Max Allan Collins

determined Cassandra was saying quietly. 'And its time has come. . . .'

And Mathayus came smashing, thundering through the shutters, splintering them, and slamming into Memnon, feet first, sending the warlord careen­ing, tumbling across the throne room, his sword fly­ing from his fingers.

The snake-handler slaves, seeing the amazing ar­rival of the intruder, reacted at once; one of them ran out the door, the other going to a long hanging cord, yanking it, and alarm bells began to peal. Cas­sandra, her ears filled with the raised alarm, flung the cobra from her wrist, and it went slithering off, wanting nothing of these humans.

The Akkadian rolled to his feet, and yanked the scimitar from his belt, filling his hand with steel. Across the sumptuous throne room, the would-be king of the world staggered to his feet, and looked into the glare of his uninvited guest, whose great blade winked with reflected torchlight.

Then the Akkadian glanced toward Cassandra, and by the assassin's concerned gaze—she nodded to the assassin that she was all right—the warlord was informed of the nature of their alliance, and knew he had been betrayed ... by lovers.

Mathayus was moving slowly toward him, bran­dishing the scimitar. 'I've come for the woman,' the Akkadian said. 'And your head ...'

The warlord knew very well that a pair of ancient but serviceable swords hung nearby, where they dec­orated a sandstone wall.

'The assassin and the sorceress,' Memnon said. 'How sweet—how romantic ...'

And with reflexes worthy of those slithering snakes, he whirled and grabbed both swords from their pegs, and wheeled with warrior grace, a blade in either hand, spinning the two weapons expertly, not beaten yet, not hardly.

'I will be sure,' Memnon said, 'to inter you to­gether.'

And the the warriors ran at each other, their swords clashing and clanging, ringing throughout the chamber even as the alarm bells continued their own toll of death.

                  _{Noble Effort}

A

s the alarm bells echoed through the palace and beyond, the raiding party of Balthazar, Queen Isis and her warrior women—outside the walls, shrouded in night shadows, awaiting the explosion that would signal their attack—reacted with dismay.

'Oh no,' Queen Isis said.

'Damn,' Balthazar breathed, as he saw a phalanx of the red-turbaned guards come running at them from around the corner of the palace, in full battle array, swords high.

Shoulders arching with feline grace, the nearly unclad fighting females—looking as lovely as they did deadly in the light of the moon and the flicker of torch flame—positioned themselves on the steps of the palace, spears and swords poised, ready to take on attack from within and without the turreted edifice.

But it was Balthazar himself—flinging away his cloak to reveal his massive frame in black leather armor—who stepped forward to receive this well-armed welcome.

Though there were ten of them, the Red Guards staggered to a halt at the sight of the giant Nubian, who raised his sword and grinned at the soldiers, in eager anticipation.

'All right, then,' he said pleasantly. 'Which lucky one of you dies first?'

Even outnumbering him as they did, the guards froze for several long moments, as if hoping this apparition would disappear, a figment of their imag­inations and the night.

But Balthazar wasn't going anywhere, except through them, and the leader of the guards yelled, 'Attack,' and they did, rushing forward with swords waving.

Queen Isis had seen the Nubian in full battle form before; but even she could only be impressed by his frightening skills. A massively muscled right arm raised and lowered and swung and carved that blade with swift, spectacular precision; Balthazar's strat­egy was impeccable, using one body to block and unhinge another opponent, until they were literally falling over themselves, the living onto the dead.