The Crimson Legion

ONE AMBUSH

Rikus looked down the steep slope to where his warriors waited in the shadow of the sandstone bluff. The two thousand Tyrians stood in a quiet column, their thoughts fixed on the coming battle. There were humans, half-elves, dwarves, half-giants, tareks, and other races, most of them gladiators who had fought in Tyr’s arena until being freed by King Tithian’s First Edict. In their hands, they carried double-bladed axes, sabers of serrated bone, fork-headed lances, double-ended spears, and a variety of deadly arms as infinite as man’s desire to murder.

Rikus was certain they would make a fine legion.

He stood and waved his arm over his head to signal the attack. His warriors roared their battle cries, then charged forward in a single screaming mass.

“What are you doing?” demanded Agis, stepping to Rikus’s side. The noble was robust for a man of his class, with a strong build and square, handsome features. He had long black hair, probing brown eyes, and a straight, patrician nose. “We need a plan!”

“I have a plan,” Rikus answered simply.

He looked to the base of the hill. There, in the sandy valley, stood a single rank of Urikite half-giants, all wearing red tunics that bore the crest of Hamanu’s yellow lion. They cradled huge battle-axes with obsidian blades, and their only pieces of armor were bone bucklers strapped to their enormous forearms.

“Attack!” Rikus shouted.

With that, he rushed over the crest of the hill. Discovering that the sandstone slope was too steep to descend gracefully, Rikus fell to his back and continued his drop in a controlled slide.

Had he been a full human, he might have reconsidered his method of descent, for only a hemp breechcloth protected his bronzed skin from the grating surface of the sandstone. But Rikus gave the scouring little thought. He was a mul, a human-dwarf crossbreed created to live and die as a gladiatorial slave, and he was as inured to pain as he was to death. From his dwarven father he had inherited a heavy-boned face of rugged features, pointed ears set close to the head, and a powerful physique that seemed nothing but knotted sinew and thick bone. His human mother had bestowed upon him a proud straight nose, a balance of limb and body that made him handsome by the standards of either race, and a supple, six-foot frame as agile as that of an elven rope dancer.

Rikus had descended only a few feet before Neeva, his longtime fighting partner, slid into place at his side. Although a full human, she was protected from the abrasive stone by the lizard-scale cloak she wore to shield her fair skin from the sun. In her hands, the big blond held a steel battle-axe nearly as large as those carried by the half-giants below. Most women could not have lifted the weapon, but Neeva was almost as heavily muscled as Rikus and, as a freed gladiator, more than capable of swinging the mighty blade. Despite her powerful build, she retained a distinctly feminine figure, full red lips, and eyes as green as emeralds.

“Our legion is outsized five times over!” she exclaimed.

Rikus knew that she referred not to the hundreds of half-giants directly below, but to the thousands of Urikite regulars in the valley beyond. The long column of soldiers was already past the point of the Tyrian attack and was continuing onward at a steady pace, relying on the half-giants to protect their rear. Following close behind the regulars came dozens of siege engines, carried on the backs of massive warlizards called driks. The rear of the long file was brought up by the lumbering mass of an argosy, a mammoth fortress-wagon full of weapons, supplies, and water.

Her eyes fixed on the long procession, Neeva demanded, “What can you be thinking?”

“One Tyrian gladiator is worth five Urikite soldiers,” Rikus responded, fixing his gaze on the half-giants below. The huge soldiers were cradling their battle-axes and glaring defiantly toward the side of the bluff, where the Tyrian mob now approached in a tumult of wild screams. “Besides, this is the king’s doing, not mine. Tithian’s the one who would give me only two-thousand warriors.

“He didn’t tell you to get them killed in a reckless charge,” Neeva countered.

“It isn’t reckless,” Rikus answered.

The pair ran out of time to debate the issue, reaching the bottom of the slope just as the first wave of gladiators spilled into the sandy valley. Rikus and Neeva had come down near the flank of the enemy line, only a few dozen paces from several glowering half-giants. The towering Urikites held steady, waiting for the mul and his partner to move into striking range.

Rikus looked toward the pair of half-giants anchoring the end of the enemy line. In contrast to most of their kind, they were stoutly built, with a powerful shape to their torsos. Their hair had been shaved away from their thick-boned foreheads, and their drooping jaws showed no sign of the customarily flabby chin of the race. They were even somewhat taller than most half-giants, standing at least twice as high as the mul.

“Those are our two,” Rikus said, raising his weapons. He carried a pair of cahulaks, which resembled two flat-bladed grappling hooks connected at the base by a rope. “Come on.”

Before Neeva could object, he took off at a sprint, angling away to force the half-giants to leave their formation. At first, Rikus did not think they would fall for his ploy, but an officer finally barked, “Cut them off!”

A tremendous clatter sounded from the center of the enemy line as the first wave of Tyrians reached it. A few half-giants bellowed in pain and collapsed to the hot sand, but most used their small bucklers to deflect the gladiators’ assaults. In unison, the Urikites hefted their black-bladed axes, and Tyr’s first wave of attackers disappeared in a spray of blood.

Rikus felt a knot of anxiety forming in his stomach, but the hiss of heavy feet shuffling through deep sand drew his attention back to his own foes. The two half-giants he had lured away from the line were almost upon him and Neeva.

“Break right!” Rikus called, naming a trick he and Neeva had often employed when they fought together in Tyr’s arena.

Instantly, Neeva slid several steps to her right, then sprinted forward to place herself on the flank of the half-giant approaching her. Rikus followed, moving toward the same half-giant and whirling a cahulak at his side. The Urikites attacked, trying to keep Rikus and Neeva from double-teaming either of them.

The mul threw a cahulak toward the half-giant attacking Neeva, intentionally overshooting. The weapon sailed over the shaft of the battle-axe and swung back toward Rikus as it reached the end of its rope. The mul caught the cahulak and ducked, entangling the half-giant’s axe.

With flawless timing, Neeva leveled her steel axe at the other half-giant, who had been moving to attack the mul from behind. Rikus heard the sound of shattering stone. Black shards of obsidian rained down on the raw skin of his back, and the Urikite’s headless axe handle banged harmlessly into his shoulder. Neeva leaped over Rikus’s back, drawing her axe back for another stroke, and a loud scream announced that her blade had found its target.

As Neeva’s half-giant collapsed into a bellowing heap, Rikus got to his feet and jerked the other’s axe from his hands. The Urikite’s mouth fell open, and he tried to retreat. Rikus followed, burying the tip of a cahulak deep into the tall soldier’s thigh. In retaliation, the half-giant swung a huge fist. Rikus ducked, at the same time pulling his enemy off his feet. The Urikite had barely dropped to the scalding sand before the mul smashed his other cahulak into the half-giant’s head.

When Rikus tried to remove his weapon from the half-giant’s skull, he found that it was stuck in place. A quick glance around told him that he was in no immediate danger, so he began to twist the blade back and forth to free it.

As the mul worked, a warm glow of satisfaction spread over him. The feeling was not due to any joy he felt over the Urikite’s death, but to the skill with which he and his fighting partner had worked together. Rikus and Neeva had not fought together since their days as a matched pair in Tyr’s gladiatorial arena, and the mul missed the intimacy of those battles. When they were fighting, they moved and thought as one person, sharing thoughts and emotions deeper than even their passions while making love.

Neeva stepped to the mul’s side and wiped her gory axe blade on the half-giant’s red tunic. By the proud smile on her lips, Rikus could tell that her thoughts were the same as his. “We haven’t lost our touch,” she said. “That’s nice to know.”

“You couldn’t think we would?” Rikus asked, finally freeing his weapon from his opponent’s head. “No matter what, we’ll always have our touch.”

A triumphant roar sounded from the center of the Urikite line. Rikus looked toward the commotion and saw that the second wave of his warriors had fared as well as he and Neeva. The enemy formation was in complete disarray, with Tyrians swarming the half-giants from all sides. The greatest part of the legion, however, was pouring through the shattered line and rushing toward the center of valley.

There, the driks and their siege engines had already moved ahead, but the argosy was just now pulling even with the point of attack. The moving fortress stood three stories tall, and at each corner rose a small tower manned by guards with crossbows. A plethora of arrow loops dotted its sides, and its great doors were shut fast. The massive wagon was drawn by a team of four mekillots, giant reptiles with mound-shaped bodies and rocky shells. To Rikus, the beasts looked more like mobile buttes of solid stone than living creatures.

Motioning for Neeva to follow, Rikus rushed toward the knot of Tyrian warriors chasing the argosy. After circumventing the last of the battle with the half-giants, they joined the mass of jubilant gladiators and worked their way to the front of the crowd.

There, they found Agis trying to keep the mob under control, his forehead creased with irritation. As Rikus approached, the nobleman clenched his teeth and looked away as if trying to master his temper.

At Agis’s side stood Sadira, her long amber hair bound in a loose tail, draped over a shoulder to reveal one elegantly pointed ear. In her hands, the winsome half-elf held a wooden cane with a pommel of black obsidian.

An uncomfortable chill ran down Rikus’s spine at the sight of her weapon. It was one of two magic artifacts that had been loaned to him and his three companions for the purpose of killing Kalak, the thousand-year-old sorcerer-king who had ruled Tyr before Tithian. Rikus had sent his artifact, the Heartwood Spear, back to its owner shortly after they succeeded in assassinating Kalak. Sadira, however, had ignored the advice of her friends and elected to keep the cane. The mul secretly feared they would all pay dearly for the half-elf’s decision.

“The battle’s going well enough so far,” Sadira observed. She glanced at Agis and lifted a peaked eyebrow at the noble’s uncustomary display of anger, then asked Rikus. “Now what?

“Let’s smash the argosy,” Rikus answered, fixing his gaze on the huge wagon.

“And what of the rest of our legion?” Agis demanded, finally breaking his silence. “Even you can’t think it will take two-thousand soldiers to destroy a single argosy.”

Rikus glanced around. The half-giants had been completely overrun, and the rest of the Tyrian legion was moving forward to continue the attack. “We’re in a fight,” he answered simply. “Our gladiators know what to do.”

“We’re not all gladiators,” Sadira reminded him. “What about the templars and Jaseela’s retainers?”

“It would be better if they stayed out of the way,” Rikus answered, grinning. “We don’t want them to get hurt.”

“You’re being too sure of yourself, Rikus,” Neeva said. “This is a battle, not a grand melee. Agis might be right about making a plan.”

“I have a plan,” Rikus answered. He started toward the argosy, bringing the conversation to an end.

It took the companions only a few moments to catch the slow-moving wagon. Several hundred warriors followed them, but the largest part of the Tyrian mob acted on its own initiative to rush after the driks and the siege machines. Agis and Sadira seemed surprised at how neatly the mob had divided itself, but Rikus was not. When it came to fighting, he trusted the instincts of his gladiators more than he trusted complicated plans and orders.

Rikus circled around to the rear of the argosy, hoping to decrease its firepower by approaching from the narrowest wall. Despite his caution, the mul could see that gaining entrance to the wagon would be no easy thing. The side was lined with at least three dozen arrow loops, the black tips of crossbow bolts protruding from each slit. From the corner towers, the guards were shouting a constant stream of warnings down into the wagon.

The mul saw the tips of several fingers poke out of the lowest slit on the wagon, then heard a woman’s voice call upon King Hamanu for the magic to cast a spell.

Over his shoulder, Rikus cried, “Get down!”

The mul grabbed Sadira and threw her to the ground, dropping on top of her as a tremendous crash boomed out of the argosy. A fan-shaped sheet of crackling red light flashed across the sand. Behind Rikus erupted a tumult of screams, which abated as suddenly as they started. The mul looked over his shoulder to see the headless bodies of dozens of gladiators crumple to the ground.

Neeva reached out from Rikus’s side and slapped the back of his bald bead. “Fighting partners are supposed to protect each other, not their mistresses,” she said. Though her tone was light, her green eyes showed how hurt she was that it had been Sadira and not her the mul had defended.

“I knew you’d be able to take care of yourself,” Rikus explained.

The muffled clacks of dozens of crossbows sounded from inside the wagon. A wave of black streaks flashed from the loops, then dozens of gladiators screamed in pain.

Rikus regarded the argosy with renewed respect. He was beginning to see why the fortress wagons were a favored mode of caravan travel. Any tribe of raiders could catch one, but stopping it might well prove to be impossible.

After the bolts had passed, Neeva gestured at Sadira’s hand, which was the only part of the winsome half-elf showing from beneath the mul’s massive body. “You’d better get off before she suffocates.”

As soon as Rikus rose to his knees, Sadira turned her pale eyes on him and frowned. “How do you expect me to cast spells from underneath you?”

Before Rikus could apologize, Sadira pointed the cane at the argosy. “Nok!” she cried. A purple light glimmered within the weapon’s pommel.

Rikus cringed, hoping that what happened next would not frighten his own superstitious gladiators as much as it injured the Urikites. Normal magic drew spell energy from the life force of plants, but Sadira’s cane extracted its power from a different source.

Sadira called, “Dawnfire!”

Rikus experienced an eerie tingle in his stomach, then started to grow queasy. Behind him, gladiators gasped and cried out in alarm as they, too, felt the cane drawing its energy from their life spirits.

The sick feeling stopped an instant later, and a ball of scarlet flame streaked to the argosy. The roiling sphere spread out like a fog, engulfing the rear quarter of the wagon in ruby-red fire. The Urikites in the towers plunged from their stations, screaming in agony, and in half a dozen places the back wall burned away like parchment.

Despite the sorceress’s devastating attack, the mekillots continued to pull the argosy forward, oblivious to what was happening behind them.

“Into the wagon!” Rikus cried, resuming his charge-and hoping that his gladiators were not too distracted by Sadira’s magic to follow.

Hundreds of battle cries informed him they were not, and soon he was leading a mass of screaming men and women after the smoking argosy. A few muffled clacks sounded from inside the wagon, but Sadira’s attack had taken its toll. Less than half-a-dozen black bolts shot from the arrow loops, and only one found its mark.

Rikus charged over the scalded body of a woman dressed in the yellow cassock of Hamanu’s templars, then caught up to the argosy. Without breaking stride, he whirled a cahulak and tossed it into one of the smoking holes overhead. After tugging the rope to set the blades, the mul swung up and onto the lowest deck of the wagon’s rear firing platform.

The horrid stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Fighting the urge to gag, Rikus looked around and saw that the deck had been reduced to a shambles. Scorched bodies and smashed weapons lay scattered everywhere. Flames licked at the rear wall in a dozen places, searing even the mul’s bronzed skin and filling his lungs with caustic fumes. Through the smoke, Rikus could see a doorway leading deeper into the argosy. To either side of this doorway, a ladder ascended through a manway in the ceiling.

Facing the rear of the wagon again, Rikus kneeled and gave Neeva a helping hand up. As she climbed onto the deck, she peered past his legs and said, “Two behind you.” Her voice was as calm as if she had been spotting birds leaving their roosts at dawn.

The mul spun on his heels, swinging a cahulak at the full length of its rope. Through the haze, he saw two soot-covered Urikites pointing their crossbows at him. Rikus dodged to one side, and the soldiers triggered their weapons. A pair of bolts sizzled past his head, thumping into the wood at the back of the wagon. At the same time, the cahulak took the first guard in the knee, its blade sinking deep into the joint. The mul tugged the rope, pulling the man off his feet.

The second soldier reached for the obsidian short sword hanging at his side. Rikus sprang at this one, planting his foot squarely on the lion embroidered on the Urikite’s red tunic. The man dropped to the floor clutching his chest.

As Rikus finished off the two soldiers he had disabled, Neeva reached down to help Agis into the wagon. Once the nobleman was inside, he helped Sadira up, and behind her came a steady stream of gladiators. Soon the platform was crowded with Tyrian warriors, all coughing and gasping from the thick smoke. The mul directed a few up the ladders to eliminate any survivors on the higher decks, then motioned for his friends and the others to follow him through the back doorway.

After descending half a dozen steps, they found themselves in a corridor where the smoke was not so thick. On the walls hung a series of nets. Each held a glass ball that swung in time to the rhythmical sway of the wagon, casting a flickering green light over the floor.

The hall ran a dozen yards to both the right and left, then turned toward the front of the wagon. The mul motioned for the first squad of gladiators to follow him and his companions into the narrow hall. “Tell those behind you to go the other way,” he ordered.

They started down the corridor at a cautious jog. Upon rounding the first corner, Rikus came face-to-face with ten Urikites carrying leather fire-blankets. The mul cut down the first three before they could reach for their weapons, but not before they screamed an alarm. The rest fell into a deep slumber as one of Sadira’s spells dropped a blue cloud of magical powder over their heads.

“Easier than I thought,” Rikus observed. “Maybe we’ll take this argosy back to Tyr as a battle prize.”

Agis shook his head, saying, “Your victory declaration is hasty. The battle just grew more challenging.”

The mul faced forward to see a hulking thri-kreen stomping toward him. The huge insect-man stood so tall that his short antennae brushed the ceiling, and as he moved forward his yellow carapace knocked the glowing balls from both walls. He held weapons in three of his four arms-a whip, an obsidian short sword, and a gythka, a short pole-arm with blades of crystal rock at both ends.

“Sadira?” Neeva asked hopefully.

“I can’t do anything without killing us, too,” the sorceress answered.

“Give me some room,” Rikus said.

“I’ll aid you with the Way,” Agis said, motioning the rest of the group back around the corner.

“I’d appreciate that.” Rikus gave the noble a nervous grin, then added, “Not that I need help.”

Despite his brave words, the mul shared his companions’ concern. As menacing as the thri-kreen’s four arms and weapons were, the beast’s mouth posed the real danger. In his days as gladiator, he had fought many mantis-warriors, and he knew that if he allowed the thing to so much as nip him with a mandible, the beast’s saliva would paralyze him.

The thri-kreen waded through the blue cloud of Sadira’s sleep spell without suffering the slightest hint of drowsiness. The mul set his cahulaks to whirling in an interweaving pattern, then calmly awaited his foe’s approach.

With little hesitation, the mantis-warrior jabbed the tip of his gythka at Rikus, also lashing out with his whip. With one cahulak, the mul knocked the gythka aside and allowed the thri-kreen’s whip to wrap itself around his other cahulak. Rikus stepped forward, moving into striking range for his weapons. The thri-kreen leveled a short sword at Rikus’s throat, and the mul ducked in time to keep the beast from lopping his head off. Before Rikus could recover, the thri-kreen’s clacking mandibles descended toward his neck.

Rikus dropped to his back and kicked upward with his heel, catching the mantis-warrior square in the thorax. The blow would have smashed a man’s chest, but it hardly even rocked the thri-kreen. After a momentary pause, the chattering mandibles continued their descent, dripping saliva over the mul’s face. Heart pounding in fear, Rikus swung both cahulaks at his foe’s bulging eyes.

The mul’s reach fell short and the bone blades smashed into the thing’s snout, barely scratching the beast’s chitinous armor. Nevertheless, the attack gave the thri-kreen pause, and he retracted his head, moving his vulnerable eyes out of Rikus’s range. The mul hammered his cahulaks at the carapace on his foe’s chest, driving the huge insect off him.

“Don’t kill him, Rikus!” Agis called.

“Why not?” Rikus demanded, standing.

“He’s not entirely hostile,” the noble responded. “If I can help him, he’ll help us.”

Rikus regarded the thri-kreen cautiously, waiting for Agis to make good on his promise. The mantis-warrior seemed confused for a moment, then glared over the mul’s shoulder and rushed forward with his attention fixed on Agis. Realizing that the noble’s mental contact had done little more than distract the creature, Rikus took advantage of the moment to dart forward and slip to the thri-kreen’s side, where the mantis-warrior would have trouble reaching him with both weapons and mouth.

Seeing Rikus slip into this dangerous position, the mantis-warrior stopped his charge and used two arms to smash the mul into the wall. The blows drove the breath from Rikus’s lungs, filling his torso with a dull, crushing ache. The thri-kreen dropped his whip and lashed out with the claws of a three-fingered hand. The mul barely saved his eye by turning his head away, but the thri-kreen opened a jagged gash down his cheek.

Rikus struck at the beast’s head, releasing the cahulak so he would have the range to reach his target. This time, it was the thri-kreen’s turn to duck, and the weapon passed over the back of the thing’s neck. As it reached the end of its rope, the cahulak circled around and reappeared on the close side of the mantis-warrior’s head. The mul caught the shaft and tugged with all his might, pulling himself onto the thing’s back. He started to call for help, but never got the chance.

The thri-kreen stood upright and smashed him into the ceiling. The mul’s cry ended with a stifled groan. Rikus tried to cry out again, then gave up and settled for merely retaining his hold. The mantis-warrior smashed the mul’s aching back again and again into the ceiling.

Taking advantage of the close combat, Neeva slipped around the corner with battle-axe hefted. Agis grabbed her by the shoulder, preventing her from moving forward.

Rikus yelled, “What do you think you’re-”

The mul hit the ceiling again and his question came to an abrupt halt. Already, his spine felt like it had been cracked in a dozen places and his arms burned with numb weariness.

Agis stepped past Neeva, his hands held out before him and his brown eyes fixed on the thri-kreen’s. All at once, the mantis-warrior stopped smashing Rikus against the ceiling. The beast stared at Agis for a moment, then he dropped his weapons and lay down on the floor. The nobleman continued forward, silently nodding to the mantis-warrior.

“Why’d you stop Neeva?” Rikus demanded, his breath coming in short gasps. “You could have gotten me killed!”

As the mul slipped his cahulak rope off the thri-kreen’s neck, Agis laid a restraining hand on the weapons. “But I didn’t,” he answered, still staring at the mantis-warrior. “The thri-kreen is a slave. Now that I’ve freed his mind from his master’s grip, he’ll help us.”

Rikus looked doubtful and pulled his Cahulaks free of the noble’s grasp.

“C-Comrade,” chattered the mantis-warrior, speaking in the Urikite language. “Help you.”

Because he had been born and raised in the slave pits of a Urikite noble, Rikus understood the mantis-warrior’s words. Nevertheless, he remained suspicious.

“No one arms a thri-kreen slave,” he said. “Especially one that fights this well.”

“The argosy pilot’s been using the Way to control his mind,” Agis explained, gently moving the mul’s weapons away from the thri-kreen. “K’kriq didn’t want to attack us.”

“Kill d-driver, kill Ph-Phatim,” the thri-kreen stammered. “Help you.”

When Rikus still did not agree, Agis said, “I was inside his mind. I’ll vouch for him.”

Rikus reluctantly stepped away from the mantis-warrior. “Okay, fall into line,” he said. In Urikite, he added, “But you do what I say, and no weapons.”

The thri-kreen opened his six-mandibles in a star shaped gesture that could have been a smile. “N-No regret,” he answered, also in Urikite.

The mul faced forward without replying. Normally, he would not have accepted a former enemy into his group, but Agis was a true master of the Way. If he said the thri-kreen could be trusted, Rikus believed him.

The mul led them toward the front of the wagon. As they moved, thick smoke began to roll down the corridor from the rear of the argosy. Within a few moments, they could hardly see the glow balls swinging in their nets, and chunks of burning wood began to drop from the ceiling.

Soon, the small group reached the front cargo hold. The exterior doors had been opened to vent the smoke, and, through the thickening fumes, Rikus saw a dozen Urikites standing guard. After passing a whispered warning to those behind him, the mul charged out of the smoke-filled corridor and hacked down the first guard from behind. Neeva leaped past him with her battle-axe flying, taking down two more. K’kriq rushed past her and, unarmed, killed five more in a flurry of flashing claws and snapping mandibles. The four survivors jumped from the argosy before Agis or Sadira struck a blow.

Rikus cast a nervous glance at the five men K’kriq had stricken down, then peered out of the open cargo door. In the sands to the side and just ahead of the argosy, he saw the waddling driks and their drivers trying to escape his legion. The war-lizards were not faring well. Their low-centered bodies and heavy shells were not suited to speed. The beasts’ sluggishness was compounded by their loads, for the siege engines they carried were made from sun-bleached mekillot bones, as large as trees and twice as heavy.

Already, a dozen driks lay toppled, flapping their heads and roaring helplessly, unable to continue their escape on hamstrung legs. Another dozen beasts had dug into the sand and were trying to defend themselves from the Tyrian warriors.

The mul was shocked to see that there were no Urikite regulars in view. While it was true that the main body of soldiers had been far ahead of the attack, Rikus found it strange they had not returned to join the fight.

K’kriq touched the mul’s shoulder with a bloody claw, then pointed forward. “Kill Phatim, s-stop Urikites,” the thri-kreen said. “No water, no food, no siege missiles.”

Rikus raised a brow, then said, “Lead the way.”

Agis caught the thri-kreen by a sticklike arm. “No,” he said. “We’ll have to find the driver ourselves.”

The mantis-warrior insisted, “M-Me kill Phatim.”

The noble shook his head. “If the pilot sees you, he’ll take over your mind. Stay here and help our warriors destroy the supplies-in case we can’t stop the wagon.”

K’kriq snapped his six mandibles open and closed angrily, then turned and began hacking at the interior cargo door.

Rikus assigned the gladiators to help K’kriq, then led his three companions forward. Although the narrow corridor remained smoke-filled, it was not nearly so murky as the section aft of the cargo door. By the light of the swaying glow balls, the mul could see that, here and there, fumes were seeping through the planks in the ceiling.

The hallway turned toward the center of the wagon, and they came to a pair of bronze-gilded doors, one on each side of the corridor. Both were secured with heavy iron latches.

Rikus motioned at the door on the right. “Neeva, you check that one.”

The woman nodded, then smashed the door open with a single blow of her axe. She stepped into the dark room beyond, Sadira following close behind.

Rikus kicked the other door open, then charged into the room beyond. He found himself standing before a ladder leading up to a small deck overhead. Thick whorls of smoke clouded the air.

“The pilot’s deck,” Agis noted, coughing and rubbing his eyes.

The mul grabbed the ladder and climbed. As he moved higher, a streamer of smoke descended and entwined itself around his neck. Rikus thought nothing of it until the tendril rubbed across his skin like a coarse rope, then abruptly tightened. Instantly, the rush of blood filled the mul’s ears. His eyes felt like they would pop from his head, and he could no longer draw air down his throat.

The mul jumped off the ladder and landed at Agis’s feet. Falling to his knees, he dropped his cahulaks and clutched at the tendril. His fingers sank through it like air.

“Rikus!” Agis cried.

The noble’s voice seemed distant and faint. Rikus’s vision went black.

To his surprise, the mul did not pass out. Instead, his consciousness turned inward, to the terrain of his own mind. He saw himself kneeling on a featureless plain of mud, the great tentacle of some horrid beast extruding from the wet earth, wrapping itself around his throat. It was trying to pull him into the soggy ground, to suffocate him in the muds of oblivion.

Rikus’s stomach tightened with fear. He realized he was being attacked mind-to-mind, and that knowledge only frightened him more. The mul was a master of physical combat, but when it came to the Way, he was not even a novice.

Rikus fought back by trying to imagine himself hauling the tentacle from the mud. No matter how hard he pulled, the beast was too strong for him. It bent his torso back, kinking his spine until he feared it would snap.

The mul grabbed the tentacle and pulled with as much strength as his oxygen-starved body could muster. He slowly managed to turn himself over and braced one arm against the muddy ground. He used the other to dig, hoping to dredge the slimy creature from its burrow. Though he excavated a hole several feet deep, he found nothing but an endless tendril that continued to pull him downward. Rikus bit the thing. It’s blood burned his mouth like acid.

Then the mul grew aware of great, sloshing footsteps approaching from behind. He twisted around to meet the new horror his attacker had sent to destroy him. If there had been breath in his lungs, he would have sighed in relief. Standing before him was a familiar figure, save that it now towered overhead in the massive form of a full-giant.

“Agis?” Rikus gurgled.

The giant nodded. “What have we here?” he boomed, stooping over to grasp the tentacle.

Agis the giant pulled the tendril from the ground effortlessly, freeing the mul’s throat. The writhing thing was nothing but a long gray tentacle. As Rikus watched, both ends flattened out and a set of eyes appeared on the top side. Below each pair of eyes, a long slit opened into a broad mouth filled with wicked fangs.

“The Serpent of Lubar!” Rikus gasped. The beast resembled the crest of the noble who had bred the mul, the family in whose cruel pits the young mul had been trained in the arts of killing.

As Rikus stared at the living crest of his first owner, the snake’s heads both turned toward Agis and struck simultaneously. The noble’s giant arms stretched outward, preventing the fangs from reaching him. The snake lengthened its body, and the arms stretched farther. An extra set of long-clawed hands suddenly grew from the giant’s rib cage, then seized the snake behind each of its heads. Moving with lightning speed, the sharp claws tore great gashes along the length of the snake’s body, reducing it to a bloody mess of shredded scales and minced flesh.

Agis threw the snake into the fluid, then watched it wither into a desiccated husk. “Why didn’t you defend yourself?” he asked, glancing at Rikus.

“I have no training in the Way,” Rikus answered, stung by the giant’s chiding tone.

“You don’t need any to form a basic defense,” the giant countered. “It’s instinctual-or should be. Everyone has some ability with the Way. Your mistake was emphasizing strength over form. The Way is more subtle than that.”

Agis changed from a giant into a leather-winged bird with a sharp, hooked beak. “Next time, use your imagination.” With that, he launched himself into the air and flew away.

Rikus opened his eyes and saw that he was back in the argosy, lying at the base of the ladder. The nobleman sat beside him, breathing in shallow gasps.

“Agis!” the mul gasped. “Are you hurt?”

The noble smiled and shook his head. “Tired,” he whispered. “Go on, before the pilot recovers.”

After glancing into the corridor to make sure Agis was in no imminent danger, Rikus left the noble to rest and climbed the ladder. Near the ceiling, the pilot’s deck was filled with a thick smoke that had seeped through the planks separating it from the rest of the argosy. By dropping to his hands and knees, however, the mul could crawl forward without scorching his lungs on the caustic fumes.

Rikus found the pilot’s deck to be a spacious platform with a large panel of thick glass overlooking the dune-sized shells of the lumbering mekillots. Before this window sat a well padded chair, no doubt where the pilot, a master of the Way especially trained to dominate the creatures, would sit.

The mul advanced on the pilot’s chair, laying his cahulaks aside. Despite his fear of the mindbender, he had to take the man alive if he wanted to halt the argosy. From what he had heard about mekillots, if the stupid beasts were suddenly freed of their mental reins, they would be just as likely to continue trudging forward as to stop.

A long black blade flashed toward Rikus’s eyes, a man-shaped blur dropping out of the smoke behind it. The mul crossed his wrists and thrust them over his head, catching the attacker’s arm between the backs of his hands. Before the mindbender could withdraw his dagger, Rikus turned his palms over and grabbed his attacker’s arm, then slammed his victim to the floor.

“If I even suspect you of meddling with my thoughts, I’ll finish the job, Phatim,” Rikus threatened, snatching the obsidian dagger and pressing its tip to the man’s throat.

The pilot’s gray eyes widened at the sound of his own name spoken in his own language. The gaunt man nodded his head of unkempt hair to show he understood, then looked down his hooked nose at the dagger pressed to his throat.

“If you want to live, stop the mekillots,” Rikus said. “But I warn you-”

“I’m too tired to betray you with the Way,” the pilot said.

Phatim closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment. The argosy lurched to a violent stop. Rikus flew over the mindbender’s prone body and slammed into the back of the chair.

The pilot was on him in an instant, using one hand to pin the mul’s dagger arm to the floor and, with the other, drawing a shorter knife from his boot. Rikus barely managed to slip his head out of the way as Phatim’s steel blade sliced down at him.

“Die, slave!” Phatim hissed, spraying Rikus’s face with warm spittle.

“Freed slave,” Rikus replied.

The mul brought his knee up, striking Phatim in the back of the thigh. The blow propelled the pilot forward and knocked him off balance. At the same time, Rikus ripped his arm free and thrust the dagger under Phatim’s ribs. The pilot cried out, then abruptly fell silent as the tip of the long blade found his heart. Hot, red blood ran down Rikus’s fingers, and Phatim collapsed.

Rikus pushed the pilot’s lifeless body off him, shaking his head at the man’s foolishness. The mul had hoped to question the mindbender about his choice of the Serpent of Lubar as an attack form.

Phatim’s death did little to dampen Rikus’s joy at stopping the argosy, however. Without the fortress-wagon and the drik-mounted siege engines, the Urikites would find it much more difficult, perhaps even impossible, to capture Tyr. The mul even dared to hope that he had just brought the war to an early end.

After a quick inspection to make sure there were no more surprises lurking on the smoky pilot’s deck, Rikus returned to the ladder to make sure Agis was well. On the floor below, he saw both Neeva and Sadira standing with the noble. In her hands, Neeva held a green cloth.

Rikus collected his cahulaks and started down the ladder. “What did you find in the other room?” he asked.

“The commander’s wardroom,” answered Sadira.

Rikus jumped the rest of the way to the floor. “Did you kill him?” the mul asked eagerly.

“The general wasn’t there,” Neeva said, tossing the cloth to the mul. “We found this hanging over his bed.”

Rikus unfurled the pennant. It was emblazoned with the red emblem of a two-headed snake, the mouths at each end of its body gaping open to reveal a mouthful of curved fangs.

“The Serpent of Lubar,” Rikus hissed, his mood changing from victorious to murderous.