Before long, the wind of sand had moved on, leaving the desert's tan skin to shift under a more gentle breeze, whose fingers drew meaningless pictures and patterns on the restless dunes. The field of battle lay still as the death the sands covered; it was as if no one had ever been here— that, minutes before, a furious clash had taken place at this site seemed an impossibility. Nearby, where the Akkadian had left his companions to wait for the outcome, the sands seemed similarly empty of life. Then fingers began to protrude from the dune's surface, like a corpse rising from its grave. A single eye blinked open, the rest of the face it belonged to covered by the sand.
Cassandra walked through the field of death looking around for Merlin, by her side was Sleipnir.
Then, alarm and concern coloring her voice, she asked, "Where is Merlin?"
Sleipnir started leading her, The sorceress walked the battlefield, which on closer examination was not so empty, after all: half a dozen halfburied bodies presented themselves. She walked carefully, gingerly, through this instantaneous graveyard. Then, suddenly, the sand shifted before them!
She saw Merlin who was looking at half buried figure, warrior revealed himself, interred below him: wide-eyed in death, Thorak himself.
"For an ugly brute," Arpid said, "he makes a pretty sight."
Merlin had gone to the woman. "Are you all right? Are you hurt? Did they ... ?"
"No," she said. "I'm ... untouched." And the sorceress was struck by his concern, the depth of feeling in the dark eyes of the assassin.
Cassandra was looking at Merlin carefully— he seemed unsteady. "Are you ... ?" "I am well," he said. Then she noticed the arrow, sticking out of the side of his leg —not terribly deep, but embedded there. "You need help," she gasped.
The Wizard reached down and gripped the arrow and, frowning, ripped it free from his flesh.
The Wizard staggered over to the half-buried corpse of Thorak; an amulet around his adversary's neck bore the insignia of the red-turbaned troops. Ripping it from Thorak's cold throat, he said, "Help me find his horse."
"There it is," Cassandra said, pointing. Thorak's black steed, a distinctive beast, was among those milling around the battle site.
The Wizard walked to the horse, and examined the area around the saddle. "Another survivor," he said, with satisfaction.
As Cassandra joined him, they saw what he was talking about: a falcon, its head covered by a cowl, was thonged to the saddle. Merlin untied the bird and attached Thorak's insignia to the metal band around its foot.
The sorceress touched the wizard's arm. "What are you doing?"
"Sending Lord Memnon a message," he said; but his eyes seemed cloudy.
Nonetheless, Merljn managed to remove the bird's cowl and launch the falcon into the air; it wheeled, flapped regally, and flew away.
The Wizard stood with his hands on hips, watching the bird wing toward Qarth, and he laughed a deep, hearty laugh that turned, startlingly, into a cough.
"Merlin!" Cassandra cried.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
Merlin frowned and replied," Poison."
Cassandra was worried, but Merlin cut her off,"I will heal up soon, I just need some sleep."
Merlin felt he was too arrogant and led to him being poisoned, while he knew this was not life threatening. But end of the day his avatar, while having godlike abilities is still mortal in a sense and some of the poisons still have some effects on him, while they may not kill him. But they will still cause him to be slightly weakened.
Cassandra's heart raced with a mix of fear and guilt as she helped Merlin to his feet. The sorcerer, once invincible and proud, now leaned heavily on her for support. His usually vibrant eyes were clouded, and his movements were slow, the poison still working its insidious way through his system.
"We need to get you to Sleipnir," Cassandra said, her voice trembling. "He'll carry us to safety."
Sleipnir, the majestic eight-legged steed, stood waiting at the edge of the courtyard. The horse's eyes glowed with an ethereal light, and it stamped its hooves impatiently as if sensing the urgency of the situation. Cassandra guided Merlin to Sleipnir's side, struggling to hide her panic.
"Hold on," she whispered, helping Merlin mount the horse. With some effort, she climbed up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist to keep him steady.
Sleipnir reared up, sensing the need for haste, and with a powerful leap, they were off
As sunset painted the rocky landscape around the great city of Qarth a vivid orange, as if the earth itself had caught fire, a falcon flew over the fortified walls and to its familiar perch within the turreted palace of Memnon. The marketplace was closing down—excluding the dens of sin, of course—and soon all but the most dedicated lechers would have retired behind walls of stone, for time with friends and family, for food and rest.
Lord Memnon, however, did not rest—he had assembled his generals in the great throne room, where maps were spread out over a large table. Most pressing, of course, was Meron—the only unconquered land—and the warlord was sharing his latest strategies with his battle chiefs. As usual, his generals paid rapt attention; but one of them—Toran— seemed strangely quiet, even preoccupied. And this troubled the Great Teacher, who preferred his pupils hang on his every word.
Takmet, the heir to the empty throne of Merron, was present, but he too seemed to have his mind elsewhere, and did not crowd around the map table with the rest. Of course, Memnon had already informed Takmet of these strategies; even so, the man's nervous pacing was a distraction.
And of this assembly, of course, only Takmet knew the why of Cassandra's absence . . . that the Wizard had stolen her away.
A falconer entered, with the regal, recently arrived bird on his arm. Approaching the warlord, then half bowing, he said, "A message from Thorak."
"Finally," Memnon said, with a sigh of satisfaction. "The Wizard is dead. . . ." But the warlord soon realized he was looking at Thorak's insignia – his blood-spattered insignia – and nothing else. Rage and even a kind of sadness rose in him – the scarred warrior had been at his right hand for many years, and now the Wizard had slain him, and sent this taunting message. Crushing the bloody amulet in a powerful hand, Memnon stood lost in thought for long moments, before General Toran stepped forward. "My lord," he said.
"Is something wrong?" The warlord banished the emotions from himself, and glanced impassively at his generals; he even summoned a small smile. "No – quite the opposite. All is in order."
The generals exchanged glances.
"And I think, gentlemen," Memnon said, "this meeting is at an end." The generals half bowed and were making their way across the throne room, toward the doors, when Toran stopped and turned, the other men halting as well, though their expressions were tentative. With a boldness none of them had ever before dared, General Toran said, "My lord, it is customary for the seer to attend these meetings. We all know how valuable her council has been." Takmet paused in his pacing to look tellingly Memnon's way. "Why," the general was brazenly asking, "is the sorceress not with us tonight?"
Around him, the other generals were nodding their heads. Memnon, hiding his anger at this affront, said only, "She is indisposed." The generals again exchanged anxious glances, and Toran asked, the suspicion obvious in his voice, "Nothing ... serious, I hope?"
Memnon smiled, though his eyes were hard. "If it was serious, you would be informed.. .. Are you not my most trusted advisers of war?"
General Toran again half bowed. "Yes, my lord." And the other generals did and said the same, and went out.
With a growl of fury, Memnon swept the maps from his table and hurled the wadded-up leather insignia at Takmet, who flinched. The wispily bearded adviser said, "I said nothing! I revealed nothing!"
"Would that I could trade your worthless life for Thorak's," the warlord said bitterly.
"Go! Leave me. And Takmet, who for all his faults was no fool, did as he was told.
That night, in the surprising coolness of the sunless desert, under the purple star-tossed sky, the full moon touching the sands with a chalky ivory.
Merlin conjured a fire, they layed down under a blanket, while lost in fever's labyrinthian halls, beads of perspiration jeweling his horeh3ad. Kneeling beside the wizard, the sorceress tended his wound, cleansing it with water from a goatskin pouch, bandaging it with cloth torn from the scarflike bedouin robes she wore.
Merln slept, Cassandra patted a damp rag to the Wizard's forehead.
Cassandra sat back, pausing in her ministering, as if considering the little thief's words; then she gazed up at the full moon, her lovely features bathed in its ivory glow.
Cassandra moved with a silent grace, barely making a sound as she approached the sleeping Merlin. The moonlight cast a soft glow on his peaceful face, making him look almost serene despite the turmoil of recent events. She straddled him carefully, her movements deliberate and measured, ensuring she didn't wake him.
Slowly, she removed her scarf, revealing her neck and shoulders, and then crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes fixed on Merlin's face. She leaned in close, so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. With a gentle but firm motion, she pried his mouth open.
Instantly, a radiant glow began to emanate from Merlin's mouth, illuminating the room with an otherworldly light. The glow intensified, and from within Merlin's mouth, golden whisp of energy began to emerge and they moved into Cassandra mouth.
The moonlight now seemed to provide an aura around her, her entire body haloed in its glow.
Suddenly the glowing aura disappeared, and the slender woman seemed almost to collapse, though really she only slumped, her shoulders slack, her head drooping, as she layed next to Merlin. It was as if all of the energy in her, every ounce of air, had suddenly vanished, like the snuffing out of a candle's flame.