Heir of Autumn

by Giles Carwyn

  The dream shifted. Ossamyr sat on the edge of his bed as a babe suckled at her breast. Brophy peered over his wife’s shoulder, and the little blond girl smiled at him. He imagined that same girl five years older. Brophy led her up the stairs to the top of the Hall of Windows.

  He imagined running along Ohndarien’s walls, barely able to keep up with his long-legged son, who had his mother’s dark eyes.

  He fell asleep, disappearing into his dreams.

  THE KNOCK shook his door, and he started. Tiny stepped inside the room. “The queen will be here in moments,” the gruff man said, his lip curled into a sneer.

  Brophy shook the sleep from his head, slid off the bed, and went to the wardrobe, pulling out the blue-feathered cape, white shirt, and brightly colored pants he was supposed to wear. Though he had conquered the Phoenix tower, none but the king and queen were allowed to wear the red feathers of that fiery bird.

  Brophy stood outside his room next to the Ape when Ossamyr arrived in her chariot. Climbing up next to the queen, he wanted to tell her of his night’s dreams, but he looked at her stony façade and decided against it.

  “We are watched,” she said quietly, her chin elevated, every inch the queen. He nodded. He felt like he was going into battle naked, but Brophy’s dreams bolstered his courage.

  The queen had planned everything to the last detail. Brophy knew he could beat Phandir, but the rest was in the queen’s hands. All I have to do is swing the knife, he reminded himself. Wait for Ossamyr to clear her throat, one swift stab, and it’s all over. Brophy had never killed anyone, not even Phee. The closer he got, the harder it became.

  They rode in silence along the sunken King’s Highway to the arena. No sun-browned urchins ran along the top of the trench. No other carts scurried to get out of their way. All had gone to the arena to see the Nine Squares champion crowned, to see the beginning of the Ohndarien war.

  As they neared the arena, Brophy could hear the music, the crowd chanting. It swelled louder and louder the closer they came. He kept his breathing steady as they plunged into the darkness under the volcano. The queen slipped the dagger into his hand. With a smooth motion that would have impressed Scythe, Brophy concealed it in a slit he had crafted in his ceremonial cloak. The Apes never saw.

  They emerged into the arena and the crowd went wild. Their chants were deafening, drowning out the music, drowning out every other thing.

  The queen had coached him on every motion, every social nuance that was expected of him, but Brophy had never looked upon so many faces at once. The arena had not been this full when he actually won at Nine Squares. Every gallery was packed, and the crowd overflowed onto the arena’s dirt floor.

  “Wave,” Ossamyr said through the side of her mouth. “Smile.”

  Brophy stuck his hand into the air. The crowd exulted, shaking the ground with their shouts.

  “Is Scythe here?” she asked.

  “Somewhere. He promised to watch my back. He didn’t say how.”

  She paused, nodded.

  After one victory lap around the arena, the announcer fought to be heard.

  “All hail! The renegade prince from Ohndarien returns to his rightful homeland! He comes in our time of need, a hero rising from the darkness to burn in the brightest light! Under the banner of King Phandir, Brophy will show the city of northern bandits what happens when they turn their backs on their true lord and master! I give you the Ohndarien blade master. I give you the king’s newest knife. I give you the Nine Squares champion! I give you Brophy!”

  The crowd exploded once more into raucous shouting. Brophy barely heard the announcer’s lies as Phandir loomed in his mind.

  “Are you ready?” Ossamyr asked in a dead tone as the chariot rolled to a stop.

  Excitement and fear rushed through him. He was not an assassin, he reminded himself. He was saving lives. “I’m ready.”

  Brophy and the queen ascended to the royal box. Phandir stood facing the crowd, smiling as he always did. He held out his hand to Ossamyr, who took it and stood beside him. Four Apes hovered within a sword’s swing of the king. Brophy surreptitiously spotted Ossamyr’s man among them, to the left and behind. He flicked a gaze over the crowd around the box, but Scythe was nowhere to be seen.

  Obeying his instructions to the letter, Brophy knelt and kissed the king’s cloak. He was presented with the nine golden statues, and he asked for governorship of Ohndarien as his reward. Ossamyr had told him to say “the Physendrian city of Ohndarien” but Brophy left that part out. It was a small victory. Phandir smiled smugly down at him. Brophy’s conflict fled as he looked at the tyrant. It would be better for everyone when this man was dead.

  Phandir looked across the teeming throng of Physendrians. Brophy stood behind the king’s left shoulder as Phandir held up his hands for quiet. The tumult died away to an eerie silence.

  “Tomorrow, we march to reclaim Brophy’s home.”

  The crowd cheered madly. Phandir waited, and they quieted again.

  “Tomorrow, we march to reopen the doorway to the east.”

  They cheered again, louder this time. One drunken reveler screamed at the top of his lungs just as the audience began to quiet. Phandir smiled, pointed in that direction.

  “Tomorrow, we march our first step toward reclaiming control of the Summer Sea.”

  The cheers rose again. Phandir had to shout over them.

  “Tomorrow, we march to a glory that will never end!”

  The crowd went wild. Phandir nodded, waiting, waiting…Finally, he held up his hands, and they quieted once more. Phandir turned to Brophy.

  “Will you lead our armies to victory?” he asked, speaking to Brophy’s face but loudly enough that everyone could hear. “Will you return your home city to its rightful king?”

  The noise of the crowd slowly began to swell, chanting Brophy’s name.

  “What do you say, Brophy?” Phandir asked again.

  Ossamyr coughed lightly.

  The dagger fell into Brophy’s hand. “For Ohndarien!” he screamed, and plunged it into Phandir’s heart, slamming his palm against the pommel to drive it sure and true.

  The blade bounced off a hidden metal breastplate. Brophy’s eyes flew wide as the king fell to the floor. A sudden pain jabbed the back of Brophy’s neck. He brushed it away, watched a tiny dart spin across the wooden planks.

  He leapt upon Phandir. A dagger could find a throat as easily as a heart.

  Two Apes grabbed Brophy’s arms. He twisted, cutting one across the wrist. The man cursed and his grip went slack. Brophy slugged the other Ape in the face and yanked himself free. He kicked the man in the groin and slapped stiff hands on either side of his short sword. With a quick wrench, Brophy twisted the blade free, caught the handle, and spun about.

  Ossamyr was kneeling next to her husband, squeezing blood from a tiny bladder across his shirt. She looked up at Brophy, tears in her eyes, and opened her mouth to say something, but she didn’t. She looked away.

  Brophy stumbled backward. He felt cold, as if someone had thrown icy water into his face. She lied to him. She chose Phandir.

  Ten Serpent swordsmen, wearing their distinctive fanged headdresses, streamed up the steps to the box.

  Brophy’s vision swam, and he blinked. His arm felt heavy, his sword wobbled.

  The first two soldiers raised their weapons.

  “No!” Phandir roared.

  The soldiers surrounding Brophy hesitated, but they did not back away. His knees wobbled. He clenched his teeth and held them steady. He was having trouble breathing.

  Phandir’s other two Apes helped him sit up. “This one is mine!” the king shouted, his voice carrying to the crowd. He stood, covered in false blood, and grabbed a sword from one of his men. “This treachery will end. Here! Now!”

  Brophy tried to look at Ossamyr, but he couldn’t see straight. Everything blurred, and he stumbled to the side. He realized his sword arm had fallen and tried to raise it again.

  Ph
andir attacked, cutting down at Brophy’s neck. Somehow, Brophy got his guard up and blocked the first blow. The second cut his arm. He dropped his sword. With a grim smile that wobbled in Brophy’s vision, Phandir clubbed Brophy with the flat of his blade. He took ten hits before he collapsed to his knees, falling face forward onto the hard wood.

  “To Ohndarien!” Phandir shouted.

  “To Ohndarien!” the crowd chanted.

  “To war!” Phandir shouted again.

  “To war!”

  “To victory!” Phandir cried for the third time.

  “To victory!” They screamed, and Brophy felt the boards vibrate against his cheek.

  Ossamyr’s voice spoke, close to his ear.

  “I’m sorry, Brophy,” she said, cold and distant. “Forgive me. I had no choice.”

  THE SOLDIERS bound and gagged Brophy, paraded him around the arena on their shoulders. The king had been right. The crowd yelled just as loudly for his death as they did for his victory.

  The king’s men threw him in a chariot and rode out of the arena. As the noise faded away, Brophy’s vision slowly returned. Three Apes rode with him along the King’s Highway, five Serpent swordsmen ran in front, two behind.

  “You’re awake,” one of the Apes said to him.

  Brophy stared back. Ossamyr’s face flashed through his mind, helping Phandir, gazing up at Brophy with that look.

  I wish I had met you twenty years ago. Before Phandir. I wish we had met in your Ohndarien.

  “I think you’ll really enjoy the Wet Cells,” the driver said, smirking. The other two Apes laughed.

  And I love you. The Nine help me, but I do.

  Lies. All lies. And now Ohndarien would fall for his stupidity.

  A huge crash jolted Brophy upright, and a wave of heat swept over him. Three wagons full of burning straw plunged from the rim of the King’s Highway, landing on the soldiers in front of the cart. The chariot lurched to a stop as it slammed into the burning barrier.

  The driver whipped the slaves to turn around, but they screamed as they burned. An arrowhead sprouted from the driver’s throat. His eyes opened wide, and he toppled over the edge of the cart.

  “Ambush!” one of the remaining Serpents shouted, and took an arrow in the chest. He screamed and stumbled backward, slamming into the wall and scratching at the arrow sticking out of him.

  Another Ape leapt from the cart and was shot by a cowled archer at the edge of the trench. The guard gurgled and went to his knees. The last Ape grabbed Brophy and jumped to the ground, using him as a shield. The Ape backed slowly toward the two Serpents behind them.

  A feathered shaft suddenly quivered in his eye. Brophy crashed to the ground as his captor went limp. The remaining soldiers looked at Brophy, hesitated a moment, and fled.

  Scythe threw back his hood and climbed down the rough-hewn walls of the sunken highway. He was only halfway to the ground when he leapt backward, landing in a crouch right next to Brophy. Two quick slashes of his dagger and Brophy’s bonds came away. He cut the gag next.

  “Can you run?” Scythe asked, pulling Brophy to a sitting position. Brophy shook his head and stared at the flames.

  Scythe grabbed Brophy’s arm and lifted him across his shoulders. With a grunt, he rose to his feet and charged through the flames. The heat flashed past them. Brophy smelled singed hair.

  Scythe ran to a nearby sloping exit and pounded up the incline. In the distance, a warning horn blew. As Scythe reached the top, he set Brophy down on his feet.

  “Come on!” he shouted. “I can’t outrun them if I’m carrying you.”

  “No, you were right…” he mumbled, sitting down. “I meant nothing to her. She used me like she uses everybody else, then shed me like a cloak.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I can get us out of here, but you have to go now!”

  Brophy stared back at the trench from where they’d come. “You were right. The world is an ugly, brutal place, and I’m alone in it.”

  Scythe slapped Brophy across the face. “I have a ship waiting, but she won’t wait forever. Get up, man!” Scythe’s head snapped up. Slowly, Brophy followed his gaze. A crowd of Serpents charged up the incline from the King’s Highway, their swords drawn.

  “Run for Bae, run for Ohndarien if you won’t run for yourself!” Scythe shouted, shaking Brophy’s tunic in two fists.

  “Leave me alone,” Brophy murmured. “Just go.”

  Scythe let go of his shirt, and Brophy slumped to the ground.

  “As you wish,” he said in a tight voice. “You deserve nothing less.”

  He ran between two buildings and was gone.

  book III

  A LEGACY OF PAIN AND GREED

  prologue

  COPI CLUNG TO Raindancer’s back as the little mare pounded down the slope. The young hunter she’d left behind screamed. His dying wail chased her down the hill, but she kept the music box playing, turned it around and around. Hisses and growls filled the moonlit night. She looked toward her tribe’s encampment. Dark figures leapt between the tents, biting and slashing one another around the campfires.

  Raindancer neighed and pulled up short, tossing her head and galloping to the right. Copi squeezed the little mare with her legs, urging her forward. They crested a rise and plunged into the valley where her tribe’s horses grazed.

  She gasped. The herd was charging straight at her. The sleek, beautiful horses had become feral predators, biting at each other with catlike fangs, rearing and lashing out with wicked hooves.

  “Away, Raindancer!” she screamed. The mare whinnied and threw her head to the left, cutting across the rim of the valley, but the monstrous herd stampeded after them.

  Raindancer’s head bobbed as she galloped faster than Copi had ever ridden. The twisted herd thundered after them, their growling whinnies came closer and closer.

  Continuing to turn the music box, Copi used her legs to guide her mount toward the river. The mare charged down the bank and splashed into the water. The impact almost swept Copi from the horse’s back. Water flew on either side of them, and Raindancer struggled toward the other side.

  The screaming herd charged into the river right behind them. They shrieked and flailed. Their spiny necks and red eyes disappeared below the frothing water.

  Raindancer carried Copi and the child across the current and climbed out on the far bank.

  “It’s all right,” Copi whispered, patting Raindancer’s dripping neck. The terrified mare danced sideways, looking back where their pursuers had submerged. Copi began to sob between breaths. “It’s all right—”

  A black, thorny head poked out of the near side of the river. Blowing water from its nostrils, the cursed horse snarled and showed its long, sharp teeth. Another head splashed up, snorted and howled. Raindancer wheeled about and clambered up the bank. The entire twisted herd emerged from the river and gave chase.

  The little mare galloped across the moonlit plains. Hours passed as the lone horse pounded across the Vastness with the howling pack of monsters in pursuit. The cursed horses closed the gap by inches. The little horse gave her all, but she could not pull away. Pursued and pursuers ran tirelessly, the frenzied horses driven by an inner fire, Raindancer driven by the magic of the music box.

  Her lathered steed ran unerringly toward the Great Ocean. As the sun crept over the flat horizon, they rushed across the beach and plunged into the surf. The mare leapt over the rolling waves, fighting through the breakers until they were in deeper water.

  The blackened horde crashed into the water. Their muscles squirmed under their sleek coats as they fought the waves rolling over their flanks, their backs. They continued mindlessly forward until the surging surf finally closed over their heads.

  Copi whimpered, turning the box, keeping the music playing. She stared at the roiling water.

  “Keep going, Raindancer,” she whispered. “Just a little more.”

  The mare’s head bobbed forward as she struggled out to sea.

&nb
sp; 1

  KRELLIS AND Gorlym stood on the Quarry Wall and looked north, watching the Faradan army gather at the top of the meticulously carved mountainside. For three hundred years Ohndariens had mined the famous blue-white marble from that stair-stepped quarry. In two days it had been overrun without a fight.

  Farad soldiers swarmed across the highest step, setting up their camp and preparing defenses as if Krellis was stupid enough to leave the safety of his walls to attack an army perched on a cliff. But they would get it back. Before long, those bearded invaders would scurry back over that rise into the wasteland they called a kingdom, their tails tucked between their legs.

  “How would you estimate their number?” Krellis asked, his narrow eyes already counting.

  “No more than twelve thousand troops. Several thousand more in support. Our scouts say they have ladders, battering rams, and siege towers.”

  “They came prepared. This smacks of Phandir, not the boy king of the north.” Krellis kept his hand steady on the rampart.

  “They can’t get the towers down the cliffs,” Gorlym said. “They’ll have to dismantle them and reassemble below.”

  Krellis grunted. “What is the latest count of Physendrian troops outside the Water Wall?”

  “Twice the number of Faradan.”

  “We are outnumbered three to one.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about their navies?”

  “Our last report says forty war galleys sailed north from Physen.”

  “And the Summer Sea?”

  “Faradan has seventeen ships within sight of Dock Town.”

  Krellis took a deep breath. “The arrival of Faradan is unfortunate, but only a distraction. The Ohohhim should land behind Phandir’s force in three days, a week at the most. Once Physendria falls, young King Celtigar will beg us for peace. I assume you can hold this wall for three days?”