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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.”
