The mekillots lay motionless as wisps of fire danced over their shells, but the mighty beasts did not seem to be either panicked or in pain. A moment later, after the flames had faded to smoke, they returned to their feet and jerked the argosy into motion again. This time, they trundled forward more rapidly, in the mekillots’ equivalent of a charge. Without looking away from the animals, K’kriq pointed a single arm toward the back of the deck.
“Go,” he said. “Bad place for soft-skins.”
“What about you?” Rikus asked, taking Neeva and moving toward the back of the deck.
In answer, the thri-kreen dropped to the floor and pulled his limbs beneath his carapace, leaving only his compound eyes visible.
Neeva started down the ladder without another word. Behind her, Rikus took the time to glance out the front of the deck. The lead mekillot had reached the curtain of darkness. The tips of their noses had no sooner disappeared into the black barrier than the mul heard the sizzle and sputter of more fireballs.
Screaming, he threw himself into the pit, knocking Neeva off the ladder as he dropped past her. The gladiators crashed headlong into Gaanon’s massive form, and all three tumbled to the floor in a heap. A loud whoosh sounded over their heads. Long tongues of crimson flame shot down the wall, licking at their legs and their backs, stopping just shy of the floor itself.
When Rikus spun over, he saw nothing but a blazing inferno overhead. There were flames of every color: red, yellow, white, blue, and, he thought, even black. He could not see the wall or ceiling, only raging fire.
Despite the holocaust, the argosy continued to trundle forward.
Rikus and his companions collected their weapons and rose. Not seeing how the thri-kreen could have survived such a firestorm, the mul touched his hand to his forehead, then held it toward where he imagined K’kriq’s charred remains would be lying. “You fought like the Dragon,” he said, giving the mantis-warrior the gladiator’s greatest farewell salute.
With that, the mul led the way back toward the cargo door. They reached it just as the argosy itself was passing from the Tyrian side of the dark wall to that of the Urikites. From this side, the barrier was not opaque. Rather, it had the translucent quality of a sheet of thinly cut obsidian, and the Tyrian gladiators were visible on the other side as dim, charging shapes.
Rikus saw immediately that his use of the fortress-wagon had upset his opponent’s carefully laid battle plans. The Urikite regulars had been spread out in long ranks behind the black wall, and most of them were now wildly rushing toward the wagon. Already, hundreds were gathered near the argosy to await the Tyrian gladiators. With some of their spears pointed toward the wagon and some toward the gladiators following it, the soldiers were in a disorganized mess that Rikus knew his gladiators would quickly decimate.
Rikus could see that the Urikites were a little more organized at the far side of the valley. A fair-sized company was marching toward Jaseela’s flank. He could only assume that, on the other side of the wagon, a similar company of Urikites was rushing toward Styan’s templars.
A series of brilliant flashes flared from near the front of the wagon, followed immediately by several deafening cracks. The smell of burning wood and charred bone filled Rikus’s nostrils, then the argosy ground to quick halt. When he peered around the edge of the door, the mul saw a small group of yellow-robed templars standing near the front of the wagon. Their smoking fingers were pointed at the thick shaft that connected the mekillot to the wagon.
At the rear of the argosy, the first of the gladiators emerged from the darkness, screaming their battle cries and charging into the disorganized Urikites.
“Let’s fight!” the mul yelled, raising his cahulaks.
Rikus leaped from the smoky wagon into the bright crimson light. He had no sooner landed than a pair of Urikite soldiers jabbed their spear tips at him, simultaneously raising their shields to protect their faces. Rikus swung a cahulak, cutting their weapons off at the heads.
Before the mul could move forward to finish them, Gaanon’s joyful warcry boomed over his shoulder. The half-giant slipped past the mul and leveled his mighty war-club at the spearless Urikites, smashing their bucklers as if they were glass. The blow knocked the pair back into the crowd and sent a half-dozen men sprawling. Neeva followed Gaanon’s attack, smashing bones and rending flesh on both the fore- and back-swings of her axe.
It was all Rikus could do to keep his companions from wading into the midst of the Urikite mob. “Wait!” he called, hitting their shoulders with the shafts of his cahulaks. “Leave them to the others. Come with me.”
Rikus moved toward the front of the wagon, where Hamanu’s yellow-robed templars continued to attack the mekillots with bolts of energy and balls of fire. Though no longer attached to the argosy, the reptiles remained in their harnesses and were turning back toward the Urikite lines.
To the mul’s amazement, the shape of a thri-kreen was hunched down on the centershaft between the rear mekillots. His carapace was black with soot, and one of his four arms seemed to be hanging limply at his side, but the mantis-warrior apparently remained in command of the reptiles.
The templars were so intent on stopping K’kriq that they did not even notice Rikus and his two companions coming up behind them. The mul killed four with a quick series of strikes. In the few seconds it took him, Neeva and Gaanon finished the other five.
When the magical barrage fell silent, K’kriq peered up from between his mekillots. He raised a clawed hand in Rikus’s direction, calling, “The hunt is good!”
The thri-kreen’s mekillots snapped and stomped into the soldiers massed near the argosy, ripping a wide swath of destruction through the middle of the throng. Aided by the enemy’s confusion and fear, the Tyrian gladiators tore into their foes like a cyclone into a faro field. Within moments, the coppery smell of blood filled Rikus’s nose and the shrieks of dying Urikites rang in his ears.
“What now?” asked Gaanon.
Before answering, Rikus took a moment to study K’kriq’s progress. The thri-kreen turned his mekillots straight into the long file of Urikites rushing toward the battle, followed closely by hundreds of gladiators. The maneuver brought the enemy’s charge to an abrupt halt and sent those leading it scrambling for their lives. The soldiers that did not fall to the mighty reptiles’ snapping jaws were quickly killed by Rikus’s warriors.
“It looks like K’kriq has this part of the fight well in hand,” the mul said, turning his gaze toward the terrain behind the battle. “Let’s find the commander.”
“This is no time to think of vengeance,” objected Neeva.
“Sure it is,” Rikus countered. He spotted a small group of figures upon the shoulder of a small sand dune that had spilled down from rocky bluffs of the valley wall. Several messengers were running from them toward the growing rout in front of K’kriq’s mekillots. “At the most, we can kill only a few thousand Urikites. The rest will flee, regroup, and probably attack Tyr later. But if we slay their commander today, we’ll finish the battle for good.”
With that, Rikus returned to the rear of the wagon and gathered a small force of gladiators from the long line still pouring through the wall of darkness. He sent the rest to the other side of the argosy to reinforce the warriors who did not have the benefit of K’kriq’s mekillots, then started toward the sand dune with his company.
They reached the base of the dune at a run, sweating heavily. Rikus charged straight up the steep side, stopping to rest only when they were within a few dozen yards of the top. At the crest waited a small line of Urikites, their spears pointed down at the gladiators. They peered over the tops of their shields as they nervously awaited the Tyrian attack.