The hydra snaps at Roane, and my heart drops to my feet as he ducks and slashes, again and again. His movements are almost superhumanly fast, but I think I’m noticing a lag.
He’s slowing down. He was tired before. Now he has to be exhausted.
With a shout, I wade back into the water. “Hey, hydra lady! Over here.”
“What are you doing?” Olm hisses. “Not this again. Stay back!”
Ignoring him, I keep fishing stones out of the river and throwing them. Two of the heads turn toward me again and, as they lunge, I stumble backward.
The phoenix lights up the evening as it flies over us, a banner of fire.
Roane swings one of his scimitars, cutting off a snake head. “Burn it, Simu! Burn the cut neck!”
The firebird returns, flying low, his wings like burning war banners. Its trailing flames scorch the cut stump and lick at Roane.
With a shout, he jerks away, falling into the river.
“Roane!” Terror seizes me, and I can’t seem to draw a full breath until his head resurfaces.
Good Gods.This isn’t working. It’s not quick and coordinated enough. In the story, the hero had a cousin who held a burning torch and instantly cauterized the cut heads. That’s what we need.
Lacking a cousin, we need a torch.
Wading back out of the water and onto the bank, I cast about for a branch. When you need something, it’s never easy to find it, but the grove of pines isn’t far, and I get lucky.
Grabbing the branch, I run back to the river and hurry into the water, careful to keep the wood dry. “Roane, I’m coming. Hold on!”
He’s back up, swinging those wicked blades around, scoring the monster’s necks. His hands are glowing and where the magic touches the monster, it seems to lose solidity. He’s trying to send it back to its story.
A story he doesn’t know.
No wonder his magic isn’t working properly.
Cursing under my breath, I wade in deeper. “Don’t let its blood touch you. It’s poisonous. And call the phoenix down one more time.”
“No!” He knocks his elbow into me, throwing me into the river as two of the heads go after him. He stabs one and manages to behead the other. “Get out of here, Aline!”
And I, miraculously, manage to keep the branch aloft and dry. “I’m not leaving,” I shout. “Simu! Where is that bird?”
A bark of a laugh escapes Roane. “That bird.Simu! Here!”
The giant fiery bird sweeps back down toward us, streaming flames, and hurrying close to Roane, I raise the branch as high as I can, standing on my tiptoes in the rushing water.
The branch catches fire as the phoenix flies over us.
“Now,” I say, “together. Cut?—”
His blades swing, and I duck under a lunging head to burn the stump of the other. It really is a dance of death, I think dazedly, and that’s all the thought I can muster, all my focus spent on evading the remaining three heads.
Another head cut. Another pass of the torch.
Another head down, and I’m almost grazed by the long fangs as I dart in to scorch the stump.
This is so dangerous. Those fangs keep coming way too close to both of us with every pass, and that poison is hard to counteract, with only one version of the story offering a potential antidote.
With a dark rumble that sounds like a curse, Roane sheathes one scimitar, grabs the torch from my hand and dispatches the last head, burning the cut until it’s black and smoking. The stench of scorched flesh is nauseating.
The headless necks thrash in the water, one of them almost hitting me. With a roar, Roane grabs me around the waist and hauls me away as the evening turns into night.
