by Giles Carwyn
The chariot jostled and slowed. Brophy saw a cluster of people and other chariots ahead. He narrowed his eyes, trying to see what they were staring at. Something on the ground.
A bloody body lay among the rocks. Brophy clenched his fist, denying the thick knot in his stomach. The slaves slowed to a stop and Brophy stepped down, walked with fated steps until he stood over the body.
Tidric’s head was split open, his blood and brains splattered on the ground. The boy’s mouth hung open, and his glassy eyes stared at nothing.
Brophy’s muscles quivered as he slowly knelt next to his friend. He saw Celidon on his bier, white as the cloak that covered him. He saw Trent on Krellis’s balcony, beautiful even in death. He saw Athyl’s body under the sandy burlap. He saw the small bundle in Ossamyr’s hands.
Brophy grabbed the slender boy’s arm, gripped it tight. He held his tears in, burning them away. Phanqui’s first words about Tidric came back to him.
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.
Not because of impatience, he thought. Because of me.
Brophy swiveled on his haunches. Phee stood with Sheedar, Besdin, and Phaggo, his remaining uninjured kinsmen. They all watched Brophy and chuckled to themselves. Brophy walked over to them, measuring his steps.
Phee smiled as Brophy stopped before them. “I would have said the runt didn’t have any brains, but what do you know? There they are, lying on the sand.”
“Did you do this?” Brophy asked quietly.
“He did it to himself.”
Brophy flicked a glance downward, then looked back into Phee’s eyes. “There is a spot of blood on your knee.”
Amused, Phee glanced down. He touched the red with his finger, brought it to his lips, and dabbed it on his tongue. “So there is. Tastes like gold to me.”
Strangely, Brophy thought of Scythe, of the day he calmly beheaded Krellis’s assassin. He had been appalled at the time. But staring at Phee tasting Tidric’s blood, Brophy understood that deadly calm.
“I’m not going to kill you today,” Brophy said. His voice was rough, thick with an emotion that he could not feel inside. His chest felt empty.
Phee and his kinsmen laughed.
“And I was so worried,” Phee said.
“I won’t kill you, but you’ll wish I had.” Brophy stared at him. “I promise you, your blood will run.”
Phee’s kinsmen laughed again, but Phee only managed an empty chuckle. He clapped Phaggo on the shoulder. “Come, my brothers. I smell a championship in the air.”
Brophy continued to stare at the four boys as they climbed aboard their chariots and rode away. He returned to Tidric, and said a quick prayer. “Seasons take this courageous friend to the land where the sky is beautiful and bright, where winter does not freeze and summer does not burn.”
Brophy climbed back into Ossamyr’s chariot and drove to the Ape statue, past a smug Phee at the Lion’s statue, and Phanqui, who would not look at him. Except for the slaves, Brophy was alone. Phanqui left the stone falcon and walked toward him. He stopped a few paces away.
“I just wanted you to know that if things were different…” Phanqui sighed. “You changed Nine Squares for me. I won’t forget that.”
“And yet you already have.”
Phanqui frowned. “If you were me, what would you do?”
“I am doing it.”
“I have family to think of.”
Brophy nodded. “We all have family to think of.”
Phanqui shook his head. “I just wanted you to know that my cousins and I won’t touch you until you get into the arena. After that…” He shrugged. Phanqui had difficulty meeting Brophy’s gaze. “Just thought you should know,” he finished.
Brophy nodded, his gaze cold.
The other boy opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head and walked away.
“Phanqui,” Brophy said. The king’s cousin turned around.
Brophy’s eyes glinted. “Stay out of my way. I’m not holding back. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
Phanqui took an involuntary step back, frowned again, and left Brophy where he was.
They both stood in the shadow of their statues as the gong sounded, and the first rays of the morning sun crested the distant hills. Brophy breathed in steady cycles. He barely noticed the heat of the next six hours. It couldn’t compare to the fire inside him.
When the second gong crashed, Brophy took off at a sprint. His feet pounded the cracked earth. He passed Phanqui in a few minutes, heading straight for Phee.
Phee saw Brophy coming, slowing to prepare for an attack. Brophy put on a burst of speed. Before the other boy realized what was happening, it was too late. Phee lunged with a hand outstretched, but he wasn’t even close. Brophy showed his true speed for the first time. Phee could not keep up.
The Beetle contest was all but over for him now. He could keep the lead. He had seen these contestants run, and he knew their limits. Brophy could finally run at his own pace. He meted out bits of his inner fire, and his legs ate up the miles. His lead stretched longer and longer. This is just the beginning, he thought. Physendria was finally going to see what one Ohndarien could do.
After an hour, Brophy was more than halfway there and feeling fine. He couldn’t see anyone behind him, but he didn’t slow down. He wanted to run. For the first time in months he felt he was doing something for Ohndarien. He would push himself all the way. He would—
A burning pain burst in his thigh. Brophy tumbled across the rocky ground, scraping his arm and back on the sharp rocks. Quick as a cat, he hopped to his feet. He looked for the snake, not even daring to rub his throbbing leg before he found it. He saw no snake. Was it a scorpion? Did he kick it up onto his leg?
Brophy saw the arrow on the rocks behind him. His gaze snapped up and he scanned the horizon. Craggy hills, littered with a hundred boulders half the height of a man. There could be a dozen archers concealed up there. He limped back to the arrow and picked it up. It had a blunted tip.
It took him a moment to make sense of it. Phandir didn’t want to kill him, the king wanted to slow him down, humiliate the Ohndarien in the arena on the eve of invasion.
Looking down at his leg, he massaged the angry red welt. He waited for the next volley, but it never came. Reluctantly, he started running again, but the first arrow had left him with a limp. Three or four more, and he wouldn’t be able to walk, let alone run. His pace slowed even more as he nervously cast about for the hidden archer.
As he descended into the boulder-strewn valley just before the arena, another arrow hit him in the back. Brophy gasped and stumbled, scraping his knees on the rough ground. He could barely breathe. Another arrow skipped off the rocks to his right, just missing him.
Forcing himself to his feet, Brophy sprinted in the direction of the shots. He rounded boulder after boulder. Nothing. He cursed quietly. He couldn’t search the whole valley and still make the top nine, but he couldn’t turn his back either. He stopped, trying to think.
Rocks crunched behind him, and Brophy whirled, racing toward the sound. He leapt around an outcropping and saw an unarmed man scrambling up the western side of the valley.
“You are wasting precious time.”
Brophy spun about to see Scythe. The little man held a bow in one hand and a thin knife in the other. With a deft motion, he severed the string and threw the bow at Brophy’s feet. Brophy looked at him, stunned.
“My apologies,” Scythe said. “I followed six of them into the desert last night. I was only able to find five this morning.” He nodded at the fleeing man, who crested the lip of the valley, silhouetted against the blue sky for an instant, then disappeared. “Until you flushed the last one out.” He sheathed his dagger.
“I thought you left Physen.”
“So did everyone else, I think.”
Brophy nodded. “Why didn’t you kill them?” he asked, nodding at t
he broken bow.
Scythe narrowed his eyes. “I’m not certain. I decided to cut their strings and send them home with the flat of my blade instead.” He looked to the south. “Time is wasting. You’re not that far ahead of the others.”
Brophy paused. Scythe looked into his eyes for a silent moment. A light breeze ruffled his black hair.
“Will I see you at the arena?”
“No one will see me at the arena,” Scythe said, his dark eyes shaded under his brow. “But I will be there. Go.”
Brophy ran again, leaving Scythe standing in the boulder-strewn valley. He avoided the regular path. If there were other ambushes along the way, he wanted to see them before they saw him. His leg throbbed, but it would stay loose until he stopped. His back was another matter. It ached fiercely deep inside, but he ignored it. Two blunted arrows would not be enough to stop him.
As Brophy struggled up the volcano’s slope, he looked back over the desert and saw the crowd that followed. Phee and his little group were in the lead. Brophy wondered how many contestants lay behind them with broken bones or bloodied faces. He shook his head and focused on the incline in front of him. One leg in front of the other. Up the mountain.
He entered the arena amidst the noise of the crowd. Boos and cheers greeted him in thunderous waves.
He spiraled past the spectators all the way to the royal box. The king was there, looking past Brophy as if he didn’t exist. Heedless of the danger, Brophy’s gaze lingered on the queen. She sat as always, straight and regal, but he saw beyond that, even at this distance. She looked at him, a sponsor acknowledging her contestant, but this time, for the first time, it was more than that. Her eyes glistened, and she gave the slightest sad smile and nodded. Brophy swallowed the lump in his throat.
He ran beyond the royal box and the queen passed from his sight. He finished the race, walked to the edge of the Jumping Rat square and laid a hand on his back. He didn’t rub it, just held it there. He didn’t want anyone to know that he had been injured, least of all King Phandir. Let the bastard think his ambush had utterly failed.
As his breathing returned to normal, Brophy watched the other eight contestants arrive. Phee and his kinsmen came in second, third, fourth, and fifth.
The crowd went wild, shouting louder than when Brophy had arrived, but there were many boos as well. Brophy wasn’t the only one who hated Phee and his thugs.
The sixth place belonged to Spaen, a foreigner from Gildheld. Phanqui followed after, just in front of two contestants Brophy did not know, who completed the nine.
The announcer introduced each of the runners. The man’s booming voice filled the arena with a brief history of Phee and his kinsmen, the renegade Ohndarien prince, the capricious poet duelist from Gildheld, and the mighty king’s cousin.
“These nine brave warriors have pulled themselves up from scuttling bugs to tenacious Jumping Rats, but who will have the strength to evolve from vicious vermin into fierce Jackals?”
When the first gong rang, Brophy scrambled to the top of a post. No one attempted to stop him and he danced across the pylons with ease, tying with Phee for first place on the other side. The two unknown contestants harried Phanqui. They forced him to the edge of the square. Trapped, he leapt desperately for one of the posts just beyond his assailants. One of them followed, tackling Phanqui in midair. They both plunged to the sand below, but Phanqui managed to twist his body and land on top of his attacker. Phanqui continued to the Jackal square while the other man was eliminated.
The eight boys spread out along the edge of the pit. When the gong crashed, Brophy lingered behind. He did not try to race anyone for the bones. The rest of the contestants made the usual mad scramble, but Brophy waited until all the bones had been grabbed, then launched himself after the last straggler, the second unknown contestant. Brophy had never seen the hairy-chested man practicing in the arena and assumed he had been planted by the king. Brophy grabbed the shaggy brute as he tried to scramble up the far side of the pit. The man fought back, but Brophy threw him to the ground. Brophy leapt on top of him and punched him with all of his strength. His fist cracked against the man’s jaw, knocking him cold with one blow.
Brophy let the unconscious man slump to the ground. He turned with the bone gripped tight in his fist and stared up at the rest of the contestants, who all stood on the lip of the pit, watching him. Brophy waited, but none came to challenge him. Slowly, he climbed up the side of the pit. As he neared the top, Phaggo stepped forward, stomping at Brophy’s fingers with his boot.
At the last instant, Brophy let go of his handhold and cracked the Jackal bone across Phaggo’s shin. Phee’s cousin cried out and stumbled backward. The crowd cheered. Brophy took his place in the line, and Phee sneered at him as Phaggo limped away, cursing.
The Crocodile challenge went even more smoothly than the Jumping Rats. Brophy dove as deep as possible and did not come up for air until he was two lengths ahead of the pack. It was an easy swim to the end. Afterward, he sat on the edge of the pool and watched the others chase Phanqui. Scythe’s swimming lessons saved the boy as he dove underwater, twisting and squirming out of their grasp. The others continued to wade forward, refusing to submerge. Phanqui finished second and emerged next to Brophy.
Phee and his three kinsmen ganged up on Spaen, the foreigner from Gildheld. They forced him under and held him there for a long time. When Spaen floated to the surface facedown, they continued on, laughing and joking. Two attendants stepped into the pool and fished the body out.
The crowd cheered as the boys lined up and donned their shields and spears for the Scorpion square. Brophy calmed his breathing. He would have to be quick. Even if Phanqui didn’t go for Brophy, it was four to one. Phee would never get better odds. He would try his best to eliminate Brophy here.
Sheedar and Besdin were good with spears, but Phee was deadly. Brophy would love to have squared off against Phee, but while they sparred, the other three would strike him so many times he wouldn’t be able to draw blood on anyone.
Phee would have to wait. Phaggo was the biggest of them all, but he was the slowest, that made him Brophy’s best target. Once Brophy drew first blood, he could concentrate on defending himself long enough to make it to the next round.
The gong crashed.
Brophy ran forward as three spears poked at him. They all missed, but they obviously weren’t going to let him separate Phaggo from the crowd. Phee pressed Phanqui while the other three fanned out and corralled Brophy in the opposite direction.
Quickly, thought Brophy. I must be quick.
Lunging to his right, Brophy raised his shield and yelled. Two spears shot toward him. He managed to dodge them both and sidestep quickly to the left. His spear flicked out like a snake’s tongue, pricking a dot of blood on Phaggo’s thigh.
Brophy danced back, triumphant, but neither black-robed attendant called the hit. Phaggo, Sheedar, and Besdin closed in again, spears pushing Brophy toward the edge of the square. A few people in the crowd booed.
Snarling, Brophy ducked down, seeming to fall backward as he sent his spear forward. Besdin fell for it, lunging to the attack. Brophy slashed his knee. Again the hit was not called. Boos swelled from the crowd.
Phanqui cried out suddenly as Phee cut his shoulder. Phee could have left the arena, but he joined his kinsmen, making it four to one against Brophy. Spinning and dodging, Brophy fought for his life. The spears snaked in everywhere. Phee poked him once in his bad thigh.
Then Phanqui appeared, stabbing Besdin solidly in the leg. The young man screamed and Brophy seized the chance. Sidestepping, he took a glancing strike from Phaggo as he smashed his shield into Besdin’s face. Blood exploded from his crushed nose. The attendant could not ignore it. He called the strike.
Phee’s pincher snapped on Brophy’s arm as Sheedar finally scored his own strike, clipping Brophy in the side. With a vicious tug, Phee ripped a chunk of flesh from Brophy’s arm. But the contest was over. Phee spat on Brophy and walked a
way.
Brophy held the pain inside, limping outside the circle. He pulled Ossamyr’s sash from his shoulder, ripped a strip from it, and tied it around his arm. He used another strip to staunch the wound in his thigh.
Lacking a hit, Besdin was led from the arena, holding his gushing nose. The announcer called for the contestants to line up again, and Brophy straggled to his place.
The five of them moved on to the Serpent square. The attendants went down the line, handing out the short swords, and Brophy glanced at Phee, who smiled. He ran a finger down his sword and showed Brophy the light line of blood on his thumb. Brophy tested his own, but it was as dull as a river stone, nothing more than a shiny club.
One of the black-robed attendants walked down the line a second time and each contestant chose lots. Of course Brophy was last and of course he drew the longest straw. He glanced up at Phandir, but the king was too far away to see his expression.
Brophy got the center spot of the rope. He had no escape. They would tug him left and right.
“I’m sorry, Brophy,” Phanqui whispered, as the attendant tied them together. “I have to go after you this time, for the sake of my family.”
Brophy didn’t even look at him. He had an idea of how to escape the challenge, but he would only get one chance for it to work.
The crowd chanted as the five of them, tied together by one long rope, shuffled into the square. Phaggo and Sheedar flanked Brophy, with Phee on the far right end and Phanqui on the far left. As soon as the gong crashed, Phaggo and Sheedar yanked the rope tight.
Brophy gasped as the air was crushed from his body. The rope was tied in a slipknot. Held fast by the other boys, Brophy could barely move.
Phee and Phanqui charged in. Brophy waited till the last second before redirecting Phee’s blade and barely dodged Phanqui. Both sharpened swords sliced right through the rope. Phaggo and Sheedar lurched backwards and fell on their backsides. A ripple of cheers ran through the crowd at the maneuver, and they began to chant Brophy’s name.
