Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 2 - The Crimson Legion (14 page)

“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 TyrÑand therefore himselfÑmore
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 arm's 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 saliva mixed with blood, the man screamed in
agony and dropped 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 dove 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 task'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 him 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 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?”