One by one, the man’s fellows echoed his sentiments, and at last Wrog nodded his square head.
The mul reached into his belt pouch and withdrew the olivine he had taken from Styan. “With this crystal, you’ll hear and see King Tithian.” he explained.
Wrog narrowed his flaxen eyes. “I know better than to trust a sorcerer,” he said. “You could be tricking me.”
“I’m no sorcerer,” Rikus snapped. He pointed at the lask’s ring. “You have your ring, I have my gem.”
When Wrog did not object to this line of reasoning, Rikus held the olivine out at arm’s length and stared into it. A moment later, Tithian’s face appeared inside the green depths of the gem. The king was wearing the golden diadem he had taken from Kalak, and there was a scowl of displeasure on his heavy lips. From the angle of the king’s narrow stare, it appeared that he was staring down at someone who was either kneeling or lying at his feet.
Rikus did not hesitate to interrupt him. “Mighty King.”
Tithian’s liver-colored eyes looked up and his mouth fell open in shock. “Rikus!” he hissed. “You’re alive!”
“Of course,” the mul responded.
Before he could continue, Tithian continued, “What of Agis and the others?”
“Haven’t you heard from them?” Rikus asked. According to his estimates, the pair should have reached Tyr several days past. “After we smashed the Urikite legion, Neeva and I went to chase the enemy commander. Agis and Sadira went back …”
The mul let the sentence trail off, realizing that Agis and Sadira might have elected to keep their return secret.
Unfortunately, Rikus’s slip was not lost on Tithian. “If they have returned to the city it is unfortunate they did not elect to announce their arrival. I would have liked to prepare a proper reception,” the king said, an angry glint in his eye. “Now, tell me what you want.”
The mul explained the arrangement he was trying to work out with the Kes’trekel slave tribe. Although he knew better than to think Tithian would help him personally, Rikus hoped the king would realize that killing Maetan would make Tyr—and therefore himself—more secure.
When the mul finished his explanation, Tithian ran a thin finger along his hawkish nose. “I’d like to do as you ask, but how do you expect me to pay for your iron?” Although the mul could hear the words clearly, anyone not holding the gem could neither see Tithian’s face nor hear his words. “The city’s iron is already pledged to various merchant houses, and I can hardly afford to buy it back. You know that the Council of Advisors has rejected all edicts designed to replenish the royal treasury.”
Under his breath, Rikus cursed the king as a blackmailer and a thief. Nevertheless, when he spoke, his tone was respectful and courteous. The slave tribe could hear his end of the conversation and he didn’t want to alarm them. “I’m sure we can solve that problem, Mighty King.”
Tithian smiled. “Then you’ll support an edict to place me in sole control of Tyr’s revenues?”
“It won’t cost that much!” the mul snapped.
Tithian smirked. “Sole control. I really must insist.”
The mul cursed, realizing that he had no choice except to resort to one of the king’s favorite tactics: lie. Hardly able to keep from snarling, Rikus said, “I agree.”
Tithian studied the mul with narrowed eyes. At last, he said, “Very well. Pass the gem to this Wrog.”
“Use magic or the Way, whatever you did when you appeared in the sky at our first battle.” Rikus was not anxious to trust a gem, much less a magical one, to the leader of the slave tribe.
A look of embarrassment crossed Tithian’s face. “That’s not possible,” he said. “The individuals who helped with that aren’t available. If you want me to talk to Wrog, you’ll have to give him the gem.”
Rikus reluctantly passed the crystal to the lask and instructed him in its use. As Wrog held the olivine out at arms length, his eyes opened wide and he curled his lip in alarm. “King?”
The lask remained quiet while Tithian responded. After a few moments, Wrog cast a wary eye at the mul, then looked back into the crystal. He listened to the king, then closed his fist over the gem and glared at the mul.
“Your king says you are no legion of Tyr’s,” Wrog announced. “He says he’ll pay me if you never return to Tyr.”
Realizing that he had run out of options, Rikus spoke to Neeva in a calm voice, relying on the Scourge of Rkard’s magic for her to hear him. “Neeva, take cover. A dozen archers have arrows trained on you right now.”
Wrog curled his muzzle in confusion. “Who are you talking to?”
Before Rikus had a chance to answer, several archers cried out in alarm. “They moved!”
“Shoot!” snapped Wrog. When no bowstrings twanged, the lask repeated his command. “Shoot!”
“They don’t have a clear aim,” Rikus answered. He placed himself in front of Wrog, safely out of arm’s reach. “Neeva, send Laban to fetch the rest of the legion. Prepare for a fight.”
“Quiet!” Wrog ordered, stepping toward the mul.
The bowstrings snapped in rapid succession. Rikus peered through the exit in the floor, glimpsing an insect-sized figure dodging down the canyon. As the arrows streaked toward the gladiator, Caelum rose from behind his cover. The dwarf lifted an arm skyward. In the next instant, a red sphere of flame appeared between the nest and the ground. The arrows sank into the fire shield and disappeared from sight, leaving the archers to gasp in awe.
“Did you stop him?” demanded Wrog, whose golden eyes remained fixed on the mul.
Rikus answered for the archers. “No,” he said, meeting the slave leader’s gaze. “That leaves you with the choice.”
“I’ll kill you all,” Wrog growled.
“That would be stupid, even for a lask,” Rikus said, not yielding any ground. “I’ll soon have two-thousand warriors marching up the canyon.”
Wrog stopped less than a step from Rikus, the sharp points of his fangs several inches above the mul’s head. “You’ll never live to see them arrive,” the lask snarled.
Rikus glimpsed a massive claw swinging toward his head. He stepped inside and blocked the attack on the forearm, at the same time driving his elbow into the lask’s stomach. Wrog hardly seemed to notice the blow, but it opened space enough for Rikus to step under the arm. As the mul passed behind his opponent, he thrust his foot at the back of Wrog’s knee and pushed. The leg buckled, dropping the lask to his knees.
Before Wrog could shout any orders, Rikus leaped across the exit hole toward the Kes’trekels guarding K’kriq. He kicked the first man in the ribs, sending him crashing into the next warrior. The other two guards attacked instantly, one thrusting his spear at Rikus and the other at K’kriq.
Rikus sidestepped the attack coming at him, grabbing the spear along the shaft. He knocked the man unconscious with an elbow to the jaw, then ripped the spear away as the guard fell to the floor. At the same time, the weapon thrust at K’kriq bounced harmlessly off the thri-kreen’s hard shell. The mantis-warrior rolled toward his attacker and sank his mandibles into the man’s leg. As poisonous salva mixed with blood, the man screamed in agony and drooped to the floor in a convulsing heap.
Confused shouts and angry cries filled the small chamber. The Kes’trekels drew their weapons and moved to attack. Rikus spun around and cut the cord binding one of his scout’s hands, then K’kriq cried, “Beware the lask!”
Leaving his spear with the gladiator he had just freed, Rikus stepped toward the exit to meet Wrog. The lask dived across the hole, reaching out with the claws of both hands. The mul ducked and Wrog’s arms slashed the air overhead. The gladiator quickly stood upright again, his shoulders catching his foe in the torso and flipping the huge lask onto his back. Wrog landed on the floor with a great crash.
Angered that he and his legion were being forced to fight fellow slaves, Rikus kicked the lask in the head. “This is stupid!” he yelled, smashing his foot into the lask’s
face with each word.
The blows would have smashed a human’s skull, but Wrog shrugged them off and lashed out at the mul’s leg. When Rikus jumped away, the lask rose to his hands and knees. “The mul is mine,” he growled, eyeing several Kes’trekels attempting to sneak up behind Rikus.
The mul allowed Wrog to return to his feet, not wishing to get into a wrestling match with the huge half-man. In this battle, he knew, his advantage lay in speed and skill, not sheer strength.
As he waited, Rikus glanced at K’kriq. Six slaves were surrounding the thri-kreen, hacking at his chitinous shell with bone axes and obsidian short swords. Despite his disadvantage, the mantis-warrior was faring well against them. He rolled to and fro, lashing out with his poisonous mandibles and one of the two arms his attackers had inadvertently freed. Next to him, the scout that Rikus had released earlier was using his spear to hold several foes at bay while the next gladiator in line worked to free their companions.
When Wrog had returned to his feet, Rikus placed himself squarely in front of the hole. “I’m going to break you one bone at a time,” he snarled. Rikus meant every word of what he said, though it was not the bitterness he felt toward the lask that prompted him to speak. Wrog was a powerful fighter, but an inexperienced one. Rikus wanted to goad him into a mistake. “When I’m through with you, my legion will burn your nest off the side of this mountain. Your tribe will curse your memory for refusing to let us pass.”
“Not likely,” the lask growled.
As the mul had hoped, Wrog started his next attack by dashing forward. Two steps into his charge, a spark of understanding lit the lask’s flaxen eyes and he slowed his pace. “Your tricks won’t work,” he said.
Rikus scowled as if disappointed, though he was really far from dissatisfied. A gladiator’s tricks, especially those of a champion, were never as simple as they seemed. He had seen a hundred opponents stop just as Wrog had, and in the end a hundred opponents had fallen to one of the many maneuvers that could follow.
Rikus screamed and rushed forward. Wrog reached for the mul with both clawed hands, a confident sneer on his snout. The lask’s fingers clamped down on the gladiator’s shoulders long before the mul’s shorter arms reached his foe’s body. Rikus grabbed Wrog’s biceps and pushed with all his strength.
The instant the lask pushed back, Rikus reversed himself and pulled Wrog toward him. At the same time, he kicked his feet out, planting one squarely in his foe’s stomach and throwing the other out in front of the knee. As the mul dropped to his back, he pulled the Wrog forward.
The lask’s orange eyes opened wide as he realized he had done exactly what the gladiator had expected. Wrog tore his arms free of the mul’s grip and jumped over Rikus’s head, landing a full step shy of the hole in the floor.
Seeing that he had saved himself from another of the mul’s tricks, Wrog cried out in triumph. “Who’ll break who bone-by-bone?”
Rikus answered the question by throwing his legs over his head and springing off the floor at his enemy. As Wrog turned to face him again, the mul’s feet landed square in the lask’s belly. The unexpected kick sent the half-man stumbling backward. He plunged, screaming, into the hole.
Rikus dropped back to the floor, then leaped to his feet in the same instant, expecting Wrog’s followers to rush him. To his surprise, no one did. The handful of Kes’trekels who were not actively fighting merely kept a watchful eye on the mul, as if defeating their leader had relieved them of the necessity for further combat.
As he studied the rest of the room, Rikus saw they were not extending the same courtesy to his followers. In the corner, three of the four Tyrian scouts lay motionless and battered in the midst of more than a dozen dead Kes’trekels. The last gladiator, streaming blood from a dozen cuts, was wearily defending himself from three attackers.
K’kriq’s situation was little better. Although the thri-kreen had managed to work all four arms free and stand, the mesh remained twined around his legs. Eight Kes’trekels had him trapped in the corner. The mantis-warrior’s shell was laced with deep gouges, and he oozed dark yellow blood from several wounds that had actually penetrated to his body. Nevertheless, the thri-kreen had fought well, for there were as many bodies piled at his feet as there were near the four scouts. Among them was the man with the tattooed eyes.
Though Rikus was no stranger to carnage and bloodshed, the sight sickened him. Since his days in the arena, he had not been forced to fight fellow slaves, and he found that he no longer had the stomach for it.
“Stop!” Rikus cried. “Slaves shouldn’t kill slaves!”
When the battle showed no signs of subsiding, he snatched up a bloody short sword that had fallen near the hole. “Stop, or I’ll have your sword arms!”
“You’ll die first,” said Wrog’s throaty voice.
Rikus spun around and saw the lask floating back through the chamber exit. Wrog’s sharp fangs were dripping saliva, and his muzzle was contorted into a mask of bloodlust. “I have a few tricks of my own,” he sneered.
As the lask’s upper body passed into the chamber, Rikus caught a glimpse of the golden ring that still sparkled on Wrog’s finger. Apparently, its powers of levitation were more varied than the gladiator had guessed.
His anger returning at the sight of the fool who had caused all the needless bloodletting, the mul rushed to the edge of the hole and kicked at Wrog’s stomach with all his might. The lask blocked with a bony forearm, sending sharp pain shooting up the gladiator’s leg. Still, Rikus smiled, for his foe had exposed the hand wearing the ring. The mul brought his short sword’s blade down across Wrog’s fingers, slicing all three off at the knuckles.
Wrog screamed in pain. He plummeted back through the hole, leaving the finger that wore the magical ring floating before Rikus. The mul studied the gruesome digit for a moment, fascinated by the sight of it hanging in midair, unconnected to the rest of the lask’s body.
As he looked, the mul realized that the ring keeping it aloft was vital to the nest’s survival. No doubt, they could use ropes to haul themselves and their supplies up into the nest, but the absence of ropes or pulleys in the room suggested that they had come to rely exclusively on the ring.
The mul snatched the Wrog’s bloody finger and held it aloft.
“Stop!” he yelled again. “Stop, or I’ll leave you trapped here!” He had no intention of abandoning K’kriq, but the threat seemed the best way to end the battle.
Those who were not heavily involved in the fight looked toward the mul with expressions of surprise, then quickly dragged their comrades away from the melee. Behind them stood K’kriq, battered and exhausted. Unfortunately, he was the only one of Rikus’s warriors still standing. The last scout had fallen and lay tangled in a mass of bodies.
“You have the ring,” said the old dwarf who had spoken earlier. He was spattered head-to-foot in blood. “What now?”
“I’m going to take my warriors and leave, then my legion will pass through your canyon,” Rikus said.
He slipped the ring off Wrog’s disembodied digit and put it on his own. To his surprise, the large band immediately shrank to the proper size for his finger.
“What do we do now?” asked the female mul. “Do we stop him or follow him?”
At first, Rikus did not understand the question. Slowly it dawned on him that, by killing Wrog, he had taken more than the lask’s ring. In many slave tribes, warlords achieved their positions through personal combat. In the case of the Kes’trekels, it did not seem unlikely that the magical ring was the emblem of that authority.
“If I’m your new leader, then you come with my legion to attack the Urikites,” Rikus said.
The chamber fell deathly silent, and the mul could tell that he had made a mistake.
At last, the old dwarf shook his head. “You killed Wrog in personal combat, so we’ll let your legion pass through our canyon. But you must return the ring and swear to keep the location of our nest secret.”
Rikus in
sisted, “I won Wrog’s position through—”
“You won nothing. It takes more than a gladiator’s tricks to lead a slave tribe,” the dwarf spat, running his eyes over the carnage in the room. “You’re a fine warrior, but I see no proof that you’re anything else. Do you accept our truce or not?”
SIX
ASSASSINS
“WHAT DID I DO WRONG?” RIKUS DEMANDED. HE bit his lip and kicked a stone with the instep of his sandaled foot. “Why couldn’t I make the slave tribe join us?”
Several yards behind him, Neeva said, “This isn’t their fight.”
“But it should be,” Rikus insisted, not turning around. “They could stop hiding from slave-takers and live in Tyr.”
“Not everyone wants to live in the city,” Neeva replied. There was a soft clack as she tossed a rock away from the bed she was preparing. “Not everyone wants to fight Urikites or take vengeance on Family Lubar.”
“You’re right, they’re cowards,” Rikus said, drawing his own conclusion from Neeva’s statement. “If they want to cower in their cliff-nest, who am I to lead them to freedom?”
“Exactly.”
“Fools,” the mul said, shaking his head and staring out over the terrain ahead.
Rikus and Neeva were preparing to spend the night apart from the rest of the legion, atop an outcropping of sienna limestone. A cool evening breeze swept out of the foothills and sank into a tranquil cove of golden sand stretched out before the two gladiators. Hanging low in the sky, the ruby sun lit the dune crests with a fiery bloom and plunged the troughs into amethyst shadows. Many miles away, a delta of rusty orange stones spilled out of a twisting badland canyon, briefly encroaching the sandy bay before being swallowed by the silent dunes.
At the tip of this delta stood a dark clump of zaal trees, their barren trunks and fanlike crowns marking the location of the oasis Rikus had been trying so desperately to reach. The long fronds of the zaal trees waved gently in the breeze, beckoning the Tyrian legion to fill their waterskins and soak their sore feet.
The Crimson Legion Page 11
