Mirrormask had an entirely different purpose in visiting Andre’s mansion.
Many lights were lit inside the sprawling building, and the fleshmancer was no doubt preparing for the blood magic at the pyramid in the next few hours. He would never be prepared for what Mirrormask was about to do, however.
A separate wing was dark, the windows covered with tightly woven hangings. If Andre called his experimental laboratories his “studio,” then this separate wing was his “gallery,” where he displayed his most magnificent work.
Mirrormask had been looking forward to this for a long time.
He was alone inside the dark and silent wing, but in the presence of tremendous power. He could feel the anger, the impatience, the bottled fury trembling in the air. He ignited a hand light and set it floating against the wall so that he could behold the three towering armored figures, fighting behemoths encased in their prison of armor.
The Ixax warriors.
He could sense them, and knew they were aware of his presence. He saw their glittering yellow eyes behind the slit openings in their helmets. The titans loomed there, straining inside their confinement. They had been locked immobile for more than fifteen centuries.
“Patience, patience,” he whispered. “It’s almost time.”
He looked through the slits in his own mask, which reminded him of their encapsulating helmets. Maybe the behemoths could see their reflections in the cracked covering on his face.
He stepped up to the first Ixax warrior. “I apologize to the other two. One of you will certainly be sufficient for my needs.”
The thick studded armor was marked with the insignia of Ildakar, a sun with lightning bolts—back then, Andre had been quite patriotic. He had created this trio of titans, hoping to unleash them so they could mow down swaths of General Utros’s army, like a scythe harvesting wheat. The wizards of Ildakar had stopped the fleshmancer from creating more than three, fearing how powerful those human weapons might be, suspecting they could be uncontrollable.
The petrification spell and then the shroud of eternity had rendered the Ixax warriors moot.
Mirrormask reached forward, found a deeply etched rune in the steel-hard leather armor on the first titan’s waist. Releasing his gift, he activated the spell that encased the mammoth soldier like a cocoon. He broke apart the magical manacles that held the Ixax motionless.
As the room began to glow, Mirrormask backed away. “Wake,” he said, “and do what you were meant to do.”
He laughed, knowing that this would be far more disruptive than anything else his rebels could achieve. Mirrormask flitted out into the darkness as the Ixax warrior began to bend his massive arms and legs.
Awakened at last.
* * *
The smashing uproar in the side wing of his mansion jarred Andre from his musing.
Elsa had stayed all day to help guide Nathan through his recovery. She suggested exercises, tiny gestures of magic that would help him build his confidence. Sometimes Nathan succeeded, but at other times the magic reacted in bizarre ways. Occasionally, nothing happened at all.
Andre was losing patience with his subject. “If you continue to fail, then we’ll just have to find you another heart, hmmm?”
Nathan’s face turned ashen at the suggestion. “No, I’ll keep trying. I will unlock my gift.” He turned to Elsa with a look of desperation. “We’ll find a way.”
“We must stop soon, because we have to go up to the pyramid. The bloodworking happens at midnight,” Andre told Elsa, then raised his eyebrows. “You can come and observe, Nathan, if you like. It might give you some inspiration, though, alas, you won’t be allowed to participate. Not yet.”
Nathan did not appear pleased by the invitation.
Just then, crashing sounds rang throughout the mansion, a deep hollow roar that sounded like a bear groaning in an echoing cave.
“Now what is it?” Andre said, exasperated.
He had heard the alarm bells and shouts down by the combat arena and was sure that some other mayhem was taking place down there. More animals released, perhaps. The city was becoming quite unruly. But he was busy in his own mansion, and the bloodworking would soon require all their attention.
This time, however, the havoc emanated from his own home. Elsa and Nathan looked as if they wanted to follow him, but he snapped, “Stay here.”
He stalked off, feeling a shiver go down his spine as he ran toward the side wing, where the noise had become deafening.
“Here now! By the Keeper—” he shouted, striding into the high-ceilinged gallery where he displayed the towering Ixax warriors. Two of the armored titans remained motionless, as they always had been. But the third mammoth soldier lurched forward on treelike armor-encased legs, stomping boots so hard they cracked the flagstones of the floor.
Andre could only blink and stare.
The Ixax reacted to his arrival, swiveling its gigantic helmet so it saw the fleshmancer, its creator, its tormentor. The eyes blazed like tiny balls of wizard’s fire.
Andre stumbled back, holding up his hands and summoning his gift. The Ixax strode forward with thunderous footfalls, clenching huge gauntleted hands.
Andre released magic in a wall of force that slammed into the armored titan, but it had little effect. The Ixax simply plowed through the magic, intent on the wizard who had taken three unwilling Ildakaran soldiers, conscripts who had agreed to help their city without knowing what they were offering to do. The fleshmancer had used those young men as the raw material to create these things—weapons powerful enough to save Ildakar, weapons that had never been used.
Instead, the monstrosities had been locked awake, motionless, going insane for fifteen hundred years.
Now the Ixax was unleashed, and his limbs swung free, releasing pent-up fury. He hammered the stone wall with his fist like a boulder launched from a catapult, and the blow crushed through the blocks, pulverizing them.
The Ixax let out another bellow, amplified through his helmet. Andre hurled wizard’s fire at the monstrosity. The fierce magical flames scorched the armor, but quickly rolled off. The titan closed the distance to Andre in two strides and loomed over the fleshmancer.
Trapped, Andre flung up his hand, releasing blasts of magic—sizzling bolts of lightning, howling wind, and fire—but the Ixax warrior did not even draw his huge sword. Instead, he raised a gauntleted fist, clenched it tight, and pounded down with all the force of a giant falling tree.
With a single blow, the Ixax crushed Andre, breaking him, splattering him into a mass of jagged bones, a shattered skull, scattered teeth, and spraying blood. He raised the gauntlet again and brought it down, pounding the ruined corpse another time, hammering the remains into a pulp.
Seven identical blows later, nothing remained of the fleshmancer but a widely dispersed film of gore. Blood, smeared tissue, and bone powder spattered the gallery’s floors, walls, and ceiling.
The Ixax lifted his huge feet and straightened. Even though he had destroyed his creator and tormentor, he was not satisfied after waiting for fifteen centuries. He had been created for destruction, so he marched ahead to destroy everything in sight.
Everything.
CHAPTER 72
When the clamor and shouts erupted through the fighting pits, Bannon guessed what was happening, and hope surged within him. The uproar seemed even greater than the previous time. It sounded like more than just a skirmish. This was outright war.
Bannon went to the bars of his cell and peered out, seeing the brown-robed figures hurrying into the fighters’ area. This time, they wore their hoods down, defiantly showing their features. Yelling, the rebels drove the unleashed animals ahead of them.
Two black spiny wolves loped forward, snapping their jaws, but more intent on escape than savagery. Three leopards sprang down the tunnels, dodging fallen bodies, paying no attention to the large swamp dragons that scuttled forward on powerful scaled legs.
Bannon shook the barred door of his cell, des
perate to break free. He wanted to run loose like the animals, to burst from this prison. He was shirtless, sore and bruised, wearing only a fighter’s loincloth. But after his vigorous training, he was more lean and muscular than he had ever been before.
He was trapped, held captive as a toy to be thrown out into the combat arena for the amusement of the people of Ildakar.
He hammered on the bars. “Let me loose!”
The other fighters took up the chant, pounding on their bars as well. “Set us free!”
And the hooded rebels did exactly that.
Mirrormask’s followers had seized keys, and they spread out in the tunnels, rushing from one cell to the next. The caged fighters stared grimly in anticipation, waiting for the doors to open. Their shouts grew louder. “Free me. Free me!”
The rebels worked the locks and threw open the barred doors. Muscular young trainees as well as seasoned warriors stalked out, blinking and confused as if they didn’t know what to do.
From his cell, Bannon yelled, “You can still fight. Get your weapons! We can all battle our way free.” He rattled the bars again, then muttered, “If I ever get out of here.”
A female rebel raced up to Bannon’s cell, meeting his eyes through the bars. She had a flinty gaze and she looked like an old woman, but Bannon realized she could not have been more than forty years old. A life of slavery had drained her vitality away like an old rag wrung dry. She fumbled with the key, inserting it in the lock, and turning it. She grimaced, trying harder, but the key didn’t work.
“It’s a different one,” Bannon said. He had seen Lila use it numerous times. “The brass one.” The woman shifted to another key.
Out in the gallery, the freed fighters rushed to the weapons stockpile. Ignoring the racks of dulled blades and wooden practice rods, they snatched up the short swords they used in the combat arena.
The rebels gave them the name to cheer. “For Mirrormask!” The fighters took up the name, and one of the brown-robed figures added, “And for Nicci!”
“For Nicci!” they all echoed.
Bannon’s heart leaped. Nicci! Nicci was here! The woman on the other side of the gate fumbled with the brass key and inserted it into the lock. She looked at Bannon and smiled.
Before she could turn it in the keyhole, though, a hissing swamp dragon raced forward and snapped its jaws around her legs. It yanked backward, and though she grabbed at the bars, the reptile broke her grip and tore her body away from the cell door.
Bannon reached through the bars, trying to grab her, but the lizard thing flung her to the stone floor. She pounded with her fists, and blood gushed from her mangled legs. The reptile snapped its jaws and bit her hand off all the way to the elbow, crunching down on her bones.
The key fell out of the lock, struck the stone floor, clinked, and bounced away.
Bannon pounded on the door, desperate to break free so he could help her.
When the swamp dragon bit through her throat and killed her, the immolation rune on her amulet ignited, and the rebel’s body burst into a crackle of searing flame. The fire flared up and also engulfed the big reptile. The monster hissed and rolled away, but its scales were blackened, its stomach bloated as the intense fire boiled its internal organs.
Bannon dropped to his knees, but the cell door wasn’t open yet. He reached through the gap, jamming his shoulder against the bars as he strained to reach the key. It lay just out of reach near the smoldering remnants of the woman who had tried to help him. He stretched his fingers and rammed his shoulder against the bars to get an extra hairsbreadth of reach. Finally, the tip of his index finger brushed the metal end of the key. He stroked it, made it move barely toward him, then again, and the key edged just close enough for him to snag it with his fingertip. He clutched it in his cupped palm like the greatest treasure he’d ever held.
Working through the bars, he inserted the key, fumbled to turn it, and heard the click. A wash of weakness and relief turned his blood to water. Bannon shook his head, trembling, and pushed open the barred door.
Out in the gallery, the rebels and the unleashed fighters ran loose, confused but exhilarated. They battled a fearsome speckled boar, herding it down one of the larger tunnels and out into the city, where it could cause more havoc.
A big, bald veteran fighter emerged from his cage and looked around angrily. One of the rebels handed him a sword. “Fight! Fight for your freedom.” The veteran fighter grasped the sword, sneered, and thrust it into the heart of the rebel. The astonished robed man collapsed to his knees and fell on his face before bursting into a self-contained funeral pyre.
“We fight for Ildakar,” growled the veteran, “not for Mirrormask!” He strode forward, holding up his bloody blade in defiance. The brown-robed rebels were stunned that one of the slaves would turn against them.
Four of the newly freed fighters ran toward the veteran, raising their swords. “No! We fight for ourselves, and we fight for the future,” one shouted.
The bald veteran was taken aback and defended himself as the four young fighters fell upon him. One stabbed into the meat of his shoulder. “We don’t fight for Adessa!”
“We do not fight for the sovrena,” shouted the second man as he plunged his blade into the veteran’s belly.
“We fight for Mirrormask and for Nicci!” they cried as they stabbed again and again. The seasoned veteran did not have a chance.
With the door of his cell finally open, Bannon bolted out to join the others. “For Nicci!” he yelled, hoping she was here, hoping she could hear him. He jumped over the greasy smoke and the smoldering pile in front of his cell. He needed a weapon—not just any weapon, but his weapon.
The other fighters had taken the familiar short swords with which they had trained, but Bannon knew where Lila kept his own blade, wrapped in a cloth and stored in a high alcove. He ran to it, paying no heed to the fighting all around him. He grabbed his sword, pulled it down from the notch in the sandstone wall. Sturdy fell into his arms, and he yanked away the cloth covering. His hand curled around the leather-wrapped hilt.
“Sweet Sea Mother!” Tears stung his eyes. He swung the blade from side to side, feeling energy build within him. He no longer felt his aches, his bruises. He was free, and he would fight out in the city. He would find his friends. “Nicci!” he shouted.
With the shroud in place, they could no longer just leave Ildakar, but they could remake the city. That was his focus now. He didn’t know how many days he had spent down here in the training pits and barred cells, but it seemed like an eternity.
Armored trainers ran into the fray, holding shields, wielding their own swords. These were not as skilled as the morazeth, but they had fought and pummeled the trainees during many practice sessions, including Bannon. He spun to face them, holding up Sturdy. It felt good in his hand, but he knew this would not be another practice session.
“Back to your cages, slaves!” roared one of the trainers. Sneering and overconfident, he lunged forward, swinging his shield at Bannon. The young man did not back away, and the trainer faltered for an instant, surprised at Bannon’s reaction. With a yell, he smashed the trainer’s shield with the long sword, hammering hard, then swinging again with both hands and all his might. The blow was enough to crack the trainer’s wrist, and he reeled. Bannon reacted like lightning, responding with his instincts, and he swung the sword again and chopped deep into the other man’s neck.
As the man fell onto the bloody stone floor, Bannon stared at what he had done. Yes, he’d been taught well, and the morazeth had warned him to show no mercy. He shuddered, but refused to allow himself to feel shock or guilt. He would be doing much more killing before the night was done.
He knew the most important thing he had to do. Dodging deadly animals, scattered rebels, and freed warriors, Bannon sprinted toward Ian’s cell. The champion, his friend—the embittered man who had been held prisoner for so long—remained inside, staring out at the turmoil, his steely eyes drinking in the details.
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Bannon arrived at the barred door. “You know it’s not locked, Ian. Why didn’t you get away?”
His friend considered for a long moment. “Because this is where I belong.”
Bannon worked the latch and swung open the gate. “No it isn’t! You belong with me. You belong back home. You never should have been taken from Chiriya Island. I never should have been a coward, but that’s all behind us. I can’t do anything about the past, but I can save you now. Come with me. I beg you. You must be free.”
“I am already free.” Ian squared his broad shoulders and stared at the open door. “I’m a warrior. I am Ildakar’s champion.”
“Ildakar will be different after tonight,” Bannon said. “Come, we have to get out into the streets.”
Ian shook his head, staring at his friend grimly from his open cell. His face looked old, scarred, a stranger’s face … a killer’s face. “All I know how to do is fight. I cannot run away with you.”
“Yes, you can! If we can bring down the shroud, there’s the rest of the world. I have so much to show you, but first we have to get away. Fight with me for what is right, for what is noble and true.”
Ian shook his head. “What would I do if I just got away? That isn’t me. I am the champion.”
Bannon caught a flicker of motion out of the corner of his eye. He turned to see a tawny sand panther lope into the torch-lit gallery chamber. Mrra! Nicci was with the sand panther, wearing her black dress and holding a bloody dagger in each hand.
“Bannon Farmer!” she called out. “Bannon, where are you?”
He gave Ian a pleading look, then whirled. “Sorceress, I’m here!” His heart swelled with joy despite the screams and growls around him mixed with the clash of blades. With one more quick look back at Ian, he said, “Come with me, Ian! Give yourself a chance at a new life.”