked and snapped and a hellish heat permeated the room, drenching the par­ticipants in glistening sweat.

Memnon seemed to relish the blaze, a demon at home, and he knocked the top off another oil lamp, and ran his blade in its boiling oil.

Mathayus stared through the leaping flames— where was the bastard? And then Memnon came flying over the flames, in a somersaulting leap that only confirmed the warlord's warrior stature; and when he landed at the Akkadian's feet, Memnon swung his sword down and the two blades clanged and sparked!

Cassandra's eyes widened in terror and wonder, as she witnessed the two duelists parrying and thrusting with flaming blades now. But the arcing fire seemed to inspire Memnon, and perhaps unsettle Mathayus, because the warlord had the advantage now, driving the bigger man back, back....

A weary grunting caught her attention, despite the crack of flames and the clang of blades (and the crack and clang of flaming blades), and she turned toward the doorway, where the great Nubian was clearly tiring. Bodies were scattered carelessly at his feet, but Balthazar seemed all but overwhelmed, as more and more guards kept coming, driving him back into the burning throne room.

"Mathayus!" Cassandra cried. "He needs your help!"

The Akkadian dodged a swing of Memnon's flaming sword, and saw for himself—Balthazar fighting as hard as he could, but the numbers de­feating him, or threatening to.

Then one of the guards slashed the Nubian's leg, a deep gaping gash, and Balthazar howled in fury, the wound spurring him to fight even harder, slash­ing blindly.

Mathayus knew if he didn't come to Balthazar's aid, the great warrior would soon be overrun, and cut to pieces....

With all the force he could muster, Mathayus swung his sword at Memnon, who could only fend off the blow by using both his swords. Distracted, Memnon was not prepared when the Akkadian kicked him, hard, in the chest, sending the warlord flying backward through the flames.

The horde of guards closing in on Balthazar would be too much even for Mathayus to take on, blade for blade; thinking fast, he ran to the six-foot ram's statue, and summoning all his strength, all his willpower, he lifted the huge statue and held it above his shoulders, like a tree trunk, and he charged to­ward the guards who were attacking his ally, and he hurled it into them, the massive object smashing into their midst, crushing some of them, scattering the rest.

Balthazar, catching his breath, nodded to Matha­yus, who nodded back; this would be all the Nubian would need, to get his footing again.

Cassandra had watched this with amazement and admiration, and then she wondered if she could reach Memnon and surprise him with her blade.

But as she turned, Memnon surprised her, instead.

The warlord was running at her—just as in her vision, though the location was different, and he was not on horseback, but his face, his teeth bared in a hateful grimace, was the same!

In one continuous movement, he rammed a shoul­der into her midsection, knocking the wind from her, her small sword flying, as he tossed her over his shoulder like a bag of wheat. Racing through the inferno of the throne room, the warlord swept the woman from the chamber.

Just as Mathayus was moving toward that door­way, a hanging tapestry above drooped down, cre­ating a wall of flame, driving him back.

Almost colliding with Balthazar, Mathayus said, "Are you all right, my friend?"

The Nubian smiled grimly. "You go—friend. I'll hold these bastards off."

Here and there in the blazing throne room, the surviving guards were picking themselves up, re­grouping.

"You save her, Akkadian," Balthazar ordered.

"Who am I to defy a king?" Mathayus asked.

And he ran through the flames, into the corridor.

Time of the Prophecy

O

utside the palace, Isis again knelt to help Philos, the scientist's exasperated visage having ap­peared in the hole beneath where the grate in the street had been. But this time he required special aid: the little horse thief, dead to the world (thanks to a knot on his head), had to be hauled up out of the hole like another, if bigger, bag of powder.

The queen's creased brow posed a question, but the scientist, getting yanked up out of the sewer by the slender strong hand of Isis, said only, "Don't ask."

"But you were successful?"

"Oh yes .. . but the timing will be less precise. We must wait; we are at the whim of the gods, with just a touch of help from science."

And, in the lower recesses of the palace, the sparking fuse was racing through the corridors. In the courtyard, in the moonlight, Memnon emerged with Cassandra over his shoulder. He set her roughly down and paused to catch his breath— not so much from hauling the lightweight woman as recovering from the throne-room clash with Matha­yus, as hard fought a contest as the Great Teacher had ever endured.

Cassandra was breathing hard too, clutching her stomach from the nasty blow she'd received from Memnon, when he tackled her up into his clutches.

Memnon himself leaned over in exhaustion, breath heaving, hands on his thighs. His upper lip curled into a caustic sneer. "All... all these years ... lying to me."

She shook her head, managed to speak. "I never ... never lied."

Around them in the windows of the palace, fire was raging, spreading from the throne room. A great tapestry suddenly dropped, slumping over the en­trance from the palace, through which they had just come, blocking entry in a snapping, flapping, leap­ing wall of flame.

His breath was returning to normal. "And what of my great victory that you foresaw?"

"I saw that—I did see it." Now her lip curled into a sneer—a defiant one. "And I hoped to prevent it!"

The warlord moved toward her, and she backed up as he came. "Guarding your chastity like a pre­cious stone—only the 'diamond' was nothing more than cheap glittering glass!"

"Don't touch me. ... Mathayus will kill you, if you touch me."

"He'll try, anyway." Memnon stopped, and looked into the sky, where the moon had nearly reached its apex, luminous in the purple shroud of the night—peaceful, lovely, in contrast to the raging flames consuming the palace, and the bitter battles waged there. "Well, my dear, your deception has come to naught."

Quick as a cobra, he lashed out and grabbed her by the arms and spun her around, holding her to him from behind, slipping his arm around her slender throat, his forearm pressed against her Adam's ap­ple.

"The time has come, my love," he said tenderly, dragging her across the courtyard, as she struggled to no avail. "I will ascend these steps and become one with the gods."

Choking, Cassandra clawed at Memnon's arm, futilely, as he yanked her along, towing her toward the grand altar the Great Teacher had erected to him­self, a dozen stone steps rising to a platform bor­dered by rams, overseen by a statue of a god resembling himself.

"Let your eyes bear witness," he said. "Perhaps they no longer are blessed with a sorcerer's vision, but they will soon be filled with my vision of the future—a world ruled by Memnon!"

The warlord had just hauled the squirming, re­sisting woman to the bottom of the altar steps when that burning tapestry, blocking entry from the pal­ace, seemed to split itself in two!

The Akkadian's sword had, with one mighty slash, cut a passage for himself, and he burst through the blaze, a godlike vision emerging from smoke and flame at a dead run, relentless, enraged, his eyes trained on Memnon in as sure and lethal a fashion as if he'd been sighting an arrow.

The warlord released Cassandra, roughly, hurting her to one side, and then Memnon was upon him. Cassandra hit the stone floor hard, skinning an arm, wind again knocked from her; but—even heaving for breath—she watched with hope and fear as Ma­thayus attacked.

Memnon withdrew a sword and blocked the Ak­kadian's first, crushing blow, but barely; and now, in the open air of the courtyard, rippling bodies highlighted by the moon's ivory and the fire's or­ange, the two men again clashed swords, the clang and clack ringing, echoing.

In the throne room, Balthazar had killed or at least wounded every opponent; but he could barely stand, his leg badly slashed, blood streaming, weakening him. Leaving behind a scarlet scattering of the dead and dying, the Nubian limped from the throne room and its spreading conflagration, into the safety of the corridor.

Only safety was not what awaited the king of the bandits: a long staff, hurled at him, walloped him alongside the head and sent him to the stone floor. Above the hoarse roar of flames came the sound of hoofbeats—within the palace?—which seemed to Balthazar a bizarre aural hallucination, until he pushed to one elbow and saw the all-too-real sight of that patricidal swine Takmet, riding toward him on a stallion no darker black than its rider's soul.

The horseman drew up, in the wide corridor, near the fallen Nubian, and grinned down at him, laugh­ing madly, brandishing a lance with a curled-hook tip. Takmet jabbed it at the fallen Balthazar, who— at the last moment—managed to roll out of its reach.

The Nubian king climbed painfully to his knees, and the harsh, gloating voice of the vicious prince echoed off walls decorated with the reflection of orange-blue flame. "Why, Lord Balthazar—if I am no king ... why are you kneeling before me?"

This insult was a blessing from the gods, because it inspired the man mountain, sent rage-fueled en­ergy surging through him, and—pushing off the wall with his free hand, his sword filling the other— he used his good leg to rise, and face the lance-wielding man on horseback.

In the courtyard, the battle between the barbarian and the would-be king raged on, while the sorceress who had served the latter and loved the former watched helplessly. Mathayus fought with a ham­mering fury, but Memnon made up for a compara­tive lack of strength with dexterity, grace and brutal speed—his ability to fight with a sword in either hand allowed him to fend off the Akkadian's every blow with one hand, and respond with the other.

They had fought to the bottom of the steps of the altar, Memnon pressing the attack, driving his an­tagonist back, until Mathayus knocked into a flam­ing blazier. While the assassin deftly sidestepped— with a grace rivaling that of the smaller man— Memnon took a precious second or two to reach down to the fallen lamp, where he again ran his blades through blazing oil.

Once more the warlord's swords danced with fire, and he charged Mathayus, the whirling swords spin­ning, the flames a dazzling, blinding array of skill as the warlord slashed forward, sending spitting oil spraying onto the Akkadian's arms.

The oil droplets jumped to flame, and now—as if dealing with a warrior of Memnon's skill weren't enough—the assassin was having to take time to shake flames from himself, as if throwing off biting insects, a distraction that aided the warlord in back­ing Memnon up to the edge of the precipice that lined one side of the elevated courtyard.

Mathayus glanced over his shoulder, at the Go­morrah street a very long way down; and a groggy Cassandra—just now able to get to her feet, from Memnon flinging her to the stone floor—cried out in despair, wishing there were some magic left in her to work in aid of her beloved, and help strike down that wretched villain.

In a corridor nearby, another deadly duel was under way, as the wounded Balthazar seemed out­matched by the fiendish man possessed, on horseback, Takmet's lance driving him back and back, with repeated jabs.

And as these battles—and an ever-spreading fire—raged, a burning fuse deep in the bowels of the palace took its sweet time traveling toward those piled sacks of black powder.

As Mathayus teetered on the literal brink, a long fall to death just behind him, Memnon struck hard with the flaming sword in his right hand, shoulder­ing forward; but Mathayus countered, catching the hilt of the warlord's sword, and leaned his own weight in, spinning the man around, toward that ledge.

A decorative half wall of rock, supporting the al­tar, saved Memnon, who slammed into it. Mathayus had taken a step back, so that his opponent could not reach out at the last moment and pull him along on a plummeting death. And now Memnon, breathing hard, resting against the rocks for a few seconds, stole his own look at the long drop. His feral grin revealed to the Akkadian a grudging re­spect for how near the "immortal" warlord had been taken to the edge of dying....

Mathayus had no time for such niceties, and swung his sword in sidearm fashion, hoping to cut the bastard in two.

But the warlord ducked the blow, and swung his leg around, the toe of his boot sinking deep into the Akkadian's side, doubling him up in pain, just in time for that same foot to kick again, catching his jaw.

That straightened the Akkadian, only to send him staggering backward, until he crashed into a table alongside the altar steps, crushing it under his con­siderable weight. Though his scimitar remained in hand, Mathayus was dazed, barely conscious, and ready for finishing off by the warlord....

But even as the fog began to lift in the barbarian's mind, he could see his opponent, not bearing down on him, rather staring up at the moon.

If Mathayus had not been dazed, he would have taken this opportunity to charge at the warlord, and slash him to ribbons; instead, groggily, he turned his own eyes to the moon, and wondered if he was de­lirious—the orb was ringed in silver, glowing all 'round. .. and the outline of a scorpion had become visible on its distant face.

As for Memnon, he knew he would have to put off killing the barbarian, for a few moments anyway; because a moment was upon him that must be seized, a juxtaposition of man and the heavens, a moment when reality and destiny became one: the time of the prophecy had arrived.

His swords no longer aflame, Memnon strode up the wide stone steps, pausing midway to call out to the sky, in a voice both grim and determined: "Great gods above—look down upon me!"

Mathayus began to push to his feet. Did this mad­man think he could command the gods?

The warlord on the altar steps still spoke to the sky, to the moon, but now his voice was hushed: "Make me one with you."

And Cassandra, her wits gathered, stood aghast as her prophecy seemed to be coming true. They were in the courtyard, just as she had envisioned it in the bandit's camp; and Memnon was on those altar steps, with Mathayus preparing to make an at­tack from the flank.

Frightened, she turned to one of several courtyard doors, trying to tap into her memory of the vision— an archer had emerged from a door onto this open area, but which door? She swung around, looking at another possibility, and another . .. any one of three doors....

Even now, she thought, that archer was pounding down a palace corridor, no doubt drawing an arrow on the run. But which corridor? What door?

Then, the door at the left held her gaze; no, she had not regained her mystical powers: she had merely spotted something growing up between stones, a flower struggling toward a sun that had long since set.

In her vision, the archer had stepped through a doorway, on the run, and crushed such a small, yel­low flower.

And in moments, the sorceress knew, he would do it again.

A man on foot—a badly wounded one at that— meeting a horseman's lance with a sword was by all logic doomed to failure. And, as if proof of that wisdom, Takmet thrust his lance expertly and caught, with its hooked tip, the Nubian by his calf. Takmet jerked upward, taking Balthazar's leg out from under him; the bandit king's other foot went with it, and he went smashing backward into a stone wall, sliding down to sit awkwardly on the corridor floor.

On his backside now, bleeding, breathing hard, Balthazar was cornered, the smirking Takmet loom­ing over him from his saddle.

As the prince's horse trotted almost casually up to him, Balthazar raised his hands in surrender.

Takmet's smirk disappeared and a smoldering rage turned into a blaze rivaling the one in the palace around them. "Force me to kneel before you? What gives you such gall, Nubian dog? What gives you the right to ask a prince to kneel before such rab­ble?'

And the furious Takmet drove the lance forward, aiming between those massive raised hands ...

... both of which caught the lance, and held it fast.

Takmet's eyes widened, his mouth dropped open.

Balthazar's eyes burned into whatever soul the wretch in the saddle still possessed. And he an­swered the prince's question: "What gives me the gall? ... About two hundred pounds' advantage, traitor."

And with a might few men could match, Baltha­zar yanked that lance, lifting Takmet off the saddle as if he were weightless, sending the slender prince flying...

... straight into a stone wall, where—as one might predict—he hit hard, like an insect into the helmet of a charging warrior. He slid down the stones, as if every bone in his body had been crushed into a puree, and puddled there, waiting for Balthazar.

It was not a long wait.

The Nubian, with renewed strength, strode over, hardly limping now. Somehow the stunned prince managed to draw his sword, but even he knew the fight was over. A big hand reached out and squeezed the smaller man's wrist and fingers popped open, and steel clattered impotently on the floor.

"Go ahead, Nubian," Takmet said, not defiant, just weary. "End it! Use your sword."

The king shook his head.

And raised a fist, no larger than the average child's head, casting a shadow that blotted out the face of the only son of the late King Pheron of Ur.

"This," Balthazar said, "is for your father."

Then that fist came smashing straight into Tak­met's wide eyes, and the last sound the prince heard was the sickening crunch of his own face, collaps­ing.

In the courtyard, Mathayus had recovered—he was on his feet, scimitar in hand, moving toward the steps, ready to charge up that altar and finish the madman Memnon.

"Mathayus!"

At the sound of Cassandra's voice, the Akkadian paused, turned, and saw her standing with her palms upraised—a wraith in the moonlight—her expres­sion solemn.

And just past her, behind her, he saw an archer burst through a palace doorway onto the courtyard, a sandaled foot crushing a flower, an arrow already notched in the warrior's bow.

Mathayus winced. In a flash, he knew: he knew what Cassandra's vision had been—of his death in this courtyard—and he knew what she now in­tended; like him, she wanted to change the future, even if it meant sacrificing herself, fashioning her own doomed destiny.

She sent love to him with her eyes, and then res­ignation covered her face, as she turned toward that archer, who was about to let fly.

Then the sorceress dove in front of that projectile, which already winged toward Mathayus, who had anticipated her move, diving himself, snatching her out of harm's way and into the shelter of his arms, and he spun toward the threat, offering his back to the archer's arrow.

The tip found purchase in his back, between his shoulder blades, and the shaft quivered there, satis­fied. Mathayus received this offering without a cry of pain, though his shudder was something Cassan­dra, folded in his arms, felt as if the reaction were her body's own.

"No," she said, agonized at the fulfillment of her vision, her emotions shattering into tears, "no ..."

Scimitar tumbling from his hand, Mathayus dropped to the ground, his arms slipping from around her, even as the archer—intent on ensuring the death of his lord's foe—ran toward the fallen Akkadian.

And Memnon—on the altar steps, aloof from all this—surveyed the scene, pleased that his enemy had finally been vanquished, a man big enough not to begrudge the archer for denying his warlord the pleasure of killing the barbarian himself. Memnon could afford to be generous—after all, the path to godly ascension was clear before him.

The archer was almost upon Mathayus, the man brandishing a sword, ready to apply a finishing touch, should his arrow have only done the job half­way. Cassandra, boiling with fury, snatched up the Akkadian's scimitar, and—when the archer arrived, bending toward his victim—she swung the scimitar upward, thrusting it deep into the startled archer's chest.

The archer glanced at her, his expression more apt for hurt feelings than a fatal blow, and he tum­bled to the floor, as dead as the stones that received him.

Mathayus, however, was not dead, though he was badly wounded; and he summoned his strength, and strove for clarity, as he pushed himself up on one hand, looking at Memnon climbing the final steps to the altar landing.

Too far away for a dagger thrust, the Akkadian knew, even if his powers had been at full capacity.

That was when he noticed a familiar friend—not a person, but an object, a precious artifact of the Akkadian warrior's past. . .

. .. his bow!

The formidable weapon lay, where the (late) prince of Ur had discarded it after the recent party, unable to pull its mighty string. Of course Mathayus had no way of knowing just how the bow had man­aged to place itself at his disposal; but he was not about to question this blessing....

Pain racked his body, but his determination, his sense of purpose, overcame the agony, which was inconsequential, compared with the agony of a world over which Memnon ruled. So the Akkadian crawled to that table, while Cassandra wept, turned away from him, unaware of his survival.

The barbarian's survival was something the Great Teacher had not learned, either. He stood on his self-made altar, his eyes raised to the glowing silver cir­cle that was the scorpion-faced moon.

A fist raised, challenging the sky, Memnon shouted his glory. "Hear me, gods! I am Memnon— son of Osiris, ruler of the world! And you . .. even you . .. will obey!"

Though fire snapped and sizzled in the palace nearby, Memnon nonetheless heard the movement behind him; his keen warrior's sense of self-preservation had edged out his self-absorption.

And the warlord saw Mathayus, the bow back in his hands.

But Memnon was not afraid. The Akkadian was wounded, probably dying. And Memnon was, after all, a god.

Still not on his feet, the Akkadian—pitiful fool!— was searching around that table, underneath it, like a dog seeking scraps, looking for arrows that were not there ... no quiver was attached to the powerful bow.

Memnon shook his head, chuckling.

The weakened Mathayus—getting to his feet now, but wobbly, with his bow in hand, if without arrows—stared up at the would-be master of the world. Their gazes met, and locked. The flames around them reflected in the warlord's eyes—it was as if those eyes danced with madness.

The Akkadian could not allow this bastard to live.

Gritting his teeth, Mathayus reached a hand over his shoulder, and in one fluid move, he tore that arrow from the flesh that held it, withdrawing it from between his shoulder blades as if his body itself had been the arrow's quiver.

A lesser man—almost any man—would have fainted from the pain. But the assassin felt a new energy throb through him, and with a flaunting spin of the arrow, he notched it, and ... using the pain itself as fuel... Mathayus somehow managed to draw back that Promethean bowstring.

Memnon grunted, almost impressed. But he was not afraid. Even before he was a god, snatching an arrow from the air had been his favorite trick. Hadn't he, in this very courtyard, proved that?

By now the sorceress had seen her beloved rise from the dead, and she was filled with hope, as she saw the remarkable barbarian facing his foe for one last try at changing the future.

But Cassandra's hope fell, as guards suddenly rushed into the courtyard. A captain ordered them to stand fast, and they did, frozen at the sight of their king atop the altar, poised against the purple night sky . . . with the Akkadian's arrow pointed at his chest.

The Akkadian's reinforcements, outside the palace, were a despondent group. Their plans had appar­ently gone awry; that fuse must have again been disrupted. Isis paced, her warriors anxious on the palace steps; and the scientist shook his head, be­rating himself under his breath.

Arpid staggered over to the little scientist. Woozy with disappointment, the thief put a conciliatory, consoling hand on Philos's shoulder, and said, "You have to face the truth, my friend. It is just not going to happen."

The scientist, eyes wide and haunted, shrugged in surrender. "Can the Chinese powder have failed us?"

This would have been an excellent moment for the powder sacks to explode; but instead, a huge contingent of Memnon's army came clanking around the corner, swords raised.

Arpid and Philos exchanged terrified glances.

And the brave queen of fighting female warriors raised her own sword, though despite her fierce expression, she knew—as did her brave women—that they would be slaughtered in seconds.

Up in the courtyard, Memnon had ordered his guards not to interfere.

He preferred to stand atop his altar, and invite that arrow. At first he stretched his arms wide, and then—as when he had demonstrated his prowess earlier, in this very courtyard—he slowly drew them together until his palms were about a foot apart.

Finally the warlord spoke; his voice boomed as he addressed the wounded Akkadian, who aimed that secondhand arrow right at him: "You would dare interfere with the prophecies of the gods?"

"Let me tell you something I have learned, teacher," Mathayus said, drawing a bead on the man's chest, "about these 'prophecies'...."

With this the assassin somehow managed to draw that taut bowstring back yet another foot. Mathayus narrowed his eyes, his face set, his expression grim, as he carefully targeted the arrow, whose very tip was even now dappled with the Akkadian's own blood.

As he stood with his hands apart, Memnon watched his adversary closely... and a flicker of doubt passed across the warlord's face.

"Don't pin your hopes on them," Mathayus said.

And he let that arrow fly, straight and true....

Just as Memnon's hands were about to snap shut, clamping onto that arrow, a fuse far below him, in the recesses of the warlord's palace, touched the bags of black powder.

The massive explosion rocked the structure and all the people in it, including Memnon, who was shaken enough to allow that arrow to find a new home in his chest.

Soldiers who had charged forward, as Mathayus let the arrow fly, now were tossed like dolls as a plume of orange and red and blue, surrounded by mushrooming smoke, filling the sky itself with flame and dark clouds, blotting out the silver moon, block­ing all other sound with its man-made thunder. The foundations of parapets were shaken so severely that a huge bell began to toll in one of them.

And in the midst of all this, the Great Teacher— Memnon, king of the world—was blown off his al­tar, as if that arrow had the power of the gods. Along the way, his robes caught fire, and when he went sailing over the wall, down toward the city street, the warlord was like a falling star his freed subjects might make a wish upon.

Below, Arpid and Philos—whose eyes were bright, faces wide with smiles, at their successful explosion—were not far away when Memnon's burning body hit with a sickening impact.

The soldiers who'd been advancing on Isis and her warriors—recognizing the burning form of their commander in chief—fell back, in horrified, lead-erless disarray.

Though the thief and scientist were squeamishly turning away from the human funeral pyre that Memnon had become, Isis herself smiled at the sight of the bastard as he cooked in his own juices. She was amused—she and her women had helped win this war without ever being called to the battlefield!

In the courtyard, Mathayus—the pain subsiding in the wake of triumph—staggered to the edge of the precipice and stared down to view the broken, burning body below.

Arpid, Philos, Isis and her warriors, and even the former soldiers of Memnon, were witness to an im­age so impressive, so indelible, all would carry it to their graves. As they looked up, the broad-shouldered figure of the Akkadian stood amidst flames, framed by a huge, approving moon, the glowing orb seem­ingly emblazoned with a scorpion symbol, like the crest on a warrior's shield.

Then Cassandra was at his side, and Mathayus took her into his arms, held so tightly they were as one; her adoring gaze was matched by his own.

By this time, Balthazar had found his way to the courtyard, and as he limped toward his brother in battle, he watched with amazement and pride as the remaining soldiers of Memnon's army dropped their weapons and knelt before the Akkadian, staring up at him in awe—a legend was unfolding before their eyes, and they would spread the word.

Mathayus and Cassandra were still gazing down at the fallen, flame-torn remains of the warlord when the Nubian limped up to them, saying, "By tolling bell and thunder's swell..."

Cassandra smiled at the hobbling giant, then looked up at her own giant, and added, "A flaming star falls from the sky."

And on the palace steps, as Queen Isis, a thief, and a former court magician gazed up through smoke and fire, captivated by the image of the god­like figure of the Akkadian, framed against the glowing moon, the remainder of Memnon's soldiers also threw down their weapons and fell to their knees.

"By a full moon's glow," Isis said, "in House of Scorpio ..."

"Kneeling men bow to the king on high," Philos said, finishing the thought.

"I knew that," Arpid said, and then he grinned, jerking a thumb skyward, and yelled to the surren­dering soldiers: "That's my partner!"

Scorpion's Destiny

T

he next morning, smoke still streamed into the sky over the walls and streets of Gomorrah. The battle was over, and rebuilding would soon begin— the palace needed repairs, of course (and a certain pouch of rubies would help renovations along), but the kingdom itself needed a new vision. That vision would not belong to a sorceress; rather, to its new king.

Mathayus—his wounds bandaged, a warrior-king well rested, his strength restored—strode with his queen through the streets of Gomorrah. Cheers would come later; right now, eyes were adoring, awestruck—which, in all frankness, the Akkadian (as he had admitted to his beloved) found discon­certing, even embarrassing.

Cassandra assured him that he would overcome these feelings; and no sorcery had been required to make this prediction.

Outside the main gates of the city, the Akkadian and the late Memnon's former oracle said their good-byes to their fellow warriors. Queen Isis had rounded up horses for herself and her women, and Balthazar was preparing to ride back to their oasis retreat, himself.

Mathayus approached the big Nubian, just before the man had mounted his steed. "Stay, my friend," he said. "There is much to be done here."

A small smile creased the battle-scarred face. "I have a kingdom of my own to rule—my own people to look after. ... I'll leave you your white camel, the little thief, and the magician, to keep you out of mischief."

Mathayus returned the smile, nodding, then turned to Isis. "And will you stay, and command my soldiers? They could use a woman's touch."

"I'm sure," Isis said, and she too smiled, though it was fleeting. "But I too have a kingdom of my own."

Balthazar caught the Akkadian's eyes and locked onto them, hard. "You are a king now—an assassin no more. I think you will make a good one ... as long as you do not forget how you came to your throne ... and the people you came from."

With a grave nod, Mathayus said, "Balthazar, I am the last of the Akkadians—the people I came from will live on through me."

The Nubian glanced at Cassandra, a sparkle in his eyes. "And your descendants, I trust."

Mathayus laughed, once. "And my descendants ... And my friend, there will always be a place in my kingdom for you ... And you, noble queen."

Solemn nods were exchanged between these war­rior rulers.

Then Mathayus returned his gaze to Balthazar. "Live free," he said.

They clasped forearms, in the Akkadian ritual.

"Rule well," the Nubian said.

Then the man mountain climbed up on his horse, and grinned down at his brother in battle, sizing him up. But the grin had disappeared when he said, "Nu­bian eyes will be watching you, Scorpion King."

Mathayus nodded, considering this advice— warning?—and he watched as the big man rode off. Queen Isis and her warriors followed, pausing to bestow surprisingly girlish waves of good-bye.

The Scorpion King turned to the woman he would soon marry, and he held her by her arms, gently, asking, "And what do you see ahead, my royal sorceress?"

Cassandra thought about that, knowing he was teasing, and yet taking the question seriously. "Peace," she said. "Prosperity."

"Good! And for how long?"

Her brow wrinkled. "Ah, well. Nothing lasts for­ever, my king.... That is the truth of all kingdoms. No mystical prophecy is needed to foretell as much."

Mathayus shrugged, as if to say he understood the validity of this view, and could do nothing about it. He looked toward the horizon, and saw black clouds gathering, looming, roiling... in the dis­tance.

"A storm is coming, my queen," he said.

"Yes ... many storms will come. But those are new stories, and we are at the end of this one."

"And the beginning of another?"

She hugged him. "Yes, oh yes."

As he held her, his smile turned sly, and he whis­pered, "How is it that you have these gifts of proph­ecy? Don't the legends say, that if—"

"Perhaps a woman giving herself to the man she loves remains pure in the eyes of the gods." She stepped out of his embrace, her eyes a-twinkle. "Or maybe that was just a device, to hold a randy king at bay. Can you think of a better way to keep a lecher from taking advantage of a poor girl? .. . Nei­ther could my ancestors."

He had to grin at such a family tradition of de­ception. With the speed of the warrior he was, he snatched her back, by the arms. "Lucky for me," he said, "we'll make our own destiny."

Then the Akkadian assassin, who had become a king, swept the sorceress, who would become a queen—into his grasp, and kissed her, deeply, pas­sionately.

She returned his kiss, but as they embraced out­side the fabled evil city of Gomorrah, she chose not to tell him of a terrible vision that had just come to her.

Cassandra loved this man, and he was a king now—let him enjoy it, while he could.

Besides, whatever troubles, even tragedies, might lie ahead, they were part of—as she had told him— another tale.

TIP OF THE SCIMITAR

I

am indebted to Stephen Sommers, the director (and co-screenwriter) of The Mummy and The Mummy Returns, for allowing me to play a small role on the ongoing team associated with these en­tertaining movies. The Mummy films are modern ex­tensions of the Universal Studios legendary horror-movie cycle; having grown up on those clas­sic pictures—like so many of my generation—I was thrilled to land the assignment of writing novels of­ficially associated with that grand tradition.

The Scorpion King, on the other hand, grows out of another classic tradition, that of heroic adventures associated with such fictional characters as Conan and Tarzan, and the mythic likes of Hercules and Ulysses. Writing this novel was my way of paying homage to the creators of those first two great he­roes—Robert E. Howard and Edgar Rice Burroughs (with a nod to a visionary filmmaker named Ray Harryhausen and a blind poet named Homer)—and I appreciate having been given this opportunity to do so.

I would like to acknowledge the screenwriters of The Scorpion King—Jonathan Hales, Stephen Som-mers, David Hayter and Will Osborne—for provid­ing such a fun, action-packed, well-crafted script. I had a wonderful time writing this, thanks to these gentlemen.

Cindy Chang of Universal provided her usual solid support, by way of scripts, photos and other materials; she also treated me with consideration and patience—thank you!

Similar thanks for patience and support go to Tom Colgan of Berkley Books; that Scorpion King of agents, Dominick Abel; and the lovely sorceress who could never have predicted what life with me would be like—my wife, Barbara Collins.