Max Allan Collins

Through the guards, who reared away more in surprise than fear, came a trio of hooded figures, like gray ghosts floating through the night, all three of them tall but the center one the tallest, rivaling Bal­thazar himself. They even moved with a ghostly grace, though these were not phantoms but men— the swords and other weapons clanking at their cui­rasses said as much.

They stood at the edge of the tribal council and flipped back their hoods—at left and right were war­riors; the man in the middle ... who had hurled the kama...

This man was Mathayus, and he is the hero we have met. Massive yet supple, he presented a bearing at once regal and forceful, his skin a burnished copper, made even more bronze by the firelight, his dark eyes piercing, cheekbones high, chin cleft, brow furrowed .. . and proud.

Balthazar drew away from the tree ... and his sword. His deep voice betrayed a certain awe. 'Ak­kadians ... I thought they were wiped out long ago.'

'They are the last of their kind,' King Pheron said. 'And by their hand, Memnon's sorcerer will die.'

Balthazar frowned at the king. 'You would put your faith in a clan of cutthroats? Men who kill not to defend their land and their people... but for money?'

Mathayus trained his eyes on the giant, fixing a cold glare on the man ... but he said nothing.

'They are more than simple 'cutthroats,' ' the king said. 'They are skilled assassins . . . trained for generations in the deadly arts.'

Balthazar snorted. 'Your words do not change the truth of it: these are men who kill for money. And such men are not to be trusted.'

The king's son was on his feet, now, and—trying to regain some dignity—strode forward, to meet the cloaked trio. He stood before Mathayus and looked into his face.

'You,' Takmet said to the tall Akkadian, and dis­respect tinged his tone. 'The others have faces marked for war. Why don't you wear your clan's markings?'

'Perhaps,' Mathayus said, 'I have not earned the right.'

'Oh?'

Resting his hand on the pommel of his sword, Mathayus said, 'Perhaps one must first kill enough men who ask stupid questions.'

Takmet, noting the hand on the hilt, scrambled back to his father, addressing him with a distinct lack of the respect that the son had earlier demanded of others for this king. 'And how much will these, these .,. mercenaries cost?'

Quietly King Pheron stated, 'Twenty blood ru­bies.'

And the old man held out a leather pouch, at which his son stared, shocked, dismayed.

'Father!' Takmet gasped. 'That... that's the last of our treasury!'

The king's frown exercised every deep line in his face. 'Silence, boy!'

Takmet stood there staring at his father, for sev­eral long moments, as if he'd been slapped by the man; perhaps, in a sense, he had. The king's son was trembling with embarrassment, and fighting to hold back his fury at what he considered to be his father's stupidity.

Then Takmet turned and stormed away, fuming, leaving the circle of fire.

Again, King Pheron addressed the tribal leaders, figures washed in the orange of firelight in the blue of night. 'If the Akkadians kill the sorcerer ... then will you come together? Will you fight as one?'

It did not happen all at once. Murmured discus­sion followed; but then, slowly, gradually, heads be­gan to nod, as one by one they agreed with Pheron's proposal...