Bannon couldn’t stop staring at them.
From his seat at the marble table, Ivan called out, “If he is an unruly slave, why don’t we put him in the fighting pits? Get rid of him.”
“A slave that can’t be controlled is a slave that is of no use to Ildakar,” Thora agreed.
“I’m not unruly,” the defiant young man shouted. “I fight for freedom!”
Adessa looked sidelong at the chief handler, but focused her attention on the sovrena. “We caught him down by the animal cages near the arena pens. He obviously meant to release some of the beasts to create havoc among the good people of the city—as the rebels have done before.”
“The animals should be trained to taste the blood of nobles!” The slave struggled unsuccessfully to break free of the hands gripping his arms.
“Alas, the beasts will have to be satisfied with bitter-tasting slave meat,” Thora said. “Fangs and claws will set you free.”
“I am already free,” the yaxen herder insisted. “Mirrormask made me free, and he will make us all free.”
There was grumbling among the duma members. Elsa looked deeply concerned. Renn, Damon, and Quentin muttered to one another.
“Why do they call him Mirrormask?” Nathan asked. “It’s a curious name.”
“Because he wears a mask made of a mirror,” Quentin responded. “Obviously.”
“That doesn’t answer the question why,” Nicci said.
Maxim explained, “It is said his face was horribly disfigured by a fleshmancer. His visage is so appallingly hideous that people prefer to look at the reflection of their own faces, rather than his.”
“Perhaps he wishes to reflect the ugliness around him,” Nicci suggested, which earned her an annoyed glare from Thora.
Maxim chuckled. “Or maybe he just likes to have people tell stories about him. That way he will seem more mysterious and powerful than he really is.” He crossed his legs, one slick black pantaloon over the other. “Whatever the reason, I wouldn’t take his trivial movement seriously. That would give Mirrormask too much respect.”
“Have you heard his grievances?” Nathan asked. “Rebels need to rebel against something.”
“Discontent feeds itself. Better just to starve it,” Thora said.
Nicci stepped forward, focused on the captive. “I would like to speak with this boy. A mere yaxen herder? Not much of a hero or a martyr. It would be best to understand why such a person would show such defiance, knowing it would surely result in his death.”
“That’s not necessary at all, my dear sorceress,” Maxim said. He rose from his chair and spread both hands out at his sides. “We have handled such nonsense before, and I can take care of this quickly.”
Nicci looked at the defiant, but also terrified, captive slave. “And yet it happened again.”
“You will not interfere,” Thora said in a cold voice.
“Don’t you want to see what you can learn from him?” Nicci couldn’t believe they would waste such an opportunity.
“Not necessary. Not interested.” Maxim curled his fingers as he concentrated, and power circled around him, drawn out of the air like a latent thunderstorm. The wizard commander’s short hair lifted slightly, drifting about in a corona of growing energy. “Those who would disrupt the perfect order of Ildakar must be dealt with appropriately. I am not only the wizard commander; I am also the city’s master sculptor.”
Adessa and the other two morazeth stepped away from the prisoner, giving Maxim space to work. The young yaxen herder struggled with the bindings on his wrists. He straightened his knees, sneered at the duma members, then at Thora, and finally at Maxim himself. He curled his lips, preparing to spit.
Just then the wizard commander released his gift.
Shimmers curled through the air like invisible reflections. Twists of wind tightened into even more secure bindings. The slave’s filth-stained shirt turned white, as if covered with gypsum powder. His skin hardened, turned gray. His wild and unruly hair crystallized. With a crackling, breathy sound, the slave petrified in his defiant position, and a new statue stood on the floor in the chamber.
The petrification spell seemed fundamentally the same as what the insane Adjudicator had used against the people of Lockridge, against Nicci. The Adjudicator, though, had been corrupted by the magic. Maxim wielded the time-stopping magic with ease and clear intent.
Ivan stood up from his stone bench, clenching his fists at his sides. “That was a wasted effort, Maxim. We should have taken the boy to the combat pits, where he would have made fine sport. Now what are we supposed to do with him?”
Thora frowned at her husband, then nodded slowly. “Killing him in the arena would have turned the boy into a martyr and incited more foolishness from Mirrormask and his rabble. Better that we took care of it like this.”
“And I so rarely get to practice my gift,” Maxim said. He looked at Nicci, and the tone of his voice held a clear undertone of braggadocio. She assumed he was trying to impress her, maybe to get her to change her mind the next time he invited her to one of the Ildakaran pleasure parties. “I am the master of the petrification magic. I created and controlled the spell that petrified General Utros’s entire army, all those centuries ago.”
“Yes, you were the key,” Thora said. “But the rest of us helped turn the lock. You aren’t the only one who can use the magic. I myself took care of Lani, when she expressed her insufferable defiance.” She looked over at the stone sorceress standing at the side of the ruling chamber.
“Of course you did, my dear. I would never wish to belittle your abilities.” Maxim folded his arms together. He looked satisfied and content after turning the rebellious slave to stone. “I suggest we place this new statue in a prominent location … down in the slave market, perhaps, where it will serve as a fine decoration—and a clear warning.”
After workers had removed the statue of the young yaxen herder, Thora sat back, regarding the others in the ruling chamber. “Chief Handler Ivan is right. It’s been too long since we watched a spectacle in the combat arena. Let us arrange one at the earliest opportunity. Ivan, when can you be ready?”
Fleshmancer Andre entered the tower, hours late for the meeting. His loose white robe carried hints of stains from past work in his “studio.” He wiped sweat off his brow and spread his arms wide. “It appears I arrived just in time, hmmm? My experiment is finished—the fleshmancy was a complete success. Our new warrior could make his debut in the combat arena as soon as tomorrow.”
Wizard Commander Maxim looked delighted. “Tomorrow it is then! We shall schedule an exhibition.”
CHAPTER 18
Smiling magnanimously, Maxim offered Nicci a seat in the nobles’ spectator tower above the city’s grand arena. Now that Andre had tentatively suggested possibilities as to how Nathan might regain his gift, the other duma members allowed him to join them in the special seats as well, high above the unwashed and unruly crowd.
Amos and his companions had asked Bannon to join them in the secondary tier, close to the combat field, but he preferred to sit with his friends Nicci and Nathan. The wizards were somewhat displeased to have an ungifted young man with them, but they deferred, although with obvious reluctance.
When the sun stood at its zenith above Ildakar, crowds gathered in the rings of seats around the combat arena, a broad and deep crater excavated in the sandstone uplift. The fighting field of sand and gravel was surrounded by a sheer wall. The spectator seats for the lower classes ringed the rim, while the gifted nobles observed from tower perches that rose high above the sands. The raised towers gave them an unobstructed vantage as well as improved safety. Nicci guessed that some of the animals in the arena were so dangerous they might escape and rampage into the spectator stands. From visions conveyed via her spell bond, she remembered times Mrra had fought here.
From his seat close beside her, Maxim remarked on the black dress she wore, despite the variety of clothes that had been offered to her. “Are the s
tyles of Ildakar not to your liking? We have many different dresses, from long gowns to rather abbreviated silken shifts. If you chose to wear such a garment, everyone here would appreciate it, I’m sure.”
She gave him a stony glance. “I choose to wear black for personal reasons.”
“So that is the answer,” Maxim chuckled. “I shall assign our city’s best tailors to provide you with hundreds of alternatives fashioned out of black cloth. I would be honored to help you try them on and choose one that best suits you.”
“This one suits me just fine.”
“It fits you quite well, too,” he admitted, “although it still leaves too much to the imagination.”
“Then I hope you have a good imagination.”
A buzz of anticipation spread among the lower seats, growing louder as the time for the exhibition approached. In an imperious tone, Sovrena Thora called for servers. “It is midday. Where is our meal? Or would you rather be fed to the combat creatures?”
“At least then someone would have a meal,” the wizard Damon muttered, stroking his drooping mustaches.
Wearing drab tunics sashed at the waist, slaves hurried in with a selection of fine foods in petite portions meant to be sampled. There were small roasted songbirds on skewers, coated with honey; crimson cubes of raw yaxen liver and paper-thin slices of air-dried yaxen meat; sugary confections spun like caterpillar cocoons; tart slices of tangerines; dishes of ruby-red pomegranate seeds.
Thora served herself first, taking whatever she liked, while Maxim chivalrously offered the food to Nicci. She made selections without particular interest. Nathan was more curious, asking the servers to identify each item. He tasted the morsels, then chose seconds of the ones he liked best. He had no fondness for the raw yaxen liver, but the fruit pleased him greatly.
After the duma members were fed, Bannon was offered the leftovers. He smiled cheerfully and thanked the servers, who looked uncomfortable, before he remembered to thank his hosts.
Equally spaced around the perimeter of the combat arena, tall stone pillars were topped with bronze bowls shaped like flames. Gifted nobles stood at the base of each pillar, and when the fanfare sounded, they touched the stone pillars, released their magic, and ignited dazzling white flames that soared up from the bronze bowls like beacons. The crowd in the stands let out an appreciative cheer.
Nicci sat silent and alert, trying to comprehend the type of magic used here. The ancient wizards had laid down spell-forms and complex webs throughout the city’s architecture in much the same way the aqueducts distributed water.
A stocky man with a shaved head and voluminous yellow robes sat on a high platform above the fighting field. He spoke into a large crystal on a silver stand, and his voice boomed from the magical flames, as if his words had been conjured out of the pillars. “Our beloved champion has remained undefeated for five months. He has held his title and held our hearts. Let him emerge into the arena so he can bask in the sun of Ildakar, the cheers of our people … and the blood of another vanquished enemy.”
An iron gate opened below, and a muscular man strode out onto the ashes and sand, raising a wide-bladed sword to the sky, which summoned the cheers of the observers. He wore brown leather boots, a girded loincloth wrapped around his hips, and a thick belt studded with sharp points. Two wide straps of leather rose from the belt, crossed over his back and his chest, providing only minimal protection. A full helmet with a nose guard and swooped chin guards masked his face. The champion’s pale skin was covered with a network of scars; his muscles were chiseled by years of training. Nicci could see he would be a formidable fighter.
His body language exuded joy and confidence, not the fear a gibbering victim might exhibit. He seemed to thrive in his environment. The champion turned slowly from side to side, jabbing his sword in the air to prod more shouts from the audience. They responded as expected.
From the private spectator tower, the duma members watched like analytical observers. Fleshmancer Andre leaned forward with an eager glint in his gray eyes. “The champion has never faced an opponent like our new one.” He raised his eyebrows at Nathan. “Hmmm? Soon you’ll see the results of my fleshmancy.”
“It better be a fine show,” Ivan growled. “I have animals that need practice.”
“You don’t want the champion to kill them all,” Andre said.
The chief handler was unconvinced. “And what if he kills your new creation?”
“I have high confidence in my work. But if that happens, I shall have to improve my design for next time, hmmm?”
The announcer continued in his spell-amplified voice. “Our champion faces a new opponent today, something never before released into the combat arena.” The words boomed out through the lighted torches, and the spectators fell into an ominous, anticipatory hush. “Behold the fleshmancer’s new creation!”
Ivan picked up a honey-coated songbird and crunched it, bones and all, but did not take his eyes from the combat field. Andre fidgeted in his seat, barely able to contain his excitement.
The champion crouched, holding up his short sword as he faced the barred gate on the opposite side of the crater wall. His cocky verve had faded. Though the helmet obscured his features, Nicci could detect the fighter’s intensity of focus. She sensed no touch of the gift within him. The champion’s combat skills had been earned through his own prowess.
The barred gate opened, and a figure emerged from the shadowy pits beneath the arena. The spectators might have expected some horrific animal, like a combat bear, but the figure lurched forward on two feet, stepping into the sunlight to reveal well-muscled thighs, sturdy boots laced to the top of the calf, an armored loincloth, two extended hands, each gripping a short sword identical to the one carried by the champion.
When the opponent emerged into the light, its true monstrosity was revealed. Seated on the fighter’s broad shoulders were two heads, the pair of necks spread apart from a bifurcated spine, fused in place. Both faces were snarling and sneering in agony as well as rage. Drool came from the left head’s mouth, a bald man with a large, round scar on his scalp. The darker skin on the smooth head did not match the shoulder onto which it had been grafted.
The legs staggered forward drunkenly as if receiving conflicting instructions from the rival heads, but each sword arm was held aloft and slashed erratically.
The crowd gasped and murmured. The champion recoiled at the sight of his new opponent. Andre chuckled. “Our great champion has never seen anything like that, hmmm?”
“He’s seen and killed plenty of opponents before,” Ivan said.
Like a weapon with a single-minded purpose, the two-headed warrior lumbered forward, uttering defiant groans from twin throats.
Nathan leaned closer to Andre. “Considering that your new creation has two human minds, it seems to have lost its intellect.”
“It didn’t need intellect, just prowess. I was forced to sacrifice some factors to enhance others. Just like silk yaxen are created for their beauty, not their wit. This thing will never be admired for its conversation.”
The two-headed warrior’s lurching gait was deceptive, but the champion didn’t seem fooled. He darted in, thrusting his short sword like a stinger. The moment he approached within striking distance, the horrific opponent plunged into a blur of motion, sweeping the left sword, then the right, as if it meant to gut the champion twice. The man danced out of the way, scuttling backward so swiftly he tripped on his heels. One of the opponent’s blades sliced the champion’s upper arm, drawing blood.
From hundreds of throats in the crowd, a simultaneous gasp of dismay rumbled through the arena. The champion ducked, showing no sign that he even recognized he had been cut.
The two-headed fighter came at him again with both blades, sweeping, stabbing, slashing. The champion parried with a loud clang of his short sword. He ducked back as the monstrosity’s other hand swept the second blade toward him. The champion drove in, thrusting with his sword.
The two
-headed creature spun so that instead of the blade disemboweling it, the point merely traced a long red line up its rib cage. It roared in pain out of both throats, then brought the left-hand sword down, battering the champion’s solid helmet with the pommel. The champion reeled, stunned. Backing off, he adjusted the helmet.
The two-headed warrior charged in, and the champion stumbled weakly, staggered … and Nicci recognized what he was doing. He lured the monstrous fighter closer, and just as the right arm swept down with the blade, the champion thrust upward, stabbing through his opponent’s bicep, and then yanked down like a butcher slicing out a fine hunk of meat. The monster’s right arm was laid bare down to the bone, and the limb hung useless, spasming before dropping the sword. The grafted head on that side roared and rolled its eyes. The left arm reacted, trying to defend by raising its sword.
But the wiry champion was full of energy now, no longer feigning any disorientation. He dodged the blow, then gripped his short sword with both hands for a brutal slash. Cutting sideways like a woodcutter felling a tree, he lopped off the warrior’s original head, severing it cleanly from its natural neck. Gushing blood from the stump on its shoulder, the horrific creation reeled and wavered, standing on the blood-soaked sand.
Like an overripe squash, the severed head dropped to the ground, leaking blood, its expression still distorted with the last flickers of life.
The remaining head, the bald one grafted into place, wailed. Nicci thought the sound was distinctly filled with grief, not pain. The clumsy legs buckled at the knees, dropping to the sand. Dropping the other sword, the thing reached forward with both its good arm and the mangled one, using both hands to pick up and cradle the other head, cooing and moaning in despair.
The champion stalked forward with no mercy and no pity—or perhaps it was a mercy, Nicci thought. With another stroke, he chopped off the second head, which rolled onto the uneven ground next to its companion. The two-headed warrior’s body dropped to the sand, like a bull felled by a butcher’s sledgehammer.