Nevertheless, the mansion was still more comfortable than anyplace the mul had slept since leaving Tyr. During the time Rikus and his legion had been trapped in the Crater of Bones, the slave-keepers of Makla had returned to reconstruct their homes and slave compounds. It was a mistake they had not long lived to regret. When the Tyrians had returned and liberated the village, the hundreds and hundreds of quarry slaves had exacted a terrible revenge on their cruel masters.
K’kriq led the mul into the mansion’s great hall, a square chamber with an entrance at each corner. A fire had burned clear through the floors and ceilings of the upper stories, and now slanting rays of the crimson sun shone directly into the room. The ruins of a massive table and other fine furniture littered the polished floor. On the walls hung charred streamers of cloth that had once been priceless tapestries.
K’kriq guided Rikus into a marble armchair begrimed with smoke. Gathered around it were Jaseela, Styan, Caelum, and Neeva, the last two standing together. In the middle of the room stood Gaanon, his head newly shaved and a crimson sun tattooed onto his forehead. In his hands, he held a larger version of the stone hammers favored by Caelum’s dwarves.
Rikus was more intrigued by the thin figure with Gaanon than by the half-giant’s latest attire. Standing in front of Gaanon was Maetan of Urik, dressed in a bronze breastplate and a fresh green robe boldly emblazoned with the winged Serpent of Lubar. Noting that the mindbender was dressed in clean clothes, the mul thought it unlikely that Gaanon had found the Urikite crawling around the slopes of the Smoking Crown.
Rikus looked from the prisoner to K’kriq. “Fetch my belt and sword.”
Clacking his mandibles in anticipation of a good meal, the thri-kreen left to obey.
Maetan’s eyes betrayed no surprise. “I came under the water banner,” he said, referring to the Athasian custom of carrying a blue flag to signal peaceful intentions. The water banner was most often used when one party wished to approach an oasis where strangers were camped, but it was occasionally adopted to arrange a parley in times of war. “I trust that even a slave will honor the courtesies of truce long enough to hear what I say.”
“We might,” Rikus allowed. “If you don’t misbehave.”
In truth, the mul didn’t give a varl’s eggsack about the Urikite’s water banner. Such niceties were for men who regarded war as a game, and to Rikus it was a vendetta. If the mul didn’t kill Maetan today, it would be because the mindbender escaped.
After glaring at the hated Lubar for a time, the mul shifted his attention to Neeva. “Call everyone back from the battlefield.”
She frowned. “But many of our warriors-”
“Now,” Rikus insisted. “Whatever he says, Maetan of Lubar isn’t to be trusted. I don’t want our search parties trapped if this is some sort of trick.”
The dwarves and a company of two hundred warriors remained at the battlefield, searching for Tyrian survivors trapped beneath the avalanche. Although they had found twenty survivors and ten times that many corpses, the legion was still missing two hundred warriors.
As Neeva left, K’kriq returned with the Belt of Rank, the Scourge of Rkard hanging in its scabbard. Rikus put the belt on, then said to K’kriq, “Wait outside.”
The thri-kreen crossed his antennae. “Maetan enemy. Stay to k-kill.”
Rikus shook his head, fearing what would happen if the enemy general took control of K’kriq’s mind with the Way. “Go. You’re needed outside, to hunt Maetan down if he uses the Way to escape.”
K’kriq’s mandibles clacked together several times, but he finally obeyed. Once the thri-keen was gone, Rikus removed the Scourge’s scabbard from his belt and sat down, laying the sword over his knees.
“You needn’t doubt my honor,” Maetan said. “I have accepted that in coming here, I may well die.”
“Then why come?” demanded Jaseela.
When the mindbender looked upon the disfigured noblewoman, he did not even do her the courtesy of hiding the repulsion that flashed across his face. “My defeat has disgraced my family,” he explained freely. “By delivering a message for the king, I redeem the Lubar name-and mighty Hamanu will confiscate only half of our lands.”
Rikus allowed himself a smug smile. “What is your message?”
“It is for your king,” Maeton said.
Rikus reached into a pocket on his belt and withdrew the olivine crystal. “You can pass your message through me-or not at all.”
Maetan nodded. “That will be acceptable.”
Rikus held the olivine out at arm’s length. Tithian’s sharp features quickly appeared in the gem, and the king scowled in anger. “I had hoped not to hear from you again.”
“I bear good news, my king,” Rikus said. “We have destroyed the Urikite army that Hamanu sent to attack Tyr, and we have captured the village of Makla.”
“Are you mad?” Tithian roared. “Makla’s quarries are Urik’s only source of trade. Hamanu will wipe you out-and raze Tyr in retaliation!”
Rikus looked away from the gem, careful not to betray Tithian’s reaction since only he could hear the king’s ranting. Behind Maetan, Neeva slipped back into the room.
Rikus returned his attention to Maetan. “What’s your message?”
“Mighty Hamanu will suffer the pretender Tithian to sit on the throne of Tyr,” the Urikite said. “In exchange, Tithian must relinquish Makla, maintain Tyr’s trade in iron, and present to Hamanu all the gladiators in this legion. The mighty king of Urik will not tolerate slaves loose in the desert.”
Rikus dutifully repeated the offer to the king.
“Accept it!” Tithian commanded. From the anxiety that still colored the king’s face, however, it was clear that he did not believe Rikus would do as ordered.
Remembering Tithian’s betrayal in the nest of the slave tribe, the mul gave the king a bitter smile, then looked up at Maetan. “Tyr refuses!”
“I am king!” Tithian screeched, his voice sounding inside the mul’s ears alone. “I decide what to refuse and what to accept!”
Maetan nodded as though he had expected Rikus’s response. “Hamanu thought you might be reluctant to return to your rightful station, Rikus,” he said. “Therefore, he has sent his army to block all the routes to Tyr. You will not be allowed to return to your city.”
Rikus raised his brow. “That must have taken many legions. The desert is a large place.”
“Hamanu’s army is larger,” Maetan anwered. “His legions have blocked every route. You have only two choices: surrender or die.”
Rikus remained quiet, though not because the mindbender’s words frightened him. If Maetan’s claims was true, the mul had a third choice-albeit a desperate one: attack Urik itself. Even Hamanu’s army was not so large that it could garrison the city and still seal all the routes between Urik and Tyr.
Taking advantage of the mul’s silence, Jaseela demanded, “If Hamanu has marshaled his legions, why isn’t he sending them here?”
Maetan did not even bother to look at the noblewoman. “Because that would achieve only part of his goal,” said the mindbender. “He wishes to guarantee access to Tyr’s iron and to use your gladiators to replenish his supply of slaves. Destroying this legion would accomplish neither, whereas a negotiated peace will achieve both.”
“It doesn’t matter. Hamanu’s offer is refused,” Rikus said.
In the gem, Tithian yelled, “You ill-begotten larva of an inbred cilops!”
Rikus silenced the king’s voice by slipping the olivine back into his pocket. At the same time, Styan stepped to the mul, asking, “Is it wise to reject this offer? Aren’t you endangering Tyr for the sake of a few warriors?”
“Would you ask if you and your templars had to stay to work Urik’s quarries?” demanded Neeva. “Stop trying to save your own life.”
The templar spun on her. “I’m trying to save Tyr!” he yelled. “If that means some of us suffer, then so be it!”
“You’re a fool, then,” said Jaseela, speaking calmly. “Even if we could force the gladiators to surrender-which we can’t-it would make no difference. Hamanu will honor his word only as long as it’s convenient. I say we stay and fight as one.”