Max Allan Collins

by The King

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

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

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

  By tolling bell and thunder's swell,

  a flaming star falls from the sky.

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

  Kneeling men bow to the King on High.

  THE SCORPION KING

  The Akkadian Assassins

  F

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

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

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

  "Silence!" King Pheron demanded.

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

  The roar of rancor fell to a rumbling grumbling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The eyes of the dark queen flared.

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

  The queen, her eyes tight, considered this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "I am their king, little man."

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

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

  And Balthazar began to squeeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Oh?"

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

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

  Quietly King Pheron stated, "Twenty blood ru­bies."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  . .. Balthazar.

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

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

  "So be it," the king said.

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

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

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

  "Assassin!" a deep voice called out.

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

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

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

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

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

  The Sorcerer's Secret

  T

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

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

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

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

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

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

  But Jesup's expression had said, Like hell!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Easy, girl," the Akkadian whispered.

  The camel's response was typically stubborn: she

  folded her spindly legs and sat down. Mathayus

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

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

  with any woman, there were simply things a man

  had to put up with__

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

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

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