CHAPTER 3 : Vision of saviour

"Fidelity- A virtue peculiar to those who are about to be betrayed"

-Ambrose Bierce

After conquering Sumer, Memnon set his sights on the last free tribes: The Kingdom of Ur, the Nubians, and the Amazonians.

During this campaign Memnon demanded that I follow him and his soldiers.

Wither it was because he enjoyed my company since he had called more and more often for me or because he was getting concerned about me I cannot say. Both are thoughts that made me ill, even after all this time. But I did know that Memnon seemed to have a great and strange 'bout confidence in conquering the Kingdom of Ur.

I made this chilling discovery as I had been gazing in to my black mirror, when he came into my tent for his usual calling.

"Cassandra," He greeted me softly, a horrible grin on his face.

I looked up at the sound of his voice. Despite the bile rising in my throat, I did my best to keeping my devoid of emotion. Something I had learned to over the years, and well.

"What do you predict about the campaign against Ur?" he asked.

"Personally my lord," I spoke honestly. "I foreseen a rather trying battle. Ur's king, Pheron maybe elderly, but he is wise in the ways of war. He is a respectable man, and his people would follow him to the ends of the earth if need be.'

Memnon nodded, an odd look in his eye that made me instantly on guard.

"Perhaps that is true, but I have the visions of a powerful sorceress," Memnon replied. "As well a secret weapon that, quite soon I feel, will come to my disposal."

I looked to him, unable to mask my pondering of his words.

A secret weapon? I thought.

"My lord?" I said, fearing to ask.

But Memnon held up a hand to silence me. That familiar cruel smile on his face.

"Do not worry, my Beautiful Dear," He said. "You will know in time."

At the words 'Beautiful Dear' I felt the strong desire to slap the heartless warlord with all my might across the jaw. But I knew better. Such a deed would have me killed or worse.

I narrowed my eyes, clenched my fists under that table, and fixed my eye onto the depths of my black mirror.

I did not know how much more I could take from this horrible man.

Later on that night I stood, alone, in that same tent, deep in thought.

Now looking back out of all of the camp, I do think that tent, my own, was the most comfortable. It was a gigantic dome made out of the thickest hides to keep out drafts of the night. Symbols were painted on the furs showing my craft. Furniture stood on rugs and hides, tapestries hung from the high rafters. The fire I had lit that night in the center of the tent made a ground level fog.

And here I stood gazing at my map I had suddenly covered with my runic stones. For some rather odd reason I found myself dressed in my finest golden halter, with my black cape with a high-winged collar, and golden skirt. My usual golden headdress at my brow as my dark hair fell loosely over my shoulders. My hands decorated with golden hand-flowers, my fingers tipped with matching silver claws. Around my neck I placed a golden chain necklace with a single charm given to me years ago by my mother.

Perhaps it was something that could be felt on the air that night, that I had dressed as such.

Like something life altering would happen.

I let my hand hover over the map, over the desert where Memnon, his men, and I were to spend the night.

Closing my eyes, I summoned a vision. Trying to make sense of my sudden actions. Then in a slight shiver the went up my spine and a flash of white filled my eyes…

A campfire burned and flickered in the presence of a circle of carved, weathered stone. A place that was sacred to both men and gods.

Yet at this holy place the leaders of the last free tribes stood, in a thickly heated argument. Among this council, sitting on a worn throne of stone, was the King of the very country of Ur. A noble, yet grizzled and weathered king, oddly similar to the stones around him.

King Pheron himself.

"Silence!" He called. Trying to get the attention of the tribal leaders, and to stop the chaos that seemed to be brewing from this discussion.

"My father calls for silence!" Takmet, Pheron's young lightly bearded son demanded. "Hold your tongues!"

The bickering fell to rumbling and grumbling.

"Discord must cease!" King Pheron yelled angrily.

At once the arguing fell to silence.

"We are gathered here, at this sacred place, to put our differences aside!" King Pheron spoke wisely, glaring at a few tribal members at his last word. "There is still time for us! Without us, the last of the free tribes, the world will be forever lost!"

From the darkness stepped a pretty, regal Nubian women; her dark hair braided like a warrior's, her dark skin dressed in battle leathers of war. Her head was held high as she turned to Pheron.

She was Queen Isis of the Warrior Women.

Around her stood a small group of dark women warriors, clad the same way she was. He voice was filled with power and authority as she spoke.

"Fellow Ruler, Memnon's forces outnumber our own: Ten to one. His armies are the likes of which we have never seen." She spoke in a final tone. Isis then took a deep breath then spoke again.

"I am sorry, Pheron. Your heart my be strong and your intentions noble, but warriors, and especially rulers and leaders, must choose their stands wisely. So, we choose not to join you in this suicidal battle."

King Pheron looked to Isis, judging her character quickly.

"Will you flee then?" Asked King Pheron coolly. "Like the frightened females you seem to show us that you are?"

Isis' eyes flared, her jaw tightened. But she listened as Pheron continued.

"Because you know, as well as everyone else here knows, that Memnon will surely bring conquest to your door. You and your people have a choice. You can stand and fight, or run like cowards. And even that cannot save you for long."

The warrior queen's eyes narrowed, but she looked as if she was taking the king's words, however wounding, into careful consideration.

King Pheron stood up. He glanced to the tribal leaders. These where not just men, but warriors. They had traveled near and far to be at this council, just to have a hope that there was still a chance. A chance of avoiding their greatest fear.

"We must stand together against this tyrant!" King Pheron bellowed, his strong voice echoing across the clearing. "Divided, we will be like the rest of human sheep…slaughtered, by these wicked butchers. Memnon will sweep to the sea, he will destroy us…One by one."

"Bold words, King of Ur!" Spoke a nomadic chieftain whose faces was as scarred as the cuirass he wore. "But what of the Sorcerer, Pheron? The human-demon at Memnon's side who sees with eyes like the gods and foretells the outcome of every battle?"

Another chieftain called out.

"With his damned sorcerer at his side, no mortal can defeat Memnon! You very well know that, Pheron!"

The tribal leaders nodded at this. King Pheron looked to them. Looking at their battle hardened faces filled with fear at the mere mentioning of Memnon's seer.

King Pheron bent foreword.

"And if this great sorcerer were to die, what then?"

The leaders looked to each other, eyes widened. But before they could consider, or ask what Pheron had planned, a deep voice rumbled from the shadows.

"Another one of your schemes, Pheron?" Asked the voice. Then there was a rude snort.

"Too late, too little."

Angered by this, Takmet stepped up and snarled at the shadows where the voice came from.

"You will do well to respect my father!"

It was at this moment a large figure stepped from the shadows into the firelight.

A man, a Nubian with a face might as well of been a crude battle mask. He bore decorative scars on his cheeks, slit-like eyes, and a wild knot of hair on the top of his otherwise shaven head. Battle beads from his tribe circled his neck, his leathers barely hid his thick muscles.

This was Balthazar, the legendary warrior of warriors.

"The truth respects no one," Balthazar boomed, his deep voice resonating along the clearing. "It is only the truth, and men who do not listen to it deserve no respect from me or any other man."

"Men who do not listen to reason deserve no respect either, Balthazar" Spoke King Pheron.

"Listen to the truth, Pheron!" Balthazar snapped. "My men and I have raided Memnon's caravans. Broken the supply line to his troops, stung his soldiers moral, yet they still swept across the land like a plague. I will notsend my people to their deaths in a battle that can't be won!"

Takmet strolled up to Balthazar, a goblet of wine in his hand. Perhaps this was the source of his foolishness, because he spoke rather boldly, "And what people will that be, Balthazar?"

Balthazar gave Takmet a burning gaze that would of made any other sensible man bite his tongue, yet the kings son continued.

"You are the ruler of nothing, but a pile of rocks, and sand."

Then, with the reflexes of a jungle cat, Balthazar swiped out a hand and latched his thick fingers around the young man's wrist. Suddenly he started to squeeze, and hard as well.

The goblet of wine fell from Takmet's hand as he cried out in pain, falling to his knees.

"If I am no king," Growled Balthazar in a low voice. "Then why are you on your knees before me?"

"Balthazar!" Yelled King Pheron.

The kings royal guard that had traveled with them lashed out their swords. Balthazar shoved Takmet to the ground like a rag doll, and reached back for his sword near a tree trunk.

The air seemed to thicken around the fire lit clearing with the promise of a fierce battle, and bloodshed…

When something seemed to fly from the darkness, and slammed itself into the tree trunk above Balthazar's sword, just a hairs breath away from his fingers. The king looked to it in surprise.

A iron kama that was the size of a hatchet.

Balthazar looked up as a deep voice spoke from the darkness, that it, although was not as deep as the Nubian Warrior's, it held confidence and a quiet threatening way about it that made the warrior tense his muscles in alert.

"So much talk, so much arguing, and so little cooperation. Memnon may just wait for you fools to kill each other".

Everyone turned to see who was the source of that dark voice when a trio of tall, darkly cloaked figures emerged from the shadows like phantoms.

They moved with the grace of deadly demons who did not questioning their power over man. Yet the swords and knifes that clanked as the moved told the tribal leaders that these three where not demons, but that they where warriors, like the rest of them.

They stopped before the fire, and pulled black their hoods one by one, the first reveled to be Jesup, the second Rama, and the last was none other than the thrower of the kama, Mathayus whose skin seemed more bronze in the firelight.

They stood, holding their heads up high.

Many tribal leaders got up and stepped back as if they had seen ghosts, as they looked to the warrior's complexion and braids. Only Balthazar said what was on their minds.

"Akkadians," He breathed, his voice betraying a certain awe at what was before him. "I thought they were wiped out long ago."

King Pheron simply turned to Balthazar, as he was the only one who had expected the arrival of the three warriors.

"They are the last of their kind, Balthazar," He said. "And by their hand, Memnon's sorcerer shall die."

Balthazar turned to King Pheron, his disapproval evident on his face.

"You put your faith, and our fate in the hands, in a clan of cutthroats who kill for money?" He asked, curtly.

Mathayus fixed Balthazar with a stare that would of turned water from the hottest desert in to ice. Yet he said nothing.

"They are more than that," He said. "They are skilled assassins. Trained for generations in the deadly arts."

Balthazar gave another rude snort at this.

"It doesn't change what they are, Pheron," He said. "They kill for money and such men are not to be trusted."

Takmet, who appeared to try to gain back some of his wounded dignity, strode up to the assassins.

He looked to the battle marked face of Jesup and Rama, then to the unmarked face of Mathayus.

"You," He spoke the younger, his tone dripping with disrespect. "The others have markings for war. Why do you not wear your clans markings?"

"Maybe, I have not earned that right," Mathayus said turning his icy cold gaze to Takmet.

"Oh really?" Takmet said, his tone still filled with that disrespect that was evidently angering the Akkadian.

Mathayus let a hand go to the hilt of his scimitar with a certain cold ease, right in Takmet's full view.

"Maybe, I haven't killed enough men who have asked stupid questions." Mathayus said, an edge in his tone.

Well, the silent message that Mathayus was sending the insulting prince was heard well. Takmet quickly stepped back, out of harm's way. He turned to his father, the king of Ur.

"At what price," Takmet started slowly, as if fearing the answer. "Do these mercenaries ask from us, father?"

King Pheron pulled out a small leather pouch from scarred his cuirass.

"Twenty blood rubies," He answered his son quietly.

"Father!" Takmet started, in complete shock. "But… That's the last of the kingdom's treasury!"

"Be quiet, boy!" He snapped, wearing a frown that reviled even more lines in his weathered face.

Takmet stepped back as if he had received a terrible blow, in a strange way he had…

…Suddenly my vision did a strange thing and, in this brief moment, I could sense Takmet's thoughts. His anger at his father for letting the kingdom fall to this. Feeling as if his father had always treated him like a child. How he was embarrassed at this how he thought that he would make his father pay but before I could focus any longer on this my vision continued…

Fists clenched, Takmet left the circle and stormed into the shadows.

His father sighed, and turned to the warriors and leaders before him and asked the question in which he had called this council.

"If these men kill the sorcerer, then will you fight together?"

The tribal leaders looked to each other, after a quick discussion with their advisors, one by one they nodded. Even Isis and her warriors nodded, in agreement with Pheron.

Now only Balthazar was left to make a response.

He took a deep sigh that was like the winds across the desert sands…

Then he nodded his final agreement.

"So be it," Said King Pheron, throwing the pouch to Jesup, who caught it easily.

"As long as one of us still breaths the sorcerer will die," He said, pledging the Akkadian's blood oath.

Then the three turned to leave, when Balthazar yanked out the iron kama from the tree trunk and called to Mathayus.

"Assassin!"

Mathayus turned just as Balthazar threw the iron kama that went whipping and whirling at his head…

And Mathayus snatched it out of the air before it could hit him between the eyes, where it was aimed. He lowered the kama, and looked to Balthazar. A stern, calculating look in his dark eyes.

Mathayus turned to Pheron, and spoke.

"As for him,"- Mathayus said, glancing tellingly to Balthazar-"We'll kill for free."

Then the Akkadians melted into the shadow from whence they came…

…I let my hand fall to my side.

With my strange power, I just knew that my vision had taken place several days ago.

So, I thought to myself. That's Memnon's secret weapon.

Takmet.

The anger, and the pain that Takmet had been going through was enough to make any man go into rage. He was possible of doing anything…

Even kill his own father.

I had a horrible feeling that with the encouragement of Memnon he would soon do just that. But before I could continue this train of thought I heard something.

A soft thump behind me, like a large cat landing on it feet. Then the soft, stalking foot steps, as if a predator had appeared in my tent, hunting it's prey. Preparing for the final swift strike.

I could almost feel him pull back the bowstring of his carved bow, a mighty arrow knocked ready to set fly.

I took a deep breath as if I was going to take a plunge into cold water.

So, it is time, I thought to myself.

I turned to see the person that I had sensed, standing behind me. There stood the Akkadian warrior, the one I had had visions of for the last several years.

Mathayus.

The string of his powerful bow pulled back, his arrow aimed at my pounding heart.