AUTHOR’S NOTE

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The following story is one of the very first of mine accepted for publication. It appeared in the pages of “We Who are About to Die” (2022) by Rogue Blades Entertainment. This version is slightly altered to reflect my own growth as a writer and editor.

Oftentimes when readers hear the name Robert E. Howard, they instinctively conjure images of Conan the Cimmerian. While the barbarian swordsman is undoubtedly Howard’s most beloved and enduring character, he is not my personal favorite. Francis Xavier Gordon, also known as El Borak the Swift, holds that particular position. These tales of a Texas gunslinger turned Central Asian adventurer are vividly branded upon the canvas of my imagination. The first two stories of mine that managed to find a home in print were firmly in the Sword & Sorcery tradition. When the submission call came in, I saw it as a prime opportunity to write something to honor my most beloved REH character.

While the tale itself is obviously fiction, the cultures and historical steppingstones are based in research and reality. For this story I chose to use the name “Iram of the Pillars”, a legendary city written of in the Quran, to evoke a sense of myth and wonder. Its depiction here is an amalgamation of real-world history and the ruined city of Ubar which was discovered in the 1990’s by a team of archeologists led by Nicholas Clapp.

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HONOR AMONG ROGUES

by L.D. Whitney

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BENJAMIN TALON WAS a rogue, of that there was no doubt. Wanted posters from Alexandria to the Hindu Kush could attest to the crimes he’d committed—even some he hadn’t.

It was fact that at age fifteen he’d shot a man in San Francisco. He’d been a mean one and smitten with beating on women. Talon hadn’t felt it much of a crime. The law, however, thought otherwise. So, he jumped ship and set sail with a freighter on its way to India.

Somewhere off the coast of an island called Java, Ben stabbed a man in a knife fight fair and square. After that he’d found himself a reputation. By the time he reached the shores of Africa, Ben Talon had been caught up in three plots of piracy, hence the wanted posters.

That said, Talon was no back shooter, and he always kept his word.

If a man didn’t have that, he had nothing at all.

“Just over this dune,” said Talon to the eight uniformed men riding horseback behind him. “I’m sure of it.”

“You are beginning to repeat yourself,” said the next in line. He was a tall, handsome man despite the ragged scar down one side of his face. Unlike the other seven soldiers who wore coats of blue, John Worthington wore red to denote his rank of Captain in the Royal Marines.

Talon and Worthington had a history. On more than one occasion they’d had the opportunity to exchange fists, swords, and bullets. On good terms, they were not. But Talon knew him as a fair man—hard but even handed. When in need of aid, there was no living man to which he’d rather turn.

“All this sand looks the same,” answered Talon, grudgingly. “No telling how far we’ve gone. But we have to be close”

“How then, do you know we aren’t going in circles?”

“The stars, Captain. The Bedouin aren’t much different than sailors, after all, navigating the desert with only night sky for a map.”

Worthington scoffed beneath his breath. As a seaman himself, he knew this to be true. Time and again, Worthington had underestimated this man. Be it in combat or a test of wits, Talon had more than enough salt. He hated to admit it, but he harbored an unwilling respect for the American devil.

For three days and just as many nights, the small band of soldiers had trudged across the vast desert of the Rub’ al Khali toward a destination unknown. Likewise known as the “Empty Quarter”, it was a boundless sea of sand. While Talon was not wrong about the native Bedouin, even they went around. For league after league, the Rub’ al Khali was nothing but sunbaked sand and towering, windswept dunes. Few living things were at home in this waste. Those that did endured a meek and meager existence. Talon himself emerged ragged and withered in the Port of Aden where Worthington was stationed. His skin was red and blistered from a relentless sun, throat parched and aching for drink.

At the time, he had imagined Talon’s tale as mere ramblings of a heat sick madman. Worthington was half inclined to jail him right then and there.

Despite his better judgement, he had not.

Talon kicked his horse a bit, pushing it hard against the upward slope of the massive dune. Worthington’s heart began to race. For a moment he thought the man was going to run. Then, Talon reigned in at the crest and flashed a knowing smile.

“There it is,” he announced. “Just like I said.” A sly smile creased his sunburnt face.

Worthington galloped ahead, his men keeping pace. Summiting the dune, his jaw went slack, and his eyes grew wide with awe.

“I’ll be damned…”

Far below the dunes stretched out a flat, pebbled plain surrounded by immense waves of sand, each one acting a natural rampart. For all intents and purposes, this was a natural fortification unmatched by even the grandest human engineering.

Upon the plain, however, was something that Worthington had not expected to see nestled amongst the sands of the Empty Quarter. In his service with the Royal Navy, he surveyed the ruins of Ancient Egypt, Greece, and Rome. He had marveled at colonnades, pyramids, and the tombs of forgotten kings. But that is all they had been—ruins. These monuments ages past were barely even acknowledged by the bustle of modern life that now enveloped them. Here though, even from this distance, he now saw a city torn straight from the annals of an age undreamed. More impressive still, it was yet flourishing in the desert like some forgotten jewel.

From what he could spy out in the moonlit darkness, the myriad structures were invariably Roman in style. As a young officer, he had studied well the writings of Tacitus, Cato, and Pliny the Elder. He knew well the mark of the Eternal Empire. Torchlight illuminated maze-like streets and alleyways, while lamps brought lurid light to courtyards bedecked in gardens and statuary not unlike those that littered the Mediterranean cities. The silhouettes of palms danced in the cool nighttime breeze, betraying the existence of an oasis somewhere within the city confines.

“What is it you call this place, Talon?” asked the awestruck Worthington.

“Iram.” Talon paused, himself taken with wonder. “Iram of the Thousand Pillars.”

The soldiers whispered amongst themselves, knowing the lost city as the subject of myth and legend. More a ghost story spoken by Arab nomads than any place on a map.

“Yes. That’s it…Iram. And you say the Turk is there? Are you sure?”

The Turk in question was one Ahmet Yilmaz, a brutal mercenary in the employ of the Ottoman Empire. He had once been a promising officer during the Russo-Turkic war of 1877. After a disgraceful loss against Russian and Armenian forces at the fortress of Beyazid, he had been stripped of his title, land, and rank by Sultan Abdul Hamid II, better known as Hamid the Damned. Still a useful and willing tool, Yilmaz now acted off record as both mercenary and outlaw. His only desire was to re-ingratiate himself with the empire.

To do so, he would pay in spilt blood.

The British hold in Arabia was yet young. With the Ottomans an ever-present threat in the north, Yilmaz could not be allowed to find footing in the region without a fight.

“I’m sure.”

“And how is it that you came of this knowledge?” asked Worthington, suspicion in his voice.

“I led him there,” answered Talon. His words were solemn and tinged with regret.

“A story for another time, perhaps. Do you have a plan?”

Talon nodded sharply and turned his steed.

“Follow me. While the night still covers our tracks.”

*****

DACIA TULIUS PACED the chamber breadth, her only pastime since the invaders’ coming.

She was a tall girl with large dark eyes. Curled locks of ebony flowed about her shoulders. She shared many features with the Bedouin of the desert, the only outsiders Iram had contact with since the fall of Rome, yet her skin remained olive like that of her Mediterranean ancestors. The light tunic that hugged her shapely form was of Imperial design, as were the sandals wrapped about her feet. Flourishes undoubtedly Arabian gave the garments an exotic flare.

The room about her reflected the same amalgamation of cultures. Built in the style of a noble villa centuries ago, the palace of her father bore features both distinctly Roman and equally native.

Iram itself had at one time acted as a hub for caravans during the height of Frankincense trade throughout a Christianized Rome. Long ago, the Kingdom of Ad had rested atop this place. In a single night of tumult, it vanished beneath the sand. Some claimed the God of the Hebrews had punished the people of Ad for their pagan worship, opening a massive sinkhole that swallowed the city whole.

Dacia held little stake in that claim.

The people of Iram yet prayed to gods both Roman and Dilmunite without punishment. Still, the massive pit in the center of the desert city was testament to the destruction once wrought.

Fear of the gaping maw had waned to child-like superstition in following centuries. In fact, the well was the very source of Iram’s life in the desert. Through the portal, they were provided access to a vast underground waterway that fed cool, clear water to the people, animals, and gardens of Iram.

The heavy door to her chamber burst open and in strode a devil disguised as a man. Ahmet Yilmaz was tall, broad shouldered and heavily muscled. A German made pistol was tucked neatly into his belt and at his hip sat a curved Turkish yatagan blade in its scabbard. He was accompanied by two other men bearing rifles and swords themselves. Both appeared as bandits, rank and file. Dacia instinctively shuddered at his presence.

“Your father has not broken,” growled Yilmaz in Arabic. “For such a tired old man, his heart is solid stone. For that I must give respect.”

Dacia did her best to hold back tears at the thought of her father’s torture, but she could not.

“Yes. That is what I thought. Tell me girl, where is the treasury? Where do you keep the riches of Rome that surely exist here? We both know I will find it eventually, and if it is found before you break silence, I will kill you and your father both.”

She wanted so badly to speak, to save her father and family the pain of suffering this invader had in store for them, but she would not. If her father wouldn’t speak, neither would she.

“Then I will die with honor,” spat Dacia.

Yilmaz only laughed, his henchmen joining in the merriment. After having his fun, the Turk moved in close to Dacia. She could feel his hot breath upon her cheek.

“Perhaps then I will take you as my bride.”

Dacia fought the gorge that rose within her slender neck, reviled at the thought.

“Think on it,” hissed Yilmaz. “You have till dawn.”

The door shut and Dacia collapsed to her knees. Her mind raced, thinking of any way she could set herself and her city free from the iron grip of Ahmet Yilmaz. The Bedouin caravans would not arrive for another handful days and she didn’t have that sort of time. Even then, they were but traders and merchant-folk. They had no way to know of the danger at hand.

Yilmaz would crush them outright.

There was a hushed movement again at the door. She heard something fall to the ground, a muffled cough and the clatter of steel upon stone. Dacia ran to her dais and pulled a slim dagger from beneath her pillows. If Yilmaz had returned, his mind already changed, she would stop his beating heart with knifepoint—if not her own.

When a figure finally appeared in the threshold, she was not prepared for who entered.

“You!” she snapped, glaring hatefully at Benjamin Talon. “I thought you a coward who fled this place days ago. How dare you show your face to me again!”

“Keep it down,” said Talon in imperfect Arabic. “I’m here to help,”

“Haven’t you done enough already? You brought these desert dogs upon my people. We were perfectly fine without the outside world. The day you appear it all falls apart. Even now my father is being tortured to death!”

“Dacia, I understand. I know what I did,” said Talon, sorrow hanging upon each word. “I had no idea what I’d find here. I thought this place nothing but ruins.”

“Even so, who are you to plunder the graves of the long dead? Are you some tomb robber? Have you no honor?”

Dacia’s words cut deeper than any sword stroke, or even the knife she held in her slim hand, ever could. In truth, he had known little else in his time on earth, always profiting from the misfortune of others. He had always imagined himself a man of honor, despite his ill-gotten gains, but perhaps Dacia was more right than she was wrong.

“Listen to me. I’m not alone. There are soldiers here with me. Soldiers with guns.”

“Then why aren’t they doing anything now? Why are you here instead of fighting off these men?”

“There aren’t enough of them. We need your help and the help of your people.”

“Why should they help you?”

“No. Not me, Dacia. Help themselves.”

Dacia paused, letting Talon’s words sink in. The citizens of Iram were numerous, although most were artisans, artists, and gardeners. Iram hadn’t any need of a standing army since the treaty made with the nomads long ago. There was a small contingent of royal guards, but the surrounding desert had always provided them with more than adequate defense.

“What do you require of me?”

“I know you have an armory; I saw it when Ahmet first took the city.”

“Yes. But the weapons there are old. And none of the people here are trained in their use.”

“True. But you outnumber the soldiers here three to one. If we arm half of them, we can overtake Yilmaz.

“People will die,” said Dacia.

“Yes,” admitted Talon. “People will die. But people will die too if we do nothing.”

Dacia knew the foreigner to be right. She looked at the dagger in her hand. Had she not been ready to die—to kill—moments ago?

“Are you forgetting that the invaders patrol the streets? How do we accomplish this task?”

“The same way I was able to escape and re-enter unseen. Through the tunnels and aqueducts below the city.”

The girl looked at Talon, sparks igniting in her eyes. With luck, and the gods, this plan might work.

*****

AHMET YILMAZ SAT brooding upon a king’s throne, chin resting upon clenched fist. All about him were all the splendors of another age, riches that he wished deeply were his own but knew it was never to be. All the wealth he found in Iram would go to the coffers of the Sultan. He did not want of this plunder. His fortune now resided with the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, and he would earn it back.

“It is almost dawn,” said the usurper, glancing half-heartedly through an arched window. “If your daughter does not divulge the location of your treasure vault old man, you will die.”

The king of Iram, Varo Tulius, looked little more than a desert waif tossed upon the floor. The stark defiance in his eyes was the only semblance of kingship that remained. Ahmet had broken the man as best he knew how. The king’s body bore many marks of the gruesome work. 

“She will never tell you.”

“There are fates worse than death, good king. We shall hear her decision soon enough. Captain,” Ahmet motioned to one of his nearby soldiers. 

A bulwark of a man, black bearded and mustachioed, saluted Yilmaz.

“Aye, sir,” he said, standing at attention. 

“The sun has breached the eastern dunes. Go. Bring me the girl.”

“Yes sir,” barked the captain.

As the man left the room, Ahmet looked down at the ragged thing sprawled at his feet. It was truly a pitiful sight, to see a man of station brought so low. He cringed then, remembering well the disgrace he had suffered in the aftermath of Fort Beyazid. Sultan Hamid was known throughout Europe as a mad man. He was a paranoid man and distrusting of both friend and family. Hamid whispered often of enemies that remained unseen. He had gone so far as to order the slaughter of countless Armenians. This act had earned him the title “Red Sultan”, a moniker Ahmet knew was well deserved. Ahmet hated the man for what he had done to him and his family, but he didn’t have it within him to cut all ties with the Empire. He could have carved his own path, selling his leadership and sword arm to the highest bidder, but that was not what he desired most. 

Ahmet, more than anything else, wished his honor returned. 

Iram would pave the way.

“Do not fear, King Tulius. When this bloody business is done, your city will fall under Ottoman rule. With Iram, the Empire will have an anchor within the region like never before. You have been far removed from the outside world for too long and know little the workings of modern man. War is brewing, powers across Europe and Asia gather for the storm. Iram will serve the Empire well, providing a staging ground for assaults across the Arabian Peninsula, a fortress town with the desert itself for walls. England, France, nations of which you have never heard; their meager colonies will tremble before the might of our horde. And when the dust settles, it will be my genius that goes rewarded.”

“You are a dog,” spat Tulius. A wretched thing.”

Ahment nodded, considering the words carefully. 

“Yes. I believe you to be right. But do not fear Tulius, I will take good care you’re your kingdom when you are gone. And your daughter.” Yilmaz laughed evily as he rose from the throne, naked sword in hand.

Just then, a clamor issued forth from beyond the palace walls. 

Gunshots echoed through the morning air, fired without order or aim.

“What the hell is that?” he bellowed.

The throne room doors burst open, the captain standing wide-eyed framed within the portal. Sweat poured down his forehead as he panted. Red blood dripped from his unsheathed steel. 

“The girl is gone, Ahmet! And the citizens, they attack!”

Yilmaz roared in fury, blade quivering in hand. 

“What do you mean?”

“I left to bring the girl, just as you asked. When I arrived, I found the door open and the room empty. Both of the guards had been slain! Upon my return, I was ambushed by two men armed with swords. As soon as I cut them down, more appeared down the hall.”

“We knew this to be a possibility. Rally the troops and beat them back to their homes!”

“Sir,” stuttered the captain. “There are too many!”

“What? How many are there?”

“All of them, sir. All of them!”

Just then, a trio of men burst into the room, weapons in hand. Two of them held sharp short swords of Roman design while the other carried a long spear. Before the Captain could react, one of the rebels stabbed outward, jabbing the man with pointed blade. 

The captain turned, hacking desperately at his attacker, cleaving through flesh and bone. 

It was too late. 

The others lashed out with venom on their lips, tearing the man apart with age-tarnished steel. 

Yilmaz charged forward, greeting the men with a blade of his own. 

These people were but potters and merchants, barely able to hold a sword. With a powerful cut, Ahmet felled the spearman, cleaving the haft of his weapon in twain. The other man raised his sword to parry, but Yilmaz only laughed at the futile attempt. 

His yatagan blazed a downward arc, severing hand from limb at the wrist. There was not enough time to scream before Yilmaz lopped off the rebel’s head. 

“King Tulius,” sneered Yilmaz over his shoulder. “Do not go far. Our business is not yet finished.”

With those words, the would-be conqueror bounded down the palace steps and into the fray. 

The center square of Iram was flooded with citizens of all ages, hundreds of them. It seemed anyone capable of wielding a weapon had suddenly appeared in a single, blood mad rush. Men and women alike charged screaming at the trained killers Yilmaz had amassed, only to be cut down by well-honed blades or sporadic rifle fire. The bodies of rebels were piled at the feet of bandit and mercenary alike, yet the citizens of Iram—weak as they’d seemed—outnumbered his contingent four to one. 

Yilmaz had expected to meet resistance. 

He had never imagined that all of them would surge outward in the span of a single breath. 

At the center of the murderous charge were a clutch of fifty men. Every soul hefted a broad shield as Centurions of old. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they marched slow and methodically as a single impenetrable wall. Curved Ottoman sabers hacked fruitlessly against the barrier, reeling like waves from a rocky shore. Spears stabbed outward from the stockade in measured time with shouted command. They jut from the barrier like pointed pistons, piercing his men. 

In the face of this tactic, Ahmet’s soldiers were given not but two options: step backward toward the edge of Iram’s central pit or die. In short order, a quarter of his forces would fall to their doom if nothing was to be done. 

Ahmet’s eyes locked on to the man shouting the orders behind the shield wall. He was dressed differently than the ravenous mob, robed in clothes more akin to a British soldier or French Legionnaire. Yilmaz cried out in fury as he recognized Ben Talon, the American whom he had paid great sums to lead him to secret Iram. And beside him, gladius at hand, was the king’s rebellious daughter. 

“That traitorous dog! I will have his head!”

Yilmaz pulled his pistol from the belt at his waist, bearing the yatagan in the opposite hand. Hacking wildly at the oncoming rebels, he dealt death with both bullet and blade. Gone was the calculated countenance of a haughty noble. Just as he had upon the steps of Fort Beyazid, Ahmet became a raging bull, smiting left and right as he carved a swath of destruction. All the while, he belched out order after ferocious order, beckoning the unruly mob of bandits to his side. As the mercenaries gathered into a cohesive unit at the call of their fearsome leader, the rebels of Iram began to waiver, their spirit broken at the site of monstrous Yilmaz and his band of marauders. 

Even the shield bearers had halted their advance, struggling to hold their position while defending from two sides. 

Talon turned toward Yilmaz. Though the distance was too great to see the detail of his face, Ahmet knew the man echoed challenge. 

With a bloodthirsty grin, Yilmaz raised his sword to the heavens. 

“Onward! We are death incarnate and come bearing gifts!”

*****

WORTHINGTON LOOKED DOWN upon the bloody fray through rifle sights, awaiting the Talon’s signal to fire.  

He watched in awe as the many citizens of Iram charged through their doors, through gate, and courtyard, to wreak vengeance upon their oppressors. He was moved by the sheer grit on display—even as their numbers fell in crimson heaps upon the ground. Despite heavy loss at the outset, the rebels fell upon the mercenary Turks like a tidal wave. For each felled man, two more would leap into place. In the early hours of dawn, the outlaws were unprepared for such a sweeping attack from every side. 

His Marines were desperate to fire. Seeing such a holocaust while standing by idly was not their way. Still, Worthington made them wait. Talon was playing a dangerous game in order to draw Yilmaz into a snare. He had to admit that the knave was a clever sort of man, perhaps even more so than he had previously surmised.

Using the aqueducts and tunnels running beneath the city to mobilize his troops, even to set up the Marines upon a sniper’s nest, showed immense ingenuity. Perhaps most impressive was the organization of the shield wall at the center of it all. Worthington read about such strategies but had never seen the act outside of his imagination. It would be lying to say he had suspected Talon a student like himself all along. 

Never had Worthington been so happy to be proven the contrary.  

Suddenly, with a powerful roar, Yilmaz burst forth from the palace gates. 

Worthington watched in horror as the man brought death as no man he had ever seen. Like a Norse berserker ripped straight from the pages of Hronklofi’s skaldic poem, Yilmaz barreled down upon the rebels with abandon. Seeing this, his men rallied to his side. Together, they formed a wedge with Yilmaz himself at the bloody point. 

In that moment, Worthington knew his time grew near. 

“Get ready men,” whispered Worthington, settling upon a target. “It is safe to say that few may know our tale beyond this day. But for those who do, we will make it grand.”

From the corner of his eye, Worthington saw Talon pull a pistol from the holster at his side. The shot boomed like thunder above the melee.

“Fire!” shouted Worthington. “Fire at will!”

In an instant, his seven Royal Marines burst into action. A volley of fiery lead ripped into the flank of Ahment’s gathered men. They fell in droves, the survivors turning to meet the rifle’s roar. They were promptly cut down by the next barrage.

Worthington need not watch his Marines to know he was proud. They worked the levers of their .577 Martini-Henry lever action rifles like a well-oiled machine. The instant a bullet left the barrel, they were already opening the breech and replacing the round again to fire.

A clutch of mercenaries broke away from the amassed forces at the command of Yilmaz. The rest scrambled for what little cover could be found within the open square. 

Worthington reloaded, sighted, and fired again. 

Just as he filled the empty chamber, he heard something approaching from the rear. 

He turned just in time to see the first of the mercenaries climbing up and over the ledge of the roof where they perched. With no time to sight, he pulled the trigger and put a hole through the first man. 

“They come!” hollered Worthington to his men. 

The other Marines turned their fire on the mercenaries as they appeared, sending each back over the edge to fall broken upon the cobbled streets of Iram. 

In such close quarters, there was not enough time for each man to reload. Those who did fired again, then joined the others in drawing their swords. 

Rushing to the edge of the rooftop, the Marines did their best to maintain the high ground advantage for as long as possible. Soon enough, the mercenaries swarmed over the lip and joined them in a brutal dance. He and his brave seven charged forward, the clang of steel ringing in their ears.

*****

TALON LOOKED TOWARD the rooftop where Worthington and his men had hidden in wait. Their rifle fire had devastated the ranks of Yilmaz, but the villains had managed to overrun the nest. Even now, he could see the Englishman locked in deadly duel with a snarling mercenary fiend. 

Bodies of the fallen littered the streets. The barrage had thinned the bandits greatly. A fighting spirit surged amongst the rebels of Iram. Worthington’s job was done. All that remained was to hold out just a little while longer. 

“What is the plan,” called Dacia above the roar of the crowd. 

“Push the remaining men toward the sinkhole. Ahmet’s forces are divided. They can’t be allowed to regroup.”

“And what of you?”

“I will take Yilmaz.”

Without a second glance, Talon forced his way through the shield wall. He vanished into the war-torn courtyard beyond. 

Leveling his pistol, he fired upon a mercenary who ran toward him screaming for blood. A bullet between the eyes dropped the man where he stood.  Just as the first man hit the red-washed pave, another leapt forward, sword at the ready. 

Talon drew his saber and met the blade. His arm shuddered at the clash of ringing steel. 

The would-be killer gnashed his crooked, yellow teeth. All his strength was levied behind the force of his blade. The man roared, froth about snarling lips. In the heat of battle however, he’d forgotten Talon’s gun. 

A trio of bullets tore through his gut, cutting him down as fast as any blade. 

The bandit’s sword clattered to the ground

Kicking aside the warrior, Talon pressed on. Through the surge of rebel swordsmen, he waded.  Scanning the crowd, he was vigilant for any sign of Yilmaz. The man had seemingly disappeared. 

Suddenly, a pistol shot boomed. Pain lanced hot and bright through Talon’s shoulder. Hot lead had creased his bone.

He staggered then and swung his revolver around to meet unexpected fire. There, amidst the storm of slashing blades and bloodshed, was Yilmaz—gun barrel still belching white smoke. Ahmet’s shirt was torn. Red wounds crisscrossed the exposed flesh of his broad, hairy chest. The man’s eyes bulged with seething hatred. The bandit lord knew now that defeat was inevitable. This was a desperate fury reserved for none other than Talon, a final act of vengeance. With all his might, Talon fought to heft his pistol upward. In the seconds since the gunshot, it had turned heavy and weak. Crimson flowed freely from the wound. 

Talon pulled his trigger.

The shot flew wide. 

He fired again. 

The bullet hit the ground, sending shards of stone into the air. 

The hammer of his six-gun fell on an empty chamber. 

The gap between Talon and Yilmaz was too great then.  There was no chance for Ben to rush him without facing another blast. 

Yilmaz knew this to be true, as well. 

Even with Talon’s death, the Turk would not survive this day. All about them, the rebel citizens of Iram were mopping up the remaining Ottoman troops. Toward the back of the square, Dacia ordered her shield wall onward, spear raised in command like a true desert queen. The rebels pushed hard against the remaining lines of mercenary swordsmen. With one last triumphant shout, they pushed the invaders over the lip of the great sinkhole. 

Elsewhere, upon the rooftops, Worthington ran through a man, and then another. Two Marines had fallen to Turkish sabers. Those that remained avenged their fallen brothers ten-fold. Cheers of victory burst forth from the lips of every man and woman upon the field. 

Ben Talon smiled. 

He could die with honor. 

Yilmaz leveled his pistol, finger tight on the trigger. 

Nothing.

In a sudden electric surge, Talon flung himself forward, raising his sword. 

Ahmet tossed away the useless gun. His blade swung to parry. 

With a thunderclap of sparks and steel, the two men met upon the field. 

“Why do you do this, Talon?” screamed Yilmaz. “I paid you handsomely for your service to me.” 

Talon pushed him away, sharpened steel singing as the blades slid past each other on a razor’s edge. 

“These are people, Ahmet. Real people. How could I stand by and let you take everything from them?”

Ahmet scoffed, swinging his sword in wild, vicious arcs. 

“What do you care of these people? You are no different from I. You fled from your country a criminal. Even now you are a wanted man. Surely you will hang after this!”

“Yes,” admitted Talon. “But I have one thing you don’t.”

“And what is that?” scowled Ahmet.

“Honor.”

The Turk bellowed like a wild bull. The two men vanished, swept away in a whirlwind of steel. For every swing of the sword, there was a parry to meet it. Ahmet fought without regard for self, launching assault after brutal assault upon the smaller man. Talon did his best to dodge beneath the wild swings, letting the man wear himself thin on expended energy. Yilmaz never slowed, never relented. Red blood ran down sword blades as flesh yielded to sharpened steel. 

Yilamz swung wide, but feinted. 

Talon lunged forward; his sword batted away at just the last second. The disemboweling thrust was pushed aside yet drew a deep line across Ahment’s thigh. 

The mercenary yelped like a kicked dog, stumbling but catching himself. 

Talon wasted no time. He smashed the hilt of his sword into the side of Ahmet’s skull. He then brought up a knee hard against the reeling Turk’s chin. 

Yilmaz righted himself, but his head swam from the mighty blow. Blood ran in rivulets from a broken jaw. His lips were slack, parted just enough to expose a battery of shattered teeth. 

He raised his sword again but struggled to keep it level. 

“It’s over, Ahmet,” said Talon, motioning to the huddled masses that had gathered about them. Yilmaz’s men had been utterly defeated. What few remained were now held prisoner at sword point by the rebels of Iram. “Let it be done.”

Yilmaz charged forward, screaming like a blood drunk mad man. 

Talon ducked beneath a wild swing, running his sword across Ahmet’s abdomen. 

The crazed Turk fell to his knees. He crumbled then, face down into the street. 

Kneeling beside him, Talon righted Yilmaz and searched his dying gaze. 

“I had to…” sputtered Yilmaz, blood filling his lungs. “Had to…die…with honor.”

*****

TALON STOOD SHOULDER to shoulder with Worthington and the Marines that survived the battle for Iram. Despite the clean clothes and stitched wounds, his body ached. After the dust and dead were cleared, the outsiders had been allowed to rest and heal until they were able to leave. His body still bore many bruises and scabbed-over cuts that would scar. They would remain a constant reminder of what happened in this place. The people of Iram were a secretive lot, dealing only with the equally secretive Bedouins that traveled the ancient trade routes. They were anxious for the foreigners to leave their city and to never return.

Amassed about Talon and the Marines were the hundreds of rebels that served their city valiantly in a time of crisis. Here and there, huddled within the crowd, were curious nomads who wished to see the American and Englishmen before they disappeared in the desert and returned to the modern world. Children clutched at the tunics of their mother’s, cooing and watching the strangers intently. Others cried, not for the departure of the outsiders, but still mourning the loss of their loved ones in that early morning struggle that now seemed so long ago. 

In the entryway of the throne room appeared the king, his daughter at his side. He too bore the marks of violence, needing assistance from Dacia to stand. Behind them were four men, still wreathed in the armor and weapons they’d borne against the invading Turks. One of them, whom Talon vaguely recognized from the melee, carried a small wooden box in his hands. As the royal retinue came to a halt at the top of the palace steps, the crowd drew to a hush. 

King Tulius looked to his daughter and nodded. 

Dacia then relieved the guardsman of the chest. With all the royal grace of her Imperial lineage, she descended the steps, coming to a stop in front of Talon. She looked him in the eye but said nothing. Within her dark eyes a storm roiled. Talon understood why. He had brought terrible death upon her city. Yet, he had also been the source of its victory. If put in her shoes, he would have been equally conflicted. 

She managed to tear her eyes away and began to address Worthington and his men. 

“We have spent little time together,” said Dacia. “It wasn’t long ago that you thought my people a myth. I truly wish it had remained so. Still, I must thank you. You and your men sacrificed much for a people you did not even know. I mourn your losses as I mourn my own.”

Worthington bowed and dropped to a knee, his Marines following suit. 

“For England, it was my duty. For you, my honor.”

Dacia smiled faintly, giving Worthington her hand. 

Gently, he took it and followed her up. 

“My people thank you.” 

The princess sighed and gathered herself before addressing Talon. Her eyes moved over the box still clutched in her quivering hands. 

“Benjamin Talon,” she said softly, not looking him in the eye.

“Dacia, stop.”

Her eyes darted to his and he shrank. 

“Ben Talon, you came here for this.” She pushed the box into his hands. “Open it.”

Talon hesitated but obeyed the royal’s command. The lid to the simple wooden chest opened with the slightest touch. Held within was an assortment of golden coins, emeralds, rubies, sapphires, and lapis lazuli. Talon immediately knew it to be only a small fraction of the wealth held within the underground vaults of Iram. Even this meager sum could last him a lifetime if spent wisely. His hands trembled at the thought.

“I can’t accept this, Dacia.”

“You have brought the city of Iram nothing but pain. For centuries, our presence has remained a secret. The Bedouin have sworn themselves to secrecy on punishment of death. Yet the greed of an outlander leads him across the desert in the company of villains and all for a share of gold.” Dacia’s face grew red, tears welling in her brooding eyes. “Now that the gold is offered to you, you will not take it?”

He closed the box, hanging his head. 

“I won’t.”

“My father has done something I cannot bring myself to do,” continued the girl. “He has forgiven your trespasses. Even named you a hero of Iram when it is you who was at the root of all this death. If not for greed, take this gift as thanks.”

Talon looked toward king Tulius, peering down from the palace steps. 

“I’m not a hero, Dacia. Just a thief. Besides, that isn’t going to do me any good where I’m going.”

“Why?” she asked, suddenly curious. “Where will you go from here?”

“That’s up to him,” said Talon, motioning to Captain Worthington. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, clearly confused. 

Just as Talon was about to explain, Worthington spoke up. 

“You see, princess. He is also a criminal to the world outside of here. He is a wanted man. An outlaw, just as you say. We are taking him to prison.”

“I do not understand.”

“When Talon escaped Iram, he found me stationed at Port Aden in Yemen, far from here. At first, I thought him a lunatic, but something in his words made me listen.” 

“And what was that?” pried Dacia. 

“Well, I was…” Worthington choked on his words. “I was going to lock him up. For crimes against my Queen. But Talon was persistent. He told me that he would gladly return to captivity, if only I would help him.”

Dacia was taken aback.

“You must understand, Princess. Talon has eluded me many times. He even gave me this scar.” Worthington chuckled, pointing to the line across his cheek. “I did not know if the desert had changed him, or if he was perhaps truly mad. But I knew that he wasn’t lying. Now that this bloody business is done, he will return to Aden with me and my men to stand trial.”

“And what will happen then?”

“He could stay in prison. Or he will be hanged. Banditry is a serious crime in our world, after all.”

“Is this true, Ben Talon?” 

“Yes. It’s true.”

“Despite all things, he really is a man of his word.”

Dacia leveled her gaze at the American, her features now softened by the new revelations. 

“Perhaps I was wrong about you then.”

“How is that, ma’am?”

“You are an honorable man.”

“Thank you, Dacia. Thank you.”

THE END.

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Return Friday, August 15th for high-flying thrills in “SKY WOLF OF AMAZONAS”!