Flying by Night
“Motherfucking Saga. I’ll be a troll’s new testicle, I still can’t believe it. Tiamax, are you seeing this?”
“With all six eyes,” said Tiamax.
“Unbelievable.” Barret reclined in his seat, long legs stretched out before him. Vanguard’s frontman was as tall as Ganelon and as broad as Clay himself. His shaggy hair and beard were shot through with grey, but his thick arms were still corded with muscle, and he seemed as fit and full of vigour now as when Clay had seen him last.
Vanguard’s skyship, which the band had found half submerged in a swamp during their last tour of the Heartwyld, was small but remarkably comfortable. The hull was flat bottomed, roofed by a sail that peaked like a tent overhead. Now and again currents of blue electricity would arc across the sail’s metal ribs, but since no one else seemed concerned about that Clay kept his misgivings to himself. There were sofas set against either wale, and an exceptionally well-stocked bar toward the stern. Candles in clouded glass jars were suspended above, bathing the deck in soft, swaying light.
Barret was shaking his shaggy head. “Holy Tetrea, but I never thought to see the five of you in one place again. I’d have bet on watching a parade of owlbears through the streets of Ardburg first.”
“You still might see those owlbears,” Moog grumbled.
Barret turned his big grin on Clay. “How long has it been, Slowhand?”
“Uh …”
“Ten years, maybe? Twelve? We passed through on our way west and had drinks in that shithole dive Coverdale calls a tavern. The King’s Head, was it?”
“That’s the one,” said Clay, and couldn’t help a wistful smile sliding onto his face.
“You had a girl with you, I remember. Pretty young lass with tits like the Spring Maiden’s.”
“Ginny,” Clay replied. “My wife.”
Barret whistled. “Good on ya, lad. Good fucking on ya. Worth settling down for, tits like those …” He fell silent, gazing out at the red-gold sky as if he’d said something profound and needed time to contemplate the wisdom in his words.
Vanguard’s bard, Edwick, was slouched at the helm, keeping half an eye on a pair of polished onyx steering orbs and strumming quietly on a weathered mandolin. The old man had been with the band since their inception, which Clay found nigh incredible, since Saga had gone through more bards in their ten touring years than Clay could hope to remember.
The rest of the band was mostly intact. Barret was still Barret, big and coarse and immanently affable. Ashe was still hard, still pretty, and still pretty mean. Her hair was shaved close on the sides, braided down her back, and dyed a shade of bright purple Clay hadn’t known existed until he’d seen her a few hours ago. Tiamax, the arachnian, looked as unsettlingly alien as he always had, though the bristly whiskers around his mouth had turned grey. He’d lost the lower half of one mandible and wore crisscrossed patches over two of his eight faceted eyes.
Only Hog was missing, replaced by a man Barret had introduced as Hog’s oldest son. The lad had inherited his father’s shocking obesity, his hesitant nature, and the unfortunate nickname of Piglet. The boy, sweating despite the cool wind wafting across the deck, was plundering a plate of honey-glazed donuts as though it were the first meal he’d eaten all day. Clay very much doubted that was the case.
“It’s a real honour,” Piglet said between mouthfuls, “to meet you guys in person. My father always talked about you. Barret talks about you too. Best band there ever was, he says. Besides Vanguard, I mean.”
“We’re not really a band anymore,” said Clay.
“Well you certainly looked like one on the sands today,” said Tiamax. He was standing behind the bar, a glass or a pestle or a bottle in every hand, making drinks as fast as the others could hammer them down. “We came across a chimera once, you know, out in the Wyld.”
“You kill it?” asked Ganelon, stretched out on a sofa by himself.
The arachnian’s laugh was a series of staccato clicks. “Kill it? Gods, no.”
“We ran as fast as we bloody well could,” said Ashe, who was perched on a stool beside Matrick. She was a southerner, like Ganelon, and her voice affected the same lazy drawl. “The hatcher here won that particular race, if I recall.”
Tiamax clicked again—admonishingly this time, which left Clay wondering how it was he could tell the difference. “Now now, Ashe, no need to be slanderous. Is that why you haven’t slept with me yet? Are you afraid of giving birth to eggs? It’s easier than pushing out a baby, or so I’m told. No arms or legs to poke and prod you on the way out, just … plop, an adorable little egg.”
“I won’t sleep with you because you’re a fucking bug, is why.”
“A bug with six hands, my dear. Think on it.” Tiamax cracked a polished wooden shaker into halves and poured a cherry-coloured drink into Matrick’s empty glass.
Matty smiled appreciatively. He was nursing his wounded arm, still, but the arachnian had given him something for the pain. “I’m just glad you all showed up when you did,” he said. “Things were getting dicey back there.”
Dicey struck Clay as a bit of an understatement. He’d been looking overboard as the Maxithon smashed itself to splinters against the arch of the eastern water gate, spilling panicked multitudes like a beehive dashed against the ground.
Barret sat up suddenly, planting both feet on the deck. The expression he fixed on Clay was serious. “Listen, are you sure about this Castia business? I mean, you’ll be months in the Wyld, and even if you do make it …” He spread his hands, daring a quick glance at Gabriel, who sat staring into nowhere and had said nothing since coming aboard. “Assuming you do make it, all right? You’re just one band.”
What could Clay do but shrug? With Gabe in the state he was, it had been left to him to explain the reason behind Saga’s improbable reunion. “Even still,” he said.
Ashe set her mug on the bar with a clack. “We almost went, you know, to Castia. When the Republic put out the call for bands. Barret was all for it, of course, and Piggy’s too young and dumb to know better. Even Edwick was in favour.” She snorted. “I think the old fucker has our eulogy half composed already.”
“It’ll be beautiful,” called the bard over his shoulder.
“Anyway, the hatcher and I actually agreed on something for once. We both saw the stormclouds gathering o’er that one. We had a contract with a temple in Hamshire at the time—gargoyles running amok or some shit—and so we ended up sticking around. Gods be praised, too, or we’d be—” her eyes flickered toward Gabriel “—well, we wouldn’t be here.”
“So no chance of us hitching a ride all the way to Castia then?” asked Matrick wryly.
Barret sighed. “I’m sorry, no. Even if I wanted to—which I don’t—I have my family to think of. My boys are barely grown, and Avery’s been on me to retire for years now. She wouldn’t go for this one bit. Flying over the Heartwyld is near as bad walking through it. There’s lightstorms and sparkwyrms …”
“Plague hawks,” said Tiamax.
“Manticores,” Ashe chimed in.
“Lamias,” Barret added, “and blood locusts …”
“Wyverns,” said Matrick, unhelpfully.
“Wyverns everywhere,” said Barret. “And what are those things that look like dragons and sound like dragons?” he asked facetiously.
“I believe they’re called dragons, boss.”
“Thank you, Ashe.” He sighed heavily and dragged his fingers through his shaggy hair. “I’m sorry, guys, I really am. I mean, flirting with the Frost Mother is one thing, but putting your cock in her mouth is just plain stupid.”
“That’s really pretty,” said Edwick, pausing to tune his instrument. “Would you mind if I use it in a song?”
“Be my guest,” said Barret.