In the direction Gaanon indicated rose a range of fire-belching mountains covered by thick layers of cinder and coarse-grained rocks. Near the summits of many peaks, lakes of molten stone cast a dome of orange light into the dark sky. In the winding canyons, fiery curtains of red incandescence hung over slow-moving rivers of burning rock. It was in that barren wilderness of cinder and lava that the quarry gangs wandered for days at a time, searching out and chipping away long ropes of glassy black obsidian.
Rikus said, “The Smoking Crown always looks dangerous, Gaanon. That wouldn’t stop the quarry masters from sending out their gangs.”
“What does it matter?” Neeva demanded, casting a sour look at Rikus. Though Caelum had healed the wound on her stomach, it was still marked by an ugly red scar. “You marched us up here in the dark so we could attack at dawn. Let’s not lose the advantage of surprise you kept talking about.”
“Fine,” Rikus snapped. “Let’s get on with it.”
The mul stepped to the top of the ridge, then looked down the other side at his silent legion. With the exception of the dwarves, who stubbornly remained standing, the warriors all lay on their backs, their feet braced in the loose ash to keep from sliding down the steep slope. In the entire group, no one stirred or even uttered so much as a whisper.
“Get ready!” Rikus ordered, keeping his voice low enough that the morning wind would not carry it over Makla. As the warriors struggled to their feet, the mul went back down the hillside and sent his subcommanders up the slope to organize the army. Neeva started to follow, but Rikus stopped her. He had tried to talk to her last night, but apparently angry about her injury, she had refused to speak with him.
The mul waited for the others to move out of earshot, then said, “I don’t want to go into this battle with bad blood between us.” He gestured at the long scar on her stomach. “You know I’d never attack you on purpose.”
“I know you didn’t mean to cut me,” Neeva answered, meeting his eyes with a cold gaze. “That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I wouldn’t!” Rikus snapped. “What do I have to do to prove it?”
“Explain yourself,” Neeva said. “Who were you yelling at when you attacked me? It was like you were in a trance.” She pointed at his left breast, where the robe hid the festering sore on his chest. “And why can’t Caelum rid you of that ruby?”
The mul dropped his gaze to his feet. “I didn’t tell you the truth before. The gem has nothing to do with Umbra,” he said, almost mumbling.
Neeva was silent for a moment, then demanded, “Why’d you lie to me?”
“Because Caelum was there,” Rikus said, meeting her gaze. “If I say how I came by this stone, you’ve got to promise not to tell him.”
“You let Caelum try to cure you without knowing what he faced?” Neeva gasped.
Don’t tell her! Tamar urged, her voice coming to Rikus on the rhythm of his own heart.
Quiet! Rikus commanded. To Neeva, he said, “Swear, or I can’t tell you.”
Neeva snorted in disgust, but touched her hand to the waterskin dangling from her shoulder. “I swear on my life.”
If she knows, she’ll tell the dwarf, warned the wraith. I’ll kill her before I allow it.
No! Rikus objected.
And I’ll do it with your hands, the wraith assured him. That’s why I made you wound her with your sword-so you’d know I could.
“Well?” Neeva demanded.
The mul looked away. “I can’t tell you.”
Neeva scowled. “I swore on my life,” she said. “Isn’t that good enough?”
“It is, but I was wrong to think I could tell you,” Rikus said. “It doesn’t matter what you swear on.”
One corner of Neeva’s mouth turned down in a derisive sneer. “This is what’s wrong between us. If you don’t trust me, then there’s nothing more to say.” She started to leave.
“Wait,” Rikus said, grabbing her arm. “I do trust you-this is for your own good.”
“I decide what’s good for me,” Neeva replied, jerking her arm free. “You had better decide whether you trust me or not-and you’ve got to choose between me and Sadira. You’ve treated me like one of your fawning wenches for long enough.”
With that, she faced the top of the slope, where Jaseela and the other subcommanders were looking down on the scene with raised eyebrows. Behind them, the heads and shoulders of the Tyrian legion were just showing above the crest of the ridge. “Your army awaits your command,” Neeva spat, hefting an obsidian battle-axe Gaanon had given her. “Try to serve it better than you do your lovers.”
“I serve them both as best I can,” Rikus answered, gritting his teeth.
With that, the mul raised his sword and waved his legion toward the village. A few half-hearted battle cries sounded from ash-coated throats, but the noise seemed a pitiful squeak compared to the confident roar that usually accompanied an attack by his warriors.
The legion half-slid, half-ran down the slope, loose cinders cascading around their feet and ash billowing far above their heads. Soon it seemed the whole mountainside was avalanching down upon Makla. The ground was trembling beneath Rikus’s feet, and, through the roiling cloud of gray soot, the mul could see no farther than the end of his own sword. In the absence of Tyrian battle cries, the sound of coughing filled the dark morning.
The village did not seem to be prepared for a surprise attack. A few sentries sounded the alarm, and an echoing slam announced that the main gate had been closed. Soon, Rikus heard a few officers shouting orders to their soldiers as they raced from their barracks, but the mul detected no sign of the large force he had feared was gathered at the village.
After the legion reached the base of the mountain, it did not take it long to leave the cloud of airborne ash behind. Not bothering to attack the main gate, Rikus led the way directly to the stockade. There, he began hacking at the ropes of braided giant-hair that bound the huge mekillat ribs together. Any ordinary sword, especially one with a blade of obsidian or sharpened bone, would not have cut the sturdy ropes, but the Scourge of Rkard sliced through them as though they were made of hemp.
No sooner had the mul cut away the ropes than Gaanon grabbed a rib and, groaning with effort, pulled it out of place. Without so much as a word to Rikus, Neeva slipped through the breach and disappeared into the village. A moment later, she yelled in anger, then a Urikite half-giant screamed in pain. The ground shook as he collapsed.
Rikus turned to K’kriq and pointed at the gap. “Go with Neeva,” the mul said. “Be sure nothing happens to her.”
“She carries eggs?” the thri-kreen asked, unable to imagine any other reason a female would deserve special protection.
“Just defend her,” Rikus ordered, motioning for Gaanon to help him open more gaps. Each time they pulled down a mekillot rib, another of his lieutenants led a group of gladiators into the village.
By the time the last two companies were ready to go through the wall, the sun had peeked over the jagged horizon. Barely penetrating the clouds of volcanic soot that rose from the jagged peaks of the Smoking Crown, the crimson orb lit the village with a murky, rose-colored glow. Rikus took advantage of the dim light to look back along the stockade. Once he saw that his legion was breaking into the village without trouble, he led the last of his warriors through the gap.
“It hardly seems necessary to let the slaves destroy my village,” complained Tarkla San, counting on her fingers the number of breaches that had been opened in Makla’s stockade.
“Villages can be rebuilt,” Maetan answered. “My family’s honor is another matter.”
The mindbender and the imperial governor were a mile from Makla’s main gate, standing a short distance below the jagged crest of a ridge of black basalt. In the narrow gorge on the other side of the ridge waited Maetan’s new legion, a makeshift force of stragglers from the first battle, the village garrison, and Family Lubar’s private army.