Clay went out last, raising an arm and squinting against the sun’s punishing glare. He’d chosen a jerkin of boiled leather from the arena’s armoury that fit him surprisingly well. He had Blackheart strapped to his right arm, and he’d found a reasonably sharp sword that looked as though it might not snap the first time he hit something with it, so that was promising.
The five of them stalked to the wide-open centre of the Maxithon and stood there as wave after wave of deafening adulation washed over them.
This, Clay thought to himself, is why the bands of today don’t bother touring. This is the reason they avoid the Heartwyld. Why risk being ambushed by monsters when you can pick and choose which to fight? Why put yourself in danger of getting lost, or contracting the rot, when you can simply visit your local arena?
He turned a slow circle where he stood, eyes climbing ring after ring of seething multitudes. Uncountable screaming faces. Innumerable waving hands. Why kill in obscurity when you could do so here, and bask in the glory granted by thirty thousand adoring witnesses?
Dinantra was watching from the patron’s box on the lowest tier, which was backed by a tiled wall and shaded by a roof of fluttering silk awnings. The Duke of Endland sat in silence among her gaggle of courtiers, arms crossed and ears flattened against the autumnal sweep of his slicked-back hair. His eyes were fixed firmly on Gabriel, who in turn was staring across the sand-strewn expanse at the huge wrought-iron gate that stood opposite the corridor they’d emerged from a few minutes earlier.
“It’s opening,” he called over his shoulder.
Clay’s tongue had gone dry as cured beef, and it tasted like someone had ashed a whisky-drenched cigarette in his mouth. Sure enough, the heavy portcullis was grinding slowly up. Whatever Dinantra and Lastleaf hoped might spell the end of Saga was about to come roaring out at them.
Clay shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His back had been aching since this morning, and he leaned back to stretch it. Considering the draw that he and his bandmates seemed to be, he was unsurprised to find several skyships skimming lazy circles above the arena, from which those fortunate enough to have unearthed the airborne relics could peer down into the Maxithon like bloodthirsty gods.
There was a clang as the gate reached its apex, then a hush as the circling sea of spectators fell suddenly becalmed. And then the thing that might indeed spell the end of Saga actually did come roaring out at them.
At which point Clay vomited onto the sand at his feet, and so crossed off the list the first of the two things he hadn’t wanted to do today.
It was a chimera—likely the very same one he and Gabriel had seen during the parade in Conthas. The thing was a monster in every sense of the word. It had the paws of a lion, the hind legs of a goat, a sweeping reptilian tail, and three heads: a dragon sheathed in deep crimson scales, a black-maned lion, and a white ram with unsettling pink eyes. It had been caged when he’d seen it last, heavily sedated. But now it was free, and very much alert, and pounding across the sand like a dog racing toward its long-absent master, only Clay very much doubted it wanted only to knock them down and give their faces a lick.
The Maxithon made a sound that was half cheer, half horrified gasp. They had come to see an old band reunite for one last clash of arms. Some had dragged their children along so the young ones could see what a real band looked like. Others had brought their mothers or fathers, who no doubt waxed nostalgic about how kids today wouldn’t know a true mercenary if one kicked down their door and ate their supper. Instead, they would stand witness as four old men and one pissed-off southerner were savagely mutilated before their eyes.
Startled by the noise, the monster skidded to a halt. The ram bared its teeth, the lion roared, and the dragon loosed a spout of red-orange flame into the sky. The crowd cheered wildly, having apparently deciding to make the best of things.
At least they’ll have a good story to tell, Clay mused darkly. Oh, you saw some no-name band fight a clutch of half-starved bugbears? I watched Saga get torn apart by a fucking chimera!
The monster made an effort to open its wings, which were tightly bound, and the heads snarled in mutual frustration at its thwarted efforts. Having no better option, they decided as one to descend on the prey Dinantra had so kindly made available.
“What do we do?” Moog’s voice was shrill with fear. Beside him, Matrick looked as if he were about to follow Clay’s example and empty the contents of his stomach on the ground.
“We survive,” said Ganelon. He tightened his grip on Syrinx and took a step forward, as though he meant to protect them from what was coming. As if he possibly could.
Gabriel wasn’t even looking at the thing. His eyes were nailed to the patron’s box, where Lastleaf and the gorgon lounged beneath the shade of a silk awning. His expression was grave, but Clay could see what smouldered beneath that ashen gaze. It went without saying that if they died here today, there would come a tomorrow when Rose would perish as well—if it hadn’t already come. And worse, she would die without knowing that her father had cared enough to come for her, that he’d been willing to risk anything to see her safe. Gabriel knew this fight for what it was: a death sentence. Not only for himself, and for the men who stood at his side, but for his daughter as well.
Gabe was no longer the hero he’d once been. The young lion had grown into a meek old lamb. But even a coward found his courage in a corner, and there were things even a craven heart could not allow.
The beast came on, and Gabriel charged out to meet it. He raised his sword. The dull iron gleamed like druin steel in the bright afternoon sun. His hair streamed behind him like a pennant of pure gold, and the sound in the Maxithon rose to a frenzied pitch. Here was the glory they’d come to witness, the spectacle they could brag about for years to come.
The chimera hit Gabe like a charging bull. The ram’s head lowered—the sword clanging uselessly off one horn—and then Gabriel was soaring through the air over Ganelon’s head. The dragon attacked next. Its jaws snapped shut in the space where the warrior had been an instant earlier. Ganelon was rolling to his left and came up swinging. Syrinx bit into the scales alongside the dragon’s head and it recoiled, hissing in pain.
Clay plodded forward as fast as his legs would carry him. Matrick was just behind, Moog slowing to help a stunned Gabriel to his feet. The chimera turned on Ganelon, and twice more the dragon lunged. Ganelon’s axe whirled before him, both attempts leaving the dragon bloodied. At last it drew itself up, like a snake preparing to strike. Ganelon dropped to a crouch, realizing too late he should have started running. A spark flashed inside the dragon’s maw and a torrent of fire streamed out.
Clay’s skid brought him between his friend and the flame, which battered harmlessly against Blackheart’s weathered face. The force of it knocked him back into Ganelon, and the two of them sprawled helplessly as the chimera advanced.
But then Matrick arrived, shouting at the monster. The ram’s head twisted to look at him, drawing the others, and Matrick launched himself at it. His first swipe fell short, and he was forced to dance back clumsily as the ram’s yellowed teeth bit at him, missing by inches. Matrick responded by stabbing his right-hand dagger sideways into its eye. The beast screamed—a disturbingly human sound—and tried again to bite him. Reacting without thinking, Matrick offered his entire left arm to the creature’s maw, twisting at the last second so that as its jaw clamped shut the knife in his hand plunged up through the roof of its mouth and (allegedly) into its brain, since it died immediately.
One head down, Clay thought, two to go.
The crowd was deafening. Matrick was on his knees, clutching his arm. He looked both exultant and terrified, but mostly terrified. The chimera wheeled on him, and Clay was too busy fretting over that to see the tail swipe that took him in the head.
From his side, several feet away from where he’d been standing a moment earlier, Clay saw Moog unleash a handful of small pellets at the beast. The wizard shouted some arcane co
mmand, and all but one of the pellets puffed into smoke. The last bloomed into a fitful fireball that smote the lion’s head as it descended toward Matrick.
“Fucking things,” Moog cursed, rummaging through his bag for what Clay hoped was something more effective than whatever he’d just employed.
Gabriel took advantage of the distraction, dragging Matrick away by the collar and putting himself between the injured man and the monster. The chimera stalked toward them. The ram’s head hung limp to one side, blood drooling from its mouth. Ganelon was trying to get at the thing from behind, but the tail was lashing like a viper, keeping him at bay.
The lion loosed a roar in Gabriel’s face, and Gabriel roared back, stepping cautiously to his right in an effort to draw it away from Matrick, who looked to have passed out from shock. The chimera lunged, and Gabe leapt clear of the lion’s jaws, then slashed at the dragon’s head when it came close. His sword, too dull to be effective, glanced harmlessly off the armouring scales.
Clay could see that the effort required to swing the weapon was already taking its toll. Gabriel managed to ward off another thrust of the dragon’s head, but one of the beast’s huge paws took him by surprise and sent him tumbling face-first onto the sand. He rolled onto his back, but before he could rise it pinned him down. The armour kept him from being crushed, but its wicked talons punched through. Gabriel cried out once, but then suddenly his limbs went stiff. His sword fell from fingers that could no longer grasp the hilt.
Paralyzed, Clay realized. As if this monster didn’t have enough methods of murder at its disposal, it could also leave you helpless in case it would rather murder you later.
“Aha!” Moog pulled a wand from his bag, or rather a gnarled twig wrapped in bronze wire that Clay sure as hell hoped was a wand. The chimera, having decided that Gabriel was no longer a threat, turned on the wizard. It roared and flexed its wings again. The thick cords of rope that bound them groaned, but held. By then Moog was pointing the wand, and as the beast sprang at him he shouted something incomprehensible. There was a crack that drew a silent breath from thirty-thousand people, and an arc of white lightning leapt from the bronze-wire wand. It hit the lion between the eyes, dissipating instantly. The beast shuddered, dazed but not dead. Its front legs went out from beneath it even as Clay climbed groggily to his own and stumbled toward the wizard.
Ganelon might have killed it then, but the dragon head was still alert. It belched another stream of fire, and the warrior was forced to leap away.
“Ha!” Moog made a flourish with the wand, basking for a moment in the adulation of the crowd. He did look pretty impressive, Clay supposed—resplendent in borrowed robes, his wispy white hair shimmering like sun-warmed silk. As Clay drew near, the wizard glanced over, grinning. “Watch this!” he said, and what happened next might have been extraordinarily funny were their lives not at stake.
But they were, so it wasn’t.
Chapter Twenty-three
Born to Kill
Moog levelled the wand like a knight marking a foe with the point of his sword. He spoke the words that invoked his spell, and a bolt of lightning bridged the space between the bronze-wire wand and the dragon’s head. This time the lightning crackled harmlessly over the creature’s metallic scales. The bridge remained intact, a buzzing filament linking Moog to a powerful current of conjured electricity. The wizard’s body jolted once—his fringe of long white hair blew out like the crown of a dandelion gone to seed—and then he collapsed in a heap, unconscious.
Clay slowed, then stopped. He stood dumbstruck as the absurdity of what he’d just witnessed washed over him. Three down, he thought morbidly. Two to go.
He heard Ganelon shout his name, glanced over his shoulder to see the chimera bearing down on him. With his left hand Clay slashed out, scoring the dragon’s snout with the point of his sword. He brought Blackheart to bear as the lion rushed in after. Its teeth gnashed against the face of his shield, pushing him backward. Out of instinct alone Clay turned his momentum into a roll, narrowly avoiding the swipe of a taloned paw. On his knees, he deflected another claw, then another attack by the lion. When the dragon struck he was ready, angling Blackheart so that the shield wedged itself in the serpent’s mouth. Before it could wrench itself free he jammed his sword to the hilt in the side of its neck.
The scales split with an echoing ring. Blood frothed warm over his hand. The dragon shrieked and his shield came free, but Clay lost his grip on his sword as the head retreated. Hopelessly off balance, he stumbled almost out of the chimera’s reach. But only almost.
He felt its razor claws slash through the back of his leather cuirass. There was pain for a moment, replaced quickly by an ice-cold numbness. The muscles in his legs spasmed, and Clay pitched forward onto the sand. Like Gabriel, he managed to roll onto his back, but the shadow of the beast fell upon him as he did. He saw teeth as long as his arm, a pebbled pink tongue, and beyond both, the black oblivion of the lion’s gaping maw. Its breath gusted over him, rank as a rotting carcass, and Clay kept his eyes open as death’s door yawned in welcome.
All at once the crowd went berserk; the chimera’s two remaining heads howled in anguish, and death’s door slammed shut in Clay’s face.
Ganelon had cut its tail off, or so Clay discovered as the creature spun to face the warrior and he saw the severed stalk thrashing behind it. The chimera’s claws hadn’t cut him deep, but even still his limbs felt sluggish. He could open and close his fingers, but bending his elbow, or commanding his legs to help him stand, was out of the question. It would be several minutes before he could wrest control of his extremities from the toxin’s grip, and by then it would be too late.
So he could only watch, as much a spectator as those looking on from the stands, or from the skyships wheeling like vultures in the blue sky, as Ganelon faced down the chimera alone. As is fitting, Clay supposed, since the two of them shared a similar, singular quality: They had both been born to kill.
The dragon’s head appeared unfazed by the sword in its throat. It darted in and Ganelon sidestepped, bashing it senseless with the flat of his axe, then hammered it twice more before the lion came to its rescue. The warrior ducked under the jaws and rolled beneath it, punching the pointed tip of Syrinx up into the creature’s belly. The chimera staggered away before he could do any serious damage. Ganelon pressed the attack, and the monster retreated, roaring defiantly, buying time for the dragon’s head to recover.
It did so suddenly, lunging at the warrior’s left side even as a barbed paw swatted at his right. Ganelon turned his weapon sideways, jamming the haft into the creature’s palm, while the sweeping blades kept the dragon at bay. When the lion came at him he kicked it hard in the snout, stunning it, then launched himself at the dragon’s head. He grasped one of the jutting spines at its collar and hauled himself up as if mounting a horse. From his perch the claws couldn’t reach him, nor could the lion’s teeth.
He has it, thought Clay. Ganelon’s going to kill it, and we’ll be free. Free to go and die far, far to the west. But not here. Not today.
The chimera knew it, too. The dragon screamed, the lion bellowed bloody fury—the desperate cry of a predator overcome by its prey. Its claws raked furrows in the sand as Ganelon raised his axe. Its wings strained against the ropes that bound them …
… and the ropes snapped.
Spring Maiden’s Mercy. Clay’s toxin-addled mind was having trouble reconciling what he saw. Wings like black sails unfurled against the sky, billowing once before stretching taut. There was a muted silence as the crowd grappled with the terrible implications of a chimera in flight, and an instant later their terror took shape. The flap of draconic wings sent dust swirling across the arena floor. Cloven hooves kicked free of the earth, and the beast was airborne.
Up, up it went, rising with each sweep of it wings. Ganelon abandoned his axe, clinging with both hands to the spines on the dragon’s head. Hampered by the corpse of the ram’s head, unbalanced by the loss of its ta
il, and trying desperately to shake the murderous parasite from its back, the chimera lurched crazily. One of the larger skyships, a lumbering caravel that looked to be some sort of festival barge, was banking to turn when the chimera crashed into it. One of its orbs—or tidal engines, as Moog had called them—tore loose and went plummeting toward the river below. The ship listed as though caught by a cresting wave, and Clay saw several revellers clinging by their fingers to the rail.
Nearby, Moog bolted suddenly upright. His hair was in wild disarray, his eyes bloodshot. He coughed a gust of smoke and looked dazedly at Clay. “Is it over? Did we kill it?” With some effort, Clay managed to extend the index finger on his left hand and point skyward. The wizard looked up. The bulky caravel was quickly losing altitude, careening dangerously toward one of the support towers. The chimera swept low overhead. Ganelon had torn a spine from its skull and was trying without success to stab it through the scales.
“Oh,” Moog said, looking mightily depressed.
Another skyship—a frigate with sleek webbed sails and whirling engines at fore and stern—opened fire on the monster. Rail-mounted crossbows launched a trio of bolts as long as Clay was tall. The first sailed out over the river. The second dropped to impale some luckless man in the arena crowd. The third took the chimera in the side, and for a moment it faltered, wings flailing like a bat confounded by a pane of glass. Another bolt leapt from the attacking ship, but the beast veered as those on board hurried to rearm the weapons.
Kings of the Wyld Page 21
