In the meantime, in the shadows off to one side, that lone archer had discovered—clinging to the lip of the wall—a grappling hook. Looking down over the edge, he could see the rope swinging, as if someone had just let loose of it. Wheeling to warn his compatriots, the archer never got a word out—Mathayus, in the slitted leather mask, broke the man's neck from behind, the tiny crack lost in a night alive with the sound of the guards and "harem" beauties mingling.
The Akkadian tossed the man off the side of the ledge, where the corpse fell almost silently to the sand.
One of the sentries—his tastes running to larger women, these scrawny creatures so popular nowadays doing little for him—approached a broad-shouldered girl, saying, "Well, now, finally! A wench with some meat on her bones ... Let's see that pretty face, hah?"
The guard lifted the veil away and exposed the battle-scarred visage of Balthazar.
"Satisfied?" the Nubian "wench" asked.
And he drove a massive fist into the guard's belly, dropping him to the ground.
With this, the warrior women—each having sidled up to a guard—quickly, efficiently executed the fools, slitting throats, piercing hearts, taking no prisoners. Several died with smiles on their faces.
Above, the lead archer—startled by the sudden carnage—cried, "Attack!"
The three archers, lined up in an orderly row, notched arrows and aimed down. Before any arrows could fly, however, one dagger after another flew from the darkness, the first archer, and the second, catching blades in their backs, with deadly thunks. The leader whirled and fired off an arrow, but the Akkadian snatched up a wooden drain cover from the parapet floor, and used it as a shield, batting the projectile away.
The archer was notching a new arrow when the assassin's knife sank solidly into his heart, with such force it sent him toppling to the sand outside the city gates.
It had all happened so quickly—the gentle scientist, sitting on the horse cart, was stunned by this incredible display of skill... and death.
"By the gods," he said, amazed, wondering how it had come to pass that he would be riding into battle with such men.
From the parapet, Mathayus stood and surveyed the landscape on both sides of the wall, ascertaining whether their killing had been silent enough. Apparently it had. Then he raised two fingers to his lips and whistled.
Tied to a hitching post in the midst of the bazaar, the albino camel perked her ears at the shrill familiar sound. The beast promptly reared up on her hind legs, and brought her front hooves down, hard, on the hitching post, smashing it to splinters.
Then, dragging what little remained of the post, Hanna galloped off into the darkness, summoned by her master.
The Akkadian climbed down the rope, to join his friends just outside the gate. Hanna suddenly appeared beneath him, and he dropped onto her back; he stroked her neck—he felt complete again ... or as complete as he could, without the other female he loved.
"Well done," Mathayus told the little group. "Everyone know what to do? ... Balthazar?"
"Cripple the guard," the Nubian said.
"Isis?"
"Secure the door," the warrior queen replied.
"Philos?"
"Seal them in," the scientist said.
"Arpid?"
But the little thief was staring at his sandals.
"Something wrong, partner?" Mathayus asked, guiding the camel over to the little man.
"Nothing ... no." Arpid was shuffling his feet.
"Look at me."
Arpid raised his head, but still did not look directly at the Akkadian; his eyelashes were damp. "It's just... no one has ever trusted me, before— not with something this important."
"Partner."
Now Arpid's eyes met the assassin's.
With a simple and absolute confidence so typical of him, Mathayus said, "I trust you."
The thief seemed filled with a new confidence. "I won't let you down."
"I know." To the entire group of warriors—for even the thief and scientist were warriors now, a small army taking on a mighty fortress city—the Akkadian said, "All right, my friends—this is the time. Be careful. Keep your eyes sharp."
Balthazar said, "Akkadian . .."
Mathayus turned toward the giant in the harem outfit. Would the Nubian protest his leadership, at this late stage?
But all the mountain of a man said was, "Watch yourself."
Mathayus could only smile. 'Thank you for your concern, miss... . Hyah!"
And the camel took his master into the city.
"He's going to pay for that," Balthazar grunted, and reattached his veil.
Back up in the cart now, Queen Isis and her women did their best not to smile, and Arpid climbed up next to Philos, who slapped the reins, and the rig rumbled forward into Gomorrah.
Daughter of the Furies
I
nto the torchlit golden-hued sandstone throne room, Memnon—who had caught up with his sorceress in a corridor of the palace—escorted Cassandra, a hand firmly on her arm. She could not yet tell if she was a welcome guest or just another prisoner. But it did not take a psychic to sense the Great Teacher's suspicion.
Memnon dismissed the guards and servants, saying, "Leave us!"
And they were alone.
She wandered to the small round table with her jars of runic stones, waiting in its usual position for her return... or had it been left there, in her absence, to suggest to others she still remained?
Memnon did not take his throne; rather he prowled the chamber, like an anxious panther. "I am relieved to see you unharmed," he said, the kindness of his words undercut by an edge in his tone. "I'm surprised the Akkadian did not kill you."
"What good could I have done him dead?" she asked. "It was you he sought—and I was his bait, his pawn."
An eyebrow arched. "And yet you escaped his grasp."
She turned to smile at the warlord, a tiny yet significant smile. "I am not without my own ways ... my own wiles."
The smile he gave her in return was a nasty one. "Oh yes ... of that I am well aware. You gained his confidence.; .."
"Yes—and slipped away in the desert night."
"Where did he take you? To an enemy camp?"
"No—some desert oasis, where palms and waters and my own sympathetic words lulled him into complacency."
Memnon walked to the balcony, his back to her. "Did you witness the slaying of my loyal adviser— Thorak?"
"I know of the tragedy, my lord—it took place during a sandstorm. The Akkadian attacked your brave soldiers under its cover; I was buried in sand, and could not run ... not until later."
For a long while Memnon said nothing. Then he turned to her and asked, "And the barbarian did not... soil you?"
Her eyes lowered. "No, my lord. My purity remains."
"As does your vision?"
"Yes, my lord—as I have said, I have seen your great victory."
"Ah yes ... ah yes. So you say."
Memnon went to the door and summoned a servant, and whispered words to him that Cassandra could not hear. Then the servant half bowed and hurried off, and the warlord marched past her, on his way to his throne.
"We shall see, my dear... . Take a seat at your mystic table. Relax yourself, and wait."
"Wait, my lord? For what?"
He was on his throne now, a hand on either formidable sandstone armrest. "Just wait, my dear.. . just wait."
And she sat at her round table, feeling a chill that had nothing to do either with the evening breeze or any clairvoyant sense.
In the main square of the city, near the palace, the horse-drawn cart with its lovely cargo and its scrawny drivers trundled past the shuttered stalls of the marketplace. Soon Philos pulled the wagon to a stop near the palace gates, where four of the Red Guard were on duty.