Heir of Autumn

by Giles Carwyn

  “Come,” Brophy said, offering Athyl a hand up. “We’re nearly there.”

  Together, Brophy and Athyl clambered over the rough rocks to the top of the volcano, the eight and ninth runners. As they crossed over the lip, the roar of the crowd became deafening. A band played, and the crowd chanted to urge the runners on.

  “Run! Run! Run!” they shouted over and over again.

  The arena was packed. Screaming faces were crammed into every gallery. Not an inch of space was empty.

  The sudden downhill slope and the roar of the crowd lifted Brophy’s spirits. He found his second wind. With a nod to Athyl, he let his feet loose at last and flew down the spiral walkway. Hundreds of people reached out to touch him as he ran by. Brophy passed one of Phee’s kinsmen and one other runner before reaching the arena floor.

  An announcer hailed each of the runners as they crossed the finish line. The thin-faced man shouted into an immense brass funnel just above the king’s box. His deep voice rose above the noise of the crowd.

  As Brophy flew past, the announcer called out. “And bearing the royal colors is the rebel prince from Ohndarien, rejecting his lawless ways to return home and bring glory to Queen Ossamyr! Hail Brophy!”

  The cheering rose to a crescendo, hundreds of Physendrians waved Ossamyr’s orange and red colors in the stands. Brophy jogged to a stop, his throat dry as he fought for air, but it was a glorious feeling. He looked up to the king’s box and saw Ossamyr sitting next to Phandir. She gave him a slight smile and a nod. Brophy grinned. By the Seasons, that woman would be naked on top of him tonight.

  Fearing what might show on his face, Brophy turned away and watched the final three runners cross the finish line. Athyl was last.

  The contestants were allowed a moment to rest, but no one gave them any water. Brophy tried to size up the competition, but his head was swimming as the heat radiated off his body. He walked in small circles until his breath returned to normal.

  The musicians finished their song and the crowd quieted. The gaunt announcer began a speech. His words had the sound of ritual, as if he said the exact same thing every time.

  “Each man, beast, and insect has his place in the Longest River. Each creature has a part to play in the glory of all. But sometimes, when the world is dark, a flicker of light will appear. A champion will arise and make the great leap upward. A fly becomes a spider, a spider a beetle, a beetle a rat. These nine insects have risen above the rest. They have become Jumping Rats.”

  The crowd started to chant soft and slow, “Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!”

  “But not all will be worthy to pass beyond this stage to the next. One rat will be left behind as the others fight their way up from insects to gods!”

  The crowd roared.

  Brophy followed the other contestants up the narrow steps to the first of the nine squares. The immense slab of stone was filled with a haphazard jumble of vertical wooden posts, each rising four feet in the air. The posts were spaced just far enough apart to make them difficult to jump between, but Brophy was not worried. This would be an easy contest compared to running across half of Physendria with no water. All he had to do was be one of the first eight to jump to the far side. As a boy, he and Trent used to leap from crenel to crenel on the Quarry Wall. This was a child’s game.

  Nine perfectly aligned posts marked the beginning. The Jumping Rats stood in front of their posts. The crowd returned to their chant. “Jump, jump, jump.”

  The gong crashed.

  Each of the contestants attacked his post, climbing furiously. Brophy reached the top of his first, just before Phee, who stood two posts down and glared at him. Sweat still poured off his bald head. Brophy leapt to the next post, then the next. Phee matched him, stride for stride. The queen’s former champion suddenly leapt sideways at the exact moment when Brophy hovered in midair. They met at the top of the same post. Phee drove his shoulder into Brophy’s back. The crowd cheered.

  Even as he fell sideways, Brophy pushed against the post, propelling himself away. It was barely enough to get him to the nearest pillar. He flailed with his arms, grabbing it in a hug. He swung around, narrowly keeping himself from sliding to the ground. Grunting with the effort, he climbed to the top and stood there panting.

  Phee glared at him, but wasn’t inclined to go backward. He leapt ahead, post to post. Brophy stood and continued on, more cautious now, watching everyone around him.

  One of the other boys stumbled and fell on his own. His chin hit the top of a post with a crack that cut through the noise of the crowd. The boy was unconscious before he hit the ground.

  The crowd roared at the sight of blood.

  The other contestants relaxed as soon as they knew they were safe. They crossed quietly, each of them landing on the far side, breathing hard. Athyl, jumping on one foot, finished last. He gave Brophy a curt nod, but said nothing.

  “The mighty Jumping Rats have now become Jackals, fighting and scratching over scraps of food,” the announcer called. He leaned over, cupping a hand to his ear. The crowd began chanting.

  “Scratch! Scratch! Scratch! Scratch!”

  Phee led the contestants across a narrow bridge of stone to the second square. The massive pedestal was hollowed out in the center, forming a rough-hewn bowl. The contestants spread out around the edges of the depression. With a grand show, a black-robed official tossed seven bones into the pit. The bones tumbled down the slope, coming to rest at the very bottom.

  “Eight enter the pit,” the announcer cried, “to scratch and claw for their food, but only seven will change from scavenger to hunter, climbing to the next level as Crocodiles!”

  The crowd howled.

  “To the bones, Jackals!”

  The gong crashed.

  Brophy leapt over the edge and skidded down the slope. Once again, he was first into the pit and found a bone right away. Just as he stooped to pick it up, Sheedar tackled him from behind, knocking Brophy to his knees. A second boy snatched his bone away and struck him across the face with it.

  Stars burst in Brophy’s vision, and he fell face forward. He tasted blood, but ignored it, forcing himself to his feet. Already the boys were scrambling up the steep sides of the bowl, everyone with a bone except for Brophy. Phee threw his leg over the top, basking in the adoration of the crowd, his bone thrust high in the air.

  With a snarl, Brophy launched himself at Phee’s brother, but he was too far ahead. Brophy knew he’d never catch him.

  Another boy slipped and slid halfway down the slope. Seizing the opportunity, Brophy changed direction and rushed for the boy. He grabbed his ankle and hauled him backward. Both of them tumbled to the bottom of the pit.

  The boy leapt up, swinging the long bone at Brophy’s head. He ducked, shuffled forward, and punched the boy in the center of his chest just below the rib cage. The kid staggered back. Brophy twisted the bone out of his grip, dodged a feeble grab, and flung the boy to the ground.

  Bone in hand, Brophy sprinted for the edge of the pit and climbed out before the stunned boy could catch him. The crowd cheered almost as much as they had cheered for Phee.

  The contestants were given a brief moment to rest before they were led across the bridge to the next square.

  “Nobody’s lucky three times in a row,” Phee snarled, as they crossed the bridge together.

  “I won’t need to be lucky,” Brophy said, holding Phee’s gaze. “I know how to swim.”

  Phee sneered.

  “The scavengers have become the Lords of the Deep,” the announcer bellowed. “Fearsome hunters, but still wallowing in the muck of the lower worlds. Who will have the strength to rise from the swamps and become deadly scorpions?”

  The next square was filled with a long, sinuous trench of foul-smelling water. The trough snaked back and forth against itself in nine serpentine curves separated by slime-covered walls.

  The crowd began their third chant, shouting, “Deep! Deep! Deep! Deep!”

  Athyl drew near Brophy.
“Congratulations,” he rasped, “You’re scraping by, that’s all that matters.”

  Brophy prodded the bruise on his jaw where the bone struck him. “I think I’m learning the hard way.”

  “Is there any other way?” Athyl give him a little smile. Under his burned skin it looked like a snarl.

  Brophy looked at the water. With the black scum floating on top, he couldn’t tell how deep it was or what might be living down there.

  “You seem a nice kid,” Athyl continued. “That’ll be the death of you. It almost cost you in the first two squares.”

  Brophy opened his mouth to speak, but Athyl cut him off.

  “Just don’t drink the water, no matter how thirsty you are. Understand?”

  Brophy nodded, his eyes widening. No one had told him that.

  They all lined up across the beginning of the trough. It started wide enough for seven swimmers to jump in at once, but narrowed after the first thirty feet.

  “They’re going to gang up on you,” Athyl said, “They’ll try to push you under. If they do, grab their balls, understand? Rip them off if you have to. Remember, it isn’t about who finishes first, it’s about who doesn’t finish last.”

  The gong crashed.

  Everyone leapt in at once. The water was warm and thick. Brophy swam for the bottom, keeping his eyes and mouth clamped shut. He didn’t stop kicking until his hands felt the first switchback ahead of him. He swam to the surface and blew the filthy water out of his nose before he took a breath.

  The desert dwellers were still halfway down the first row, shouldering their way through the water one hip at a time. Allowing himself a brief smile, Brophy pushed off the wall and stroked forward. Let them catch him now.

  He swam quickly down the second lane. Suddenly, hands plunged into the water from above, grabbing his hair and arms. Phee yanked him out, hauling him over the barrier into the first lane where everyone still waded forward. Brophy spluttered, fighting back blindly, but Phee and his kinsmen grabbed his arms and legs and forced him under the water.

  Frantically, Brophy searched for the nearest boy’s crotch. He caught hold of something, but hesitated and his hand was knocked away. Phee grabbed him around the waist, balled a fist into Brophy’s stomach and squeezed. Brophy’s air shot out his mouth in a flurry of bubbles. Phee squeezed again and Brophy sucked in a lungful of murky water.

  Then Athyl was there, swinging his deadly fists. Phee and his horde fled. Athyl pulled Brophy above water and set him against the side of the trough.

  The burned man looked at him steadily, no compassion in his gaze.

  “You swallowed the water, didn’t you?” he rasped.

  Brophy nodded, coughing and drawing a breath. A trickle ran down his chin.

  Athyl shook his head. “That’s it for you. I told you. Grab their balls.”

  “I…tried.”

  “Not hard enough.”

  “What will happen?”

  “You’ll die, if you’re lucky.” Athyl’s rough laugh didn’t make Brophy feel any better. He could already feel a sickly heaviness in his stomach.

  “You were a good ally, Brophy,” Athyl continued. “Perhaps we’ll run together next month, if I don’t escape the fire tonight.”

  He turned and waded casually away, not hurrying. Brophy started after him, but his stomach protested. Clenching his teeth, he fought a powerful urge to vomit and clung to the edge of the trough, his hand slipping on the dark slime.

  He barely made it out of the water before doubling over in pain.

  12

  JAYDEN’S GRANDDAUGHTER, Mave, lay naked on the bed when Krellis stepped into the room. He frowned at Victeris, who sat next to the sobbing woman. His brother arched one thin, black eyebrow. His hand rested lightly on a table to his left that held a porcelain pitcher of water, a pot, a cloth and a long, thin knife.

  “Is that necessary?” Krellis said, closing the door. He inclined his head toward Mave but did not look at her.

  “Necessary?”

  “Can’t you get your information without dropping your pants?”

  Victeris looked as though he’d sucked on a wedge of lemon. “I didn’t drop my pants, I dropped hers. Don’t tell me you are becoming squeamish since Baelandra left you.”

  Krellis’s cheeks reddened above his beard. “I am beginning to doubt the necessity of your twisted perversions.”

  Victeris shrugged. “Some dogs just can’t be trained to shit outside.”

  Krellis growled and pounded on the door. He removed a rumpled blanket from the chair and tossed it over the woman. A soldier poked his head inside. “Get her.” Krellis pointed. “Give her a hot meal and a bed.”

  The soldier snapped to action and picked Mave up. Her head hung limply, her eyes open but unfocused.

  “If you touch her,” Krellis added, “I’ll hear of it.”

  The soldier nodded. He wrapped the blanket around the woman and led her outside. When the door thumped closed behind them, Krellis looked at his brother. “What have you learned?”

  “Oh, so my twisted perversions serve you after all?”

  “The dog serves me, not his shit.”

  Victeris paused. The two brothers stared at each other for a long moment. Finally, Victeris smiled. “There are five secret passages leading out of the Heart,” he said. “Each is well hidden and…dangerous to the uninvited. Would you like me to describe them in detail?”

  Krellis waved his hand. “Give the details to Gorlym. He will make sure they are all watched.”

  “I was hoping you would charge in and take them by storm.” A wry smile curved the corner of Victeris’s mouth.

  “Are you volunteering to lead that charge?” Krellis raised an eyebrow. Victeris said nothing. Krellis waved a hand, and continued, “No. The Heart protects its own. It is far better to know what the Sisters are plotting than to prevent them from plotting at all.”

  “That sounds like the same overconfidence that got you into this problem in the first place. You are developing a history of underestimating your foes.”

  “I won’t take lectures about overconfidence from you. You are the one who had Shara in hand.”

  Victeris held his palms up. “This is true, but my guilt does not make you innocent.”

  “I warned you once,” Krellis growled. “I’m not in the mood for your games.”

  “You looked just like our father when you said that,” Victeris returned, but held up a pacifying hand. “Admit it, my brother, we are both to blame. Overconfidence is a family trait. I propose we watch each other’s backs. I will use every dirty trick to keep you humble if you do the same for me. Agreed?” His eyes glittered.

  “I don’t need you to rescue me every time there is a minor setback.”

  “A setback? To which setback do you refer? When you overestimated your soldiers’ competence, when you underestimated the Sisters’ resourcefulness, or when you forgot about Baelandra’s lapdog from Kherif? What is his name?”

  “He has no name. Soon he will have no head.”

  Victeris wiped a drop of Mave’s blood from his wrist and sucked it off his finger. “Perhaps, but he certainly has your spot between Baelandra’s legs this evening.”

  Krellis knocked over the table, grabbed his brother’s neck with one mighty fist, and slammed him against the wall. “Don’t push me,” he said through clenched teeth. “I push back harder than you.”

  “Overconfidence,” Victeris rasped. Krellis looked down to see his brother’s slender dagger between them, the point just below his rib cage.

  Krellis tossed Victeris across the room. The Zelani master stumbled backward, recovered his balance, smoothed his robes, and sighed.

  “What of your visit with the ambassador?” he asked pleasantly.

  Krellis grunted. “All is well. He has returned to the Opal Empire to gather his forces. Phandir believes the Emperor has an alliance with him. When our brother attacks Ohndarien, the westerners will land behind him and crush Phandir’s army agains
t our walls.”

  “What makes you think the clapping idiot will honor your alliance over Phandir’s?”

  “That’s why I was hoping Shara would have set sail with him. I would feel a lot more secure with a Zelani in the old man’s bed.”

  Victeris shrugged helplessly.

  “Your fondness for your students and lack of discretion with them has put us in an awkward position,” Krellis said.

  “Shara surprised me. She is more powerful than I imagined. But the girl is not the problem. The Sisters are the problem. They have somehow shielded her from my sight. If we could remove their influence, I could win her back.”

  Krellis gave Victeris a withering look. “It’s too late for that. The ambassador requested her by name, and she was not available. He was very disappointed. I tried to offer him Gorlym’s girl, but he refused. I think the old fool is in love.”

  “I want that girl back,” Victeris said, his voice low and steady. Krellis saw a fire in his brother’s eyes that reminded him of their father.

  “Get in line.”

  “I’ve never asked you for anything, but I ask you for this. If the Ohohhim have already set sail, then Shara is of no use to us in that regard. But she is of use to me. I want her.”

  “Fine.”

  “Since you do not wish to risk a direct assault—”

  Krellis shook his head.

  “We could light fires. Fill the caves with smoke.”

  “No good. Air flows out of the Heart, not in.”

  “It must flow in somewhere.”

  “Have you ever stood next to the Heartstone?”

  “No.”

  “Air flows out of the Heart, not in.”

  “Interesting.” Victeris pursed his lips. He thought for a moment, then looked back at Krellis. “We might take hostages.”

  “Threatening and killing my own citizens is a poor way to begin my rule. My position is still tenuous. Playing the tyrant will not make it any easier.”

  “Then what do you propose?” Victeris asked.

  “Once Phandir is defeated, we will have more options. Those women are not the types to sit around and do nothing. They have already shown that. When they stick their heads out of that hole, I will cut them off.”