Once, the group barely escaped death when they rounded a corner and ran headlong into a noble company. Rikus killed the officer with a quick thrust, then Er’Stali surprised the combatants of both sides by blocking the alley with a magical wall of ice that allowed the companions to make a hasty retreat.
At last, the four reached the outer wall. Here, Rikus was relieved to see that some of Urik’s slaves were fleeing the city. Hundreds were gathering in cheering throngs, waiting their turn to climb the black slave ropes that had been strung over the wall as makeshift ladders. A company of doomed noble retainers battled at the edges of the crowd, having made the mistake of trying to stop the escape. In one spot, several of Hamanu’s half-giants had even fallen, though not without taking dozens of slaves with them.
“At least some slaves will see freedom,” Neeva observed.
“Yes, but at a terrible price,” Rikus said. He started toward one of the throngs waiting to climb out of the city.
“We have no time to wait in line,” Er’Stali said, leading them away from the crowd. “Come with me.”
The sorcerer guided them to a space along the wall where there were no ropes, then took a piece of twine from his pocket. He pointed one palm downward. The air beneath his hand began to shimmer, then a barely perceptible surge of energy rose from the ground and into his body.
Once the sorcerer had collected the energy for his spell, he muttered a quiet incantation. The twine in his hand rose skyward, growing thicker the higher it went. By the time it reached the top of the wall, it was the size of a sturdy rope. Er’Stali grabbed the line and scrambled to the top of the wall as spryly as a man a quarter his age.
Neeva sent Caelum up next, then followed herself. Unlike the old man and the dwarf, she moved slowly and with great effort—a sure sign that her wound was troubling her. By the time she had reached the top, a crowd was gathering at the bottom of Er’Stali’s rope, eager to put this new escape route to good use.
When Rikus’s turn came, he moved even more slowly, for his left arm still hurt too much to use. He had to pull himself up a short distance with his good arm, then wrap his legs around the rope and hold himself in place while he reached higher. Nevertheless, his progress was steady and he soon found himself atop the wall.
Once the mul had joined the others, Er’Stali took another strand of twine from his pocket and started toward the other side of the wall. Rikus did not follow. Much of Urik was visible from this vantage point, and the mul could see greasy columns of smoke rising from all parts of the city. With the Scourge of Rkard’s aid, he could even hear the shouts of rioting slaves as they destroyed what they had so reluctantly created, and the dying screams of the indolent masters for whom it had been built.
That much he had expected, but what sickened the mul was the sight in the main boulevard. Near the slave gate, the bodies were heaped in piles taller than a half-giant. As Rikus’s gaze followed the street toward the king’s gate, the corpse piles gradually grew smaller. A few yards shy of Hamanu’s slave pens, Rikus could even see the bloodstained cobblestones through the tangle of dead flesh. Already the kes’trekels had descended on the feast and were ripping at the bodies with their hooked beaks and three-fingered hands.
When Rikus looked toward the templar quarter, he saw the reason the Urikites were not putting more effort into stopping the outflow of slaves from the noble quarter. Gathered along the top of the city wall, a half-mile or more from where the mul stood, were several thousand quarry slaves. From what Rikus could see at that great distance, they were attempting to flee the city by sliding down ropes, climbing the rough mudbrick surface, or even jumping.
Pressing them from both sides were large companies of Urikite regulars. Hamanu himself wandered behind the wall, plucking slaves off and passing them down to guardsmen waiting below.
Rikus looked back to the carnage on the slave boulevard. “I did this,” he said. “I promised them they would die free, and all they did was die.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” Er’Stali said, stepping to the mul’s side and trying to guide him to the far side of the wall. Neeva and Caelum had already descended without Rikus noticing. “Perhaps it’s not so unreasonable to have believed you could destroy Hamanu. After all, I am told you destroyed Kalak.”
“No,” Rikus said. “I was one of a handful who destroyed Kalak. All I did was throw the first spear. Without Agis, Sadira, and Neeva, I would have failed at that too.”
“One cannot accomplish great things without risking great failure,” the old man said.
“This wasn’t even a great failure,” Rikus answered. He pointed toward the sorcerer-king, who was still plucking slaves off the wall on the other side of the slave gate, “Hamanu must know that I escaped, but he’s more concerned about losing quarry slaves than he is about recapturing me.”
“We can thank the moons for small favors, can we not?” Er’Stali said. Again, he tried to guide Rikus toward the far side of the wall.
As the mul started to turn away, a great uproar of panicked cries and pained shouts erupted from the crowds inside the city wall. Rikus ran over to the magical rope Er’Stali had raised earlier. There he saw that more than a dozen companies of Imperial Guards were pouring out of the smoke-filled streets of the noble quarter. While the mul looked helplessly on, the half-giants rushed toward the escape ropes, using their lances like clubs to knock slaves out of their paths.
Below Rikus, a gaunt, gray-haired man wearing the hemp robe of a domestic slave clutched the rope. He began to climb, casting frantic glances over his shoulder as the half-giants drew closer. The mul grabbed the line from the top and tried to pull the old man up, but he was of little help. With his left arm still weakened by the wound in his chest, he could not grip the rope with both hands.
The first guardsman reached the wall when the man was about halfway up. “Come down, boy,” the guard ordered, brandishing his lance.
The old man stopped climbing and looked up at Rikus, his red-rimmed eyes silently pleading for help. The mul tried again to pull the rope, but he barely succeeded in raising it a foot.
The half-giant touched the tip of his lance to the slave’s back. “Come down or die,” the guard growled.
The old man stared at the brute for a moment, then repeated a saying that Rikus had often heard in his days in the Lubar pits: “My death will free me.”
With that, the slave looked toward the sky and started climbing, though he knew he would never reach the top of the wall.
“Thus the book begins:
“Born of liquid fire and seasoned in bleak darkness, we dwarves are the sturdy people, the people of the rock. It is into our bones that the mountains sink their roots, it is from our hearts that the clear waters pour, it is out of our mouths that the cool winds blow. We were made to buttress the world, to support—”
Er’Stali pinched his eyes closed, trying to remember what word came next.
Along with Caelum, Neeva, and all the dwarves of Kled, Rikus held his breath, not daring to exhale for fear of disturbing the sorcerer’s concentration.
For the first time in a thousand years, dwarves had gathered in the Tower of Buryn to hear the history of their race. One hundred magical torches, each kindled by Er’Stali and set into its sconce by Lyanius himself, lit the great hall’s ancient murals in all their vibrant glory. On every pillar hung a gleaming axe or sword, especially polished and shined to remind the audience of the incredible wealth of its heritage. Even the dwarves themselves were adorned for the occasion, wearing beautiful cassocks of linen, dyed red in honor of the crimson sun. It was a gathering of which Rikus felt sure the old kings would approve.
At last Er’Stali opened his eyes and shook his head. “I am sorry, I cannot remember the story from there. Perhaps I will do better with the story of how King Rkard drove Borys of Ebe from the gates of Kemalok.
An approving murmur rustled through the hall. Lyanius lifted his hand for quiet, and the room once again fell as silent as
it had been for the last thousand years.
“It was in the fifty-second year of Rkard’s reign that Borys returned. Of our knights, only the king and Sa’ram and Jo’orsh remained, with five hundred dwarves each. Borys of Ebe brought with him a host of ten thousand, with mighty siege engines and his own foul magic.
“Kemalok was the last dwarven city, and with it would die the last of the dwarves. That, Rkard swore, would not happen. The great king ordered Sa’ram and Jo’orsh to flee through the ancient tunnels, taking half the citizens of Kemalok with them. The others stayed behind to conceal the passages when the city fell, to die so that Borys would not guess that the others had escaped to carry on our stalwart race.
“Not long after the knights left, Borys used his magic to drive twelve great holes into the city walls. It was at the last of these breaches that Rkard and Borys clashed in a fierce combat. Before many strokes passed, Rkard felt the bite of his foe’s terrible sword, but our king’s sparkling axe also cleaved a mighty gash in Borys’s armor. The two commanders fell, each on their own side of the wall. Borys’s host carried their wicked leader back to his tent and summoned their healers. We loyal followers of Rkard returned with our king, the enemy’s blade still buried in his chest, to the Tower of Buryn. Then we sealed the gates and prepared for the final battle.
“Our great king soon died of his wounds, and with sad hearts we waited for Borys to renew his assault. On the tenth day of the siege, the enemy broke camp and we knew that Rkard had not struck his last blow in vain. Borys, too, had finally died of his wounds—”
“That is not what happened,” boomed a deep voice.
All eyes looked up and saw a short figure standing in the gallery that overlooked the great hall. He wore a battered suit of black plate mail, trimmed at every joint in silver and gold. A jewel-studded crown of gleaming white metal capped his helm, and two yellow eyes burned from the depths behind his visor.
“Rkard!” gasped Rikus.
“The last king speaks!” cried a dwarf.
The hall was suddenly filled with astonished voices, all crying out in excitement.
Rkard’s thunderous voice again quieted the dwarves. “That is what the keeper of the book believed, but that is not what occurred.”
The room remained expectantly silent, but the ancient king simply stared down on the gathering with his yellow eyes and said no more. Finally Er’Stali asked, “Will you tell us the truth, great Rkard?’
The long dead king fixed his eyes on the sorcerer. “I do not know why the host left that day—perhaps Borys’s wound was too severe, perhaps Rajaat had summoned the Thirteenth Champion’s army, or perhaps there was another reason entirely—but Borys did not die on the field. I know this because he returned many years later, to accomplish alone and in less than an hour what his hosts had failed to do in ten days. He drained the life from all the city’s dwarves, leaving only ghosts to remember that Kemalok had been visited by the Dragon.”
“The Dragon!” Rikus hissed. All around him, others also gasped or uttered astonished cries.
“It is good that you have returned to your home, my people,” Rkard said, his voice booming over the commotion in the great hall. “But be watchful of Borys—he would not wish to see Kemalok restored to its former glory.”
Rkard stepped back, disappearing into the murky depths at the rear of the gallery. The dwarves, stunned by the ancient king’s warning, remained in their seats.
Rikus rose immediately, disturbed by Rkard’s dark words. Hamanu’s remark about what would happen when Tithian failed to deliver the city’s slave levy to the Dragon was fresh in the mul’s mind, and now that he’d had heard how the Dragon had destroyed the city of Kemalok, he worried that Tyr itself might be in grave danger.
Removing the Belt of Rank and the Scourge of Rkard from his waist, the mul stepped past Er’Stali to Lyanius. “I was going to return these later, but it’s time for me to go back to Tyr,” he said, offering the artifacts to the old dwarf. “I’m sorry I didn’t prove worthy of them.”
Lyanius regarded Rikus for several moments, then his gaze dropped to the mul’s breast. The festering wound there had finally healed, leaving an ugly scar over Rikus’s heart. “Caelum told me what you did,” he said.
The mul forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on Lyanius’s face. “I can’t undo those shameful deeds,” he said. “I can only return these.”
The old dwarf nodded, taking the belt and scabbard from Rikus’s arms. “The book’s loss is a great one, but I cannot blame you for the decision you made,” Lyanius said, detaching the Scourge of Rkard from the Belt of Rank. “At least you brought us Er’Stali, and what he remembers of the book is more than I learned in all the years I studied it.”
After looking at the two items in his hands, Lyanius laid the Belt of Rank over his arm. “We will take the belt back,” he said. “Perhaps, in time, there will come a dwarf who can wear it better than you did.”
“I hope so,” Rikus replied.
“This, I want you to keep,” Lyanius said, returning the Scourge of Rkard to Rikus. “From what Caelum says, in all of Athas, there is no warrior more worthy of it.”
The mul looked toward Caelum.
“Many harsh words have passed between us,” the dwarf said. “But I can’t argue with what you did to protect Neeva.”
“Given how badly I failed you,” Rikus said, “the Scourge of Rkard is a magnificent gift.” The mul was so overcome by the dwarf’s generosity that his words were barely more than a whisper.
“It is a gift of which you are quite worthy,” said Lyanius. “Never doubt that. No one should fault you for trying what few others would even dare to dream.”
“My thanks,” Rikus closed his eyes and inclined his head to the dwarf, wondering if he would have been as charitable in Lyanius’s place.
After a respectful pause, the mul turned to Neeva. “Will you come with me? I promise to be more giving, to at least try to offer you the things you need from me.”
Neeva’s emerald eyes filled with tears, and she gave the mul a weak smile. “I know you’d try, but I’ve already made a promise of my own,” she said, moving to Caelum’s side. “Kled, and one day Kemalok, will be my home.”
Rikus nodded. “I wish you happiness.” He sighed deeply. “Losing you is like the guilt I feel for the destruction of the legion—it’s the price of my failure.”
The mul turned to go, but Neeva caught his arm. “Don’t feel too badly. You may be less one lover and finally free of the notion you’re a brilliant military mind, but that’s only because you’ve accepted the responsibilities that go with your destiny.”
The mul frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You told me that it was our destiny to protect Tyr from external dangers,” she said. “I didn’t choose your fate, but you did. Because of that decision, you mustn’t think you ‘lost’ me or the legion—no one took us from you. You sacrificed us for the sake of Tyr.”
“She speaks the truth,” Caelum said sincerely. “You led thousands who died for Tyr, but they followed you willingly, knowing they might be killed. Few men would have had the courage to let them die.” The dwarf bowed to Rikus. “With you as its guardian, the dream of freedom will live in the city of Tyr forever.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many people contributed to the writing of this book and the creation of this series. I would like to thank you all. Without the efforts of the following people, especially, Athas might never have seen the light of the crimson sun: Mary Kirchoff and Tim Brown, who shaped the world as much as anyone; Brom, who gave us the look and feel; Jim Lowder, for his inspiration and patience; Lloyd Holden of the AKF Martial Arts Academy in Janesville, WI, for contributing his experience to the fight scenes; Andria Hayday, for support and ecouragement; and Jim Ward, for enthusiasm, support, and much more.
—Troy Denning
April 1992
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Troy Denning is The New York Times best-selling au
thor of Waterdeep, STAR WARS: Star by Star, and more than two dozen other novels, including Pages of Pain, Dragonwall, and STAR WARS: Tatooine Ghost. Prism Pentad remains one of his most popular series, and he is proud to see it return to print in these fine editions. A former game designer and editor, Troy lives in western Wisconsin with his wife, Andria.
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