Noble Effort
A
s the alarm bells echoed through the palace and beyond, the raiding party of Balthazar, Queen Isis and her warrior women—outside the walls, shrouded in night shadows, awaiting the explosion that would signal their attack—reacted with dismay.
"Oh no," Queen Isis said.
"Damn," Balthazar breathed, as he saw a phalanx of the red-turbaned guards come running at them from around the corner of the palace, in full battle array, swords high.
Shoulders arching with feline grace, the nearly unclad fighting females—looking as lovely as they did deadly in the light of the moon and the flicker of torch flame—positioned themselves on the steps of the palace, spears and swords poised, ready to take on attack from within and without the turreted edifice.
But it was Balthazar himself—flinging away his cloak to reveal his massive frame in black leather armor—who stepped forward to receive this well-armed welcome.
Though there were ten of them, the Red Guards staggered to a halt at the sight of the giant Nubian, who raised his sword and grinned at the soldiers, in eager anticipation.
"All right, then," he said pleasantly. "Which lucky one of you dies first?"
Even outnumbering him as they did, the guards froze for several long moments, as if hoping this apparition would disappear, a figment of their imaginations and the night.
But Balthazar wasn't going anywhere, except through them, and the leader of the guards yelled, "Attack," and they did, rushing forward with swords waving.
Queen Isis had seen the Nubian in full battle form before; but even she could only be impressed by his frightening skills. A massively muscled right arm raised and lowered and swung and carved that blade with swift, spectacular precision; Balthazar's strategy was impeccable, using one body to block and unhinge another opponent, until they were literally falling over themselves, the living onto the dead.
And soon the elite red-turbaned guards lay scattered across the bottom of the palace steps like human refuse, while the Nubian king loomed above them like an unforgiving god.
Balthazar gave a solemn nod to his fallen foes, saying, "We will meet again in the underworld," and then he strode, two at a time, up the steps of the palace, to the golden doors at the top landing.
"Wait!" Isis called to him. "What are you doing? Where are you going?"
Balthazar turned; at the crest of those steps he looked more like a great guard than the invader he was. "The magician's powder should have worked its magic by now—we must modify our battle plan."
Eyes flaring, Isis asked, "In what way?"
"I am going inside," the Nubian said, "and aid the Akkadian."
The queen gestured to her warriors, the women here and there about the steps. "Shall we come, too?"
"No."
"You would do this alone?"
"Yes—just as the Akkadian said he would stand alone against Memnon and his armies."
"But..."
"Woman! Do I have a choice? ... Guard these doors!"
And Isis stood guard, as the Nubian king, unannounced, went calling on Lord Memnon.
When the alarms bells went off, Philos and Arpid were in the lower halls of the palace, stacking their bags of powder in a position deemed by the scientist as ideal for their destructive purposes.
Arpid had no opinions to express: he accepted his lot, and placed the powder sacks wherever he was
told. He had one of the sacks in hand when the echoing peal interrupted them. "What in the name of the gods is that?"
"That's the alarm for the Red Guard," Philos said. "We must hurry!"
Doing as he was told, Arpid spun quickly, and— thanks to a small hole in the bag, which he held like a baby—a spray of black powder freckled Philos's face.
"Be careful, you fool!" The scientist wiped the dangerous stuff from his cheeks. "There's a hole in that sack. We're not here to blow ourselves to nothing!"
"Well, maybe we should patch it." The thief grabbed a torch from the wall and used it to see where the rip might be, and in so doing twisted around—like a dog chasing its tail—leaking a black powder trail.
"No," Philos said, "don't—"
But somehow, in the process, a drop of burning oil fell from the torch onto the black line, lighting it. Arpid yelled and—still cradling the very bag leaking black—began to run away from the ever-following, sparking line of powder.
As Arpid ran screaming down the corridor—the alarm bells adding to the chaos—the scientist shook his head and raced after him, snatching the sack from the thief's grasp, and stomping out the sparking powder.
Arpid, breathing heavily, smiled sheepishly. "Sorry."
The scientist regarded the thief with rising irritation. "I should have teamed up with the Akkadian's smarter partner."
"What? Who?"
"The camel! ... Calm yourself."
Philos took the bag he'd confiscated from Arpid, and—as this was the last one—used a knife to slice the top of it off, and began to lay his own fuse trail ... back to the pile of sacks they'd arranged down the corridor.
Finished, Philos viewed his handiwork with some pride; but he was nonetheless anxious. "Come on, thief. I only hope we're not too late."
And Philos headed off, and Arpid hurried after him.
Neither of them noticed that the thief's sandal had cut through the powder trail, severing it.
In the throne room, the alarm bells had finally stopped, but the battle raged on.
Wielding his two swords, Lord Memnon pressed his attack on the Akkadian. Both men were skilled warriors, fueled by hatred of each other, and they traded the advantage regularly, their swords flying in expert onslaught, sparks flying from the colliding blades.
Cassandra, free of the snake—where had it gone?—surreptitiously helped the Akkadian's cause in two key ways, neither of which Memnon—busy with battle—noticed. First, she barred the throne-room doors, to keep this fight limited to just the two men. Second, she slipped a slender, filigree-adorned sword from a wall, and held it behind her, as she attempted to position herself behind Memnon ... though as energetic as the duel was, that position was ever changing.
But her hope was to drive that sword into the warlord's back, and change the future, defying her prophecy....
Outside the palace, Queen Isis knelt before two uncommon commoners, helping Philos and Arpid up out of the grate.
"It is finally done," the scientist told her. Looking around, at the warrior women posted on the palace steps, flame-lamps on the upper landing casting fluttering shadows in the cool breeze off the desert, the scientist noted the Nubian's absence.
"When your powder did not go off as planned," the queen said, "Balthazar entered the palace to help Mathayus."
"Why, that palace crawls with Red Guards!"
"Yes ... but do not underestimate our friend." And the queen nodded toward the shadowy area, along the outer wall, where the ten dead guards, slain by Balthazar, slept the sleep from which one never wakes.
Always taken aback by such carnage, nonetheless the scientist said, "Well, he is a remarkable fellow, at that." And Philos withdrew from under his robe a small hourglass, turning it over.
As the sand began to trickle down the narrow throat of the glass, Philos said, "When this runs out ... more or less ... we should have a considerable distraction."
Isis sighed, looking toward the palace. "They can use the help."
The scientist nodded. "Come on, boys," he said to himself, speaking to the absent Mathayus and Balthazar. "Time is running out...."