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Feeling even more sickened, Bannon ducked out of the menagerie and went instead to the adjacent tunnel in the sandstone outcropping, hoping that this passage must lead to where the captive fighters were held.
Two steps inside the tunnel, just beyond where the slash of sunlight penetrated, one of the morazeth leaned against the wall, watching him. She didn’t seem overly alert, but her very presence was threatening. Bannon supposed that no other guard was necessary. Her close-cropped hair was light brown, her eyes an intense hazel. All the exposed skin on her arms, her midriff, and her thighs sported designs and spell-forms scarred into her flesh.
As Bannon hesitated, she looked up at him, unimpressed and uninterested. She crossed her arms over the black leather band that covered her breasts. She didn’t speak, forcing him to state his business. “I … I need to see the champion.”
“You wish to fight him?” she said. “I don’t think you could handle the champion. We aren’t taking volunteer combat today.”
“No … he’s an old friend. His name is Ian. I knew him back when he was young, on Chiriya Island. He will remember me.”
“He’s the champion,” said the morazeth. “He needs no other name, and when he is finally defeated and killed, there will be a new champion. Ildakar always has a champion.”
“But he’s my friend,” Bannon said. “I just want to talk with him. I was there when—” He swallowed hard. “—when the Norukai slavers captured him.”
The morazeth snorted. “None of our fighters has a past. Nothing they did before being trained here matters in the least.” She looked at him, searching the beseeching expression on his face. He did not retreat, as she seemed to expect him to do. At last, she straightened. “But this is a matter for Adessa. I’ll let you talk with her.”
With a haughty turn, the morazeth walked into the dark tunnel, expecting him to follow. Bannon hurried after her, seeing that the woman’s bare back was also marked with spell designs. She was lean and well muscled, and the wrap around her waist covered and yet conformed to her tight buttocks. She had an angry sexuality about her as she walked, taunting, tempting. Bannon swallowed hard and forced himself to think about Ian trapped inside these cages, tortured for all those years, forced to fight. What a nightmare it must have been.
Bannon’s life had been torn apart after he lost his friend, and he had suffered many other deep scars as well. He fled Chiriya to seek a new and perfect life out in the world. He could do nothing to save his murdered mother or the drowned kittens, which were a symbol to him of his many losses.
But maybe he could do something to help Ian.
The morazeth led him through the cool sandstone tunnels, finally emerging into a broad, well-lit grotto. Several circular pits in the stone floor were training rings, no doubt. Honeycombed passages in the rock walls led to individual barred cells, separate chambers that served as both homes and prisons for the warriors.
“Adessa!” the morazeth called. “This little whip of flesh wants to see the champion. Claims to be a friend.”
The stern female trainer emerged from one of the large chambers hollowed out of the stone wall. “The champion has no friends—except for me. I am his trainer. I am his reason for existence.”
Adessa was older and more seasoned than the young morazeth guard. The curves in her body were coiled springs rather than feminine softness. Her face was seamed with lines, her dark hair speckled with gray. Her brown eyes fixed on him like the points of crossbow bolts aimed by an expert archer.
Though he nearly quailed, Bannon found strength within himself. He let his fingers touch Sturdy’s hilt and he faced her. “The champion’s name is Ian. He is my friend. He’ll remember me.” Then he lowered his voice and muttered to himself, “Sweet Sea Mother, I hope he remembers me.”
Adessa looked at him, curious. “I vaguely remember that he said his name was Ian, a long time ago. By the time he came to me, the Norukai had mostly burned that identity out of him. But this might be interesting.” Her thin lips pressed together in an implacable line. “Lila, get back to your post. I’ll take care of this.”
The young morazeth flashed a quick glance back at Bannon, then sauntered back up the tunnel to resume her duty.
Adessa led him past the main training grotto to a side tunnel filled with barred chambers. “I’ve given him the largest cell. It is his due as champion, merely one of his rewards for being a fighter.” Adessa looked at Bannon, then glanced at his sword. “You fancy yourself a fighter?”
He squared his shoulders. “I have killed many with my sword, but only when necessary.”
“Killing is always necessary when fighting is warranted,” Adessa said. “I doubt you’ve been trained properly.”
“The wizard Nathan Rahl trained me. He is an expert swordsman himself.”
“I hear he is not even a wizard,” Adessa said. “The champion is our best. I am a harsh trainer, but I am proud of him. I have rewarded him in many ways.”
“Then you can reward him by freeing him,” Bannon said, sounding much braver than he felt. “He was captured as a boy on Chiriya. He’s not a slave.”
The morazeth trainer’s eyes widened with bitter amusement. “You don’t understand the meaning of ‘slave.’ His life is not his own. Ildakar possesses him, and he serves his purpose. I possess him. I train him. I reward him—until he fails me. And then we will have another champion.”
“His name is Ian,” he insisted, then added, “and my name is Bannon.”
“Names are overrated.” Adessa stopped in front of a wall of iron bars that blocked a well-lit chamber with a woven mat on the stone floor, a sleeping pallet, a basin of water, a chamber pot.
“Champion,” Adessa called, “you have a visitor.”
Bannon’s heart nearly broke to see the young man lying on the pallet. He had recognized Ian during the arena combat, but now he saw his friend up close. When the champion sat up on the pallet and looked at him, Bannon saw that Ian was no longer Ian. He was a stranger.
“It’s me—Bannon,” he said in a raspy voice. “Do you remember me from Chiriya? From home? We were friends as boys.”
The champion swung himself off the pallet and walked toward the barred doorway. He wore only a loincloth. His body was a landscape of hard muscles and white scars. He didn’t speak.
“I’m Bannon,” he said again. He gripped the bars of the cage, pleading, looking into the face of his friend. “We used to play together. We explored the island. We worked in the cabbage fields. Don’t you remember? We would splash in the surf or explore the tide pools. And then that day…” Bannon’s throat went dry. He drew a breath. “That day when the slavers came.”
“Bannon?” the other man said, as if testing the sound of the word in his mouth. His teeth ground together, and his voice became harder, darker. “Bannon.”
“Yes, the slavers tried to capture both of us, but you helped me get away. And I…” He wasn’t sure he could go on. The memory of that day was almost more than he could bear, but he kept talking. “I ran, and they took you. I didn’t help you. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” Tears streamed down his face. His chest hitched, and he began to sob. “Sweet Sea Mother, I am so sorry!”
Ian’s face remained an implacable stone mask. He showed no reaction, no recognition. Bannon stared at him through the rippling sheen of tears, sickened to see Ian’s transformation. His friend’s eyes looked both dead and full of killing. He had been changed from a carefree island boy into a ruthless fighter.
“I found you again,” Bannon said. “I came back—and I have friends here in Ildakar.” He clenched the iron bars. “I’ll do whatever I can to free you. I’ll get you out of this place.” He reached into the cell, imploring.
“Bannon…?” Ian said. Now a fire kindled behind his eyes, an angry glow. “I remember.”
“Yes, we were friends, and that day—”
