Max Allan Collins

Kneeling men bow to the King on High.

THE SCORPION KING

_{The Akkadian Assassins}

F

lame shadows flickered in the night across the seven obelisks, giant rock shards embedded in the earth, ranging from ten to fifteen feet high, like spears of stone hurled down by giants or perhaps gods. And onto the obelisks had been carved faces, the images of gods chiseled there by primitive men long before the people of Ur had come here. These god faces seemed to stare at the village of tents nearby, hundreds of nomadic tarp-structures repre­senting various clans—the last great tribes who had not fallen to the warlord Memnon— gathered on this dark night at this site of council.

Warriors in varying styles of helmet and leather cuirass, shields and swords at their sides, created a human circle around the assembly of their tribal leaders. Torches rode shafts, flames snapping at the coolness of the desert after dark, and a central fire pit threw orange and yellow at the blueness of the night.

Pheron of Ur, warrior king—a noble if grizzled figure, his white beard and a simple golden crown speaking volumes about his station—sat on a throne of stone, presiding over the council, gathered about the circle of fire. A debate was raging—and it was getting out of hand, reasoned discussion blazing into heated words and unruly outbursts.

'Silence!' King Pheron demanded.

The tide of quarreling did not roll back, however, and Takmet, a young, lightly bearded warrior, his breastplate unscarred, stepped forward. 'My father calls for silence!'

The roar of rancor fell to a rumbling grumbling.

'Discord must cease!' Pheron said, putting as much force into his words as he could, war weary as he was. 'We have come together in this sacred place to put our differences aside.'

Deep breaths were let out, and men began to nod at this wisdom.

'There is still time for us, my brothers,' Pheron said, 'to unite against this tyrant—for without us . .. the last of the free tribes ... the world is lost.'

From the darkness stepped a Nubian woman of regal bearing and great physical beauty: Queen Isis. Her hair was long, well past her shoulders, and black as a raven's wing, her strong slender form bound in the leathers of war. Around Isis were a small army of dark female warriors, lovely, fierce. Like her.

'Memnon's soldiers,' Isis said, 'outnumber our own combined forces—ten to one... I am sorry, Pheron. Your heart is strong, your intentions noble . . . but warriors must choose their stands wisely. And we choose not to join you in this battle of futility.'

'Will you flee, then?' King Pheron asked. 'Like frightened females?'

The eyes of the dark queen flared.

But Pheron continued: 'Because surely you know that Memnon will bring conquest to your door... You have only one choice, Isis. Stand and fight... or run.'

The queen, her eyes tight, considered this.

The weathered king—he was an old man, past forty—looked at the gathering of tribal leaders, saw the struggle-hardened, often bearded faces, took in the helmets, the breastplates, the shields, the swords, and knew he faced warriors. 'The tribes must stand, and fight, together!'

All eyes were on the king; the only sounds, other than his voice, were the night wind and the crackle of flames.

'Alone,' Pheron said, 'we will be like the rest of these human sheep . . . slaughtered. Memnon will continue his sweep to sea ... and he will destroy our tribes, one by one.'

A nomadic chieftain with a face as leathery as his cuirass rose from his seat and stoically said, 'Brave words, Pheron—but what of the sorcerer? The de­mon at Memnon's side, who sees with the eyes of gods . .. and foretells the outcome of every battle?'

Another tribal leader called out, 'As long as that damned