by Giles Carwyn
Brophy dove between Phee and Phanqui. Phee’s follow-up strike whistled over his head. Rolling to his feet, Brophy spun around in time to block Phanqui’s next attack and deliver a devastating punch to his stomach. The air gushed from Phanqui’s lungs, and he fell to his knees. Brophy had no time to follow through. Phee lunged, sword point first. Brophy deflected it and spun again. He lurched between Phaggo and Sheedar, who had just risen.
Phaggo charged, trying to overwhelm Brophy with sheer strength. Sheedar stood ready for Brophy to back away, but he didn’t. He met Phaggo’s strength with his own. Sparks flew as their swords clashed. The two combatants collided and Brophy head-butted Phaggo, sending the big man reeling.
Brophy spun again, barely blocked Sheedar’s swing. Phee fought Phanqui, and for a brief moment Brophy had only one opponent. It was enough to bring a smile to his face. Sheedar realized it in the same instant and stepped back. Brophy feinted, drew a hesitant attack from Sheedar, batted the sword aside and brought his own blunted blade down like a hammer, crushing Sheedar’s forearm.
The young man screamed, stumbled backward, and fell off the platform. Brophy turned, breathing hard. Phee hacked relentlessly at Phanqui and the young man buckled under the assault.
Brophy rushed forward to help his friend, but Phanqui’s guard failed. Phee slipped through, stabbing completely through his thigh. Phanqui’s scream filled the air and he crumpled to the ground, dropping his sword and clutching his leg. Phaggo rushed over to Phanqui and kicked him in the face, knocking the screaming boy back and shattering his nose. The crowd went wild. They stopped chanting Brophy’s name and started shouting Phee’s.
The gong crashed, and the Serpent square ended. Phee stared smugly at Brophy. Phanqui had passed out. His face was ashen, and his leg drooled a constant stream of blood. Through the haze of his own pain, Brophy wondered if Phanqui would die.
He blinked and realized that Phee and Phaggo had already begun walking to the next challenge. Brophy staggered after them.
“Once in an era,” the announcer boomed, “two contestants fall in the same square. You have seen such a day. These three Serpents were so mighty that they slithered straight past the Ape’s trees and leapt into the sky, spreading their wings as Falcons. But only two of them shall surrender their wings for the mighty muscles of the king of beasts!”
The crowd’s roar was deafening. The attendants led Brophy, Phee, and Phaggo past the Ape square to the Falcon square.
Brophy hadn’t faced the Falcon challenge before, but he knew all about it. Each of the three contestants was given a rope anchored at the top of a huge wicker cage. Like tiny birds they swung from the overhead bars, each trying to cut the ropes of the others. The first to fall was eliminated.
Controlling his breathing, Brophy did his best to relax and dispel the pain in his arms and legs as the attendant fastened a cord to his wrist. The cord was attached to the pommel of a dagger.
“Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly!” the crowd chanted, as Brophy crawled up the outside of the wicker cage, opposite Phee and Phaggo. Halfway up, they all stopped, climbed through the bars, and grabbed ahold of the knotted ropes awaiting them. There were dozens of ropes tied around the roof of the dome. Narrow wicker spars crisscrossed ten feet above the ground. If a contestant lost his rope and was lucky enough to land on one of the spars, he could run back to the edge of the dome and get another rope.
Brophy checked his knife. Dull, of course. No doubt Phaggo’s and Phee’s would be as sharp as their Serpent swords. Brophy closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if he had the strength to continue. He was injured in a dozen places. He blinked his eyes open, had trouble focusing for a moment. He saw Phee smiling at him from across the cage.
The gong crashed.
The three Falcons flew at each other. Phee and Phaggo swiped at Brophy as he passed. Phaggo missed. Phee barely sliced Brophy’s shoulder. Brophy’s blunt, useless dagger bounced off Phaggo’s rope. They all reached the edge of the cage and clung to the wicker.
Brophy couldn’t think straight. He couldn’t come up with a way to win the challenge if he couldn’t cut the lines.
Phee and Phaggo came for him again, springing toward Brophy’s perch. Brophy jumped away. They both missed him. He barely caught the far side of the cage while Phaggo and Phee perched right next to one another. They launched again.
With a growl, Brophy sprang to meet them, determined to hurt one of them if he couldn’t cut them loose. As the three of them neared the center, Brophy brought his legs up and kicked Phaggo in the face. The big man’s head snapped back but he caught Brophy’s leg in his meaty fist. Brophy kicked him again.
Phee stabbed Brophy’s exposed calf and he cried out, stomping on Phee’s hand. The young man cursed and dropped his dagger, which dangled from his wrist on its cord.
Brophy tried to stab Phee, but he twisted and grabbed Brophy’s wrist. They struggled for a moment, until Phaggo yanked hard on Brophy’s leg, pulling him away. With a quick slash, Phaggo severed Brophy’s rope and let him drop.
Brophy flailed desperately and caught Phaggo’s foot, clinging like a scorpion. He stabbed his blunt dagger into Phaggo’s knee with all his might, and the big man howled. Dropping the dagger, Brophy scrambled up the giant Physendrian like a ladder. Phaggo stabbed at him, but Brophy caught his fist and held the blade at bay.
Separated from the battle and unable to swing back, Phee lowered himself to the spars below.
Brophy smashed his forehead into Phaggo’s mouth, into his nose, into his chin. Phaggo reeled, trying to squeeze his opponent with his spare hand but unable to muster the strength. Brophy kneed him in the crotch, and Phaggo dropped his dagger. Snatching the dangling cord, Brophy scooped up the blade. With one mighty lunge, he grabbed the taut rope a few inches above Phaggo’s hand and slashed the strap between their two fists.
“No!” Phaggo yelled as he plummeted, smashing through the wicker spars and hitting the ground with a sickening thud.
The gong crashed, ending the game.
The crowd went berserk, screaming Brophy’s name.
Brophy breathed hard, straining to hold on to the rope. It slipped slowly in his sweaty grip. He grabbed the rope with both hands, pulling himself up until he grasped one of the knots. Painfully, methodically, he climbed the rope to the top of the cage and clung there for a long moment. He had lost blood, and he was as thirsty as he’d ever been in his life. He couldn’t see the people in the stands, they faded into a fuzzy blur.
Closing his eyes, Brophy breathed in and out evenly. His tripping heart settled and his dizziness faded. He opened his eyes and climbed down the cage, favoring his bad leg.
“The mighty Falcons have become kings! But kings of beasts only. Lions have strength and courage, but it will take more than that to face the fire of godhood. Only one will become a king of men! Only one will burn on the eternal journey into the heart of the Phoenix!”
The crowd roared, chanting Brophy’s name, chanting Phee’s name. All was lost in the tumultuous screaming.
The final square before the test of the Phoenix was simple and straightforward. The Lion square was filled with jagged rocks. Phee and Brophy stood facing one another as the attendants tied the fighting claws to their wrists, putting the grip in the palm of their hands.
“Claw! Claw! Claw! Claw!” the crowd chanted.
Brophy stared at Phee. His opponent sneered.
The attendant pointed them to opposite edges of the square. Brophy tested the blades of the fighting claws. They were deadly sharp. He smiled wearily. Whoever rigged the game didn’t think he would get this far.
Once again, he controlled his breathing. He cycled in strength, drawing on his rage yet again. His body was weak, but his will burned with purpose. He would not forget what Phee did to Tidric, what King Phandir was about to do to Ohndarien.
The gong crashed.
Brophy jumped to the top of a rock. Phee crouched and began circling, but Brophy headed straight toward him, hopping from sto
ne to stone. He remembered everything Scythe taught him about using the fighting claws. Don’t bother parrying. Attack and dodge, attack and dodge. Take your wounds but give out more.
Brophy lunged, but Phee backed up, keeping a jagged rock between them.
“Look at yourself,” he said with a smirk. “You’re a mess. You leave a trail of blood wherever you go.”
“Then you’ll know where to find me,” Brophy said, circling the boulder.
Phee kept the stone between them. He tipped his chin at the Phoenix tower. “That’s mine,” Phee continued. “Tonight, I will be crowned Nine Squares champion.”
Brophy glanced that direction, and paused, seeing something that Phee could not. One of the black-robed attendants was inside the tower, climbing through the wicker, soaking the straw with a small barrel of oil.
The crowd, their gazes locked on Brophy and Phee, would never see what they were doing. Brophy set his jaw. The king wasn’t taking any chances.
It didn’t matter. He looked away from the tower, back into Phee’s eyes. “Remember,” he said slowly, “I’m not going to kill you.”
Phee charged, his claws a blur, but Brophy was quicker.
WHEN IT WAS OVER, Phee lay bleeding at Brophy’s feet. He couldn’t raise his right arm, and his left was pinned under Brophy’s boot.
“No…” Phee mumbled through bloody lips, half-conscious.
Brophy sliced through Phee’s twitching thigh. The boy screamed.
“That was for Phanqui,” Brophy murmured. “And this is for Tidric.” He set the claw at the crown of Phee’s head and cut down across his brow, through his eyeball, across his cheek, and off his chin.
The arena shook with the screaming of the crowd.
Brophy cut the claws from his hands, left them on top of Phee’s chest, and turned to look up at King Phandir. The attendants rushed to him, bearing a bucket of water and a rag.
“Witness the rise of the renegade prince,” the announcer shouted. “Witness his return to the land of his true king, his battle to glorify the name of Queen Ossamyr. No more is he a mere king of beasts. He dares the gods to embrace him as a leader of men, as a lord among us. Can he endure the heat of the Ninth God, the burning Phoenix? Is Brophy of Ohndarien a mere mortal, or will he rise to divinity and become the right arm of our beloved King Phandir, voice of the gods!”
The black-robed attendants washed the grime from Brophy’s body, and hastily bandaged his wounds. He must be presentable before they took him to the king.
No contestant attempted the tower of kings until he was blessed by Phandir. As they washed him, Brophy watched the king’s box. The king murmured something to Ossamyr, and she gave him a weak smile. Brophy’s heart twisted inside him.
He was lost in a haze of fear, pain, and fatigue. The gouge that Phee had torn from his arm had soaked the entire bandage. His other wounds seeped anew. The thin strips of white cloth would not hold back the blood for long.
The attendants led him up the stairs to where the king stood in a cape of fiery feathers and golden armbands that gleamed in the bright light. His red hair looked like the ruff of some great bird of prey, and his eyes regarded Brophy coldly, though his lips carried that amused smirk. King Phandir always looked like he was smiling, but the king’s smile was just like the king’s gold, a gleaming bit of show.
Brophy spared a quick glance to Ossamyr. Her red feather cape was draped over the back of her intricately woven wicker throne. Her tanned skin shone, more beautiful and perfect than the gold around her neck. She nodded politely, but her eyes lingered. She smiled at that moment, and Brophy saw into her heart. He wrenched his gaze away.
Four Apes stood at the edges of the box, ever attentive. Brophy recognized the guard he called Tiny among them. Before one of the Apes could smack him with a sword, Brophy knelt and kissed the hem of King Phandir’s robe.
The crowd continued to chant Brophy’s name.
“So,” King Phandir said in his jovial voice, leaning to look at Ossamyr, “your Beetle has become a Lion.”
The queen nodded gracefully, that perfectly crafted smile on her face. Brophy kept his eyes on Phandir. Once again he wanted to snatch the man’s sword and turn it on him.
Brophy’s name reverberated throughout the arena as the crowd continued chanting.
“You always had a great eye for little boys, my queen,” Phandir said. “But I think this one will burn as well as he bleeds.”
Brophy stared hard at Phandir. “Do you hear that?” he murmured, just loud enough for Phandir and Ossamyr to hear. “That is the sound of what one Ohndarien can do.”
Phandir grinned even wider. He leaned forward. “They are going to cheer just as loudly when you die.”
“I wonder how loud they will cheer when you die,” Brophy whispered to Phandir. The king’s face reddened. He opened his mouth to say something and paused. His smile returned, but not as relaxed as it once was.
The king looked away, waved a hand at Brophy. The Apes moved forward, practically shoving him down the stairs. Brophy stumbled as pain lanced through his bad leg. He barely caught himself, slowing his descent until he stood with the attendants.
The announcer called out again. “And so our would-be hero will face his final challenge. He must pass through the flames, letting them burn away his mortality. If his heart is pure, he will fly to the king’s side, but if his heart is full of doubt, the fire will claim him, and he will burn as the gods demand. The Ohndarien prince will have his chance to emerge from the shadows and join the gods, a ruler in service of the Nine! To become a Phoenix!”
“Let the tower burn!” Phandir’s voice boomed above the crowd. Normally, the contestant was allowed to line up at the edge of the square before the tower was lit, but not this time. The oil-soaked straw caught immediately, and the flames leapt up the tower.
With a shout, Brophy hobbled across the length of the arena toward the rising flames. Brophy pushed his bad leg, ran past the Jumping Rat square, past the Jackal square. He skirted Crocodile, Scorpion, and Serpent, cursing his legs as he tried to run faster. He kept glancing at the blazing tower. The flames were already higher than most contestants would face when they were a quarter of the way up the tower. He rushed past the Ape, Falcon, and Lion squares, spiraling toward the center.
The tower rose out of a moat of the same brackish water that filled the Crocodile square. Brophy pushed his damaged leg into a sprint and dove into the muck. He swam deep and fast, ignoring the pain. His body was his to command, it would follow his will.
Rising within feet of the raging flame, Brophy took a deep, smooth breath. The air was a furnace already. He calmed himself, took three more deep breaths, and focused, using the techniques of heat resistance he had learned as a child. Splashing moat water onto the burning wicker, he created a small aisle on the tower. It smoked and sputtered.
He dipped his head and swallowed as much of the vile water as his stomach would hold. Fighting the urge to gag, Brophy grabbed the smoking wicker and began climbing. He did not move to the inside of the tower like most contestants. He clambered up the outside, closing his eyes, climbing blind as Scythe had taught him.
“Your eyes can only hurt you,” Scythe had said. “You can’t see anything in the smoke. Feel your way. Feel the strength or weakness in the wicker. You must become a part of the tower to beat it.”
My hands are iron, he told himself. This heat is a breeze upon my skin.
Brophy clambered up the crackling wicker, breathing sparingly through his nose. He chose poorly once, cracking through and almost falling onto the raging bonfire below. His stomach lurched. His concentration strayed and his fingers blistered.
Iron. My hands are iron. He sucked in a quick breath of smoke.
Climb. Just climb. Higher. Faster.
He found his next hold and continued upward. Before long, his hand swatted at air. He blinked. Smoke swirled around him, stinging his eyes. He had made it to the top.
Feeling with his hands, he lo
cated the rope. His stomach lurched, and he let it come this time, vomiting onto the burning cord. The flames hissed and sputtered. He vomited again, cupping his hands underneath and splashing it over every bit of the rope. He hoped it would be enough.
Brophy dared to open his eyes for a moment and found the feather-covered Phoenix harness, just starting to burn. Moving blind, he shrugged it on just as Scythe had taught him. He didn’t bother with the buckles, just held onto the straps and prayed his grip was still strong enough.
He climbed back to the rope and fitted the pulley wheel in place. With his eyes closed, he couldn’t tell if the rope had burned too much already. It didn’t matter now, it was out of his hands.
Brophy leapt from the Phoenix tower.
The sudden jolt ripped one of the straps out of his hand. But he held on to the other one, dangling by one shoulder. The rope held. He soared over the arena, crossing the Lion square and rolling steadily toward the king. The screams of the crowd were deafening.
Brophy slid to the bottom of the rope and slammed into the handrail of the royal box. He clung there, blinking his gummy eyes, barely able to see. He could hear nothing over the screaming of the crowd, but he thought he saw Ossamyr stand. Phandir put a hand on her arm, and she stopped.
The rope went slack, falling behind him in a burning trail. Brophy pulled himself painfully over the rail and fell to the wooden floorboards. Someone touched his face, and it felt like sandstone against an open wound. He opened his eyes and saw Ossamyr.
“And so,” she said. “The Lion becomes the Phoenix.”
22
BROPHY AWOKE with a start. He ached all over, and for a moment could not remember where he was. There was no breeze, but he felt the air acutely on his skin. He shifted and the blanket scraped him.
There was someone else in the room.
“Bae?” he asked. No one answered. He sat up and the bed rocked. Chains creaked and his memories came rushing back. He was in Physendria. He was the Nine Squares champion.
