Max Allan Collins

Takmet's smirk disappeared and a smoldering rage turned into a blaze rivaling the one in the palace around them. 'Force me to kneel before you? What gives you such gall, Nubian dog? What gives you the right to ask a prince to kneel before such rab­ble?'

And the furious Takmet drove the lance forward, aiming between those massive raised hands ...

... both of which caught the lance, and held it fast.

Takmet's eyes widened, his mouth dropped open.

Balthazar's eyes burned into whatever soul the wretch in the saddle still possessed. And he an­swered the prince's question: 'What gives me the gall? ... About two hundred pounds' advantage, traitor.'

And with a might few men could match, Baltha­zar yanked that lance, lifting Takmet off the saddle as if he were weightless, sending the slender prince flying...

... straight into a stone wall, where—as one might predict—he hit hard, like an insect into the helmet of a charging warrior. He slid down the stones, as if every bone in his body had been crushed into a puree, and puddled there, waiting for Balthazar.

It was not a long wait.

The Nubian, with renewed strength, strode over, hardly limping now. Somehow the stunned prince managed to draw his sword, but even he knew the fight was over. A big hand reached out and squeezed the smaller man's wrist and fingers popped open, and steel clattered impotently on the floor.

'Go ahead, Nubian,' Takmet said, not defiant, just weary. 'End it! Use your sword.'

The king shook his head.

And raised a fist, no larger than the average child's head, casting a shadow that blotted out the face of the only son of the late King Pheron of Ur.

'This,' Balthazar said, 'is for your father.'

Then that fist came smashing straight into Tak­met's wide eyes, and the last sound the prince heard was the sickening crunch of his own face, collaps­ing.

In the courtyard, Mathayus had recovered—he was on his feet, scimitar in hand, moving toward the steps, ready to charge up that altar and finish the madman Memnon.

'Mathayus!'

At the sound of Cassandra's voice, the Akkadian paused, turned, and saw her standing with her palms upraised—a wraith in the moonlight—her expres­sion solemn.

And just past her, behind her, he saw an archer burst through a palace doorway onto the courtyard, a sandaled foot crushing a flower, an arrow already notched in the warrior's bow.

Mathayus winced. In a flash, he knew: he knew what Cassandra's vision had been—of his death in this courtyard—and he knew what she now in­tended; like him, she wanted to change the future, even if it meant sacrificing herself, fashioning her own doomed destiny.

She sent love to him with her eyes, and then res­ignation covered her face, as she turned toward that archer, who was about to let fly.

Then the sorceress dove in front of that projectile, which already winged toward Mathayus, who had anticipated her move, diving himself, snatching her out of harm's way and into the shelter of his arms, and he spun toward the threat, offering his back to the archer's arrow.

The tip found purchase in his back, between his shoulder blades, and the shaft quivered there, satis­fied. Mathayus received this offering without a cry of pain, though his shudder was something Cassan­dra, folded in his arms, felt as if the reaction were her body's own.

'No,' she said, agonized at the fulfillment of her vision, her emotions shattering into tears, 'no ...'

Scimitar tumbling from his hand, Mathayus dropped to the ground,  his  arms