Troy Denning - The Crimson Legion

Rikus was surprised by the question, for his escort had not made a verbal report to their commander. Realizing Maetan must have questioned the officer using the Way, Rikus reminded himself to guard this own thoughts carefully, then answered the question. “We’ve met before, many years ago.”

“Is that so?” asked Maetan, his cold gray eyes fixed on Rikus’s face.

“You were ten. Your father brought you to see his gladiators pits,” the mul said, remembering the meeting as clearly as if had been the day before.

Until he had seen Maetan for the first time, Rikus thought that all boys learned to be gladiators, working up through the ranks until they became trainers and perhaps even lords themselves. When Lord Lubar had brought his sickly son to the pits, however, Rikus had taken one look at the boy’s silken robes and finally understood the difference between slaves and masters.

Maetan studied the mul for a time, then said, “Ah, Rikus. It has been a long time. Father had high hopes for you, but, as I recall, you barely survived your first three matches.”

“I did better in Tyr,” the mul answered bitterly.

“And now you wish to return to Family Lubar,” Maetan observed. “As a slave?”

“That’s right,” the mul said, swallowing his anger. “Unless we get water, my warriors will die by sunset tomorrow.”

Maetan’s gaze swept along the line of gladiators ringing the village. “Why not come and take it?” he asked. “I’ve been asking myself for hours why you haven’t attacked. We couldn’t stop you.”

“You know why,” Rikus answered, glancing at the dwarves.

The Urikite turned his white lips up in the semblance of a smile. “Of course, the hostages,” he smirked.

“Giving up won’t save Kled, Tyrian,” cackled the voice of an old dwarf, using the language of Tyr.

Maetan’s head snapped in the direction of the speaker, an aged dwarf with jowls so loose they sagged from his chin like a beard. “Did I give that man permission to speak?”

A bodyguard pushed through the crowd toward the dwarf. As the Urikite grabbed him, the old dwarf made no effort to resist or escape. Instead, he said, “See? Nothing good comes-”

The Urikite’s pommel fall across the back of the speaker’s skull. The old dwarf collapsed to the ground, striking his head on the hard flagstones with a sickening thud. Indignant cries of astonishment and anger rustled through the crowd. One defiant dwarf stepped toward the guard, his fists tightly clenched and his rust-red eyes fixed on the bodyguard’s face. Aside from the color of his eyes, the dwarf was unusual in that he stood nearly five feet tall and had a crimson sun tattooed on his forehead. His build did not make him resemble a boulder quite so much as his fellows.

“Be quiet, or I’ll have his head removed completely,” Maetan snapped, using the smooth-flowing syllables of the trade tongue.

The dwarf stopped his advance, though the anger and hatred did not drain from his eyes. At the same time, a resentful murmur rustled through the throng as the dwarfs who understood the Urikite’s words translated the threat for their fellows. The plaza slowly fell silent.

After pausing to sneer at the red-eyed dwarf, Maetan returned his attention to Rikus. “So, Tyr’s legion will surrender on behalf of the dwarves of Kled?”

“Yes,” Rikus said. “This isn’t their fight. We have no wish to see them harmed.”

“You’ll understand if I’m reluctant to believe you,” Maetan said.

“It should surprise no one that the freed men of Tyr place a higher value on justice than a nobleman of Urik,” Rikus countered. One of the bodyguards tightened the choking loop around the mul’s neck; Maetan himself showed no reaction to the insult. Rikus continued, “If we intended to attack, we would have done it by now.” He was forced to gasp by the rope constricting his throat.

“I’m sure you intend to tell me what I stand to gain by accepting your surrender. Why shouldn’t I stay here and let your legion die of thirst?” The mindbender motioned for the guard to ease the tension on the mul’s throat.

“Two things,” Rikus said, swallowing hard. “First, you’d do well to return home with two thousand slaves. That’s all you’re going to bring back from Tyr.”

Maetan’s thin lips twitched in anger, but he gave no other indication of his feelings. “And the second?”

Rikus pointed his chin toward his warriors surrounding the village. “Even a Tyrian’s concern for justice goes only so far.”

Maetan shocked Rikus with a quick answer. “I accept.” The mindbender pointed at the tall dwarf with the rust-colored eyes and motioned for him to come forward. As the defiant-looking man obeyed, Maetan said, “Caelum speaks Tyrian. He’ll relay your words to the gladiators.”

The dwarf’s mouth fell open. “How did you-”

“That’s not for you to know,” a bodyguard snapped, pushing the dwarf toward Rikus.

“The courage of you and your men is admirable, but not very wise,” Caelum said, looking into the mul’s eyes. His jawbone, chin, and cheeks were well-defined and pronounced, but not as massive as those of most dwarves. There was even a certain symmetry and grace of proportion between his nose and the rest of his face, with uncharacteristic laugh lines around the corners of his mouth and eyes. “If you do this, there’s nothing to stop the Urikites from killing us all.”

“The choice is ours,” Rikus said, deliberately avoiding the dwarf’s red eyes. If Maetan was capable of reading Caelum’s mind, the mul did not want to plant any suggestion of what he had planned. Instead, he pointed to the sandstone arch on the hillside above. “Just deliver the message to the people up there.”

Once the dwarf was out of sight, Maetan sneered at Rikus. “Your men will be sold into slavery as you asked,” he said. “You, however, shall die a slow and bitter death for the pleasure of King Hamanu.”

Confident that he would have his revenge later, Rikus remained silent while Caelum climbed up to the arch. The mul found Maetan’s quick acceptance of their surrender unsettling. He had expected the Urikite to react more suspiciously, pondering the proposal for a few moments. His immediate agreement suggested that the mindbender was already well aware of the dangers of accepting the Tyrian surrender. Still, Rikus did not consider calling off his plan. Whether Maetan had anticipated it or not, it was still the only way to save both his legion and the dwarven village.

A few minutes after Caelum’s departure, the first Tyrians marched into the village. Unlike Rikus, they remained unbound, for tying them would have taken more rope than could be found in all of Kled. As the plaza began to grow more crowded, Maetan moved himself and Rikus to the far side, then ordered the dwarves to return to their homes and stay inside under penalty of death.

Soon the square was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with unarmed Tyrians, all clamoring for water and struggling to reach the cistern at its center-as the mul’s generals had instructed them to do. The Urikites previously standing guard at Kled’s wall now ringed the square, their shields and spears pointed toward Rikus’s warriors.

As the last Tyrians were escorted into the plaza, Jaseela and Neeva were brought to Rikus’s side, along with Caelum. Only the templars and K’kriq, gathered in a small group beneath the arch, remained outside the village.

Ignoring their absence for the moment, Maetan peered at Neeva from between two burly bodyguards. “An excellent girl,” he said, catching Rikus’s gaze with his pearly gray eyes. “Did she also come from my father’s pens? Or doesn’t your mul-brain allow you to remember that much?”