The Crimson Legion

by Denning, Troy

  Lyanius frowned. “I’m certain it was just the echo of the door opening.”

  Nevertheless, the old dwarf passed his torch to Rikus. Motioning for the others to stay behind, Lyanius shuffled down the corridor into the murky blackness, where his dwarven vision would not be nullified by the light of the torches.

  “Shouldn’t we go with him?” Rikus asked.

  “Not if you value your life,” answered Caelum. “My father is quite touchy about taking care of himself.”

  They waited for what seemed an eternity before Lyanius stepped silently out of the shadows. “There’s nothing there,” he said irritably. “Probably just a wrab.”

  “Wrab?” asked Neeva.

  “A tiny, flying serpent,” explained Caelum.

  “Filthy blood drinkers,” added Lyanius, stepping through the door he had opened earlier. “Normally, they’re as quiet as death, but every now and then they bump into something.”

  Frowning, Rikus peered back down the corridor. When he saw nothing to contradict what the old dwarf had said, he followed the others into a small room. It was lit by a flaxen glow of ambient light that issued from no apparent source, yet filled the chamber like a haze. In the center of the room, an open book hovered in midair, as though it were resting on a table that Rikus could not see.

  “I wanted you to know that when you saved Kled, you saved more than a village,” said Lyanius, motioning at the book proudly.

  Its binding was of gold-trimmed leather, and the long columns of angular characters on its parchment pages glowed with a green light of their own. In the margins, brightly painted pictures of horned beasts moved before Rikus’s eyes, grazing or leaping as though they still roamed the glens in which the artist had first seen them.

  Despite the magical pictures in the book, Rikus was more interested in what he could not see. Passing his hand first under, then over the tome, he asked, “What holds it up?”

  “What holds it up?” snapped Lyanius. “I show you the Book of the Kemalok Kings, and you ask the mechanics of a simple enchantent?”

  “I’ve never had much interest in books,” the mul said, self-consciously shifting his attention back to the volume. “I can’t read.”

  “Neither can I—at least not this book,” answered Lyanius, calming. “It was written in the language of our ancestors. I have learned to translate only a little of it, enough to know that this volume tells the history of Kemalok.”

  “That’s—ah—interesting,” Rikus said, glancing at Neeva to see if she understood why Lyanius placed so much import on bringing them here.

  “I think Rikus will find the Great Hall more to his interest, Urhnomus,” Caelum said, noticing Rikus’s puzzled expression. “What matters is not that our friends understand the importance of what they did, but that they kept the Book of Kings out of Urikite hands.”

  Caelum’s words calmed the old dwarf. “You’re very wise for someone yet under a hundred,” he said, nodding proudly.

  After they left the little room, the bas-relief head spoke briefly to Lyanius, then the door closed of its own accord. The old dwarf led his friends farther down the corridor and turned another corner. This time, they stopped before a pair of massive wooden doors so infested with dry rot that Rikus was surprised they still hung on their hinges.

  Despite the deterioration of the doors, the strange animals carved into each one remained handsome and distinct. The snarling beasts resembled bears, save that, instead of the articulated shells armoring the creatures Rikus had fought, these were covered with nothing more protective than a thick mat of long fur. The mul wondered if the carvings depicted some gentler breed that the ancient dwarves had kept as pets.

  As Lyanius stepped toward the great doors, they swung open, revealing a magnificent chamber so large that the torches could not light it from one side to the other. Still, as the four wandered around the perimeter, the mul saw that it had once been a great feast hall. From the walls hung dozens of steel weapons of all sizes and sorts, interspersed with huge murals vibrant in color and stroke. These paintings depicted either scenes of romance between a handsome dwarven noble and his beautiful lady-love, or valiant struggles in which lone dwarven knights vanquished giants, four-headed serpents, and dozens of red-eyed man-beasts.

  Lyanius led the way to the front of the room, then asked Rikus to stand before the great banquet table located there. The mul cast a dubious glance in Neeva’s direction, but did as the old dwarf wished. Lyanius handed his torch to his son and disappeared into the darkness.

  For several moments, the aged dwarf rummaged around the perimeter of the room, banging shields and axes about. Finally he returned to the trio with a black belt slung over his shoulder and a steel sword in his arms. He laid the belt on the table, then faced Rikus with the long sword and slapped the mul’s left arm with the flat of the blade.

  “In the name and presence of the one hundred and fifty kings of the ancient dwarven race, I acknowledge your bravery and skill in driving the Urikite invaders from the gates of Kemalok,” Lyanius said, giving Rikus a stern smile and slapping the mul’s other arm. “I name you a Knight of the Dwarven Kings, and present you with this weapon of magic, the Scourge of Rkard.”

  As the old dwarf held the weapon out to him, Rikus’s jaw dropped open. “Won’t carrying a weapon in Kemalok anger Rkard?” he gasped. “Especially when it’s his?”

  “This isn’t Rkard’s weapon,” Lyanius answered, the corners of his mouth turning down. “It’s the blade that inflicted his last wound, the one that killed him. As for Kemalok’s law—guest are forbidden to carry weapons, but you are no longer a guest. You are a knight of the city.”

  As soon as Rikus’s hand touched the weapon’s hilt, his mind began to whirl in confusion. Suddenly he could hear his companions’ hearts pounding in his ears like the drums of a Gulgian war party, and their breathing sounded to him like a dust typhoon storming its way across the Sea of Silt. From behind Rikus came the harsh grate of huge claws scratching across stone. The mul instinctively leaped to his feet and spun around, only to discover the sound had been caused by a black beetle scurrying across the floor several yards away.

  No sooner had he relaxed from this strange sound than he heard the throb of wrab wings beating the air outside the great hall. Shoving past Neeva and Caelum, he rushed to the chamber doors and pushed them shut. The creak of their hinges rang in his ears and ran down his spine like a lightning bolt. The deafening crack of the clicking latch nearly knocked him from his feet. An instant later, the wrab alighted on the outside of the door with a deep rumble. A series of terrific rasps echoed through the wood as it searched for a crack. Rikus shook his head and stumbled back from the doors, raising the Scourge of Rkard to defend himself.

  As the gleaming blade came into view, the mul’s confused mind slowly began to make sense of the situation. The sword was magic, he realized. With it, he could hear any nearby sound as though it were made by a giant right next to his ear.

  “Rikus, what’s wrong?”

  Neeva’s concerned voice boomed through his head like a thunderclap, scattering the thoughts he had just managed to collect. The sharp pain that shot through his ear made him cry out. At last Rikus dropped the sword, then fell to his knees.

  “What’s the matter with him?” Neeva demanded. Her words still pained the mul’s ears, though they no longer seemed as loud as they had a moment ago.

  “Rikus, pick up the sword again,” ordered Lyanius. “I should have warned you about what to expect and told you how to control the magic.”

  When Rikus did not reach for the sword, the old dwarf shuffled toward him.

  “I don’t think I want that sword,” Rikus said, glancing fearfully at the blade.

  Lyanius stopped next to him. “Pick up the sword,” the dwarf whispered. “Concentrate on one sound, and the others will fade. You will find that it is a useful thing to have.”

  Reluctantly Rikus obeyed, focusing his thoughts on the old dwarf’s breathing. To h
is surprise, all of the other sounds faded to mere background noise. He remained aware of them, but they no longer reverberated through his head or hurt his ears. Unfortunately, the old dwarf’s breathing still sounded like the roar of the Dragon to him.

  “Now, while concentrating on the sound you picked, speak in a normal tone of voice,” Lyanius said.

  Keeping his attention fixed on the old dwarf’s breathing, Rikus answered, “Fine. What now?”

  The rush of air into and out of the old dwarf’s lungs faded to the volume of his own voice, and Rikus found he could think again.

  “Now come with me,” Lyanius said.

  Rikus stood and followed the dwarf back to the banquet table. “Does the sword do anything else?”

  “I don’t know,” Lyanius answered. “I’ve seen it mentioned in the Book of Kings, but I can’t read enough of the entry to know all the weapon’s possible powers.”

  As Lyanius spoke, Rikus adjusted his magically augmented hearing by concentrating on the dwarf’s words. “Thank you for the blade. This is a great honor.”

  “We’re not done yet,” said the old dwarf, taking the black belt off the table.

  Lyanius held the belt out to Rikus, its stiff leather crackling like pebbles falling on cobblestones. The thing was so wide it was almost a girdle. The buckle was hidden by a field of red flames, with the skull of a fierce half-man in the center.

  “This is the Belt of Rank,” Lyanius said, strapping the belt around the mul’s waist.

  Rikus stepped away, asking, “What does it do?”

  His question brought a chuckle to the old dwarfs lips. “There is no need to worry,” Lyanius said. “Its magic is not as intrusive as that of the Scourge of Rkard. For three thousand years, this belt was passed from one dwarven general to the next, a symbol of authority over all the armies of the dwarves.”

  “Why are you giving it to me?” Rikus asked, allowing the old dwarf to fasten it about his waist.

  “Because you are the only knight worthy of it.”

  “In fact, you’re the only knight,” Caelum added. “There is no one else to wear it.”

  Rikus was about to thank the old dwarf again when he heard an alarmed cry echo from the other side of the closed doors. Though he could not understand the words, he recognized the voice as that of the glass-eyed sculpture on the door where the Book of Kings was stored.

  “The book!” he exclaimed, turning toward the doors.

  “What about it?” gasped Caleum.

  “The door just screamed,” he shouted, motioning for Lyanius to follow him.

  Before he could explain further, the mul heard Maetan’s bitter voice cry out in surprise. A loud boom followed the mindbender’s yell.

  When Rikus reached the doors to the hall, they opened of their own accord. The wrab that had been clinging to them took flight and swooped down on the mul, but he swatted the nasty little beast from the air before it came close to striking him.

  Rikus turned down the corridor and heard the door scream again. There was another explosion, the sound ringing in the corridor and making everyone’s ears ache. The mul took off at a sprint, trusting to his companions to follow.

  After the violent explosion, the keep fell ominously silent. To the mul, it seemed to take forever to retrace their steps. The corridor was much longer than he remembered, and his frustration was compounded by mistakenly turning into several alcoves that looked similar to the one where the book was safeguarded.

  Finally he reached the correct alcove, and this time he had no doubt that he had found the right one. In front of it lay the inert figure of King Rkard, the heft of his great axe snapped in two and his black armor dented and scorched from an explosion. Rikus reluctantly peered into the helm and saw that the green cloth swaddling the king’s face had been burned away. Now only a charred skull, half-covered by taut leathery skin, peered out from beneath the visor.

  As the mul studied Rkard’s face, a yellow light began to glimmer deep within the corpse’s eye sockets. Not wishing to be the first thing that the king saw when he returned to awareness, Rikus moved away and turned toward the chamber where the book was stored.

  The bronze-gilded door hung off its hinges, twisted and mangled as though a giant had kicked it open. The bas-relief’s glass eyes had been ripped from the face and now lay shattered on the stone floor.

  Lyanius came up behind Rikus, then rushed into the room and let out an anguished scream. “It’s gone!”

  “What happened?” Caelum asked. “Who could have done this?”

  “Maetan,” Rikus answered, looking down the long corridor.

  Neeva rushed up behind them, her torch casting a flickering circle of yellow light over the small group. She did not need to ask what happened.

  Lyanius hurried out of the room and grabbed Rikus’s hand. “You must find him! That book is the history of my people!”

  As the old dwarf spoke, King Rkard’s corpse rose to his feet and looked around as if searching for something, paying no attention to Rikus or his companions.

  The mul stepped away from the others. “Quiet. I’ll use the sword to track Maetan.”

  For several moments, the mul gripped the hilt of his new sword, listening to the sounds of the ancient dwarven city. He could hear the nervous breathing of his companions, the occasional squeak of metal as Rkard changed positions, even the soft hiss of the torches they had left behind in the great hall—but he did not detect the faintest hint of Maetan’s presence.

  “He’s gone,” Rikus said at last.

  Lyanius groaned and buried his face in his hands. “How?”

  “The Way,” Neeva answered.

  Rikus rested the sword tip-down on the sand-strewn floor, a look of grim determination on his face. “I’ll recover the book,” he said. “Even if I have to chase Lord Lubar all the way to Urik.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Caelum said forcefully. “And so will many of the village’s young dwarves. There are many who would make this quest their focus.”

  Rikus nodded. “Your help will be welcome.”

  Lyanius’s eyes lit up. As if to prove his newfound champion was not simply a cruel illusion left by the thief of his priceless book, the old dwarf reached out and touched the mul’s arm. “Can you do it?”

  “Think before you answer, Rikus,” Neeva said. “Don’t promise something you can’t deliver.”

  In answer, Rikus placed a hand on the Belt of Rank, then started toward the exit. “We start for Urik in an hour.”

  “You haven’t earned that belt yet, my love.”

  Though Neeva whispered the words beneath her breath, to Rikus they boomed as loudly as the magical explosions Maetan had used to defeat Rkard and capture the Book of the Kemalok Kings.

  FIVE

  WROG’S RING

  “KEEP A WATCH, AND I WILL SEARCH OUT SOMEONE to be my spy,” said Maetan, tucking his frail body between a pair of wind-scoured boulders.

  “I do not relish being invoked for such mundane tasks,” objected Umbra. In the flaxen light of Athas’s twin moons, the shadow giant was hardly distinguishable from the more natural darkness surrounding him.

  “Until I avenge my honor against Rikus and his Tyrians, no task is mundane!” snapped Maetan. “Do as I command—or does the Black no longer value my family’s obsidian?”

  A wisp of ebon-colored gas rose from Umbra’s down-turned mouth. “Your stone has value, but someday you will overestimate its worth,” he snarled, peering up at the pale moons. “A shadow needs light to give it shape and substance. It pains me to serve you in such conditions.”

  “If I do not present these slaves to King Hamanu in shackles, my family name will be shamed,” Maetan said. “Do you think I care about your pain?”

  “No more than I care about your honor,” Umbra replied, creeping away to do as Maetan ordered. His dark form fused with the other shadows mottling the hillside.

  Maetan turned his attention to the sandy gulch below. There, surrounded by a tight
picket of drowsy sentries, the Tyrian legion was camped.

  The gladiators rested at the mouth of the gully, scattered in a disarrayed jumble wherever they could find a soft place. A short distance up the draw, the retainers of some noble lay clustered in cordial groups of ten or twelve warriors, many of whom were still conversing in polite tones. Close to them, the dwarves of Kled slept in regimented circles, each dwarf lying flat on his back within an arm’s reach of the next one.

  Farthest up the gulch slumbered the templars, their cassocks tightly fastened against the frigid desert night. They had arranged themselves in a pyramid, those most favored lying closest to the leader, and those least favored spread along the bottom edge. Maetan did not understand why the Tyrians had sent along the bureaucrats. With Kalak dead, the templars had no sorcerer-king to grant them spells, and they would be no more useful in battle than average tradesmen.

  “It matters little,” the mindbender told himself. “When the time comes, they will die with the rest.”

  With that, he gathered a fistful of sand, then held it over the outstreched palm of the other hand. Slowly, Maetan let the grains slip from between his fingers. At the same time, he used the Way to summon a stream of mystic energy from deep within himself, and he gently breathed this life force into the sand as it dropped from one hand to the other.

  When he finished, a naked, finger-length figure stood in the palm of his hand. She whipped her barbed tail back and forth, blinking her soft green eyes and giving her tiny wings a languid stretch.

  Maetan lifted his hand toward the Tyrian camp. “Go, my darling, and look into their nightmares. Find one who will betray his fellows, one who yearns for wealth beyond his grasp, perhaps, or one who fears his master.”

  The homunculus smiled, showing a pair of needlelike fangs, then flapped her wings and rose into the air.

  “When you have succeeded,” Maetan said, “return to me and I will make him ours.”

  Etched into the cliffside, far above Rikus’s head, was the image of a kes’trekel. The giant raptor’s barbed tongue coiled from its hooked beak, and it held its claws splayed open. The creature’s ragged wings were spread wide to catch the wind, and at the elbows of these wings were small, three-fingered hands. In one hand it held a bone scythe, and in the other it carried a furled whip of bone and cord.