That king cobra was sitting up, near the Akkadian's feet, and it seemed very irritated to be caught in the middle of all this commotion.
Then two snakes struck at the same time—the cobra and Memnon. Mathayus deftly dodged them both; but now he found himself trading thrusts and parries with the warlord even as the hissing snake slithered around, seemingly only attracted to the Akkadian's nearby calves.
This distraction cost Mathayus dearly—his counterblows were weakened, as he tried to avoid not only Memnon but the venomous serpent. The warlord had seen the snake, but it held little if any threat for him, as it was much closer to the Akkadian. At any rate, the warlord's battle leathers protected his calves. He took the advantage and delivered several slicing blows to the assassin's torso, nothing fatal, but wounds oozed blood, adding pain to the distractions already plaguing the barbarian.
Balthazar would have helped the Akkadian and cut that cobra to ribbons, if he could; but his attention was on the doorway, through which a steady stream of reinforcements came, even as he drove— and chopped down—the guards already in the chamber back toward that entry.
The great Nubian warrior was starting to feel the cost of the struggle—his arms aching, his wind heaving. How many of these bastards must he kill? Left and right, they fell—and still they kept coming!
The Akkadian, in the meantime, had worked his way to an oil lamp, both the snake and the warlord following him. He kicked the spindly legs out from under the lamp, sending the bowl of fire crashing to the floor, burning oil washing toward the snake, droplets stinging it, spitting back at the serpent.
And the cobra had had enough—it slithered away. Let the humans battle all they wanted.
There was no time, however, for Mathayus to feel any sense of relief, as Memnon—who seemed to have gotten a second wind—was bearing down on him again.
The lamp Mathayus had toppled, having done its work with the cobra, now sought new victories, as flames spread, tickling the bottom of a huge hanging wall tapestry. Within seconds the tapestry was a sheet of flame, and the fire spread to other wall hangings, until the very walls themselves seemed ablaze.
A barrier of fire separated Mathayus and Memnon now, and the Akkadian might have snatched up the sorceress, and left the final defeat of the warlord for later, if those flames hadn't separated him from his beloved, as well. Fire cracked and snapped and a hellish heat permeated the room, drenching the participants in glistening sweat.
Memnon seemed to relish the blaze, a demon at home, and he knocked the top off another oil lamp, and ran his blade in its boiling oil.
Mathayus stared through the leaping flames— where was the bastard? And then Memnon came flying over the flames, in a somersaulting leap that only confirmed the warlord's warrior stature; and when he landed at the Akkadian's feet, Memnon swung his sword down and the two blades clanged and sparked!
Cassandra's eyes widened in terror and wonder, as she witnessed the two duelists parrying and thrusting with flaming blades now. But the arcing fire seemed to inspire Memnon, and perhaps unsettle Mathayus, because the warlord had the advantage now, driving the bigger man back, back....
A weary grunting caught her attention, despite the crack of flames and the clang of blades (and the crack and clang of flaming blades), and she turned toward the doorway, where the great Nubian was clearly tiring. Bodies were scattered carelessly at his feet, but Balthazar seemed all but overwhelmed, as more and more guards kept coming, driving him back into the burning throne room.
"Mathayus!" Cassandra cried. "He needs your help!"
The Akkadian dodged a swing of Memnon's flaming sword, and saw for himself—Balthazar fighting as hard as he could, but the numbers defeating him, or threatening to.
Then one of the guards slashed the Nubian's leg, a deep gaping gash, and Balthazar howled in fury, the wound spurring him to fight even harder, slashing blindly.
Mathayus knew if he didn't come to Balthazar's aid, the great warrior would soon be overrun, and cut to pieces....
With all the force he could muster, Mathayus swung his sword at Memnon, who could only fend off the blow by using both his swords. Distracted, Memnon was not prepared when the Akkadian kicked him, hard, in the chest, sending the warlord flying backward through the flames.
The horde of guards closing in on Balthazar would be too much even for Mathayus to take on, blade for blade; thinking fast, he ran to the six-foot ram's statue, and summoning all his strength, all his willpower, he lifted the huge statue and held it above his shoulders, like a tree trunk, and he charged toward the guards who were attacking his ally, and he hurled it into them, the massive object smashing into their midst, crushing some of them, scattering the rest.
Balthazar, catching his breath, nodded to Mathayus, who nodded back; this would be all the Nubian would need, to get his footing again.
Cassandra had watched this with amazement and admiration, and then she wondered if she could reach Memnon and surprise him with her blade.
But as she turned, Memnon surprised her, instead.
The warlord was running at her—just as in her vision, though the location was different, and he was not on horseback, but his face, his teeth bared in a hateful grimace, was the same!
In one continuous movement, he rammed a shoulder into her midsection, knocking the wind from her, her small sword flying, as he tossed her over his shoulder like a bag of wheat. Racing through the inferno of the throne room, the warlord swept the woman from the chamber.
Just as Mathayus was moving toward that doorway, a hanging tapestry above drooped down, creating a wall of flame, driving him back.
Almost colliding with Balthazar, Mathayus said, "Are you all right, my friend?"
The Nubian smiled grimly. "You go—friend. I'll hold these bastards off."
Here and there in the blazing throne room, the surviving guards were picking themselves up, regrouping.
"You save her, Akkadian," Balthazar ordered.
"Who am I to defy a king?" Mathayus asked.
And he ran through the flames, into the corridor.
Time of the Prophecy
O
utside the palace, Isis again knelt to help Philos, the scientist's exasperated visage having appeared in the hole beneath where the grate in the street had been. But this time he required special aid: the little horse thief, dead to the world (thanks to a knot on his head), had to be hauled up out of the hole like another, if bigger, bag of powder.
The queen's creased brow posed a question, but the scientist, getting yanked up out of the sewer by the slender strong hand of Isis, said only, "Don't ask."
"But you were successful?"
"Oh yes .. . but the timing will be less precise. We must wait; we are at the whim of the gods, with just a touch of help from science."
And, in the lower recesses of the palace, the sparking fuse was racing through the corridors. In the courtyard, in the moonlight, Memnon emerged with Cassandra over his shoulder. He set her roughly down and paused to catch his breath— not so much from hauling the lightweight woman as recovering from the throne-room clash with Mathayus, as hard fought a contest as the Great Teacher had ever endured.
Cassandra was breathing hard too, clutching her stomach from the nasty blow she'd received from Memnon, when he tackled her up into his clutches.