Kings of the Wyld

by Nicholas Eames

  Dragon fire washed across the deck. The ship sagged forward as the front engine began to steam. The crossbow turrets were abandoned by men and women rushing to keep the flames from spreading. The chimera turned sharply and came on again. When it struck, Clay knew, the ship was doomed. It would crash into the Maxithon and very probably kill a great many people.

  He wondered briefly if Dinantra and Lastleaf were still watching. The gorgon will be halfway to the city gates already if she’s got any wits, he figured. She’d wanted to give Fivecourt something they would talk about for months to come. Well, he thought sourly, mission accomplished.

  Clay didn’t look to see if they were there or not. He couldn’t take his eyes off the catastrophe unfolding in the sky above. He saw the chimera descend on the floundering warship, saw the dragon head surge forward, preparing to unleash its fiery breath. Ganelon was straining at something—another spine, maybe?—and whatever it was came loose with a spray of blood.

  Flame erupted from the side of the dragon’s neck.

  My sword, Clay realized. He tore it out, and now the fire …

  He watched in disbelief as Ganelon leapt from the dragon’s head to the lion’s, clutching its mane with one hand while punching the sword in and out of the creature’s throat. Behind him, the dragon sagged as the tear in its side ruptured. An instant later the entire head burst in a wash of blood and gushing fire.

  Man and monster plunged into the Maxithon, causing mayhem as they crashed into the uppermost tier and then tumbled down the sloping stands in a thrashing ball of gory fur and blood-slick scales. Spectators scrambled to clear a path, and most of them managed to do so. Those on the lowest tier, however, had no notion of the impending danger. Clay’s eyes preceded the chimera’s destructive path, and so he saw that both the Duke and Dinantra remained inside the patron’s box.

  “Please,” he prayed to whichever of Grandual’s gods was in charge of killing people at random with the corpses of chimeras, “grant me this one … fucking … thing.”

  Lastleaf turned to find him staring. The druin’s white-furred ears were perked straight up, as though he’d somehow heard Clay whispering. Too late, he seemed to comprehend what was about to happen. At the last moment Clay saw Lastleaf duck and Dinantra rise, her head crowned by a halo of hissing serpents, and then the chimera exploded through the awning, crushing the gorgon and her entourage of half-clad servants before sliding to rest on the arena floor.

  Remarkably, Clay found he could bend his joints. He clambered onto his stomach, pushed himself to his knees. Moog was standing, swiping dust from his new robe. When he finished he straightened and looked to Clay.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “I think—”

  There was a sound like a mountainside crumbling. The ground shuddered, throwing Clay down. He rolled to his side, looking skyward. Had the frigate come down in the chimera’s wake? Had one of the seating tiers collapsed? He could hardly see for the dust in the air, but as it cleared he saw that the wallowing caravel had crashed into the northwest chain-tower.

  The tower crumbled. The Maxithon heaved against its chains, and a heartbeat later the one fixed to the southwest tower tore free in a shower of stone and mortar, because that’s just the sort of day Clay was having.

  The arena was moving, carried east on the river’s current. The great chains went slack as the two remaining towers loomed closer. The Maxithon dissolved into pandemonium, the roar of the crowd now a chorus of panicked terror as spectators fled toward the exits. Not that there was anywhere to escape to; the tremulous bridges connecting the arena to either bank would have broken away as soon as the arena began moving.

  Clay staggered to his feet. His knees trembled, and his balance nearly failed him again. He saw Moog helping Gabriel to sit. Matrick was up on one elbow, blinking at the chaos like a sleeper who’d awoken in the midst of a battlefield.

  There was no sign at all of Ganelon. Clay was wondering if he’d been crushed in the fall when one of the chimera’s wings began to twitch. Clay fumbled at his hip for a sword that wasn’t there. He glanced toward Moog, but the wizard was busy knocking on various parts of Gabe’s armour and asking if he could feel anything. Matrick, at least, had seen the monster move as well. He made no move to help, only brandished his bloody arm and shouted over the din, “You got this.”

  Clay swallowed, turned, drew Blackheart up beneath his chin, and stepped tentatively forward. He’d taken three steps when the body heaved again, and Ganelon rolled out from beneath the corpse, gasping for air and choking on a lungful of dust.

  Clay sighed in relief. The respite was short-lived, however, as the Maxithon reached the length of its shore-bound tethers.

  The north tower went first. Its chain popped loose, whipping dangerously across the sky. Miraculously, the south tower withstood the first hard pull. The Maxithon swung toward the southern bank and began a slow, spinning circle, but at last the arena’s momentum dragged the tower into the river behind it. Clay felt the ground quake, and could only imagine the destruction ensuing outside: piers breaking like brittle fingers, boats capsizing, crushed by the mammoth bowl of wood and stone as it hurtled downriver with thirty thousand screaming passengers aboard.

  Clay made it to Ganelon’s side. “Are you okay?”

  The warrior brushed off his concern. “I’m fine. Where’s my axe?”

  “It fell over there,” he said, but before he could turn to point out where Clay saw a figure rise from the wreckage of the patron’s box.

  Lastleaf was sheathed in dust, spattered with blood. His hair was in disarray and his ears skewed to crazed angles, neither of which made him look any less frightening as he bared his serrated teeth at Clay and withdrew the long, slender sword from the middle scabbard on his back. It sang as it came free—a sound like the last, lingering echo of a ringing bell—and again as he brought it scything crossways and took hold of its hilt with both hands.

  Before he could use it, however, a shadow bloomed on the sand between them.

  Looking up, Clay saw a skyship dropping toward the arena floor. At first he assumed it was crashing; he opened his mouth to scream a warning to Gabe and Moog, but then he saw the wizard waving.

  When he turned back Lastleaf had vanished into the maelstrom of dust kicked up by the descending ship.

  The vessel slowed as it attempted to land on a surface that pitched like the deck of a ship in a storm. It was small, hardly bigger than a dhow, with a single engine spinning on its stern. The name Old Glory was painted on the side, which meant nothing to Clay until he saw the faces peering down over the rail.

  “Vanguard,” he breathed, quiet as a prayer that had already been answered.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  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.�
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  “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 criss-crossed 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.

  “It’s a shame you’re so pressed for time.” Tiamax reached up to scratch beneath a leather eye patch. “The War Fair is hardly a month away. Every band in Grandual will be there. Plenty of young mercs as well, eager to make a name for themselves. Maybe an army’s worth.”

  “Bah, the War Fair ain’t what it was,” grumbled Ashe. “Used to be only real fighters showed their faces in Kaladar. Nowadays every snot-nosed whelp with a hair on his chin and a sword in his hand thinks he’s got what it takes to be a merc. All they care about is getting paid and getting laid.”

  “Hear, hear!” said Tiamax, raising four glasses at once.

  Clay hadn’t found much to like about mercenary life, but he had to admit the War Fair was—or had been, anyway—a hell of a good time. He’d been to Kaladar three times. It was, essentially, a three-day orgy of booze, drugs, and rampant violence, with a few actual orgies thrown in for good measure. There was even a popular saying: What happens in Kaladar …

  “I’m serious,” said Ashe, pressing her point. “The world used to be a scary place, remember? We were trying to make it better. Well, most of us, anyway.”

  “We did make it better,” said Moog, who’d been uncharacteristically silent until now.

  Matrick drained his cup. “Damn right we did.”

  From his couch, with his eyes closed and his hands tucked behind his head, Ganelon said, “Seems just the same to me.”

  They were qu
iet for a bit after that. The sun set at last, and it wasn’t the wisest idea to stay airborne at night, but Edwick insisted he was good to fly for a while yet. Piglet finished his donuts and ambled over to the bar for a beer. Ashe volunteered her spot, moving to sit beside Gabriel. He flinched when she put a hand on his shoulder, but she spoke to him in gentle tones, like a groom attempting to placate a skittish horse.

  “Piglet,” said Moog, “forgive me, but can I ask about your father?”

  The boy slurped at his mug. “Like how he died, you mean?”

  “Yes, please. If you don’t mind …”

  Piglet shrugged. “It was the rot.”

  The wizard closed his eyes, nodding as if he’d already guessed the answer. “Damn,” he said.

  “He actually lasted longer than we figured he would,” Piglet elaborated. “He was a big man—well, you know that. But he was strong, too. Really strong. Until, well … It started in his toes, and his fingers, so he couldn’t get around very well. We had to feed him after that. And when they cracked and broke off we thought maybe …” He said nothing for a moment, turning and turning his mug on the spot. “But it started up again on his arm, then his face. His nose and ears just sort of … dried up, you know? By then he was tired all the time. He didn’t speak much, and didn’t make much sense when he did. And he was so scared. He—”

  “I know!” Moog snapped, and it was obvious straightaway he’d spoken more harshly than he’d meant to. “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching out to pat the boy’s arm. “I … that is … I know what it’s like to lose someone that way. To watch them waste away before your eyes, wishing there was some way to make them better, or to make them suffer less. Except you can’t make them better. And they do suffer …” The wizard’s voice quavered and broke off. He looked out over the rail, pretending to scratch his head while swiping at one eye with the sleeve of his robe. “They suffer …”

  “But not alone,” said Clay.