Max Allan Collins

'Oh I know,' Mathayus grunted, over the clang of his blade against the warlord's. 'I soaked the de­sert with your best soldiers' blood.'

'Ah,' Memnon said, parrying both words and swords, 'but how will you fight them all?'

At that, the throne-room doors crashed open, and the battering ram revealed itself as Balthazar, locked in hand-to-hand combat with four guards who were hanging on to him, as if for dear life, when in reality they were doing their best to bring the mountain down. His sword was still in hand, but the guards had grabbed onto him, pinning his arms, and the Nubian was, if not helpless, severely hampered.

The big man yelled in rage and flung the four men off him, and they scattered around the throne-room floor, like toy soldiers discarded by a jaded child.

Balthazar—his sword in hand unencumbered now—moved into the throne room, getting his bear­ings, wheeling around, waiting for the next assault.

He did not have long to wait: more guards poured in from the corridor, and the ones he'd cast off were getting to their feet again, their own swords at the ready. The Nubian smiled, as if in welcome, and charged them with his sword, cutting them down like weeds.

One of the guards who'd just entered moved past the Nubian battling his fellows, and marched men­acingly toward Cassandra.

'You!' the guard said to her, his voice com­manding, rising above the metallic clank of swords. 'Sorceress! Get out of here, now! This is no place for a woman—it is not safe.'

'I believe you're right, kind friend,' Cassandra said, and in a fluid movement that hypnotized the guard with its swift grace, the sword came from be­hind her back, and made two silent swipes.

The guard, surprised, slipped to the floor, as if for a nap—albeit a permanent one.

The entrance of the huge Nubian—a one-man army cutting a swath of death through his best guards—shook Memnon's confidence—Mathayus had not come alone! How many invaders would there be... ?

Mathayus drove forward, hacking at Memnon, like he was a stubborn tree in his path, pressing him back again, as that golden ram looked on, diffident in the midst of so much mayhem.

And in front of the palace, where the reinforcements awaited an explosion, none had taken place.. . though the sand had indeed run out in the hourglass.

The thief regarded the device in the scientist's hand, asking him, 'Doesn't that mean that our pow­der should have gone off?'

'I had to allow for the time we spent, moving through the passage, but...'

Queen Isis was looking on, disapprovingly.

Philos shook his head. 'How can this be?'

'Could it be that you're a crazy old muttonhead?' Arpid asked, his patience worn thin playing second fiddle to this fraud. 'A fool who doesn't know the first thing about magic powder?'

But the scientist seemed not to have heard, and only repeated, louder, 'How can this be?'

Isis frowned. 'What can be done?'

'We must go back,' the scientist said, 'and in­spect the explosives.'

Arpid's eyes grew huge. 'What? And have them go off in our faces?'

Philos didn't seem to hear that, either. In fact, the thief had barely gotten his question out—much less had it answered—when Philos went running back up the steps, into the palace,