Kings of the Wyld

by Nicholas Eames

  He gestured toward a raised dais at the end of the hall, where a statue of the Autumn Son towered in the gloom. The statue’s face had been crudely altered to resemble Kallorek, and though it bore Vail’s characteristic torch in one hand, the sickle in his other had been replaced with …

  A sword, Clay realized, in the same moment he heard Gabe speak softly beside him.

  “Vellichor.”

  From this distance the blade glowed faintly blue-green. A subtle mist rolled down the weapon’s length, drifting from the tip like smoke from an extinguished candle.

  If his friend had seemed unsettled by the sight of his ex-wife, he now looked positively dumbstruck, his expression a mix of awe and shame, like a father gazing upon the face of a child he’d been forced by poverty to sell into bondage. When he spoke his voice was unsure, wavering. “You said I could have it. You said if I ever really needed it—” He swallowed, and Clay saw the sheen of tears in his eyes. “I need it now, Kal. I really do.”

  Kallorek was silent for a long time, idly fingering one of the heavy medallions on his chest. “Did I say that?” he asked, affecting an air of abashed innocence. “It sure doesn’t sound like me. If I remember correctly I paid a princely sum for that sword. Enough to clear your debt with the Mercenary’s Guild. I’d say I’ve a fair claim to it. In fact, I’d say it’s well and truly mine.”

  “You said if I—”

  The booker waved dismissively. “Yeah, yeah, you said what I said already. But like I also said, I’ve grown rather fond of it since then. Druin swords don’t exactly grow on trees, you know, and that brat daughter of yours stole a pair of ’em from me. Doubt I’ll be seeing those blades ever again.”

  “Kal, I promise—” Gabe began, but Kallorek rolled on over him.

  “And now you’d have me lend you what is, quite possibly, the most coveted weapon in all of Grandual so … what? So you can take it into the bloody Heartwyld? It might be years before someone stumbles across your bones and brings it back to me.” He crossed his hairy arms. “No. Best it remains right where it is, I think.”

  The barest flicker of anger lit Gabriel’s face as he started toward the booker. “Listen, you—” he said, before a pair of broad-shouldered constructs came plodding from the shadows of nearby alcoves. Each of the golems were half again as tall as Clay, though much smaller than the one they’d seen during the Stormriders’ parade. Both were the matte black of old basalt, with runes carved into their eye sockets that pulsed a vibrant green as they answered to some unheard command. The glass of display cases rattled as they moved to intercept Gabriel. They were two strides away when Kallorek raised a hand.

  “Hold on,” said the booker, and Clay noticed he was clutching the medallion he’d been toying with earlier. A rune identical to that in the golems’ eyes blazed there. The automatons stopped dead. “How’s this then, Gabe? If you can take it, Vellichor is yours.”

  It took Gabriel a moment to tear his eyes from the nearest golem. “Really?”

  “Really truly,” said Kallorek, stepping aside with a flourish. He was grinning again, but there was no mirth in it. He’d been a common criminal in his youth, Clay remembered. His brutish nature had served him well as a booker who occasionally needed to extort payment from those who reneged on a contract. As grateful as Clay had once been for the ruthless flavour of Kallorek’s past, it was beginning to taste awfully bitter now.

  “Go ahead,” Kallorek urged. “Take it.”

  Gabriel slunk forward warily. He tripped over the corner of a gilded sarcophagus and barely caught himself.

  The booker sniggered. “Careful. Kit the Unkillable’s in that thing. Dead as a doornail, but he walks and talks just the same. Talks a little too much for his own good, actually. I locked him in there for a reason.”

  Gabriel climbed the steps of the dais one at a time. When he reached the top he turned and looked back. At a loss for inspiring words, Clay could only nod. He didn’t think for a moment Gabe could wrest the sword from the statue’s grip, and it was quite obvious Kallorek didn’t, either.

  Then again, the fact that Clay was here at all instead of at home with his wife and child was testament to the fact that Gabriel was, if anything, full of surprises.

  Gabe gave the blade a quick tug first. When it didn’t budge he stretched his shoulders and cleared his throat. He placed a bracing hand on the statue’s elbow and gripped the hilt just under the guard, trying to push the blade forward. Long seconds passed. Gabriel stopped, flexed his fingers, and tried again. Kallorek and his golems watched in silence. The booker was clearly amused; the golems didn’t appear to give a shit. Clay found he’d stopped breathing. He prayed silently that Vellichor would slip suddenly free, waited to hear the clang as it struck the floor.

  Instead he heard a low whine, so quiet it seemed to come from a long way off. The whine grew louder, finally stretching into a long and lingering squeal as Gabriel poured all his strength into pushing the weapon loose. At last he gave up and stood panting, staring down at his own right hand as if it had somehow betrayed him.

  “So, Slowhand.” Kallorek turned his way, good-natured once again. “I see you’ve got Blackheart still. Can’t be much use for a treasure like that standing on a wall up north, can there? How about I buy it off you, eh?”

  “It’s not for sale,” said Clay, really not liking the direction this was going.

  “Oh, come on, now. I’d say a relic like that is worth … let’s call it five hundred courtmarks? A man in your position has more use for gold than for a ratty old shield, does he not?”

  Five hundred courtmarks! Clay tried to keep his face impassive. Kallorek had never been one for bartering when he could bludgeon instead. With five hundred gold coins Clay could buy himself a whole new life. He could send his daughter to a proper school in Oddsford. He could give up the Watchmen’s Green and open that inn he and Ginny had so often discussed. Of course he’d always imagined mounting Blackheart in a place of honour above the hearth, but he could find something else to put there instead. A painting, maybe. Or a stag’s head. Who didn’t enjoy the glassy stare of a severed animal’s head gazing down at them as they ate supper?

  Kallorek took note of Clay’s hesitation and kept on, his voice sweet as syrup. “You’re on a fool’s errand, Slowhand. You’ll be lucky if that shield is all you lose.” He waved toward Gabriel, who was now suspended off the floor, trying desperately to pry the statue’s stone fingers apart. “Do you really want to risk crossing the Heartwyld? If the monsters don’t kill you the Feral Men will. Or the rot …” He shook his head. “And you think the others will drop whatever they’re doing and tag along? Moog’s got a thriving business to keep him busy, and Matrick’s a king—ain’t no way he’d give that up, not for all the icicles in hell. And Ganelon … well, I reckon he has a mighty hate-on for the lot of you—and for good reason.”

  “Ow!” Gabe had somehow cut himself on Vellichor’s edge. Clutching his bloodied hand to his chest, he aimed a few sad kicks at the flat of the blade, hoping to jar it loose.

  Somewhere, thought Clay, poor dead Vespian is rolling in his grave. He couldn’t help but smirk to imagine it. Kick this if you need to …

  Kallorek laughed. “There’s an enchantment on the statue,” he told Clay. “It’ll never come loose unless the spell is broken. Can’t have someone slipping in here and just taking the thing, now can I?”

  Clay sighed. He’d have to tell Gabriel eventually, though it would shame his friend to hear it. Kallorek, meanwhile, mistook Clay’s reaction for resignation. “I knew you’d come around, Slowhand. You were always the smart one. Frankly I’m surprised Gabe managed to drag you this far, but lucky for you he did. Now, let’s have that shield of yours and I’ll go count out your coin, eh?”

  Clay smiled politely. “I don’t think so, Kal.”

  The booker’s toothy grin withered like a cock in cold water. “Oh, you don’t think so?” When Clay started toward the dais Kallorek imposed his bulk before him. “Ro
se is as good as dead,” he growled. “I know it. Valery knows it. You two clowns are the only ones this side of the Wyld who haven’t clued in yet. She’s dead, and so is Gabe if he’s fool enough to go after her.” The booker was close enough that Clay could smell the foul waft of his breath. “The offer’s changed on that shield, by the way. One hundred courtmarks. One hundred and I don’t dress you and this sorry sack of shit up in plate armour and toss you both into the fucking pool. How’s that sound?”

  “What’s a pool?” Clay asked, and when Kal took a breath to berate him he grabbed hold of the medallion the booker had used to compel the golems and punched him hard in the face. Kallorek staggered back, tripping over the gilded sarcophagus of Kit the Unkillable as the chain around his neck snapped free in a spray of broken ringlets.

  “New offer, Kal,” said Clay, inspecting the medallion. It seemed to vibrate in his hand, and was curiously warm to the touch. “You run away as fast as you can, and I give you a five-second head start before I tell these boys—” he motioned at the two looming sentinels “—to make you the meat in a golem sandwich.”

  Kallorek’s face was a mess of dark red blood. He fingered a tooth as if he thought Clay’s punch might have broken it. “You son of a bitch! I swear by the Winter Queen’s frozen tits—”

  “Four …” Clay began counting.

  “Clay, please,” the booker said, trying a different tack. “I was kidding! It was all in fun, right? Surely you—”

  “Three …”

  “Wait, what about—”

  “Two …”

  Kallorek bolted. Clay waited until his heavy footfalls receded and then moved to the dais. Gabriel was slumped at the foot of the statue. His arms hung limp at his side. Blood coated the fingers of his right hand, spattering drop by drop on the stone floor.

  “Gabe—”

  “Do you think he’s right?”

  Clay blinked. “Sorry?”

  “About Rose. Do you think she’s dead?”

  She might be, Clay thought, but didn’t say. “We’ll find her, Gabe. But we need to get out of here now. Kal’s gone to fetch his guards.”

  He could hear the booker shouting beyond the chapel’s heavy doors. From nearby, though, came the growl of grinding stone. Glancing around, Clay saw the heavy lid of the sarcophagus Gabe and Kal had each tripped over sliding ajar. A pair of desiccated fingers scrabbled around the edge, seeking purchase.

  Whatever Kit the Unkillable was—and Clay was fairly certain it wasn’t necessarily alive—was about to break free. He decided to be far away from here when it did.

  He held up the medallion that controlled the golems, unsure if it mattered that they could see it. “Pick him up,” he ordered, and one moved to obey. He addressed the other, pointing at the wall. “Make a door here, please.”

  Saying please to a golem, Cooper? Wouldn’t Ginny be proud …

  The construct’s rune-scribed eyes burned green. It obliged by using its shoulder to ram a hole in the brick, then battering away with its fist until the portal was wide enough. It was dark outside. The night breeze carried only the faintest scent of the city below; smoke and the sour pong of humans mucking about in the mud.

  “Let’s go,” Clay said. He followed the first golem out while the other plodded after, bearing Gabe in its arms.

  Chapter Nine

  The Heathen’s Touch

  Around noon on the next day they came across a farmer whose wagon had collapsed beneath the weight of several enormous bales of hay. One of his sons had joined a band in the summer, he told them. The other had gone into Conthas to watch the parade and was late coming back. Clay presented the man with Kallorek’s medallion and explained what he knew of how it worked.

  “I’d wait until dark to use them,” he warned, indicating the towering sentinels with a thumb. “There’ll be a very ugly, very angry, very dangerous man looking out for these over the next few weeks.”

  The farmer’s gratitude was profuse. His first command to the pair of golems was that they wave good-bye to Clay and Gabe as they set off down the road. So that was pretty weird.

  “There it is.”

  Gabe pointed to a ruined tower on a forested hill, stark against the white autumn sky. It reminded Clay of a crooked finger, or a broken fang, until he remembered the posters he’d seen in town for Magic Moog’s Magnificent Phallic Phylactery—and then it reminded him of something else entirely.

  “Looks like he’s home,” said Clay, nodding at the torrent of blue-green smoke steaming from a hole in the crumbling roof.

  The door was the only part of the building that seemed in good repair. It was sturdy oak, with a brass knocker moulded into the wizened face of a satyr with a ring set into its mouth. When Gabe gave the knocker a desultory clack its features sprang to life.

  “Yeth?”

  Gabe scratched the side of his head. “Sorry?”

  “Thtate your bithineth with my mathter,” said the knocker.

  “What?”

  “Why are you here?” it asked, carefully enunciating each word around the ring in its mouth.

  Gabriel looked back at Clay, who answered with one of the numerous shrugs in his repertoire. “Uh … to see Moog?”

  “To thee Moog!” the face repeated, hampered by its lisp. “And who, may I athk, ith calling?”

  “Gabriel. And Clay Cooper.”

  “Exthellent. Pleath wait here. My mathter will be with you mo—”

  The door was suddenly thrown open, and there was Moog. He was wearing what looked to Clay like one-piece pyjamas: tiny moons and stars scattered across a dark blue sky. He was skinny as ever, and his long beard was white as cotton. He’d gone bald up top, but the fringe that remained was long and wisp thin. His eyes were the same startling blue beneath bushy white brows.

  “Gabriel! Clay!” The wizard cackled delightedly and did a little dance that only reinforced the fact that he was dressed like a child, then threw his spindly arms around both men at once. “Tits and Tiny Gods, how long has it been?” He scowled at the brass knocker. “Steve. Have I not told you a thousand times we don’t keep friends waiting outside?”

  “Exthcuthe me, thir. But theeth are the firtht friendth you’ve had vithit.”

  “The first? Well I suppose they are, but …” He raised an admonishing finger to the face in the door. “Bad start, Steve. Bad start.”

  The knocker managed a frown despite the ring in its mouth. “Ath you thay, thir.”

  “Yes, well, never mind it. Come, come!” He beckoned his guests to follow him inside. As Clay had feared, there was a buttoned flap in the rear of the wizard’s garment. “You’ve come at the perfect time!”

  Moog’s home was much as Clay imagined it would be. The majority of the tower floor was given over to counters crowded with glass alchemical globes and an assortment of dangerously unlabelled decanters. There were shelves along one wall crammed with books and a fairly typical collection of wizardly reagents—grinning skulls, bundled herbs, jars filled with everything from floating eyes to what was either a milky-white dragon embryo or a calcified yam.

  Against the opposite wall were perhaps a dozen stacked cages of various size, each home to some creature or another. He recognized a few of them—there was a badger in one cage, a skunk in another—but some of the others, like the dog-sized elephant or what looked to Clay like an eight-legged weasel with heads on both ends of its sleek body, were unsettlingly new.

  Also unsettling was the long wooden table basked in slanting light, upon which something vaguely humanoid was draped in a white shroud.

  The wizard crossed to the table, motioning on his way toward a steaming cauldron hunkered below the fireplace mantle. “Are you two hungry?”

  Clay thought of the blue-green smoke they’d seen from the road. Whatever was in the pot looked like soup but smelled like burning hair. “Just ate, thanks. For what?”

  Moog looked back, frowning. “What?”

  “The perfect time for what?” Clay prompted.r />
  The wizard whirled and favoured them both with a rueful smile. “To witness a miracle,” he told them, taking hold of the shroud.

  Don’t be a corpse, Clay prayed under his breath. Please, don’t be a corpse. Moog had been a staunch enemy of necromancy his entire life, but when you left lonely old wizards in ancient towers for too long, it stood to reason they’d start meddling with dark and unfathomable powers sooner or later.

  Moog tore away the sheet with a dramatic flourish. What lay beneath was not, thankfully, a dead person. In fact, it wasn’t a person at all. It was a treant, like the one Clay had killed and carved up for the wood to make his shield, except that Blackheart had been a hoary old oak ten times the height of a man and strong enough to tear a bull in half. This creature was a small, scrawny-looking ash. And more to the point: It wasn’t dead.

  It was, however, very angry. The moment it saw Moog the treant began thrashing against the cords binding it to the table. The branches too small to serve as limbs all strained toward the wizard, seeking to grasp hold of him. Though this creature looked far too frail to threaten a full-grown man, Clay was reminded again of Hollow Hill. The treants there had been huge and hale, capable of swallowing men whole or snapping them, ironically, like twigs.

  There was something odd about this one, though. Its flesh, or bark, or whatever you called the skin of a tree that wasn’t really a tree, was dappled with dark lichen. The fungus was spread over much of its torso and face. A few of its limbs seemed affected as well; the leaves that clung to these were withered and grey-brown, like parchment rescued too late from a fire.

  “Why do you—” Gabe began, but cut off abruptly when the tree snapped what passed for its face in his direction. It shrieked at him, a sound halfway between a gargle and a snore.

  Moog laid a calming hand on the creature’s trunk, commanding its attention once again. Its gnarled boughs scrabbled weakly against his arm.

  “Shhh. It’s okay, Turing. It’s okay. These are my friends. Gabriel and Clay. I’ve told you about them, remember? They’ve come to watch me cure you.”