Max Allan Collins

sorcerer is with him, no mortal can defeat Memnon!'

The king looked from face to face—soldier-rulers who wore the hard-earned scars of conflict, and the tribal markings of war. They were not cowards; they were brave fighting men, a relative handful, facing a merciless conqueror who seemingly had the su­pernatural on his side.

'And if this sorcerer,' Pheron said, 'were to die? What then?'

A deep voice from the darkness growled, 'An­other of your schemes, Pheron? Too late. Too little.'

Seething, Takmet stood and shook a fist. 'You will show my father respect!'

The man who had spoken also rose, and moved into the light of the fire. This was Balthazar—the warrior of warriors, in this or any group, a Nubian mountain of a man whose leathers barely concealed a seven-foot frame thick with muscle. Battle beads looping an impossibly thick neck, his face might have been a carved mask, with its slitted eyes and broad flat nose and snarl of mouth, cheeks bearing decorative scars, an otherwise shaved head topped by ropy braids.

'The truth respects no one,' Balthazar said, his deep voice resonating. 'It is only the truth ... and men who deny the truth deserve no respect.'

Pheron said, 'Nor do men who will not listen to reason.'

'Listen to the truth, Pheron,' Balthazar said, 'if you are, as you claim, a man of reason. And the truth is this: My eyes have seen Memnon's army devour this land like hungry locusts. With the hordes at his command, facing Memnon with our meager numbers assures us of only one thing . .. defeat.'

'Where would you run, Balthazar?' Pheron asked, with mock gentleness. 'Where would you flee in a world ruled by Memnon?'

Eyes and nostrils flaring, the huge warrior said, 'Balthazar and his people will not run.... I will continue to do as I have done these many months . .. raid the bastard's caravans, and weaken his supply chain. This I will do ... but what I will not do, for any man, for any men, is send my people to their certain death.'

The king's son stepped forward, boldly, as he was much smaller than the looming Nubian. One hand on his sword hilt, the other holding a goblet of wine (the possible source of his courage), Takmet faced the giant, saying defiantly, 'Your people, Balthazar? You talk like a ruler.'

'I am their king, little man.'

Takmet laughed up at him. 'You are king of nothing ... the ruler of a pile of sands and rocks.'

Balthazar's hand barely blurred in firelight, so astonishingly fast did the big man move; his massive hand had clamped itself over the smaller man's hand, the one holding the golden goblet.

And Balthazar began to squeeze.

'If I am no king,' the giant asked, as if genuinely curious, 'why are you kneeling before me?'

By now Takmet was on his knees, howling in agony.

As the king's guards bolted to their feet, drawing their swords, the giant reached back—almost casu­ally—for his sword, which rested against a tree trunk. The air crackled with not just the sound of flames, but with the promise of bloodshed....

An object flew from the darkness and slammed into the tree trunk above Balthazar's sword—an iron kama ... a hatchet-sized scythe ... quivering there menacingly, just above the sword hilt, between it and the fingers of the giant.

A voice—not as deep as Balthazar's, but deep enough, and quietly threatening, in a confident, al­most low-key fashion—said, 'So much talk ... Memnon may just wait for you fools to kill each other.'