Max Allan Collins

Then the Akkadian nudged the camel to motion, and they trotted away, leaving the thief behind, yet again. He scrambled after them, crying, 'So ... part­ner ... friend—where to now?'

'The Valley of the Dead,' the Akkadian said ca­sually.

Arpid frowned, slowed. 'The ...'

'Valley.'

'... of the...'

'Dead. Yes. Join us, if you like.'

As the Akkadian and his lovely hostage rode off, Arpid stopped and yelled at them, and at the sky. 'Are you a madman? Nobody enters the Valley of the Dead . . . that's why they call it the Valley of the Dead! You go in alive, you stay in there, dead! ... Even Memnon's army wouldn't dare go there!'

Mathayus, bouncing along, granted the thief a backward glance. 'Not even to regain his sorceress? The source of his battle prowess?'

Arpid trotted after them, a few hesitant steps. 'Well...'

'Of course he would! Memnon would send his men to the ends of the earth to get her back—to their deaths, if need be!'

Arpid swallowed, jogging along unenthusiasti­cally. 'It's not their deaths that trouble me, partner. .. . What about ours?'

But Mathayus had no answer for that, and rode along in silence. The sorceress said nothing either, and even Arpid had naught to say... though tag along he did.

Night had fallen on Gomorrah, and in the majestic throne room of Memnon, the warlord's two most trusted military advisers awaited his orders. That faithful servant, the scarred Thorak, stood by, wait­ing, hanging on his master's every word, every movement. That more recent addition to the inner circle, the patricidal Takmet, lounged at a table, sip­ping wine, as if disaster had not fallen.

But it had.

Troubled on his throne, the Great Teacher sat studying squirming scorpions in a glass bowl on the wide stone armrest beside him. He withdrew from his belt the dagger he'd appropriated from the Ak­kadian, and he sent it lancing down, spearing one of the wriggling arachnids. The deliberateness of that act now seemed at odds with his facial expression, as the warlord lifted the dagger with the writhing, dying scorpion impaled there, watching it with seemingly idle interest.

'Take a dozen of your best men,' Memnon said suddenly, and Thorak snapped to attention and Tak­met looked up, 'track him down ... kill him ... and bring Cassandra back to me.'

Thorak nodded a curt bow. 'Yes, my lord.'

Memnon drew the thin sharp blade down the ab­domen of the scorpion, splitting it open to the tail, ending its struggle.

'Send our fastest rider back to me, with word of his death,' Memnon said. 'And of her safety.'

Memnon reached into a quiver next to the throne and withdrew an arrow, the tip of which he poked into the venom sac of the dead scorpion. He twisted the arrow's tip, turned it, thoroughly soaking it in the poison.

'My lord,' Takmet said, rising finally, 'rumors have spread to our armies that Cassandra has been taken.'

Memnon turned sharply to Thorak. 'Is that true? Do such rumors fly?'

The scarred commander glared at his fellow ad­viser, conveying his aggravation at Takmet's stirring up trouble; then his gaze returned to his master, and he said, 'Yes, my lord. Of course, our generals, and our officers in the field, will need to know of her abduction ... in order to rescue her.'

'They will not rescue her—you will. And the men you ride with need not know, until the sorceress has been restored to our custody.'

'Yes, my lord.'