The Crimson Legion

FIFTEEN SLAVE GATE

The tail of the whip popped over Rikus’s shoulder. “Eyes down, boy!” commanded a snarling voice.

Rikus lowered his head and trudged onward, cursing the gladiator’s obvious delight in berating his commander. Along with two dozen fellows, all wearing the tunics of Makla’s village garrison, the imposter was driving a small force of Tyrian gladiators toward Urik’s slave gate. This larger group was disguised in the tattered cloaks and bandages of quarry slaves. On their backs, they carried heavy satchels of obsidian in which their weapons were concealed.

In spite of the escort’s command, Rikus kept his eyes raised enough to study the area ahead. Urik’s slave gate, like the rest of the city, was square and clean. It stood at the end of a short causeway of rutted cobblestones, flanked by high walls plastered with lime and stained yellow with sulfur paints from the Lake of Golden Dreams. Bas-reliefs of a stylized lion, standing on two legs and carrying its foreclaws like hands, marched along the ramparts in long lines. On one side, the lions left the gate with spears and swords, and on the other they returned with booty plundered from distant cities. Blood-colored merlons, each carved in the shape of a lion’s head, capped the walls on both sides. From between these battlements peered more than a hundred attentive archers, their squinting eyes fixed firmly on the wretched throng of quarry slaves below.

“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” whispered Neeva, staring at the heavy, stone-faced gates ahead.

“First, to save the legion, and second, to recover the Book of the Kemalok Kings,” Rikus answered.

“And how is attacking Urik going to do that?” she asked, scowling at the mul’s logic.

“After we secure the gate, Jaseela leads the rest of the legion into the city. We free Urik’s slaves, then led them into revolt,” Rikus answered. “Hamanu will have to recall his legions from the desert to restore order. That’s when we will take the book, our warriors, and any Urikite slaves we’ve freed and go back to Tyr.”

“It doesn’t look like most of Urik’s legions are in the desert to me,” Neeva objected. She cast a furtive glance at the archers along the top of the wall.

“No king would send all his soldiers out,” Rikus assured her. “That’s just a small garrison. After we overpower them, you take the dwarves to find Maetan’s townhouse and recover the Book of Kemalok Kings. The rest of us will take the slaves and sack the city.”

“That might be harder than you make it sound,” observed Neeva. She frowned, then asked, “With all those archers up there, it occurs to me that Hamanu may know we’re coming. Has that possibility crossed your mind?”

“Not in the last few moments,” Rikus said. “If he did, why would he let us march into the city?”

“Because it’s easier than chasing us down,” Neeva answered. “And because, once we’re inside the walls, there will be no place to hide.”

Rikus shook his head. “No. Hamanu would have had to know that we would attack Urik when Maetan told us where his legions were,” the mul said. “That’s not possible. I didn’t even give our own army enough information about our plan-or time enough to react-for a spy to give us away.”

Neeva did not contradict him.

They continued on in silence, until the gladiators began to crowd into the cramped tunnel leading beneath the city wall. Someone fell victim to the jostling and shoving, stumbling over a companion’s feet and falling to the ground. The orderly line became a confused jumble as those in the rear continued to press forward and those in the front did their best to avoid trampling the one who had tripped.

A few moments later, Rikus and Neeva caught up to the fallen man. To the mul’s surprise, he had sun-bronzed skin and a crimson sun tattooed on his forehead.

As Neeva reached down to jerk the dwarf back to his feet, Rikus growled, “Caelum.”

Once they had passed into the tunnel beneath the wall, Rikus grabbed Neeva’s arm. “What’s the dwarf doing here?” he demanded, nearly stumbling as they shuffled up the steeply sloped floor.

“You said he was in my charge,” Neeva countered, her tone already defensive and angry.

“I also ordered him to stay with Jaseela and the rest of the legion until it attacks,” Rikus said. “If he sounds the alarm-”

“Caelum is no spy,” Neeva spat back. “Besides, if any of us are going to survive this crazy plan of yours, we’ll need his sun-magic.”

“Rikus, I would never do anything to hurt Neeva,” Caelum said. “And I want the Book of the Kemalok Kings returned to Kled as much as you do.”

The dwarf fell silent as they left the tunnel and entered the city. Looking over the heads of those in front of him, Rikus saw that they were moving toward a narrow boulevard paved with cobblestones. To either side of the street rose yellow walls capped with spiky shards of obsidian and breached at irregular intervals by smaller gates. In the center of the avenue sat a massive, wedgelike block of granite. Located on a steep ramp in front of the slave gate, the granite block was mounted on huge rollers and held in place by a hemp rope larger around than a tree trunk. Next to this rope stood one of Hamanu’s templars and two half-giants armed with axes of steel. They were protected by a small contingent of gate guards wearing leather hauberks and armed with long obsidian swords.

As the group shuffled forward, Tamar appeared in Rikus’s mind. Her form quickly changed from that of a silky-haired woman to a semblance of Rikus himself, save that ruby-red orbs glowed out from where the mul’s black eyes should have been. A cold shiver of foreboding ran down the mul’s spine, then he heard the wraith say something that, at first, made no sense to him.

Caelum, you have disobeyed my commands for the last time, the wraith said.

Rikus felt his lips move along with those of the double inside his mind, then heard his own voice repeat Tamar’s words.

Still in the mul’s form, Tamar clenched her fist and took a step sideways. Rikus found himself moving toward the dwarf, his fist also clenched.

Stop it, Tamar! Rikus ordered, struggling in vain to make his muscles obey his own will and not the wraith’s. You’ll doom us all!

You’re sending him and his dwarves after the book, she said. I won’t allow it.

Inside Rikus’s mind, Tamar reached out. In accord with her movements, the mul found his arm rising toward Caelum.

Neeva stepped between the mul and the dwarf. “Rikus! Are you trying to draw attention to us?”

Tamar thrust her arm out and Rikus felt himself shove Neeva away. The satchel slipped from her shoulders and crashed to the ground, echoing off the high stone walls surrounding the entanceway. Frowning in confusion, Caelum backed away from Rikus and thrust one hand toward the sun, collecting the energy for a spell. “Have you gone mad?”

On all sides of them, astonished warriors turned toward the commotion. Seeing that Neeva had dropped her sack, they did likewise and began digging their weapons out of their satchels.

By the light of Ral! Rikus growled. Because Tamar still controlled his body he could not look around to see how the Urikites were responding. Nevertheless, he could hear the gate guards calling for the archers to reinforce them.

Rikus willed an image of himself into his mind, directly in front of Tamar’s double. He launched himself at the wraith with such fury that she stumbled away, vainly raising her arms to block the barrage of fists.

Stop! Tamar ordered. The dwarf is ready to kill you.

Let him, Rikus answered. He kicked the wraith in the ribs, then knocked her to the ground with a vicious overhand punch. You’re losing the battle for me-that’s all that matters.

Rikus’s double suddenly faded to mist before his eyes. The mul braced himself, expecting the wraith to return in the form of some hideous monster and rip him apart. lnstead, Tamar’s voice echoed in the black depths of his mind. The battle is far from lost, she said. I will wait for a more convenient time.

Once again, the mul found himself in control of his own body, standing in the middle of Urik’s slave boulevard while war cries sounded all around him. Caelum remained in front of him, red eyes burning with anger. The dwarf held one glowing hand toward the sun, and only Neeva’s firm grasp kept the other pointed at the ground instead of the mul.

“It’s over,” Rikus said. “You’re safe for now, Caelum.”

He dropped the satchel from his back and plunged his hand into it. A shard of obsidian opened a long cut on his hand, but he paid no attention and found the Scourge’s hilt.

“Not yet,” Caelum insisted. “Not until you apologize to-”

“I need no apology,” Neeva snapped, pulling a pair of short swords from her own sack. “We have a fight to attend to.”

After Rikus pulled the Scourge from the scabbard, he spun around to face the templar and the half-giants guarding the granite wedge. Already the echoes of clashing weapons and screaming men filled the street as Rikus’s gladiators attacked the gate guards, cutting them down.

At the granite wedge, the templar cried, “Plug the slave gate!” He was already fleeing toward the nearest exit from the boulevard.

The half-giants brought their axes down on the massive rope. The blades bit deep into the cord, and it snapped with a vibrant twang. There was a loud rumble as the block shot down the ramp, the logs beneath it clacking in rapid succession.

Caelum pointed his free hand at the base of the block, and a defeaning boom resounded off the boulevard walls. A bolt of flame shot from the dwarf’s fingertips and, arcing over the heads of the warriors in front of him, engulfed the logs beneath the huge stone. In an instant, the blaze reduced the rollers to ashes. The wedge dropped to the stone ramp and ground to a halt with a loud rumble.

The Tyrian gladiators roared a tremendous cheer, many of them calling Caelum’s name, and rushed forward to finish off the gate guards. Their moment of victory was shortlived, however. A moment after the wedge ground to a halt, bowstrings hummed from atop the wall. A volley of black shafts streaked down into the street, and a dozen voices cried out in anguish as gladiators began to fall.

Rikus waved his sword at a mass of warriors near him. “You gladiators, come with me!” he cried, starting toward the nearest side gate.

The mul had taken only a couple of steps before he realized no one was following him. He stopped and faced them, “Follow me!”

A few gladiators reluctantly moved to obey, but many others pretended they had not heard and advanced down the street to fight the battle on their own terms. Such a wave of anger came over Rikus that the blood rushed to his head and he could feel the veins in his temples throbbing. He started to move toward those who had disobeyed him, but Neeva quickly intercepted him.

“Later,” she said. “The middle of a battle is no time to deal out punishment.” She gestured toward the wound on his chest. “Besides, you can’t blame them for being reluctant. Half the legion thinks you’re a necromancer, and the other half thinks you’ve lost your mind.”

The bowstrings atop the wall snapped again. This time, it seemed to Rikus that many more voices cried out as black shafts rained down on the crowd.

“If they don’t do as they’re told, what they think won’t matter,” the mul growled, once again turning toward the side gate. “See if you can get some of them to follow us.”

On the other side of the square portal, he found a pair of astonished guards armed with obsidian-bladed glaives. After dodging a badly timed slash and a clumsy thrust, Rikus killed them both with a single slash of his magical blade. He stepped over their bodies and went a few yards down the street.

He found himself in an austere neighborhood of neatly kept chamberhouses. Built of fired brick, each stood three stories tall, with a single rectangular door that directly abutted the cobblestone street. Every structure and every alley appeared identical, save for a wide variety of squiggly lines painted on the chamberhouses. The place seemed eerily quiet and deserted.

“Where are we?” asked Neeva.

Rikus glanced over his shoulder to see the female gladiator coming after him. Behind her were close to fifty warriors.

“Templar quarter, I think,” Rikus answered, pointing to a set of crooked lines on a doorjamb. “That looks like writing to me, and only the nobles and templars are allowed to read.”

“This isn’t a noble borough, that’s certain,” Neeva agreed. “No lord would stand for having his house look like everyone else’s.

“Shouldn’t we go the other way, then?” asked Caelum. The dwarf was moving up from the rear of the line. “Maetan said the book was in the townhouse. Surely, that isn’t in the templar quarter.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t come with us,” Rikus said, scowling at the dwarf. “I might-uh-lose my temper again.”

“I’ll take my chances,” the dwarf answered, stepping into line behind Neeva. “If Neeva is here, then this is were I belong.”

“Have it your way,” Rikus said, shrugging.

He turned down the nearest alley and started toward the wall, confident that, in the templar quarter, there would be at least one set of stairs leading to the top of the wall. The narrow lane ran between neat rows of square windows and was crossed every fifty feet or so by a larger avenue. The tidy structure lining the streets were painted identically: the two lower stories in yellow and the upper in blood red. Rikus could not imagine how the inhabitants avoided getting lost in this grid of identical buildings.

The district appeared deserted, with no sign of a templar, slave, or any other citizen. Nevertheless, Rikus knew there were plenty of Urikites about, for he could hear their footsteps echoing down the lanes and occasionally caught the hiss of a whispered conversation.

A few yards after what seemed the hundredth cross-street, the voices suddenly became so clear that the mul swore he was standing only a few yards from them. Nevertheless, none of the templars were visible in any direction.

Rikus heard several of them call upon Hamanu’s name and realized that it no longer mattered whether he could see them or not. “Magic!” he yelled.

The air itself flashed brilliant white, then claps of thunder rolled down the alleys from all directions. A tremendous blast of air struck the mul from behind, sweeping him off his feet. As he slammed to the ground, he heard warriors behind him screaming and pieces of mudbrick clattering down upon the cobblestones.

When Rikus jumped back to his feet, he was flabbergasted by what he saw. Where there had been vacant alley a moment before, a chest-high wall of thorns blocked the way. Peering over the top of this barrier were six yellow-robed templars, some empty-handed and others armed with crossbows.

“Where’d they all come from?” Neeva gasped.

Rikus hazarded a glance over his shoulder. Behind him, in the intersection where most of the templars’ spells had struck, the charred corpses of twenty gladiators now lay scattered across a dozen smoking craters.

“They were invisible!” Rikus snarled.

Loud clacks sounded from all directions as the templars fired their crossbows down the alleys. Rikus spun around in time to see several dark flashes sailing at him, then felt a series of sharp thumps in his midsection as the bolts struck his Belt of Rank. When he did not fall, the mouths of the crossbowmen fell open and they frantically began to reload their weapons.

Behind Rikus, Neeva yelled, “Caelum, no!”

The mul turned his head just enough to glimpse the dwarf slipping past Neeva’s larger form. In his raised hand, the dwarf held a dagger of crimson flame.

Little backstabber! Tamar exclaimed. You were correct. He is the spy!

Rikus lashed out with a rear stomp kick that took Caelum square in the chest. The dwarf’s eyes opened like red saucers, and he sailed past Neeva, crashing to the ground more than two yards away. His hand opened and the fiery dagger fell to the ground. It slowly rolled away, changing from a weapon to a flaming ball.

The fiery ball began to pulsate, then erupted into a blazing sphere that filled the narrow alleyway from top to bottom. It roared away down the lane, leaving nothing but ash and cinder in its path.

“You tricked me!” Rikus cried, trying to shut out the screams of the dying warriors.

The dwarf must die, Tamar replied simply. Finish him, or there will be more accidents.

“No!” Rikus cried.

He turned and charged away, leaving behind Caelum, Neeva, and another dozen dazed survivors. In front of him, a pair of Urikites called upon Hamanu’s magic, then each hurled a glowing pebble in his direction. The stones streaked straight at the mul, trailing flames and smoke.

Rikus’s stomach knotted with fear, and he let out a panicked bellow. Although the mul had worn the Belt of Rank through enough battles to know its enchantment would protect him from normal arrows, he had no idea whether it would shield him from the fiery missiles now streaking at him.

The rocks struck him square in the midsection and exploded. The impacted knocked the mul off his feet, hurled him a dozen steps backward, then dropped him roughly to the street. His breath blasted from his lungs and a sharp pain shot though his back. Rikus opened his mouth to scream, then choked on the stench of sulfur as a storm of golden fire erupted less than a foot over his face.

As the yellow blaze roiled above him, the mul feared he was going to burst into flames himself. The inferno vaporized his robe and seared his bronzed skin. Rikus closed his eyes against the brillant glare, convinced that they would never open again.

Nevertheless, the glow died away a mere instant later, and the mul was surprised to find that he remained completely conscious. His back ached from his tailbone to his neck, his body stung as though it had been scrubbed raw with a whetstone, and the inside of his lungs burned from breathing hot, sulfurous air. To Rikus, the pain hardly mattered. If the belt had not protected him from all the effects of the blasts, it had at least stopped the fire rocks from penetrating his flesh and erupting inside his body.

Roaring his battle cry, the mul resumed his charge. The stunned Urikites barely managed to raise their crossbows before Rikus reached the thorn barrier. He threw himself over head-first. As he somersaulted through the air, he swung his sword at the nearest templar and separated the woman’s head from her shoulders. He landed in a rolling fall and lashed at a pair of legs concealed beneath a yellow robe, then shouted in pain as his wounded shoulder rolled over the hard stones paving the street.

Rikus came up dizzy, his vision blurred and his mind numbed in agony. It did not matter, for he was now fighting on instinct and rage. Something yellow moved in front of him. He swung his sword, and it collapsed to the ground.

A foot scraped the stones at his back. The mul tucked the blade under his armpit and thrust it backward. A Urikite screamed and died.

“In the name of Haman-”

Rikus’s foot drove the air from the man’s lungs in midsentence, smashing several ribs over his heart. The templar fell, clutching his chest.

For a moment, the mul could not find the last templar, then heard a frightened woman’s labored breathing as she fled down the street. Shifting the Scourge to his bad arm, Rikus pulled a dagger from the belt of the man he had just killed. Calmly, he turned and threw it.

The blade disappeared between the woman’s shoulder-blades, sending her sprawling face-first onto the ground.

A loud crack sounded from the other side of the thorn wall. Rikus looked over his shoulder in time to see the orange-white tail of a fiery whip lash down on the barricade. It cut a smoking swath through the hedge, then Neeva and a handful of gladiators poured through the gap.

“Rikus, are you hurt?” demanded Neeva, rushing over to him.

“I’m well enough,” the mul answered, inspecting himself. Other than his reddened skin, he found no sign of fresh injury.

“What happened?” Neeva asked. “It was like you went mad!”

Though the mul did not know whether she referred to the attack on Caelum or the leap over the barricade, he nodded. “I think I did,” Rikus answered. “But it’s too late to worry about that now. How’s the dwarf?”

“He’ll survive,” she replied. “He’s waiting with the others. I didn’t want him coming through until …”

When she let the sentence trail off, Rikus finished it for her. “Until you found out whether I was going to murder him.”

“Yes,” Neeva said. “What’s wrong with you? Back in Makla, you agreed he might not be the spy, and now you’re trying to kill him-even when it’s clear he’s a great help!”

“I told you to leave him with Jaseela,” Rikus snapped. The mul turned, then added, “Bring him through, but make sure he stays away from me.”

“We won’t have to worry about that,” Neeva answered.

She waved the rest of the survivors past the gap. As the stepped through, each gladiator glared at the mul as though he were some sort of monster.

Caelum brought up the rear. With one hand, he clutched his chest where Rikus had kicked him. In the other, he held a coiled whip of crackling fire. The lash was made of three distinct flames, one red, one white, and one yellow, all braided together in a single tail. Its bone handle glowed red with blazing heat. From the grimace on Caelum’s face and the pain in his eyes, the mul could tell that holding it caused the dwarf great pain.

“Tell him to set fire to anything he can with that thing.” Rikus said, pointing at the whip. “The more the Urikites have to worry about, the better.”

With that, he turned and led the way toward the wall, keeping a careful watch for another templar ambush. They soon reached a ramp leading to the top of the city walls. It ran beneath a small tower, with a portcullis of thick mekillot ribs blocking the way. A dozen arrow loops overlooked the approach ramp, and in each one Rikus saw a Urikite with a crossbow.

At the top of the walls, the archers were all firing into the cul-de-sac is front of the slave gate. Rikus could hear men and women screaming on the other side, and he knew that Jaseela had arrived with the rest of the army. If he didn’t reach the top of the wall and do something about the archers, his legion would be slaughtered.

“Neeva, wait here until I breach the gate,” Rikus ordered. He pointed at the arrow loops in the side of the tower. “In the meantime, see if Caelum can’t do something about the Urikites inside the tower.”

“What are you doing?”

Rikus didn’t want to explain the rest of his plan, for he knew it would be obvious once he put it into action. Instead, he rushed across the short distance separating him from the portcullis. The crossbows clacked. Instinctively, the mul dodged, though he knew his belt would provide far better defense than his reflexes. Most of the bolts missed and clattered against the stone pavement, and several more glanced off his belt or simply stuck in the heavy girdle.

Caelum’s whip cracked over Rikus’s head. Then the mul smelled the caustic stench of charred flesh. A man screamed, and Rikus shuddered. The searing that he had suffered earlier still caused him enough pain that he could not stop himself from thinking of the dying man’s agony. The dwarf’s whip cracked again.

Rikus reached the gate and began hacking at the mekillot ribs. The magical blade bit deeply each time, and within moments he had torn away the first one and was working on the second. Caelum’s whip continued to pop over his head, and soon smoke was spilling out of the tower in black clouds.

Finally, Rikus cut away the third rib and stepped through the portcullis, motioning for Neeva and the others to follow. As he passed beneath the tower, he paused for a moment to look up into the murderholes lining the ceiling of the arch. When the mul saw no sign of anything except flames and smoke, he continued to the other side of the tower and waited for his companions.

They caught up to him a moment later, then he led the way up the ramp at their best pace. As they neared the top, a handful of archers appeared along the wall and began firing. Neeva and the others had to stop and take shelter along the base of the wall, but Rikus continued forward. Several arrows hit him in the belt, then Caelum cracked his whip, searing one of the archers completely in half.

The mul leaped onto the wall and a pair of archers moved forward to meet him with their swords. Rikus finished them with an effortless parry and two quick slashes, then moved on to attack the next Urikites in line. They took their bows and fled, screaming for help.

Now that the way was clear for his companions, Rikus rushed over the wall and cut down an archer. He saw that he and his small group of gladiators had emerged at the outer end of the battlements, overlooking the front edge of the cul-de-sac before the slave gate. All down the line, archers stood every four to five yards, firing down onto the causeway below.

There, hundreds of warriors-gladiators, dwarves, quarry slaves, even templars-lay scattered upon the road, their blood spread across the white stones in puddles. More of Rikus’s legion were pouring into the cul-de-sac with each moment, only to meet a hail of dark shafts that struck them down in waves. Despite the heavy losses, a constant stream of men and women reached the gate and hurried through to the boulevard beyond.

“For Tyr!” Rikus yelled, lifting his sword.

The warriors looked up and, when they saw the mul standing along the wall, echoed his cheer. “For Tyr!” They pressed toward the gate with renewed vigor, oblivious to the rain of arrows being showered down upon them.

Rikus rushed the wall, screaming a battle cry at the top of his lungs. The next archer in line turned to face him, swinging his empty bow at the charging gladiator. The mul ducked the blow, then drove the Scourge of Rkard through the Urikite’s heart. He kicked the man’s body off his red-dripping blade and started toward his next victim.

Neeva rushed to his side and wrapped her arms around the mul’s shoulders. “Wait,” she said. “Caelum has a faster way.”

His bloodlust already stirred, Rikus tried to break away. Neeva, however, gripped the mul’s sore shoulder and stopped him. “Let him try.”

Caelum stepped foreward and threw his whip to the ground. It seemed to come alive, shooting down the wall like a snake. When it passed the first archer, a tongue of crimson flame lashed out and left a smoking hole in the back of the man’s leg. After the snake passed, a yellow flame spewed out of the puncture and transformed the Urikite into a pillar of flame.

When the snake slithered to the next archer and repeated the attack, the third man in line noticed what was happening and stepped away from the wall. As the fiery serpent moved toward him, he nocked an arrow and fired at it. After passing through the thing’s blazing body, the shaft clattered off the stones. The blazing viper struck again.

The fourth and fifth archers fled, screaming for their companions to do likewise. Rikus sent his gladiators down the wall after the snake, instructing them not to let any of the Urikites escape alive. Caelum followed a short distance behind the gladiators, keeping the fire serpent in sight so that he could control it.

Rikus led Neeva forward until they could see the mass of Tyrian warriors gathering on the slave boulevard below. Now that the archers had been chased away, there was no sign of opposition anywhere near the gate.

“Do you still think this is a trap?” Rikus asked, motioning at the clear avenue ahead of his legion.

“I don’t know,” Neeva said, her eyes searching the distant boroughs of the city. “My answer depends on what we find in the slave quarter.”