“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 command, 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.