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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.
