Siege of Stone

by Terry Goodkind

  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.

  “You haven’t earned your freedom,” Nicci said in a low, dangerous voice. “There is a cost for freedom, and it often comes in blood. But not just any blood. You cannot keep spilling it indiscriminately.”

  The people muttered. They had expected congratulations, not scolding from these two people they considered heroes.

  Rendell looked beseechingly at the crowd. “You all know I have a place on the duma council. Before long we’ll include others from the lower classes, not just gifted nobles but tradesmen, workers, even more slaves like myself. We have to work for equal representation.”

  “We have to finish purging the disease that makes Ildakar sick,” said the scarred man in a challenging tone. He turned his head so that his voice boomed out to the crowd. “You all know what they did to us. Justice must be served.”

  “And peace has to be arranged!” Rendell said. “Many nobles have been murdered.”

  “Not murdered—executed!” said the gruff man. “For crimes committed against us.”

  “By what trial and what authority?” Nicci demanded. “You hated how the powerful nobles abused you. Now you want to do the same? Ildakar is still under siege, and we have to fight the ancient army, together. We need every person, every noble, every slave, every tradesman. The city has to be strong, not tearing itself apart from within.”

  “Lord Aubur deserved what happened to him,” insisted the gruff man. “We all know what he did to the silk yaxen.”

  Since neither Nicci nor Rendell had mentioned the victim’s name, it was plain that this man had been involved. She stepped closer to him. “This new murder will touch a spark to the tinderbox of the duma members. Do you know how much work it was to get them to accept Rendell on the council? You will erase all the progress we’ve made. Are you fools?”

  The people muttered, looking embarrassed. Timothy, the young half-stone yaxen herder, came forward. “We are a long way from evening the score. We thought you would fight on our side for justice, Nicci.”

  Nicci turned to the young man who had once been a statue. “Every victim sees justice in a different way. Your actions make the nobles feel like victims, and so they will retaliate.” She gestured to the crowds around the slave market, the makeshift tents, the piles of plundered supplies from noble villas. “It will take the best of my ability to convince the hard-line duma members not to simply come here and burn you out. The city guard could surround this square with torches and swords and slaughter all of you in revenge for what one man did to Lord Aubur.” She glared at the gruff man who seemed to take such pride in his executions. “All because some of you couldn’t wait for revenge.”

  “We all want revenge,” said the gruff man with a twisted smile. “One piece at a time.”

  “I thought you wanted justice, not revenge,” Nicci said. “And justice requires an accounting. You declared Aubur guilty and beheaded him because you thought you were his judge, and now the nobles will want your blood in repayment for his. You’ve kept the wheel turning, round and round.”

  “It’s a step in the right direction.” The scarred man crossed his beefy arms over his chest, refusing to back down. “I thought you’d be pleased after all those words you said when you led us against Sovrena Thora. I thought you were on our side. I thought you stood against evil.”

  “Evil takes many forms, including self-justification. Hard justice is how we stop this cycle. You are the one who killed Lord Aubur. You know it. We all know it.” She took a step closer to the man. The other people in the square shifted uneasily.

  The murderer squared his shoulders and faced Nicci. Though she was smaller in stature, she was far more powerful.

  “This is how I make the accounting,” she said. “Afterward, I’ll convince the duma that the guilty man has paid for his crimes, and no further retaliation is necessary.” Her voice boomed out to all those gathered in the market. “But it must end here. No more nobles can be attacked if you ever hope to find equal footing in Ildakar. Do you understand?”

  The scarred man snorted. “I’ll go and talk to them myself, give them a piece of my mind.” He still did not comprehend his danger. “I’ll make them see. I’ll—”

  Nicci reached out with her gift and, with barely a thought, stopped the man’s heart. His eyes bulged. He twitched, then toppled like a felled yaxen on the tiles of the slave market, stone dead.

  As the people gasped, Nicci looked to Rendell, who swallowed hard, then nodded. Rendell said to the crowd, “I speak to you as a member of the duma. We can’t play favorites. If we want equality, then we have to be equal, with equal rules. If we want freedom, we have to pay the price of our freedom. If we want our part of Ildakar, we have to be a part of Ildakar.”

  Nicci spoke into the stunned silence. “That means you have to fight for Ildakar, too. When we attack the general’s army, we will need as many fighters as we can possibly have. We’ll give you training, weapons, and armor if you help in the assault. If you are going to shed blood for your freedom, then make sure it’s the right blood.”

  The frightened people were cowed into nervous shifting.

  “When the duma members find out about the murder of Lord Aubur, Rendell and I will inform them the matter is over.” Nicci paused long enough to sweep her intense gaze across them all, saw that her words had made an impact. The dead man lay sprawled on the flagstones, and no one came closer to him.

  Nicci gave a quick nod. “Good. Then, as I said, the matter is over.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Bannon had fought battles before, but he had never gone to full-scale war. Now, he stepped out onto the combat arena sands at night, gripping Sturdy in his sweaty palm. Lila and the other morazeth had trained him with clubs, knives, and fists, but he preferred his sword. With its discolored steel, unadorned pommel, and flat blade guard, the sword didn’t look like much, but neither did Bannon. Appearances could be deceiving.

  When a weapon cleaved an enemy in two, what difference did it make if the steel was bright or tarnished?

  In the cool evening air he wore nothing but a fighting girdle around his waist and the kind of combat sandals preferred by Ildakaran warriors. Soon enough, the rigors of fighting would warm him. Even though he was confident in his skills, the thought of rushing out with only his sword against thousands of half-petrified warriors sent a chill down his spine.

  As the duma’s plans proceeded, the fighters would keep practicing, honing their skills for the massive surprise attack. Around the top ring of the arena, blazing crystalline torches glowed like blue-white suns against the darkness, illuminating the arena. Sixty of the best warriors, along with officers of the city guard, emerged from the arched gates to the open sands, carrying their practice swords, staves, and spears. The Ildakar arena sometimes presented nighttime exhibitions, melees with dozens of fighters that resulted in an exciting slaughter. Tonight, the patchwork army of defenders
would practice deep into the darkness.

  Bannon had tied his long hair back so it wouldn’t get in his way while fighting. Lila had suggested he chop off his locks, as Nicci had. “An enemy can grab your hair, boy, yank it, throw you off balance, even snap your neck.”

  Thinking of Nicci’s spell-possessed hair made him shiver, but he shook his head. “I haven’t cut my hair since I left Chiriya Island. I won’t lose that part of who I am.”

  “Then you might lose your head.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  Lila’s expression was hard, but he could see the softness behind her eyes. “See that you don’t, for my sake if nothing else.”

  Facing the warriors on the field, Lila and six other morazeth held their weapons of choice. The branded runes that covered their skin protected them against magic but not traditional weapons, and Utros and the ancient soldiers would fight with real weapons instead of spells. The women remained fixated on defending Ildakar. To them, their purpose had not changed. An opponent was an opponent.

  Bannon had talked to many of the arena warriors, asking if they resented the morazeth for the abuses done to them, but most seasoned warriors already had their independence beaten out of them over the years. He remembered how wholeheartedly loyal Ian, Ildakar’s champion, had been to Adessa, but she had killed him on the night of the revolt. For that, Bannon could never forgive the morazeth leader, any more than he could forgive the Norukai slavers.

  But Lila … He slowly, reluctantly, began to understand the young woman’s mind-set. Her harsh and painful tutelage had made him a far better fighter, and those skills might save him when he fought against a real enemy.