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Each Ixax wore a terrible sword as tall as a man. Their legs were like oak trunks, rippled with sculpted muscles. Their boots could crush boulders. Through the slit in their helmets, round staring eyes the size of pomegranates peered out, crackling with magic. Andre’s corrupt fleshmancy had taken three mere foot soldiers who had volunteered to defend their beloved city and transformed them into … this.
“I’m sorry for what was done to you,” Nathan said. He hoped they could hear him, hoped they would listen. “I know you didn’t expect this when you offered yourselves, but Ildakar truly needs you now.”
The silence continued to hang over them like a cloak. He couldn’t even hear the Ixax warriors breathing. Did they need to breathe?
But he sensed a subtle change. Inside their massive helmets, the blazing yellow gaze shifted slightly, their focus changing from an endless stare. A chill went down Nathan’s back, and he felt certain that their attention had turned to him. “Fleshmancer Andre did this to you, and he’s paid for the torment he inflicted. You might have seen that with your own eyes.”
On the night of Mirrormask’s uprising, one—and only one—of the Ixax had been awakened, and that juggernaut smashed the entire villa, killed Andre, and rampaged through Ildakar. Only Nathan had been able to stop it.
Two of the Ixax remained.
“You were created to defend Ildakar,” he said. “I know what was originally in your hearts. You were brave soldiers, but Ildakar is still under threat. General Utros holds the city under siege. Ildakar still needs you.” He drew a deep breath. “Even though the city—no, not the city, just some bad people—did you wrong.”
He tried to see through the helmet slits, thought he saw the bright eyes tinged with fury and madness. Nathan pressed on, wondering how many centuries it had been since anyone had spoken to the giant warriors with kindness and compassion.
“I understand just a little of how you must feel. I was held prisoner, too, for a thousand years. The Sisters of the Light locked me in the Palace of the Prophets because they were afraid of me, just like many Ildakarans are afraid of you. I was a prophet, you see, and prophecy can be very dangerous.” He began to pace, relaxing a little. He rubbed the scar on his chest, feeling his heart beat, feeling the restored gift inside him.
He remembered when he was just a young boy as the beginnings of his gift manifested in vivid nightmares, the confusion as his prophecy began to show itself. He was descended from the line of Rahl, so his gift was no surprise, but he hadn’t known what to do.
He could not forget the day when the Sisters had sought him out, as they did all gifted young men. Young Nathan had grown desperate as his headaches grew worse, along with confusion and fear about the incomprehensible prophecies haunting him. The Sisters had made promises, which were mostly lies, and he had gone with them, submitting to the Rada’Han, the iron collar around his neck that allowed them to control him. That iron collar was different from the immense confinement that held the Ixax warriors. Even so, he understood …
“I will come and speak to you again,” Nathan said in a soothing voice. “Your sacrifice is not wasted, and we may well need you. Ildakar hasn’t forgotten you, believe me.” He ran his fingers in a nervous gesture down his long hair and felt a prickle of sweat on his face. “We still need you, both of you. Truly we do.”
He paused for an awkward moment, hoping he could get through to them eventually, before it was too late.
* * *
The look on Rendell’s face told Nicci how disturbed and angry he was as he met her outside the grand villa. “Come with me.” He swallowed hard as he led her along the streets down from the top of the plateau. “The duma members will know soon enough, but maybe you and I can avert a bloodbath. This should not have happened.” He sounded sickened.
Nicci followed the former slave to a secluded area down tangled alleys and shaded with tall trees. These were lavish whorehouses that served the wealthy, though the dachas had been frequented less since the night of the uprising, when the beautiful silk yaxen had killed some of their abusive customers.
Nicci saw frightened faces in doorways as they passed, many of them wearing the drab clothes of the lower classes, slaves who refused to go back to work. Many of them had commandeered lavish vacation homes and expensive villas, driving out the nobles who no longer had as much power as before.
Rendell still hadn’t explained the reason for his anger and alarm, but Nicci’s uneasiness grew. “Why do you think I can help in this?”
The former slave turned to her with a worn expression. “Because you fought for us, Nicci. You led us on the night of the revolt, helped us gain our freedom, when Mirrormask betrayed us.” His eyes looked mournful. “Maybe they will listen to you—and me—and make this bloodshed stop.”
He led her around a corner to a marble-pillared villa, one of the most expensive silk yaxen dachas. Ten people had gathered around garbed in grays and browns, muttering to one another. At the front of the dacha, a man’s head rested on a post. His eyes were open and glazed, his mouth slack, his beard curled in fancy ringlets, his wavy hair meticulously coiffed, but caked with blood. From a nearby pillar, his headless body was suspended upside down by a rope tied around his ankles. Written in the noble’s own blood were the words OUR TURN, splashed across the white marble.
Nicci’s stomach tightened, and her jaws clenched with anger.
Rendell said in a hoarse voice, “We must make it stop! All of Ildakar will turn against us if we don’t.”
Nicci demanded, “Who is the dead man? Do you know his name?”
“Lord Aubur. I received a message this morning that said justice had been served and a monster had been taken care of.” Rendell shook his head, dismayed. “I didn’t ask for this. It can only make things worse!”
Among those standing outside the dacha were five beautiful women dressed in filmy gowns. The silk yaxen stared blank-faced, unaffected by the grisly sight.
“Lord Aubur owned three silk yaxen dachas,” Rendell continued. “I heard that he treated the women poorly, but no worse than most.”
Nicci studied their impassive expressions, but saw no blood spatter on their creamy skin. “Did these women kill their own master?”
Rendell pressed his lips together. “I don’t think so, but they will be blamed. I know that no silk yaxen could have written me the note I received. Most of them cannot read or write.”
Nicci felt the turmoil build within her. She knew nothing about this Lord Aubur, nor did she care about any whoremaster, but she did know that the already tense society was only being made worse by continued internal violence. “Ildakar has much healing to do, but you’ll never build a better society if your people continue to murder the very ones you need to make peace with.”
Rendell groaned. “I know! And the fact that I now have a seat on the duma means that we have taken a step forward. This is the tenth beheading of a noble since the night of the uprising. There are those among the lower classes who want to kill them all and purge the city.”
The five silk yaxen continued to stare at the headless body, but the other spectators drifted away.
Nicci fumed. “If you kill all the gifted in the city, then who will help defend you against General Utros? Have your people not looked outside the walls? The duma is planning to launch a major attack as soon as we’ve armed and trained ourselves. If the former slaves are so thirsty for blood, then tell them to fight the enemy that threatens all of us!”
“You have to help me make them see, Nicci,” Rendell pleaded. “They called out your name on the night of the revolt. They know you didn’t abandon them like Mirrormask did. They will listen to you.”
“I have said it again and again. This is not my city! Saving and rebuilding Ildakar has to come from within.”
Rendell looked away from the bloody body and the severed head. “Sometimes they need a little help. I know how we can spread the word.”
Leaving the site of the murder, they moved along the f
amiliar streets to what had previously been the slave market. Nicci despised the place after the one time she had watched cheering Ildakaran nobles bidding over the “walking meat.” The market was now occupied by hundreds of liberated slaves who no longer wanted to live in hovels in the lower levels of the city. Reunited family units and new friends congregated here.
When they saw Rendell and recognized Nicci, they cheered, but Rendell raised his hands to demand their attention. The murmurs died down from hundreds of people who gathered around cook fires and under makeshift awnings.
“You think you have your freedom,” Rendell said, his voice rough and angry. “You think you won, but some among you are trying to destroy our only chance. You are pointing a knife straight at our own hearts!” He paused. “Another noble has been killed.”
“We are free,” called out one gruff man. He had a scar on his face and was dressed in the clothes of a worker in the yaxen slaughter yards. Nicci recognized the man from the night of the fires after she had fought the spiny wolves. He and his partner had proudly presented her with the severed heads of four nobles they had killed.
