by The King
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 ...
&n
bsp; ... 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."
