by The King
Balthazar's eyes tightened in the scarred battle mask of his face. "That black dust is that powerful?"
Philos smiled. "With a wallop enough to shake the gates of Gomorrah—and create a confusion to cover our stealing the sorceress away."
Balthazar's eyes hardened. "And you, little magician—you are prepared for your mission?"
"In most battles, brawn like yours is a good thing. But, my friend, only pipsqueaks like Arpid and myself can sneak through those rat holes into Memnon's palace."
And soon the Nubian was helping lower the scientist into the grating passage; eight bags of powder had been handed down there. The two little men, their faces smudged, looked up at the brute king of the bandits, who nodded at them reassuringly.
"The Akkadian has an adage," the Nubian said. Isis was at his side, looking down at the two brave sewer rats. "Live free ..."
Isis completed the ritual: "Die well."
"If you don't mind," Arpid said, snatching his torch from its perch, "I'll work a little harder on the first part."
And then the two scrawny, unlikely heroes disappeared into the darkness below the street... and below the palace. Memnon sat on his throne, regarding his sorceress with searching eyes, as she sat at her table. Moments before, a servant had entered, whispered to his lord, and exited.
Fingers tented, smiling enigmatically, the Great Teacher said, "So . .. tomorrow my victory will be complete."
Cassandra did not meet his gaze, merely said, "As I have told you—that is what I saw."
"That is your ... vision."
Now she turned toward him. "Yes, my lord. I have seen it."
He studied her face. "Have you?"
Their eyes locked—both of these strong people gave nothing away in their expressions, sharing only blank visages with each other.
"And yet," Memnon said gently, "I sense a change in you. You seem, somehow .. . how should I put it? ... Diminished."
"I assure you, my lord... I am myself. Untainted. Unspoiled."
"How very pleased I am to hear it. Then a small demonstration should be no trouble for you."
The warlord stepped down from the throne and walked to a side wall, where a curtain concealed an alcove. He drew back the drape, and displayed another round table, much larger than the one at which she sat.
On the table were six substantial stone urns, each one lidded.
Memnon clapped once, a loud crack of a clap, and two copper-skinned slaves in square cloth headdresses entered, heavily leathered, bearing a big wicker cage within which wriggled and thrashed a host of deadly serpents—cobras, asps, vipers—slithering sinuously over each other, in a boiling deadly pile.
Using a stick with a small rope looped at its end, one of the slaves expertly reached in and plucked out a huge king cobra, who hissed its displeasure, its hood extended. The other slave removed the lid from one of the half-dozen identical urns, and the snake handler dropped the twisting, spitting reptile down into the pot, the other slave quickly slamming the lid on.
Cassandra stood now, watching in horror, though she tried not to reveal her feelings.
Memnon wasn't hiding his—he was grinning, mockingly nostalgic as he said, "Having you back... working your wonders ... it's like old times."
And she watched, with open eyes, as various venomous serpents were dropped, writhing with rage, into all but two of the pots.
Elsewhere in the palace, in the lower catacomblike corridors, Arpid and Philos were even now scurrying, each little man lugging four stacked bags of powder. As they reached a fork in the passageway, Philos stopped, got his bearings for a moment, then pointed to the right. "This way," he said.
Arpid frowned, studying the scientist. "You're sure?"
"Of course I am," he said, mildly offended. "I used to live here!"
And down another corridor they scampered.
With a wave the Great Teacher dismissed the snake-handling slaves to wait along the periphery, and he went to his sorceress, taking her by the arm, walking her over to the alcove, as if escorting her to a dinner of state. But the big round table, with the half-dozen massive urns, was no banquet, unless one considered terror a suitable main course.
He moved away from her and gripped the edge of the table ... and spun it!
This was, it seemed, a meal of sorts, after all—a revolving serving table had been perverted by the warlord into a wheel of spinning doom.
Memnon's eyes flicked from her face to the rotating table and back again, as he said, "And so, my sorceress . .. my seer—let us see what you can see."
She watched, mesmerized, as the table slowly came to a halt.
"Which two, my oracle? Which two of these urns are empty?"
She drew a deep breath, exhaled, then stepped forward. Walking slowly around the table, appraising each urn, she stopped at one and lay her hands on the pottery.
Memnon watched intently, and when her eyes snapped open, he wondered—was something wrong?
Something was indeed wrong, though Cassandra strove not to show it. She closed her eyes and touched the urn once more—and her mind was a blank. The ancient myth had proved true: only a virgin could possess the gift of second sight; and she had given herself to the Akkadian. And thrown her gift to the winds ...
Glancing at Memnon, she knew one need not be a soothsayer to read his inquiring gaze. If she refused this test, that would be an admission, and she would surely die; perhaps the gods who had granted her vision were still with her, even if her gift had come to its end.
Cassandra prayed to them, silently—not to return her vision, but to guide her hand ... because there was no eluding this test.
She reached out and lifted the lid from the urn, and she gazed down into the unknown depths of its stygian interior, which seemed to stare back up at her.
Then she plunged her arm into the urn!
Memnon watched, an eyebrow arched, perspiration beading his forehead, his smile a conflicted one—who could say whether the Great Teacher hoped she would pass or fail his examination?
Her fingers scraped the bottom of the empty urn, and she withdrew her arm.
"Excellent," Memnon said, though she could not tell if he was truly pleased by her success.
The warlord removed the empty urn, pitching it to the floor in careless abandon, where it shattered.
The sound made her shudder, as did his strangely gleeful expression. Five pots remained—four containing poisonous snakes—and Memnon viewed them with apparent pleasure, saying, "Just one left."
And again he spun the table.
Why he did this a second time, other than to unnerve her further, she could not say; perhaps he thought she had managed to keep track of the pots with snakes, when he first whirled the tabletop. But she had not—she had seen only a blur, and luck— or the gods—had been with her.
Now, as the table slowed and then stopped, Memnon led her back to the table, close by her side as she moved around it, studying her choices. Finally she hovered between two urns, listening for an inner voice or any instinct that might guide her. Her hand reached out—tremblingly.
The warlord seemed amused as he said, "I am no sorcerer—but I will tell you what I see ..."
Ignoring him, she placed a hand on one of the urn lids.
"...fear."
Had he not spoken, she might have heard the subtle shift of scales against hard clay ... but she did not.
And, with a defiant glare at Memnon, Cassandra reached her hand into the urn.
She froze.
Memnon, watching intently, took several steps back. Had she been biten?
The sorceress withdrew her hand from the urn, and turned slowly, and displayed her arm to the warlord ...
... Like an elaborate masterwork of the jeweler's art, a cobra coiled around her forearm, its hooded head near her hand, but ignoring it, instead spitting and hissing at the close-by Memnon.
This turn of events catching him off balance, both literally a
nd figuratively, Memnon staggered back several paces, and cried, "What magic is this?"
Cassandra, her chin high, unafraid, said, "My magic."
Moving away, circling around her, he sought safety.
Now she stalked the warlord, her eyes ablaze. "I am a daughter of the furies, foolish mortal. I see the world's fate in the stars!"
Memnon drew his sword, a defensive posture, as he continued to retreat; behind him, a few yards, was a shuttered window ...
... and through that window, Cassandra could see the figure there, his eyes locking with hers: Mathayus!
Outside, the Akkadian gripped the upper window ledge, and tensed the mighty muscles of his legs, and swung away from the wall, soles of his sandaled feet aimed at those shutters.
"I see your fate, O hollow king," a determined Cassandra was saying quietly. "And its time has come. . . ."
And Mathayus came smashing, thundering through the shutters, splintering them, and slamming into Memnon, feet first, sending the warlord careening, tumbling across the throne room, his sword flying from his fingers.
The snake-handler slaves, seeing the amazing arrival of the intruder, reacted at once; one of them ran out the door, the other going to a long hanging cord, yanking it, and alarm bells began to peal. Cassandra, her ears filled with the raised alarm, flung the cobra from her wrist, and it went slithering off, wanting nothing of these humans.
The Akkadian rolled to his feet, and yanked the scimitar from his belt, filling his hand with steel. Across the sumptuous throne room, the would-be king of the world staggered to his feet, and looked into the glare of his uninvited guest, whose great blade winked with reflected torchlight.
Then the Akkadian glanced toward Cassandra, and by the assassin's concerned gaze—she nodded to the assassin that she was all right—the warlord was informed of the nature of their alliance, and knew he had been betrayed ... by lovers.
Mathayus was moving slowly toward him, brandishing the scimitar. "I've come for the woman," the Akkadian said. "And your head ..."
The warlord knew very well that a pair of ancient but serviceable swords hung nearby, where they decorated a sandstone wall.
"The assassin and the sorceress," Memnon said. "How sweet—how romantic ..."
And with reflexes worthy of those slithering snakes, he whirled and grabbed both swords from their pegs, and wheeled with warrior grace, a blade in either hand, spinning the two weapons expertly, not beaten yet, not hardly.
"I will be sure," Memnon said, "to inter you together."
And the the warriors ran at each other, their swords clashing and clanging, ringing throughout the chamber even as the alarm bells continued their own toll of death.
Noble Effort
A
s the alarm bells echoed through the palace and beyond, the raiding party of Balthazar, Queen Isis and her warrior women—outside the walls, shrouded in night shadows, awaiting the explosion that would signal their attack—reacted with dismay.
"Oh no," Queen Isis said.
"Damn," Balthazar breathed, as he saw a phalanx of the red-turbaned guards come running at them from around the corner of the palace, in full battle array, swords high.
Shoulders arching with feline grace, the nearly unclad fighting females—looking as lovely as they did deadly in the light of the moon and the flicker of torch flame—positioned themselves on the steps of the palace, spears and swords poised, ready to take on attack from within and without the turreted edifice.
But it was Balthazar himself—flinging away his cloak to reveal his massive frame in black leather armor—who stepped forward to receive this well-armed welcome.
Though there were ten of them, the Red Guards staggered to a halt at the sight of the giant Nubian, who raised his sword and grinned at the soldiers, in eager anticipation.
"All right, then," he said pleasantly. "Which lucky one of you dies first?"
Even outnumbering him as they did, the guards froze for several long moments, as if hoping this apparition would disappear, a figment of their imaginations and the night.
But Balthazar wasn't going anywhere, except through them, and the leader of the guards yelled, "Attack," and they did, rushing forward with swords waving.
Queen Isis had seen the Nubian in full battle form before; but even she could only be impressed by his frightening skills. A massively muscled right arm raised and lowered and swung and carved that blade with swift, spectacular precision; Balthazar's strategy was impeccable, using one body to block and unhinge another opponent, until they were literally falling over themselves, the living onto the dead.
And soon the elite red-turbaned guards lay scattered across the bottom of the palace steps like human refuse, while the Nubian king loomed above them like an unforgiving god.
Balthazar gave a solemn nod to his fallen foes, saying, "We will meet again in the underworld," and then he strode, two at a time, up the steps of the palace, to the golden doors at the top landing.
"Wait!" Isis called to him. "What are you doing? Where are you going?"
Balthazar turned; at the crest of those steps he looked more like a great guard than the invader he was. "The magician's powder should have worked its magic by now—we must modify our battle plan."
Eyes flaring, Isis asked, "In what way?"
"I am going inside," the Nubian said, "and aid the Akkadian."
The queen gestured to her warriors, the women here and there about the steps. "Shall we come, too?"
"No."
"You would do this alone?"
"Yes—just as the Akkadian said he would stand alone against Memnon and his armies."
"But..."
"Woman! Do I have a choice? ... Guard these doors!"
And Isis stood guard, as the Nubian king, unannounced, went calling on Lord Memnon.
When the alarms bells went off, Philos and Arpid were in the lower halls of the palace, stacking their bags of powder in a position deemed by the scientist as ideal for their destructive purposes.
Arpid had no opinions to express: he accepted his lot, and placed the powder sacks wherever he was
told. He had one of the sacks in hand when the echoing peal interrupted them. "What in the name of the gods is that?"
"That's the alarm for the Red Guard," Philos said. "We must hurry!"
Doing as he was told, Arpid spun quickly, and— thanks to a small hole in the bag, which he held like a baby—a spray of black powder freckled Philos's face.
"Be careful, you fool!" The scientist wiped the dangerous stuff from his cheeks. "There's a hole in that sack. We're not here to blow ourselves to nothing!"
"Well, maybe we should patch it." The thief grabbed a torch from the wall and used it to see where the rip might be, and in so doing twisted around—like a dog chasing its tail—leaking a black powder trail.
"No," Philos said, "don't—"
But somehow, in the process, a drop of burning oil fell from the torch onto the black line, lighting it. Arpid yelled and—still cradling the very bag leaking black—began to run away from the ever-following, sparking line of powder.
As Arpid ran screaming down the corridor—the alarm bells adding to the chaos—the scientist shook his head and raced after him, snatching the sack from the thief's grasp, and stomping out the sparking powder.
Arpid, breathing heavily, smiled sheepishly. "Sorry."
The scientist regarded the thief with rising irritation. "I should have teamed up with the Akkadian's smarter partner."
"What? Who?"
"The camel! ... Calm yourself."
Philos took the bag he'd confiscated from Arpid, and—as this was the last one—used a knife to slice the top of it off, and began to lay his own fuse trail ... back to the pile of sacks they'd arranged down the corridor.
Finished, Philos viewed his handiwork with some pride; but he was nonetheless anxious. "Come on, thief. I only hope we're not too late."
And Philos headed off, and Arpid hurried
after him.
Neither of them noticed that the thief's sandal had cut through the powder trail, severing it.
In the throne room, the alarm bells had finally stopped, but the battle raged on.
Wielding his two swords, Lord Memnon pressed his attack on the Akkadian. Both men were skilled warriors, fueled by hatred of each other, and they traded the advantage regularly, their swords flying in expert onslaught, sparks flying from the colliding blades.
Cassandra, free of the snake—where had it gone?—surreptitiously helped the Akkadian's cause in two key ways, neither of which Memnon—busy with battle—noticed. First, she barred the throne-room doors, to keep this fight limited to just the two men. Second, she slipped a slender, filigree-adorned sword from a wall, and held it behind her, as she attempted to position herself behind Memnon ... though as energetic as the duel was, that position was ever changing.
But her hope was to drive that sword into the warlord's back, and change the future, defying her prophecy....
Outside the palace, Queen Isis knelt before two uncommon commoners, helping Philos and Arpid up out of the grate.
"It is finally done," the scientist told her. Looking around, at the warrior women posted on the palace steps, flame-lamps on the upper landing casting fluttering shadows in the cool breeze off the desert, the scientist noted the Nubian's absence.
"When your powder did not go off as planned," the queen said, "Balthazar entered the palace to help Mathayus."
"Why, that palace crawls with Red Guards!"
"Yes ... but do not underestimate our friend." And the queen nodded toward the shadowy area, along the outer wall, where the ten dead guards, slain by Balthazar, slept the sleep from which one never wakes.
Always taken aback by such carnage, nonetheless the scientist said, "Well, he is a remarkable fellow, at that." And Philos withdrew from under his robe a small hourglass, turning it over.
As the sand began to trickle down the narrow throat of the glass, Philos said, "When this runs out ... more or less ... we should have a considerable distraction."