Max Allan Collins

by The King

  And then appearing before him, as if the sand parted to reveal him just for Thorak, stood the Ak­kadian, scimitar slicing another brave man to an un­dignified death. Thorak bore down on him, charged him, swinging the battle-ax in a blow the assassin could surely not have seen coming.

  But the Akkadian sensed him, and spun, answer­ing steel with steel. They flailed away at each other, the warrior on horseback, the barbarian on the ground, Mathayus like a force of nature, cutting and ripping, rivaling the whirlwind around them.

  Yet somehow the scarred-faced commander held his own—due in part to the advantage of horseback— and battle-ax clanged against scimitar, every blow met, every parry responded to with skill and precision. Worthy warriors, they might well have ad­mired each other's skills, if they had not been so busy trying to kill each other.

  Thorak saw an opening, took it, and Mathayus anticipated the move, knocking the battle-ax from the warrior's grasp, and thrust forward, with massive force that pierced the man's leather armor.

  Pummeled by sand, lanced with pain, Thorak tumbled from his horse, and fell to the shifting ground, dying. The Akkadian turned away, looking for new victims; but Thorak still had seconds to live, and he used them....

  Memnon's most trusted adviser of war took his last moments to withdraw an arrow, a certain arrow, from its quiver, removing the leather covering that shielded its tip. And using the arrow like a knife, he stabbed upward, catching the Akkadian in the thigh.

  The assassin winced in pain, and dropped to his knees, as if in prayer. Around them the only sound was the screaming sand—the red-turbaned guard all lay dead, most of them already half-buried.

  Thorak's last sight was that of the wounded Ak­kadian—perhaps they would continue this duel in the underworld—and then the sandstorm consumed them all.

  Before long, the wind of sand had moved on, leav­ing the desert's tan skin to shift under a more gentle breeze, whose fingers drew meaningless pictures and patterns on the restless dunes. The field of battle lay still as the death the sands covered; it was as if no one had ever been here—that, minutes before, a fu­rious clash had taken place at this site seemed an impossibility.

  Nearby, where the Akkadian had left his com­panions to wait for the outcome, the sands seemed similarly empty of life. Then fingers began to pro­trude from the dune's surface, like a corpse rising from its grave. A single eye blinked open, the rest of the face it belonged to covered by the sand.

  The horse thief sat up, amazed and delighted to be alive, and took some time brushing himself off, before giving any thought to either of his compan­ions. He stood at the highest point of the dune and shielded his eyes from the sun with the side of his hand, surveying the battlefield.

  A female voice said, "Arpid ..."

  He turned toward the sound, suddenly remem­bering the sorceress, who was coughing, saying, "Help me ... please," half-buried in the sand, the blanket Mathayus had provided her having long since blown away.

  Actually feeling a little guilty about forgetting her, the thief ran to the woman, helped her up; it took her a moment to get her feet steady under her.

  Then, alarm and concern coloring her voice, she asked, "The Akkadian—what of the Akkadian?"

  "The battlefield is deserted," Arpid said, with a shrug. "It's as if the sandstorm grabbed them up and cast them away, to some distant place."

  "We must look," she said firmly. "We must search."

  "Of course," he said, agreeing, feeling a strange emptiness at the pit of his stomach. Did he feel some emotion about that damned Akkadian? The bastard had treated him poorly, Arpid only hanging around him for protection's sake.

  So why did he feel worried? Sad? Experiencing such emotions, where another person was con­cerned, was new to the thief, and as such the sen­sation was disconcerting.

  The sorceress and the thief walked the battlefield, which on closer examination was not so empty, after all: half a dozen half-buried bodies presented them­selves. They walked carefully, gingerly, through this instantaneous graveyard. Then, suddenly, the sand shifted before them!

  A horse emerged from out of a small dune, and reared up, whinnying; this prompted another horse to do the same, and another, unburying themselves. The men had perished, but their steeds, many of them, had survived.

  "We'll have mounts, at least," the thief told the woman.

  Another small dune dissolved itself as yet another beast rose out of the sand: Hanna!

  Arpid ran to the mount; hard to believe he was

  actually pleased to see the fleabag ... but he was,

  he was__

  Cassandra, at Arpid's side as he held the camel by its reins, said, "No sign of her master."

  "He has to be here somewhere," Arpid said. "At least, his body does. ..."

  She frowned. "I don't sense him dead. Keep look­ing."

  Arpid gazed up at the camel. "Why don't you help? Where is he, old girl? Where's your master?"

  Hanna bellowed impatiently, and they realized, all at once, that the beast was standing next to a rounded hump of sand. They watched, astounded, as a shape rose, sand pouring off him, a battered, bloodied, bruised warrior emerging. ...

  Mathayus.

  Arpid and Cassandra exchanged wide-eyed, de­lighted expressions.

  As the Akkadian stepped away from his burial site, another warrior revealed himself, interred be­low him: wide-eyed in death, Thorak himself.

  "For an ugly brute," Arpid said, "he makes a pretty sight."

  Mathayus had gone to the woman. "Are you all right? Are you hurt? Did they ... ?"

  "No," she said. "I'm ... untouched."

  And the sorceress was struck by his concern, the depth of feeling in the dark eyes of the assassin. Had he gone through all of this because of his mission? For gain, for vengeance?

  Or simply to save her?

  "I'm fine, thanks," Arpid said to the Akkadian, who had not spoken to him. "Really appreciate your concern."

  Cassandra was looking at Mathayus carefully— he seemed unsteady. "Are you ... ?"

  "I am well," he said.

  Then she noticed the arrow, sticking out of the side of his leg—not terribly deep, but embedded there.

  "You need help," she gasped.

  The Akkadian reached down and gripped the ar­row and, gritting his teeth, ripped it free from his flesh. Heroic as this effort was, the brawny barbarian nonetheless screamed in pain, a sound that echoed across the desert.

  The woman, out of respect, looked away from this cry of anguish; the thief, out of squeamishness, did the same.

  The Akkadian staggered over to the half-buried corpse of Thorak; an amulet around his adversary's neck bore the insignia of the red-turbaned troops. Ripping it from Thorak's cold throat, he said, "Help me find his horse."

  "There it is," the thief said, pointing.

  Thorak's black steed, a distinctive beast, was among those milling around the battle site. The Ak­kadian walked to the horse, and examined the area around the saddle.

  "Another survivor," he said, with satisfaction.

  As Arpid and Cassandra joined him, they saw what he was talking about: a falcon, its head covered by a cowl, was thonged to the saddle. Mathayus un­tied the bird and attached Thorak's insignia to the metal band around its foot.

  The sorceress touched the assassin's arm. "What are you doing?"

  "Sending Lord Memnon a message," he said; but his voice sounded weak, his eyes seemed cloudy.

  Nonetheless, Mathayus managed to remove the bird's cowl and launch the falcon into the air; it wheeled, flapped regally, and flew away.

  The Akkadian stood with his hands on hips, watching the bird wing toward Gomorrah, and he laughed a deep, hearty laugh that turned, startlingly, into a cough.

  "Mathayus!" Cassandra cried.

  The assassin, seized by a cramping of his abdom­inal muscles, doubled over.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  His fingers indicated the wound, from the arrow. "Poi... poison
ed ..."

  And the mighty warrior, legs buckling, pitched forward into the sand.

  Touch of Magic

  As sunset painted the rocky landscape around the great city of Gomorrah a vivid orange, as if the earth itself had caught fire, a falcon flew over the fortified walls and to its familiar perch within the turreted palace of Memnon. The marketplace was closing down—excluding the dens of sin, of course—and soon all but the most dedicated lechers would have retired behind walls of stone, for time with friends and family, for food and rest.

  Lord Memnon, however, did not rest—he had as­sembled his generals in the great throne room, where maps were spread out over a large table. Most press­ing, of course, was Ur—the only unconquered land—and the warlord was sharing his latest strategies with his battle chiefs. As usual, his gen­erals paid rapt attention; but one of them—Toran— seemed strangely quiet, even preoccupied. And this troubled the Great Teacher, who preferred his pupils hang on his every word.

  Takmet, the heir to the empty throne of Ur, was present, but he too seemed to have his mind elsewhere, and did not crowd around the map table with the rest. Of course, Memnon had already informed Takmet of these strategies; even so, the man’s nervous pacing was a distraction.

  And of this assembly, of course, only Takmet knew the why of Cassandra’s absence . . . that the Akkadian had stolen her away.

  A falconer entered, with the regal, recently arrived bird on his arm. Approaching the warlord, then half bowing, he said, “A message from Thorak.”

  “Finally,” Memnon said, with a sigh of satisfaction. “The Akkadian is dead. . . .”

  But the warlord soon realized he was looking at Thorak’s insignia – his blood-spattered insignia – and nothing else. Rage and even a kind of sadness rose in him – the scarred warrior had been at his right hand for many years, and now the Akkadian had slain him, and sent this taunting message.

  Crushing the bloody amulet in a powerful hand, Memnon stood lost in thought for long moments, before General Toran stepped forward.

  “My lord,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

  The warlord banished the emotions from himself, and glanced impassively at his generals; he even summoned a small smile. “No – quite the opposite. All is in order.”

  The generals exchanged glances.

  "And I think, gentlemen," Memnon said, "this meeting is at an end."

  The generals half bowed and were making their way across the throne room, toward the doors, when Toran stopped and turned, the other men halting as well, though their expressions were tentative.

  With a boldness none of them had ever before dared, General Toran said, "My lord, it is customary for the seer to attend these meetings. We all know how valuable her council has been."

  Takmet paused in his pacing to look tellingly Memnon's way.

  "Why," the general was brazenly asking, "is the sorceress not with us tonight?"

  Around him, the other generals were nodding their heads.

  Memnon, hiding his anger at this affront, said only, "She is indisposed."

  The generals again exchanged anxious glances, and Toran asked, the suspicion obvious in his voice, "Nothing ... serious, I hope?"

  Memnon smiled, though his eyes were hard. "If it was serious, you would be informed.. .. Are you not my most trusted advisers of war?"

  General Toran again half bowed. "Yes, my lord."

  And the other generals did and said the same, and went out.

  With a growl of fury, Memnon swept the maps from his table and hurled the wadded-up leather in­signia at Takmet, who flinched.

  The wispily bearded adviser said, "I said nothing! I revealed nothing!"

  "Would that I could trade your worthless life for Thorak's," the warlord said bitterly. "Go! Leave me.

  And Takmet, who for all his faults was no fool, did as he was told.

  That night, in the surprising coolness of the sunless desert, under the purple star-tossed sky, the full moon touching the sands with a chalky ivory, the horse thief Arpid found himself in the unusual po­sition of taking charge of their little camp. He built a fire, as the Akkadian lay shaking under a blanket, lost in fever's labyrinthian halls, beads of perspira­tion jeweling his copper-hued flesh.

  Kneeling beside the assassin, the sorceress tended his wound, cleansing it with water from a goatskin pouch, bandaging it with cloth torn from the scarf­like bedouin robes she wore. Mathayus mumbled in his delirium, with only the occasional word compre­hensible—but among them were "Memnon" and "Cassandra."

  Watching her as she patted a damp rag to the Akkadian's forehead, surprised by her tenderness, the thief settled himself down in his own blankets. He wondered if the woman knew that she loved this man....

  Gently, Arpid asked, "Can you save him, sorcer­ess?"

  She glanced toward the little thief, her dark eyes leaping in the firelight. "Perhaps ... but his fever is strong. The poison is made from the venom of the scorpion."

  He frowned in curiosity. "How could you identify the poison? What, from the signs of his sickness ... ?"

  She shook her head. "I know, that is all.. .. This man is tied to the scorpion, in some mystical way even I cannot fathom. This may be a good thing— if he survives, that venom will always be within him."

  "A poison in the blood is a good thing?"

  She wrung out the cloth. "It may give him the strength of the scorpion ... and a resistance to any future poisoning."

  "But will he survive?"

  'Tonight will tell."

  Arpid sat up. "Well, you better work your magic, woman. He's our only way out of this desert—he dies, we die."

  Cassandra sat back, pausing in her ministering, as if considering the little thief's words; then she gazed up at the full moon, her lovely features bathed in its ivory glow. She might have been listening to words only she could hear—Arpid could not be sure. He knew only that she was lost in a near trance....

  And then she seemed to relax, her shoulders set­tling, and her expression was tranquil as she turned to the thief and said, quietly, "He will not die."

  Arpid frowned. "But he's poisoned, you said...."

  "Hush now, little thief," she said, her voice both musical and kind. "Do not interrupt."

  "Interrupt what... ?"

  "Hush."

  And Cassandra lay one hand over the Akkadian's heart and another over the nasty wound on his thigh; she closed her eyes, and drew within herself. The moonlight now seemed to provide an aura around her, her entire body haloed in its glow; or was the sorceress herself emanating that radiance ... no, surely, it was just the moon....

  Yet Arpid knew, somehow, that the sorceress was healing the assassin—that she was calling upon all her powers, every particle of her very being, to use her magic as a cure.

  Not far from their campsite, another figure trudged, a small figure with wild white hair and modest robes and an enormous pack on his back, the likes of which would half cripple a mule. And yet Philos the scientist had no means of transport beyond his sandaled feet, though he had a better sense of direction than most travelers.

  Partly that was due to the detailed maps in his backpack; but also he was guided by one of his own inventions, an instrument that in slightly different form would one day be known as a compass. The scientist's strange instrument, fashioned of wood and glass, included a primitive dial, with a needle that pointed to magnetic north.

  Right now, however, that needle wavered, strangely, pulled away, drawn to the east.

  Under the purple sky and the ivory moon, the odd little figure halted. Philos turned toward the direction the needle of his invention indicated—something was happening out there, in the dark desert night, something big . . . something that wasn't science... .

  At the small campsite, Arpid sat up, watching the sorceress do her mysterious work; suddenly the glowing aura disappeared, and the slender woman seemed almost to collapse, though really she only slumped, her shoulders slack, her head drooping, as she remain
ed seated there on the sand. It was as if all of the energy in her, every ounce of air, had suddenly vanished, like the snuffing out of a can­dle's flame.

  The little horse thief believed in magic, no ques­tion; but had never seen it so plainly at work, and he was wide-eyed with astonishment. He didn't speak for a while, afraid to, as she sat there, slouched, reeling from the intensity of her healing efforts.

  Tentatively, Arpid spoke. "Is he ... cured?"

  For long moments, the sorceress said nothing. She felt depleted, used up .. . and she had glimpsed into the assassin's soul, and memories and images from his violent past were spinning through her mind. Such a brutal being.. . and yet an innate goodness ... she had much to ponder.

  Cassandra arose and went to her own bedroll, and lay down, preparing for sleep.

  "Well?" Arpid asked. "Will he live?"

  "It is in the hands of the gods," she said.

  And she turned away from him.

  But the little thief had seen whose touch had con­veyed the magic to the feverish Akkadian, and it hadn't been the hands of gods ... had it?

  Mathayus awoke at dawn.

  It was a slow waking, blinking and bleary-eyed, and Arpid thought the Akkadian looked to be suf­fering the worst hangover since time began; but the man was, at least, alive.

  When Mathayus's eyes came into focus, a scraggedy-bearded face was hovering over him, and gave him a start. "Ahhh!"

  "She cured you," the owner of the face said. The horse thief. "I knew it! I could feel her magic ... I could see it!"

  Slowly, falteringly, the Akkadian propped him­self up on an elbow. He closed his eyes, then opened them again, fighting grogginess. "Cured me? She..."

  "She's not just a pretty face, partner."

  Mathayus looked across the now dwindled camp­fire at the still-slumbering Cassandra. She looked in­nocent, somehow, and if he had ever seen a lovelier creature, he couldn't recall it. Of course, he did have a blinding headache....

  She seemed to feel his eyes on her, and came awake; her eyes went directly to his, and their gazes locked. Her relief at his survival was evident, as a tiny, tender smile flickered across her lips.