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One of the guards holds up a bronze key and unlocks my collar.
As the chain falls, I catch it in one hand. I could easily take down the guards…but then what? Angma sits high above the arena, with a line of archers behind her. Each has drawn their bow, with an arrow pointed at my head.
“Her Majesty is merciful,” the guard says when I drop the chain. “She wishes me to tell you that if at any time you wish to yield, she will listen.”
I spit on the ground. “I will never yield.”
“Then die well, Lady Snake.”
The guards depart, leaving me alone in the arena.
Cursing at my predicament, I face the spectators. They are chanting to see my face, and I get the impression it’s rare that a female lasts long in the arena.
Who am I to fight?
“Dragon Prince! Dragon Prince!” the crowd chants.
Meguh wouldn’t throw me into a death match against Hokzuh, would he?
He’s the king of Shenlani. He can do whatever he wants.
King Meguh rises from his seat and spreads his arms wide. “I hear your cries!” he shouts. “Battles within Bonemaker’s Arena are to the death. Our Serpent Queen is new to Shenlani. There is plenty of time to pit her against the Dragon Prince.”
He clasps his hands, and as a cloud eclipses the sun, his eyes become speckled with gold, with Angma’s magic. My blood turns cold. Colder still when the captain of the guard passes him a lidded basket.
Meguh raises the basket high for all to see. Whatever is inside shakes and hisses. “Now, Serpent Queen. The rules are simple. Fight to survive. Win to save the life of your friend.”
“Ukar,” I breathe.
At last I feel his touch on my mind. It’s faint.
Channi, he rasps weakly. The menagerie.
The frailty of his voice guts me. Ukar never sounds weak. Never. No wonder he couldn’t call to me earlier.
I’m coming, I swear to him. I’ll save you.
The captain takes the basket and disappears behind the line of archers. To the menagerie, as Ukar said. I follow him with my eyes as long as I can.
The drums are getting faster and louder. The arena gate growls open.
I’m tossed a spear. I expected the weapons they provided to be crude, like the fighting sticks and short lances I fashioned back home. But this spear has been crafted by a master.
Its weight feels natural in my hand and instantly becomes an extension of my arm. Though the shaft is worn, black paint crusting off the smooth ash wood, the blade is sharp on its twin edges. Shiny, which tells me plenty. Either the weapon’s new or it’s been wielded only by losers. I’m guessing the latter.
I hold the spear upright, as keen as the spectators around me to know who I’ll be fighting. Or what.
A cold draft tickles my ankles, so slight I don’t notice its ill portent. Until a furred tail whips out of the shadows.
It’s thick as a wolf’s. Then, as my opponent rotates into view, come the horns. Horns positioned to tear my bones from my body. A bear’s head pierces the darkness, but obviously it is no ordinary bear. It has curved fangs and three glittering red eyes—a demon!
The crowds roar with approval.
The demon prowls, restrained by a long chain. From the neck down, it has the spotted body of a leopard, with thick, muscular legs and horse hooves for feet. It reeks of rotting flesh, and even from this distance, I suck in my breath.
I don’t even get a chance to prepare.
In one leap it’s halfway across the arena. I barely scrape away in time.
