Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 2 - The Crimson Legion (30 page)

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 pain 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, and 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 sell 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.

Caelum's Victory

A deep boom rambled from beneath the crater's fiery roots, shaking the whole basin and
sending an ominous shudder over the ash-covered 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
below.

Ten days ago, they had gathered all their non-magical metal articlesÑa dozen daggers,
three axeheads, some spearpoints, and an assortment of pins and bucklesÑand 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 anxious 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 for 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 his 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 too 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'kriq, 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 so 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 rivet 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 hand 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 side 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 Caelum- “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 goodÑ”

“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 a pale, milky glow washing over their gentle slopes.

Beyond the ash fans, the terrain became a jumble, with the tips of sharp, jagged boulders
protruding from a shoal of black shadows. A few yards into the murkiness stood the
triple-ranked silhouettes of a Urikite line, the yellow crests of" Hamanu's lion gleaming
brightly on most of their dark tunics, and the red double-headed Serpent of Lubar
glimmering more faintly on the rest.

Though he was not surprised to find the Urikites waiting for his attack, Rikus was
immediately struck by the lack of archers and slingers in the army. All three ranks were
armed with long spears angled toward the approaching Tyrians, with black shields slung
over their free arms and obsidian short swords dangling from their belts.

“Something's wrong,” Rikus observed, stopping at the top of an ash heap. The Tyrian
warriors halted behind the mul, awaiting his order in tense silence. “Maetan's not stupid.
He can't think his soldiers will beat our gladiators in hand-to-hand combat.”

“He's made mistakes before,” said Gaanon.

“Not this obvious,” Rikus answered, running his eyes along his foe's ranks.

There was no time to count, but the enemy line was nearly as long as that formed by the
fifteen hundred warriors in Rikus's legion. Considering that the Urikites stood there
deep, the mul estimated that Maetan had more than four thousand troops. That number did
not include any reinforcements hiding in the darkness beyond the lines.