“It is, but I was wrong to think I could tell you,” Rikus said. “It doesn’t matter what you swear on.”
One corner of Neeva’s mouth turned down in a derisive sneer. “This is what’s wrong between us. If you don’t trust me, then there’s nothing more to say.” She started to leave.
“Wait,” Rikus said, grabbing her arm. “I do trust you—this is for your own good.”
“I decide what’s good for me,” Neeva replied, jerking her arm free. “You had better decide whether you trust me or not—and you’ve got to choose between me and Sadira. You’ve treated me like one of your fawning wenches for long enough.”
With that, she faced the top of the slope, where Jaseela and the other subcommanders were looking down on the scene with raised eyebrows. Behind them, the heads and shoulders of the Tyrian legion were just showing above the crest of the ridge. “Your army awaits your command,” Neeva spat, hefting an obsidian battle-axe Gaanon had given her. “Try to serve it better than you do your lovers.”
“I serve them both as best I can,” Rikus answered, gritting his teeth.
With that, the mul raised his sword and waved his legion toward the village. A few half-hearted battle cries sounded from ash-coated throats, but the noise seemed a pitiful squeak compared to the confident roar that usually accompanied an attack by his warriors.
The legion half-slid, half-ran down the slope, loose cinders cascading around their feet and ash billowing far above their heads. Soon it seemed the whole mountainside was avalanching down upon Makla. The ground was trembling beneath Rikus’s feet, and, through the roiling cloud of gray soot, the mul could see no farther than the end of his own sword. In the absence of Tyrian battle cries, the sound of coughing filled the dark morning.
The village did not seem to be prepared for a surprise attack. A few sentries sounded the alarm, and an echoing slam announced that the main gate had been closed. Soon, Rikus heard a few officers shouting orders to their soldiers as they raced from their barracks, but the mul detected no sign of the large force he had feared was gathered at the village.
After the legion reached the base of the mountain, it did not take it long to leave the cloud of airborne ash behind. Not bothering to attack the main gate, Rikus led the way directly to the stockade. There, he began hacking at the ropes of braided giant-hair that bound the huge mekillat ribs together. Any ordinary sword, especially one with a blade of obsidian or sharpened bone, would not have cut the sturdy ropes, but the Scourge of Rkard sliced through them as though they were made of hemp.
No sooner had the mul cut away the ropes than Gaanon grabbed a rib and, groaning with effort, pulled it out of place. Without so much as a word to Rikus, Neeva slipped through the breach and disappeared into the village. A moment later, she yelled in anger, then a Urikite half-giant screamed in pain. The ground shook as he collapsed.
Rikus turned to K’kriq and pointed at the gap. “Go with Neeva,” the mul said. “Be sure nothing happens to her.”
“She carries eggs?” the thri-kreen asked, unable to imagine any other reason a female would deserve special protection.
“Just defend her,” Rikus ordered, motioning for Gaanon to help him open more gaps. Each time they pulled down a mekillot rib, another of his lieutenants led a group of gladiators into the village.
By the time the last two companies were ready to go through the wall, the sun had peeked over the jagged horizon. Barely penetrating the clouds of volcanic soot that rose from the jagged peaks of the Smoking Crown, the crimson orb lit the village with a murky, rose-colored glow. Rikus took advantage of the dim light to look back along the stockade. Once he saw that his legion was breaking into the village without trouble, he led the last of his warriors through the gap.
“It hardly seems necessary to let the slaves destroy my village,” complained Tarkla San, counting on her fingers the number of breaches that had been opened in Makla’s stockade.
“Villages can be rebuilt,” Maetan answered. “My family’s honor is another matter.”
The mindbender and the imperial governor were a mile from Makla’s main gate, standing a short distance below the jagged crest of a ridge of black basalt. In the narrow gorge on the other side of the ridge waited Maetan’s new legion, a makeshift force of stragglers from the first battle, the village garrison, and Family Lubar’s private army.
“I cannot believe a commander of your stature fears a mob of slaves,” Tarkla said, keeping her blue eyes focused on her village. Many years of outpost life had lined the old woman’s leathery skin with deep furrows, and the cares of her office had etched a permanent scowl into the sagging folds of her face. “You outnumber them by almost three-to-one.”
Maetan’s pale lip twisted into a sneer. “Tarkla, have you ever fought gladiators?”
The old woman shook her head. “Of course not.”
“They fight like wild beasts, not soldiers. The only way to destroy the Tyrian slaves is to corner them and starve them into attacking us—on our terms,” the mindbender said. “Leave the battle tactics to me.”
“Where my village is concerned, I leave nothing to you.” she said. “You claimed that the enemy was so numerous we could not possibly defend Makla. Clearly you were mistaken. It would have been an easy matter for us to hold them off from inside until reinforcements arrived.”
“There are no reinforcements,” Maetan said. He turned his body slightly away from the governor, so that she could not see his hand drifting toward the hilt of his dagger.
“But your messengers—”
“Went only to my family’s estate, so the Tyrian scouts would believe I was sending for more soldiers,” the mindbender said. “Since my family army is already here, there will be no more help.”
“You sacrificed my village for nothing?” Tarkla gasped. “The king shall hear of this!”
“No, he shall not,” Maetan said, silently slipping his weapon from his sheath. “I have already lost one imperial legion. If I am to spare my family further humiliation, I must destroy the Tyrian slaves without risking another.”
Tarkla frowned. “You would sacrifice Makla to protect your honor?” she asked, stepping away.
Before she could move out of reach, Maetan caught her and plunged his dagger into her heart. “It was unavoidable,” he answered.
The village was remarkably quite. A handful of Urikite half-giants and several dozen village soldiers had fallen just inside the stockade, but there was little real sign of battle. The templars and most of Rikus’s gladiators were rushing toward the center of the village, eager to take control of the water supply as fast as possible.
“Something’s wrong here,” Rikus said, studying the relative calm.
“It’s too easy,” Gaanon agreed.
The mul led his small group of gladiators toward the main gate. Along the way, he saw perhaps a dozen skirmishes beween his warriors and village guardsmen, but there was little sign of the fierce battle he had expected. A few minutes later, they reached their goal without incident. There, Rikus found Caelum and his dwarves stoically standing guard just out of arrow range of the stone gatehouse.
“What’s happening here?” Rikus asked. He could see frightened faces peering out of every arrow loop in the two-story building.
“When the alarm sounded, most of the garrison rushed to defend the gatehouse,” Caelum answered.
“They didn’t count on your sword and my strength,” Gaanon surmised, glancing at the breaches he and the mul had opened together.
“Perhaps,” Caelum answered, keeping his eye fixed on the gatehouse. “But it doesn’t seem to me that the entire village garrison should fit inside there.”
“It shouldn’t,” Rikus said.
“I’ve sent a few of my brethren to search the rest of the village,” Caelum said.
“Good,” Rikus replied distractedly. “Send half of your men to get some water—”
“But we’re watching the gatehouse,” Caelum objected.
“T
hat’s why you’re only sending half of them,” Rikus answered, shaking his head at the dwarf’s single-mindedness. “When your scouts report back, send me word of what they found. I’ll be at the cistern.”
The mul turned toward the center of the village himself, but did not go directly to the square. Instead, he took his time, poking his head into barracks and opening slave pens as he went. The barracks showed every sign of being inhabited, but the soldiers’ uniforms and weapons were all missing, as if the garrison had been summoned away on short notice. Most of the slave pens, too, were empty, but Rikus finally came to one where a handful of wretches with heavily bandage hands and feet were cowering in fear.
“Come out of there,” Rikus called, lowering the exit ladder to them. “You’re free now.”
The slaves regarded him with suspicious glances.
“We’re from Tyr,” Gaanon explained. “We’ve captured Makla, so come out!”
The haggard slaves glanced at each other, then slowly began to hobble up the ladder. When they left the pit, they kept their eyes focused on the ground, as they would in the presence of their overseers.
Rikus pointed toward the nearest barracks. “Go and take what you need from there,” he said. “After that, you’re free to leave the village or join our army—it’s your choice.”
The slaves looked up, their eyes betraying confusion and disbelief. It was hardly the jubilant sort of reaction Rikus expected from newly freed men and women, but he could understand why they might be shocked. In the pits, they had no way of knowing that the village had been invaded and their captors driven off—especially since there had been few sounds of battle to suggest what was happening.
The last slave was a young half-elf with an intelligent spark to his pale green eyes. Rikus caught him by the shoulder, then asked, “Why is the village so empty?”
The fellow shrugged. “Last night, when we returned with our quarry bags, Maetan of Family Lubar was here with a big army. During the night, he took it, along with most of the garrison, and left. They sent the quarry gangs into the hills.”
“Why did they leave you behind?” demanded Gaanon, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
In answer, the half-elf pointed to the bloody bandages on his feet. “After seven days in the Smoking Crown, it’s all you can do to hobble to the water plaza.”
Rikus paid little attention to the exchange, for he was too busy cursing under his breath. Maetan had again anticipated him, pulling his army out of the village just in time to keep it from being trapped against the boiling lake.
“The spy!” hissed the mul.
His thoughts leaped immediately to Styan, but he did not understand when Maetan would have had a chance to convert the templar to his cause. As much as Rikus did not want to admit it, it seemed more likely that the spy was someone who had been in contact with the mindbender. That left Caelum, his dwarves, or even K’kriq as possibilities—though the mul refused to believe it was the thri-kreen. He was tempted to blame Styan outright, but in the end Rikus decided to bide his time and keep a close watch on all the possibilities.
Once he had reached this decision, Rikus instructed his gladiators to search the pens for more abandoned slaves, then led Gaanon to the central square. There was no sign of a battle there, either. Many of his gladiators were massed around the basin, pushing and shoving at each other in an effort to get at the water. Those that had already had their fill were lounging around the edges of the plaza, dozing contentedly or joking rudely. Neeva and Jaseela were on the pier, turning the water-screw themselves in order to keep the cistern filled.
In front of the closest marble mansion, Styan stood in the midst of a dozen casks of wine. Though Caelum had surreptitiously used his magic to heal the wounds the templar had suffered from his lashing, there were dark stains on the old man’s cassock where some of the cuts had reopened and were seeping blood. Nevertheless, Styan seemed in good spirits, filling mugs of wine and giving them to his templars to pass out to eager gladiators.
Rikus found the scene as unsettling as he had the quarry slave’s report on Maetan’s sudden departure. There was a festival spirit hanging over the whole square that seemed out of place in the middle of what should have been a very serious battle.
“It’s almost like they were inviting us to enjoy ourselves,” Rikus muttered, starting toward the casks of wine.
When he saw the mul coming, Styan filled two mugs and stepped toward him. “Here’s Rikus!” the templar cried. “Let’s drink his health!”
An immediate chorus of voices cried, “To Rikus!”
As he moved through the crowd, dozens of warriors slapped the mul’s back, congratulating him on the victory at Makla. When he reached Styan, Rikus took the cup, but did not drink from it.
“Where did you find this?” the mul demanded.
The templar’s face fell. “In the foyer of this house,” he answered, motioning at the mansion behind him. “It was all stacked up, ready to be carried into the cellar, I suppose.”
“Or ready for us to find,” Rikus snapped. He had no doubt that Maetan had left the wine in plain sight on purpose, hoping that the Tyrians would be too drunk to fight when the Urikites took positions outside the town. Rikus threw his mug to the ground, exclaiming, “Isn’t it obvious to you that Lord Lubar’s trying to corner us?”
Styan looked at the shattered mug as though the mul had tossed it in his face. “I was only trying to make amends.”
Rikus ignored the templar and turned to the crowd. “Now is no time for drinking,” he yelled, running his gaze over the crowd.
Several gladiators chuckled, and someone called, “Saving it all for yourself, are you, Rikus?”
No one dumped their cups. In fact, many of them quaffed down what they had and passed their mugs to the templars to be refilled.
“I mean what I say!” Rikus yelled, knocking the mug from the hand of a nearby gladiator. “Pour out the wine. We have much to do, and little time to do it!”
This time, no one laughed. “What’s wrong, Rikus?” called a female human. “Have you lost your need for wine?”
“We are free men,” cried a burly tarek. Like the mul, he was muscle bound and hairless, with a square head and sloping brow. “We can drink what we want!”
Rikus turned to Gaanon. “Smash the casks.”
A storm of protest rose from those near enough to hear, but the half-giant hefted his club and waded through the crowd to carry out his orders. Several men stepped in front of Gaanon as if to stop him, but a threatening glance from the huge gladiator was enough to clear them out of his way.
“Listen to me!” Rikus called, raising his arms for silence.
The crowd paid him no attention. Gaanon’s club came down on the first cask, and rich red wine flooded the square. An angry outburst of shouting and screaming erupted around Rikus.
“We’re not templars!” cried the tarek. His flat nose was flaring in anger and the lips of his domed muzzle were drawn back to reveal his sharp fangs. “You can’t treat us like this!”
The gladiator stepped toward Gaanon, clearly meaning to stop him from destroying any more casks. Behind him came two human men.
Rikus lashed out at the tarek, striking his throat with stiffened fingers. The stunned gladiator collapsed immediately, choking and grasping at his damaged larynx. When even that did not stop those following him, Rikus delivered a powerful side-thrust kick to the ribs of the next man in line, simultaneously unsheathing the Scourge of Rkard. “The next man will feel my blade!”
The area fell abruptly silent.
“Good,” the mul said. “Now listen carefully—we don’t have much time. Maetan should have been inside this village with a fair-sized army, but he wasn’t. My guess is that he’s moving to attack while we quaff down the wine he left to keep us occupied!”
The gladiators remained absolutely silent, their eyes fixed on Rikus and their mouths hanging open in astonishment. Though the reaction was more extreme than what the mul had ant
icipated, he counted himself lucky that they were no longer preoccupied with the wine.
“If we don’t want to be trapped, we’ve got to sack the town and leave—fast!” Rikus continued. He gestured at a mob of about thirty gladiators. “You’re our lookouts. Go to the wall and report back when you see any sign of Maetan’s army. The rest of you, fill your waterskins, then find what food you can and burn everything else.”
Instead of obeying, the gladiators started to back away, staring at Rikus’s chest and murmuring to each other in frightened tones. Even Gaanon had fallen speechless, and, with a look of utter betrayal, simply stared at the mul.
Rikus looked down and saw that, during his scuffle with the tarek, his robe had fallen open. Now, the ulcerous wound on his breast lay fully exposed and oozing yellow ichor. Worse, a scintillating red light shone from the ruby in its center.
Rikus pulled his robe back over the wound, silently cursing the tarek who had caused him to expose the magical gem.
“What magic is that?” Gaanon asked, half-consciously taking a step away from the mul. Like many gladiators, the half-giant distrusted sorcery.
“It’s nothing that will hurt you,” Rikus answered, speaking loudly enough for those gathered around him to hear. “Now, do as I ordered.”
As the astonished gladiators slowly began to obey, Rikus started toward the eastern end of the village, intending to open an escape route through the stockade.
The mul had taken no more than two steps when Styan caught up to him. “Where are you going?” asked the templar.
“I’ll tell you when the time comes,” Rikus replied, wondering if the old man had asked the question so he could pass the information on to Maetan. “Until then, stay here. Don’t give anyone any orders, don’t pour any more wine, and don’t make me regret that your punishment last night was so merciful.”
TWELVE
CRATER OF
BONES
THE TYRIAN LEGION WAS MAKING CAMP IN A SMALL, volcanic caldera filled with thousands upon thousands of skeletons: dwarves, tareks, even half-giants and elves. Bones lay everywhere—piled against the base of crater walls in dune-sized mounds, heaped in yellow masses over sulfur-spewing steam vents, even packed into a fire-belching fissure that ran down the center of the basin.
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