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.