“How’d they get up there to carve that?” Rikus asked, his eyes searching the cliffside.
“Why would they bother?” returned Neeva, looking away from the rock-etching. “Kes’trekels are hardly a subject for art. They’re nothing but overgrown carrion-eaters.”
“Kes’trekels may be death-followers, but they’re also as vicious as halflings, as cunning as elves, and some are as large as half-giants,” Caelum said, still craning his neck to study the depiction. “I’d take this engraving as a warning.”
Along with Styan, who remained stolidly silent, the three stood in a barren canyon flanked by towering cliffs of hard, yellow quartzite. The gorge was so deep and narrow that just a sliver of the olive-tinged sky showed overhead. Only the sweltering heat and a blush of crimson light on the canyon’s rim indicated that the morning sun already hung high in the sky.
Above the kes’trekel, someone had chiseled a huge hollow into the cliffside. A warren of mudbrick compartments had been constructed inside this alcove. From the outside, Rikus could see little of the burrow except a wall several stories high, plastered with lime-paste and speckled with square windows. At the base of this wall, a part of the warren overhung the valley. In the center of this section was a large circular opening.
“I’d say that’s where our warriors disappeared to,” Rikus said, motioning at the overhang.
Neeva looked around the canyon. “I don’t see anywhere else they might have gone,” she agreed. “You think both K’kriq and the scouts you sent after him are up there?”
“That’s my guess,” the mul said.
At dusk the night before, the legion had made camp in a sandy gulch at the mouth of a narrow canyon. Since thri-keen have no need of sleep, Rikus had sent K’kriq ahead to scout the next day’s route. The mantis-warrior had not returned by first light, so the mul had sent five gladiators to look for him. When that group had not come back either, Rikus had entered the canyon to investigate for himself. He had brought Neeva and Caelum along in case he ran into trouble. Surprisingly, Styan had asked to accompany them.
After two miles of slow travel, the cliff-huts were the only unusual thing the group had seen in the valley.
“How will we reach the doorway?” Caelum asked, eyeing the sheer cliff beneath the opening.
“Why would we want to?” Styan demanded, speaking for the first time. He glared openly at Rikus. “It’s enough that you ignore Caelum’s advice and cross these badlands, but to risk our lives for a thri-keen and a few warriors—”
“They’d do it for us,” the mul answered gruffly. “As for crossing the hills, it’s the only way to reach the oasis ahead of Maetan.”
K’kriq had seen Maetan traveling with a large group of Urikite soldiers. They were moving around a tongue of rocky badlands that jutted several miles into the sand wastes. From what the thri-keen had reported, the mindbender’s company was traveling toward a brackish pool of water where a handful of Urik’s infamous halfling rangers had stopped to rest. Determined to reach the oasis ahead of his enemy, Rikus had led his legion into the winding canyons and contorted ridge of the badland foothills.
Before the legion could continue its journey, however, Rikus had to find out what had happened to K’kriq and the other scouts. He dropped a hand to the sword hanging on his new belt. As the mul’s fingers closed around the Scourge’s hilt, a dozen discordant sounds crashed over his mind in a deafening tumult. His ears were filled with the thunder of beating hearts and the roar of the morning breeze. From distant caves came the rumble of chirping crickets, and the piercing drone of his warriors’ impatient conversations echoed up from the canyon mouth.
Rikus felt dizzy and sick from the torrent of noise. He wanted nothing quite so much as to shut it away, but he forced himself to hang onto the sword and search out the sounds coming from the warren. Finally, he managed to distinguished a stream of wispy voices gushing from the hole above. Concentrating on those sounds, the mul asked quietly, “Who are you? What have you done with my scouts?”
Of course, the voices did not answer, but the other sounds faded to the point that he could concentrate on what was being said inside the warren. Rikus quickly discerned that there were well over a dozen men and women watching him from above, most asking concerned questions of someone named Wrog. In the background, he could hear a faint clacking noise that sounded like K’kriq gnashing his mandibles.
Taking his hand from his sword hilt, Rikus called, “Wrog! Return my scouts and live in peace.”
They waited a few moments for a response. When none came, Neeva asked, “Who’s Wrog?”
Rikus shrugged, “A name. I thought—”
A terrified scream interrupted him. He looked up and saw a man, arms flailing wildly, drop from the opening overhead. In anger, Rikus reached for the Scourge of Rkard. Instantly, he heard many voices roaring in laughter.
The falling man plummeted toward the mul for what seemed like an hour. A half-giant’s height from the rocky ground, his terrified scream ended with a pained shout as his descent stopped. For several moments, the man hung motionless and silent in midair. To the amazement of the mul and his companions, there was no sign of a rope, or any other line, between the faller and the hole from which he had come. The unfortunate fellow simply dangled a few yards off the ground with no visible means of support.
Recognizing the gladiator, Rikus exclaimed, “Laban!”
“Are you injured?” asked Neeva.
“I’m more frightened than hurt,” came the shaky reply.
As Laban spoke, he began to descend more slowly. The half-elf’s normally robust complexion was the color of salt, his peaked eyebrows were arched much more than normal, and his bloodshot eyes bulged halfway from their sockets. Otherwise, Laban seemed remarkably composed and well for a man who had just fallen several hundred feet.
When the gladiator descended to within reach, Neeva took him by the shoulders and helped him to his feet. “Wrog sent me down to invite you to the nest,” he said. He pointed at the dark circle in the bottom of the warren. “Stand under the door and he’ll bring you up.”
“What sort of people are these, Laban?” Rikus asked, moving into position.
“They call themselves the Kes’trekels,” the half-elf answered. “They’re a slave tribe.”
“Good,” Rikus said. “It won’t be hard to work things out.”
“Don’t be too sure,” Laban said. He gestured at the mul’s sword. “He said no weapons.”
Rikus frowned, then unsheathed his sword and held it out to Neeva. “You know what to expect from the Scourge?” he asked.
She cast a wary eye at the blade, but nodded. “I was there when Lyanius gave it to you.”
As soon as her hand touched the hilt, Neeva’s eyes rolled back in her head. “Quiet!” she screamed, dropping to her knees.
At the same time, Rikus began to rise at a steady rate. “Listen to my voice,” Rikus said. “You’ll be able to hear what I say up there.”
In answer, Neeva screamed.
As he ascended, Rikus continued speaking to Neeva, giving her advice on how to control the sword’s powers. At first, she dropped the weapon and covered her ears. A moment later, she picked it up again and held onto it.
“That’s better,” Rikus said. “If you’re able to control the blade, at least a little, and can hear me, step toward Laban.”
Neeva continued to glare at the mul, but did as he asked. Breathing a sigh of relief, Rikus looked toward the warren, studying it and its surroundings. The nest was much higher off the ground than he had realized. His companions, now far below, seemed no larger than his thumbs, and their forms were shrinking at a steady pace. By the time he neared the warren’s entrance, he knew why the slave tribe had chosen this place for their aerie. It was the highest accessible spot in the gorge. Long sections of canyon floor were visible in both directions. Even without a formal watch, the Kes’teskel tribe would have a good chance of seeing intruders from the windows of their homes.
More importantly, the nest afforded a view of both ends of the canyon. At the mouth of the gorge, a dark blotch of tiny figures—the Tyrian legion—waited in a field of orange and brown rocks. In the other direction, the ravine cut through the badland ridges like a great sword gash, running more or less in a straight line to the yellow dunes of the sand wastes beyond. It was exactly the shortcut the mul needed to beat Maetan to the next oasis.
Rikus reached the nest entrance and a dark shadow fell over his shoulders. As he drifted up past the floor, the mul was temporarily blinded as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The clammy room stank of sweat and unbathed bodies, though the tangy scent of fresh silverbush helped mask the stench.
“Do I know you?” growled a throaty voice. The mul took it to be Wrog’s.
Rikus looked up and saw the hulking form of a huge half-man silhouetted against the scarlet light of the window. The shadowy figure stood easily two heads taller than the mul, with a body both more massive and more heavily muscled. Wrog held one hand over Rikus’s head. The glint of gold on one finger suggested that an enchanted ring provided the magic that had levitated him into the room.
“I’m Rikus,” the mul said. By the whispers of recognition rustling through the group, he guessed that at least some of the escaped slaves in the large chamber knew him from his days in the arena at Tyr.
Wrog glanced around the room. “It appears I should be impressed.” After a short pause, he added, “I’m not.”
As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, the mul saw that Wrog was a lask, one of the new races periodically born in the deep desert. His leathery hide, mottled orange and gray, would serve as excellent camouflage in the rocky barrens that covered much of Athas. The hands that hung at the end of the half-man’s gangling arms fingers had only three fingers and a thumb, all of which ended in sharp claws. Wrog’s head was flat and squarish, with a crest of golden points rising from a mass of wrinkled skin. His large, orange-rimmed eyes were set above a thick, boxlike muzzle, from which protruded a pair of sturdy golden fangs, slightly curved inward like an insect’s pincers. In Rikus’s days as a gladiator, the lask might have been an interesting challenge.
Now, however, the mul was interested only in winning Wrog’s friendship. Rikus stepped to the wooden floor. Glancing around the chamber, he saw nearly thirty escaped slaves of all races. Many had ghastly scars on their hands and legs, no doubt earned in the obsidian quarries of Urik.
Scattered in a dozen places around the room were archers armed with long, double-curved bows. They all held obsidian-tipped arrows nocked on their bowstrings, and peered down at Neeva and her companions through small openings in the floor.
In one corner lay K’kriq. The thri-kreen was tightly wrapped in a net of red, thorn-covered cords. Rikus was surprised to see that his friend had actually shredded part of the mesh, for the mul had often used similar snares in the arena and knew them to be all but unbreakable and uncuttable. The strands were made from the tendrils of an elven rope, a contorted mass of cactus that lashed out with its needle covered tentacles to entwine careless animals and draw their life-giving fluids from their bodies.
Although K’kriq’s arms and legs were pinned to his sides, four men surrounded him, their obsidian-tipped spears ready to thrust at the slightest movement. Nearby kneeled the rest of the Tyrian scouts, their hands bound and mouths gagged with tanned snakeskin. Although a few had suffered minor cuts and bruises, it appeared their captors had not mistreated them severely.
After inspecting the room, Rikus looked back to Wrog. “You didn’t hurt my warriors, so there’s no need for trouble between us. Use your magic to let us down safely and we’ll be on our way.”
Wrog lifted his upper lip in what could have been a sneer or a smile. “I can’t do that,” he said. “You and your warriors can stay here with us, or leave on your own.” He peered through the hole in the floor meaningfully. “The choice is yours.”
The mul narrowed his eyes. “There’s no reason to start a fight with us. We’re from Tyr, the Free City. All we intend to do is march through your canyon and catch Maetan of Urik on the far side.”
“What for?” asked a crusty old dwarf. He had a horrible red scar running across both of his forearms.
“To kill him,” Rikus answered. “Lord Lubar led an army against Tyr, and now he’ll pay with his life.”
Many of those in the room uttered approving comments, which did not surprise the mul. In addition to its gladiatorial pits, Family Lubar owned the largest quarrying concession in Urik. No doubt, many slaves in the large chamber had been raised in the grimy Lubar pens.
“I say we let them go,” said the old dwarf. “We’ve all heard about the rebellion in Tyr. The Kes’trekels have nothing to fear from a legion of theirs.”
Several of those marked by grisly quarry scars voiced their agreement, but many other shouted them down. Wrog looked at the contentious group with one eye narrowed. After studying them for a moment, he turned back to the mul.
“When it comes to Maetan of Family Lubar, I don’t think you’ll be the one who does the killing, Rikus,” Wrog said, spitting the mul’s name out disdainfully. “To send a scout up our canyon is smart. It saved your legion from being ambushed. Dispatching a second group to meet the same fate as the thri-kreen wasn’t so smart. But coming yourself, that was stupid—even for a mul.”
“We value each of our warriors, as well we might,” Rikus countered hotly. “We’ve already defeated a Urikite legion five times our size.” The mul did not add that they could defeat a slave tribe just as easily, though his glare carried the unspoken threat.
Wrog’s orange-rimmed eyes showed more anger than concern. “You would find the Kes’trekels a more cunning enemy,” the lask replied. “If you value the lives of your warriors as dearly as you claim, you have but one choice: join our tribe. Try to do anything else, and I will destroy your legion as you say you destroyed the Urikites.”
Only the knowledge that starting a fight could result in the quick deaths of K’kriq and his other four scouts kept the mul from lashing out at Wrog. Despite his growing anger, Rikus realized that fighting was not the best way to solve this problem. Even if he managed to escape the nest with K’kriq and the four gladiators, he would lose too many warriors trying to fight through the slave tribe’s narrow canyon. He had to find a better way.
“If it comes to a fight between your tribe and my legion, both of us will lose more warriors than we like,” the mul said, swallowing his pride. Deciding to take a bold risk, he continued, “Instead, we should fight together.”
“Why should we risk our lives for Tyr?” Wrog demanded, his voice haughty and disdainful.
“For a home in the Free City,” the mul answered, looking around the chamber. “If you fight with us, you’ll receive land and protection from slave-takers.”
Before any of his followers could voice their opinions, Wrog spat out an answer. “Land will do us no good. We are not farm slaves,” he sneered. “As for slave-takers, we have less reason to fear them here than we would in your city. So far, Urik’s legions have not found our nest. They can find your city readily enough.”
“You have nothing to offer us,” said a young, red-haired man. The area around his eyes was covered by a pair of star-shaped tattoos.
“Iron,” said K’kriq. The thri-kreen’s guards tapped his shell with their speartips, but the mantis-warrior paid them no attention. “Slave tribes like iron.”
Rikus smiled. “K’kriq is right,” he said. “Tyr can pay you in iron.”
Even Wrog could not ignore this offer. “How much?”
“One pound per week, for every hundred warriors who join us,” Rikus answered.
“I’m with you,” said the man with the tattooed eyes.
“Me too,” said a female mul. Her face was only slightly less rugged than Rikus’s, and when she grinned she showed a mouthful of teeth filed to needle-sharp points. “I could use a good axe-blade.”
As several others also announced their intentions to join the Tyrians, Wrog studied Rikus with a suspicious air. Finally he said, “We accept your offer, but only if you prove your readiness to pay such a high price.”
“You have my promise,” Rikus said.
“You can’t make an axe out of a promise,” growled the female mul.
The man with the tattooed eyes also withdrew his offer, as did the others who had pledged their support.
Angered by the sudden change of mood, Rikus scowled. “If anyone doubts that my word is good—”
“Show us the iron,” Wrog interrupted, his upper lip raised in his peculiar imitation of a smile. “Then we will not doubt your promise.”
“No legion carries raw iron with it,” the mul snapped.
“What of your weapons?” asked Wrog.
“My warriors’ blades are not mine to pledge,” Rikus answered. “Besides, we have only a few steel weapons.”
There were more than a few sighs of disappointment, but no one suggested taking the mul at his word. Wrog smirked at Rikus, then pointed at the nest’s exit. “That leaves your original decision. Stay or jump.”
Or fight, Rikus added silently. He did not like the third option any better than the first two. Even for him, it would be difficult to destroy so many opponents before the escaped slaves killed K’kriq and four gladiators. Not even Neeva and her companions would survive long enough to flee, for the mul did not doubt that Wrog would order his archers to fire as soon as a fight broke out.
Realizing he had nothing to lose, Rikus decided to chance a desperate gamble. “If the king of Tyr promises to pay the iron I offered, will you join my legion?”
“How can he do that?” Wrog demanded. “Is he with you?”
“He’s in Tyr,” Rikus answered. “Will you agree?”
Wrog started to shake his head, but the man with the painted eyes interrupted him. “The caravan slaves say this Tithian is a king of the enslaved. They say he freed them from their noble masters, and that he lets them drink from his wells for free. If such a man promises, I’ll fight.”
The Crimson Legion Page 10
