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?"
Smiling at the little thief's antics, Cassandra strolled on. She was perhaps halfway to the tent when a child of four or five scampered up to her, and tugged at her sleeve.
She looked down, where he was gazing up adoringly with big dark eyes, offering her dates from a bowl, and wondered if she had ever seen a more adorable child.
She smiled and accepted the gift, then tousled the boy's hair. For a moment, she was not a lady oracle, just a woman, a young woman, thinking about mar-riage and children of her own ... half Akkadian, perhaps...
But as she touched the boy, her fingers in his scalp, a vision seized her ...
... and she found herself kneeling, at the very spot where she'd stood accepting the boy's gift, and her hand was again on the child's head, fingers in his hair, but now he lay cold and still with death. Around them in the bandit hideaway, the night was rent with screams and flames consumed the tents and walkways.