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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.”