Max Allan Collins

The warlord frowned in thought. 'Silence these rumors. Kill those with traitorous tongues, at your discretion. The people must believe the prophetess is here, even if we can only sustain the deception a short while.'

Thorak nodded.

'And when you see the Akkadian,' Memnon added, 'give him this for me.'

And the warlord handed his adviser the poison-tipped arrow, which Thorak handled judiciously, shielding the tip in a leather cover.

Within the hour, Thorak and his personal cadre of his toughest, most trusted men—chosen from among the red-turbaned royal guards—galloped from the fortress city, into the night. Into the un­derworld, if necessary.

And in his imperial chamber, the Teacher of Men stood ponderingly at a heavy stone tablet, displayed in a golden frame near his throne. This inscribed slab was ancient, even in these ancient times, and bore a crude form of hieroglyphics only the most learned scholars could decipher.

The warlord's fingers ran slowly across the symbols, his touch respectful, almost tender, his expres­sion that of a man in a spell. His fingertips lingered on an etching of a man, whose arms were raised in triumph, seemingly mimicked by tongues of fire ris­ing behind him.

Then Memnon's fingers came to rest upon a carved moon emblem, at the very bottom of the in­scribed tablet.

A very short time now, he thought, and all would be his .. . starting with the woman, Cassandra, and ending with the world itself.

By the middle of the next day, the trio of travelers had crossed the nomadic plains and would soon en­ter the desert. The Akkadian had built some grudg­ing respect for the little thief, who had managed to keep pace, as the camel loped along.

Of course Hanna—bearing both Mathayus and, seated in front of him, Cassandra—was slowed by the burden; and from time to time Mathayus had walked, himself, leading the camel bearing the sor­ceress along.

At the crest of a rugged hilltop, three twelve-foot poles awaited them—warning signs for those who would enter the forbidden land ahead, the Valley of the Dead of legend. Each wooden shaft bore various human skulls intertwined with small animal bones, snakes mostly, and the dried skins of men who had dared pass this way.

The little horse thief did not find this a tempting invitation, saying, 'I'm guessing this means we've gone far enough.'

From the ridge they could see the unforgiving landscape that awaited them—pockmarked earth scattered with mud hills, stretching to a desolate ho­rizon. Beyond that, a devastating desert awaited, if the map Mathayus held could be trusted.

Rolling the lambskin back up, and replacing it in his saddlebag, the Akkadian said to the thief, 'No, partner... We're just getting started. Consider this a welcome.'

'A welcome,' Arpid said, glancing from one pole of impaled skulls to another. 'Well, why not push on? Your friend is a sorceress, and you're a trained assassin, not to mention a hulking barbarian. Who among us could get hurt, in the endeavor?'

Mathayus shrugged. 'Who indeed?'

'Oh, I don't know ... the skinny thief, perhaps?'

'You're free to make your own way,' the Ak­kadian reminded him, as he stood alongside the beautiful hostage stride the camel. He reached up and brushed her long hair away from the side of her face, and she looked sharply at him, startled, of­ fended.

'Don't touch me,' she said, and caught his wrist.

Firmly—but not roughly—he freed his hand, and he brushed her hair away, again, and slipped the golden hoop earring from her lobe.

Confused, she frowned at him, and grabbed for her belonging, unsuccessfully.