SIXTEEN
THE CRIMSON LEGION
Rikus did not understand how he could feel so lonely. He stood atop a guardtower overlooking Hamanu’s vast slave pit. Before him, standing in the lanes between the long rows of shabby mudbrick pens, waited more than ten thousand men and women, all of them chanting his name. His own warriors were briskly moving along the streets, organizing the newly liberated slaves into companies.
On the far side of the squalid pits, barely visible through the thick clouds of smoke drifting in from the templar quarter, rose the high stone wall of the king’s central compound. Along the crest of the imposing barrier stood dozens of soldiers and templars, all watching Rikus’s preparations with great interest. In the fortress behind them lay the high bureaus of the templars, the gladiatorial arena, and the barracks of the Imperial Guard-a large company of half-giants led by experienced templars of war. From the sounds drifting over the wall, it seemed likely that the guards would soon leave the safety of their fortress. Rikus did not think the imminent threat of a counterattack was the reason for his glum mood. So far, the battle had gone more or less as he had foreseen, despite the heavy losses. The trouble with the archers had cost him three hundred warriors, but after that the legion had encountered only minor resistance as it worked its way into the slave pens. The Tyrians now controlled both the templar district and the slave pens-nearly a quarter of the city.
Certainly Rikus had a reason to be satisfied with those results, but his quick victory had been followed by a minor setback. The mul had expected Urik’s slaves to rise in a spontaneous revolt as soon as they were freed, but after their captors had been killed, the slaves had meekly huddled inside their huts, as frightened of their liberators as they had been of their oppressors. Rikus had found it necessary to send his warriors into the pits to rouse the timid swarm from their hovels.
While Rikus had been compelled to waste valuable time calling the slaves to arms, Hamanu’s forces had moved with astonishing rapidity to cut the Tyrians off from the rest of the city. Within minutes of the initial breakthrough, the private bodyguard of the aristocracy had blocked the gateways into the noble quarter. At the same time, companies from Urik’s garrison had sealed off the other side of the templar quarter. Hamanu even managed to slip several thousand soldiers around the city to block the slave gate from the outside. It had all occurred so quickly that the mul’s sentries had barely sounded the alarm before the Urikite troops were in place.
“Don’t look so worried, Rikus,” called Neeva, climbing up the bone ladder that led into the tower. “It makes the legion nervous.”
“I can’t help it,” the mul said, glancing down as she climbed through the trap door. “Things aren’t going according to plan.”
“Plan?” asked Neeva, grinning. “Did I hear you say you’re worried about a plan?”
Rikus felt the color rise to his cheeks and looked away. “You heard me,” he muttered. “The slaves were too slow to revolt. We’re going to have to fight our way out of here on Urikite terms.”
“It won’t be easy, but we can do it,” Neeva said, stepping to his side and looking out over the slave pens. “More than ten thousand slaves have joined us, and we have close to one thousand of our own warriors left.” She paused and glanced toward the high wall protecting Hamanu’s compound. “It’s the sorcerer-king that worries me.”
“You leave him to me,” Rikus said.
“I intend to,” Neeva answered. “But I’d feel a lot better if I knew how you’re going to stop him.”
Rikus laid a hand on the hilt of his sword. “With this,” the mul said. “When the battle starts, he’ll have to show himself. I’ll be waiting.”
Neeva frowned. “And what about his sorcery? What about the Way?”
“My sword and my belt are magic, too,” the mul answered. “As for the Way, I’ll have help.”
Not from me, Tamar interjected. Not until Caelum and the dwarves are dead.
When the time comes, you will help, Rikus replied. You need me alive to recover the book.
Can you be certain of that? Tamar responded.
You have no choice, Rikus said.
Neeva allowed Rikus his moment of silence, expecting him to elaborate on how he intended to counter Hamanu’s mastery of the Way. When he did not, she asked, “What kind of help?”
“The kind that I can’t explain-yet,” Rikus answered, looking toward the gate that led to the main boulevard.
Styan’s templars were guarding the gate, where their presence would not be as likely to alarm the Urikite slaves. In a broad cobblestone courtyard behind the templars stood Caelum and the dwarves. “You’d better join your company,” said Rikus. “We’ll be ready for battle soon.”
Neeva returned to the ladder. She hesitated there for a moment, her emerald eyes fixed on the mul. “Rikus, have you …?
Her voice cracked with emotion and she let the sentence trail off, but the mul did not need to hear the rest of it to know what Neeva had meant to ask. Rikus still did not know how to answer her, for nothing had changed since she demanded his fidelity and love at the Crater of Bones.
“Good fighting, Neeva,” Rikus said, looking away.
“And you, Rikus,” she answered, starting down the ladder. “Strike hard and fast-it’s our only chance.”
After Neeva left, Rikus summoned Gaanon, K’kriq, and Jaseela to the tower. He had no chance to discuss the coming battle with them, however. As the pair was climbing into the cramped stand, a woman’s voice boomed over the slave pens.
“Captives of mighty Hamanu, listen well!”
The slaves fell immediately silent, obviously accustomed to obeying the magically amplified voice.
“Your leader has delivered you unto Hamanu, and it is by Hamanu’s will alone that you shall survive!” she rumbled, stepping into view high atop the wall of the king’s fortress. The woman wore the yellow cassock of a templar, and in her hand she held a golden staff of office.
“K’kriq, who’s that?” asked Rikus.
“Rasia, Templar of Toil,” answered the thri-kreen. “Brutal woman who herds slaves.”
“Mighty Hamanu allowed you to enter Urik, he allowed you to drive his archers from the walls, he allowed you to enter his slave pens-but he will allow no more!” Rasia proclaimed. “The city is sealed and you cannot escape. You cannot resist the will of Hamanu!”
A disparaging murmur rustled through the ranks. The neatly formed columns began to break up as Urikite slaves faced the woman and angry Tyrian gladiators turned to glare at Rikus.
The mul grabbed Gaanon’s arm. “Get a spear and silence her,” he ordered.
The half-giant obeyed immediately, dropping off the tower in a single leap and forcing his way into the crowded slave pits.
“Captives of Hamanu, great is your despair, for on this day have you been returned to bondage-or to death!” the woman continued. “Throw down your weapons and Hamanu the compassionate will feed you as he feeds his other slaves-”
“So that we may die in his quarries!” Rikus shouted.
Though he yelled at the top of his lungs, his voice sounded meek and timid compared to the magical thunder of the woman’s commands. Nevertheless, the pens were so silent that he knew his words carried even to the far side of the pit.
“Better to die years from now than to die today,’ the woman answered. “Throw down your weapons. Mighty Hamanu will show no mercy to those who disobey. You have no choice.”
“You have every choice!” Rikus screamed.
“Heed not the mul!” the woman boomed, drowning out Rikus’s voice. “His way is death!”
She began to repeat those phrases over and over again, preventing the mul’s voice from being heard. Rikus gave up trying to outscream her and faced Jaseela. “Send word to the companies to prepare for battle.”