The Crimson Legion

FIVE WROG’S RING

“Keep a watch, and I will search out someone to be my spy,” said Maetan, tucking his frail body between a pair of wind-scoured boulders.

“I do not relish being invoked for such mundane tasks,” objected Umbra. In the flaxen light of Athas’s twin moons, the shadow giant was hardly distinguishable from the more natural darkness surrounding him.

“Until I avenge my honor against Rikus and his Tyrians, no task is mundane!” snapped Maetan. “Do as I command-or does the Black no longer value my family’s obsidian?”

A wisp of ebon-colored gas rose from Umbra’s down-turned mouth. “Your stone has value, but someday you will overestimate its worth,” he snarled, peering up at the pale moons. “A shadow needs light to give it shape and substance. It pains me to serve you in such conditions.”

“If I do not present these slaves to King Hamanu in shackles, my family name will be shamed,” Maetan said. “Do you think I care about your pain?”

“No more than I care about your honor,” Umbra replied, creeping away to do as Maetan ordered. His dark form fused with the other shadows mottling the hillside.

Maetan turned his attention to the sandy gulch below. There, surrounded by a tight picket of drowsy sentries, the Tyrian legion was camped.

The gladiators rested at the mouth of the gully, scattered in a disarrayed jumble wherever they could find a soft place. A short distance up the draw, the retainers of some noble lay clustered in cordial groups of ten or twelve warriors, many of whom were still conversing in polite tones. Close to them, the dwarves of Kled slept in regimented circles, each dwarf lying flat on his back within an arm’s reach of the next one.

Farthest up the gulch slumbered the templars, their cassocks tightly fastened against the frigid desert night. They had arranged themselves in a pyramid, those most favored lying closest to the leader, and those least favored spread along the bottom edge. Maetan did not understand why the Tyrians had sent along the bureaucrats. With Kalak dead, the templars had no sorcerer-king to grant them spells, and they would be no more useful in battle than average tradesmen.

“It matters little,” the mindbender told himself. “When the time comes, they will die with the rest.”

With that, he gathered a fistful of sand, then held it over the outstreched palm of the other hand. Slowly, Maetan let the grains slip from between his fingers. At the same time, he used the Way to summon a stream of mystic energy from deep within himself, and he gently breathed this life force into the sand as it dropped from one hand to the other.

When he finished, a naked, finger-length figure stood in the palm of his hand. She whipped her barbed tail back and forth, blinking her soft green eyes and giving her tiny wings a languid stretch.

Maetan lifted his hand toward the Tyrian camp. “Go, my darling, and look into their nightmares. Find one who will betray his fellows, one who yearns for wealth beyond his grasp, perhaps, or one who fears his master.”

The homunculus smiled, showing a pair of needlelike fangs, then flapped her wings and rose into the air.

“When you have succeeded,” Maetan said, “return to me and I will make him ours.”

Etched into the cliffside, far above Rikus’s head, was the image of a kes’trekel. The giant raptor’s barbed tongue coiled from its hooked beak, and it held its claws splayed open. The creature’s ragged wings were spread wide to catch the wind, and at the elbows of these wings were small, three-fingered hands. In one hand it held a bone scythe, and in the other it carried a furled whip of bone and cord.

“How’d they get up there to carve that?” Rikus asked, his eyes searching the cliffside.

“Why would they bother?” returned Neeva, looking away from the rock-etching. “Kes’trekels are hardly a subject for art. They’re nothing but overgrown carrion-eaters.”

“Kes’trekels may be death-followers, but they’re also as vicious as halflings, as cunning as elves, and some are as large as half-giants,” Caelum said, still craning his neck to study the depiction. “I’d take this engraving as a warning.”

Along with Styan, who remained stolidly silent, the three stood in a barren canyon flanked by towering cliffs of hard, yellow quartzite. The gorge was so deep and narrow that just a sliver of the olive-tinged sky showed overhead. Only the sweltering heat and a blush of crimson light on the canyon’s rim indicated that the morning sun already hung high in the sky.

Above the kes’trekel, someone had chiseled a huge hollow into the cliffside. A warren of mudbrick compartments had been constructed inside this alcove. From the outside, Rikus could see little of the burrow except a wall several stories high, plastered with lime-paste and speckled with square windows. At the base of this wall, a part of the warren overhung the valley. In the center of this section was a large circular opening.

“I’d say that’s where our warriors disappeared to,” Rikus said, motioning at the overhang.

Neeva looked around the canyon. “I don’t see anywhere else they might have gone,” she agreed. “You think both K’kriq and the scouts you sent after him are up there?”

“That’s my guess,” the mul said.

At dusk the night before, the legion had made camp in a sandy gulch at the mouth of a narrow canyon. Since thri-keen have no need of sleep, Rikus had sent K’kriq ahead to scout the next day’s route. The mantis-warrior had not returned by first light, so the mul had sent five gladiators to look for him. When that group had not come back either, Rikus had entered the canyon to investigate for himself. He had brought Neeva and Caelum along in case he ran into trouble. Surprisingly, Styan had asked to accompany them.

After two miles of slow travel, the cliff-huts were the only unusual thing the group had seen in the valley.

“How will we reach the doorway?” Caelum asked, eyeing the sheer cliff beneath the opening.

“Why would we want to?” Styan demanded, speaking for the first time. He glared openly at Rikus. “It’s enough that you ignore Caelum’s advice and cross these badlands, but to risk our lives for a thri-keen and a few warriors-”

“They’d do it for us,” the mul answered gruffly. “As for crossing the hills, it’s the only way to reach the oasis ahead of Maetan.”

K’kriq had seen Maetan traveling with a large group of Urikite soldiers. They were moving around a tongue of rocky badlands that jutted several miles into the sand wastes. From what the thri-keen had reported, the mindbender’s company was traveling toward a brackish pool of water where a handful of Urik’s infamous halfling rangers had stopped to rest. Determined to reach the oasis ahead of his enemy, Rikus had led his legion into the winding canyons and contorted ridge of the badland foothills.

Before the legion could continue its journey, however, Rikus had to find out what had happened to K’kriq and the other scouts. He dropped a hand to the sword hanging on his new belt. As the mul’s fingers closed around the Scourge’s hilt, a dozen discordant sounds crashed over his mind in a deafening tumult. His ears were filled with the thunder of beating hearts and the roar of the morning breeze. From distant caves came the rumble of chirping crickets, and the piercing drone of his warriors’ impatient conversations echoed up from the canyon mouth.

Rikus felt dizzy and sick from the torrent of noise. He wanted nothing quite so much as to shut it away, but he forced himself to hang onto the sword and search out the sounds coming from the warren. Finally, he managed to distinguished a stream of wispy voices gushing from the hole above. Concentrating on those sounds, the mul asked quietly, “Who are you? What have you done with my scouts?”

Of course, the voices did not answer, but the other sounds faded to the point that he could concentrate on what was being said inside the warren. Rikus quickly discerned that there were well over a dozen men and women watching him from above, most asking concerned questions of someone named Wrog. In the background, he could hear a faint clacking noise that sounded like K’kriq gnashing his mandibles.

Taking his hand from his sword hilt, Rikus called, “Wrog! Return my scouts and live in peace.”

They waited a few moments for a response. When none came, Neeva asked, “Who’s Wrog?”

Rikus shrugged, “A name. I thought-”

A terrified scream interrupted him. He looked up and saw a man, arms flailing wildly, drop from the opening overhead. In anger, Rikus reached for the Scourge of Rkard. Instantly, he heard many voices roaring in laughter.

The falling man plummeted toward the mul for what seemed like an hour. A half-giant’s height from the rocky ground, his terrified scream ended with a pained shout as his descent stopped. For several moments, the man hung motionless and silent in midair. To the amazement of the mul and his companions, there was no sign of a rope, or any other line, between the faller and the hole from which he had come. The unfortunate fellow simply dangled a few yards off the ground with no visible means of support.

Recognizing the gladiator, Rikus exclaimed, “Laban!”

“Are you injured?” asked Neeva.

“I’m more frightened than hurt,” came the shaky reply.

As Laban spoke, he began to descend more slowly. The half-elf’s normally robust complexion was the color of salt, his peaked eyebrows were arched much more than normal, and his bloodshot eyes bulged halfway from their sockets. Otherwise, Laban seemed remarkably composed and well for a man who had just fallen several hundred feet.

When the gladiator descended to within reach, Neeva took him by the shoulders and helped him to his feet. “Wrog sent me down to invite you to the nest,” he said. He pointed at the dark circle in the bottom of the warren. “Stand under the door and he’ll bring you up.”

“What sort of people are these, Laban?” Rikus asked, moving into position.

“They call themselves the Kes’trekels,” the half-elf answered. “They’re a slave tribe.”

“Good,” Rikus said. “It won’t be hard to work things out.”

“Don’t be too sure,” Laban said. He gestured at the mul’s sword. “He said no weapons.”

Rikus frowned, then unsheathed his sword and held it out to Neeva. “You know what to expect from the Scourge?” he asked.

She cast a wary eye at the blade, but nodded. “I was there when Lyanius gave it to you.”

As soon as her hand touched the hilt, Neeva’s eyes rolled back in her head. “Quiet!” she screamed, dropping to her knees.

At the same time, Rikus began to rise at a steady rate. “Listen to my voice,” Rikus said. “You’ll be able to hear what I say up there.”

In answer, Neeva screamed.

As he ascended, Rikus continued speaking to Neeva, giving her advice on how to control the sword’s powers. At first, she dropped the weapon and covered her ears. A moment later, she picked it up again and held onto it.

“That’s better,” Rikus said. “If you’re able to control the blade, at least a little, and can hear me, step toward Laban.”

Neeva continued to glare at the mul, but did as he asked. Breathing a sigh of relief, Rikus looked toward the warren, studying it and its surroundings. The nest was much higher off the ground than he had realized. His companions, now far below, seemed no larger than his thumbs, and their forms were shrinking at a steady pace. By the time he neared the warren’s entrance, he knew why the slave tribe had chosen this place for their aerie. It was the highest accessible spot in the gorge. Long sections of canyon floor were visible in both directions. Even without a formal watch, the Kes’teskel tribe would have a good chance of seeing intruders from the windows of their homes.

More importantly, the nest afforded a view of both ends of the canyon. At the mouth of the gorge, a dark blotch of tiny figures-the Tyrian legion-waited in a field of orange and brown rocks. In the other direction, the ravine cut through the badland ridges like a great sword gash, running more or less in a straight line to the yellow dunes of the sand wastes beyond. It was exactly the shortcut the mul needed to beat Maetan to the next oasis.

Rikus reached the nest entrance and a dark shadow fell over his shoulders. As he drifted up past the floor, the mul was temporarily blinded as his eyes adjusted to the dim light. The clammy room stank of sweat and unbathed bodies, though the tangy scent of fresh silverbush helped mask the stench.

“Do I know you?” growled a throaty voice. The mul took it to be Wrog’s.

Rikus looked up and saw the hulking form of a huge half-man silhouetted against the scarlet light of the window. The shadowy figure stood easily two heads taller than the mul, with a body both more massive and more heavily muscled. Wrog held one hand over Rikus’s head. The glint of gold on one finger suggested that an enchanted ring provided the magic that had levitated him into the room.

“I’m Rikus,” the mul said. By the whispers of recognition rustling through the group, he guessed that at least some of the escaped slaves in the large chamber knew him from his days in the arena at Tyr.

Wrog glanced around the room. “It appears I should be impressed.” After a short pause, he added, “I’m not.”

As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, the mul saw that Wrog was a lask, one of the new races periodically born in the deep desert. His leathery hide, mottled orange and gray, would serve as excellent camouflage in the rocky barrens that covered much of Athas. The hands that hung at the end of the half-man’s gangling arms fingers had only three fingers and a thumb, all of which ended in sharp claws. Wrog’s head was flat and squarish, with a crest of golden points rising from a mass of wrinkled skin. His large, orange-rimmed eyes were set above a thick, boxlike muzzle, from which protruded a pair of sturdy golden fangs, slightly curved inward like an insect’s pincers. In Rikus’s days as a gladiator, the lask might have been an interesting challenge.

Now, however, the mul was interested only in winning Wrog’s friendship. Rikus stepped to the wooden floor. Glancing around the chamber, he saw nearly thirty escaped slaves of all races. Many had ghastly scars on their hands and legs, no doubt earned in the obsidian quarries of Urik.

Scattered in a dozen places around the room were archers armed with long, double-curved bows. They all held obsidian-tipped arrows nocked on their bowstrings, and peered down at Neeva and her companions through small openings in the floor.

In one corner lay K’kriq. The thri-kreen was tightly wrapped in a net of red, thorn-covered cords. Rikus was surprised to see that his friend had actually shredded part of the mesh, for the mul had often used similar snares in the arena and knew them to be all but unbreakable and uncuttable. The strands were made from the tendrils of an elven rope, a contorted mass of cactus that lashed out with its needle covered tentacles to entwine careless animals and draw their life-giving fluids from their bodies.

Although K’kriq’s arms and legs were pinned to his sides, four men surrounded him, their obsidian-tipped spears ready to thrust at the slightest movement. Nearby kneeled the rest of the Tyrian scouts, their hands bound and mouths gagged with tanned snakeskin. Although a few had suffered minor cuts and bruises, it appeared their captors had not mistreated them severely.

After inspecting the room, Rikus looked back to Wrog. “You didn’t hurt my warriors, so there’s no need for trouble between us. Use your magic to let us down safely and we’ll be on our way.”

Wrog lifted his upper lip in what could have been a sneer or a smile. “I can’t do that,” he said. “You and your warriors can stay here with us, or leave on your own.” He peered through the hole in the floor meaningfully. “The choice is yours.”

The mul narrowed his eyes. “There’s no reason to start a fight with us. We’re from Tyr, the Free City. All we intend to do is march through your canyon and catch Maetan of Urik on the far side.”

“What for?” asked a crusty old dwarf. He had a horrible red scar running across both of his forearms.

“To kill him,” Rikus answered. “Lord Lubar led an army against Tyr, and now he’ll pay with his life.”

Many of those in the room uttered approving comments, which did not surprise the mul. In addition to its gladiatorial pits, Family Lubar owned the largest quarrying concession in Urik. No doubt, many slaves in the large chamber had been raised in the grimy Lubar pens.

“I say we let them go,” said the old dwarf. “We’ve all heard about the rebellion in Tyr. The Kes’trekels have nothing to fear from a legion of theirs.”

Several of those marked by grisly quarry scars voiced their agreement, but many other shouted them down. Wrog looked at the contentious group with one eye narrowed. After studying them for a moment, he turned back to the mul.

“When it comes to Maetan of Family Lubar, I don’t think you’ll be the one who does the killing, Rikus,” Wrog said, spitting the mul’s name out disdainfully. “To send a scout up our canyon is smart. It saved your legion from being ambushed. Dispatching a second group to meet the same fate as the thri-kreen wasn’t so smart. But coming yourself, that was stupid-even for a mul.”

“We value each of our warriors, as well we might,” Rikus countered hotly. “We’ve already defeated a Urikite legion five times our size.” The mul did not add that they could defeat a slave tribe just as easily, though his glare carried the unspoken threat.

Wrog’s orange-rimmed eyes showed more anger than concern. “You would find the Kes’trekels a more cunning enemy,” the lask replied. “If you value the lives of your warriors as dearly as you claim, you have but one choice: join our tribe. Try to do anything else, and I will destroy your legion as you say you destroyed the Urikites.”

Only the knowledge that starting a fight could result in the quick deaths of K’kriq and his other four scouts kept the mul from lashing out at Wrog. Despite his growing anger, Rikus realized that fighting was not the best way to solve this problem. Even if he managed to escape the nest with K’kriq and the four gladiators, he would lose too many warriors trying to fight through the slave tribe’s narrow canyon. He had to find a better way.

“If it comes to a fight between your tribe and my legion, both of us will lose more warriors than we like,” the mul said, swallowing his pride. Deciding to take a bold risk, he continued, “Instead, we should fight together.”

“Why should we risk our lives for Tyr?” Wrog demanded, his voice haughty and disdainful.

“For a home in the Free City,” the mul answered, looking around the chamber. “If you fight with us, you’ll receive land and protection from slave-takers.”

Before any of his followers could voice their opinions, Wrog spat out an answer. “Land will do us no good. We are not farm slaves,” he sneered. “As for slave-takers, we have less reason to fear them here than we would in your city. So far, Urik’s legions have not found our nest. They can find your city readily enough.”

“You have nothing to offer us,” said a young, red-haired man. The area around his eyes was covered by a pair of star-shaped tattoos.

“Iron,” said K’kriq. The thri-kreen’s guards tapped his shell with their speartips, but the mantis-warrior paid them no attention. “Slave tribes like iron.”

Rikus smiled. “K’kriq is right,” he said. “Tyr can pay you in iron.”

Even Wrog could not ignore this offer. “How much?”

“One pound per week, for every hundred warriors who join us,” Rikus answered.

“I’m with you,” said the man with the tattooed eyes.

“Me too,” said a female mul. Her face was only slightly less rugged than Rikus’s, and when she grinned she showed a mouthful of teeth filed to needle-sharp points. “I could use a good axe-blade.”

As several others also announced their intentions to join the Tyrians, Wrog studied Rikus with a suspicious air. Finally he said, “We accept your offer, but only if you prove your readiness to pay such a high price.”

“You have my promise,” Rikus said.

“You can’t make an axe out of a promise,” growled the female mul.

The man with the tattooed eyes also withdrew his offer, as did the others who had pledged their support.

Angered by the sudden change of mood, Rikus scowled. “If anyone doubts that my word is good-”

“Show us the iron,” Wrog interrupted, his upper lip raised in his peculiar imitation of a smile. “Then we will not doubt your promise.”

“No legion carries raw iron with it,” the mul snapped.

“What of your weapons?” asked Wrog.

“My warriors’ blades are not mine to pledge,” Rikus answered. “Besides, we have only a few steel weapons.”

There were more than a few sighs of disappointment, but no one suggested taking the mul at his word. Wrog smirked at Rikus, then pointed at the nest’s exit. “That leaves your original decision. Stay or jump.”

Or fight, Rikus added silently. He did not like the third option any better than the first two. Even for him, it would be difficult to destroy so many opponents before the escaped slaves killed K’kriq and four gladiators. Not even Neeva and her companions would survive long enough to flee, for the mul did not doubt that Wrog would order his archers to fire as soon as a fight broke out.

Realizing he had nothing to lose, Rikus decided to chance a desperate gamble. “If the king of Tyr promises to pay the iron I offered, will you join my legion?”

“How can he do that?” Wrog demanded. “Is he with you?”

“He’s in Tyr,” Rikus answered. “Will you agree?”

Wrog started to shake his head, but the man with the painted eyes interrupted him. “The caravan slaves say this Tithian is a king of the enslaved. They say he freed them from their noble masters, and that he lets them drink from his wells for free. If such a man promises, I’ll fight.”

One by one, the man’s fellows echoed his sentiments, and at last Wrog nodded his square head.

The mul reached into his belt pouch and withdrew the olivine he had taken from Styan. “With this crystal, you’ll hear and see King Tithian.” he explained.

Wrog narrowed his flaxen eyes. “I know better than to trust a sorcerer,” he said. “You could be tricking me.”

“I’m no sorcerer,” Rikus snapped. He pointed at the lask’s ring. “You have your ring, I have my gem.”

When Wrog did not object to this line of reasoning, Rikus held the olivine out at arm’s length and stared into it. A moment later, Tithian’s face appeared inside the green depths of the gem. The king was wearing the golden diadem he had taken from Kalak, and there was a scowl of displeasure on his heavy lips. From the angle of the king’s narrow stare, it appeared that he was staring down at someone who was either kneeling or lying at his feet.

Rikus did not hesitate to interrupt him. “Mighty King.”

Tithian’s liver-colored eyes looked up and his mouth fell open in shock. “Rikus!” he hissed. “You’re alive!”

“Of course,” the mul responded.

Before he could continue, Tithian continued, “What of Agis and the others?”

“Haven’t you heard from them?” Rikus asked. According to his estimates, the pair should have reached Tyr several days past. “After we smashed the Urikite legion, Neeva and I went to chase the enemy commander. Agis and Sadira went back …”

The mul let the sentence trail off, realizing that Agis and Sadira might have elected to keep their return secret.

Unfortunately, Rikus’s slip was not lost on Tithian. “If they have returned to the city it is unfortunate they did not elect to announce their arrival. I would have liked to prepare a proper reception,” the king said, an angry glint in his eye. “Now, tell me what you want.”

The mul explained the arrangement he was trying to work out with the Kes’trekel slave tribe. Although he knew better than to think Tithian would help him personally, Rikus hoped the king would realize that killing Maetan would make Tyr-and therefore himself-more secure.

When the mul finished his explanation, Tithian ran a thin finger along his hawkish nose. “I’d like to do as you ask, but how do you expect me to pay for your iron?” Although the mul could hear the words clearly, anyone not holding the gem could neither see Tithian’s face nor hear his words. “The city’s iron is already pledged to various merchant houses, and I can hardly afford to buy it back. You know that the Council of Advisors has rejected all edicts designed to replenish the royal treasury.”

Under his breath, Rikus cursed the king as a blackmailer and a thief. Nevertheless, when he spoke, his tone was respectful and courteous. The slave tribe could hear his end of the conversation and he didn’t want to alarm them. “I’m sure we can solve that problem, Mighty King.”

Tithian smiled. “Then you’ll support an edict to place me in sole control of Tyr’s revenues?”

“It won’t cost that much!” the mul snapped.

Tithian smirked. “Sole control. I really must insist.”

The mul cursed, realizing that he had no choice except to resort to one of the king’s favorite tactics: lie. Hardly able to keep from snarling, Rikus said, “I agree.”

Tithian studied the mul with narrowed eyes. At last, he said, “Very well. Pass the gem to this Wrog.”

“Use magic or the Way, whatever you did when you appeared in the sky at our first battle.” Rikus was not anxious to trust a gem, much less a magical one, to the leader of the slave tribe.

A look of embarrassment crossed Tithian’s face. “That’s not possible,” he said. “The individuals who helped with that aren’t available. If you want me to talk to Wrog, you’ll have to give him the gem.”

Rikus reluctantly passed the crystal to the lask and instructed him in its use. As Wrog held the olivine out at arms length, his eyes opened wide and he curled his lip in alarm. “King?”

The lask remained quiet while Tithian responded. After a few moments, Wrog cast a wary eye at the mul, then looked back into the crystal. He listened to the king, then closed his fist over the gem and glared at the mul.

“Your king says you are no legion of Tyr’s,” Wrog announced. “He says he’ll pay me if you never return to Tyr.”

Realizing that he had run out of options, Rikus spoke to Neeva in a calm voice, relying on the Scourge of Rkard’s magic for her to hear him. “Neeva, take cover. A dozen archers have arrows trained on you right now.”

Wrog curled his muzzle in confusion. “Who are you talking to?”

Before Rikus had a chance to answer, several archers cried out in alarm. “They moved!”

“Shoot!” snapped Wrog. When no bowstrings twanged, the lask repeated his command. “Shoot!”

“They don’t have a clear aim,” Rikus answered. He placed himself in front of Wrog, safely out of arm’s reach. “Neeva, send Laban to fetch the rest of the legion. Prepare for a fight.”

“Quiet!” Wrog ordered, stepping toward the mul.

The bowstrings snapped in rapid succession. Rikus peered through the exit in the floor, glimpsing an insect-sized figure dodging down the canyon. As the arrows streaked toward the gladiator, Caelum rose from behind his cover. The dwarf lifted an arm skyward. In the next instant, a red sphere of flame appeared between the nest and the ground. The arrows sank into the fire shield and disappeared from sight, leaving the archers to gasp in awe.

“Did you stop him?” demanded Wrog, whose golden eyes remained fixed on the mul.

Rikus answered for the archers. “No,” he said, meeting the slave leader’s gaze. “That leaves you with the choice.”

“I’ll kill you all,” Wrog growled.

“That would be stupid, even for a lask,” Rikus said, not yielding any ground. “I’ll soon have two-thousand warriors marching up the canyon.”

Wrog stopped less than a step from Rikus, the sharp points of his fangs several inches above the mul’s head. “You’ll never live to see them arrive,” the lask snarled.

Rikus glimpsed a massive claw swinging toward his head. He stepped inside and blocked the attack on the forearm, at the same time driving his elbow into the lask’s stomach. Wrog hardly seemed to notice the blow, but it opened space enough for Rikus to step under the arm. As the mul passed behind his opponent, he thrust his foot at the back of Wrog’s knee and pushed. The leg buckled, dropping the lask to his knees.

Before Wrog could shout any orders, Rikus leaped across the exit hole toward the Kes’trekels guarding K’kriq. He kicked the first man in the ribs, sending him crashing into the next warrior. The other two guards attacked instantly, one thrusting his spear at Rikus and the other at K’kriq.

Rikus sidestepped the attack coming at him, grabbing the spear along the shaft. He knocked the man unconscious with an elbow to the jaw, then ripped the spear away as the guard fell to the floor. At the same time, the weapon thrust at K’kriq bounced harmlessly off the thri-kreen’s hard shell. The mantis-warrior rolled toward his attacker and sank his mandibles into the man’s leg. As poisonous salva mixed with blood, the man screamed in agony and drooped to the floor in a convulsing heap.

Confused shouts and angry cries filled the small chamber. The Kes’trekels drew their weapons and moved to attack. Rikus spun around and cut the cord binding one of his scout’s hands, then K’kriq cried, “Beware the lask!”

Leaving his spear with the gladiator he had just freed, Rikus stepped toward the exit to meet Wrog. The lask dived across the hole, reaching out with the claws of both hands. The mul ducked and Wrog’s arms slashed the air overhead. The gladiator quickly stood upright again, his shoulders catching his foe in the torso and flipping the huge lask onto his back. Wrog landed on the floor with a great crash.

Angered that he and his legion were being forced to fight fellow slaves, Rikus kicked the lask in the head. “This is stupid!” he yelled, smashing his foot into the lask’s face with each word.

The blows would have smashed a human’s skull, but Wrog shrugged them off and lashed out at the mul’s leg. When Rikus jumped away, the lask rose to his hands and knees. “The mul is mine,” he growled, eyeing several Kes’trekels attempting to sneak up behind Rikus.

The mul allowed Wrog to return to his feet, not wishing to get into a wrestling match with the huge half-man. In this battle, he knew, his advantage lay in speed and skill, not sheer strength.

As he waited, Rikus glanced at K’kriq. Six slaves were surrounding the thri-kreen, hacking at his chitinous shell with bone axes and obsidian short swords. Despite his disadvantage, the mantis-warrior was faring well against them. He rolled to and fro, lashing out with his poisonous mandibles and one of the two arms his attackers had inadvertently freed. Next to him, the scout that Rikus had released earlier was using his spear to hold several foes at bay while the next gladiator in line worked to free their companions.

When Wrog had returned to his feet, Rikus placed himself squarely in front of the hole. “I’m going to break you one bone at a time,” he snarled. Rikus meant every word of what he said, though it was not the bitterness he felt toward the lask that prompted him to speak. Wrog was a powerful fighter, but an inexperienced one. Rikus wanted to goad him into a mistake. “When I’m through with you, my legion will burn your nest off the side of this mountain. Your tribe will curse your memory for refusing to let us pass.”

“Not likely,” the lask growled.

As the mul had hoped, Wrog started his next attack by dashing forward. Two steps into his charge, a spark of understanding lit the lask’s flaxen eyes and he slowed his pace. “Your tricks won’t work,” he said.

Rikus scowled as if disappointed, though he was really far from dissatisfied. A gladiator’s tricks, especially those of a champion, were never as simple as they seemed. He had seen a hundred opponents stop just as Wrog had, and in the end a hundred opponents had fallen to one of the many maneuvers that could follow.

Rikus screamed and rushed forward. Wrog reached for the mul with both clawed hands, a confident sneer on his snout. The lask’s fingers clamped down on the gladiator’s shoulders long before the mul’s shorter arms reached his foe’s body. Rikus grabbed Wrog’s biceps and pushed with all his strength.

The instant the lask pushed back, Rikus reversed himself and pulled Wrog toward him. At the same time, he kicked his feet out, planting one squarely in his foe’s stomach and throwing the other out in front of the knee. As the mul dropped to his back, he pulled the Wrog forward.

The lask’s orange eyes opened wide as he realized he had done exactly what the gladiator had expected. Wrog tore his arms free of the mul’s grip and jumped over Rikus’s head, landing a full step shy of the hole in the floor.

Seeing that he had saved himself from another of the mul’s tricks, Wrog cried out in triumph. “Who’ll break who bone-by-bone?”

Rikus answered the question by throwing his legs over his head and springing off the floor at his enemy. As Wrog turned to face him again, the mul’s feet landed square in the lask’s belly. The unexpected kick sent the half-man stumbling backward. He plunged, screaming, into the hole.

Rikus dropped back to the floor, then leaped to his feet in the same instant, expecting Wrog’s followers to rush him. To his surprise, no one did. The handful of Kes’trekels who were not actively fighting merely kept a watchful eye on the mul, as if defeating their leader had relieved them of the necessity for further combat.

As he studied the rest of the room, Rikus saw they were not extending the same courtesy to his followers. In the corner, three of the four Tyrian scouts lay motionless and battered in the midst of more than a dozen dead Kes’trekels. The last gladiator, streaming blood from a dozen cuts, was wearily defending himself from three attackers.

K’kriq’s situation was little better. Although the thri-kreen had managed to work all four arms free and stand, the mesh remained twined around his legs. Eight Kes’trekels had him trapped in the corner. The mantis-warrior’s shell was laced with deep gouges, and he oozed dark yellow blood from several wounds that had actually penetrated to his body. Nevertheless, the thri-kreen had fought well, for there were as many bodies piled at his feet as there were near the four scouts. Among them was the man with the tattooed eyes.

Though Rikus was no stranger to carnage and bloodshed, the sight sickened him. Since his days in the arena, he had not been forced to fight fellow slaves, and he found that he no longer had the stomach for it.

“Stop!” Rikus cried. “Slaves shouldn’t kill slaves!”

When the battle showed no signs of subsiding, he snatched up a bloody short sword that had fallen near the hole. “Stop, or I’ll have your sword arms!”

“You’ll die first,” said Wrog’s throaty voice.

Rikus spun around and saw the lask floating back through the chamber exit. Wrog’s sharp fangs were dripping saliva, and his muzzle was contorted into a mask of bloodlust. “I have a few tricks of my own,” he sneered.

As the lask’s upper body passed into the chamber, Rikus caught a glimpse of the golden ring that still sparkled on Wrog’s finger. Apparently, its powers of levitation were more varied than the gladiator had guessed.

His anger returning at the sight of the fool who had caused all the needless bloodletting, the mul rushed to the edge of the hole and kicked at Wrog’s stomach with all his might. The lask blocked with a bony forearm, sending sharp pain shooting up the gladiator’s leg. Still, Rikus smiled, for his foe had exposed the hand wearing the ring. The mul brought his short sword’s blade down across Wrog’s fingers, slicing all three off at the knuckles.

Wrog screamed in pain. He plummeted back through the hole, leaving the finger that wore the magical ring floating before Rikus. The mul studied the gruesome digit for a moment, fascinated by the sight of it hanging in midair, unconnected to the rest of the lask’s body.

As he looked, the mul realized that the ring keeping it aloft was vital to the nest’s survival. No doubt, they could use ropes to haul themselves and their supplies up into the nest, but the absence of ropes or pulleys in the room suggested that they had come to rely exclusively on the ring.

The mul snatched the Wrog’s bloody finger and held it aloft.

“Stop!” he yelled again. “Stop, or I’ll leave you trapped here!” He had no intention of abandoning K’kriq, but the threat seemed the best way to end the battle.

Those who were not heavily involved in the fight looked toward the mul with expressions of surprise, then quickly dragged their comrades away from the melee. Behind them stood K’kriq, battered and exhausted. Unfortunately, he was the only one of Rikus’s warriors still standing. The last scout had fallen and lay tangled in a mass of bodies.

“You have the ring,” said the old dwarf who had spoken earlier. He was spattered head-to-foot in blood. “What now?”

“I’m going to take my warriors and leave, then my legion will pass through your canyon,” Rikus said.

He slipped the ring off Wrog’s disembodied digit and put it on his own. To his surprise, the large band immediately shrank to the proper size for his finger.

“What do we do now?” asked the female mul. “Do we stop him or follow him?”

At first, Rikus did not understand the question. Slowly it dawned on him that, by killing Wrog, he had taken more than the lask’s ring. In many slave tribes, warlords achieved their positions through personal combat. In the case of the Kes’trekels, it did not seem unlikely that the magical ring was the emblem of that authority.

“If I’m your new leader, then you come with my legion to attack the Urikites,” Rikus said.

The chamber fell deathly silent, and the mul could tell that he had made a mistake.

At last, the old dwarf shook his head. “You killed Wrog in personal combat, so we’ll let your legion pass through our canyon. But you must return the ring and swear to keep the location of our nest secret.”

Rikus insisted, “I won Wrog’s position through-”

“You won nothing. It takes more than a gladiator’s tricks to lead a slave tribe,” the dwarf spat, running his eyes over the carnage in the room. “You’re a fine warrior, but I see no proof that you’re anything else. Do you accept our truce or not?”