Troy Denning - The Crimson Legion

“He won’t,” Neeva said sharply.

“Wait!” Styan called. “What about King Tithian? Shouldn’t we warn him about what happened? Hamanu may send some of his legions to attack Tyr.”

“The king can wait,” Gaanon said.

“No, put me in the chair,” Rikus gasped, smiling weakly. “Styan is right. We must tell the king.”

Neeva frowned, but placed Rikus in the marble throne. The mul drew the olivine from the pocket in his belt and looked into it. When Tithian’s face appeared in the crystal, the king’s features were twisted in rage.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.

“Killing Hamanu’s messenger.”

“What?” Tithian shrieked. “You’ve doomed the entire city!”

“Not at all, Mighty Tithian,” Rikus sneered. “Hamanu is going to be too busy defending Urik to attack Tyr.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Tithian gasped. The sound reminded the mul of nothing so much as the hissing of the Serpent of Lubar.

“I have no choice-it’s my gladiators’ only hope of survival,” Rikus said. “It’s too bad you didn’t hire the slave tribe. A hundred extra warriors might have made the difference between victory and defeat.”

Tithian’s face fell. “Wait,” he said. “Don’t you think you should talk this over with Agis and Sadira?”

“Give them my regards, but no,” Rikus replied. Relieved to hear that his friends had returned safely to the city, he closed his fist over the gem and handed it to Neeva. “Crush this. We won’t be needing it again.”

The tail of the whip popped over Rikus’s shoulder. “Eyes down, boy!” commanded a snarling voice.

Rikus lowered his head and trudged onward, cursing the gladiator’s obvious delight in berating his commander. Along with two dozen fellows, all wearing the tunics of Makla’s village garrison, the imposter was driving a small force of Tyrian gladiators toward Urik’s slave gate. This larger group was disguised in the tattered cloaks and bandages of quarry slaves. On their backs, they carried heavy satchels of obsidian in which their weapons were concealed.

In spite of the escort’s command, Rikus kept his eyes raised enough to study the area ahead. Urik’s slave gate, like the rest of the city, was square and clean. It stood at the end of a short causeway of rutted cobblestones, flanked by high walls plastered with lime and stained yellow with sulfur paints from the Lake of Golden Dreams. Bas-reliefs of a stylized lion, standing on two legs and carrying its foreclaws like hands, marched along the ramparts in long lines. On one side, the lions left the gate with spears and swords, and on the other they returned with booty plundered from distant cities. Blood-colored merlons, each carved in the shape of a lion’s head, capped the walls on both sides. From between these battlements peered more than a hundred attentive archers, their squinting eyes fixed firmly on the wretched throng of quarry slaves below.

“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” whispered Neeva, staring at the heavy, stone-faced gates ahead.

“First, to save the legion, and second, to recover the Book of the Kemalok Kings ,” Rikus answered.

“And how is attacking Urik going to do that?” she asked, scowling at the mul’s logic.

“After we secure the gate, Jaseela leads the rest of the legion into the city. We free Urik’s slaves, then led them into revolt,” Rikus answered. “Hamanu will have to recall his legions from the desert to restore order. That’s when we will take the book, our warriors, and any Urikite slaves we’ve freed and go back to Tyr.”

“It doesn’t look like most of Urik’s legions are in the desert to me,” Neeva objected. She cast a furtive glance at the archers along the top of the wall.

“No king would send all his soldiers out,” Rikus assured her. “That’s just a small garrison. After we overpower them, you take the dwarves to find Maetan’s townhouse and recover the Book of Kemalok Kings . The rest of us will take the slaves and sack the city.”

“That might be harder than you make it sound,” observed Neeva. She frowned, then asked, “With all those archers up there, it occurs to me that Hamanu may know we’re coming. Has that possibility crossed your mind?”

“Not in the last few moments,” Rikus said. “If he did, why would he let us march into the city?”

“Because it’s easier than chasing us down,” Neeva answered. “And because, once we’re inside the walls, there will be no place to hide.”

Rikus shook his head. “No. Hamanu would have had to know that we would attack Urik when Maetan told us where his legions were,” the mul said. “That’s not possible. I didn’t even give our own army enough information about our plan-or time enough to react-for a spy to give us away.”

Neeva did not contradict him.

They continued on in silence, until the gladiators began to crowd into the cramped tunnel leading beneath the city wall. Someone fell victim to the jostling and shoving, stumbling over a companion’s feet and falling to the ground. The orderly line became a confused jumble as those in the rear continued to press forward and those in the front did their best to avoid trampling the one who had tripped.

A few moments later, Rikus and Neeva caught up to the fallen man. To the mul’s surprise, he had sun-bronzed skin and a crimson sun tattooed on his forehead.

As Neeva reached down to jerk the dwarf back to his feet, Rikus growled, “Caelum.”

Once they had passed into the tunnel beneath the wall, Rikus grabbed Neeva’s arm. “What’s the dwarf doing here?” he demanded, nearly stumbling as they shuffled up the steeply sloped floor.

“You said he was in my charge,” Neeva countered, her tone already defensive and angry.

“I also ordered him to stay with Jaseela and the rest of the legion until it attacks,” Rikus said. “If he sounds the alarm-”

“Caelum is no spy,” Neeva spat back. “Besides, if any of us are going to survive this crazy plan of yours, we’ll need his sun-magic.”

“Rikus, I would never do anything to hurt Neeva,” Caelum said. “And I want the Book of the Kemalok Kings returned to Kled as much as you do.”

The dwarf fell silent as they left the tunnel and entered the city. Looking over the heads of those in front of him, Rikus saw that they were moving toward a narrow boulevard paved with cobblestones. To either side of the street rose yellow walls capped with spiky shards of obsidian and breached at irregular intervals by smaller gates. In the center of the avenue sat a massive, wedgelike block of granite. Located on a steep ramp in front of the slave gate, the granite block was mounted on huge rollers and held in place by a hemp rope larger around than a tree trunk. Next to this rope stood one of Hamanu’s templars and two half-giants armed with axes of steel. They were protected by a small contingent of gate guards wearing leather hauberks and armed with long obsidian swords.

As the group shuffled forward, Tamar appeared in Rikus’s mind. Her form quickly changed from that of a silky-haired woman to a semblance of Rikus himself, save that ruby-red orbs glowed out from where the mul’s black eyes should have been. A cold shiver of foreboding ran down the mul’s spine, then he heard the wraith say something that, at first, made no sense to him.

Caelum, you have disobeyed my commands for the last time , the wraith said.

Rikus felt his lips move along with those of the double inside his mind, then heard his own voice repeat Tamar’s words.

Still in the mul’s form, Tamar clenched her fist and took a step sideways. Rikus found himself moving toward the dwarf, his fist also clenched.