Troy Denning: The Crimson Legion

The thri-kreen’s mekillots snapped and stomped into the soldiers massed near the argosy, ripping a wide swath of destruction through the middle of the throng. Aided by the enemy’s confusion and fear, the Tyrian gladiators tore into their foes like a cyclone into a faro field. Within moments, the coppery smell of blood filled Rikus’s nose and the shrieks of dying Urikites rang in his ears.

“What now?” asked Gaanon.

Before answering, Rikus took a moment to study K’kriq’s progress. The thri-kreen turned his mekillots straight into the long file of Urikites rushing toward the battle, followed closely by hundreds of gladiators. The maneuver brought the enemy’s charge to an abrupt halt and sent those leading it scrambling for their lives. The soldiers that did not fall to the mighty reptiles’ snapping jaws were quickly killed by Rikus’s warriors.

“It looks like K’kriq has this part of the fight well in hand,” the mul said, turning his gaze toward the terrain behind the battle. “Let’s find the commander.”

“This is no time to think of vengeance,” objected Neeva.

“Sure it is,” Rikus countered. He spotted a small group of figures upon the shoulder of a small sand dune that had spilled down from rocky bluffs of the valley wall. Several messengers were running from them toward the growing rout in front of K’kriq’s mekillots. “At the most, we can kill only a few thousand Urikites. The rest will flee, regroup, and probably attack Tyr later. But if we slay their commander today, we’ll finish the battle for good.”

With that, Rikus returned to the rear of the wagon and gathered a small force of gladiators from the long line still pouring through the wall of darkness. He sent the rest to the other side of the argosy to reinforce the warriors who did not have the benefit of K’kriq’s mekillots, then started toward the sand dune with his company.

They reached the base of the dune at a run, sweating heavily. Rikus charged straight up the steep side, stopping to rest only when they were within a few dozen yards of the top. At the crest waited a small line of Urikites, their spears pointed down at the gladiators. They peered over the tops of their shields as they nervously awaited the Tyrian attack.

Rikus ordered his followers to spread out, deciding to let the Urikites contemplate their fate and give his warriors a few moments to rest. He took the opportunity to look over his shoulder and saw that the battle was going better than he had dared to hope. Jaseela had turned her flank back toward the main attack. The sands between her company and the argosy were red with Urikite blood and littered with more than two thousand Urikite soldiers. Many thousands more were fleeing the field in a long stream, pursued closely by howling knots of Tyrian gladiators.

On the far side of the argosy, the scene was not so lopsided. Even with the extra reinforcements Rikus had sent their way, the Tyrians were badly outnumbered and barely holding their own in the vicious combat. Styan and his templars were doing little to help the situation, merely harassing the Urikite flank with half-hearted forays that were easily turned back.

Nevertheless, the mul was not worried. Having routed half the enemy legion, K’kriq was moving toward the troubled spot as fast as his lumbering beasts could carry him. Yet as Rikus watched, the thri-kreen suddenly guided the mekillots into a knot of gladiators. The reptiles began crushing and biting not Urikite soldiers, but Tyrian warriors.

“He betrayed us!” cried Gaanon, taking a step back down the dune.

Rikus caught the half-giant’s arm. “That makes no sense. Why would he have bothered to help us in the first place?” asked the mul. He studied the thri-kreen’s distant form more carefully, and was barely able to see that K’kriq’s head was turned toward the crest of the dune.

The mul looked to the top of the dune again, and quickly found what he was searching for. In the middle of the enemy line, standing between a pair of burly bodyguards, was a small bald man of feeble build and delicate features. His pale lips were pinched tight in concentration, and his gray eyes were fixed on K’kriq’s form. Over the bronze breastplate that covered his gaunt chest, the sickly looking man wore a green cloak bearing the two-headed Serpent of Lubar.

“Maetan!” Rikus hissed.

“What?” asked Neeva.

“Maetan of Family Lubar,” the mul explained, pointing at the little man. Rikus had last seen Maetan over thirty years ago, when Lord Lubar had brought his sickly son to see the family gladiator pits, but the mul had no trouble recognizing the pointed chin and thin nose that had distinguished the boy’s face even then. “His father was a master of the Way. My guess is that he is, too.”

“He’s taken control of K’kriq’s mind,” Neeva surmised.

Rikus nodded, then waved his gladiators forward, hoping to disrupt the mindbender’s concentration and free the thri-kreen again. “Attack!”

A Urikite officer barked a sharp command, and a dark cloud of spears descended from the ridge above. Rikus ducked. Neeva did the same, using her axe handle to deflect a low flying shaft. Like dozens of others, Gaanon was not so quick. One of the javelins struck him in the leg, causing the half-giant to bellow out in pain.

Cursing the effectiveness with which his enemy had stalled the charge, Rikus looked over his shoulder in Gaanon’s direction. The half-giant lay on the steep slope, clutching his leg.

“I’ll be fine,” Gaanon said, plucking the weapon from his leg. “Just give me a moment.”

“Stay here,” Rikus said, taking the spear from him. “You’ll only get hurt.”

He spun around and threw the weapon at Maetan. A bodyguard pushed the mindbender to the ground, putting himself in front of the spear. The Urikite grunted loudly, then dropped off the dune crest and slipped down the slope in a limp heap.

Maetan glared at Rikus for an instant, then returned to his feet and stepped back from the crest until only his gray eyes showed over the top. The mul glanced at K’kriq long enough to see that the thri-kreen and his mekillots remained under the mindbender’s control. Growling in anger, the mul raised his cahulaks and resumed his charge. This time, with no more spears to throw, the Urikites could only draw their obsidian short swords and await the onslaught.

When he reached the summit, Rikus pulled away from the flashing tip of a low strike. He countered by swinging a cahulak at the Urikite’s legs, slicing the veins behind the knee. As the screaming soldier grabbed for his savaged leg, Rikus pulled the man off the crest and sent him tumbling down the sandy slope.

Seeing the disadvantage of this location, the Urikite officer shouted another command and the entire line took two steps backward. Followed by Neeva and the rest of the gladiators, Rikus scrambled over the crest of the dune, being careful to keep one hand free to protect himself. The Tyrians had no sooner crawled onto the ridge than the enemy officer ordered his men forward again, thinking to push the gladiators off the dune.

His strategy might have worked against normal fighters, but gladiators were accustomed to fighting from disadvantaged positions. As the soldiers stepped forward, the Tyrians cut them down in many different ways. Rikus blocked his attacker’s swing with a cahulak, then hooked the other one behind the man’s back and used the Urikite’s own momentum to send him flying off the crest. Neeva swung her big axe and chopped her opponent off at the ankles before he could strike. Other gladiators rolled at the enemy’s feet, protecting themselves with a whirl off lashing blades. Still others leaped up with amazing speed, then beat the astonished soldiers back with sheer strength. When the initial clash ended, half the Urikite company lay bleeding in the sand, and only a handful of Tyrian soldiers had been pushed off the dune.