"With the noble poise of his handsome head upon those broad shoulders, and the fire of life and intelligence of those fine, clear eyes, he might readily have typified some demi-god of a wild and warlike bygone people."
—Edgar Rice Burroughs
SNOW BEAST
L
ord Memnon's outposts stretched from the desert to the snowpacked mountain ranges that marked the edge of the known world. Along the periphery of that craggy border, where winter winds whistled and ice embraced the bare branches of trees, a log fortress played home to a tribe of fierce warriors aligned with the great warlord. These men would one day be known as Copts; in these ancient times they were known only as murderers.
Their stronghold—a formidable, ominous landmark of barbarian-style civilization in the stark landscape—was a windowless three floors where warriors plotted pillage, tortured the occasional prisoner and even, between atrocities, partook of savage revelries.
On this frigid afternoon, fires roared within the rustic walls and so did egos, as these bad men consumed good wine and pawed at the voluptuous harlots who traveled from camp to camp—hard, soft beauties used to such vile-smelling, rat's-nest-bearded warriors as these, furs flung aside to reveal battle-scarred cuirasses. Here and there, spears, swords, and scimitars rested against rough-hewn tables and log walls; now and then a fight broke out among the scruffy soldiers, over a woman or a spoil of war or just a he one of them had told that had gone down poorly, like a chunk of spoiled venison.
Outside, in the howling, ice-flecked wind, one unlucky warrior had been chosen to guard the only door on that side of the massive structure. Though he was only a single man, this was nonetheless a massive, intimidating guard, wearing the red turban of Memnon's guards, his beard and furs caked with ice, his face seemingly frozen in a vicious, ill-tempered expression.
In reality, that expression had less to do with his temper than with his frustration at having been assigned guard duty during a spree like the one going on within those timber walls. Now and then—as the squeals of women and the bellows of men indicated everyone having a fine time (except, of course, a poor bastard assigned guard duty in the bitter cold), he would turn toward the building, gaze longingly if angrily at the door, and then turn his eyes back to the barren vista where (it seemed to him) no fool was likely to show himself.
Shrill feminine laughter pulled the guard's eyes toward that door once again, and he shook his head, cranky with the thought of three more hours of sentry duty to stand in this cold, returning his perhaps less than watchful gaze to where it belonged ...
... just in time to receive a metal throwing star, which had come whirring, whirling toward him, to slam deadly deep into his forehead, between his eyes. His last action was to cross those eyes, to try to see what bug had stung him; but death took him before any cognizance could form.
The guard keeled over and hands reached from a nearby snowbank to yank him to a waiting grave of white.
Inside the fortress, the partying warriors knew nothing of this intrusion; they knew only of wenches doing belly dances—sometimes on the laps of the warriors—and food being gobbled and wine guzzled, as the reflection of flames painted the brown walls a flickering orange.
Right now a fight had erupted at one table, and— in true fashion for warriors of such high ethics— three of them were attacking one. The argument seemed to be over a woman—or was it over that platter of mutton? Hard to tell, when such a fine time was being had by all.
Well, perhaps not by alclass="underline" outside the fortress, another huge guard, also denied this party, traipsed through the snow, where no footprints or marks other than his own could be seen. Grumbling at pulling such duty during a feast, the bearded guard came to a stop—had he heard something, over the whistle of wind through dead vegetation?
That was as far as the guard got with his thought process, before a bear-like claw shot up out of the snowbank between the warrior's legs and yanked him down by his ... well, for decorum's sake, we will merely figure that he was dragged down under the snow, where he vanished in a flurry of punches and exploding powdery white, bones snapping and cracking, before a deathly still ensued.
No one was around to see the huge, white creature rise up from out of the snow. Had anyone on the periphery witnessed this, however, the impression would have been that a Yeti had just snagged its prey. The Yeti—that half ape, half human creature some called the Abominable Snowman—was thought to be legendary by many; a few knew these creatures actually existed. One of those few was an Akkadian warrior called Mathayus, who had himself killed one.
In fact, the skin of that slain Yeti was the one Mathayus was wearing right now, a cape over his bare, bronzed chest, his massively muscled legs in leather breeches. Dark-eyed, with the heroic features of a carved statue, Mathayus breathed steam, muscles rippling; he might—for all his handsomeness— have been an evil beast. He was not; he is instead the hero of our tale.
And he had come to this terrible place to rescue a brother Akkadian; for though he was as fearsome as any warrior in those days, Mathayus had the heart of a king—noble, compassionate, yet resolute.
Within the fortress, the captain of this garrison—a monolith among these monstrous men—rose from the head of the main table and stepped in front of the massive stone fireplace whose flames licked as if they were as greedy as the reveling soldiers.
His voice was an arrogant growl. "We have killed Babylonians!"
Well-remembering, the crowd responded with drunken, enthusiastic glee.
"We have killed Mesopotamians!" their leader reminded them.
And again they responded with brutal gaiety.
"But.. . never before have we had the uncommon pleasure of killing an Akkadian."
The captain gestured to their "guest": an Akkadian—leanly muscular with a stoic, weathered face, his battle-scarred chest heaving—strapped spread-eagle on a cross beam. Almost smugly unflinching, the Akkadian—his name was Jesup—glared at his hosts with what might have been pity.
"Let me go," Jesup said, "or face a wrath from which none of you shall survive."
The disheveled warriors merely smiled at this, though the wenches—who had been around battle and strife as long as the soldiers—stared at the Akkadian with respectful fear.
"You face a ruthless fury," Jesup warned them, as stern as a displeased parent, "... relentless . . . merciless ... such as even the gods would dare not provoke."
The captain grunted a laugh. "For a man about to die ... slowly .. . you're awfully damned full of yourself."
Now the drunken audience did dare to laugh— not the women, though, who were glancing about the chamber for a corner to hide in.
"Oh," Jesup said, apparently amused, looking the captain square in the eyes, "I wasn't talking about me."
The soldiers at the tables only laughed all the more, and even the women joined in, albeit nervously; but as their leader held the gaze of his prisoner, the captain felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with winter.
Outside, another of the massive bearded sentries came up behind one of his brother soldiers, a fellow named Fydor, relieving himself, making yellow designs in the show.