Max Allan Collins

'With the noble poise of his handsome head upon those broad shoulders, and the fire of life and intelligence of those fine, clear eyes, he might readily have typified some demi-god of a wild and warlike bygone people.'

—Edgar Rice Burroughs

                 _{SNOW BEAST}

L

ord Memnon's outposts stretched from the desert to the snowpacked mountain ranges that marked the edge of the known world. Along the periphery of that craggy border, where winter winds whistled and ice embraced the bare branches of trees, a log fortress played home to a tribe of fierce warriors aligned with the great warlord. These men would one day be known as Copts; in these ancient times they were known only as murderers.

Their stronghold—a formidable, ominous land­mark of barbarian-style civilization in the stark land­scape—was a windowless three floors where warriors plotted pillage, tortured the occasional pris­oner and even, between atrocities, partook of savage revelries.

On this frigid afternoon, fires roared within the rustic walls and so did egos, as these bad men consumed good wine and pawed at the voluptuous har­lots who traveled from camp to camp—hard, soft beauties used to such vile-smelling, rat's-nest-bearded warriors as these, furs flung aside to reveal battle-scarred cuirasses. Here and there, spears, swords, and scimitars rested against rough-hewn ta­bles and log walls; now and then a fight broke out among the scruffy soldiers, over a woman or a spoil of war or just a he one of them had told that had gone down poorly, like a chunk of spoiled venison.

Outside, in the howling, ice-flecked wind, one un­lucky warrior had been chosen to guard the only door on that side of the massive structure. Though he was only a single man, this was nonetheless a massive, intimidating guard, wearing the red turban of Memnon's guards, his beard and furs caked with ice, his face seemingly frozen in a vicious, ill-tempered expression.

In reality, that expression had less to do with his temper than with his frustration at having been as­signed guard duty during a spree like the one going on within those timber walls. Now and then—as the squeals of women and the bellows of men indicated everyone having a fine time (except, of course, a poor bastard assigned guard duty in the bitter cold), he would turn toward the building, gaze longingly if angrily at the door, and then turn his eyes back to the barren vista where (it seemed to him) no fool was likely to show himself.

Shrill feminine laughter pulled the guard's eyes toward that door once again, and he shook his head, cranky with the thought of three more hours of sen­try duty to stand in this cold, returning his perhaps less than watchful gaze to where it belonged ...

... just in time to receive a metal throwing star, which had come whirring, whirling toward him, to slam deadly deep into his forehead, between his eyes. His last action was to cross those eyes, to try to see what bug had stung him; but death took him before any cognizance could form.

The guard keeled over and hands reached from a nearby snowbank to yank him to a waiting grave of white.

Inside the fortress, the partying warriors knew nothing of this intrusion; they knew only of wenches doing belly dances—sometimes on the laps of the warriors—and food being gobbled and wine guz­zled, as the reflection of flames painted the brown walls a flickering orange.

Right now a fight had erupted at one table, and— in true fashion for warriors of such high ethics— three of them were attacking one. The argument seemed to be over a woman—or was it over that platter of mutton? Hard to tell, when such a fine time was being had by all.

Well, perhaps not by all: outside the fortress, an­other