Troy Denning - The Crimson Legion

“Too soon,” said Lyanius, shaking a crooked finger in Rikus’s direction. The old dwarf, who wore a bloody bandage around his head, was the one who had spoken out to warn Rikus against surrendering. Lyanius was also Caelum’s father and the village uhrnomus , a term that seemed to mean “grandfather” sometimes, but also, in a context of grave respect, “founder.”

Lyanius took Rikus by the arm and guided the mul to his feet. “You will wait for a day before he awakens.”

“A day?” Rikus gasped. “That’s too much time.”

K’kriq, who had been assigned leadership of the scouts, had already sent a runner to report that the survivors of the morning’s combat were moving toward a large group of stragglers from the first battle. There was no sign that Maetan was with the Urikite army, but now that the legion had filled its waterskins, Rikus wanted to resume their pursuit as soon as possible.

“The sun will do its work in its own time,” Caelum said. “I am sorry, but there is nothing I can do to hurry your friend’s recovery.”

“Cast another spell on him,” the mul demanded. “Even if it takes you a few hours to look it up in your spellbook and memorize it again-”

“I am no sorcerer,” the dwarf snapped, the corners of his mouth turned indignantly downward. “I am a cleric of the sun.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Neeva, placing herself between Rikus and the dwarf.

Caelum’s expression softened when he spoke to her. “Sorcerers steal their magic from plants,” he explained. “Mine is a gift of the sun. Using it takes nothing from any living thing.”

“So why doesn’t everybody use sun magic?” asked Jaseela, stepping to Neeva’s side and peering at the blazing ball in the sky. “There’s plenty of it, and everyone would benefit from magic that doesn’t ruin the soil.”

“Clerical magic is not something one takes, it is a gift bestowed on those who commune with the elements,” lectured Lyanius. The old dwarf waved his liver-spotted hand at the village. “Out of all these people who dwell beneath the sun, only Caelum has been favored with the fire-eyes.”

“So your son can’t do us any good,” Rikus said, biting his lip in frustration.

“You mean more good than he already has,” Neeva corrected, covering for the mul’s inadvertent rudeness.

Caelum shook his head and looked at the ground. “I’m sorry. Of course, if you wish to leave the half-giant with the others …”

The dwarves had offered to take care of Tyr’s wounded, but the mul was not anxious to leave a powerful fighter like Gaanon behind.

“We could use a rest,” Jaseela said, pointing her chin toward the plaza. “The past few days may not have seemed a hardship to you, but it’s been a true test of endurance for those of us who aren’t muls.”

Rikus looked over the rest of his legion. Most of his warriors were gathered around the cistern, wearily filling their waterskins or hiding beneath their cloaks in a vain effort to shield themselves from the sun.

The mul nodded. “You’re right, Jaseela. Pass the word.”

“Good,” said Lyanius. “My people will pack supplies for your legion.” The ancient dwarf motioned for Rikus to follow. “You will come with me.”

“To where?” Rikus asked. “What for?”

Lyanius gave him a sour-faced scowl that made it clear the uhrnomus did not enjoy being questioned. After Rikus had averted his gaze, the old leader summoned a dwarven girl with a round face and twinkling eyes, then gave her a long series of instructions in the guttural language of his village. Rikus took the opportunity to call Styan over. The templar had been keeping his distance ever since the mul had summoned him and his men down from the arch.

“The dwarves are giving us supplies,” Rikus said, laying his heavy arm across the templar’s shoulders. “You and your men will carry them. If any of you opens a sack without my permission, I’ll have all your heads.”

“But-”

“If you don’t like it, return to Tyr,” Rikus snapped.

“You know I can’t,” Styan said, narrowing his ash-colored eyes. “I am to stay with the legion and report.”

“Then follow my commands,” Rikus replied. He fingered the pouch into which he had slipped the templar’s crystal. “And the only reports Tithian receives will be those I send.”

Styan gnashed his teeth, then asked, “Am I dismissed?”

In answer, Rikus removed his arm from the man’s shoulder and looked away.

As the templar left, Lyanius took Rikus by the arm once more. “This way,” he said, pulling the mul toward the far side of the village. “You come too, Caelum.”

As the tall dwarf started after his father, he asked, “Are you going to Kemalok, Urhnomus ?”

Lyanius nodded slowly, giving rise to astonished, though approving, murmurs from the throng of young dwarves that seemed to hang about him at all times.

“We must ask Neeva, as well,” Caelum said, his voice as firm as his father’s. “She saved my life, and fought as well against the Urikites as Rikus.”

Lyanius fixed his sharp eyes on his son, scowling at his impudence. When the younger dwarf did not flinch under the harsh stare, the old dwarf sighed and said, “If it makes you happy, I will allow it.”

Beaming, Caelum gestured to Neeva, then fell into step behind Rikus and his father. The old dwarf proceeded at a stately pace to the village wall, just below the great sand dune. There, a pair of dwarves stood guard. They were armed with steel battle-axes and stood to either side of a bronze-gilded door decorated with a bas-relief of a huge, serpent-headed bird. The beast’s wings were outspread, its claws were splayed, and its snakelike head was poised to strike. The door itself stood slightly ajar, and Rikus could see that it opened into a deep tunnel that led beneath the dune.

“Why is this door open?” Lyanius demanded, addressing the two guards.

The young dwarves looked at each other uncomfortably, then one answered, “It was open when we returned to our posts after the battle.”

Caelum frowned in concern. “How could the Urikites-”

The old dwarf raised a hand to cut off his son’s question, then stared into the serpent-bird’s eyes for several moments. Finally, he reported, “The door opened of its own accord.”

How often does it do that?” Rikus asked, concerned.

“Now and then,” Lyanius answered, giving the mul a cryptic smile. “But I am not worried. Two Urikites did creep through after the door opened, but they will quickly regret their mistake.”

“Why’s that?” asked Neeva.

The old dwarf looked away without answering, then said, “Leave your weapons with the guards.”

With that, the old dwarf looked up at the bird sculpture and gave a short, squawking whistle. The door creaked fully open, its hinges screeching so loudly that Rikus suspected the sound could be heard on the far side of Kled.

Somewhat reluctantly, Rikus and Neeva left their blades with the guards and followed Lyanius. The mul did not like being without his weapons, but it was clear the urhnomus would tolerate no arguments.

Inside the tunnel, Lyanius retrieved a pair of torches from the floor. Caelum lit them by simply passing his hand over the tops.

Lyanius eyed Neeva sorely, then said, “Three of us have no need of these.” He was referring to the fact that, like elves, dwarves and muls were gifted with the ability to sense ambient heat when no other light source is present. “But because you’re along at my son’s request, young woman,” he said, flashing her an unexpected smile, “we will use them anyway.”

After handing one of the brands to his son, Lyanius led the way down a cool tunnel. To keep the sand from cascading in and burying the excavation, the passageway was lined with wide strips of animal hide, gray and cracked with age. This lining was supported by wooden beams, the ends of which rested on stone pillars. The narrow corridor was so low that Rikus and Neeva had to crawl to pass through it.