by The King
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."
Th
e 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.
