Shroud of Eternity

CHAPTER 18

Smiling magnanimously, Maxim offered Nicci a seat in the nobles’ spectator tower above the city’s grand arena. Now that Andre had tentatively suggested possibilities as to how Nathan might regain his gift, the other duma members allowed him to join them in the special seats as well, high above the unwashed and unruly crowd.

Amos and his companions had asked Bannon to join them in the secondary tier, close to the combat field, but he preferred to sit with his friends Nicci and Nathan. The wizards were somewhat displeased to have an ungifted young man with them, but they deferred, although with obvious reluctance.

When the sun stood at its zenith above Ildakar, crowds gathered in the rings of seats around the combat arena, a broad and deep crater excavated in the sandstone uplift. The fighting field of sand and gravel was surrounded by a sheer wall. The spectator seats for the lower classes ringed the rim, while the gifted nobles observed from tower perches that rose high above the sands. The raised towers gave them an unobstructed vantage as well as improved safety. Nicci guessed that some of the animals in the arena were so dangerous they might escape and rampage into the spectator stands. From visions conveyed via her spell bond, she remembered times Mrra had fought here.

From his seat close beside her, Maxim remarked on the black dress she wore, despite the variety of clothes that had been offered to her. “Are the styles of Ildakar not to your liking? We have many different dresses, from long gowns to rather abbreviated silken shifts. If you chose to wear such a garment, everyone here would appreciate it, I’m sure.”

She gave him a stony glance. “I choose to wear black for personal reasons.”

“So that is the answer,” Maxim chuckled. “I shall assign our city’s best tailors to provide you with hundreds of alternatives fashioned out of black cloth. I would be honored to help you try them on and choose one that best suits you.”

“This one suits me just fine.”

“It fits you quite well, too,” he admitted, “although it still leaves too much to the imagination.”

“Then I hope you have a good imagination.”

A buzz of anticipation spread among the lower seats, growing louder as the time for the exhibition approached. In an imperious tone, Sovrena Thora called for servers. “It is midday. Where is our meal? Or would you rather be fed to the combat creatures?”

“At least then someone would have a meal,” the wizard Damon muttered, stroking his drooping mustaches.

Wearing drab tunics sashed at the waist, slaves hurried in with a selection of fine foods in petite portions meant to be sampled. There were small roasted songbirds on skewers, coated with honey; crimson cubes of raw yaxen liver and paper-thin slices of air-dried yaxen meat; sugary confections spun like caterpillar cocoons; tart slices of tangerines; dishes of ruby-red pomegranate seeds.

Thora served herself first, taking whatever she liked, while Maxim chivalrously offered the food to Nicci. She made selections without particular interest. Nathan was more curious, asking the servers to identify each item. He tasted the morsels, then chose seconds of the ones he liked best. He had no fondness for the raw yaxen liver, but the fruit pleased him greatly.

After the duma members were fed, Bannon was offered the leftovers. He smiled cheerfully and thanked the servers, who looked uncomfortable, before he remembered to thank his hosts.

Equally spaced around the perimeter of the combat arena, tall stone pillars were topped with bronze bowls shaped like flames. Gifted nobles stood at the base of each pillar, and when the fanfare sounded, they touched the stone pillars, released their magic, and ignited dazzling white flames that soared up from the bronze bowls like beacons. The crowd in the stands let out an appreciative cheer.

Nicci sat silent and alert, trying to comprehend the type of magic used here. The ancient wizards had laid down spell-forms and complex webs throughout the city’s architecture in much the same way the aqueducts distributed water.

A stocky man with a shaved head and voluminous yellow robes sat on a high platform above the fighting field. He spoke into a large crystal on a silver stand, and his voice boomed from the magical flames, as if his words had been conjured out of the pillars. “Our beloved champion has remained undefeated for five months. He has held his title and held our hearts. Let him emerge into the arena so he can bask in the sun of Ildakar, the cheers of our people … and the blood of another vanquished enemy.”

An iron gate opened below, and a muscular man strode out onto the ashes and sand, raising a wide-bladed sword to the sky, which summoned the cheers of the observers. He wore brown leather boots, a girded loincloth wrapped around his hips, and a thick belt studded with sharp points. Two wide straps of leather rose from the belt, crossed over his back and his chest, providing only minimal protection. A full helmet with a nose guard and swooped chin guards masked his face. The champion’s pale skin was covered with a network of scars; his muscles were chiseled by years of training. Nicci could see he would be a formidable fighter.

His body language exuded joy and confidence, not the fear a gibbering victim might exhibit. He seemed to thrive in his environment. The champion turned slowly from side to side, jabbing his sword in the air to prod more shouts from the audience. They responded as expected.

From the private spectator tower, the duma members watched like analytical observers. Fleshmancer Andre leaned forward with an eager glint in his gray eyes. “The champion has never faced an opponent like our new one.” He raised his eyebrows at Nathan. “Hmmm? Soon you’ll see the results of my fleshmancy.”

“It better be a fine show,” Ivan growled. “I have animals that need practice.”

“You don’t want the champion to kill them all,” Andre said.

The chief handler was unconvinced. “And what if he kills your new creation?”

“I have high confidence in my work. But if that happens, I shall have to improve my design for next time, hmmm?”

The announcer continued in his spell-amplified voice. “Our champion faces a new opponent today, something never before released into the combat arena.” The words boomed out through the lighted torches, and the spectators fell into an ominous, anticipatory hush. “Behold the fleshmancer’s new creation!”

Ivan picked up a honey-coated songbird and crunched it, bones and all, but did not take his eyes from the combat field. Andre fidgeted in his seat, barely able to contain his excitement.

The champion crouched, holding up his short sword as he faced the barred gate on the opposite side of the crater wall. His cocky verve had faded. Though the helmet obscured his features, Nicci could detect the fighter’s intensity of focus. She sensed no touch of the gift within him. The champion’s combat skills had been earned through his own prowess.

The barred gate opened, and a figure emerged from the shadowy pits beneath the arena. The spectators might have expected some horrific animal, like a combat bear, but the figure lurched forward on two feet, stepping into the sunlight to reveal well-muscled thighs, sturdy boots laced to the top of the calf, an armored loincloth, two extended hands, each gripping a short sword identical to the one carried by the champion.

When the opponent emerged into the light, its true monstrosity was revealed. Seated on the fighter’s broad shoulders were two heads, the pair of necks spread apart from a bifurcated spine, fused in place. Both faces were snarling and sneering in agony as well as rage. Drool came from the left head’s mouth, a bald man with a large, round scar on his scalp. The darker skin on the smooth head did not match the shoulder onto which it had been grafted.

The legs staggered forward drunkenly as if receiving conflicting instructions from the rival heads, but each sword arm was held aloft and slashed erratically.

The crowd gasped and murmured. The champion recoiled at the sight of his new opponent. Andre chuckled. “Our great champion has never seen anything like that, hmmm?”

“He’s seen and killed plenty of opponents before,” Ivan said.

Like a weapon with a single-minded purpose, the two-headed warrior lumbered forward, uttering defiant groans from twin throats.

Nathan leaned closer to Andre. “Considering that your new creation has two human minds, it seems to have lost its intellect.”

“It didn’t need intellect, just prowess. I was forced to sacrifice some factors to enhance others. Just like silk yaxen are created for their beauty, not their wit. This thing will never be admired for its conversation.”

The two-headed warrior’s lurching gait was deceptive, but the champion didn’t seem fooled. He darted in, thrusting his short sword like a stinger. The moment he approached within striking distance, the horrific opponent plunged into a blur of motion, sweeping the left sword, then the right, as if it meant to gut the champion twice. The man danced out of the way, scuttling backward so swiftly he tripped on his heels. One of the opponent’s blades sliced the champion’s upper arm, drawing blood.

From hundreds of throats in the crowd, a simultaneous gasp of dismay rumbled through the arena. The champion ducked, showing no sign that he even recognized he had been cut.

The two-headed fighter came at him again with both blades, sweeping, stabbing, slashing. The champion parried with a loud clang of his short sword. He ducked back as the monstrosity’s other hand swept the second blade toward him. The champion drove in, thrusting with his sword.

The two-headed creature spun so that instead of the blade disemboweling it, the point merely traced a long red line up its rib cage. It roared in pain out of both throats, then brought the left-hand sword down, battering the champion’s solid helmet with the pommel. The champion reeled, stunned. Backing off, he adjusted the helmet.

The two-headed warrior charged in, and the champion stumbled weakly, staggered … and Nicci recognized what he was doing. He lured the monstrous fighter closer, and just as the right arm swept down with the blade, the champion thrust upward, stabbing through his opponent’s bicep, and then yanked down like a butcher slicing out a fine hunk of meat. The monster’s right arm was laid bare down to the bone, and the limb hung useless, spasming before dropping the sword. The grafted head on that side roared and rolled its eyes. The left arm reacted, trying to defend by raising its sword.

But the wiry champion was full of energy now, no longer feigning any disorientation. He dodged the blow, then gripped his short sword with both hands for a brutal slash. Cutting sideways like a woodcutter felling a tree, he lopped off the warrior’s original head, severing it cleanly from its natural neck. Gushing blood from the stump on its shoulder, the horrific creation reeled and wavered, standing on the blood-soaked sand.

Like an overripe squash, the severed head dropped to the ground, leaking blood, its expression still distorted with the last flickers of life.

The remaining head, the bald one grafted into place, wailed. Nicci thought the sound was distinctly filled with grief, not pain. The clumsy legs buckled at the knees, dropping to the sand. Dropping the other sword, the thing reached forward with both its good arm and the mangled one, using both hands to pick up and cradle the other head, cooing and moaning in despair.

The champion stalked forward with no mercy and no pity—or perhaps it was a mercy, Nicci thought. With another stroke, he chopped off the second head, which rolled onto the uneven ground next to its companion. The two-headed warrior’s body dropped to the sand, like a bull felled by a butcher’s sledgehammer.

The crowd roared, suddenly released from their sullen anxiety. Now their celebration was genuine glee.

Chief Handler Ivan crossed his massive arms over his vest made from the pelt of a sand panther. “At least it was a good show.”

Andre looked frustrated. “The champion has no modifications whatsoever. He is just a man and should not be able to defeat my creations.”

“That’ll keep you on your toes,” Maxim said with a smirk. “You just need to make better creations.”

Thora said, “Listen to the crowd. They are still cheering the champion. I expected them to grow tired of him by now.”

Elsa leaned forward. “They celebrate the skills of the champion, Sovrena, and they would not want to see him defeated by a monstrosity like that. You should make him fight better and better human combatants. The people will only accept another human champion.”

“For now, let him have his victory,” said Maxim, and then his lips quirked in a smile. “I’m sure Adessa will reward him quite well tonight. She has taken him as her lover already, has she not?”

Thora sniffed. “Of course. She takes each champion as her lover.”

Below in the arena, standing over the butchered body of the fleshmancer’s creation, the champion raised his bloody sword and turned in circles to receive the adulation of the crowd. When the cheers built to a crescendo, he reached up to grasp his helmet, pulling it off and flinging it free. He threw it far across the bloody sands so that he could smile and bask in the open air. He raised both hands in triumph.

* * *

Bannon watched the violent combat with trepidation. He had fought and killed many enemies since joining Nicci and Nathan, and he’d felt no remorse when he defended himself against the ferocious selka or the Lifedrinker’s dust people. But the very idea of bloody combat for sport displayed a cruelty that he could not understand.

He was sure his abusive father would have enjoyed the spectacle.

Bannon had hardened since leaving Chiriya Island. The darkest and ugliest days at home had nearly ruined him, but Bannon clung to and nurtured a spark of optimism and a sense of good in the world despite all the tragedies he had suffered. Now he squirmed uncomfortably at the sound of the cheers, the sight of the bloodshed. That horrific monster didn’t deserve to die any more than the distorted combat bear they had encountered … but such monstrosities should not have been created in the first place. They were unnatural and sickening.

He struggled with his feelings but did not understand them. When he watched the champion kill his opponent, though, Bannon acknowledged that it was a battle for survival. He supposed that people under extreme circumstances would do just about anything to stay alive. He himself certainly had.

The champion removed his helmet and stood exposed so the audience could see his face. As the victorious warrior turned his head up to stare at the crowd, Bannon froze. He knew that face. He recognized the eyes, the wide cheekbones, the rounded chin, even the grin.

He had seen that grin on a young boy’s face in times of joy, long ago in a childhood that had ended in violence and slavery.

Ian!

The champion was his friend Ian, stolen away by Norukai slavers so many years ago.