Even before he could announce himself, the fleshmancer came out to greet him. He had an eager, hungry expression. “Welcome, Nathan-who-would-be-a-wizard-again.” His braided beard stood out like a corn shock on the tip of his chin. “I look forward to continuing our research. After yesterday’s unfortunate showing in the combat arena, I am honor-bound to demonstrate my prowess in other ways.” He narrowed his glittering eyes. “Let us achieve a resounding success for your problem, shall we, hmmm? I am willing to do whatever it takes.” He leaned closer. “Are you?”
A few days ago, before he was more familiar with Ildakar, Nathan would have readily agreed. Now he felt uncomfortable, and he chose his words carefully. “I will work closely with you. It’s important to me to restore my gift.”
“And it is important to Ildakar. Come, we have body maps to make and experiments to perform.”
Andre led him through the separate wings of the large mansion. In the main laboratory studio, hung with indigo cloths, the tables had been scoured clean, scrubbed of any traces of blood from the two mangled warriors. The air still had a sour fetid smell. The tanks containing what Andre called “ingredients of flesh” simmered away, and the exotic, unnatural fish swam in its aquarium.
Andre hummed as they walked on a tiled pathway to an isolated courtyard behind the house. “We require open sunlight for our next measurement. I need to construct a map of the gift within you, the tangled paths in the fibers of your being as well as the scars of residue from when the gift fizzled away. We have to restore them.” He stroked his fingers down his knotted beard. “And that may take some doing, hmmm?”
Outside, overhanging vines stirred disturbingly without any breezes. Strange scaled palm trees rose tall above the roofline of the mansion. Their drooping fronds had razor edges, and their plated trunks reminded him of the hide of Brom, the gray dragon who guarded the bones of his kind in Kuloth Vale. Two of the palms stood six feet apart, and stretched between them was a vertical square of white fabric as tall as a man, suspended by gossamer white ropes. Beneath the blank fabric was an empty patch of smooth white sand.
“Here is the canvas on which we must work, my friend,” Andre said. “But it is not just a blank sheet. At the beginning of any project, an artist views the endless potential of his subject.” A low table in front of the stretched fabric held glazed clay pots filled with grainy powders of turquoise blue, rust red, brilliant yellow.
The fleshmancer gestured impatiently. “Stand in front of the fabric. How else do you expect me to make the map, hmmm?”
“I don’t understand this kind of map,” Nathan said, stepping forward hesitantly. “How is it created?”
“The powders and chemicals are my own proprietary mixture. When I cast them, they capture the lines of your aura. It is a way of marking your Han, tracing the lines of force. I cannot see it with my own eyes, nor can you, but the powders follow it, like iron filings mark out the lines of attraction around a lodestone.”
Nathan stood uncertainly in the soft sand, facing the blank fabric. “Like this?”
Andre crossed his arms over his chest. “You do insist on making things difficult, don’t you? No wonder you lost your gift!”
“What have I done wrong now?”
Exasperated, the fleshmancer waved his hands. “You must be naked, of course! How else can the powder find the tracks of your Han?”
“How else indeed?” Nathan muttered with a sigh, knowing not to argue. He shrugged out of his wizard’s robe and removed his boots, then submitted to the measurement.
Mumbling, Andre studied the powders in the jars. He dipped his finger into a pale blue mixture, sniffed it, then tried the yellow substance instead. Nodding, he scooped a handful of the bright powder and stepped up to his subject.
Nathan frowned. “What is it that you—”
The fleshmancer hurled the powder, and the spray of dust struck him in the center of his chest. Nathan flinched, recoiled, then sneezed, but when he looked down at his bare chest, none of the powder had stuck to his skin. It was gone.
Andre puttered among the jars, picked up the blue powder, and threw some of it, aiming lower. Nathan watched the powder strike him … and absorb into his skin. A tingle sizzled throughout his body.
Laughing, the fleshmancer seemed to consider it a game. Another handful and another, six different powders in all, but as each cloud of dust struck him and disappeared, Nathan realized he felt weaker. Something was being sapped from him.
“Now, again—but this time you must try to use your gift. Concentrate, do something easy. Create a flicker of fire in your hand.”
Nathan frowned. “Yes, that used to be easy.” He remembered trying to do that on the deck of the Wavewalker just before the storm and the selka attack. It had been the first indication that his gift might be waning. “But it could backfire. At times, the gift twists and releases magic altogether contradictory to my wishes. I might … I might burn down your villa.”
The fleshmancer snickered. “Come now, if I couldn’t stop that, then I am not much of a wizard myself, hmmm?” He raised his voice to a sharp, startling shout. “Use your magic!”
Nathan reacted, instinctively reaching for his gift to summon fire in his palm. He pushed, stretched his fingers apart, willed flame to ignite there.
Andre hurled more dust, emptying an entire pot against Nathan’s chest.
No magic came, not even a tiny flicker. The villa did not explode into flames, and the only increased heat came from Nathan’s straining. A drop of perspiration tingled on his brow, but that was all.
“Nothing. I’m sorry.”
“Even so, that is all we need.” Smiling, the fleshmancer slapped his palms together, brushing stray dust from them. “Now, let us admire our work, hmmm?” He nudged Nathan out of the way.
As Nathan stepped away from the white fabric, feeling his knees shake, he turned to look at the formerly blank canvas. Somehow, when Andre threw the powders at him, the essence had passed directly through his body and adhered to the fabric. Lines and swirls of muted colors created an intricate map like a seaman’s chart of currents, or a cartographer’s conception of all the streams in a mountain range. But these lines had the vague outline of a man—Nathan.
“Is that my gift?” he asked. “All the patterns within me?”
Andre nodded slowly. “It is an interesting suggestion of what should be. But you can see the problem.” He pointed to the colorful design. “Here.”
Unmindful of his nakedness, Nathan was fascinated by the result, not to mention the fact that the test had required no blood or pain. Andre indicated the center of what seemed to denote Nathan’s chest on the diagram. “You see how pale this is? The emptiness where your heart should be? That is where your gift has vanished. The Han permeates every blood vessel, every muscle fiber, every inch of skin, every shaft of hair. Except there. You can see what you have lost.”
Nathan felt a heavy weight inside of him. He did indeed see. The markings of the exotic map were plain. “It’s gone then?”
“Gone.” Andre snapped lids back on the assorted pots of colorful powders. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t replace it. We just need to find what is missing and put it back. I am, of course, up to the challenge.” Andre seemed intrigued. “And the other wizards will be pleased to hear that at least it’s not contagious. As I suspected.”
“I am pleased to hear that as well,” Nathan said.
“Restoring you is not beyond our abilities. As you know, the wizards of Ildakar have created tremendous things, hmmm?”
Nathan tried to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. “I’ve seen some of your work as a fleshmancer. Some might consider it … unorthodox. You call yourself an artist, but now you’re trying to heal my problem. Do you think of yourself as a healer too?”
Andre snorted. “Healers and torturers are both experts in the same art. Both are knowledgeable in pain and endurance, in life and death. I am a master of all aspects.” He waved his hands again. “
Now I have something to show you in another wing of my mansion. Dress yourself—I have no interest in seeing a naked old man unless I have to.”
Nathan smiled. “I am oddly relieved to hear you say that.” He donned his borrowed wizard’s robe again and sat on one of the garden benches to pull on his boots.
Andre jabbered as he waited. “In the ancient days of many wars and many enemies, we had to create weapons powerful enough to defend the city and its people. You have already seen how we lifted the plain above the Killraven River … and what could be more impressive than Wizard Commander Maxim’s petrification spell that turned the army of General Utros into statues? Or the blood magic that projected the shroud to wall us off from time?”
“All of that is indeed impressive,” Nathan said, stomping his heel on the ground to seat the foot properly in his boot.
Andre’s eyes sparkled. “I myself created tremendous warriors, veritable gods of warfare. I’m very proud of them, hmmm? Would you like to see?”
Nathan smoothed down the fabric of his green wizard’s robe. “Did these warriors help you win the war?”
“I haven’t had a chance to use them yet.” He sounded disappointed. “But they are ready—always ready. Come, I want to show them to you.”
Nathan followed the fleshmancer through another arch into a high-ceilinged wing of the mansion. “I named them Ixax warriors. Even with all my efforts, all my skills, I could only create three of them … but three Ixax warriors should be sufficient to save our city against the most terrible enemies.” As they entered the cavernous wing, he pulled back a curtain to reveal three giants standing there like motionless titans, fifteen feet high.
The Ixax warriors were shaped like men, immense in the shoulders with torsos as large as wagons, their heads the size of a cartwheel. The figures were encased in voluminous armor like a riveted steel shell covering their swollen biceps, their waists, their treelike thighs. Each head was encased in a helmet like a cauldron flattened against the sides of their cheeks, leaving only a thin slit for a mouth and another slit for the eyes. Large, rounded studs covered their chests. Their hands wore massive gauntlets with spiked knuckles, and a belt encircled their waists. Their boots were enormous, one footfall capable of crushing a horse to pulp.
They were motionless, locked in place, arms rigid at their sides, feet anchored to the floor.
Andre openly admired them. “Behold, my warriors! I made these three fifteen hundred years ago when we knew Emperor Kurgan’s armies were on the move. After taking three human subjects, I used all my magic and pulled together everything that I understood of flesh, of life, and of power. From mere humans, I created these three gigantic and indestructible weapons, the most powerful soldiers ever created. One Ixax is strong enough to slaughter five thousand enemy soldiers—that is how I designed them.” He lovingly caressed the gauntlet of the nearest figure. The Ixax didn’t flinch. “They are primed and ready … as they have been for fifteen hundred years.”
Nathan was indeed impressed, thinking of such a monstrosity turned loose on an unsuspecting enemy army. “They are held in a stasis spell, then? Frozen in time until they are unleashed?”
“Oh, no—they are exactly ready. We cannot tolerate any delay if the city were to be threatened, hmmm?”
“What do you mean?”
“These three Ixax warriors have stood awake and aware right here, unable to move for fifteen centuries.”
“Awake … and aware?” Nathan looked at them with sudden uneasiness.
“A simple locking spell keeps them immobile, but they can hear us talking now.”
“And do they sleep?” Nathan asked, already dreading the answer.
“No, they are awake every second of every day. We cannot be unprepared. These weapons may be our last resort. The Ixax have nothing to do but stand here and think about their duty, should it ever arise.”
Nathan took a nervous step back, trying to grasp the nightmare of these three warriors—whether volunteers or perhaps unwilling subjects. They had been transformed by the fleshmancer’s magic, held immobile, staring for every second of every day for fifteen centuries. Nathan felt a chill run down his back.
By now these Ixax warriors must be entirely insane.
Through the eye slit in the iron helmet of the nearest warrior, Nathan saw a glint of yellow eyes staring at him.
CHAPTER 21
As Bannon walked the streets of Ildakar, alone with his thoughts, he carried guilt as heavy as a sledge piled with cut stone. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth to hold in his anger and disgust.
Ever since seeing that the bloody arena champion was Ian—innocent, carefree, laughing Ian from Chiriya Island—Bannon had been so consumed with dark memories that he could barely live with himself.
In the morning, after waking from a sleep full of nightmares, he looked at his face in the reflecting basin, then splashed water in his reddened eyes. He saw his drawn expression. After the arena spectacle, he had avoided Nicci and Nathan, even though they knew the painful story of how he had run away from the attack, leaving his best friend to be captured by the raiders.…
As he emerged from the grand villa, not knowing what to do, he found Amos, Jed, and Brock. Dressed in bright colors, laughing, jostling one another, the three companions had offered a perfunctory invitation for Bannon to join them in whatever they decided to do that day. Bannon had not felt like their company, though. “No thank you … I have other plans this morning.” They didn’t seem to care whether or not he would join them.
Shoring up his courage, knowing he had to face one of the most bitter moments of his past, Bannon descended the streets in search of the warrior training pits. Eyes fixed on the path ahead, he spoke to no one, made no overtures to street vendors or craftsmen.
He carried Sturdy at his side, letting his fingers rest on the worn leather-wrapped hilt. He didn’t expect to fight, but having the familiar blade at hand gave him the strength for what he would have to do. He was haunted by that day back on Chiriya when he and Ian had gone down to their private cove where there were tide pools full of shells and crabs and interesting fish. It was a fine place for two curious and bright-eyed boys to play, and Bannon considered it a refuge from his father. When he was there with Ian, his best friend, he felt safe, able to imagine a brighter world.
But the cove was not safe after all. Norukai slaver ships had cruised around the point, longboats coming to shore, and the vicious, scarred men grabbed Bannon and tried to drag him away to become a slave. But Ian fought back, gave his friend the chance to run … and in doing so, Ian got himself captured. Instead of running back to help him, instead of fighting to save him, Bannon simply ran away. The last thing he remembered after scrambling to the top of the cliffs was looking back at his friend’s despairing face as the slavers tumbled him into their longboat and rowed away with him forever.…
Bannon had never thought to see him again, assumed the boy had died in some sweaty hellhole. Now he knew that Ian had been brought here, sold as a slave, taught to fight. Bannon recalled his own blood fury when he battled the Norukai at Renda Bay. He had killed many of the hideous men when the surge of anger drove him into a frenzy he had never before experienced.
Ian must have fought like that every day, sentenced to live and die in the combat arena. Just yesterday he had stood in the sand before the cheering audience, facing the monstrous two-headed warrior. This was not a rare battle: It was Ian’s life.
Bannon felt so sickened that he wrapped an arm over his stomach to contain the roiling acid of emotions there. He had to see his friend, had to speak with him. No matter what it took, how much he needed to beg Amos or the sovrena and wizard commander, Bannon would free his friend, although he was many years too late.
As he approached the high-walled arena, he passed a menagerie of strange and deadly creatures. A rock wall, an exposed part of the sandstone outcropping on which the city was built, had several tunnel openings leading into dark chambers. From inside, he cou
ld hear yowls and snarls, growling noises, and the gruff voice of Chief Handler Ivan as he bellowed at the animals. Wafting out from the opening, the stench was thick and musky, rich with excrement and pain. Bannon peered inside, swallowing hard. He had been told that one of these large tunnels led to the underground combat pits where the arena warriors were held and trained.
Large, barred pens held predatory animals pacing back and forth, lashing out at any enemy. Bannon gaped at another huge combat bear that smashed itself again and again into the iron bars, which held firm. Gray-green lizards the size of small dragons hissed and belched, splashing into a scum-covered pool in the floor of their pen.
Inside the wide, torch-lit tunnel, Ivan stood next to a cart piled with bloody chunks of meat, thick bones sawed into pieces, loose wet entrails. On top of the mound of meat rested two severed yaxen heads, their slack dead faces showing oddly humanlike expressions of despair. Ivan picked up one of the heads by the matted black hair and tossed it into a barred lair that held three sand panthers.
As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Bannon watched the felines fight over the piece of meat. He thought of Mrra, who had remained outside the city, and his heart sank, realizing now that the cat had known how grim the glorious city was. No wonder she had run off as Amos and his companions approached.
Their tan hides were branded with spell symbols just like the ones on Mrra … just like the leather tunic the chief handler wore. Ivan growled at them, sounding much like his own captive beasts. He slammed a broad hand against the bars, making a loud rattling noise. “Tear it apart! Think of that as a victim—you’ll have more to eat if you kill anything in the combat arena.”
The troka of panthers looked at the chief handler, their golden feline eyes glaring with hatred. Ivan curled the fingers of his left hand and concentrated, obviously releasing part of his gift. The panthers cringed as if receiving instructions, and then they attacked one another, fighting over the already shredded head. Ivan laughed.