Max Allan Collins

stirred by the night breeze .. .

... revealing the feet of dozens of guardsmen ly­ing in wait!

'Back,' Mathayus whispered, halting, arms spread, as he realized the trap they had walked into.

And the other Akkadians stopped short, as well; but it was too late to retreat.

A flap running the length of the domelike tent snapped suddenly open—exposing a dozen archers who instantly let fly their arrows. At almost the same moment, a similar flap along a tent on the opposite side of the corridor snapped open and yanked up­ward and a dozen more archers were sending arrows their way, catching the Akkadians in a deadly cross fire.

Mathayus had the reflexes of youth on his side, and he leaped up, grasping the overhang of a large tent, flipping onto its tarpaulin roof, arrows flying just beneath him, barely missing him ...

... but not missing his two brother Akkadians, cutting them down.

And Mathayus could only stare down in horror as his companions were overwhelmed by the arrows. No help he could give would save them now . .. they were lost... and he could only surge forward, scampering like a cub across the sagging top of the tent.

So swift had Mathayus's action been, taking him­self up and out of harm's way, the soldiers below— moving out from their hiding place into that open area—had not seen his escape. It was as if the third Akkadian had simply disappeared; they searched among the tents, not realizing the tall assassin was high above them, clinging to the very crest of the sorcerer's dome.

With his knife Mathayus cut through the hides and created an opening, through which he droppeddown, landing like a big cat, almost silently, on the hide-covered floor.

It was if he had entered another world, a strange, shadowy, yet golden tent-chamber where elaborate drapes and tapestries hung, ornate benches and fur­nishings lending a palatial feel, while a central fire created a smoky ground-level fog that added to an undeniable occult atmosphere.

Rising to a crouch, Mathayus unslung his for­midable bow and notched an arrow. Clearing a hanging tapestry, he realized he was not alone. A figure with its back to him, in a long flowing cape with a high ornate stiff collar, decorated with moon signs and other enigmatic symbols, began to swivel around to him, with an unnatural fluidity, as if float­ing.

The sorcerer.

Closing one eye, the master archer took aim, as the figure turned fully to him...

... and the sorcerer, it seemed, was a sorceress.

As fully concealed as this figure had been with its cloaked back to him, now was it fully revealed. Barely clad, much of her golden-hued skin exposed, her form was slender yet shapely, high firm breasts half-concealed by a glittering halter, loins also girded in gilt. An oval face of such breathtaking beauty he had never seen—wide-set almond eyes as large as they were dark, delicate nose, small perfect lips, all framed by shoulder-length obsidian hair topped by a golden headdress.

Her eyes held his, hypnotically—was she a dream?

Entranced, thunderstruck by such rare beauty, Mathayus allowed his grip on the bowstring to loosen, slightly; then he squeezed his eyes shut, try­ing to regain, and maintain, his concentration.

This was sorcery ... and he had, after all, come to kill a sorcerer. Who was to say this was not a man, an evil magician, casting a spell of feminine illusion?

'I am Cassandra,' she said. Her voice was mu­sical, and as she stepped forward, tiny toe-ring cym­bals kept time, chiming as she moved. On her hands were gloves of gold . .. with silver claws.

He had come here to kill. Once again he aimed his arrow at her heart....

'You have been betrayed, Mathayus,' she said.