by The King
Feeling awkward, suddenly, the Akkadian said, "We should break camp."
And they did, without any talk of the remarkable events of the day previous. Perhaps an hour later— Mathayus astride Hanna, with Cassandra and Arpid riding horses bequeathed them by Thorak and his dead warriors—they were again under the desert sun, jogging along. Mathayus was still without focus—surprised to be alive, not yet forming his next move. For the first time in days, his mind was not filled with Memnon.
"I want to thank you," the Akkadian said to the sorceress.
She turned away, smiling to herself, happy for his gratitude, but not willing to let him know it. Then she looked at him, her face a beautiful blank mask, and said, "No thanks needed... It was self-preservation. If you had died, where would—"
But an explosion interrupted her—a loud roar that seemed to rock the desert floor.
The thief looked up at the clear sky, confused. "Thunder? Without clouds?"
Mathayus was noting a billowing of black smoke over a nearby dune. He sniffed the air and a familiar chemical scent tickled his nostrils. "That is not thunder ... but I think I know who caused it...."
A tiny fellow came running out of the black cloud, like a figure fleeing a burning house; only Philos the scientist was not terrified, rather he was ecstatic. "It works! ... It finally works!"
Running gleefully down the sandy slope, the soot-smudged little man saw the trio before him and his happiness only grew. As he ran up to them, he all but did a little dance.
"Ah, I knew it!" the scientist said. "I knew you were close, my lady—I felt it last night. .. and an invention of mine confirmed it... so I headed this way."
The scientist bowed, a low, respectful gesture, before Cassandra, saying, "My lady oracle .. . And you, barbarian—hello!... You see? I have perfected the Chinese compound! My magic powder works!"
The three travelers responded to this ball of enthusiastic energy with a stunned silence.
"By the way," the scientist said casually, "would any of you happen to have any water? I'm utterly out."
Their goatskin water pouch was near dry, too, but the scientist suggested they watch for birds, and follow them, for "our winged friends" would surely know the way to the nearest oasis.
And within an hour, they had reached an oasis so beautiful, so perfect, it should have been a mirage; but it was not, it was real, as the birds circling over its ring of palms confirmed. Just beyond the oasis, mountains rose steeply, and the desert seemed only part of the world, now, not its entirety.
Along the rock-bottomed pool, crystal waters shimmering under the sun, Cassandra knelt, cupping her hands with cool liquid. She glanced up at Mathayus, standing beside her, still moving on wobbly legs, but clearly on the mend.
She asked, "Do we dare drink? Or is it poisoned?"
Before the assassin could answer, the little thief came running by and hurled his fetid body into the water, making a huge splash, submerging himself.
"It is now," Mathayus said.
Nonetheless she drank the water down, and the Akkadian crouched beside her and filled his goatskin pouch and several water bottles.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"I'm not sure," he admitted.
"Well... what will we do next? Where will go?"
"I feel as though I've returned from the underworld, prematurely ... and I admit... I can't think clearly, yet."
She touched his arm. Her smile was as glorious as this perfect oasis. "You will. Time. Just a little time..."
Perfect oasis, he thought. Too perfect?
She began to say something, and he said, "Quiet, woman," his eyes slowly scanning their surroundings. His hand moved toward his scimitar.. .
... and around them, sand seemed to explode from the ground, ringing the water spot!
Men in leathers and animal skins, hard and fierce, rose from the holes they'd hidden in, tossing off rattan sand-colored mats, and aiming crossbows and slings at the little party.
"Oh dear," said Philos, on his knees by the waterside.
"Bandits," Mathayus breathed. But he had seen their like before... he knew these markings, the bone-and-bead necklaces....
Cassandra held tight to his arm as the bandits closed in on them—no escape possible, no fighting a crossbow aimed at the throat, not even if Mathayus had been in his full fighting form.
"I'm alive!" Arpid said, bursting up out of the water, capering like a child.
Then he saw the bandits and stopped splashing.
"For the moment," Arpid said, as water streamed down his face like tears.
Cave Men
M
athayus, Cassandra, Arpid and Philos—that unlikely quartet of desert travelers—were ushered from the oasis to the mountain range that rose from the idyllic water hole's edge. Here, massive rocks combined with the natural camouflage of hanging vines and the drapery of vegetation to shield a sizable entrance into a cavern. A caravan could spend the night at the oasis, and never suspect the nearness of the mountain lair of these bandits ... that is, the caravan lucky enough not to fall prey to their hidden hosts.
Their scruffy captors led the little party through a dark, dank passageway, lighted by torch, until— astonishingly—the cave opened into a natural open-air amphitheater, the late-afternoon sun dappling an incredible temple-size area playing home to a staggering network of tents and walkways, a sheltered world of bare timber, rope, twine, and canvas, encompassed by greenery climbing, then succumbing to, the cliffsides surrounding. Booty was stacked and stored here and there and everywhere—stolen, no doubt, from Memnon's caravans . . . which to the Akkadian seemed as noble a pursuit as any bandit might choose.
This shared enemy, however, made the assassin and his companions no less prisoners.
Mathayus and his improbable band were led by armed guards to a central place, around which scores of dwellers clustered ever nearer. The crowd consisted of warrior-bandits bearing shields and spears and wearing the war paint and leathers of numerous tribes, their women and children mixed in, swarming for a closer, openly suspicious look. Surprisingly, some of the faces—the females and the offspring particularly—were filled with fear; no warrior among this lot could compare in size and physique with the Akkadian ... and no woman could compare with the exotic beauty of Cassandra.
On the other hand, few were as puny as Arpid and Philos.
Nearby was the largest of the tents, a central canvas-timber structure, the door flap of which drew back, revealing a figure all too familiar to Mathayus ...
... the Nubian giant, Balthazar, with whom the Akkadian had traded barbed badinage—and potentially deadly tosses of the kama—at the late King Pheron's tribal council.
Balthazar remained the same formidable figure— ropy dreadlock braids on an otherwise bald skull, massive muscles carved from ebony, ritualistic decorative scars on a face dominated by slitted eyes and a broad flat nose, battle beads looped around a tree-trunk neck, shoulders so broad you had to look at them one at a time.
For a moment the Nubian king froze, as dark anger rose through him like smoke through a burning building. Then the man mountain's upper lip curled in a sneer.
"Assassin," he said, his voice deep, resonant. "The gods are good to me. When last we met, you were so kind as to offer to kill me..." The giant sat heavily on a timber-and-twine throne. "And now I have the chance to repay your kindness."
Cassandra glanced at Mathayus, expecting him to respond; but the Akkadian said nothing, keeping his eyes focused straight and unblinkingly ahead.
"My scouts," Balthazar said, leaning forward, a hand on one knee, "tell me you have failed in your mission. It is said the sorcerer lives."
Mathayus did not reply. And Cassandra began to wonder if she would be in danger, should the Nubian discover her identity....
"My scouts also say your two brothers were slain... and yet you took the same oath—that as long as blood ran in the veins of any one of you, the magici
an would die. . . . How is it you survived?"
"Give me a sword," Mathayus said, "and I will do my best to explain."
"Bold words!" The Nubian king shifted in his wooden throne. "Brazen boasts from one who trespasses."
"We do not trespass—your people brought us here."
"Silence!" Balthazar shook a thick finger at the Akkadian. "Our survival depends on keeping this location a secret. So you present a problem, Akkadian—as long as you're alive, at least."
The little thief stepped forward, tentatively. "Pardon me, sir—just so you know, since I'm sure you mean to be fair ... I have no idea how we got here. I just wasn't paying attention, and, besides, I'm nearly blind...."
Balthazar scowled at the little man, his expression as hard as the rock walls surrounding.
The scientist now stepped forward, smiling nervously. "What my awkward friend is attempting to express is our embarrassment and regret for stumbling into your sanctum. Kind sir, if you would spare our lives, we would be perfectly delighted to forget we ever saw any of your, uh, charming little enclave. So ... if we're agreed ... we'll be on our way."
"That," the king said, "is not a prospect open to you."
And Balthazar rose, his face firmly set, as if a decision had been made....
From a corner of his eye, Mathayus noticed someone was pushing through the crowd—no, not someone: a group, perhaps half a dozen knifing through the mob, parting them rudely.
"Balthazar!" a strong female voice cried.
Queen Isis emerged—that dark regal beauty, un-derclad in leather armor; and around her were what remained of her woman warriors, fierce beauties whose numbers had dwindled since the Ur tribal council.
She stood proudly, hands on her hips, gazing up at the looming Nubian king. "You violate your own laws, if you slaughter these visitors. You know full well this is a place of sanctuary for the enemies of Memnon."
Balthazar, trembling with a quiet rage, said nothing; but his gaze remained locked with hers.
"The winds have carried the stories," Isis said, "of the Akkadian's brave stand against the men of Memnon.... Now, I know that there are those among us .. . yourself included, Balthazar... who have no great love for my tribe. Some men fear strong women."
"Isis," Balthazar said, "you try my good na
ture__ "
She went on, as if he had not spoken, her words more for those congregated, than for the king. "I am not fond of the people of the western mountains. ..." And she gestured toward a face-painted group among the crowd. "Yet we accept them, as we accept all of those who come here, for shelter, in this time of Memnon's atrocities ... whatever our personal feelings might be."
Balthazar shook his head. "The Akkadian is different," he said. "He is an assassin, whose loyalty is within reach of the highest bidder.... As such, he is dangerous."
But Isis was shaking her head, now. "Your judgment on this matter is clouded...."
The Nubian king threw his head back and roared, "It is my judgment that keeps all of you alive!"
And now Balthazar strode over to the prisoners; he planted himself before them and said, 'Take the woman and the other two away."
The Akkadian stepped out in front of Cassandra and said, an ominous edge in his voice, "Fair warning, king—the first hand to touch her, I'm cutting off."
Cassandra looked at Mathayus anew: the caring, the passion, in his voice and eyes, were undeniable. Could this man . .. love her?
Balthazar withdrew his huge sword, grinning ruthlessly. "I could hope for no finer invitation, Akkadian."
Mathayus darted to one side, and as deftly as picking an apple from a tree, plucked a sword from the belt of a guard. The crowd instantly drew away, creating a larger arena, as the Akkadian charged forward without fear toward the giant Nubian, who ran at the oncoming threat, his own sword raised high.
The swords collided with a shattering impact— literally, the powerful blades fragmenting like glass under the blows of these two powerful warriors.
Mathayus reeled backward, and his opponent did the same—each man startled to see the broken-at-the-hilt sword in his respective grasp.
In a moment of frozen time, the two stared at each other, as if wondering what to do; then they made a simultaneous decision, and again ran at each other, this round with fists raised. The massed onlookers thundered with pleasure—rough people always ready to watch and relish a fight-to-the-death between well-matched warriors.
The Akkadian was shorter than the Nubian, but not by much; and the Nubian's muscled frame was thicker than that of the Akkadian, who seemed damn near lithe in comparison. Bulk made the king's blows more powerful than the assassin's, but the latter's grace and speed kept the hand-to-hand exchange even, the flurry of blows staggering both warriors, but neither falling, and no man gaining the upper hand.
Frustrated, Balthazar grabbed an iron pot from an open campfire and smashed it into the head of the Akkadian, on his next charge; stunned, Mathayus staggered backward into the side of a tent, taking the canvas structure down with him. In the meantime, one of Balthazar's men threw his king a staff, and the Nubian stepped forward with it, bearing down on Mathayus, who rolled back and forth across the fallen canvas, nimbly dodging the striking stick.
As he rolled, the Akkadian discovered, within the fallen tarp, the tent's pole, which he snatched up and used to parry the attacks of the Nubian and his staff. They seemed about to fight to yet another stalemate, as the two men expertly thrust and parried with their staffs, an exchange that only served to emphasize how evenly matched the warriors were.
Now it was the Akkadian's turn to feel frustration, and he summoned the fury within him to blot out the chivalrous give-and-take the duel had risen to, screaming in primal rage and laying into the Nubian, hacking away like a scythe at jungle grass, knocking the surprised giant backward, the Akkadian's ferocity trumping the superior strength of the king, and—with a blow that snapped his own make-do tent-pole staff in half—knocking the Nubian's staff out of his grasp and beyond his reach, driving Balthazar against a wall of timber ...
. .. and the ragged, jagged yet pointed half staff was poised at the Nubian's throat, dimpling the flesh.
Around them, the bandit amphitheater had gone dead silent. Every man there—including, and especially, Balthazar—knew that in an instant, with a simple thrust, the king would be dead.
But the Akkadian, while keeping that point pressed to the king's throat, chose instead to speak. "We are brothers, Balthazar, in the same cause."
"Brothers?" the defiant warrior said bitterly. "You have brought death to my people—as surely as night follows day, Memnon will follow you."
"I have killed those he has sent; their bones bleach in the desert sand."
The Nubian's eyes and nostrils flared. "Memnon will send more troops! He will not stop, until he has her... his sorceress."
Though pinned to the wall, the big man managed to point toward the aghast Cassandra.
"Yes, Akkadian ... I know who she is. She is no mere wench whose honor you defend—this is the oracle who Memnon will have back, at any cost."
"And once he has her," Mathayus said, "and her powers of vision... he will come here, more swiftly, more deadly, than ever before."
Mathayus withdrew the threat from the king's throat, turning to the crowd, addressing them in a loud, strong voice.
"Memnon will stop at nothing!" He prowled the open area, staff in hand. "Hide here as long as you can, but hear me when I say that he will find you . .. unless he is stopped. If not... he will sweep across this land like a terrible sickness, and wipe out all of you!"
A deep laugh rumbled from the Nubian king's chest. "And who will stop him, Akkadian?"
Mathayus turned to Balthazar, an eyebrow cocked.
"Will you stand alone before the fury of his armies?" the king asked, laughter replaced by a somber timbre.
Without hesitation, Mathayus gazed directly at Balthazar and said,
"Yes."
The refugee camp around him looked on in awed silence. Cassandra felt a chill—a voice within her said she had just witnessed the birth of a king.
And even Balthazar seemed to regard the Akkadian in a new light; after all, no warrior had ever before fought the giant to a standstill.
The Nubian king heaved a sigh, having been granted his life, now granting a small concession. "One night's sanctuary ... and then pray to the gods, Akkadian, that our paths never cross again."
And the king disappeared back within his tent, as the guards fell away, and Mathayus and his party joined the rest of the assembled tribes. As bandits, these people had raided and stung Memnon; but now, among them, they knew . .. one braver than themselves had proclaimed himself ready to face the warlord and all his minions, alone if need be.
When night's purple star-studded cloak fell across the open-air cliffbound chamber, music echoed across the campfires, flutes and drums, percussive yet melodic, primitive yet civilized. An atmosphere of goodwill—or at least better will—accompanied nightfall, the enmity of the clash between their king and the Akkadian having muted into a truce, anyway, if not quite an alliance.
The visitors had been provided a tent, and Cassandra was strolling toward it, enjoying the music, the camaraderie; she paused at a cooking fire where a congenial group had gathered, roasting three pigs on one long skewer. The little horse thief was among them, having made friends, and currently was arm-wrestling one of Queen Isis's fierce yet beautiful woman warriors. The queen herself was looking on, rooting for her soldier, while the eccentric scientist sat cheering Arpid on. The camel, Hanna, was nearby, grazing at a feed bag, not terribly interested. No sign of Mathayus, though.
Philos was saying, "Leverage, my boy! Leverage! It's not just strength, it's science, too...."
And with that, Arpid's fist was slammed to the tabletop by the laughing female. Philos shook his head and chuckled, as the thief flexed his sore hand, saying, "A gentlemen always allows a lady to win." Then, to the lovely warrior, he asked optimistically, "Best two out of three?"