Dark Sun: Prism Pentad 2 - The Crimson Legion (38 page)

Unfortunately, the rest of Caelum's company was not faring so well. Although twenty or
thirty wounded half-giants lay thrashing and groaning on the ground, the cobblestones were
slick with the blood and gore of dead dwarves. Rikus guessed that more than a hundred had
already fallen, and it would not be long before the remainder joined them.

Fortunately, help was on the way. Most of the Tyrian warriors had been in the slave pits
organizing the Urikite slaves, and now they were rushing toward the gate to join the
fight. Rikus estimated that they would arrive in plenty of time to prevent the Imperial
Guard from breaking through into the pits.

Seeing that there were no more orders to give, the mul reached for his sword. With some
surprise, he realized that he had been so busy giving orders that he had not even
considered drawing it yet.

“I'm getting to be too much of a general,” he grumbled.

“Too far from hunt,” K'kriq agreed. “No joy.”

As Rikus's hand touched the Scourge's hilt, the horrid sounds of battle all came to him at
once: death screams, clanging weapons, deafening explosions, officers shouting orders, his
own breath roaring in and out of his lungs, the four-beat cadence of the thri-kreen's
heart. For a moment he reeled, too stunned by the incredible din to move.

K'kriq caught Rikus by the shoulder. “Go now!”

Cringing at what sounded like a shout to him, Rikus concentrated on the sound of K'kriq's
beating heart and said, “You don't have to come with me.” Immediately the sounds of battle
faded to mere background noise. Rikus was dimly aware of each individual sound, but was no
longer over-powered by them. “You understand what I'm doing?”

K'kriq spread his antennae to indicate a positive answer. “Hunt big game,” he said.
“K'kriq come.”

Rikus smiled, then started to move along the edge of the pit toward Hamanu's fortress.
Behind him, the crack and thunder of war magic rumbled almost constantly from the gateway.
The screams of the dying blurred into a single, long shriek.

The mul moved slowly along the base of the wall separating the slave compound from the
boulevard outside, carefully listening for a single sound. With the Scourge's aid, he had
little trouble hearing the muffled noises coming over the wall: the tramp of hob-nailed
boots, war-templars shouting harsh commands to the half-giants of the Imperial Guard, the
heavy breathing of messengers as they ran back and forth between the gateway and Hamanu's
fortress. Often, a loud explosion or a pained scream temporarily overwhelmed the other
sounds coming from the street.

After Rikus and K'kriq had progressed close to fifty yards along the wall, Gaanon caught
up to them and fell into line without a word. Behind the half-giant followed a small
company of warriors.

“What are you doing here?” Rikus asked.

“Jaseela told us what you're doing,” answered the half-giant.

After a short pause, Rikus asked, “So?”

“We volunteered to help,” answered one of the men, a square-jawed brute named Canth. “Over
the past few weeks, some of us haven't understood what you're doing,” he said. “But
nowÑwell, we can't let you try this alone.” Rikus smiled. “My thanks,” he said. “I could
use the help.”

Before continuing on his way, the mul took a moment to check on the battle near the gate.
The entrance yard had been reduced to a wasteland of smoking craters, littered with the
charred bodies of dwarves, gladiators, and enemy half-giants. The Urikites had been turned
back, and Tyrian gladiators were forcing their way out of the slave pits. Farther away,
several lines of Urikite slaves were climbing ropes and disappearing over the southern
wall, unruffled by the barrage of war magic being hurled at them from Hamanu's fortress.

Rikus turned back to the wall and moved forward once again. Finally, a dozen yards shy of
Hamanu's fortress, the mul heard what he had been listening for.

“Mighty King, the Imperial Guard is fighting valiantly in your name,” said a nervous man.
“Surely you can see that?” “The only thing I see is my guard being beaten back,” responded
a sharp, bitter voice.

There was a short pause before the man replied, “The Tyrians are gladiators, Mighty
Hamanu. They're trained toÑ”

“This battle has already cost me more slaves than we stand to gain by capturing the
Tyrians,” spat Hamanu. “If we lose many more, the officers of the Imperial Guard will be
working my obsidian quarries.”

The mul needed to hear no more. “Hamanu is on the other side,” he whispered. “Boost me up
to have a look, Gaanon.”

The half-giant laid his great hammer aside, then obediently made a stirrup for the mul's
foot.

When Gaanon lifted him high enough to peer over the wall, Rikus saw the reason for
Hamanu's anger. A short distance down the boulevard, dead half-giants and Urikite templars
covered the street so thickly that they hid the cobblestone pavement. Tyrian gladiators
were charging out of the gate leading to the slave pits, rushing forward to press the
attack against the Imperial Guard.

As encouraging as the mul found the sight, however, it was another that drew his
attention. A few yards away from the gate, most of Styan's company lay scattered over the
boulevard, their lifeless bodies sprawled beneath the feet of the Imperial Guard. Most of
the men held swords or other weapons in their hands. They had obviously died fighting.
Rikus even picked out Styan's long gray hair, crowning a lifeless body sprawled across one
of the few half-giants that had fallen in the battle. Whatever the templar may have been,
and no matter how much trouble he had caused, the mul now realized that he could not have
been a traitor.

Rikus frowned. “If Styan isn't the traitor, then who is?” he asked himself.

Why does there have to be a spy?
Tamar countered.
You are stupid enough to be your own traitor. Only a fool would try this.

Rikus ignored the wraith and looked down at Gaanon. “Lift me the rest of the way up. Send
everyone else over as fast as you can.”

An instant later, Rikus found himself looking down upon the slave boulevard from atop the
narrow wall. He paused for less than a second, only long enough to see that the street
below was crowded with half-giants, and to glimpse a worried war-templar standing beside a
tall, vigorous man wearing a golden tunic. In his hand, the tall man held a long staff of
pure steel, with a great globe of obsidian or the top.

Not wishing to give his victim the benefit of even a moment's warning, Rikus threw himself
from the wall Though the figure wore no crown, the obsidian globe atop his staff left no
doubt in the mul's mind that this was Hamanu. The glassy black balls allowed those who had
mastered both sorcery and the Way to draw upon the life force of men and animals for their
spells. Only a sorcerer-king could control such powerful magic.

Rikus's plan was as hasty as his fall. As the mul's shadow fell across the king, Hamanu
looked up and sneered. Then he flicked his wrist ever so slightly.

Rikus felt the world lurch. He continued to fall, but in slow motion. As he drifted
another foot downward, he had many moments to study the face of his foe. The sorcerer-king
had close-cropped silver hair, dark skin stretched tight over ruthless features, and eyes
as yellow and heartless as gold.

Rikus swung his sword, trying to overcome the terrible sense of dread settling over him.
The blade hardly moved, leaving the mul with little to do except despair at how easily
Hamanu had countered his attack.

Fool!
laughed Tamar.
You let him use the Way on you.

Help me!
Rikus demanded. He could not keep the desperation from his plea.

Caelum is still alive,
Tamar retorted.
I will do nothingÑ until I am confident you will foil the dwarf's plan and give me the
book.

I've already promised it to you,
Rikus said.

And to the dwarves, as well,
the wraith responded.
I require further reassurances.

Hamanu will kill me! How will you find the book then?

If you wish my help, swear on Neeva's life,
Tamar answered, ignoring his question.
Otherwise, I will allow Hamanu to slay youÑand your legion perishes.

As Rikus continued to descend, Hamanu smiled, revealing four large canines and a mouthful
of needlelike incisors.
I swear,
Rikus answered.

A sick feeling of guilt came over the mul, but he did not try to rationalize his
duplicity. The time to choose between the two promises he had made would come laterÑif he
lived long enough for it to come at all.

Be ready,
Tamar said.

Rikus felt an ominous pang over his heart as Tamar struggled to free him. Again he tried
to swing his sword, but to no more effect than the first attempt. He simply continued to
sink toward Hamanu at a torpid pace. Still grinning, the sorcerer-king stepped
effortlessly from beneath Rikus and moved his steel staff into a guarding position.

He's too strong!
Tamar reported, her voice now alarmed and weak from exertion.
You must help. See yourself on the ground, where you should be if you fell normally.

Rikus shifted his gaze to the cobblestones at the sorcerer-king's feet and pictured
himself standing there. A surge of energy rose from deep within himself. Again he felt the
eerie pang over his heart as Tamar mustered her own energies.

Suddenly the mul found himself lying on the street. He did not recall breaking free of
Hamanu's mental grip, or feeling his skull crack into the stones, or even the sensation of
falling as he covered the last few feet between him and the ground. In one instant, he was
simply lying with his face pressed against the hot cobblestones, his vision a white blur,
his body washed in agony.

Rikus rolled onto his good side and saw that he had landed between Hamanu and the nervous
war-templar. More than a dozen startled half-giants stared over the two men's shoulders
with shocked expressions. Several of the guards raised their spears to attack, but the
sorcerer-king stopped them with a wave of his hand.

Hamanu used his staff to gesture at the war-templar. “Niscet, the slave is yours to kill.”

With a pale face, the war-templar reached for the steel sword hanging from his belt.

“No, Niscet,” the king said. “With your hands.”

“Mighty King, the gladiator is armed. I can't kill him without a weapon!”

“No?” Hamanu replied, his handsome features animated by the glow of brutal delight. “What
a pity for you.”

Rikus rolled toward Niscet, slicing upward with his sword. The blade opened a long gash in
the templar's abdomen, slicing through the scale armor hidden beneath his yellow robe. The
templar screamed in pain and, as the mul crashed into his legs, fell face-first on top of
Rikus.

The mul scrambled from beneath the dying man, then struggled to his feet. As he whirled
around, he glimpsed K'kriq and several gladiators leaping from the wall. Then Rikus found
himself facing a pair of half-giants who had moved forward to protect Hamanu.

“Leave this pathetic would-be regicide to me,” said the sorcerer-king, stepping between
the two guards. He fixed his yellow eyes on the mul, then asked, “Rikus, is it not?” For a
reply, Rikus jumped forward, swinging the Scourge at the sorcerer-king's neck. A few
inches shy of its target, the blade rang out as though it had struck stone. A shimmering
blue aura flared around Hamanu's body, and red and black sparks sputtered high into the
air as the mul's magical sword passed through the barrier. Rikus yelled in triumph,
already relishing the sight of the sorcerer-king's head flying off his neck.

The mul's cry fell abruptly silent as the Scourge reached Hamanu's flesh. The
sorcerer-king glanced down at the blade, then calmly placed a finger under it and moved it
aside. There was a thin line of blackish red blood where Rikus's blow had gently touched
Hamanu, but otherwise the king remained uninjured.

“Answer me!” Hamanu boomed.

The sorcerer-king's voice roared over Rikus like thunder. The mul's ears, made more
sensitive by the Scourge's magic, reverberated with agony. Rikus stumbled away, stunned,
his head filled with terrible, sharp pain. He did not stop until he reached the center of
the street, where he felt a pair of spearpoints in his back. He glanced up and saw the
snarling faces of two half-giants looming over him.

Hamanu followed the mul, his fangs bared and his angry golden eyes fixed on Rikus's
cringing form. “You are Rikus, are you not?” he demanded again.

The mul nodded.

Behind the sorcerer-king, Rikus's gladiators continued to pour over the wall, screaming
ferocious war cries and leaping into battle with the Imperial Guard. Already the Tyrians
had beaten the half-giants away from the wall and were slowly pressing the fight toward
Hamanu.

For a moment, the sorcerer-king regarded Rikus with a look of bemusement. Finally he shook
his head. “You are a daring fool, Tyrian. There was a time when I would have been amused
by such audacityÑbut no longer.”

That said, Hamanu muttered an incantation. Rikus felt a surge of energy being pulled from
his inner being, the same as when Sadira used her cane to cast a spell. A queasy feeling
of horror came over the gladiator, for he knew what the sensation meant: in preparation
for using his dragon magic, the sorcerer-king was drawing power from Rikus's body. The
mul's knees began to tremble, and his breath came in labored gasps. Deep within the
obsidian ball that capped Hamanu's steel staff, a ghostly red light flickered to life.

A surge of anger washed over Rikus as he realized how completely in Hamanu's power he was.
Determined not to stand idly by while his life drained away, the mul sprang away from the
spears at his back. At the same time he swung the Scourge at the sorcerer-king's staff,
severing it before the half-giants or Hamanu realized what had happened. The obsidian
globe dropped to the ground, shattering into a dozen pieces. There was a brilliant flash
of red, then a glowing wisp of scarlet smoke rose from the shards and writhed about,
sizzling and hissing like a mad serpent.