by Giles Carwyn
“Hello,” Brophy said.
“Hi,” the young man replied, his face splitting into a grin. He extended his hand. “I’m Tidric.”
“Brophy.” He took Tidric’s hand and shook it. There was strength in that grip.
“I saw you fight Vakko. You’re very good.”
“I was well trained.”
“I can tell. I’m going to make the top nine this time,” Tidric said. One of the boys behind him snickered. Tidric’s eyes narrowed. He almost turned around, but stopped himself. “I will,” he promised. “I’m faster than these crabs. Besides, three of the top nine from last month were too injured to run this month. At least three new Beetles will make it.”
Brophy nodded. “Who is your biggest competition for a spot on the nine?”
Tidric shrugged. “Could be anyone.”
Before Brophy could tell him that he ought to know who his toughest competition was, he noticed a group of six young men break away from the pack and stride over to them. Brophy saved his comment and turned to face them.
“You’re Brophy,” the largest boy said. He had a thin face and crooked nose, a smaller, uglier version of Phee.
“Yes.” Brophy looked into Little Phee’s eyes. He saw confidence, but confidence came easy with a small army at your back.
“Let me tell you something for free, you piece of Ohndarien shit. Foreigners never reach the final nine. You’d best trip and fall. If you don’t, we’ll break your legs and make sure you never run again.”
Standing on one foot, Brophy raised his right leg slowly and held it at the boy’s eye level.
“If you want to break my leg, do it now. Save me the suspense.”
Tidric backed up. Little Phee’s nostrils flared, he swatted at Brophy’s leg and missed. Quick as a snake, Brophy moved his foot in a tight circle, avoiding the hand and sticking his sandal back in Little Phee’s face.
“You’re dead, Ohndarien,” he growled, glancing over his shoulder at the women, then back at Brophy.
Not so confident after all, Brophy thought. “Everyone dies,” he said.
Little Phee snarled, pointing a finger at Brophy’s face. “My brother’s going to wear your manhood on a necklace.”
A handsome young man approached Brophy as the others walked away. He was older than most of the boys, perhaps nineteen or twenty.
“You’ve got iron nerves, New Boy,” the man said, smiling. He stood an inch taller than Brophy and was a good deal heavier, all of it muscle. The newcomer reminded Brophy eerily of Trent.
“Iron nerves!” Tidric echoed, slapping Brophy on the back.
He shrugged. “I wanted to know if they meant what they said. They didn’t.”
“Oh, Sheedar meant it,” the newcomer said. “But not in front of the sponsors. They’ll try for you somewhere else. Everyone saw what you did to Vakko. They’re scared.”
“I plan on keeping them that way.”
“Good luck.” The newcomer chuckled. “They’re a tight group, Phee’s kinsmen.”
“That’s right,” Tidric added, “Sheedar’s his brother. Rejta and Besdin are cousins—”
“A family history isn’t necessary,” the older boy said, snorting. “He understands the point.”
Tidric’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
“Phee stands by the Lion?” Brophy asked.
“Yes. The queen’s champion.” The newcomer’s eyes flew wide in melodramatic surprise. “Oh wait, no. Not now. Let me see, that would be you.”
“That’s you!” Tidric said. “And he hates you.”
“He has already—” the newcomer began, but Tidric interrupted him.
“He swore an oath to kill you!”
The handsome boy reached over and grabbed Tidric by the neck and the belt of his wrap.
“Hey! Phanqui!” Tidric flailed as the bigger boy picked him up and tossed him six feet away. Tidric tumbled in the sand and rolled gracefully to his feet.
“You are a gnat with delusions of grandeur,” Phanqui said.
“And you’re a coward! You run so slow because you’re afraid!” Tidric yelled, charging. The older boy laughed as Tidric bore him to the ground. He made no move to defend himself as the flailing blows rained on him.
“Help!” Phanqui called out. “The gnat is kicking me! The gnat is hitting me!”
The other boys laughed, slowly migrating closer. Tidric snapped upright, breathing hard, as Phanqui held up his hands in mock fear. Tidric’s young face was mottled with rage. He looked around at everyone laughing at him, spun about, and stalked away.
Brophy held out a hand to Phanqui and helped him up.
“Why tease him?”
Phanqui shrugged, brushing the sand off his bare legs. “He teases himself. Ah, the boy has heart. He’s braver than most of this lot, but he lacks patience. A few years from now he’d be a champion, but he won’t live to see sixteen. Nine Squares doesn’t give second chances.”
“And what about you?”
“I’ve been in the top nine.”
“But not the champion?”
Phanqui smiled broadly. “Maybe someday,” he said. “You certainly put Vakko in his place. Half his students have moved to other teachers. He beat one of his boys bloody the day after you bested him.”
Brophy had heard that rumor. He’d hoped it wasn’t true.
“I was angry. I shouldn’t have done it that way.”
Phanqui shrugged. “Perhaps not, but some of this lot will steer clear of you.” He paused. “Or they’ll gang up on you. Be careful of Phee’s kinsmen. They have been known to keep the best fighters out of the top nine.”
Brophy nodded. “You’re the king’s cousin, aren’t you?”
Phanqui raised an eyebrow. “My reputation precedes me, I see,” he said, bowing low with a flourish.
“A little. I heard about you. But mostly you look like…the king.” Brophy caught himself before he could say “Trent.”
Everyone began gathering together. The sun had almost risen. The women mounted their chariots and started off, one after the other. Brophy looked to Ossamyr. The queen pushed her dark hair out of her face, but she did not turn to catch his eye.
Brophy joined the other young men as they gathered in a line between the two stone markers. His conversation with Phanqui halted as they took their places. Despite his earlier anger, Tidric came to stand next to Phanqui. The older boy hissed at the younger, and he took a step farther away.
A quiet settled over the group, and the chariots faded into the distance. Predawn light filled the morning sky.
A black-robed official stood next to each of the markers, silently observing. A similar figure stood next to the sundial half a mile distant. He raised a shiny copper disk above his head and clashed the gong just as the first ray of sun peeked across the horizon. Nine Squares had begun. It seemed anticlimactic to simply stand there at the beginning of a race, but this was a race of a different sort. They would spend half their stamina without moving at all.
Brophy closed his eyes and calmed his thoughts. He could hold his hand over a flame for twenty heartbeats, but six hours in the blazing sun would be a different matter. He kept his eyes closed for the next several hours, conserving his strength. The wrong thoughts could sap more energy than heavy labor. He tried to keep his mind blank, but images of his hands on the queen’s breasts drifted out of the dark. Eventually he gave up on meditation, opened his eyes, and settled in for a long wait.
As Brophy watched his shadow grow shorter and shorter, he got an idea.
“Phanqui,” he murmured.
The handsome young man shook his head. “Don’t talk. Save your water.”
Brophy nodded. “I just have a question.”
Phanqui smirked. “Ask then.”
“Do we have to stand in this line?”
“You can’t cross it yet, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No, just wondering if we have to stand at the edge.”
Phanqui laughed.
“You’re certainly welcome to stand farther away from the finish line.” He nodded to the barren desert to the east. “You can start running that way, if you want.”
Brophy broke ranks and walked behind Phanqui. Brophy kicked at the sand and dirt with his sandal. He formed a small hill behind Phanqui and stood on top of it. When he finished positioning himself, Phanqui was in Brophy’s shadow. Phanqui’s permanent smile disappeared.
“What are you doing?”
“No reason we should both stand in the sun. I’ll shade you for a while, then you can shade me.”
Phanqui’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure if we’re supposed to do that.” He glanced at one of the black-robed officials.
“Why not?”
“It’s just never been done.”
“Good,” Brophy said, remaining where he was. Phanqui seemed uncomfortable at first, then began smiling. After a moment, Tidric looked over at them hesitantly.
“Would you like to join us?” Brophy asked.
“Sure.”
“I don’t know,” Phanqui said. “Gnats don’t cast much of a shadow.”
Tidric scowled, then paused. His scowl disappeared, and he stepped back, a poorly veiled look of fear on his face. Another man limped up to them. Brophy met his gaze. The man was easily the oldest in the group, in his midtwen-ties at least. He was horribly burned. Half of his face was a bubbly mask of scar tissue. His right leg twisted awkwardly underneath him, but his arms and chest were thick and powerful.
“Athyl,” Phanqui said, his eyes narrowed, and his lips pinched together in a line.
Athyl flicked a glance at the king’s cousin. “Phanqui,” he growled, his voice as rough as the sun-blasted ground beneath their feet. He turned his gaze back on Brophy.
“You’re the Ohndarien,” he rasped.
Brophy nodded. Athyl looked him up and down. Brophy couldn’t guess what the ravaged man was thinking. His horribly scarred face prevented any chance of reading his emotions.
“I would take a turn with you.” He nodded to the shadow over Phanqui. “If all four of us stood in a row, only one man would have to bear the heat of the sun.”
“You’re right. Please join us.”
Without another word, Athyl kicked a pile of dirt and sand together and stood atop it. He pointed to a space between him and Brophy for Tidric. Brophy’s first two companions became unnaturally subdued in the presence of their new friend. They ceased talking and waited out the sun.
After an hour, the other boys began to copy them. The sun hammered down, beating rivulets of sweat from Brophy’s scalp, his back, his chest. Standing in the other boy’s shadows was a blessed respite.
Brophy’s idea became less and less effective as the sun rose directly overhead. The contestants began to drift from their groups and lined up again, crouching and stretching.
At noon, the gong rang again.
With a weary smile, Brophy took off. He’d never stood in the relentless Physendrian sun for half a day, but he’d been racing since he was old enough to run. He’d run the length of Ohndarien’s walls a thousand times. Miles evaporated under his feet.
Brophy pulled ahead of the pack with an immediate burst, then set a swift but sustainable jog. Tidric labored to keep up. The boy was fast, but he would never maintain Brophy’s pace. They ran together for several minutes. All of the statues whipped past them and they could soon see the contestant from the Jumping Rat statue ahead of them.
“Brophy!” Tidric shouted, faltering.
Brophy spun around to see Phee’s kinsmen sprinting recklessly, bent on speed. They could never keep up that pace, but winning the race didn’t seem to be their goal. They made straight for Brophy, heavy stones in their hands. Brophy turned just as they threw the first rocks.
He dodged the first two, but a third caught him in the ribs and knocked him down. By the time he got to his feet, they were upon him. Brophy blocked the first punch, ducked low and came up just as the second boy grazed his cheek. Brophy swung his elbow like a hammer, nailing the boy in the eye. That boy went down, but there were six of them, Tidric and Brophy couldn’t fight them all.
“You’re giving up your chance to win!” Brophy shouted at his assailants, dodging one blow, taking another in the back. He grunted, holding the pain inside.
“This isn’t your race, Ohndarien. It’s ours,” Sheedar said, grabbing Brophy around the waist in a bear hug. Brophy peeled one of the boy’s fingers away, ready to break it, when another of Phee’s kinsmen punched him in the groin. Brophy doubled over and went to his knees. He expected more blows to land, but they never did. He looked up to see Phanqui clubbing Phee’s brother in the head with a rock. Phee’s kinsmen leapt upon the king’s cousin, as Brophy struggled to rise.
Phanqui was wrestling three boys at once when Athyl arrived. The scarred veteran of Nine Squares grabbed one of their attackers by the arm and twisted.
“Athyl, no!” the boy cried. “This is not your fight!”
The boy’s protests turned into a scream as Athyl slammed him to the ground. With a twist of his massive shoulders, he broke the boy’s arm.
The rest of Phee’s kinsmen gave up and ran. Suddenly Phanqui, Athyl, Tidric, and Brophy were alone with Phee’s wounded kinsman whimpering at their feet. Athyl looked at Brophy, his ruin of a face as impassive as the sunbaked earth beneath their feet.
“We’d best run,” he said.
“He’s right,” Phanqui agreed.
Brophy glanced at the boy Athyl had broken.
“He’s done,” Tidric said. “His sponsor will come pick him up after the contest.”
“Will he last that long?” Brophy asked.
“Why should we care?” Athyl rasped. “Come, we run.” He turned and began limping at a quick pace. Phanqui and Tidric took off after him. Brophy hesitated a moment longer, then followed.
The race wended through jagged rocks, up and down canyons and across soft dunes. The heat and dehydration were worse than Brophy had imagined, but they were within his capability. He could have outdistanced his three companions, but he held back, running with them. Even at that, the four of them passed many of the others as contestants faltered. Brophy studied Athyl. The scarred man had tremendous willpower. Brophy had never seen the like. His twisted leg was shorter than the other, it looked like it had been broken and set wrong. His knee was turned to the outside, and he could barely bend it. Despite the deformity, he set a staggering pace.
The day wore on, and they kept running. The city was nowhere in sight. Tidric faltered once, fell, and split his lip open on the rocky ground. The boy recovered and hurried to catch up, but he had spent himself. He could not maintain the pace. Brophy dropped back with him for a time, hoping Tidric would find his second wind, but the boy’s breathing was labored and wheezy.
“I don’t think you are going to make it this time, my friend,” Brophy said.
Tidric nodded but kept running.
“Thank you for your help back there,” Brophy said. “I would not have made it without you.”
Tidric nodded, too tired to speak. He pumped his arms in exaggerated swings, trying to increase his pace.
“Perhaps I will see you next month,” Brophy said, pulling away from the skinny boy and pouring on the speed. He caught up with Athyl and Phanqui in the next few minutes. The three of them descended into a valley and ran together through a sprawling boulder field.
As they approached the volcano, the ground began to slope uphill. Spectators lined the path of the race. They grew thicker and more boisterous the closer they came to the city. Phanqui began to fade. He struggled to keep up, fell behind, and struggled to catch them again.
“Go on,” he huffed.
“No, you’re almost there!” Brophy encouraged him.
Despite the sweat that ran down his face, Phanqui winked. “This mountain’s a bitch, my friend. I’ll never mount her. Go on. This is where they drop like flies.”
“Phanqui…”
“Go on.” He gri
nned. “I’ll get there next time.”
Brophy nodded and left Phanqui behind. He and Athyl continued together. Brophy could not believe the man. His determination was humbling. He was obviously in agony, but he kept on. His injured leg seemed no more than a stick to him. He thumped it in front of himself again and again, launching off his good leg, fighting like a lion for every step.
The path rose steeply as they climbed the flanks of the volcano. Brophy looked ahead. The last hundred yards they would be scrambling upward on hands and feet.
Brophy could have left Athyl behind, but they were in ninth and tenth place, with the eighth runner just in front of them. Athyl had a chance, and he knew it. Brophy could catch the eighth runner, but that wouldn’t do Athyl any good.
“I’m spent,” Athyl panted, “I will not catch him. I have nothing left.” He spoke the words that Brophy was thinking, but continued at the same quick, limping stride, pitting his will against the mountain.
“Catch him, Brophy,” Athyl huffed. “Kick his legs out from under him. We will enter the volcano together.”
Brophy glanced ahead at the struggling boy. It was one of Phee’s gang. The boy would certainly have done it to Brophy if their positions were reversed. And Athyl was right. He wouldn’t make it without Brophy’s help, just as Brophy wouldn’t have made it without Athyl’s help earlier.
“What about the crowd? They’ll see if I cheat.”
Athyl laughed for the first time, a short, sharp huff between his panting breaths. “That’s not cheating. That’s strategy. They’ll love you for it.”
Brophy hesitated.
“You don’t want to enter that arena without any friends at your back.”
Brophy nodded and forged ahead. He kicked the boy’s heel, sending him stumbling in the dirt. Athyl caught them in seconds, grabbed Phee’s kinsman and punched him in the face. The young man stumbled backward and rolled down the hill.
Athyl took a few more steps and fell to his hands and knees. He panted desperately for a few moments. The man’s legs were shaking uncontrollably. Brophy glanced behind him. A group of three runners was only a hundred yards away.
