Heir of Autumn

by Giles Carwyn

  Brophy roared and stabbed Phee in the forearm, knocking his shield out of his hand. Tidric fell to his knees, whimpering as Phee danced backward. The gong sounded and the fight was over.

  Brophy knelt next to his friend, who cradled his wrist.

  “Dammit!” Tidric cursed, trying to control the quiver in his arm. “I…” He looked up. Goripht had two red cuts, one on his arm and one on his chest. Both Athyl and Phanqui had scored on him. Phee, Athyl, and Goripht left the square, but Phanqui walked over, crouched down next to Tidric.

  “I had him!” the boy said, gritting his teeth.

  “You did,” Brophy lied. “You were close.”

  “We have to go,” Phanqui said.

  “Next month,” Brophy said to Tidric, and stood up.

  The boy hung his head, cradling his wrist. “Yeah. Next month,” he mumbled.

  Phee followed Brophy with his gaze and a smug smile as his ribs bled steadily from the wound Brophy had given him.

  The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena.

  “The scuttling stingers have become the deadly descendants of the great serpent Arridus, who will wake one day and swallow the world! But can they rise from their slithering bellies to become the great and powerful Apes, the Lords of the Trees?”

  Brophy joined the other four contestants at the edge of the Serpent square. It was a barren area, much like the Scorpion square. The weapons had changed, but the rules were the same. The first four to draw blood on another continued on. One of the attendants handed Brophy a sword. The blade was barely sharp, it would take a stout blow or heavy slash to break the skin.

  “Bite! Bite! Bite! Bite!” was the crowd’s chant this time.

  The hooded attendants drew lots to determine order and tied the boys together with one long rope about ten feet apart. As luck would have it, Phee had the far left end, then Athyl, with Phanqui and Goripht in the middle. Brophy was Phee’s opposite, tied at the far right end of the rope.

  “You’re Goripht?” Brophy murmured to the dark-skinned man next to him. Goripht was a quiet favorite. He had made the top four for the last three months. He’d almost bested Phee in the Falcon square thirty days ago.

  The man narrowed his dark eyes. “You are the Ohndarien dog?” he said.

  Brophy smiled thinly. “I hope you know how to use that sword.”

  “Yes, I take it and stick it up your ass.”

  The gong crashed.

  Athyl and Phanqui went after Phee. Goripht yanked hard on the rope, trying to pull Brophy off-balance. Brophy didn’t resist. He jumped forward, parrying Goripht’s outstretched sword. Now the rope didn’t matter, it was all about the best swordsman.

  Steel clashed and clashed again. Goripht’s sword was a blur, but his technique was shoddy. Brophy parried, studied him. He let his anger work itself through his sword arm. He had been longing for this kind of fight for months.

  When Brophy saw Goripht’s nostrils flare in frustration, Brophy marked him. A dark red line on his arm. Goripht showed his teeth. Brophy parried a desperate lunge and marked him again. And again. And again. The noise of the crowd swelled. Cheers and whistles rained down on them.

  The crowd chanted Brophy’s name.

  When the gong crashed again. Brophy shook his head and stepped back. Blood streaked down Goripht’s arms and chest from a half dozen places.

  “Enough!” roared an attendant. “To the next square.” The cowled men came forward, untying the contestants. Brophy looked over at his companions. They had both scored on Phee, who now bled from four places, but Phee had managed to tag Phanqui on the leg.

  “He’s quick,” Athyl rasped, as they lined up before the tall, haphazard tangle of dead trees that dominated the Ape square. “And patient. He waits for the opportunity and doesn’t miss it.”

  “I won’t either,” Brophy assured him.

  Athyl gave one of his twisted smiles. “Yes. I see that.”

  “This is working out,” Phanqui said, grinning.

  Phee, on the far side of Phanqui, heard the comment but said nothing. He stared grimly at the network of brambles and tree trunks inside the next square.

  The announcer stepped up and continued the story. His deep voice overwhelmed the chant of Brophy’s name. “The Serpents have risen from the ground. They are now mighty Apes, Lords of the Trees, but what a paltry kingdom to rule when there is the everlasting sky above! Only three will soar on the wings of the Falcon!”

  “Remember what Scythe said,” Brophy told Phanqui and Athyl. “Your hands are more important than your sword. If they slice you, you don’t lose. Only if you fall out of the trees.”

  “Yes, your highness.” Phanqui winked. “This should be easy, we already have one burning monkey on our side.”

  Brophy smiled as the crowd began to chant, “Swing! Swing! Swing! Swing!”

  The contestants kept the same swords they used in the previous square. They moved to separate sides of the platform. The gong crashed, and everyone scrambled into the trees.

  Brophy climbed as quickly as he could with a sword in one hand. Some of the branches were barbed. In other places they had been weakened with saws or axes. Every step and handhold had to be tested before it could be trusted. Steadily and surely, Brophy scrambled up through the chaotic limbs. He and Athyl converged in the middle. Phee skirted them, staying close to the fringes, keeping his back to open air. Phanqui watched from below, closing carefully.

  “It’s only a matter of time,” Brophy said to Athyl as he drew abreast of the scarred man. Athyl had his good foot on a solid branch and held a narrower branch with one hand, his blade naked in the other. “We’ll have him one way or another.”

  Athyl nodded, said nothing. Brophy moved in front of him, climbing higher.

  Brophy heard something behind him and whirled around. Athyl’s sword caught him in the side, raking across his ribs. Brophy grunted and fell backward, losing his grip. Stars burst in his vision and Brophy grappled for a branch, any branch. He caught one. Athyl closed on him, slamming the flat of his blade down on Brophy’s hand. Brophy’s grip faltered and he fell, smacking and crashing through the branches. He managed to grasp the last branch before the long fall. It snapped. He shouted, half in pain and half in rage, as he slammed into the sand below.

  The crowd started shouting Athyl’s name.

  Brophy struggled to roll over, to regain his breath. His ribs burned. When he looked up, Athyl stood next to him, looking down. Phee hopped from a branch, smiling and shaking his head.

  “Why!” Brophy cried to Athyl.

  The scarred man’s eyes were empty. There was nothing there, no triumph, no remorse.

  “I can beat both of them. I’m not so sure about you.”

  “What? But I would have stepped aside the second we eliminated Phee!”

  Athyl’s eyes narrowed. He shook his head. “That is a chance I could not take.”

  He turned and walked out of the square just as Phanqui dropped to the sand and came running over.

  18

  DARK CLOUDS bunched and twisted on the western horizon, rolling quickly toward them. The wind of the storm’s approach ruffled through Brophy’s long blond curls, but no rain had fallen yet.

  It was said that Nine Sands, the desert north of Physen, was filled with the spirits of fallen Nine Squares contestants who roamed the parched badlands as ghostly animals. Each took the form of the square that had killed him and preyed on unwary travelers at night. All except those who died in the burning wicker tower of the Phoenix. Their spirits raged as thunderstorms, sweeping across the dunes as they lamented their failed brush with godhood.

  Brophy and Scythe watched in silence as a stooped crone in a feathered cape, a young woman with a bitter face, and an angry young boy stood over Athyl’s shrouded body. They were his only family members, the only three who had come to this meager funeral. They only stayed for a short time, the crone murmuring ominously about the coming storm. As the family left, scurrying across the shifting
sands, Brophy looked at the approaching clouds, wishing Athyl was in there somewhere so Brophy could curse him as he spat lightning and rain.

  The betrayal had been stupid, senseless. Athyl might as well have turned the traitor’s sword on himself.

  “I agree with Physendrians about funerals,” Scythe said. “The shorter the better.”

  Brophy said nothing. Phanqui had fallen in the Falcon square and Phee in the Lion. Brophy could still picture Athyl climbing the burning tower, halting and slow. He’d taken a nasty knife wound from Phee in the Falcon square and could barely use his right arm. Still, the burned man climbed, but when he reached the top, the flames had already ignited the rope. Athyl quickly shrugged on the ceremonial Phoenix wings and flew.

  Flew and fell and died. Weakened by flames, the rope snapped before he had gone forty feet. He plunged headfirst to the arena’s stone floor. The crowd went wild at the sound of his neck snapping.

  Brophy closed his eyes as he tried to banish the memory. His stomach turned, and he held down the urge to vomit. Why did it have to be that way? It was senseless. If Athyl had stuck to the plan, he would have entered the Phoenix challenge with a healthy arm. He would have climbed faster. He would have made it to the rope before it burned. He would still be alive, the Nine Squares champion.

  Brophy opened his eyes again and stared down at the abandoned body, wrapped in a frayed black cloth. How could people live this way? How can they bear it?

  “Enough,” Scythe said, an edge to his voice. The wind howled. “Back to your training.”

  Without a word, Brophy turned and began running through the desert. A few raindrops pelted his face. Wind whipped across him, picking up sand and dust as it went. Scythe caught up with him and matched his pace.

  “Where will the others be joining us?” Brophy asked.

  “Forget about the others,” Scythe replied.

  Brophy looked at him. “What?” More rain fell. In moments it would be a deluge.

  “Phanqui came to see me this morning. He and his cousins won’t be running with you anymore.”

  Brophy slowed to a stop. The air swirled, tossing his blond curls sideways. He blinked against the rain. “Why?”

  Scythe stopped with him, his hawk’s eyes boring into Brophy. “You scared someone, someone powerful. The king can’t have an Ohndarien winning at Nine Squares on the eve of an invasion. Threats have been made. Rewards offered for your defeat.”

  Brophy sneered. He turned and began running again. Scythe followed him.

  “I’ll talk to Phanqui,” Brophy said. “He will run with me.”

  Scythe kicked out Brophy’s foot, and Brophy crashed face-first into the sand. The little man leapt on Brophy’s back, twisted his arm, and shoved his face into the ground. Brophy growled, fighting back, but he couldn’t break the hold.

  “When will you wake up?” Scythe shouted over the wind. “This is not Ohndarien! This is not a run on the wall! This is Physendria, and everything is under the king’s thumb. Here you dream only as far as he allows.”

  “Get off me!”

  “I would not be on you if you were watching your own back.”

  Brophy spat sand from his mouth, wincing at the pain from the wound Athyl had given him. “I know what I’m doing!”

  “No you don’t,” Scythe said in a low voice, leaning close. “You see the world the way you want it to be, not the way it is. You see people the way you want them to be, not the way they are. Open your eyes, Brophy. The world is an ugly, brutal place, and you are alone in it.”

  With that, Scythe released him and leapt to his feet.

  “They saw you disgrace Goripht. You made him look like a drunken ape. They saw you create an army from a gang of Beetles. You wanted to scare them, and you did. And now they will kill you for it.”

  Brophy stood up, wiped his wet hair back from his face, and blew the sand off his lips. Scythe stood in the rain, the cloth of his hood plastered against his face.

  “I won’t do it your way,” Brophy said.

  Scythe shook his head, his brows furrowed. “Then give up. Leave with me, today. I will get you out of here.”

  Brophy shook his head vehemently. “No. I won’t go, not without…” he cut himself off. The rain fell hard, blurring the air, turning the badlands into mud. Thunder boomed overhead.

  Scythe showed his teeth. “Without what? Without winning? Or without Ossamyr?”

  “You don’t know anything.”

  “I know you aren’t the first boy she’s bedded, and you won’t be the last.”

  “Enough,” Brophy growled.

  “Beauty is difficult to resist. I may be the only one of her champions to ever refuse her. It drives her mad. She’s been trying to bed me ever since.”

  “Liar!” Brophy whirled on Scythe, swinging at his head. Scythe blocked it and slid to the side. Brophy twisted, but not fast enough. Suddenly, he found himself lurching forward, off-balance. He stumbled on the wet sand. Scythe dropped low, giving Brophy a tiny shove. Yet again, he went down.

  Scythe glared down at him, his black eyebrows crouched together. “You mean nothing to her. She is using you like she uses everybody else. When you cease to amuse her, she will shed you like a cloak.”

  Brophy leapt to his feet. “Get out of my sight!” he snarled. “I don’t need you!” He hurled a handful of wet sand at the man.

  Scythe blinked, letting the grains bounce off. He shrugged.

  “Get away from me!” Brophy yelled.

  With a stiff bow, Scythe said, “You deserve nothing less.” He turned and disappeared into the driving rain.

  19

  KRELLIS SEETHED as he arrived at the Zelani school. The Master of the Citadel met him at the wrought-iron front gate. Two guards stood at stiff attention on either side, helmets gleaming in the sun.

  “Dammit, Gorlym, I ordered you to bring Victeris to my chambers,” Krellis said, shouldering his way past the man. “I don’t have time for this. The Sisters scheme in the Heart, the city teeters on the edge of civil revolt, and Physendria’s army is almost at the walls.”

  The rose-colored buildings were enclosed by the ornate marble wall. The Zelani school was once the home of J’Qulin the Sly. His pet project had been constructed with a great deal of skill and money. Citizens shook their heads and even laughed outright at the three extravagant buildings connected as a sprawling complex. The school stood out as a gaudy splash of pink on the otherwise cool blue Ohndarien, but the unique promise of the Zelani had slowly changed the prevailing opinion. The rose-colored buildings had come to suggest mystery and magic, luscious young women and beautiful boys instead of bad taste.

  Gorlym jogged to catch up with Krellis, then fell in stride with the Brother’s long steps. “I know, sir, but he wouldn’t come.” He paused, then said, “And I thought you needed to see this with your own eyes. I don’t think…” He paused again.

  Krellis growled. “By the Seasons, Gorlym. I made you Master of the Citadel because you had courage. You’re stumbling over your words like a green spear boy.”

  “I didn’t think you’d want anyone else to see this,” Gorlym said, flushing.

  That caught Krellis’s attention. “What happened?”

  “I’m not exactly sure, sir.”

  Krellis glanced sidelong at his second-in-command. Gorlym had never been a timid man, but something had spooked him. “You said all the students are gone?”

  “Yes, sir, all of them.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know, sir. The school was guarded, as you commanded. No one was allowed in or out unless they had permission from you or me.”

  “Then how did they get out?”

  “Well, sir, the guards said that those who passed them had the right permission.”

  “They bore my seal?”

  “I pressed them about that, sir, and it is my impression that they did bear your seal, though not one of the guards could specifically remember it. It is a bit confusing. The guards swear
on their swords that no Zelani passed the gate.”

  “But they could not remember my actual seal?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Damned Zelani,” Krellis muttered, striding past the second pair of useless soldiers standing at the doors to the main building. “What use are guards if they can be bewitched by ten-year-old girls?”

  “Shall I send them back to the Citadel, sir?”

  “Not yet. What about the staff? Did they walk right past your men, also?”

  Gorlym flushed. “There were none, sir. Except him,” he said, as they rounded the first corner. In the center of the hall lay an ancient, bent-backed man. He was as dead as a three-day fish. His wrinkled arms and legs were tucked into his stomach as if he had been stabbed.

  “How did they kill him?” Krellis asked, pausing in front of the old man. He toed the corpse’s arms aside. There wasn’t any blood, but his mouth was stretched open in a twisted grimace, his bushy brows pushed upward.

  “I don’t know,” Gorlym said. “There isn’t a mark on him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Sybald. Victeris’s manservant.”

  “Perhaps he died of old age,” Krellis said in a flat tone, continuing down the hallway.

  They climbed the spiral staircase, around and around for several stories, passing a strange array of tapestries. Krellis had not visited Victeris’s tower for years. The tapestries were new, and most of them were of men and women coupling in different ways. Some of the depictions were woven with the bright colors of love and romance, some with darker hues and more gruesome subject matter. Krellis frowned and turned away, ignoring the perverse images until they reached the top step. The last tapestry stopped him, and he paused to look at it. It showed a magnificent city with silver minarets that reached for the skies. The city was in flames. In the foreground, a fleet of black-sailed ships brought darkness and death.

  The Fall of Efften. He paused for a moment, thinking back on Victeris’s strange reaction when Krellis told him about the mythical music box and child. Shaking the thought from his head, he continued on.