by The King
Soldiers who had charged forward, as Mathayus let the arrow fly, now were tossed like dolls as a plume of orange and red and blue, surrounded by mushrooming smoke, filling the sky itself with flame and dark clouds, blotting out the silver moon, blocking all other sound with its man-made thunder. The foundations of parapets were shaken so severely that a huge bell began to toll in one of them.
And in the midst of all this, the Great Teacher— Memnon, king of the world—was blown off his altar, as if that arrow had the power of the gods. Along the way, his robes caught fire, and when he went sailing over the wall, down toward the city street, the warlord was like a falling star his freed subjects might make a wish upon.
Below, Arpid and Philos—whose eyes were bright, faces wide with smiles, at their successful explosion—were not far away when Memnon's burning body hit with a sickening impact.
The soldiers who'd been advancing on Isis and her warriors—recognizing the burning form of their commander in chief—fell back, in horrified, lead-erless disarray.
Though the thief and scientist were squeamishly turning away from the human funeral pyre that Memnon had become, Isis herself smiled at the sight of the bastard as he cooked in his own juices. She was amused—she and her women had helped win this war without ever being called to the battlefield!
In the courtyard, Mathayus—the pain subsiding in the wake of triumph—staggered to the edge of the precipice and stared down to view the broken, burning body below.
Arpid, Philos, Isis and her warriors, and even the former soldiers of Memnon, were witness to an image so impressive, so indelible, all would carry it to their graves. As they looked up, the broad-shouldered figure of the Akkadian stood amidst flames, framed by a huge, approving moon, the glowing orb seemingly emblazoned with a scorpion symbol, like the crest on a warrior's shield.
Then Cassandra was at his side, and Mathayus took her into his arms, held so tightly they were as one; her adoring gaze was matched by his own.
By this time, Balthazar had found his way to the courtyard, and as he limped toward his brother in battle, he watched with amazement and pride as the remaining soldiers of Memnon's army dropped their weapons and knelt before the Akkadian, staring up at him in awe—a legend was unfolding before their eyes, and they would spread the word.
Mathayus and Cassandra were still gazing down at the fallen, flame-torn remains of the warlord when the Nubian limped up to them, saying, "By tolling bell and thunder's swell..."
Cassandra smiled at the hobbling giant, then looked up at her own giant, and added, "A flaming star falls from the sky."
And on the palace steps, as Queen Isis, a thief, and a former court magician gazed up through smoke and fire, captivated by the image of the godlike figure of the Akkadian, framed against the glowing moon, the remainder of Memnon's soldiers also threw down their weapons and fell to their knees.
"By a full moon's glow," Isis said, "in House of Scorpio ..."
"Kneeling men bow to the king on high," Philos said, finishing the thought.
"I knew that," Arpid said, and then he grinned, jerking a thumb skyward, and yelled to the surrendering soldiers: "That's my partner!"
Scorpion's Destiny
T
he next morning, smoke still streamed into the sky over the walls and streets of Gomorrah. The battle was over, and rebuilding would soon begin— the palace needed repairs, of course (and a certain pouch of rubies would help renovations along), but the kingdom itself needed a new vision. That vision would not belong to a sorceress; rather, to its new king.
Mathayus—his wounds bandaged, a warrior-king well rested, his strength restored—strode with his queen through the streets of Gomorrah. Cheers would come later; right now, eyes were adoring, awestruck—which, in all frankness, the Akkadian (as he had admitted to his beloved) found disconcerting, even embarrassing.
Cassandra assured him that he would overcome these feelings; and no sorcery had been required to make this prediction.
Outside the main gates of the city, the Akkadian and the late Memnon's former oracle said their good-byes to their fellow warriors. Queen Isis had rounded up horses for herself and her women, and Balthazar was preparing to ride back to their oasis retreat, himself.
Mathayus approached the big Nubian, just before the man had mounted his steed. "Stay, my friend," he said. "There is much to be done here."
A small smile creased the battle-scarred face. "I have a kingdom of my own to rule—my own people to look after. ... I'll leave you your white camel, the little thief, and the magician, to keep you out of mischief."
Mathayus returned the smile, nodding, then turned to Isis. "And will you stay, and command my soldiers? They could use a woman's touch."
"I'm sure," Isis said, and she too smiled, though it was fleeting. "But I too have a kingdom of my own."
Balthazar caught the Akkadian's eyes and locked onto them, hard. "You are a king now—an assassin no more. I think you will make a good one ... as long as you do not forget how you came to your throne ... and the people you came from."
With a grave nod, Mathayus said, "Balthazar, I am the last of the Akkadians—the people I came from will live on through me."
The Nubian glanced at Cassandra, a sparkle in his eyes. "And your descendants, I trust."
Mathayus laughed, once. "And my descendants ... And my friend, there will always be a place in my kingdom for you ... And you, noble queen."
Solemn nods were exchanged between these warrior rulers.
Then Mathayus returned his gaze to Balthazar. "Live free," he said.
They clasped forearms, in the Akkadian ritual.
"Rule well," the Nubian said.
Then the man mountain climbed up on his horse, and grinned down at his brother in battle, sizing him up. But the grin had disappeared when he said, "Nubian eyes will be watching you, Scorpion King."
Mathayus nodded, considering this advice— warning?—and he watched as the big man rode off. Queen Isis and her warriors followed, pausing to bestow surprisingly girlish waves of good-bye.
The Scorpion King turned to the woman he would soon marry, and he held her by her arms, gently, asking, "And what do you see ahead, my royal sorceress?"
Cassandra thought about that, knowing he was teasing, and yet taking the question seriously. "Peace," she said. "Prosperity."
"Good! And for how long?"
Her brow wrinkled. "Ah, well. Nothing lasts forever, my king.... That is the truth of all kingdoms. No mystical prophecy is needed to foretell as much."
Mathayus shrugged, as if to say he understood the validity of this view, and could do nothing about it. He looked toward the horizon, and saw black clouds gathering, looming, roiling... in the distance.
"A storm is coming, my queen," he said.
"Yes ... many storms will come. But those are new stories, and we are at the end of this one."
"And the beginning of another?"
She hugged him. "Yes, oh yes."
As he held her, his smile turned sly, and he whispered, "How is it that you have these gifts of prophecy? Don't the legends say, that if—"
"Perhaps a woman giving herself to the man she loves remains pure in the eyes of the gods." She stepped out of his embrace, her eyes a-twinkle. "Or maybe that was just a device, to hold a randy king at bay. Can you think of a better way to keep a lecher from taking advantage of a poor girl? .. . Neither could my ancestors."
He had to grin at such a family tradition of deception. With the speed of the warrior he was, he snatched her back, by the arms. "Lucky for me," he said, "we'll make our own destiny."
Then the Akkadian assassin, who had become a king, swept the sorceress, who would become a queen—into his grasp, and kissed her, deeply, passionately.
She returned his kiss, but as they embraced outside the fabled evil city of Gomorrah, she chose not to tell him of a terrible vision that had just come to her.
Cassandra loved this man, and he was a k
ing now—let him enjoy it, while he could.
Besides, whatever troubles, even tragedies, might lie ahead, they were part of—as she had told him— another tale.
TIP OF THE SCIMITAR
I
am indebted to Stephen Sommers, the director (and co-screenwriter) of The Mummy and The Mummy Returns, for allowing me to play a small role on the ongoing team associated with these entertaining movies. The Mummy films are modern extensions of the Universal Studios legendary horror-movie cycle; having grown up on those classic pictures—like so many of my generation—I was thrilled to land the assignment of writing novels officially associated with that grand tradition.
The Scorpion King, on the other hand, grows out of another classic tradition, that of heroic adventures associated with such fictional characters as Conan and Tarzan, and the mythic likes of Hercules and Ulysses. Writing this novel was my way of paying homage to the creators of those first two great heroes—Robert E. Howard and Edgar Rice Burroughs (with a nod to a visionary filmmaker named Ray Harryhausen and a blind poet named Homer)—and I appreciate having been given this opportunity to do so.
I would like to acknowledge the screenwriters of The Scorpion King—Jonathan Hales, Stephen Som-mers, David Hayter and Will Osborne—for providing such a fun, action-packed, well-crafted script. I had a wonderful time writing this, thanks to these gentlemen.
Cindy Chang of Universal provided her usual solid support, by way of scripts, photos and other materials; she also treated me with consideration and patience—thank you!
Similar thanks for patience and support go to Tom Colgan of Berkley Books; that Scorpion King of agents, Dominick Abel; and the lovely sorceress who could never have predicted what life with me would be like—my wife, Barbara Collins.
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