Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 2 - The Crimson Legion (13 page)

Recognizing the gladiator, Rikus exclaimed, “Laban!”

“Are you injured?” asked Neeva.

“I'm more frightened than hurt,” came the shaky reply.

As Laban spoke, he began to descend more slowly. The half-elf's normally robust complexion
was the color of salt, his peaked eyebrows were arched much more than normal, and his
bloodshot eyes bulged halfway from their sockets. Otherwise, Laban seemed remarkably
composed and well for a man who had just fallen several hundred feet.

When the gladiator descended to within reach, Neeva took him by the shoulders and helped
him to his feet. “Wrog sent me down to invite you to the nest,” he said. He pointed at the
dark circle in the bottom of the warren. “Stand under the door, and he'll bring you up.”

“What sort of people are these, Laban?” Rikus asked, moving into position.

“They call themselves the Kes'trekels,” the half-elf answered. “They're a slave tribe.”

“Good,” Rikus said. “It won't be hard to work things out.”

“Don't be too sure,” Laban said. He gestured at the mul's sword. “He said no weapons.”

Rikus frowned, then unsheathed his sword and held it out to Neeva. “You know what to
expect from the Scourge?” he asked.

She cast a wary eye at the blade, but nodded. “I was there when Lyanius gave it to you.”

As soon as her hand touched the hilt, Neeva's eyes rolled back in her head. “Quiet!” she
screamed, dropping to her knees.

At the same time, Rikus began to rise at a steady rate. “Listen to my voice,” Rikus said.
“You'll be able to hear what I say up there.”

In answer, Neeva screamed.

As he ascended, Rikus continued speaking to Neeva, giving her advice on how to control the
sword's powers. At first, she dropped the weapon and covered her ears. A moment later, she
picked it up again and held onto it.

“That's better,” Rikus said. “If you're able to control the blade, at least a little, and
can hear me, step toward Laban.”

Neeva continued to glare at the mul, but did as asked. Breathing a sigh of relief, Rikus
looked toward the warren, studying it and its surroundings. The nest was much higher off
the ground than he had realized. His companions, now far below, seemed no larger than his
thumbs, and their forms were shrinking at a steady pace. By the time he neared the
warren's entrance, he knew why the slave tribe had chosen this place for their aerie. It
was the highest accessible spot in the gorge. Long sections of canyon floor were visible
in both directions. Even without a formal watch, the Kes'trekel tribe would have a chance
of seeing intruders from the windows of their homes.

More importantly, the nest afforded a view of both ends of the canyon. At the month of the
gorge,
a dark blotch of tiny figuresÑthe Tyrian legionÑwaited in a field of orange and brown
rocks. In the other direction, the ravine cut through the badland ridges like a great
sword gash, running more or less in a straight line to the yellow dunes of the sand wastes
beyond. It was exactly the shortcut the mul needed to beat Maetan to the next oasis.

Rikus reached the nest entrance and a dark shadow fell over his shoulders. As he drifted
up past the floor, the mul was temporarily blinded as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.
The clammy room stank of sweat and unbathed bodies, though the rangy scent of fresh
silverbush helped mask the stench.

“Do I know you?” growled a throaty voice. The mul took it to be Wrog's.

Rikus looked up and saw the hulking form of a huge half-man silhouetted against the
scarlet light of a window. The shadowy figure stood easily two heads taller than the mul,
with a body both more massive and more heavily muscled. Wrog held one hand over Rikus's
head. The glint of gold on one finger suggested that an enchanted ring provided the magic
that had levitated him into the room.

“I'm Rikus,” the mul said. By the whispers of recognition rustling through the group, he
guessed that at least some of the escaped slaves in the large chamber knew him from his
days in the arena at Tyr.

Wrog glanced around the room. “It appears I should be impressed.” After a short pause, he
added, “I'm not.”

As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, the mul saw that Wrog was a lask, one of the
new races periodically born in the deep desert. His leathery hide, mottled orange and
gray, would serve as excellent camouflage in the rocky barrens that covered much of Athas.
The hands that hung at the end of the half-man's gangling arms had only three fingers and
a thumb, all of which ended in sharp claws. Wrog's head was flat and squarish, with a
crest of golden points rising from a mass of wrinkled skin. His large, orange-rimmed eyes
were set above a thick, boxlike muzzle, from which protruded a pair of sturdy golden
fangs, slightly curved inward like an insect's pincers. In Rikus's days as a gladiator,
the lask might have been an interesting challenge.

Now, however, the mul was interested only in winning Wrog's' friendship. Rikus stepped to
the wooden floor. Glancing around the chamber, he saw nearly thirty escaped slaves of all
races. Many had ghastly scars on their hands and legs, no doubt earned in the obsidian
quarries of Urik.

Scattered in a dozen places around the room were archers armed with long, double-curved
bows. They all held obsidian-tipped arrows nocked on their bowstrings, and peered down at
Neeva and her companions through small openings in the floor.

In one corner lay K'kriq. The thri-kreen was tightly wrapped in a net of red,
thorn-covered cords. Rikus was surprised to see that his friend had actually shredded pan
of the mesh, for the mul had often used similar snares in the arena and knew them to be
all but unbreakable and uncuttable. The strands were made from the tendrils of an elven
rope, a contorted mass of cactus that lashed out with its needle-covered tentacles to
entwine careless animals and draw their life-giving fluids from their bodies.

Although K'kriq's arms and legs were pinned to his sides, four men surrounded him, their
obsidian-tipped spears ready to thrust at the slightest movement. Nearby kneeled the rest
of the Tyrian scouts, their hands bound and their mouths gagged with tanned snakeskins.
Although a few had suffered minor cuts and bruises, it appeared their captors had not
mistreated them severely.

After inspecting the room, Rikus looked back to Wrog. “You didn't hurt my warriors, so
there's no need for trouble between us. Use your magic to let us down safely and we'll be
on our way.”

Wrog lifted his upper lip in what could have been
a sneer or a smile. “I can't do that,” he said. “You and your warriors can
stay he
re with us, or leave on your own.” He peered through the hole in the floor meaningfully.
“The choice is yours.”

The mul narrowed his eyes. “There's no reason to start a fight with us. We're from Tyr,
the Free City. All we intend to do is march through your canyon and catch Maetan of Urik
on the far side.”

“What for?” asked a crusty old dwarf. He had a horrible red scar running across both of
his forearms.

“To kill him,” Rikus answered. “Lord Lubar led an army against Tyr, and now he'll pay with
his life.”

Many of those in the room uttered approving comments, which did not surprise the mul. In
addition to its gladiatorial pits, Family Lubar owned the largest quarrying concession in
Urik. No doubt, many slaves in the large chamber had been raised in the grimy Lubar pens.

“I say we let them go,” said the old dwarf. “We've all heard about the rebellion in Tyr.
The Kes'trekels have nothing to fear from a legion of theirs.”

Several of those marked by grisly quarry scare voiced their agreement, but many others
shouted them down. Wrog looked at the contentious group with one eye narrowed. After
studying them for a moment, he turned back to the mul.

“When it comes to Maetan of Family Lubar, I don't think you'll be the one who does the
killing, Rikus,” Wrog said, spitting the mul's name out disdainfully. “To send a scout up
our canyon was smart. It saved your legion from being ambushed. Dispatching a second group
to meet the same fate as the thri-kreen wasn't so smart. But coming yourself, that was
stupidÑeven for a mul.”

“We value each of our warriors, as well we might,” Rikus countered hotly. “We've already
defeated a Urikite legion five times our size.” The mul did not add that they could defeat
a slave tribe just as easily, though his glare carried the unspoken threat.

Wrog's orange-rimmed eyes showed more anger than concern. “You would find the Kes'trekels
a more cunning enemy” the lask replied. “If you value the lives of your warriors as dearly
as you claim, you have but one choice: join our tribe. Try to do anything else, and I will
destroy your legion as you say you destroyed the Urikites.”

Only the knowledge that starting a fight could result in the quick deaths of K'kriq and
his other four scouts kept the mul from lashing out at Wrog. Despite his growing anger,
Rikus realized that fighting was not the best way to solve this problem. Even if he
managed to escape the nest with K'kriq and the four gladiators, he would lose too many
warriors trying to fight through the slave tribe's narrow canyon. He had to find a better
way.

“If it comes to a fight between your tribe and my legion, both of us will lose more
warriors than we like,” the mul said, swallowing his pride. Deciding to take a bold risk,
he continued, “Instead, we should fight together.”

“Why should we risk our lives for Tyr?” Wrog demanded, his voice haughty and disdainful.

“For a home in the Free City,” the mul answered, looking around the chamber. “If you fight
with us, you'll receive land and protection from slave-takers.”

Before any of his followers could voice their opinions, Wrog spat out an answer. “Land
will do us no good. We are not farm slaves,” he sneered. “As for slave-takers, we have
less reason to fear them here than we would in your city. So far, Urik's legions have not
found our nest. They can find your city readily enough.”

“You have nothing to offer us,” said a young, red-haired man. The area around his eyes was
covered by a pair of star-shaped tattoos.

“Iron,” said K'kriq. The thri-kreen's guards tapped his shell with their speartips, but
the mantis-warrior paid them no attention. “Slave tribes like iron.”

Rikus smiled. “K'kriq is right,” he said. “Tyr can pay you in iron.”

Even Wrog could not ignore this offer. “How much?”

“One pound per week, for every hundred warriors who join us,” Rikus answered.

“I'm with you,” said the man with the tattooed eyes.

“Me, too,” said a female mul. Her face was only slightly less rugged than Rikus's, and
when she grinned she showed a mouthful of teeth filed to needle-sharp points. “I could use
a good axe-blade.”

As several others also announced their intentions to join the Tyrians, Wrog studied Rikus
with a suspicious air. Finally he said, “We accept your offer, but only if you prove your
readiness to pay such a high price.”

“You have my promise,” Rikus said.

“You can't make an axe out of a promise,” growled the female mul.

The man with the tattooed eyes also withdrew his offer, as did the others who had pledged
their support.

Angered by the sudden change of mood, Rikus scowled. “If anyone doubts that my word is
goodÑ”

“Show us the iron,” Wrog interrupted, his upper lip raised in his peculiar imitation of a
smile. “Then we will not doubt your promise.”

“No legion carries raw iron with it,” the mul snapped.

“What of your weapons?” asked Wrog.

“My warriors' blades are not mine to pledge,” Rikus answered. “Besides, we have only a few
steel weapons.”

There were more than a few sighs of disappointment, but no one suggested taking the mul at
his word. Wrog smirked at Rikus, then pointed at the nest's exit. “That leaves your
original decision. Stay or jump.”

Or fight, Rikus added silently. He did not like the third option any better than the first
two. Even for him, it would be difficult to destroy so many opponents before the escape
slaves killed K'kriq and the four gladiators. Not even Neeva and her companions would
survive long enough to flee, for the mul did not doubt that Wrog would order his archers
to fire as soon as a fight broke out.

Realizing that he had nothing left to lose, Rikus decided to chance a desperate gamble.
“If the king of Tyr promises to pay the iron I offered, will you join my legion?”

“How can he do that?” Wrog demanded. “Is he with you?”

“He's in Tyr,” Rikus answered. “Will you agree?”

Wrog started to shake his head, but the man with the painted eyes interrupted him. “The
caravan slaves say this Tithian is a king of the enslaved. They say he freed them from
their noble masters, and that he lets them drink from his wells for free. If such a man
promises, I'll fight.”

One by one, the man's fellows echoed his sentiments, and at last Wrog nodded his square
head.

The mul reached into his belt pouch and withdrew the olivine he had taken from Styan.
“With this crystal, you'll hear and see King Tithian,” he explained.

Wrog narrowed his flaxen eyes. “I know better than to trust a sorcerer,” he said. “You
could be tricking me.”

“I'm no sorcerer,” Rikus snapped. He pointed at the lask's ring. “You have your ring, I
have my gem.”

When Wrog did not object to this line of reasoning, Rikus held the olivine out at arm's
length and stared into it. A moment later, Tithian's face appeared inside the green depths
of the gem. The king was wearing the golden diadem he had taken from Kalak, and there was
scowl of displeasure on his heavy lips. From the angle of the king's narrow stare, it
appeared that he was staring down at someone who was either Kneeling or lying at his feet.

Rikus did not hesitate to interrupt him. “Mighty King.” Tithian's liver-colored eyes
looked up and his mouth fell open in shock. “Rikus!” he hissed. “You're alive!”