The mul waved a hand in the direction of the dying gladiators. “I … didn’t … do … this!” he cried.
Caelum moved forward, his jaw set in determination and his flaming hand held out before him. A red light shot from the mul’s breast, and flames began to lick across his chest. Rikus clamped a hand over Tamar’s ruby, then spun and scrambled away from the sun cleric as fast as he could.
THIRTEEN
CAELUM’S VICTORY
A deep boom rumbled from beneath the crater’s fiery roots, shaking the whole basin and sending an ominous shudder over the ash-covored slopes of the surrounding mountains. The night sky answered with a brilliant sheet of scarlet lightning, silhouetting hundreds of spears, glaives, and axes along the rim of the caldera. The weapons were shouldered by a long line of Tyrian warriors, anxiously awaiting Rikus as he climbed out of the deep basin below.
Ten days ago, they had gathered all their non-magical metal articles-a dozen daggers, three axeheads, some spear-points, and an assortment of pins and buckles-and given the items to a half-elf skilled in weaponsmithing. The smith had used the fire-belching fissure in the crater to heat a makeshift forge and melt the pieces. From this small supply of metal, he had fashioned a handful of crude hammers and primitive chisels that the legion had used to carve a long series of steps into the cliffside. This stairway had allowed the legion to climb out of the Crater Of Bones without descending the lava channel and being forced to fight the Urikites at a disadvantage. Now the Tyrians would be able to approach their enemy from the mountainside, on a broad front.
As Rikus stepped from the last stair onto the cinder-covered mountainside, several templars uttered hushed words of praise, hailing the mul for delivering the legion from the crater’s confines. The gladiators simply looked down the mountain to where, far below, the Urikites remained in camp. After ten days of drinking sulfurous water condensed from steam vents and eating whatever they could catch scurrying beneath the bones, the former slaves were eager to begin the battle.
Caelum stepped from the crowd. After casting a wary eye at Rikus’s chest, the dwarf said, “The sun will shine with favor on us today.” He had to squint to protect his red eyes against the ash stirred up by the stiff wind. “The rumbling ground and the lightning are good signs.”
“They also woke our enemies,” Rikus growled.
He peered down the mountainside. Bathed in the flaxen light of Athas’s two moons, the cinder-covered slope looked like a great pile of golden pebbles. In the shadows at the base of the hill, where the Urikites had made their camp, dozens of flickering points of light were rushing to and fro. Rikus could only hope that, in the darkness, the men carrying the torches couldn’t see his legion and were responding to the tremor. Given the pale light shrouding the hillside, however, he thought it wisest to expect the worst.
“Give the order to advance,” Rikus said, speaking loudly enough so that everyone in the immediate vicinity could hear.
An anxious rustle worked its way down the line as hushed voices repeated his command. A few moments later, the Tyrians began to descend, half-stepping and half-sliding down the gritty slope.
Rikus signaled his lieutenants to join their companies, but before they could leave, Caelum cried, “Wait!”
“Why? Is something wrong?” the mul demanded, staring at the dark cloud of ash rising behind the advancing line.
Caelum pointed down at the fissure in the caldera. The long crevice was spewing a curtain of fire and molten rock into the air. “I can call upon the sun for aid.”
Gaanon peered down at Caelum. “What do you mean?”
“I can summon a river of fire from the fissure,” the dwarf explained. “It will run down the valley and swallow Maetan’s camp.”
“Don’t burn quarry!” K’kriq objected, his antennae writhing in distress.
Neeva and the others raised their brows in interest, knowing that such magic would guarantee their victory. Nevertheless, no one spoke in support of the plan.
Finally Rikus asked the question that was on all of their minds. “What of Drewet and her warriors?”
For the last ten days, the red-haired half-elf and a hundred volunteers had guarded the mouth of the canyon, keeping the Urikites from sending patrols up the narrow gulch. If Caelum filled the gorge with lava, the small company would be burned alive.
It was Styan who answered the mul’s question. “Caelum offers us certain victory,” said the gray-haired templar. “We would be fools not to take it.”
“Then we are fools,” Rikus said flatly. “The price is to high.”
Jaseela glanced down into the depths of the canyon. “Perhaps we can withdraw the troops,” she suggested.
“Not quickly enough,” observed Neeva. “Our gladiators will join battle in minutes. It would take an hour to reach Drewet with a message and allow her to climb to safety.”
“Then no burn Urikites,” said K’knq, relieved. Without waiting for further debate, the thri-kreen started down the hill after the rest of the legion.
When the others started to follow, Styan raised a hand to stop them. “Drewet and her company have already offered their lives on Tyr’s behalf,” he said tentatively.
Rikus stopped, puzzled by the templar’s insistence. The only reason Styan still lived was his newfound popularity with the gladiators, for the mutiny had convinced Rikus that Styan was the spy. Given that, it did not make sense for the templar to press so hard for something that would devastate both Maetan’s force and his popular support.
When the mul did nothing to silence Styan, the templar continued more confidently. “What difference does it make whether Drewet falls to Urikite swords or to a river of fire?
“Not that a templar would understand, but the difference is between honor and betrayal,” the mul sneered.
No. The difference is between victory and defeat, interrupted Tamar. Give up Drewet’s company. You will save more of your precious legion and guarantee Maetan’s capture.
Rikus ignored the wraith and pulled his robe over his chest. After Caelum’s spell had scorched the skin around the ruby, the wound had progressed from a festering sore to a bloated, blackened ulcer that constantly oozed yellow pus and stank like dead flesh. Most of the time, the mul’s left arm ached too much to use, and the fingers of his hands varied in color between putrid yellow and vile blue. Caelum had reluctantly offered to use his magic on the wound, but, after the dwarf had turned away Tamar’s fellows during the mutiny, Rikus feared the wraith would use the opportunity to attack the cleric.
Another rumble sounded from inside the mountain. A geyser of orange fire shot from the crevice, spraying molten rock to both sides of the fissure. Caelum studied the beads of glowing lava for a moment, then clenched his teeth and faced Rikus.
“If my dwarves were in the canyon, I would want you to use the fire river,” he said harshly. “So would they.”
“If you were with them, I might,” the mul snapped, glaring at the dwarf. Immediately he regretted his angry words, but only because they betrayed how hurt he was by the growing relationship between Caelum and Neeva.
“A good commander would not let his personal feelings interfere with his judgment,” Caelum noted, speaking in the tone of reasoned argument.
Resisting the temptation to reach for his sword, Rikus said, “Caelum, so far Styan is the only one supporting your plan.” He paused and looked at his other lieutenants. “If anyone else agrees with you, you can summon your river of fire. Otherwise, we attack without it.”
Caelum glanced at the other company leaders. Although they all avoided his glance, the dwarf’s face betrayed his confidence that they would sit with him.
“I’m with Rikus, whatever he decides,” Gaanon said. After the incident with the wraiths, the half-giant had stopped imitating the mul’s dress, but he remained one of Rikus’s loyal supporters.