Unfortunately, the rest of Caelum’s company was not faring so well. Although twenty or thirty wounded half-giants lay thrashing and groaning on the ground, the cobblestones were slick with the blood and gore of dead dwarves. Rikus guessed that more than a hundred had already fallen, and it won’t be long before the remainder joined them.
Fortunately, help was on the way. Most of the Tyrian warriors had been in the slave pits organizing the Urikite slaves, and now they were rushing toward the gate to join the fight. Rikus estimated that they would arrive in plenty of time to prevent the Imperial Guard from breaking through into the pits.
Seeing that there were no more orders to give, the mul reached for his sword. With some surprise, he realized that he had been so busy giving orders that he had not even considered drawing it yet.
“I’m getting to be too much of a general,” he grumbled.
“Too far from hunt,” K’kriq agreed. “No joy.”
As Rikus’s hand touched the Scourge’s hilt, the horrid sounds of battle all came to him at once: death screams, clanging weapons, deafening explosions, officers shouting orders, his own breath roaring in and out his lungs, the four-beat cadence of the thri-kreen’s heart. For a moment he reeled, too stunned by the incredible din to move.
K’kriq caught Rikus by the shoulder. “Go now!”
Cringing at what sounded like a shout to him, Rikus concentrated on the sound of K’kriq’s beating heart and said, “You don’t have to come with me.” Immediately the sounds of battle faded to mere background noise. Rikus was dimly aware of each individual sound, but was no longer overpowered by them. “You understand what I’m doing?”
K’kriq spread his antennae to indicate a positive answer. “Hunt big game,” he said. “K’kriq come.”
Rikus smiled, then started to move along the edge of the pit toward Hamanu’s fortress. Behind him, the crack and thunder of war magic rumbled almost constantly from the gateway. The screams of the dying blurred into a single, long shriek.
The mul moved slowly along the base of the wall separating the slave compound from the boulevard outside, carefully listening for a single sound. With the Scourge’s aid, he had little trouble hearing the muffled noises coming over the walclass="underline" the tramp of hob-nailed boots, war-templars shouting harsh commands to the half-giants of the Imperial Guard, the heavy breathing of messengers as they ran back and forth between the gateway and Hamanu’s fortress. Often, a loud explosion or a pained scream temporarily overwhelmed the other sounds coming from the street.
After Rikus and K’kriq had progressed close to fifty yards along the wall, Gaanon caught up to them and fell into line without a word. Behind the half-giant followed a small company of warriors.
“What are you doing here?” Rikus asked.
“Jaseela told us what you’re doing,” answered the half-giant.
After a short pause, Rikus asked, “So?”
“We volunteered to help,” answered one of the men, a square-jawed brute named Canth. “Over the past few weeks, some of us haven’t understood what you’re doing,” he said. “But now-well, we can’t let you try this alone.”
Rikus smiled. “My thanks,” he said. “I could use the help.”
Before continuing on his way, the mul took a moment to check on the battle near the gate. The entrance yard had been reduced to a wasteland of smoking craters, littered with the charred bodies of dwarves, gladiators, and enemy half-giants. The Urikites had been turned back, and Tyrian gladiators were forcing their way out of the slave pits. Farther away, several lines of Urikite slaves were climbing ropes and disappearing over the southern wall, unruffled by the barrage of war magic being hurled at them from Hamanu’s fortress.
Rikus turned back to the wall and moved forward once again. Finally, a dozen yards shy of Hamanu’s fortress, the mul heard what he had been listening for.
“Mighty King, the Imperial Guard is fighting valiantly in your name,” said a nervous man. “Surely you can see that?”
“The only thing I see is my guard being beaten back,” responded a sharp, bitter voice.
There was a short pause before the man replied. “The Tyrians are gladiators, Mighty Hamanu. They’re trained to-”
“This battle has already cost me more slaves than we stand to gain by capturing the Tyrians,” spat Hamanu. “If we lose many more, the officers of the Imperial Guard will be working my obsidian quarries.”
The mul needed to hear no more. “Hamanu is on the other side,” he whispered. “Boost me up to have a look, Gaanon.”
The half-giant laid his great hammer aside, then obediently made a stirrup for the mul’s foot.
When Gaanon lifted him high enough to peer over the wall, Rikus saw the reason for Hamanu’s anger. A short distnace down the boulevard, dead half-giants and Urikite templars covered the street so thickly that they hid the cobblestone pavement. Tyrian gladiators were charging out of the gate leading to the slave pits, rushing forward to press the attack against the Imperial Guard.
As encouraging as the mul found the sight, however, it was another that drew his attention. A few yards away from the gate, most of Styan’s company lay scattered over the boulevard, their lifeless bodies sprawled beneath the feet of the Imperial Guard. Most of the men held swords or other weapons in their hands. They had obviously died fighting. Rikus even picked out Styan’s long gray hair, crowning a lifeless body sprawled across one of the few half-giants that had fallen in the battle. Whatever the templar may have been, and no matter how much trouble he had caused, the mul now realized that he could not have been a traitor.
Rikus frowned. “If Styan isn’t the traitor, then who is?” he asked himself.
Why does there have to be a spy? Tamar countered. You are stupid enough to be your own traitor. Only a fool would try this.
Rikus ignored the wraith and looked down at Gaanon. “Lift me the rest of the way up. Send everyone else over as fast as you can.”
An instant later, Rikus found himself looking down upon the slave boulevard from atop the narrow wall. He paused for less than a second, only long enough to see that the street below was crowded with half-giants, and to glimpse a worried war-templar standing beside a tall, vigorous man wearing a golden tunic. In his hand, the tall man held a long staff of pure steel, with a great globe of obsidian on the top.
Not wishing to give his victim the benefit of even a moment’s warning, Rikus threw himself from the wall. Though the figure wore no crown, the obsidian globe atop his staff left no doubt in the mul’s mind that this was Hamanu. The glassy black balls allowed those who had mastered both sorcery and the Way to draw upon the life force of men and animals for their spells. Only a sorcerer-king could control such powerful magic.
Rikus’s plan was as hasty as his fall. As the mul’s shadow fell across the king, Hamanu looked up and sneered. Then he flicked his wrist ever so slightly.
Rikus felt the world lurch. He continued to fall, but in slow motion. As he drifted another foot downward, he had many moments to study the face of his foe. The sorcerer-king had close-cropped silver hair, dark skin stretched tight over ruthless features, and eyes as yellow and heartless as gold.
Rikus swung his sword, trying to overcome the terrible sense of dread settling over him. The blade hardly moved, leaving the mul with little to do except despair at how easily Hamanu had countered his attack.
Fool! laughed Tamar. You let him use the Way on you.
Help me! Rikus demanded. He could not keep the desperation from his plea.
Caelum is still alive, Tamar retorted. I will do nothing-until I am confident you will foil the dwarf’s plan and give me the book.
I’ve already promised it to you, Rikus said.