The archer glanced at her, his expression more apt for hurt feelings than a fatal blow, and he tumbled to the floor, as dead as the stones that received him.
Mathayus, however, was not dead, though he was badly wounded; and he summoned his strength, and strove for clarity, as he pushed himself up on one hand, looking at Memnon climbing the final steps to the altar landing.
Too far away for a dagger thrust, the Akkadian knew, even if his powers had been at full capacity.
That was when he noticed a familiar friend—not a person, but an object, a precious artifact of the Akkadian warrior's past. . .
. .. his bow!
The formidable weapon lay, where the (late) prince of Ur had discarded it after the recent party, unable to pull its mighty string. Of course Mathayus had no way of knowing just how the bow had managed to place itself at his disposal; but he was not about to question this blessing....
Pain racked his body, but his determination, his sense of purpose, overcame the agony, which was inconsequential, compared with the agony of a world over which Memnon ruled. So the Akkadian crawled to that table, while Cassandra wept, turned away from him, unaware of his survival.
The barbarian's survival was something the Great Teacher had not learned, either. He stood on his self-made altar, his eyes raised to the glowing silver circle that was the scorpion-faced moon.
A fist raised, challenging the sky, Memnon shouted his glory. "Hear me, gods! I am Memnon— son of Osiris, ruler of the world! And you . .. even you . .. will obey!"
Though fire snapped and sizzled in the palace nearby, Memnon nonetheless heard the movement behind him; his keen warrior's sense of self-preservation had edged out his self-absorption.
And the warlord saw Mathayus, the bow back in his hands.
But Memnon was not afraid. The Akkadian was wounded, probably dying. And Memnon was, after all, a god.
Still not on his feet, the Akkadian—pitiful fool!— was searching around that table, underneath it, like a dog seeking scraps, looking for arrows that were not there ... no quiver was attached to the powerful bow.
Memnon shook his head, chuckling.
The weakened Mathayus—getting to his feet now, but wobbly, with his bow in hand, if without arrows—stared up at the would-be master of the world. Their gazes met, and locked. The flames around them reflected in the warlord's eyes—it was as if those eyes danced with madness.
The Akkadian could not allow this bastard to live.
Gritting his teeth, Mathayus reached a hand over his shoulder, and in one fluid move, he tore that arrow from the flesh that held it, withdrawing it from between his shoulder blades as if his body itself had been the arrow's quiver.
A lesser man—almost any man—would have fainted from the pain. But the assassin felt a new energy throb through him, and with a flaunting spin of the arrow, he notched it, and ... using the pain itself as fuel... Mathayus somehow managed to draw back that Promethean bowstring.
Memnon grunted, almost impressed. But he was not afraid. Even before he was a god, snatching an arrow from the air had been his favorite trick. Hadn't he, in this very courtyard, proved that?
By now the sorceress had seen her beloved rise from the dead, and she was filled with hope, as she saw the remarkable barbarian facing his foe for one last try at changing the future.
But Cassandra's hope fell, as guards suddenly rushed into the courtyard. A captain ordered them to stand fast, and they did, frozen at the sight of their king atop the altar, poised against the purple night sky . . . with the Akkadian's arrow pointed at his chest.
The Akkadian's reinforcements, outside the palace, were a despondent group. Their plans had apparently gone awry; that fuse must have again been disrupted. Isis paced, her warriors anxious on the palace steps; and the scientist shook his head, berating himself under his breath.
Arpid staggered over to the little scientist. Woozy with disappointment, the thief put a conciliatory, consoling hand on Philos's shoulder, and said, "You have to face the truth, my friend. It is just not going to happen."
The scientist, eyes wide and haunted, shrugged in surrender. "Can the Chinese powder have failed us?"
This would have been an excellent moment for the powder sacks to explode; but instead, a huge contingent of Memnon's army came clanking around the corner, swords raised.
Arpid and Philos exchanged terrified glances.
And the brave queen of fighting female warriors raised her own sword, though despite her fierce expression, she knew—as did her brave women—that they would be slaughtered in seconds.
Up in the courtyard, Memnon had ordered his guards not to interfere.
He preferred to stand atop his altar, and invite that arrow. At first he stretched his arms wide, and then—as when he had demonstrated his prowess earlier, in this very courtyard—he slowly drew them together until his palms were about a foot apart.
Finally the warlord spoke; his voice boomed as he addressed the wounded Akkadian, who aimed that secondhand arrow right at him: "You would dare interfere with the prophecies of the gods?"
"Let me tell you something I have learned, teacher," Mathayus said, drawing a bead on the man's chest, "about these 'prophecies'...."
With this the assassin somehow managed to draw that taut bowstring back yet another foot. Mathayus narrowed his eyes, his face set, his expression grim, as he carefully targeted the arrow, whose very tip was even now dappled with the Akkadian's own blood.
As he stood with his hands apart, Memnon watched his adversary closely... and a flicker of doubt passed across the warlord's face.
"Don't pin your hopes on them," Mathayus said.
And he let that arrow fly, straight and true....
Just as Memnon's hands were about to snap shut, clamping onto that arrow, a fuse far below him, in the recesses of the warlord's palace, touched the bags of black powder.
The massive explosion rocked the structure and all the people in it, including Memnon, who was shaken enough to allow that arrow to find a new home in his chest.
Soldiers who had charged forward, as Mathayus let the arrow fly, now were tossed like dolls as a plume of orange and red and blue, surrounded by mushrooming smoke, filling the sky itself with flame and dark clouds, blotting out the silver moon, blocking all other sound with its man-made thunder. The foundations of parapets were shaken so severely that a huge bell began to toll in one of them.
And in the midst of all this, the Great Teacher— Memnon, king of the world—was blown off his altar, as if that arrow had the power of the gods. Along the way, his robes caught fire, and when he went sailing over the wall, down toward the city street, the warlord was like a falling star his freed subjects might make a wish upon.
Below, Arpid and Philos—whose eyes were bright, faces wide with smiles, at their successful explosion—were not far away when Memnon's burning body hit with a sickening impact.
The soldiers who'd been advancing on Isis and her warriors—recognizing the burning form of their commander in chief—fell back, in horrified, lead-erless disarray.
Though the thief and scientist were squeamishly turning away from the human funeral pyre that Memnon had become, Isis herself smiled at the sight of the bastard as he cooked in his own juices. She was amused—she and her women had helped win this war without ever being called to the battlefield!
In the courtyard, Mathayus—the pain subsiding in the wake of triumph—staggered to the edge of the precipice and stared down to view the broken, burning body below.