Max Allan Collins

slipping from around her, even as the archer—intent on ensuring the death of his lord's foe—ran toward the fallen Akkadian.

And Memnon—on the altar steps, aloof from all this—surveyed the scene, pleased that his enemy had finally been vanquished, a man big enough not to begrudge the archer for denying his warlord the pleasure of killing the barbarian himself. Memnon could afford to be generous—after all, the path to godly ascension was clear before him.

The archer was almost upon Mathayus, the man brandishing a sword, ready to apply a finishing touch, should his arrow have only done the job half­way. Cassandra, boiling with fury, snatched up the Akkadian's scimitar, and—when the archer arrived, bending toward his victim—she swung the scimitar upward, thrusting it deep into the startled archer's chest.

The archer glanced at her, his expression more apt for hurt feelings than a fatal blow, and he tum­bled to the floor, as dead as the stones that received him.

Mathayus, however, was not dead, though he was badly wounded; and he summoned his strength, and strove for clarity, as he pushed himself up on one hand, looking at Memnon climbing the final steps to the altar landing.

Too far away for a dagger thrust, the Akkadian knew, even if his powers had been at full capacity.

That was when he noticed a familiar friend—not a person, but an object, a precious artifact of the Akkadian warrior's past. . .

. .. his bow!

The formidable weapon lay, where the (late) prince of Ur had discarded it after the recent party, unable to pull its mighty string. Of course Mathayus had no way of knowing just how the bow had man­aged to place itself at his disposal; but he was not about to question this blessing....

Pain racked his body, but his determination, his sense of purpose, overcame the agony, which was inconsequential, compared with the agony of a world over which Memnon ruled. So the Akkadian crawled to that table, while Cassandra wept, turned away from him, unaware of his survival.

The barbarian's survival was something the Great Teacher had not learned, either. He stood on his self-made altar, his eyes raised to the glowing silver cir­cle that was the scorpion-faced moon.

A fist raised, challenging the sky, Memnon shouted his glory. 'Hear me, gods! I am Memnon— son of Osiris, ruler of the world! And you . .. even you . .. will obey!'

Though fire snapped and sizzled in the palace nearby, Memnon nonetheless heard the movement behind him; his keen warrior's sense of self-preservation had edged out his self-absorption.

And the warlord saw Mathayus, the bow back in his hands.

But Memnon was not afraid. The Akkadian was wounded, probably dying. And Memnon was, after all, a god.

Still not on his feet, the Akkadian—pitiful fool!— was searching around that table, underneath it, like a dog seeking scraps, looking for arrows that were not there ... no quiver was attached to the powerful bow.

Memnon shook his head, chuckling.

The weakened Mathayus—getting to his feet now, but wobbly, with his bow in hand, if without arrows—stared up at the would-be master of the world. Their gazes met, and locked. The flames around them reflected in the warlord's eyes—it was as if those eyes danced with madness.

The Akkadian could not allow this bastard to live.

Gritting his teeth, Mathayus reached a hand over his shoulder, and in one fluid move, he tore that arrow from the flesh that held it, withdrawing it from between his shoulder blades as if his body itself had been the arrow's quiver.

A lesser man—almost any man—would have fainted from the pain. But the assassin felt a new energy throb through him, and with a flaunting spin of the arrow, he notched it, and ... using the pain itself as fuel... Mathayus somehow managed to draw back that Promethean bowstring.

Memnon grunted, almost impressed. But he was not afraid. Even before he was a god, snatching an arrow from the air had been his favorite trick. Hadn't he, in this very courtyard, proved that?