Thorak—for all his courage no less a victim of the stinging sand, all but blinded now—spun his horse in rage, his battle-ax in hand, his frustration unbearable as around him the bloodcurdling cries of his men melded with the shrieking wind. He spurred his steed and rode toward the screams.
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 alclass="underline" 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.