Max Allan Collins

sticking out of the side of his leg—not terribly deep, but embedded there.

'You need help,' she gasped.

The Akkadian reached down and gripped the ar­row and, gritting his teeth, ripped it free from his flesh. Heroic as this effort was, the brawny barbarian nonetheless screamed in pain, a sound that echoed across the desert.

The woman, out of respect, looked away from this cry of anguish; the thief, out of squeamishness, did the same.

The Akkadian staggered over to the half-buried corpse of Thorak; an amulet around his adversary's neck bore the insignia of the red-turbaned troops. Ripping it from Thorak's cold throat, he said, 'Help me find his horse.'

'There it is,' the thief said, pointing.

Thorak's black steed, a distinctive beast, was among those milling around the battle site. The Ak­kadian walked to the horse, and examined the area around the saddle.

'Another survivor,' he said, with satisfaction.

As Arpid and Cassandra joined him, they saw what he was talking about: a falcon, its head covered by a cowl, was thonged to the saddle. Mathayus un­tied the bird and attached Thorak's insignia to the metal band around its foot.

The sorceress touched the assassin's arm. 'What are you doing?'

'Sending Lord Memnon a message,' he said; but his voice sounded weak, his eyes seemed cloudy.

Nonetheless, Mathayus managed to remove the bird's cowl and launch the falcon into the air; it wheeled, flapped regally, and flew away.

The Akkadian stood with his hands on hips, watching the bird wing toward Gomorrah, and he laughed a deep, hearty laugh that turned, startlingly, into a cough.

'Mathayus!' Cassandra cried.

The assassin, seized by a cramping of his abdom­inal muscles, doubled over.

'What's wrong?' she asked.

His fingers indicated the wound, from the arrow. 'Poi... poisoned ...'

And the mighty warrior, legs buckling, pitched forward into the sand.

                  Touch of Magic

As sunset painted the rocky landscape around the great city of Gomorrah a vivid orange, as if the earth itself had caught fire, a falcon flew over the fortified walls and to its familiar perch within the turreted palace of Memnon. The marketplace was closing down—excluding the dens of sin, of course—and soon all but the most dedicated lechers would have retired behind walls of stone, for time with friends and family, for food and rest.

Lord Memnon, however, did not rest—he had as­sembled his generals in the great throne room, where maps were spread out over a large table. Most press­ing, of course, was Ur—the only unconquered land—and the warlord was sharing his latest strategies with his battle chiefs. As usual, his gen­erals paid rapt attention; but one of them—Toran— seemed strangely quiet, even preoccupied. And this troubled the Great Teacher, who preferred his pupils hang on his every word.

Takmet, the heir to the empty throne of Ur, was present, but he too seemed to have his mind elsewhere, and did not crowd around the map table with the rest.  Of course, Memnon had already informed Takmet of these strategies; even so, the man’s nervous pacing was a distraction.

And of this assembly, of course, only Takmet knew the why of Cassandra’s absence . . . that the Akkadian had stolen her away.

A falconer entered, with the regal, recently arrived bird on his arm.  Approaching the warlord, then half bowing, he said, “A message from