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?”
SIX
ASSASSINS
“What did I do wrong?” Rikus demanded. He bit his lip and kicked a stone with the instep of his sandaled foot. “Why couldn’t I make the slave tribe join us?”
Several yards behind him, Neeva said, “This isn’t their fight.”
“But it should be,” Rikus insisted, not turning around. “They could stop hiding from slave-takers and live in Tyr.”
“Not everyone wants to live in the city,” Neeva replied. There was a soft clack as she tossed a rock away from the bed she was preparing. “Not everyone wants to fight Urikites or take vengeance on Family Lubar.”
“You’re right, they’re cowards,” Rikus said, drawing his own conclusion from Neeva’s statement. “If they want to cower in their cliff-nest, who am I to lead them to freedom?”
“Exactly.”
“Fools,” the mul said, shaking his head and staring out over the terrain ahead.
Rikus and Neeva were preparing to spend the night apart from the rest of the legion, atop an outcropping of sienna limestone. A cool evening breeze swept out of the foothills and sank into a tranquil cove of golden sand stretched out before the two gladiators. Hanging low in the sky, the ruby sun lit the dune crests with a fiery bloom and plunged the troughs into amethyst shadows. Many miles away, a delta of rusty orange stones spilled out of a twisting badland canyon, briefly encroaching the sandy bay before being swallowed by the silent dunes.
At the tip of this delta stood a dark clump of zaal trees, their barren trunks and fanlike crowns marking the location of the oasis Rikus had been trying so desperately to reach. The long fronds of the zaal trees waved gently in the breeze, beckoning the Tyrian legion to fill their waterskins and soak their sore feet.
Unfortunately, Rikus no longer had reason to hurry to the oasis. As the legion had left the Kes’trekel canyon earlier that day, K’kriq had returned from the oasis with disappointing news. The Urikite halflings had abandoned the pool, and there was no sign that Maetan was continuing toward it. The Tyrians’ prey had vanished into the sandy wastes without a trace.
At the mul’s back, Neeva said, “Don’t expect to sleep like we would at Agis’s mansion.”
Rikus glanced over his shoulder. His fighting partner had tried desperately to clear the stones from a small section of barren ground, but it was a hopeless task. No matter how many stones she moved, there were a dozen more lying on the ground.
“Don’t worry about me,” Rikus said, looking back to the oasis. “I won’t sleep.”
Neeva stepped to his side and took his arm, something she seldom did when there were others around to see. “If you’re worried about spending the night outside camp, maybe we shouldn’t.”
Rikus squeezed her hand. “No, it’ll be good to have time alone. Besides, there aren’t any Urikites around here.” He withdrew his arm from her grasp and pointed at the distant clump of zaal trees. “How did Maetan know to avoid that oasis?”