Troy Denning - The Crimson Legion

“It’s well to say such things,” Styan said, “but as a practical matter-”

“We’ll try!” Rikus snapped, keeping his gaze fixed on Maetan. Though he did not say so aloud, he feared that Maetan would wipe out the dwarven village even if his legion left. At the very least, the hungry Urikites would loot the dwarves to the point of starvation.

“How?” It was Jaseela’s soft voice that asked the question.

The mul had no answer. Not for the first time that day, his thoughts turned to Sadira and Agis, but he quickly tried to put them out of his mind. By now, they were halfway back to Tyr. No matter how much he lamented the absence of the half-elf’s sorcery or the noble’s mastery of the Way, he and his legion had to solve this problem on their own.

For what seemed an eternity, Rikus simply stood and watched Maetan dump water on the dwarves. Finally, a plan occurred to the mul. “We’re going to surrender,” he said, facing his companions.

“What?” they asked together.

Rikus nodded. “It’s the only way to put ourselves between the Urikites and dwarves before the fighting starts.”

“This is beyond belief,” Styan said, his strained voice cracking with anger.

“Without weapons, we’ll all be at a severe disadvantage,” Jaseela said. “We’ll lose a lot of warriors.”

“Not if we lead with gladiators,” Rikus offered. “In the pits, before you learn to fight with weapons, you learn to fight without them.” He glanced at Neeva and asked, “What do you think?”

The big woman remained quiet for several moments. Finally, she asked, “Are you doing this because you’re afraid we won’t catch Maetan again?”

“If Maetan was all I’m after, we would have attacked by now,” Rikus snapped. Neeva’s question hurt more than it should have, and he realized there was some truth to what she implied. Still, he thought he was making the right decision. “Besides, this is the only way I see to give both us and the dwarves a chance to survive.”

When Neeva offered no further argument, Styan said, “The templars won’t have any part of it.”

“That’s your choice,” Rikus said. “If you think this is a bad idea, I won’t ask you to send your company along.”

“We’re ready to fight, but for Tyr-not any dwarven village,” he sneered. The templar reached into his pocket and withdrew the small crystal of green olivine that would allow him to contact Tithian. “And I don’t think the king will want us to sacrifice our warriors for a bunch of dwarves, either. I warrant we’ll have a new commander in a matter of-”

Rikus clasped the templar’s hand. “This isn’t the king’s decision,” he said, prying the stone from Styan’s fingers. “You have only two choices. Join us and help, or wait here and hope we succeed.”

Styan stared at Rikus, then jerked his hand out of the mul’s grasp. “I’ll wait.”

Paying the templar no further attention, Rikus slipped the stone into his leather belt pouch, then gave Neeva and Jaseela instructions to be passed along to the others. Rikus laid his cahulaks aside, then moved to leave.

K’kriq stepped to his side and started down the sandstone slope with him. Rikus stopped and shook his head, “I have to go alone, K’kriq,” he said. Though the thri-kreen was quickly learning Tyrian, Rikus spoke in Urikite. He did not want any misunderstandings.

The thri-keen shook his bubble-eyed head and laid a restraining claw on the mul’s shoulder. “Pack mates.”

Rikus removed the claw. “Yes, but don’t come until the fight starts,” he said, starting down the hill again.

K’kriq ignored his order and followed. The mul stopped and frowned at the thri-keen. As much as he valued the mantis-warrior’s combat prowess, the mul remembered how easily Maetan had taken control of K’kriq’s mind in the last battle. He did not want to risk the same thing happening before the fight was in full swing.

Deciding to put his order in terms that K’kriq seemed to understand, Rikus pointed at Gaanon. “If I’m a pack mate, so is Gaanon,” he said. “Stay here and protect him.”

The thri-keen looked from the mul to the half-giant. “Protect?” His mandibles hung open in confusion.

“Guard, like your young,” the mul explained.

“Gaanon no hatchling!” K’kriq returned, cocking his head at Rikus. Nevertheless, the thri-keen turned away and went to the half-giant’s side, shaking his head as though the mul were crazy.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Rikus descended the sandstone alone. As he approached the village gate, which did not stand even as tall as he did, he raised his hands above his head to show that he was unarmed. The mul could have reached the top of the village wall without leaving his feet, and caught the railing atop the gatehouse with a good leap.

When Rikus had reached a comfortable speaking distance, a Urikite officer showed his bearded face above the wall. “That’s far enough,” he called, using a heavily accented version of the common trade dialect. “What do you want?”

“I’ve come to surrender my legion to Maetan of Urik,” Rikus answered. He did his best to look both remorseful and angry.

“Maetan has no use for your legion-except as slaves,” the officer returned, his dark eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Better slaves than corpses,” Rikus answered. Though he did not mean them, the words stuck in his throat anyway. “We’ve been out of water for days.”

“There’s plenty in here,” the officer answered. He grinned wickedly and studied the mul for a moment, then motioned for the gate to be opened.

Rikus stepped through, allowing himself to be siezed by the officer and several soldiers. They bound his hands and slipped a choking-loop around his neck, then led him toward the windmill and cistern at the center of the village. They passed a dozen rows of the round huts. As he peered down into them, Rikus could not help noticing that they were all arranged in a similar manner. To one side of the doorway was a round table surrounded by a trio of curved benches. On the other side of the door stood a simple cabinet holding a variety of tools and weapons. The beds, stone platforms covered with several layers of assorted hides, were located opposite the door. The only variations between individual buildings came in the number of beds and how neatly the residents kept their homes.

When they reached the plaza, Rikus’s escorts pushed him roughly through the ring of guards, then used the tips of their spears to prod him toward Maetan. As Rikus passed, the dwarven prisoners stepped aside and studied him with dark eyes that betrayed both respect and puzzlement. A few commented to each other in their own guttural language, but were quickly silenced by sharp blows from the mul’s escorts.

In the center of the plaza, Maetan of Urik waited beside the stone cistern, still holding the dipper in his hand. His cloak was so covered with dirt and grime that it was more brown than green, and even the Serpent of Lubar had faded from red to pastel orange. The mindbender’s thin lips were chapped and cracked, and his delicate complexion seemed more pallid and sallow than Rikus remembered from the battle.

As the soldiers pushed Rikus to their commander’s side, the Urikite’s four bodyguards stepped forward to surround the prisoner. The brawny humans all wore leather corselets and carried steel swords. Rikus raised an eyebrow at the sight of so many gleaming blades, for each was worth the price of a dozen champion gladiators. On Athas, metal was more precious than water and as scarce as rain.

After staring into the eyes of Rikus’s escort for a few moments, Maetan waved the officer away. “How do you know my name, boy?” the mindbender demanded, addressing Rikus in the fashion of a master to a slave.