Max Allan Collins

huge guard, also denied this party, traipsed through the snow, where no footprints or marks other than his own could be seen. Grumbling at pull­ing such duty during a feast, the bearded guard came to a stop—had he heard something, over the whistle of wind through dead vegetation?

That was as far as the guard got with his thought process, before a bear-like claw shot up out of the snowbank between the warrior's legs and yanked him down by his ... well, for decorum's sake, we will merely figure that he was dragged down under the snow, where he vanished in a flurry of punches and exploding powdery white, bones snapping and cracking, before a deathly still ensued.

No one was around to see the huge, white crea­ture rise up from out of the snow. Had anyone on the periphery witnessed this, however, the impres­sion would have been that a Yeti had just snagged its prey. The Yeti—that half ape, half human crea­ture some called the Abominable Snowman—was thought to be legendary by many; a few knew these creatures actually existed. One of those few was an Akkadian warrior called Mathayus, who had himself killed one.

In fact, the skin of that slain Yeti was the one Mathayus was wearing right now, a cape over his bare, bronzed chest, his massively muscled legs in leather breeches. Dark- eyed, with the heroic features of a carved statue, Mathayus breathed steam, mus­cles rippling; he might—for all his handsomeness— have been an evil beast. He was not; he is instead the hero of our tale.

And he had come to this terrible place to rescue a brother Akkadian; for though he was as fearsome as any warrior in those days, Mathayus had the heart of a king—noble, compassionate, yet resolute.

Within the fortress, the captain of this garrison—a monolith among these monstrous men—rose from the head of the main table and stepped in front of the massive stone fireplace whose flames licked as if they were as greedy as the reveling soldiers.

His voice was an arrogant growl. 'We have killed Babylonians!'

Well-remembering, the crowd responded with drunken, enthusiastic glee.

'We have killed Mesopotamians!' their leader re­minded them.

And again they responded with brutal gaiety.

'But.. . never before have we had the uncom­mon pleasure of killing an Akkadian.'

The captain gestured to their 'guest': an Akka­dian—leanly muscular with a stoic, weathered face, his battle-scarred chest heaving—strapped spread-eagle on a cross beam. Almost smugly unflinching, the Akkadian—his name was Jesup—glared at his hosts with what might have been pity.

'Let me go,' Jesup said, 'or face a wrath from which none of you shall survive.'

The disheveled warriors merely smiled at this, though the wenches—who had been around battle and strife as long as the soldiers—stared at the Ak­kadian with respectful fear.

'You face a ruthless fury,' Jesup warned them, as stern as a displeased parent, '... relentless . . . merciless ... such as even the gods would dare not provoke.'

The captain grunted a laugh. 'For a man about to die ... slowly .. . you're awfully damned full of yourself.'

Now the drunken audience did dare to laugh— not the women, though, who were glancing about the chamber for a corner to hide in.

'Oh,' Jesup said, apparently amused, looking the captain square in the eyes, 'I wasn't talking about me.'

The soldiers at the tables only laughed all the more, and even the women joined in, albeit ner­vously; but as their leader held the gaze of his pris­oner, the captain felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with winter.

Outside, another of the massive bearded sentries came up behind one of his brother soldiers, a fellow named Fydor, relieving himself, making yellow de­signs in the show.

'Fydor! Why the hell have you left your post?'

The guard grabbed Fydor by a shoulder and spun him