Chapter Two
But first, he needed to brood about it.
It was one of his best attributes as a wrongdoer, his ability to take an upset and let it simmer unpleasantly in the darkest
reaches of his mind until it had grown claws and warts and pus-filled boils. He’d been top of his class in “Spiralling: Let’s
Make This a Big Deal.”
So, the next morning, Cyrus retreated to his special chair for brooding, positioned in a shadowy corner faintly lit by the
tired glow of a jar of captive firebugs. It was chilly, cold creeping through the tasteful silks he’d draped here and there
over the walls of his lair. The chill added to the atmosphere.
Time to get down to it. Cyrus threw a leg up over the arm of the chair, the other stretched out in front of him, and glared
into the middle distance.
He needed a plan, or at least the starting point of a plan. Finding a champion would be simple enough—they so often advertised
their whereabouts through Athaca News in the hopes of coaxing out a welcoming committee of eager peasants. Finding the right champion, someone he could humiliate with his token flair—that was the key. Someone famous enough to cause a stir, whilst
also being realistically beatable. Someone whose defeat would make Maximillian think twice about coming to Ranragh.
Not Maximillian himself. Not yet. The risk that Maximillian might remember him was too great.
He could go after one of the other champions causing a stir in the news. The one who’d just got married, perhaps; he’d enjoy
ruining her honeymoon. Or the champion with shapeshifting magic, the one who had the eccentrics bleating about the possibility
of selkie blood in his ancestry. He was young, barely out of the Federation’s academy, but Cyrus had seen his face a few times
in Athaca News already—spotty and ginger. His magic was rare enough to garner a lot of attention.
But that magic was also probably a good reason to avoid him. Cyrus wouldn’t care to attack someone who could potentially use
his own good looks against him.
Who else? He leaned over and opened the antique chest by his chair, poking through the clutter: parchment and broken quills,
an inkpot on the verge of tipping over, his graduation certificate from the Guild (the key to getting one was missing enough
classes), a skull of unknown origin, a pair of knitting needles. It was in here somewhere—
Ah. There. Cyrus pincered the rumpled pamphlet between thumb and forefinger to lift it out, holding it gingerly as though
he might catch something from the cheerful colours. Athaca’s greatest champions! the pamphlet declared in bubbly lettering. He’d found it in the coat pocket of a merchant he’d robbed because he liked the man’s tailoring. He had only kept it because he’d harboured notions of using it as a hit list.
That had been nearly two years ago now, and he’d never done anything with it. Perhaps he had let his reputation slip, just
a little. Cyrus grimaced as he smoothed out the pamphlet and inspected Athaca with a critical eye. In unnecessarily bright
orange, the artist had inked out the island’s outline. The capital city Durov sat on the rocky southern shore with the Bek
mountains dissecting Athaca through the middle, and the north tapering into jagged cliffs. The Roasham river wound about the
island in unpredictable loops. Ranragh sat upon the northeast peninsula, curled like a crooked finger.
Most of Athaca’s cities called the drier southlands home; the sun shone brighter there and trade was richer, with precious
rocks and large expanses of agricultural land that wasn’t half bog. From these cities, pink arrows pointed out the names of
elected champions. The great and noble Elza, famed for the fire that sprang readily from her fingertips. Halax, the finest
archer the realm had ever seen, his gold-tipped arrows finding their mark with devastating accuracy. Z’graf with her fathomless
black eyes, towering above any man with spear in hand. She made wrongdoer kebabs with that thing, so Cyrus had heard. He scanned
the pamphlet again, his gaze carefully avoiding the southwest coast and the beautiful city of Heliarth.
Who else could he target? There was Bokor, the latest elected champion of Eborre.
He was known for lifting his opponents over his head and throwing them great and deadly distances, but he was also known for being quite stupid.
Or Lailar from Elzekar, just below the Bek mountains.
Athaca News was always full of advertisements for her skincare range and fitness tips.
Cyrus had tried following her Tuesday morning
workout once and it had taken him three to four business days to recover.
He drummed his fingers against the dark leather of his brooding chair. Then he underlined Bokor’s name. The people of Eborre
still ought to hold a healthy amount of terror for him after the quake, and it was the shortest distance from Ranragh. A single
day’s ride if he went back into town and stole a horse. Plenty of time to consider his target and cook up a suitably dastardly
plan.
Cyrus exited his lair clad in his best black cloak, selected for its dramatic swishing capabilities. Unfortunately, the motion
attracted a flurry of buzzing wings: three sprites, all keen to help him on his way. One perched on his shoulder and tried
to straighten his collar whilst another dabbed ineffectively at his cheek. The third sprite descended upon his boots and fussed
over his laces. Cyrus kicked it clean across his pansies with a growl of irritation, then made a grab for the other two. They
flitted out of reach with a burst of pitchy chatter, an insect’s hum to his ears.
“Sprite pie,” he hissed after them. “I’ll try it, don’t think I won’t.”
It wouldn’t dissuade them. Four summers ago, completely by accident, he’d saved their habitat.
Now there was no stopping them. He’d been resting in the glade after collecting cuttings for his garden, and had only urged new life into the tired old trees so that he could escape the relentless glare of the sun.
He wasn’t to know that the glade was home to a large and enthusiastic family of woodland sprites who now saw him as their saviour.
A group had followed him all the way home, fluttering about his face and tucking daisies into his hair, and he’d been unable to get rid of them ever since.
They lived in the hollows of pine trees lining the path to his lair, and he was forced to tolerate their infernal buzzing at all hours of the day as they eagerly sought opportunities to “help” him.
Cyrus did not appreciate their help. It usually manifested itself through premature harvesting of his radishes, or through the wildflower crowns they sometimes tried to deposit upon his head.
The sprites finally fluttered off as he left the woods and made it onto the main road into town. He followed the smell of
dung until he found a villager’s paddock, where a little girl was leaning over the fence to feed sugar lumps to a friendly
chestnut colt. She was kind enough to provide Cyrus with all the lumps he needed, once he’d delivered his best malevolent
stare.
He turned his attention to the horses, observing as the colt chomped placidly, tail swishing, and a grey with a plaited mane
ventured closer in the hopes of a treat. In the far corner, a third horse with a sleek black coat gave him the stink eye and
turned her head pointedly away.
Perfect. Cyrus let himself into the paddock and approached her.
The black horse watched him balefully, ears pricked back.
When he took another step, her ears flattened against her skull and she huffed at him through wrinkled nostrils.
It was an oddly offensive expression for a horse, like he smelled bad.
It wasn’t true. Cyrus bottled bath oils from lavender he had grown himself, thank you very much.
“Come on,” he said in what he considered to be a soothing tone. The horse didn’t agree, judging by the way she showed him
all her long yellow teeth. Cyrus hesitated, then extended his hand. “Come on, I’ve got a nice secluded cave for you to live
in next to my lair, and we’ve got a trip to make today. I just need you to—ow, get off, that’s my—ow!”
The horse nipped his finger. It hurt. She didn’t seem to care. Unfortunately, this meant that they were perfect for each other.
Cyrus gritted his teeth and tried again, finally succeeding in luring her out of the paddock. He inspected her bridle and
tucked the contents of his satchel into her saddlebag whilst she grudgingly accepted a sugar cube from his palm. The equipment
was good enough for now; he would procure better. But he had places to be, champions to attack.
“I’m going to call you Soulripper,” he told her, feeding her the final cube and patting her neck gingerly. She snorted at
him, unimpressed.
Soulripper was similarly unenthusiastic when they reached their destination.
Cyrus couldn’t blame her. The city wall, rebuilt following the earthquake, towered grey and oppressive over a barren expanse pocked with tree stumps.
The last time he had been here, the forest had stretched right up to the wall.
Cyrus could feel the earth’s ache where the trees used to stand, a distant grief.
He tuned it out, turning contemplative eyes to the steady stream of peasants passing through the city gates.
He would need one to conduct his cunning plan.
Perhaps the one straggling towards the end of the line. An easy target.
Cyrus nudged Soulripper with his heels, turning her round to charge the queue and send the peasants screeching and diving
for cover. At the sight of Cyrus heading straight for him, his target whimpered, eyes bugging and mouth agape. His whimper
became a shriek as Cyrus grabbed him by his shirt and hauled him bodily over the horse.
The fallen peasants spluttered in shock as Cyrus spurred Soulripper to gallop towards the distant tree line. A handful found