by The King
Again, a bola whirled through the night to whip around the head of a guard, who flopped backward onto the sand.
Another nocturnal bird seemed to issue its mournful cry: Rama signaling "all clear" to Mathayus.
But Hanna's displeasure with the activities of the evening manifested itself with a honking groan, and her master clasped a hand over the camel's mouth.
"Be good!" the Akkadian whispered, glaring at the beast, who frowned a pout in response, before flapping her gums and settling.
Hanna's action almost covered the soft hiss of movement just behind Mathayus, but the Akkadian's ears were finely tuned, honed to the night, and he spun around, hand on his scimitar hilt.
But it was only the elder warrior, Jesup, who asked, "Ready?"
Mathayus nodded, and gestured toward the sentry on the wooden platform. "That one's mine."
Jesup nodded back, reminding the younger man, "Wait for the signal."
"Yes."
"Live free," Jesup said, initiating the traditional Akkadian farewell.
Then the two men gripped forearms, the leather wristguards snapping against each other.
"Die well," Mathayus replied, completing the ritual.
As Jesup slipped away, vanishing into the darkness, Mathayus quickly unslung his magnificent bow and notched an arrow ... not just any arrow. This one bore an iron tip with no feathered tail—an eye-bolt through which was tied a catgut tether line.
Powerful as he was, Mathayus always felt the strain drawing back the taut bowstring—though the weapon was all but a part of him, its use remained a challenge. And when he finally released the bowstring, the arrow seemed to burn through the night, with an impossible power and swiftness ... trailing its catgut tether.
A good quarter mile away, the arrow struck deep, embedding itself firmly in the thickness of a wooden lodge pole. Mathayus's smile was tight as he gazed across the encampment, the tether now bisecting the tent city from this dune to that distant pole. It cut past the sentry platform, just above and to one side of it... but the bored guard had not noticed, at least not yet.
Soon the Akkadian was tying his end of the tether line onto the pommel of his saddle. Slipping the bola over the tied tether—making a decent handgrip of its two iron balls—he nudged the camel to attention. No argument this time, as Hanna pushed to her feet.
Mathayus tested the line, to see if the tether ... and the camel. .. could take his weight. Hanna groaned in protest, but he gave her a hard look— now and then, he had to remind the beast who was boss.
"Stay," he said, firmly, and the animal and the man locked eyes.
And the beast nodded, or seemed to ... and that was good enough for the Akkadian.
He backed up, and began to run and grabbed onto the iron bola balls and went gliding down the tether line, off the dune and over the sands and toward the encampment. Hanna was staying put, and this was easy ... almost fun ... and the Akkadian risked holding on with one hand, to remove from his waistband his hatchetlike kama.
When he swooped past that sentry platform, Mathayus wielded the nonlethal side of the kama, using it like a war club, whacking the guard across the shoulders, knocking the man off his post, sending him spinning head over heels into the darkness, to either unconsciousness or death.
A few minutes prior, elsewhere in the encampment, two of Memnon's most lovingly sadistic torturers—a pair of fat, greasy, bearded, sweaty brutes as interchangeable as a right and left sandal—were heating up a poker in the coals of a campfire. Looking on with considerable interest was a skinny little weasel of a man, his leathers shabby, his face wis-pily bearded; his name was Arpid, and at the moment his world was turned upside down.
Literally.
For Arpid—a thief by trade, a horse thief by specialty—was suspended over the fire, his head so near the flames his scraggly hair was getting singed. Tied by the ankles and hanging from a post like an overripe fruit, Arpid watched from his upended perspective as one of the fat torturers withdrew the poker and displayed its glowing orange tip to his colleague.
Both of the fat brutes gazed lovingly at the fiery tip of the poker. To some men, work is but a job; to these two, imparting affliction was a calling.
They seemed a bit surprised, when a deep, imperial voice emanated from the dangling horse thief. "Stop! You must stop and heed my words—I am a high priest of Set!"
The torturers exchanged expressions of raised eyebrows and crinkled-chin consideration.
"Spare me," the suspended man intoned, "and the gods shall rain fortune upon thee, for all the rest of thy days!"
Now the torturers laughed, and the one with the poker began to raise its fiery tip toward the bare soles of the skinny man's bound-at-the-ankles feet.
Panic shook the skinny swinging frame, and an entirely different voice emerged from the victim, a reedy, whiny thing: "Please! No! Stop! Wait! I was not stealing that horse. I swear ... I was just doing the decent thing."
Now the torturers traded wide-eyed looks; "decent," was it?
"I was just moving that poor animal into the shade," the skinny prisoner avowed. "It was so very hot that day ..."
"Not as hot as tonight," the torturer with the poker pointed out.
As Arpid closed his eyes and waited for the searing pain, an Akkadian assassin—sliding down into the camp on a tether tied to a camel—was nearing this tableau of torture. And Mathayus would have glided on by, had the camel called Hanna not decided, at that moment, that enough was enough. The strain of that tether and all that weight was simply too much stress to endure, even to please her master, and the albino camel sat down.
So did Mathayus—in a way. The tether suddenly slack, the Akkadian was tossed onto the sand, in a rude pile, landing—as an impish fate would have it—right alongside those two fat greasy torturers, who paused prior to burning Arpid's bare feet just long enough to look at Mathayus in amazement.
Their surprise quickly turned to fury, and now both torturers had red-hot pokers in their hands, raised and ready to charge the intruder.
The intruder was having none of that. Mathayus whipped his scimitar from its sheath and dispatched both brutes, who were dead and draining their blood into the sand with nary a cry of alarm from either set of slobbering lips.
The dangling horse thief—the slashing sounds had pried open his eyes—gazed at his upside-down savior with adoring appreciation.
"Thank you, kind sir!" he burbled.
Mathayus glanced at the skinny creature hanging over the flames like a pig being roasted—a scrawny one.
Arpid thanked his rescuer profusely, babbling, "For the mercy you have shown me, the gods shall rain fortune on you for—"
"Quiet," Mathayus said, and elbowed the man in the face, knocking him out cold—or perhaps warm, considering the flames licking up at the thief's hair.
With the tether hopelessly slack, Mathayus abandoned it and slipped into the darkness, heading for the point of rendezvous; soon, deep within the encampment, he had hooked up with his two fellow Akkadians. The trio stood within the shadows and studied a corridor of sorts, between rows of tents.
"That one," Mathayus whispered, and pointed.
The other two saw immediately why Mathayus had singled out this particular tent—this shelter was unlike any other in this camp, and different from any these Akkadians had ever seen. A dome-shaped patchwork of hides, the good-size tent was decorated with symbols of astrology and ideograms of the occult.
Clearly the home of a sorcerer...
They moved stealthily across the open area between tent rows, the only sound the soft snick as they drew their knives, as they closed in quickly on the sorcerer's tent. As they dropped back into shadows, Mathayus's eyes were everywhere, taking in even the rustle of a tent flap, stirred by the night breeze .. .
... revealing the feet of dozens of guardsmen lying in wait!
"Back," Mathayus whispered, halting, arms spread, as he realized the trap they had
walked into.
And the other Akkadians stopped short, as well; but it was too late to retreat.
A flap running the length of the domelike tent snapped suddenly open—exposing a dozen archers who instantly let fly their arrows. At almost the same moment, a similar flap along a tent on the opposite side of the corridor snapped open and yanked upward and a dozen more archers were sending arrows their way, catching the Akkadians in a deadly cross fire.
Mathayus had the reflexes of youth on his side, and he leaped up, grasping the overhang of a large tent, flipping onto its tarpaulin roof, arrows flying just beneath him, barely missing him ...
... but not missing his two brother Akkadians, cutting them down.
And Mathayus could only stare down in horror as his companions were overwhelmed by the arrows. No help he could give would save them now . .. they were lost... and he could only surge forward, scampering like a cub across the sagging top of the tent.
So swift had Mathayus's action been, taking himself up and out of harm's way, the soldiers below— moving out from their hiding place into that open area—had not seen his escape. It was as if the third Akkadian had simply disappeared; they searched among the tents, not realizing the tall assassin was high above them, clinging to the very crest of the sorcerer's dome.
With his knife Mathayus cut through the hides and created an opening, through which he droppeddown, landing like a big cat, almost silently, on the hide-covered floor.
It was if he had entered another world, a strange, shadowy, yet golden tent-chamber where elaborate drapes and tapestries hung, ornate benches and furnishings lending a palatial feel, while a central fire created a smoky ground-level fog that added to an undeniable occult atmosphere.
Rising to a crouch, Mathayus unslung his formidable bow and notched an arrow. Clearing a hanging tapestry, he realized he was not alone. A figure with its back to him, in a long flowing cape with a high ornate stiff collar, decorated with moon signs and other enigmatic symbols, began to swivel around to him, with an unnatural fluidity, as if floating.
The sorcerer.
Closing one eye, the master archer took aim, as the figure turned fully to him...
... and the sorcerer, it seemed, was a sorceress.
As fully concealed as this figure had been with its cloaked back to him, now was it fully revealed. Barely clad, much of her golden-hued skin exposed, her form was slender yet shapely, high firm breasts half-concealed by a glittering halter, loins also girded in gilt. An oval face of such breathtaking beauty he had never seen—wide-set almond eyes as large as they were dark, delicate nose, small perfect lips, all framed by shoulder-length obsidian hair topped by a golden headdress.
Her eyes held his, hypnotically—was she a dream?
Entranced, thunderstruck by such rare beauty, Mathayus allowed his grip on the bowstring to loosen, slightly; then he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to regain, and maintain, his concentration.
This was sorcery ... and he had, after all, come to kill a sorcerer. Who was to say this was not a man, an evil magician, casting a spell of feminine illusion?
"I am Cassandra," she said. Her voice was musical, and as she stepped forward, tiny toe-ring cymbals kept time, chiming as she moved. On her hands were gloves of gold . .. with silver claws.
He had come here to kill. Once again he aimed his arrow at her heart....
"You have been betrayed, Mathayus," she said.
But her lips were not moving!
The voice, the lovely, musical voice, was in his mind! He squeezed shut his eyes, opened them, and sighted down the drawn arrow as he spoke.
"You know my name?" he asked her.
She nodded. In his head, her voice said, "And I know why you're here... but I'm afraid you will not find me so easily slain."
As he stared at his beautiful target, Mathayus felt a strange, perhaps sorcery-induced sensation ... time seemed to slow, even while his mind raced.
"So kill me," she said, aloud this time. "If you can.
Her eyes seemed to delve deep within him, to his very soul; he felt weak, the strain on his arm, however massively muscular, was enormous.
He let the arrow fly ... but his target was not the sorceress.
A red-turbaned guard had stepped inside the tent, just behind Cassandra, and the arrow took him off his feet and out of this life.
As Mathayus—alert, himself again—notched another arrow, the sorceress viewed him with ineffable sadness.
"I am sorry, Akkadian," she said aloud, as if she meant the words. As if she had wanted to die. "You lost your chance."
Another guard in helmet and leathers came charging at him, sword swinging. Mathayus threw down the bow, and whipped his scimitar from its sheath, with his right hand, and with his left withdrew the kama. When the guard was upon him, Mathayus deflected the sword blow with the scimitar, and swung the kama into the man's midsection, dropping him to the smoky floor to bleed and die.
The next one came up from behind, and the Akkadian swiveled and traded blows of blades with the man, then slashing him across the chest and elbowing him to the ground. Two more were on him then, their swords flashing, and the assassin swung his blade around, killing one instantly, wounding the other, but dropping both men. He finished the surviving one—the sorceress was chilled by the ice-cold expression of the assassin hard at work—with a downward stabbing blow, and was catching his wind, when suddenly they were everywhere, red turbans streaming into the tent.
Like a machine designed for killing, he fought them with a skill and ferocity that astounded the sorceress, much as her beauty had taken his breath away.
But their numbers overwhelmed Mathayus, until they swarmed over him within the confined space, and he did not see Memnon himself enter, in the company of his second-in-command, the scarred human demon called Thorak, who—trident in hand— advanced toward the one-man army.
Surrounded by red-turbaned guards, who had fought him to a standstill, Mathayus was preparing for one last glorious assault, to carve a bloody breech through them on his way to dying well, when the trident thrust forward, and its three prongs pinned him to the central tent post.
And in his mind he heard the voice of the sorceress again, genuinely sorrowful: / am sorry, Akkadian. I am sorry.
Desert Death
T
he sea of soldiers parted around Mathayus, who remained pinned by Thorak's trident to the tent post, allowing him to see his host approaching. No introduction was needed: the man in golden chain mail, whose regal bearing did not diminish the austere cruelty of his handsome features, could be no one but Memnon himself.
The Teacher of Men paused, appraising his brawny guest, saying, "A living, breathing Akkadian ... What a rarity ... what an uncommon pleasure."
And Memnon strode forward to Mathayus and planted himself before the warrior with a fearlessness that had nothing to do with the assassin's captive state.
"I have heard," Lord Memnon said, "that your kind trains itself to bear great pain." With a smile as small as it was nasty, Memnon nodded to his massive second-on-command, Thorak, gesturing for him to remove the trident. "Well, we'll put your capacity to withstand pain to the test. . .."
Mathayus spat in the warlord's face.
A tiny sneer preceded Memnon's response— which was to backhand the Akkadian, a blow of such power that blood spattered the tent wall nearby.
"You bleed like any other man," Memnon pointed out.
Mathayus sneered, too—not a tiny one, though ... a bloody snarl of defiance.
That look vanished, however, as the Akkadian heard a familiar voice: "What? No more cold, daring words from the heartless assassin?"
The sarcasm had come from a young, lightly bearded man in noble leathers, just entering the room, with a cowhide sack—large enough for a good-size water jug—gripped by its draw ties.
Takmet! The son of King Pheron of Ur ...
And Mathayus now understood why the sorceress ha
d spoken of treachery.
"You, Takmet," Mathayus said, his eyes wide. "You are our betrayer?"
This seemed to amuse the king's son, who answered by way of a sarcastic half bow.
In the brutal world in which Mathayus had lived his life, a man's word, his honor, was all that separated him from the animals, even the human ones. "You would betray your own father?"
Takmet shrugged. "My father was a forgetful old fool."
The words chilled Mathayus ... one word, anyway: was.
"He deserved no better from the son he slighted." The slender heir to the throne of Ur turned to the warlord. "The old man paid for underestimating me ... he was terribly shocked. You can tell by the look on his face."
And Takmet dipped his hand into the leather pouch and withdrew the head of his father.
Indeed, the expression on King Pheron's face was one of surprise.
Sickened, Mathayus scowled at this excuse for a man, and the guards around, even Thorak himself, frowned; the sorceress turned away, not in womanly fright but in distaste. Only Lord Memnon seemed pleased . .. and darkly amused.
Brandishing the severed head high, clutching it by its gray hair, Takmet said, rather formally, "With my father's head, I pledge my allegiance!"
With a casual gesture, Memnon said, 'Takmet, your loyalty is proven.... You shall command my left wing, and serve as governor over Ur, after its capture."
Thorak, at Mathayus's side, frowned a little.
Perhaps glimpsing this, Memnon turned toward his second-in-command, saying, "And with Thorak leading my right wing, we shall lay waste to all who dare challenge our might."
Mathayus despised this creature who was Memnon, but even he knew the man had a charismatic way about him—the red-turbaned guards were hanging on the warlord's every word.
"And by the rise of the demon moon," the Great Teacher was saying, "my armies will sweep to the sea... and I will ascend the throne as the king of ancient legend, favored ruler of the gods.... Just as the prophecy decrees."
Across the smoky floor of the canvas-and-animal-hide chamber, Cassandra nodded her confirmation.
