“And you’re going to lead them?” Rikus asked, a contemptuous sneer on his lips.
“They’ve asked me to organize them, yes,” he answered.
“No,” Rikus said, simply. “You can tell them no.”
Styan grimaced, then looked at the ground. “They won’t accept that answer.”
“Do you take me for an imbecile?” Rikus yelled, stepping for ward and laying the edge of his blade against the man’s throat. To Rikus, this incident confirmed the templar to be Maetan’s spy. “Don’t think I’m blind to your purpose, traitor!”
Styan began to tremble. “What do you mean?” he gasped.
“How do you pass your messages to Maetan?” the mul demanded. “The Way?”
A comprehending light dawned in the templar’s eyes. “You think I betrayed us!” he gasped.
“And you’ve proven it,” Rikus growled.
Styan shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not me. Maetan’s servant came to me, but I tried to destroy her—I would not betray us!” he gasped.
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Rikus demanded, raising his sword.
Before the mul could strike, the tarek stepped forward, a double-bladed axe in his hands. “If you kill him, you’ll have to kill me, as well.”
“And me,” said a broad-shouldered man hefting a huge spiked club.
“Me too,” added another gladiator, then another and another.
Hardly able to believe his eyes, Rikus shoved the templar to the ground and planted a foot on his throat. “Two nights ago, this man had you stacking rocks while his templars laughed and joked around the campfire,” Rikus said. “Now you’re defending him?”
“He was the only one who would agree to their plan,” said Neeva, appearing from around the edge of the mob. As she waded through the bones, she waved her axe at several figures following her: Jaseela, Caelum, Gaanon, and K’kriq. “None of us would listen to their foolishness.”
Rikus furrowed his brow and looked at the templar. “This wasn’t his idea?”
“It doesn’t matter whose idea it was,” growled the tarek. “We’re free men, and we’re leaving.”
“We’ll die in battle before we starve like cowards,” added another.
“I am in command!” Rikus snapped. “You will—”
The musty smell of mildew and rot filled the mul’s nostrils, and he stopped speaking in midsentence. An instant later, he noticed the gray silhouttes of eleven wraiths swimming through the bones beneath his feet. Their eyes were glowing in a variety of familiar, gemlike colors: citrine yellow, sapphire blue, topaz brown, and more.
Tamar, no!
Your warriors must learn to fear you, she responded.
As the gray shadows passed beneath the gladiators’ feet, the Tyrians cried out in astonishment and alarm. The tarek cast an accusing glare at Rikus.
“What magic is this?” he demanded.
Before the mul could answer, the sun-bleached skeletons of long dead figures began to rise in the middle of the throng. Clinging to these bones like long-forgotten coverings of flesh were the gray forms of the wraiths.
In front of the tarek rose a skeleton with glowing, citrine-yellow eyes. As the abomination reached for his throat, the gladiator screamed and used his axe to lop both hands off at the forearms. The wraith adjusted its attack and thrust the jagged ends of the skeleton’s arms into its foe’s meaty throat.
The tarek was not the only gladiator to fall. Dozens of Tyrians lashed out at the shambling skeletons, bashing skulls, hacking off arms, shattering whole racks of ribs. Nothing helped. The wraiths ignored the damage and struck back with the jagged ends of their fleshlike limbs. Within moments, fifteen warriors lay in the bones, groaning in agony or simply watching their life blood drain away.
Neeva and those with her rushed into the fray. Rikus quickly lost sight of the others, but he saw Neeva splinter a skeleton from head to pelvis with a downward stroke of her mighty axe. Her effort was to little avail. The wraith simply abandoned the shattered skeleton in favor of another one, then rose stiffly from the piled bones to counterattack.
“Go back!” Rikus called, stepping past Styan. “If you want to live, return to camp!”
The mul did not need to repeat himself. As he went forward, the gladiators retreated with horrified expressions, some begging him to stay away and others cursing his name. Rikus ignored them and stumbled toward Neeva as fast as he could. Before he reached her, a skeleton rose at her side and thrust a broken shard of hand into her ribs. She screamed and spun around to hit the thing with the flat of her axe blade, but Rikus reached it first and used the Scourge to slice its legs from beneath it.
“Rikus, what did you do?” Neeva cried, running her gaze over the dead and dying gladiators strewn over the bones. “What are these monsters?”
Two more skeletons rose at her side.
“Go!” Rikus yelled, shoving her toward camp.
In the same instant, Caelum stepped out of the crowd, one hand raised toward the sun and the other pointed at Neeva. “Away!” he cried.
A crimson light flared from his palm, illuminating everything before it in a wash of blinding scarlet. The two wraiths flanking Neeva hissed and shrieked in agony, then dived back into the bones and shot away.
Inside Rikus’s breast, Tamar’s ruby began to sear the inflamed flesh of his wound. The mul felt as though his chest had been pierced by a bar of newly forged iron. Screaming, Rikus turned away to shield the wound from the dwarf’s spell. The pain eased, but did not go away entirely.
Run! Run! Hide us from the sunflame! For once, Tamar was pleading, not ordering.
No!
The mul faced Caelum and threw his robe open to expose the ruby to the full force of the dwarf’s spell. The scorching in his chest grew excruciating, and he heard himself howl in agony.
Stop! begged Tamar.
Leave my body! Rikus demanded. Leave or I’ll destroy you!
Though he feared he would burst into flames at any moment, Rikus moved forward. The pain grew more horrible with each step, he could hardly believe that the bestial shrieks filling his ears came from his own mouth. The mul closed his mind to the sound and the pain.
The sunflame hurts, but does not destroy, the wraith said, her voice rasping with pain. You’ll destroy yourself, but I will remain.
The smell of burning flesh came to the mul’s nose as a wisp of greasy black smoke rose from his wound. Tamar’s ruby gleamed bright orange, a glowing ember flickering deep inside his breast.
Who will lead your legion from this valley? the wraith pressed, every word betraying her agony. Who will destroy Maetan, who will return the ancient book to the dwarves?
The mul’s skin began to char and blacken around the ruby, but Tamar still showed no signs of leaving.
Your warriors fear that you have become one of us. If you let yourself die, who will tell them otherwise? Tamar demanded. Who will tell Neeva?
Rikus looked up and saw Caelum’s angry red eyes locked on his. The cleric stood with his hand thrust toward the mul’s face, and in the dwarf’s palm flashed a miniature crimson sun.
The mul waved a hand in the direction of the dying gladiators. “I … didn’t … do … this!” he cried.
Caelum moved forward, his jaw set in determination and his flaming hand held out before him. A red light shot from the mul’s breast, and flames began to lick across his chest. Rikus clamped a hand over Tamar’s ruby, then spun and scrambled away from the sun cleric as fast as he could.
THIRTEEN
CAELUM’S
VICTORY
A DEEP BOOM RUMBLED FROM BENEATH THE CRATER’S fiery roots, shaking the whole basin and sending an ominous shudder over the ash-covored slopes of the surrounding mountains. The night sky answered with a brilliant sheet of scarlet lightning, silhouetting hundreds of spears, glaives, and axes along the rim of the caldera. The weapons were shouldered by a long line of Tyrian warriors, anxiously awaiting Rikus as he climbed out of the deep basin bel
ow.
Ten days ago, they had gathered all their non-magical metal articles—a dozen daggers, three axeheads, some spear-points, and an assortment of pins and buckles—and given the items to a half-elf skilled in weaponsmithing. The smith had used the fire-belching fissure in the crater to heat a makeshift forge and melt the pieces. From this small supply of metal, he had fashioned a handful of crude hammers and primitive chisels that the legion had used to carve a long series of steps into the cliffside. This stairway had allowed the legion to climb out of the Crater Of Bones without descending the lava channel and being forced to fight the Urikites at a disadvantage. Now the Tyrians would be able to approach their enemy from the mountainside, on a broad front.
As Rikus stepped from the last stair onto the cinder-covered mountainside, several templars uttered hushed words of praise, hailing the mul for delivering the legion from the crater’s confines. The gladiators simply looked down the mountain to where, far below, the Urikites remained in camp. After ten days of drinking sulfurous water condensed from steam vents and eating whatever they could catch scurrying beneath the bones, the former slaves were eager to begin the battle.
Caelum stepped from the crowd. After casting a wary eye at Rikus’s chest, the dwarf said, “The sun will shine with favor on us today.” He had to squint to protect his red eyes against the ash stirred up by the stiff wind. “The rumbling ground and the lightning are good signs.”
“They also woke our enemies,” Rikus growled.
He peered down the mountainside. Bathed in the flaxen light of Athas’s two moons, the cinder-covered slope looked like a great pile of golden pebbles. In the shadows at the base of the hill, where the Urikites had made their camp, dozens of flickering points of light were rushing to and fro. Rikus could only hope that, in the darkness, the men carrying the torches couldn’t see his legion and were responding to the tremor. Given the pale light shrouding the hillside, however, he thought it wisest to expect the worst.
“Give the order to advance,” Rikus said, speaking loudly enough so that everyone in the immediate vicinity could hear.
An anxious rustle worked its way down the line as hushed voices repeated his command. A few moments later, the Tyrians began to descend, half-stepping and half-sliding down the gritty slope.
Rikus signaled his lieutenants to join their companies, but before they could leave, Caelum cried, “Wait!”
“Why? Is something wrong?” the mul demanded, staring at the dark cloud of ash rising behind the advancing line.
Caelum pointed down at the fissure in the caldera. The long crevice was spewing a curtain of fire and molten rock into the air. “I can call upon the sun for aid.”
Gaanon peered down at Caelum. “What do you mean?”
“I can summon a river of fire from the fissure,” the dwarf explained. “It will run down the valley and swallow Maetan’s camp.”
“Don’t burn quarry!” K’kriq objected, his antennae writhing in distress.
Neeva and the others raised their brows in interest, knowing that such magic would guarantee their victory. Nevertheless, no one spoke in support of the plan.
Finally Rikus asked the question that was on all of their minds. “What of Drewet and her warriors?”
For the last ten days, the red-haired half-elf and a hundred volunteers had guarded the mouth of the canyon, keeping the Urikites from sending patrols up the narrow gulch. If Caelum filled the gorge with lava, the small company would be burned alive.
It was Styan who answered the mul’s question. “Caelum offers us certain victory,” said the gray-haired templar. “We would be fools not to take it.”
“Then we are fools,” Rikus said flatly. “The price is to high.”
Jaseela glanced down into the depths of the canyon. “Perhaps we can withdraw the troops,” she suggested.
“Not quickly enough,” observed Neeva. “Our gladiators will join battle in minutes. It would take an hour to reach Drewet with a message and allow her to climb to safety.”
“Then no burn Urikites,” said K’knq, relieved. Without waiting for further debate, the thri-kreen started down the hill after the rest of the legion.
When the others started to follow, Styan raised a hand to stop them. “Drewet and her company have already offered their lives on Tyr’s behalf,” he said tentatively.
Rikus stopped, puzzled by the templar’s insistence. The only reason Styan still lived was his newfound popularity with the gladiators, for the mutiny had convinced Rikus that Styan was the spy. Given that, it did not make sense for the templar to press so hard for something that would devastate both Maetan’s force and his popular support.
When the mul did nothing to silence Styan, the templar continued more confidently. “What difference does it make whether Drewet falls to Urikite swords or to a river of fire?
“Not that a templar would understand, but the difference is between honor and betrayal,” the mul sneered.
No. The difference is between victory and defeat, interrupted Tamar. Give up Drewet’s company. You will save more of your precious legion and guarantee Maetan’s capture.
Rikus ignored the wraith and pulled his robe over his chest. After Caelum’s spell had scorched the skin around the ruby, the wound had progressed from a festering sore to a bloated, blackened ulcer that constantly oozed yellow pus and stank like dead flesh. Most of the time, the mul’s left arm ached too much to use, and the fingers of his hands varied in color between putrid yellow and vile blue. Caelum had reluctantly offered to use his magic on the wound, but, after the dwarf had turned away Tamar’s fellows during the mutiny, Rikus feared the wraith would use the opportunity to attack the cleric.
Another rumble sounded from inside the mountain. A geyser of orange fire shot from the crevice, spraying molten rock to both sides of the fissure. Caelum studied the beads of glowing lava for a moment, then clenched his teeth and faced Rikus.
“If my dwarves were in the canyon, I would want you to use the fire river,” he said harshly. “So would they.”
“If you were with them, I might,” the mul snapped, glaring at the dwarf. Immediately he regretted his angry words, but only because they betrayed how hurt he was by the growing relationship between Caelum and Neeva.
“A good commander would not let his personal feelings interfere with his judgment,” Caelum noted, speaking in the tone of reasoned argument.
Resisting the temptation to reach for his sword, Rikus said, “Caelum, so far Styan is the only one supporting your plan.” He paused and looked at his other lieutenants. “If anyone else agrees with you, you can summon your river of fire. Otherwise, we attack without it.”
Caelum glanced at the other company leaders. Although they all avoided his glance, the dwarf’s face betrayed his confidence that they would sit with him.
“I’m with Rikus, whatever he decides,” Gaanon said. After the incident with the wraiths, the half-giant had stopped imitating the mul’s dress, but he remained one of Rikus’s loyal supporters.
Caelum turned to Jaseela, his eyes still confident of victory. “What do you think?”
The noblewoman shook her head. “It’s a good plan,” she said. “But not if it assures victory at the price of integrity. I say no.”
The dwarf frowned at her. “You can’t mean that.”
When Jaseela nodded, Caelum looked to Neeva. She stood several yards beyond the noblewoman.
Neeva avoided the dwarf’s gaze by looking down the mountainside. A great cloud of ash had risen between the leaders and their troops, obscuring their view of the advance. “If we don’t hurry, we’ll miss the battle.
“What about Caelum’s plan?” Rikus pressed. He knew what her answer would be, but if the dwarf did not hear it from her lips he would not be satisfied.
Neeva faced the mul with pleading eyes. “Don’t do this, Rikus.”
“You’ve got to answer,” the mul said.
Neeva glared at him for a moment, then softened her expression and looked to Ca
elum. “Your river would save lives in the long run, but we just can’t execute a hundred of our own warriors.”
Caelum jaw’s fell. “Why are you siding with Rikus?” he demanded. “My plan is good—”
“You heard her answer. That’s the end of it,” the mul insisted, enjoying the dwarf’s disappointment. “Now join your warriors. We’ve got a fight to win.”
With that, Rikus drew his sword and led the way toward the base of the mountain. The others followed, descending the slope in a series of great leaps. Each time they landed, their feet sank deep into the ash. They then slid a few feet before launching themselves down the hill again.
The two subcommanders that Rikus trusted most, Neeva and Jaseela, went toward the flanks. He and Gaanon charged to the center to lead the handpicked company of gladiators that would spearhead the attack, with the templars to their left and the dwarves to their right.
After more than a minute of rapid descent, Rikus and Gaanon entered the billowing gray cloud behind their warriors. The mul immediately began to cough and choke, his mouth coated with dry, bitter ash. The fine grit blocked out the weak light of the moons, and everything went black. Even Rikus’s dwarven sight was of little use, for it could not penetrate the airborne soot. The only heat emanation he could see was a white glow coming from somewhere deep below the cinder-covered surface of the volcano.
Within a few steps, the mul and the half-giant cleared the worst part of the ash cloud and found themselves in the midst of the Tyrian line, which continued to descend in a steady march. Followed closely by Gaanon, Rikus passed through the tangled ranks, his superstitious gladiators scrambling to move aside before he brushed against them. Twice the mul had to stifle sharp responses as he overheard someone whisper, “Murdering sorcerer!”
When he slipped out of the crowd, Rikus saw he had almost reached the bottom of the hill. Two dozen steps away, the cinders spilled off the mountain in great fan-shaped heaps more than thirty feet high. Guthay, the larger of Athas’s flaxen moons, lit the southern sides of the cinder heaps in brilliant yellow light. The northern sides, lit by smaller Ral, seemed almost dark by comparison, with the pale, milky glow washing over their gentle slopes.
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