Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 2 - The Crimson Legion (27 page)

“I
decide what's good for me,” Neeva replied, jerking her arm free.
“You
had better decide whether you trust me or notÑand you've got to choose between me and
Sadira. You've treated me like one of your fawning wenches for long enough.”

With that, she faced the top of the slope, where Jaseela and the other subcommanders were
looking down on the scene with raised eyebrows. Behind them, the heads and shoulders the
Tyrian legion were just showing above the crest of the ridge. “Your army awaits your
command,” Neeva spat, hefting an obsidian battle-axe Gaanon had given her. “Try to serve
it better than you do your lovers.”

“I serve them both as best I can,” Rikus answered, gritting his teeth.

With that, the mul raised his sword and waved his legion toward the village. A few
half-hearted battle cries sounded from ash-coated throats, but the noise seemed a pitiful
squeak compared to the confident roar that usually accompanied an attack by his warriors.

The legion half-slid, half-ran down the slope, loose cinders cascading around their feet
and ash billowing far above their heads. Soon it seemed the whole mountainside was
avalanching down upon Makla. The ground was trembling beneath Rikus's feet, and, through
the roiling cloud of gray soot, the mul could see no farther than the end of his own
sword. In the absence of Tyrian battle cries, the sound of coughing filled the dark
morning.

The village did not seem to be prepared for a surprise attack. A few sentries sounded the
alarm, and an echoing slam announced that the main gate had been closed. Soon, Rikus heard
a few officers shouting orders to their soldiers as they raced from their barracks, but
the mul detected no sign of the large force he had feared was gathered at the village.

After the legion reached the base of the mountain, it did not take it long to leave the
cloud of airborne ash behind. Not bothering to attack the main gate, Rikus led the way
directly to the stockade. There, he began hacking at the ropes of braided giant-hair that
bound the huge mekillot ribs together. Any ordinary sword, especially one with a blade of
obsidian or sharpened bone, would not have cut the sturdy ropes, but the Scourge of Rkard
sliced through them as though they were made of hemp.

No sooner had the mul cut away the ropes than Gaanon grabbed a rib and, groaning with
effort, pulled it out of place. Without so much as a word to Rikus, Neeva slipped through
the breach and disappeared into the village. A moment later, she yelled in anger, then a
Urikite half-giant screamed in pain. The ground shook as he collapsed.

Rikus turned to K'kriq and pointed at the gap. “Go with Neeva,” the mul said. “Be sure
nothing happens to her.”

“She carries eggs?” the thri-kreen asked, unable to imagine any other reason a female
would deserve special protection.

“Just defend her,” Rikus ordered, motioning for Gaanon to help him open more gaps. Each
time they pulled down a mekillot rib, another of his lieutenants led his company or a
group of gladiators into the village.

By the time the last two companies were ready to go through the wall, the sun had peeked
over the jagged horizon. Barely penetrating the clouds of volcanic soot that rose from the
jagged peaks of the Smoking Crown, the crimson orb lit the village with a murky,
rose-colored glow. Rikus took advantage of the dim light to look back along the stockade.
Once he saw that his legion was breaking into the village without trouble, he led the last
of his warriors through the gap.

*****

“It hardly seems necessary to let the slaves destroy my village,” complained Tarkla San,
counting on her fingers the number of breaches that had been opened in Makla's stockade.

“Villages can be rebuilt,” Maetan answered. “My family's honor is another matter.”

The mindbender and the imperial governor were a mile from Makla's main gate, standing a
short distance below the jagged crest of a ridge of black basalt. In the narrow gorge on
the other side of the ridge waited Maetan's new legion, a makeshift force of stragglers
from the first battle, the village garrison, and Family Lubar's private army.

“I cannot believe a commander of your stature fears a mob of slaves,” Tarkla said, keeping
her blue eyes focused on her village. Many years of outpost life had lined the old woman's
leathery skin with deep furrows, and the cares of her office had etched a permanent scowl
into the sagging folds of her face. “You outnumber them by almost three-to-one.”

Maetan's pale lip twisted into a sneer. “Tarkla, have you ever fought gladiators?”

The old woman shook her head. “Of course not.”

“They fight like wild beasts, not soldiers. The only way to destroy the Tyrian slaves is
to corner them and starve them into attacking usÑon our terms,” the mindbender said.
“Leave the battle tactics to me.”

“Where my village is concerned, I leave nothing to you,” she said. “You claimed that the
enemy was so numerous we could not possibly defend Makla. Clearly you were mistaken. It
would have been an easy matter for us to hold them off from inside until reinforcements
arrived.”

“There are no reinforcements,” Maetan said. He turned his body slightly away from the
governor, so that she could not see his hand drifting toward the hilt of his dagger.

“But your messengersÑ”

“Went only to my family's estate, so the Tyrian scouts would believe I was sending for
more soldiers,” the mind-bender said. “Since my family army is already here, there will be
no more help.”

“You sacrificed my village for nothing?” Tarkla gasped. “The king shall hear of this!”

“No, he shall not,” Maetan said, silently slipping his weapon from its sheath. “I have
already lost one imperial legion. If I am to spare my family further humiliation, I must
destroy the Tyrian slaves without risking another.”

Tarkla frowned. “You would sacrifice Makla to protect your honor?” she asked, stepping
away.

Before she could move out of reach, Maetan caught her and plunged his dagger into her
heart. “It was unavoidable,” he answered.

* * * * *

The village was remarkably quiet. A handful of Urikite half-giants and several dozen
village soldiers had fallen just inside the stockade, but there was little real sign of
battle. The templars and most of Rikus's gladiators were rushing toward the center of the
village, anxious to take control of the water supply as fast as possible.

“Something's wrong here,” Rikus said, studying the relative calm.

“It's too easy,” Gaanon agreed.

The mul led his small group of gladiators toward the main gate. Along the way, he saw
perhaps a dozen skirmishes between his warriors and village guardsmen, but there was
little sign of the fierce battle he had expected. A few minutes, later, they reached their
goal without incident. There, Rikus found Caelum and his dwarves stoically standing guard
just out of arrow range of the stone gatehouse.

“What's happening here?” Rikus asked. He could see frightened faces peering out of every
arrow loop in the two-story building.

“When the alarm sounded, most of the garrison rushed to defend the gatehouse,” Caelum
answered.

“They didn't count on your sword and my strength,” Gaanon surmised, glancing at the
breaches he and the mul had opened together.

“Perhaps,” Caelum answered, keeping his eye fixed on the gatehouse. “But it doesn't seem
to me that the entire village garrison should fit inside there.”

“It shouldn't,” Rikus said.

“I've sent a few of my brethren to search the rest of the village,” Caelum said.

“Good,” Rikus replied distractedly. “Send half of your men to get some waterÑ”

“But we're watching the gatehouse,” Caelum objected.

“That's why you're only sending half of them,” Rikus answered, shaking his head at the
dwarf's single-mindedness. “When your scouts report back, send me word of what they found.
I'll be at the cistern.”

The mul turned toward the center of the village himself, but did not go directly to the
square. Instead, he took his time, poking his head into barracks and opening slave pens as
he went. The barracks showed every sign of being inhabited, but the soldiers' uniforms and
weapons were all missing, as if the garrison had been summoned away on short notice. Most
of the slave pens, too, were empty, but Rikus finally came to one where a handful of
wretches with heavily bandaged hands and feet were cowering in fear.

“Come out of there,” Rikus called, lowering the exit ladder to them. “You're free now.”

The slaves regarded him with suspicious glances.

“We're from Tyr,” Gaanon explained. “We've captured Makla, so come out!”

The haggard slaves glanced at each other, then slowly began to hobble up the ladder. When
they left the pit, they kept their eyes focused on the ground, as they would in the
presence of their overseers.

Rikus pointed toward the nearest barracks. “Go and take what you need from there,” he
said. “After that, you're free to leave the village or join our armyÑit's your choice.”

The slaves looked up, their eyes betraying confusion and disbelief. It was hardly the
jubilant sort of reaction Rikus expected from newly freed men and women, but he could
understand why they might be shocked. In the pits, they had no way of knowing that the
village had been invaded and their captors driven offÑespecially since there had been few
sounds of battle to suggest what was happening.

The last slave was a young half-elf with an intelligent spark to his pale green eyes.
Rikus caught him by the shoulder, then asked, “Why is the village so empty?”

The fellow shrugged. “Last night, when we returned with our quarry bags, Maetan of Family
Lubar was here with a big army. During the night, he took it, along with most of the
garrison, and left. They sent the quarry gangs into the hills.”

“Why did they leave you behind?” demanded Gaanon, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

In answer, the half-elf pointed to the bloody bandages on his feet. “After seven days in
the Smoking Crown, it's all you can do to hobble to the water plaza.”

Rikus paid little attention to the exchange, for he was too busy cursing under his breath.
Maetan had again anticipated him, pulling his army out of the village just in time to keep
it from being trapped against the boiling lake.

“The spy!” hissed the mul.

His thoughts leaped immediately to Styan, but he did not understand when Maetan would have
had a chance to convert the templar to his cause. As much as Rikus did not want to admit
it, it seemed more likely that the spy was someone who had been in contact with the
mindbender. That left Caelum, his dwarves, or even K'kriq as possibilitiesÑ though the mul
refused to believe it was the thri-kreen. He was tempted to blame Styan outright, but in
the end Rikus decided to bide his time and keep a close watch on all the possibilities.

Once he had reached this decision, Rikus instructed his gladiators to search the pens for
more abandoned slaves, then led Gaanon to the central square. There was no sign of a
battle there, either. Many of his gladiators were massed around the basin, pushing and
shoving at each other in an effort to get at the water. Those that had already had their
fill were lounging around the edges of the plaza, dozing contentedly or joking rudely.
Neeva and Jaseela were on the pier, turning the waterscrew themselves in order to keep the
cistern filled.

In front of the closest marble mansion, Styan stood in the midst of a dozen casks of wine.
Though Caelum had surreptitiously used his magic to heal the wounds the templar had
suffered from his lashing, there were dark stains on the old man's cassock where some of
the cuts had reopened and were seeping blood. Nevertheless, Styan seemed in good spirits,
filling mugs of wine and giving them to his templars to pass out to eager gladiators.

Rikus found the scene as unsettling as he had the quarry slave's report on Maetan's sudden
departure. There was a festival spirit hanging over the whole square that seemed out of
place in the middle of what should have been a very serious battle.

“It's almost like they were inviting us to enjoy ourselves,” Rikus muttered, starting
toward the wine casks.

When he saw the mul coming, Styan filled two mugs and stepped toward him. “Here's Rikus!”
the templar cried. “Let's drink his health!”

An immediate chorus of voices cried, “To Rikus!”

As he moved through the crowd, dozens of warriors slapped the mul's back, congratulating
him on the victory at Makla. When he reached Styan, Rikus took the cup, but did not drink
from it.

“Where did you find this?” the mul demanded.

The templar's face fell. “In the foyer of this house,” he answered, motioning at the
mansion behind him. “It was all stacked up, ready to be carried into the cellar, I
suppose.”

“Or ready for us to find,” Rikus snapped. He had no doubt that Maetan had left the wine in
plain sight on purpose, hoping that the Tyrians would be too drunk to fight when the
Urikites took positions outside the town. Rikus threw his mug to the ground, exclaiming,
“Isn't it obvious to you that Lord Lubar's trying to corner us?”

Styan looked at the shattered mug
as
though the mul had tossed it in his face. “I was only trying to make amends.”

Rikus ignored the templar and turned to the crowd. “Now is no time for drinking,” he
yelled, running his gaze over the crowd.

Several gladiators chuckled, and someone called, “Saving it all for yourself, are you
Rikus?”

No one dumped their cups. In fact, many of them quaffed down what they had and passed
their mugs to the templars to be refilled.

“I mean what I say!” Rikus yelled, knocking the mug from the hand of a nearby gladiator.
“Pour out the wine. We have much to do, and little time to do it!”

This time, no one laughed. “What's wrong, Rikus?” called a female human. “Have you lost
your need for wine?”

“We're free men,” cried a burly tarek. Like the mul, he was musclebound and hairless, with
a square head and sloping brow. “We can drink what we want!”