Max Allan Collins

least wounded every opponent; but he could barely stand, his leg badly slashed, blood streaming, weakening him. Leaving behind a scarlet scattering of the dead and dying, the Nubian limped from the throne room and its spreading conflagration, into the safety of the corridor.

Only safety was not what awaited the king of the bandits: a long staff, hurled at him, walloped him alongside the head and sent him to the stone floor. Above the hoarse roar of flames came the sound of hoofbeats—within the palace?—which seemed to Balthazar a bizarre aural hallucination, until he pushed to one elbow and saw the all-too-real sight of that patricidal swine Takmet, riding toward him on a stallion no darker black than its rider's soul.

The horseman drew up, in the wide corridor, near the fallen Nubian, and grinned down at him, laugh­ing madly, brandishing a lance with a curled-hook tip. Takmet jabbed it at the fallen Balthazar, who— at the last moment—managed to roll out of its reach.

The Nubian king climbed painfully to his knees, and the harsh, gloating voice of the vicious prince echoed off walls decorated with the reflection of orange-blue flame. 'Why, Lord Balthazar—if I am no king ... why are you kneeling before me?'

This insult was a blessing from the gods, because it inspired the man mountain, sent rage-fueled en­ergy surging through him, and—pushing off the wall with his free hand, his sword filling the other— he used his good leg to rise, and face the lance-wielding man on horseback.

In the courtyard, the battle between the barbarian and the would-be king raged on, while the sorceress who had served the latter and loved the former watched helplessly. Mathayus fought with a ham­mering fury, but Memnon made up for a compara­tive lack of strength with dexterity, grace and brutal speed—his ability to fight with a sword in either hand allowed him to fend off the Akkadian's every blow with one hand, and respond with the other.

They had fought to the bottom of the steps of the altar, Memnon pressing the attack, driving his an­tagonist back, until Mathayus knocked into a flam­ing blazier. While the assassin deftly sidestepped— with a grace rivaling that of the smaller man— Memnon took a precious second or two to reach down to the fallen lamp, where he again ran his blades through blazing oil.

Once more the warlord's swords danced with fire, and he charged Mathayus, the whirling swords spin­ning, the flames a dazzling, blinding array of skill as the warlord slashed forward, sending spitting oil spraying onto the Akkadian's arms.

The oil droplets jumped to flame, and now—as if dealing with a warrior of Memnon's skill weren't enough—the assassin was having to take time to shake flames from himself, as if throwing off biting insects, a distraction that aided the warlord in back­ing Memnon up to the edge of the precipice that lined one side of the elevated courtyard.

Mathayus glanced over his shoulder, at the Go­morrah street a very long way down; and a groggy Cassandra—just now able to get to her feet, from Memnon flinging her to the stone floor—cried out in despair, wishing there were some magic left in her to work in aid of her beloved, and help strike down that wretched villain.

In a corridor nearby, another deadly duel was under way, as the wounded Balthazar seemed out­matched by the fiendish man possessed, on horseback, Takmet's lance driving him back and back, with repeated jabs.

And as these battles—and an ever-spreading fire— raged, a burning fuse deep in the bowels of the palace took its sweet time traveling toward those piled sacks of black powder.

As Mathayus teetered on the literal brink, a long fall to death just behind him, Memnon struck hard with the flaming sword in his right hand, shoulder­ing forward; but Mathayus countered, catching the hilt of the warlord's sword, and leaned his own weight in, spinning the man around, toward that ledge.

A decorative half wall of rock, supporting the al­tar, saved Memnon, who slammed into it. Mathayus had taken a step back, so that his opponent could not reach out at the last moment and pull him along on a plummeting death. And now Memnon, breathing hard, resting against the rocks for a few seconds, stole his own look at the long drop. His feral grin revealed to the Akkadian a grudging re­spect for how near the 'immortal'