Max Allan Collins

the doorway, where the great Nubian was clearly tiring. Bodies were scattered carelessly at his feet, but Balthazar seemed all but overwhelmed, as more and more guards kept coming, driving him back into the burning throne room.

'Mathayus!' Cassandra cried. 'He needs your help!'

The Akkadian dodged a swing of Memnon's flaming sword, and saw for himself—Balthazar fighting as hard as he could, but the numbers de­feating him, or threatening to.

Then one of the guards slashed the Nubian's leg, a deep gaping gash, and Balthazar howled in fury, the wound spurring him to fight even harder, slash­ing blindly.

Mathayus knew if he didn't come to Balthazar's aid, the great warrior would soon be overrun, and cut to pieces....

With all the force he could muster, Mathayus swung his sword at Memnon, who could only fend off the blow by using both his swords. Distracted, Memnon was not prepared when the Akkadian kicked him, hard, in the chest, sending the warlord flying backward through the flames.

The horde of guards closing in on Balthazar would be too much even for Mathayus to take on, blade for blade; thinking fast, he ran to the six-foot ram's statue, and summoning all his strength, all his willpower, he lifted the huge statue and held it above his shoulders, like a tree trunk, and he charged to­ward the guards who were attacking his ally, and he hurled it into them, the massive object smashing into their midst, crushing some of them, scattering the rest.

Balthazar, catching his breath, nodded to Matha­yus, who nodded back; this would be all the Nubian would need, to get his footing again.

Cassandra had watched this with amazement and admiration, and then she wondered if she could reach Memnon and surprise him with her blade.

But as she turned, Memnon surprised her, instead.

The warlord was running at her—just as in her vision, though the location was different, and he was not on horseback, but his face, his teeth bared in a hateful grimace, was the same!

In one continuous movement, he rammed a shoul­der into her midsection, knocking the wind from her, her small sword flying, as he tossed her over his shoulder like a bag of wheat. Racing through the inferno of the throne room, the warlord swept the woman from the chamber.

Just as Mathayus was moving toward that door­way, a hanging tapestry above drooped down, cre­ating a wall of flame, driving him back.

Almost colliding with Balthazar, Mathayus said, 'Are you all right, my friend?'

The Nubian smiled grimly. 'You go—friend. I'll hold these bastards off.'

Here and there in the blazing throne room, the surviving guards were picking themselves up, re­grouping.

'You save her, Akkadian,' Balthazar ordered.

'Who am I to defy a king?' Mathayus asked.

And he ran through the flames, into the corridor.

                 Time of the Prophecy

O

utside the palace, Isis again knelt to help Philos, the scientist's exasperated visage having ap­peared in the hole beneath where the grate in the street had been. But this time he required special aid: the little horse thief, dead to the world (thanks to a knot on his head), had to be hauled up out of the hole like another, if bigger, bag of powder.

The queen's creased brow posed a question, but the scientist, getting yanked up out of the sewer by the slender strong hand of Isis, said only, 'Don't ask.'

'But you were successful?'

'Oh yes .. . but the timing will be less precise. We must wait; we are at the whim of the