The Crimson Legion

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 below.

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 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 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.

Beyond the ash fans, the terrain became a jumble, with the tips of sharp, jagged boulders protuding 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 intense 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 three deep, the mul estimated that Maetan had more than four thousand troops. That number did not include any reinforcments hiding in the darkness beyond the lines.

As Rikus studied the Urikite lines, his warriors began to whisper and mutter to each other. Thanks to the Scourge, he heard every word they said.

“What’s he waiting for-his skeletons?”

“He’s giving them time to think about what we’re going to do to them-or about what they’re going to do to us.”

“Look at how many there are! We’ll never kill them all.”

Realizing that the longer he waited, the more nervous his warriors would grow, the mul pointed his sword toward the Urikite line. “For Tyr!” he bellowed.

“For Tyr!” thundered the warriors.

His ears ringing from his legion’s war cry, Rikus led the way down the ash heap. His warriors’ footfalls raised a choking cloud of ash that robbed them of breath and left them with hardly enough air to keep their lungs filled.

By the time Rikus stepped onto the broken ground of the delta, his ears had stopped ringing. Despite the soot coating their throats and clogging their lungs, his men were still screaming, promising death to the Urikites and despair to their families.

Rikus paid their yells no attention, for the Scourge also brought another voice to his ears-a much more sinister voice, speaking in the hushed tones of a magical incantation. “In the mighty name of King Hamanu, I command the glass rock to rise before our enemies!”

“Magic!” Rikus shouted. “Maetan has templars.”

“Isn’t it enought that he outnumbers us?” Gaanon cried.

Before the mul could answer, a hissing, crackling noise sounded from the enemy line. A long spike of black glass shot from the ground, and Rikus stopped just short of impaling himself on it. Screams of pain and anguish filled the night as Tyrians were gored by the rock. Those not killed outright by the jagged shards of obsidian had their toes and feet sliced to bloody ribbons.

A loud rasp sounded beneath the mul’s feet, and he jumped backward in time to avoid being sliced by a razor-sharp plate of black glass emerging from the ground. He retreated up the ash heap to gain a better vantage point and saw that the templar’s barricade of obsidian had brought his legion to a halt. Most of his warriors were staring at the strange rampart in dumbfounded silence, although a few were cursing and groaning as they vainly attempted to slip between the jagged splinters. In other places, the jingle of the shattered obsidian rang out as more cautious warriors tried to smash a path to their opponents.

“Call them back,” Rikus ordered, pointing at the brave Tyrians who were trying to press the attack. “We’re going to have to go around.”

While Gaanon sent messengers to relay the order, Rikus turned his attention to his left flank. A short distance away, the enemy’s barricade curled toward the mountain, forming a large pen with a steep slope at its back. From what the mul could see, Jaseela’s company stood outside the pen. Fortunately the noblewoman had been wise enough to halt her advance when the rest of the legion stopped moving. Rikus sent a messenger with word to clear a passage through the curved end of the barricade.

Next, Rikus faced Neeva’s end of the line. There, he saw that the barricade gradually grew lower and less menacing, disappearing entirely just beyond Caelum’s dwarves. Neeva’s company was lost in the shadows spilling out of the canyon, but Rikus could hear the sounds of battle tolling in the darkness.

“At least we’ve still got a little luck to spare,” the mul sighed, relieved that the templar’s magic had not been strong enough to entrap his legion. Rikus slipped down from the heap, then motioned for Gaanon to follow him toward Neeva’s company. “Maetan’s templars may have slowed us down, but they won’t save him.”

“Of course not,” the half-giant agreed. “But how are we to get at him with this wall in our way?”

“Go around it, of course.”

As he moved toward Neeva’s brigade, the mul ordered everyone he encountered to go in the opposite direction, toward Jaseela’s company. Soon, the legion was streaming toward the far end of the field, shouting dire threats over the obsidian barricade that protected the Urikites.

When Rikus reached Caelum’s dwarves, they were stubbornly hacking away at the obsidian barricade and refusing to flee. The mul grabbed the first one he came to, shoving him roughly toward Jaseela’s flank.

“Go!” he ordered. “You’ll just get yourself killed if you try to fight the Urikites through this wall.”

The dwarf picked up his warhammer and returned to the obsidian barricade. “Maetan is over there,” he grunted, hardly glancing at Rikus.

Caelum hurried to the mul’s side. “Why are you fleeing the battle?”

“I’m not running away. But we’re not going to win anything by concentrating on breaking down the-”

The mul stopped in midsentence as the distant voice of Maetan’s templar came to him. “In the name of Mighty Hamanu, the slopes of this mountain shall cascade down upon our enemies.”

Rikus heard a gentle slough high above, then felt the cinder-covered mountain shudder.

“Take the dwarves and run!” Rikus shoved Gaanon toward Jaseela’s company. He pointed up the slope, then yelled, “Maetan’s trying to bury us alive!”

Caelum looked in the direction the mul pointed, where a great swath of cinders was twinkling in the moonlight as it slid down the slope. “Do as he says!” Caelum ordered frantically, starting to lead his men after Gaanon.

Rikus caught the dwarf by the shoulder. “You come with me.”

The mul took Caelum and moved toward the base of the mountain, where they would not have to struggle against a tide of dwarves rushing southward. They had taken no more than a dozen steps when a terrible rumble rolled down from above. Rikus looked up and saw a wall of cinders crashing down the steep slope. Behind it came the whole mountainside, leaving nothing in its wake except a roiling cloud of soot.

The mul grabbed Caelum’s arm and sprinted, dragging the dwarf toward the northern flank of the line, where Neeva’s company would be trying to fight through to the mouth of the canyon Drewet’s troops guarded. Along the rim of the lava channel ran a line of white-crusted crags; these, Rikus hoped, would act like a shield to turn aside the cinder avalanche.

They had barely reached the shelter of this ridge when the avalanche rolled into the ash heaps at the base of the mountain. A tremendous thump pulsed through the air. The piles scattered, almost as if a great explosion had forced them into the air from below. Huge plumes of powdery soot rose skyward, masking the yellow light of the flaxen moons and spreading over the rocky delta in a choking fog.

In a gray pall, Rikus lost sight of his army. On the other side of the obsidian barricade, the Urikites were alternately coughing and cheering the templar who, they believed, had vanquished their enemy with a single spell. Rikus dared to hope their optimism was misplaced, for the Scourge brought to his ears the rasping, fear-stricken voices of men and dwarves yelling guidance to each other.

Both the cries of the Urikites and the Tyrians, however, seemed but a whisper compared to the roar of the avalanche as it continued to pour tons and tons of stone and cinder off the mountain.

“Can you still summon that river of fire?” Rikus said, turning his attention from the landslide to Caelum.

The dwarf did not look away from the avalanche. “If you had listened to me earlier-”

“Now is no time to lecture me, dwarf,” Rikus snapped. “I want to know if you can still use your magic.”

The cleric nodded. “I’ll have to climb high enough to see the flames of the crevice.”

“Go ahead and climb,” Rikus said, pointing toward the mouth of Drewet’s canyon. “Stay in those rocks-I don’t want you getting caught in the avalanche. And don’t cast your spell until I say the time has come.”

“How will I know when that is?” the dwarf asked.

“You’ll see Drewet’s company leaving the canyon,” Rikus answered. “Or I’ll send a messenger.”

“There’ll be no time for a messenger,” Caelum said, pulling a smooth, round rock from his pocket and handing it to the mul. “Throw that in the air when you’re ready.”

Rikus nearly dropped the stone, for it was scalding hot. “What is it?”

“A little surprise I prepared for Maetan,” Caelum answered. “It will also do as a signal.”

With that, the dwarf began scaling the ridge. Rikus slipped the hot stone into a belt pouch, then turned toward the mouth of Drewet’s canyon. Less than a dozen yards away, the Urikites were lined up many ranks deep, pressing the attack in an attempt to force Neeva’s company back toward the avalanche. The gladiators were standing firm, but if he was to save Drewet, Rikus needed them to do more than hold their lines.

The mul rushed into the fray. He picked his way around the ash-blurred forms of a dozen gladiators, then glimpsed the tip of a spear thrusting toward him. Rikus parried, severing the shaft, then brought his sword down over the top of the Urikite’s shield. The vorpal blade cleaved both shield and man, then the mul found himself standing within the first rank of the Urikite line.

“For Tyr!” he screamed, but his words were lost in the clash of blade against blade and the cries of the wounded and dying.

The battle went terribly. Within minutes, Rikus found himself standing where he had started, waist-deep in Urikite bodies and coated with the warm, sticky blood of his enemies. He was vaguely aware that Tyrians stood to each side of him, but there was no sign that his gladiators were even close to freeing Drewet’s company. All he could see ahead of him was an endless stream of shouting Urikites, marching out of the dark night and climbing over their dead fellows to continue the attack.

“I thought I’d find you at the center of this mess,” called a familiar voice. Neeva stepped to the mul’s side, and K’kriq to the other. She parried a spear thrust with her sword, then used the dagger in her other hand to slice open her attacker’s chest. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to reach the mouth of Drewet’s canyon,” Rikus answered, his breath coming in labored gasps. He was so tired that he could hardly raise his sword, and his legs ached so badly that he could barely lift them over the bodies piled around him. “I sent Caelum up the hill. We’re going to have to summon his river of fire.”

“No!” Neeva cried.

“Spoil hunt,” complained K’kriq.

A screaming Urikite clambered over the corpses ahead and jabbed a spearpoint at the thri-kreen’s eyes. K’kriq blocked with one arm, then lashed out with the other three, simultaneously ripping his attacker’s shield away and tearing out a man’s throat.

“You can’t do that to Drewet!” Neeva said. “She’ll never escape.”

“If I don’t, she’ll die anyway, and we’ll still lose the battle,” Rikus growled. “Half of our legion’s buried in that avalanche, and who knows what’s happened to the other half. It’s the only way.”

“The only way to save your legion or the best way to destroy Maetan?” Neeva demanded.

“The only way to survive!” Rikus shouted. “Besides, I haven’t given the order yet-”

His answer was cut short by the battle cries of a fresh rank of Urikites. As they came over the corpse pile, one soldier each attacked Neeva and K’kriq, but two thrust their spears at the mul. Rikus looped the point off one spear and tried to sidestep the other, but stumbled when a half-dead soldier clutched at his ankle. The spear took the mul in his sore shoulder. A wave of agony shot through his body, magnified ten-fold by the tenderness of the festering wound around the wraith’s gem.

Neeva’s black blade flashed in front of Rikus’s face, snapping the spear just above the head-and sending another surge of fire through the mul. At the same time, K’kriq grabbed the mul’s attacker and sank his mandibles into him, filling the Urikite’s veins with poison.

Neeva narrowly avoided being stabbed by another Urikite, parrying with her dagger. She opened the attacker’s throat with a flick of the same blade that had turned the spear. “If you think we can save Drewet from here, you’ve taken leave of your senses,” she said, allowing a broad-shouldered gladiator in a four-horned helmet to take her place. “I’ll send someone to shout a warning from the rim. Maybe she can fight her own way free.”

Rikus and K’kriq fought side-by-side for a few moments longer, but the mul’s wound was taking its toll. His reaction slowed to the point where he found himself lurching about in clumsy dodges, and the Scourge of Rkard felt as heavy in his hand as a half-giant’s club.

“Cover my retreat, K’kriq,” Rikus yelled, stumbling away from the clamor of the battleline.

The extra room only made the four-armed thri-kreen a more dangerous opponent. He tore into the approaching soldiers with renewed vigor, their speartips clattering harmlessly off his hard carapace.

Holding his sword under his arm, Rikus reached into his belt pouch and touched the stone Caelum had given him. Though it scorched through the mul’s flesh, he did not remove his hand. Instead, looking toward the dark canyon where Drewet’s company was waiting, he let the pain build for a few seconds.

At last, he whispered, “I’m sorry. You deserve a better death.”

Rikus pulled out the rock and threw it high over the heads of the Urikites. It disappeared into the night. Then a loud boom drowned out the furor of the battlefield. A ball of orange flame flared over the enemy’s ranks. The mul glimpsed rank upon rank of Urikite faces staring up at the blazing globe. They were packed into the area in front of the canyon shoulder-to-shoulder, and there were still more of them marching out of the darkness.

“Hundreds and hundreds,” Rikus gasped, once again taking the hilt of the sword. “We never had a chance.”

The burning sphere descended and incinerated a dozen Urikites unfortunate enough to be trapped beneath it, but the loss hardly seemed noticeable in the midst of the great company.

Rikus stepped back to the battleline, ignoring the raging pain caused by the spearhead embedded in his shoulder and fighting without regard for the risks he took. Soon, Urikite corpses were heaped so high that the mul’s foes began to jump down at him as if leaping from a wall. It made no difference to the gladiator. His sharp blade sliced through them at all angles, and the mound continued to grow.

Rikus was jolted back to his senses when a horrific boom sounded from the Crater of the Bones. A crimson light flashed across the sky a moment before the ground began to buck. The mul’s feet were swept from beneath him, and he fell to the ground, landing atop a half-dozen bleeding corpses. A pair of stunned Urikites tumbled down the body pile toward him, scattering their shields and spears behind him.

In the next instant, shrill whistles and screeching cries filled the night. Hissing streaks of flame dropped out of the sky, bringing with them the stench of sulfur. As the fiery globes crashed to the battlefield, agonized pleas for help rang from both sides of the line.

The two Urikites that had been coming at Rikus returned to their feet before the wounded mul could regain his. They threw themselves on top of him, one grabbing the shaft in his shoulder and the other pinning his sword arm to the ground.

The mul howled in pain, then smashed his forehead into the face of the Urikite pinning his arm. As the soldier rocked backward, Rikus ripped his hand free and pulled the Scourge across the bodies of both attackers.

Covered in fresh, hot blood, the mul pushed the wounded men away and rolled to his knees. The situation around him was the same in all directions, with Urikites and Tyrians wrestling on the ground while the reinforcements jumped into the melee from both sides. Long streamers lit the sky as burning blobs of molten rock dropped to the ground and burst into red sprays of liquid flame.

A sizzling whoosh sounded from above the mul’s head, then a streak of orange light momentarily stunned him. Tiny droplets of liquid fire spattered over his body, filling his nostrils with the stench of his own burning skin. Screaming in pain and blind rage, the mul threw himself on the men he had just wounded and rolled over their bodies to suffocate the embers charring his flesh.

“Rikus hurt?”

The gladiator looked up and saw K’kriq standing over him. Although the thri-kreen’s carpace was scorched and burned in a dozen places, the mantis-warrior seemed to be enduring the rain of fire with far less discomfort than the mul.

“I’ll live,” Rikus muttered, gritting his teeth at the pain.

“Then come.”

The thri-kreen pulled Rikus to his feet with two arms. With the other two he pointed to the mouth of Drewet’s canyon.

A broad river of white-hot rock was pouring out of the gorge, sweeping onto the delta in a glowing, steadily flowing river. The Urikite troops not in the front lines of the battle were caught by the lava. Panicked, they clambered over each other in an effort to flee, but to little avail. The molten stone pursued the screaming soldiers relentlessly, lapping at their heels and overtaking those who fell. As Rikus watched, hundreds of soldiers burst into columns of yellow flame, flaring for a brief instant before they vanished in a wisp of smoke and ash.

Caelum had won the battle for him, but Rikus could not help wondering what the real price would be.