The Crimson Legion

by Denning, Troy

  Taking advantage of the close combat, Neeva slipped around the corner with battle-axe hefted. Agis grabbed her by the shoulder, preventing her from moving forward.

  Rikus yelled, “What do you think you’re—”

  The mul hit the ceiling again and his question came to an abrupt halt. Already, his spine felt like it had been cracked in a dozen places and his arms burned with numb weariness.

  Agis stepped past Neeva, his hands held out before him and his brown eyes fixed on the thri-kreen’s. All at once, the mantis-warrior stopped smashing Rikus against the ceiling. The beast stared at Agis for a moment, then he dropped his weapons and lay down on the floor. The nobleman continued forward, silently nodding to the mantis-warrior.

  “Why’d you stop Neeva?” Rikus demanded, his breath coming in short gasps. “You could have gotten me killed!”

  As the mul slipped his cahulak rope off the thri-kreen’s neck, Agis laid a restraining hand on the weapons. “But I didn’t,” he answered, still staring at the mantis-warrior. “The thri-kreen is a slave. Now that I’ve freed his mind from his master’s grip, he’ll help us.”

  Rikus looked doubtful and pulled his Cahulaks free of the noble’s grasp.

  “C-Comrade,” chattered the mantis-warrior, speaking in the Urikite language. “Help you.”

  Because he had been born and raised in the slave pits of a Urikite noble, Rikus understood the mantis-warrior’s words. Nevertheless, he remained suspicious.

  “No one arms a thri-kreen slave,” he said. “Especially one that fights this well.”

  “The argosy pilot’s been using the Way to control his mind,” Agis explained, gently moving the mul’s weapons away from the thri-kreen. “K’kriq didn’t want to attack us.”

  “Kill d-driver, kill Ph-Phatim,” the thri-kreen stammered. “Help you.”

  When Rikus still did not agree, Agis said, “I was inside his mind. I’ll vouch for him.”

  Rikus reluctantly stepped away from the mantis-warrior. “Okay, fall into line,” he said. In Urikite, he added, “But you do what I say, and no weapons.”

  The thri-kreen opened his six-mandibles in a star shaped gesture that could have been a smile. “N-No regret,” he answered, also in Urikite.

  The mul faced forward without replying. Normally, he would not have accepted a former enemy into his group, but Agis was a true master of the Way. If he said the thri-kreen could be trusted, Rikus believed him.

  The mul led them toward the front of the wagon. As they moved, thick smoke began to roll down the corridor from the rear of the argosy. Within a few moments, they could hardly see the glow balls swinging in their nets, and chunks of burning wood began to drop from the ceiling.

  Soon, the small group reached the front cargo hold. The exterior doors had been opened to vent the smoke, and, through the thickening fumes, Rikus saw a dozen Urikites standing guard. After passing a whispered warning to those behind him, the mul charged out of the smoke-filled corridor and hacked down the first guard from behind. Neeva leaped past him with her battle-axe flying, taking down two more. K’kriq rushed past her and, unarmed, killed five more in a flurry of flashing claws and snapping mandibles. The four survivors jumped from the argosy before Agis or Sadira struck a blow.

  Rikus cast a nervous glance at the five men K’kriq had stricken down, then peered out of the open cargo door. In the sands to the side and just ahead of the argosy, he saw the waddling driks and their drivers trying to escape his legion. The war-lizards were not faring well. Their low-centered bodies and heavy shells were not suited to speed. The beasts’ sluggishness was compounded by their loads, for the siege engines they carried were made from sun-bleached mekillot bones, as large as trees and twice as heavy.

  Already, a dozen driks lay toppled, flapping their heads and roaring helplessly, unable to continue their escape on hamstrung legs. Another dozen beasts had dug into the sand and were trying to defend themselves from the Tyrian warriors.

  The mul was shocked to see that there were no Urikite regulars in view. While it was true that the main body of soldiers had been far ahead of the attack, Rikus found it strange they had not returned to join the fight.

  K’kriq touched the mul’s shoulder with a bloody claw, then pointed forward. “Kill Phatim, s-stop Urikites,” the thri-kreen said. “No water, no food, no siege missiles.”

  Rikus raised a brow, then said, “Lead the way.”

  Agis caught the thri-kreen by a sticklike arm. “No,” he said. “We’ll have to find the driver ourselves.”

  The mantis-warrior insisted, “M-Me kill Phatim.”

  The noble shook his head. “If the pilot sees you, he’ll take over your mind. Stay here and help our warriors destroy the supplies—in case we can’t stop the wagon.”

  K’kriq snapped his six mandibles open and closed angrily, then turned and began hacking at the interior cargo door.

  Rikus assigned the gladiators to help K’kriq, then led his three companions forward. Although the narrow corridor remained smoke-filled, it was not nearly so murky as the section aft of the cargo door. By the light of the swaying glow balls, the mul could see that, here and there, fumes were seeping through the planks in the ceiling.

  The hallway turned toward the center of the wagon, and they came to a pair of bronze-gilded doors, one on each side of the corridor. Both were secured with heavy iron latches.

  Rikus motioned at the door on the right. “Neeva, you check that one.”

  The woman nodded, then smashed the door open with a single blow of her axe. She stepped into the dark room beyond, Sadira following close behind.

  Rikus kicked the other door open, then charged into the room beyond. He found himself standing before a ladder leading up to a small deck overhead. Thick whorls of smoke clouded the air.

  “The pilot’s deck,” Agis noted, coughing and rubbing his eyes.

  The mul grabbed the ladder and climbed. As he moved higher, a streamer of smoke descended and entwined itself around his neck. Rikus thought nothing of it until the tendril rubbed across his skin like a coarse rope, then abruptly tightened. Instantly, the rush of blood filled the mul’s ears. His eyes felt like they would pop from his head, and he could no longer draw air down his throat.

  The mul jumped off the ladder and landed at Agis’s feet. Falling to his knees, he dropped his cahulaks and clutched at the tendril. His fingers sank through it like air.

  “Rikus!” Agis cried.

  The noble’s voice seemed distant and faint. Rikus’s vision went black.

  To his surprise, the mul did not pass out. Instead, his consciousness turned inward, to the terrain of his own mind. He saw himself kneeling on a featureless plain of mud, the great tentacle of some horrid beast extruding from the wet earth, wrapping itself around his throat. It was trying to pull him into the soggy ground, to suffocate him in the muds of oblivion.

  Rikus’s stomach tightened with fear. He realized he was being attacked mind-to-mind, and that knowledge only frightened him more. The mul was a master of physical combat, but when it came to the Way, he was not even a novice.

  Rikus fought back by trying to imagine himself hauling the tentacle from the mud. No matter how hard he pulled, the beast was too strong for him. It bent his torso back, kinking his spine until he feared it would snap.

  The mul grabbed the tentacle and pulled with as much strength as his oxygen-starved body could muster. He slowly managed to turn himself over and braced one arm against the muddy ground. He used the other to dig, hoping to dredge the slimy creature from its burrow. Though he excavated a hole several feet deep, he found nothing but an endless tendril that continued to pull him downward. Rikus bit the thing. It’s blood burned his mouth like acid.

  Then the mul grew aware of great, sloshing footsteps approaching from behind. He twisted around to meet the new horror his attacker had sent to destroy him. If there had been breath in his lungs, he would have sighed in relief. Standing before him was a familiar figure, save that it now towere
d overhead in the massive form of a full-giant.

  “Agis?” Rikus gurgled.

  The giant nodded. “What have we here?” he boomed, stooping over to grasp the tentacle.

  Agis the giant pulled the tendril from the ground effortlessly, freeing the mul’s throat. The writhing thing was nothing but a long gray tentacle. As Rikus watched, both ends flattened out and a set of eyes appeared on the top side. Below each pair of eyes, a long slit opened into a broad mouth filled with wicked fangs.

  “The Serpent of Lubar!” Rikus gasped. The beast resembled the crest of the noble who had bred the mul, the family in whose cruel pits the young mul had been trained in the arts of killing.

  As Rikus stared at the living crest of his first owner, the snake’s heads both turned toward Agis and struck simultaneously. The noble’s giant arms stretched outward, preventing the fangs from reaching him. The snake lengthened its body, and the arms stretched farther. An extra set of long-clawed hands suddenly grew from the giant’s rib cage, then seized the snake behind each of its heads. Moving with lightning speed, the sharp claws tore great gashes along the length of the snake’s body, reducing it to a bloody mess of shredded scales and minced flesh.

  Agis threw the snake into the fluid, then watched it wither into a desiccated husk. “Why didn’t you defend yourself?” he asked, glancing at Rikus.

  “I have no training in the Way,” Rikus answered, stung by the giant’s chiding tone.

  “You don’t need any to form a basic defense,” the giant countered. “It’s instinctual—or should be. Everyone has some ability with the Way. Your mistake was emphasizing strength over form. The Way is more subtle than that.”

  Agis changed from a giant into a leather-winged bird with a sharp, hooked beak. “Next time, use your imagination.” With that, he launched himself into the air and flew away.

  Rikus opened his eyes and saw that he was back in the argosy, lying at the base of the ladder. The nobleman sat beside him, breathing in shallow gasps.

  “Agis!” the mul gasped. “Are you hurt?”

  The noble smiled and shook his head. “Tired,” he whispered. “Go on, before the pilot recovers.”

  After glancing into the corridor to make sure Agis was in no imminent danger, Rikus left the noble to rest and climbed the ladder. Near the ceiling, the pilot’s deck was filled with a thick smoke that had seeped through the planks separating it from the rest of the argosy. By dropping to his hands and knees, however, the mul could crawl forward without scorching his lungs on the caustic fumes.

  Rikus found the pilot’s deck to be a spacious platform with a large panel of thick glass overlooking the dune-sized shells of the lumbering mekillots. Before this window sat a well padded chair, no doubt where the pilot, a master of the Way especially trained to dominate the creatures, would sit.

  The mul advanced on the pilot’s chair, laying his cahulaks aside. Despite his fear of the mindbender, he had to take the man alive if he wanted to halt the argosy. From what he had heard about mekillots, if the stupid beasts were suddenly freed of their mental reins, they would be just as likely to continue trudging forward as to stop.

  A long black blade flashed toward Rikus’s eyes, a man-shaped blur dropping out of the smoke behind it. The mul crossed his wrists and thrust them over his head, catching the attacker’s arm between the backs of his hands. Before the mindbender could withdraw his dagger, Rikus turned his palms over and grabbed his attacker’s arm, then slammed his victim to the floor.

  “If I even suspect you of meddling with my thoughts, I’ll finish the job, Phatim,” Rikus threatened, snatching the obsidian dagger and pressing its tip to the man’s throat.

  The pilot’s gray eyes widened at the sound of his own name spoken in his own language. The gaunt man nodded his head of unkempt hair to show he understood, then looked down his hooked nose at the dagger pressed to his throat.

  “If you want to live, stop the mekillots,” Rikus said. “But I warn you—”

  “I’m too tired to betray you with the Way,” the pilot said.

  Phatim closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment. The argosy lurched to a violent stop. Rikus flew over the mindbender’s prone body and slammed into the back of the chair.

  The pilot was on him in an instant, using one hand to pin the mul’s dagger arm to the floor and, with the other, drawing a shorter knife from his boot. Rikus barely managed to slip his head out of the way as Phatim’s steel blade sliced down at him.

  “Die, slave!” Phatim hissed, spraying Rikus’s face with warm spittle.

  “Freed slave,” Rikus replied.

  The mul brought his knee up, striking Phatim in the back of the thigh. The blow propelled the pilot forward and knocked him off balance. At the same time, Rikus ripped his arm free and thrust the dagger under Phatim’s ribs. The pilot cried out, then abruptly fell silent as the tip of the long blade found his heart. Hot, red blood ran down Rikus’s fingers, and Phatim collapsed.

  Rikus pushed the pilot’s lifeless body off him, shaking his head at the man’s foolishness. The mul had hoped to question the mindbender about his choice of the Serpent of Lubar as an attack form.

  Phatim’s death did little to dampen Rikus’s joy at stopping the argosy, however. Without the fortress-wagon and the drik-mounted siege engines, the Urikites would find it much more difficult, perhaps even impossible, to capture Tyr. The mul even dared to hope that he had just brought the war to an early end.

  After a quick inspection to make sure there were no more surprises lurking on the smoky pilot’s deck, Rikus returned to the ladder to make sure Agis was well. On the floor below, he saw both Neeva and Sadira standing with the noble. In her hands, Neeva held a green cloth.

  Rikus collected his cahulaks and started down the ladder. “What did you find in the other room?” he asked.

  “The commander’s wardroom,” answered Sadira.

  Rikus jumped the rest of the way to the floor. “Did you kill him?” the mul asked eagerly.

  “The general wasn’t there,” Neeva said, tossing the cloth to the mul. “We found this hanging over his bed.”

  Rikus unfurled the pennant. It was emblazoned with the red emblem of a two-headed snake, the mouths at each end of its body gaping open to reveal a mouthful of curved fangs.

  “The Serpent of Lubar,” Rikus hissed, his mood changing from victorious to murderous.

  TWO

  THE BLACK WALL

  THE SCALDING WIND HAD DIED AWAY, LEAVING THE fumes from the burning argosy to rise skyward in arrow-straight trails. Rikus stood in the shade of the fortress-wagon, drinking from one of the water casks his warriors had thrown from its cargo hold. Also gathered around the keg were Neeva, Sadira, Agis, and the commanders of the legion’s three different contingents: the templar Styan, the noblewoman Jaseela, and a freed half-giant gladiator named Gaanon. The thri-kreen K’kriq waited patiently at the mul’s back, showing no interest in the water or the company.

  The rest of the legion stood nearby, clustered in a hundred small assemblies of fifteen to twenty warriors. At the center of each group rested a keg of Urikite water, upon which the Tyrians were gorging themselves. Soon Rikus would give the order to drain the casks into the barren Athasian sands, and it was only natural for them to use as much of the precious liquid as they could.

  “Are you mad, Rikus?” Agis snapped, throwing his wooden dipper back into the open water barrel. He waved an arm at the dead half-giants, crippled driks, and disassembled siege engines littering the valley’s red sands. “It’s one thing to burn an argosy or kill a few driks, and quite another to assault a trained legion of Urikite regulars.”

  Rikus looked westward, toward the sandy hill over which the enemy’s army had disappeared a short time earlier. So far, none of the observers he had sent after the Urikites had returned, and he took their absence to mean the column was continuing toward Tyr. The mul was as distressed as he was surprised that his enemy had not stopped to fight. To him, their willingness to aba
ndon their siege engines and the argosy suggested that they were confident they could sack Tyr without these things.

  “Our attack comes from the rear,” Rikus said, his eyes narrowed in determination. “That gives us an advantage.”

  “Being outnumbered five-to-one is no advantage!” Agis exclaimed. The three company commanders lowered their gazes to the packed sand of the road, wanting no part of an argument between Agis and Rikus.

  Lowering his voice, Agis continued, “This has less to do with protecting Tyr than taking your petty vengeance on Family Lubar.”

  “A slave’s vengeance is never petty,” said Neeva. “You’d know that if your back had ever felt the lash.”

  Before the argument could continue, K’kriq pointed two chitinous arms at the sky. “Who that?” he demanded.

  Rikus looked upward and gasped. There, hanging far up in the blistering pink sky, was the cloudlike head of King Tithian. It looked to be made of misty green light, though its vaporous nature did not prevent the king’s sharp features and hawkish nose from appearing anything less than distinct.

  As Rikus’s companions turned to see what he was looking at, Tyrian warriors began to cry out in delighted astonishment. As they watched, the head dropped like a meteor, until it hung less than a hundred feet overhead and blocked out so much of the sky that the day faded to the purple hues of dusk. The entire legion broke into a rousing cheer that the mul knew would not soon end. Like the rest of Tyr, most gladiators credited the crafty king with freeing them. They had no knowledge of Agis’s role in forcing Tithian to issue his famous First Edict.

  “Tithian! What’s he doing here?” demanded Neeva, yelling to make herself heard above the tumult.

  “How did he get here?” asked Rikus. “I thought he didn’t know magic!”

  “He doesn’t,” Sadira answered. She gestured at the apparition and uttered an incantation. A moment later, she added, “And that doesn’t feel like normal sorcery to me.”