Max Allan Collins

'So!' Arpid called. 'Where are we headed?'

Mathayus said nothing; he nudged the camel to more speed, and the animal complied.

'Hey!' the thief yelled. 'We struck a bargain!'

The little man on foot trotted after the bigger man astride the albino camel.

'All right,' the thief chattered breathlessly as he ran after the Akkadian, 'I'll tell you where we're going! You came to kill that woman—that witch! Only you failed ... You saw how comely she was, and your bread started to rise, and you choked!'

Mathayus glowered back, as he rode; then he spurred the camel to a full gallop.

Desperately, Arpid ran faster, too, yelling, 'So now you have to save your honor! And kill the wench!... Only, you don't know where she is, where Memnon's taking her... and I do!'

Scowling to himself, Mathayus kept right on rid­ing.

But slower.

Sin City

T

hough its reputation was of sin and decadence, Gomorrah bespoke order and control, or at least its outward appearance did. At the heart of a rocky valley, as spectacular as it was imposing, this for­tress city—heavily guarded by the red-turbaned minions of Memnon—was dominated by the battle­ments and turrets of the Great Teacher's palace.

The sandstone throne room of that palace was a magnificent space worthy of so renouned a war­lord—gilded, pilastered, adorned with stark, muted (though colorful) designs that anticipated Egyptian culture of centuries to come; torch lamps—dark metal bowls of fire on spindly legs—threw a golden hue across the vast chamber, rife with lush drapes, intricate tapestries, oversize urns, and furnishings of strong simple design.

Along one wall slept two chained young beasts— a tiger and a lion—barely bigger than cubs, but not the pets of a commonplace man, not even a com­monplace ruler. A huge, ornate golden throne, over­seen by a shieldlike symbol, and bookended by ivory tusks pointing left and right, provided a loom­ing perch fit for the king Memnon meant to be; along one side of the throne room, a spacious bal­cony looked out across the spires of the city ... the fabled city of sin that now belonged to Lord Mem­non.

At a small round table near that balcony sat the sorceress, Cassandra, poring over a parchment map on which she arranged agates and jade and other smooth stones, in a manner, a pattern, flowing in­stinctively from an unearthly source within her. Clad in a diaphanous robe, her breasts and loins covered in glittering chain mail, regal in her golden head­dress, she was attended by two similarly underclad beauties with feathered fans, soothing her from the warmth of the desert clime. But their presence, like the heat itself, did not penetrate her preoccupied, almost trancelike state.

With delicate gold-and-jewel-bedecked fingers she ran her searching touch across the face of the map, and the rune stones she had arranged there . . .

... summoning a vision: the warrior queen, Isis, on horseback, at full gallop, riding toward a forest, beyond which (Cassandra somehow knew) a settle­ment awaited. Then the queen drew up her steed, as smoke streamed into the sky from the decimated vil­lage. Around her, at her side, were her sister warriors, her tribal council; but coming toward her were more of the female fighters she ruled, and they showed the ragtag signs of battle, the blood, the soot, the despair. Slung across one saddle was a mortally wounded warrior; and on the queen's face anger and sadness fought for dominion.

Cassandra opened her eyes. She could feel the anguish of Queen Isis, but she kept that shared sor­row within her: no tears fell. Like so many seers, Cassandra had erected defensive walls—otherwise, she would be a slave to her visions.

A familiar voice boomed across the throne room: 'And what news from my sorceress, today?'

She turned, nodding to her attendants, who slipped away, even as Lord Memnon—a warrior king in black leathers—strode across his throne room with his right-hand man, Thorak, and left-hand man, Takmet, at his appropriate sides.

Remaining seated, she swiveled toward Memnon, regarding him with half-lidded eyes. 'The forces of Queen Isis are scattered to the four winds.'

Memnon grinned, like a greedy child, exchanging satisfied nods with both his chief advisers.