Max Allan Collins

by The King

  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 se
emed 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 m
oved 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.