Max Allan Collins

Cassandra looked at Mathayus anew: the caring, the passion, in his voice and eyes, were undeniable. Could this man . .. love her?

Balthazar withdrew his huge sword, grinning ruthlessly. 'I could hope for no finer invitation, Ak­kadian.'

Mathayus darted to one side, and as deftly as picking an apple from a tree, plucked a sword from the belt of a guard. The crowd instantly drew away, creating a larger arena, as the Akkadian charged for­ward without fear toward the giant Nubian, who ran at the oncoming threat, his own sword raised high.

The swords collided with a shattering impact— literally, the powerful blades fragmenting like glass under the blows of these two powerful warriors.

Mathayus reeled backward, and his opponent did the same—each man startled to see the broken-at-the-hilt sword in his respective grasp.

In a moment of frozen time, the two stared at each other, as if wondering what to do; then they made a simultaneous decision, and again ran at each other, this round with fists raised. The massed on­lookers thundered with pleasure—rough people al­ways ready to watch and relish a fight-to-the-death between well-matched warriors.

The Akkadian was shorter than the Nubian, but not by much; and the Nubian's muscled frame was thicker than that of the Akkadian, who seemed damn near lithe in comparison. Bulk made the king's blows more powerful than the assassin's, but the lat­ter's grace and speed kept the hand-to-hand exchange even, the flurry of blows staggering both warriors, but neither falling, and no man gaining the upper hand.

Frustrated, Balthazar grabbed an iron pot from an open campfire and smashed it into the head of the Akkadian, on his next charge; stunned, Mathayus staggered backward into the side of a tent, taking the canvas structure down with him. In the mean­time, one of Balthazar's men threw his king a staff, and the Nubian stepped forward with it, bearing down on Mathayus, who rolled back and forth across the fallen canvas, nimbly dodging the striking stick.

As he rolled, the Akkadian discovered, within the fallen tarp, the tent's pole, which he snatched up and used to parry the attacks of the Nubian and his staff. They seemed about to fight to yet another stalemate, as the two men expertly thrust and parried with their staffs, an exchange that only served to emphasize how evenly matched the warriors were.

Now it was the Akkadian's turn to feel frustra­tion, and he summoned the fury within him to blot out the chivalrous give-and-take the duel had risen to, screaming in primal rage and laying into the Nu­bian, hacking away like a scythe at jungle grass, knocking the surprised giant backward, the Akka­dian's ferocity trumping the superior strength of the king, and—with a blow that snapped his own make-do tent-pole staff in half—knocking the Nubian's staff out of his grasp and beyond his reach, driving Balthazar against a wall of timber ...

. .. and the ragged, jagged yet pointed half staff was poised at the Nubian's throat, dimpling the flesh.

Around them, the bandit amphitheater had gone dead silent. Every man there—including, and espe­cially, Balthazar —knew that in an instant, with a simple thrust, the king would be dead.

But the Akkadian, while keeping that point pressed to the king's throat, chose instead to speak. 'We are brothers, Balthazar, in the same cause.'

'Brothers?' the defiant warrior said bitterly. 'You have brought death to my people—as surely as night follows day, Memnon will follow you.'

'I have killed those he has sent; their bones bleach in the desert sand.'

The Nubian's eyes and nostrils flared. 'Memnon will send more troops! He will not stop, until he has her... his sorceress.'

Though pinned to the wall, the big man managed to point toward the aghast Cassandra.

'Yes, Akkadian ... I know who she is. She is no mere wench whose honor you defend—this is the oracle who Memnon will have back, at any cost.'