by Giles Carwyn
“My lady, can we see the rest of the city?” Brophy asked her.
She nodded, flicking the reins. The slaves ran faster. The chariot turned off the King’s Road up a narrow incline carved into the rock. The ramp was barely wider than the chariot, but the slaves navigated it perfectly, and they emerged onto the surface.
The heat hit him as though he had opened an oven door. He could feel it on his eyes, on his head and back. He broke a sweat before the slaves had pulled them fifty feet, but Ossamyr seemed unaffected.
Half of their escort was suddenly trapped on the other side of the trench. In perfect formation, they used their spears to pole-vault across the fifteen-foot gap. One, two, three, four. Forming up on either side of the chariot, they continued along, forcing everyone out of their way.
The surface of Physen was like nothing Brophy had ever seen. The city was littered with stone-and-wood hovels in a haphazard jumble. Even Stoneside at its worst was never so disorganized. There were no streets, no squares, no fountains. The mismatched buildings slouched against each other like piles of garbage.
There were people everywhere, toiling under the hot sun. Two men slaughtered a squealing pig in the center of the road. They had to jump out of the way as the queen’s chariot rolled by. Naked children clustered in tiny bits of shade. An old woman squatted against a building where flies buzzed around a mound of feces.
The smell made Brophy gag. He tried breathing through his mouth, but then he could taste it.
“This is the liveliest time of day,” Ossamyr said. “The city will shut down shortly during the four hours of high sun. Even slaves are allowed to rest during that time.”
Brophy watched the crowds of naked, malnourished children stare at them with hollow eyes. His grip tightened on the edges of the cart. He jumped when Ossamyr’s hand, strangely cool, touched his.
“I know,” she murmured, in a voice that did not carry beyond the grinding wheels below them. “I know. Watch, Brophy, and learn. But keep it from your face. For both our sakes.”
She continued telling him about the history and glory of Physendria. The chariot wended its way through the ramshackle sprawl toward a looming mountain in the distance. As they neared, Brophy squinted at the ragged peak.
“The Arena,” Ossamyr said.
“It’s a volcano!”
She favored him with her narrow-eyed stare. “Indeed.”
“Isn’t it filled with molten lava?”
“Not at the moment.” She laughed, shaking the reins. The slaves increased their pace, turned a sharp corner, and descended back into the King’s Road. The darkness of the trench was a blessed respite after the heat.
The underground road quickly disappeared into a tunnel at the base of the volcano. Brophy’s eyes had barely adjusted to the darkness before the chariot emerged on the far side.
The volcano’s interior was hollow. Its huge central core was a cavernous space, rising two hundred feet to the open sky overhead. All around the walls, arched viewing galleries were carved into the lava stone. Brophy gaped. From floor to ceiling, all the way around, those hundreds of galleries could hold thousands of people. His hand gripped the edge of the chariot as he turned around, looking up and up. Ossamyr’s cool hand covered his again.
“This is what a king can do,” she said.
He was overwhelmed, humbled by the magnificence. It made the Hall of Windows look like a child’s toy house.
“But what about the…those houses outside. If you can do this…”
“All things have a price, Brophy. Come now, wrench your gaze away. You look like a peasant.”
The chariot rolled to a stop. The queen’s slaves stood straight, their chests heaving, sweat dribbling down their necks and backs. They had stopped on a sloped roadway that spiraled around the volcano. A waist-high wall blocked Brophy’s view. He could not see the bottom of the cavern.
The guards formed two lines behind the chariot, creating a walkway between them. Brophy stepped off and offered his hand. The queen took it and landed lightly next to him.
She led him to the wall and looked over. They were about a third of the way up the immense chamber. Far below, the floor of the cavern was a perfect circle a hundred yards across. The area was full of young men and boys drilling with short swords and spears. The clatter of their weapons and the shouts of their instructors filled the amphitheater.
The majority of the arena floor was filled with nine square blocks of stone. The blocks were immense. Narrow bridges connected some of them so one could cross from square to square in a spiral toward the center.
“There they are, our famous nine squares,” Ossamyr said, pausing at the edge of the wall. “Those boys you see down there will start the contest as Beetles. They will come running in from the desert at the top of the arena.” She pointed to a notch in the rim of the volcano.
“The first nine that finish the run become Jumping Rats. They compete there.” She pointed at the first square, which was covered with a series of bone-white wooden posts. Brophy squinted, trying to decide what they were for.
“That is the first of the Nine Squares,” she said, “The last man to cross the square will be eliminated, and the eight that survive become Jackals.” She pointed to the next square, which was hollowed out to form a large rounded cavity. “The seven that emerge from the pit continue on to be Crocodiles. Then Scorpion, Serpent, Ape, Falcon, Lion and finally the Phoenix.”
Each of the squares had a strange apparatus associated with it, from a chaotic web of deadfall trees to a wooden cage filled with hanging ropes. Brophy’s gaze lingered on the wicker tower that stood on the Phoenix square.
“What does the last man have to do there, in the center?” he asked.
“He has to walk through fire until he learns how to fly,” she said with that half smile of hers. “Not many succeed.”
“They burn the tower?”
“They do.”
“That’s crazy.” He shook his head.
She watched him with narrowed eyes, then continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Nine Squares is held every new moon. A hero is most likely to emerge when the world is darkest. There is often less than one winner a year. We are in a particularly dry spell right now. It has been two years since our last champion. As I said before, the local boys have been a weedy lot. We keep waiting for a man with the divine blood.”
“Why do they do it, if so few succeed?” he asked.
“Glory, honor, wealth, power.” Ossamyr shrugged. “And because they have to. A cowardly boy can ruin his family for three generations.”
“A man should not kill for gold or status,” Brophy said. “Death isn’t an entertainment.”
She smiled, laid one of her cool, brown hands on his cheek. “You are a delight. Do you really believe that? That death isn’t entertainment?”
“Of course.” He frowned, moving away from her hand.
“You’ve never done anything you didn’t want to because your family expected it?”
“No. Never.”
“That is very rare in this world.”
Brophy turned to the queen. He could sense something behind her words, but he didn’t know what it was.
She suddenly seemed closer, warmer. He had an urge to reach out and touch her.
“You would kill to save Ohndarien?” she asked.
“If I had to. That is not entertainment.”
“I think you will have to.”
Brophy looked at the men fighting below.
“You know my husband is about to invade Ohndarien,” she murmured.
“I saw the army on my way south, but you will never break her walls.”
She smiled. “Nothing lasts forever.”
“Ohndarien will.”
“Wishing won’t make it so. Physendrian kings have failed in the past, but Phandir has made powerful allies this time. Ohndarien will fall.”
The queen’s words sent a chill straight through him.
“What allies?”
<
br /> Ossamyr shrugged. “The Summer Cities are weak. Phandir could conquer every one of them in his lifetime, but we have no forests to build ships on the east side of the peninsula. We need to send our navy through the locks of Ohndarien, but she has stubbornly refused to give us passage.”
“Because you have tried to invade us time and again,” Brophy said. “We would be foolish to let Physendrian troops into the city.”
“It doesn’t matter, the whys and wherefores. She has always refused us passage, and now we must take it. If the walls of Ohndarien fall, so will half the world.”
Brophy glanced back at the eight swordsmen standing a few feet away.
“Are you now plotting your escape?” she asked.
Brophy said nothing.
“Don’t be stupid, boy. You’ll throw your life away for nothing. You have a chance to help Ohndarien here. You have a chance to save your family if you keep your wits about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“A champion of Nine Squares is not without power. He earns the love of the Physendrian people, which is no small thing. The rich and poor alike love this game. Champions are royalty. They can request any political position from the king. You could take the governorship of Ohndarien after she is defeated. As long as you paid proper tribute to the crown, you could rule the city as you see fit. You could save the Children of the Seasons. You could save Baelandra.”
Brophy’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his aunt. He imagined her being led through the Physendrian Gate in chains. A painful heat rose in his chest.
“Ohndarien is ruled by the Council, not a governor,” he said.
“Not for long. It is your choice, Brophy. One extra sword defending Ohndarien’s walls won’t tip the scales, but one sword in this arena could make all the difference.”
His mind raced. The queen seemed so confident. Could they really take Ohndarien? Baelandra once saved the city by pulling Krellis to her side. Why would she do that if Ohndarien could have repelled the invasion?
“Why don’t you just call off the attack? Some kind of agreement could be reached.”
“I cannot stop something I didn’t start in the first place. Phandir will invade Ohndarien regardless.”
“Then what does it matter what I do?” he growled.
A flash of annoyance crossed her face. “Tread softly, Brophy. The words we speak here are not for everyone’s ears.”
He turned and looked at her guards, well out of earshot.
“Why are you helping me?” he asked.
She smiled her secret smile. “That’s my business.”
Brophy shook his head. He needed time. He needed to think.
“Come,” she said. “There are some people I want you to meet, then I will leave you alone to make your decision.”
“You two,” she said, pointing at a pair of Apes. “Come with us. The rest, stay.”
Two of the men peeled away from the formation to follow dutifully at their heels.
The queen led them down the spiral walkway to the arena floor. More than fifty young men sweated, cursed, and crossed swords. A few trainers watched the small groups.
“Keep your guard up, you idiot,” one of them shouted. “Your shield is slower than your wits.”
Brophy watched closely as he approached, noting how differently these men were being taught to fight. One of the instructors stood behind his students with a four-foot wooden rod as they practiced their footwork. A smaller boy stumbled, and the instructor smacked his calf with the stick.
“How many times do I have to tell you to stay on the balls of your feet?” he shouted. The boy’s legs were covered with bruises.
Brophy let out a soft breath through his teeth. Good teachers found ways to bring out the best in a soldier. They didn’t stab him in his weak spots.
Ossamyr led him to a group of men practicing with spears and shields. Many were older then him, but few matched his height or weight. He felt certain that he could beat any of them.
“They are training for the Scorpion square,” Ossamyr murmured.
The boys stopped fighting and dropped to a knee as the queen approached. A heavily scarred, bald man stopped in midyell and looked over. He stood almost as tall as Brophy and easily outweighed him by fifty pounds. The big man hurried over to Ossamyr and dropped immediately to one knee, bowing his head.
“My queen.”
“Rise, Vakko. I want you to meet someone.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He stood up, his tree trunk legs rippling. His students rose as well. With a nod from the queen, they went straight back to practicing.
Vakko wore a short, dun-colored wrap that looked like a skirt. All of the trainers and students wore the same.
“Vakko, this is Brophy; he might try his hand at Nine Squares.”
Vakko squinted at him. “Farad?”
“Ohndarien.” Brophy corrected him.
Vakko grunted, and his expression soured. “Ohndariens are soft,” he growled. “You sure you want to sponsor him?”
“I have a premonition,” she said.
“And you want me to train him?”
“If you think he is worthy.”
Vakko grunted.
“Come,” the queen said. “Let us discuss it.”
Ossamyr led the trainer away, and Brophy was left to watch some of the contestant hopefuls practice. They worked with strangely shaped shields and mock spears. A boy roughly Brophy’s age was using the wrong foot stance. Brophy drifted over to the young man.
“You might try pointing your toes toward your opponent,” he suggested.
The two combatants stopped, looking at him hesitantly. Both of them glanced at Vakko before turning back to Brophy.
“It feels awkward at first,” he told them, “but it will give you more speed and power in the spear thrust.”
One of the boys turned his feet forward. He was tall and lanky with long hair tied back behind his head in an unruly tail. The boy’s height and long arms gave him a nice reach, but he had no strength behind his strikes. He leaned back and forth in his new stance and grimaced. “With my feet like this, I can’t pivot from side to side very well.”
“True. But your attacker has a spear. He’s coming from the front. You don’t need to pivot like you would against a sword, which can come from either side. If you just—”
Vakko’s snort of contempt cut Brophy off in midsentence. He stumped over to the three of them. “I think you ought to shut up if you don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growled.
Brophy narrowed his eyes. “I know what I’m talking about.”
“That so? Looks like you lost your last fight with a scorpion.”
Vakko’s students laughed. Other nearby groups stopped their exercises and looked over. They lowered their spears and drew closer.
“I was just making a suggestion,” Brophy said.
“All right, boy. Show us.”
Vakko snatched the shield and spear from one of the nearby students and tossed them to Brophy. Brophy suppressed a smile as he donned the equipment.
This he understood. He had loved weapons since Bae gave him his first sword. He had actually slept with it for a month. He loved its sleek perfection, its delicate strength. A disciplined swordsman could best a half dozen black-hearted brawlers. Aunt Bae said that weapons in the right hands were the guardians of civilization. Escaping from prisons and battling scorpions was foreign to Brophy, but sparring with spears was not. He would show this arrogant trainer what an Ohndarien could do.
Brophy’s hand was still weak, but he could manage a light spear. As he donned the claw-shaped shield, he noticed a lever on the inside and squeezed it. The pincers of the claw snapped together and slowly drew apart again. He smiled. A clever contraption, one could conceivably catch a spear or a shield with the mechanism, but it seemed awkward. Brophy’s instructors had always stressed that simplicity was best. Better to be quick, deflect a blow, and get under someone’s guard. Still, he would have to
stay alert for the tricks that Vakko would certainly know.
The spear was a standard practice weapon. The tip was blunted, but it could still injure if the attacker went for the throat or face. Eyes were sometimes lost on the practice field.
Once Brophy had the shield in place, he squared off against the tall, lanky boy. The two circled each other. Brophy let his opponent attack a couple of times. He was slow and a little bit timid. Brophy could get past his guard easily with a basic feint, but there was no need to embarrass the kid when he was only learning.
Using the feet-forward technique, Brophy smashed his spear against the kid’s shield twice in quick succession, knocking him off-balance. The lanky boy stumbled back, hastily readjusting his shield.
Brophy heard a scuffle of feet behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the rest of the boys closing in, shields raised, spears ready. He spun, trying to keep his back away from them, but he opened himself to his original opponent.
The first spear hit him in the small of his back. He gasped and jumped away, catching the next strike on his shield and dodging the third, but there were too many of them. All six students converged, jabbing. Spears punched into his thighs, his back, his shoulders. Brophy went down under the flurry.
“Enough!” Vakko yelled. The ring of boys backed up as he marched forward. Brophy slowly struggled to his feet, breathing hard. He glared at Vakko.
“Had enough, Pointy Toes?”
“You didn’t have to do that. I was just trying to teach him something.”
“No, I was teaching you something. In Nine Squares, Scorpions fight against five opponents at once. A good defense wins the day, not a good offense.” Vakko sneered. “Which is why we all fight with our back foot out to the side.”
“I didn’t know that,” Brophy said.
“Which is why you should shut up and learn.”
Brophy stifled an angry retort.
“Vakko,” Ossamyr’s quiet voice broke the uncomfortable silence. “Do you think he is worthy of my favor?”
Vakko shrugged. “You want him to enter next month?”
“Yes.”
“Then no. He’s the same age as these sparrows here.” He tipped his head at his group of students. “He won’t even make Jumping Rat.”
