Kings of the Wyld

by Nicholas Eames

  Matrick waved. “They must think we’re crazy, flying a boat like this over the Wyld.”

  “No more so than they,” said Kit. “They are but one faulty engine away from a long fall.”

  One of the “Lucky Five” waved back, then pointed behind past the stern of her ship. Squinting, Clay could see a pile of ominous clouds spanning the western sky. The woman began gesturing emphatically in the opposite direction.

  Moog stated the obvious. “She thinks we should turn back.”

  Clay glanced over at Gabriel. “Looks like some kind of storm up ahead. We could land,” he suggested. “Wait for it to blow over?”

  “Land?” Matrick sounded skeptical. “In the Heartwyld? I vote no. And I’m technically still your king, remember.”

  “We’re not landing,” said Gabriel. “And we aren’t turning back. Unless you think a few black clouds are worse than this Larkspur you say might be following us?”

  They both looked to Clay, who was busy weighing the threat of the darkness ahead against the darkness behind. At last he sighed. “Into the storm, then.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The Dark Star

  So going into the storm turned out to be an orc-shit idea.

  Plague winds rocked The Carnal Court. Black rain washed the deck. The triple sails hummed with barely harnessed electricity. All this, however, unnerved Clay a fair bit less than the lightning wrought by the storm itself.

  It couldn’t just be normal lightning—the kind that killed men and set whole forests ablaze. Oh no, not here in the Wyld, which had an evil reputation to live up to. This lightning was blue. It announced its arrival with a crack like a giant’s spine snapping in half, and then roared into crackling pillars that seemed to buttress the roiling clouds above.

  Moog was back in the pilot’s chair, though in fact he was standing. His fingers danced on the steering orbs as he manoeuvred between columns of blistering light, doing his best to see through the rain-scoured windows fronting the cabin.

  Matrick was drunk and clinging to the siren on the prow, one hand cupping a golden breast. He screamed wordlessly into the face of the storm. Clay watched him finish off half a bottle of wine before lobbing it toward a pillar they’d very narrowly avoided. The bottle blew apart, and Matrick whooped like a child watching summer fireworks.

  That’s my king, Clay thought miserably.

  As if wind and rain and lightning weren’t hazard enough, there were sparkwyrms to worry about. The serpents were each as long as The Carnal Court, near invisible until they approached one another and their bodies glowed a brilliant blue-white. Crackling strands of electricity linked pairs together, and Clay couldn’t help but imagine two of them passing on either side of the ship, dragging a current across the deck that would kill them all in an instant.

  We should have landed, he told himself. Or turned back until this storm broke.

  The ship rocked beneath him as Moog veered away from the crack and boom that signalled another blast of lightning, which struck so close Clay felt his heart jolt and the hair on his arms stand on end. The shuttered windows of the pilot’s cabin thrashed and were torn from their casements. Rain and wind battered the wizard, hurling him backward. He toppled over the arm of the chair and disappeared from sight.

  The Carnal Court ploughed aimlessly through the storm, beset by high-voltage cyclones and snakes of coiled lightning. Clay took hold of the rail to steady himself, and made the terrible mistake of thinking things couldn’t get any worse.

  Kallorek was wrong: Larkspur didn’t come at them sideways. She came at them head-on.

  Her skyship (because everyone had a fucking skyship, Clay was starting to think) cleaved like a blade through the clouds ahead. The thing was enormous: as vast as a Phantran dreadnought, sails upon sails splayed like the webbed claws of a sea hag. Clay counted her engines—two, four, six—and he saw crossbow turrets bristling along either rail, each manned by a monk in whipping crimson robes.

  For a moment he feared the dreadnought would smash right through them, but suddenly The Carnal Court was diving. Moog was back at the helm, frantically spinning the orbs. Larkspur’s ship snarled overhead, her black hull lit by the static glow of the Court’s own sails, and Clay saw the bold white letters stamped along its considerable length.

  DARK STAR.

  Larkspur’s skyship banked steeply, and the thralls on their turrets took aim. The first few bolts punched harmlessly into the deck. The monk behind one rail-mounted crossbow lost his footing and sailed into the sky. He was attached to his turret by a leather harness, but the skyship was dropping so fast the momentum snapped his back in the air.

  “It’s gonna hit us!” Clay yelled, but Gabriel pointed over his shoulder.

  “No it’s not.”

  A pair of sparkwyrms passed overhead, dragging a net of radiant electricity between them. The Dark Star altered course, pulling sharply upward, and Clay lost sight of it in the clouds.

  “We should land,” he told Gabriel, but his friend said nothing for a long while. “Gabe, we—”

  The oceanic roar of tidal engines cut him short. Larkspur’s skyship was above them again, careening between shafts of blue lightning. Clay looked up in time to see a dozen red-robed monks come spilling over the side. They dropped like stones at first, but then clutched their robes so that the wind billowed inside them, turning their free-falls into plunging glides. One of them lost his grip on the side of his garment and fell shrieking into the dark. Another came in high, his scream cut short as he collided with a static sail. The current set his robes aflame an instant before it reduced his bones to ash.

  The rest of Larkspur’s thralls managed to land with varying degrees of success. They bore no weapons that Clay could see, but Matrick staggered toward one and took a roundhouse kick to the chin that knocked him flat. Another tried something similar with Ganelon, but the warrior took hold of the poor fool’s leg and flung him overboard.

  Clay hadn’t noticed the dark shape in the midst of the monks, but suddenly Larkspur was among them. She settled gracefully on the rain-slick deck, a hunting falcon in the company of lesser birds. The daeva’s black armour gleamed like polished obsidian in the rain. The wind whipped her hair across the pale beauty of her face, and Clay felt a wave of compulsion crash over him. His heart stuttered even as his mind shrieked at him to do anything but stand there like a bloody mooning idiot.

  She folded her wings and withdrew the paired swords on her back, sharp enough to cut raindrops as she gave each an exploratory slash. The monks formed a defensive ring around her and struck poses that suggested they considered themselves dangerous regardless of whether or not they were armed. Clay, for lack of evidence to the contrary, felt inclined to believe them.

  “Matrick Skulldrummer!” yelled Larkspur, casting her gaze around the deck.

  The king staggered to his feet. He gave his head a shake and yanked the knives from his belt. The daeva used a blade to point him out to the circle of red-robed thralls. “Take him alive. Kill the rest.”

  So much for prebattle banter, thought Clay as the monks exploded outward. Two rushed Matrick, another two set out for the helm, and four of them leapt to intercept Ganelon, who was standing with Kit near the opposite rail. The warrior had Syrinx in hand and was glaring at Larkspur’s back. The final pair came for Clay and Gabriel, flanked by the daeva herself.

  “Go help Moog,” Gabe urged him.

  “But—”

  “He can’t fight while he’s flying the ship!”

  Clay nodded at Larkspur. “But she’s—” was as far as he got before Gabriel pulled Vellichor from its scabbard. The flat face of the blade was the bright blue of an alien sky, and as Gabriel lifted it to his shoulder Clay saw a wisp of cloud, a flock of birds in flight, and then a light so bright he turned his face away. When he looked back it was merely a sword, albeit one whose blue-green blade gave off the scent of wet earth and clean summer rain.

  “She’s nothing I can’t handle,” said G
abe, with enough confidence that Clay decided to obey.

  Moog was weaponless but not entirely helpless. He’d doffed his magic hat and was hurling honeyed hams and bricks of hard cheese at his assailants. Clay took the first one by surprise, bowling him over and pinning him to the ground. The monk swiped clumsily at his head, so Clay pinned down the offending hand and hit it with his hammer. The bones cracked under the blow. “Sorry,” he muttered pointlessly. The man screamed and nearly bucked him off, so Clay brought Wraith down on one of his knees.

  The second man punched Clay square in the face. He felt his nose crack like eggshell as his head snapped back. The monk went for his exposed throat, but Clay brought his shield up in time to deflect the fist into his nose again, which hurt like hell, but likely saved his life.

  Blackheart weathered a flurry of blows as Clay reeled backward. His attacker gave him no space at all, and when he brandished Wraith the monk kicked his arm so that Clay struck his own face with the butt end of his hammer.

  “Aaaaoooow!” he whined. The monk let slip a self-satisfied smirk.

  Tendrils of cold snaked through Clay’s head, chilling his ears and sheathing his brain in what felt like ice. He had the bright idea to block his attacker’s next strike shortly after the next strike—another blow to his face, surprise!—had already landed. Clay fell on his ass, dazed, and before he could recover the monk kicked him in the chest. His head hit the deck hard, which might have hurt a lot more had his skull not been numbed by cold, and the man’s bare foot pressed down on his throat.

  There was blood in his mouth, rain in his eyes, but no air in his lungs, which was about to be a serious problem.

  Suddenly the pressure on his neck let off. Clay gasped and blinked the swirl of black stars from his vision. He saw Moog holding his hat like a loaded crossbow. The monk was screaming; his eyes were squeezed shut, his face drenched in a steaming red liquid that Clay might have mistaken for blood were it not for the smell, which was awful.

  Seizing the advantage, Clay swung his hammer at the monk’s crotch. There was a wet-sounding crunch, and the man crumpled in a mewling heap. Clay pushed his body off him and mumbled another apology—because, enemy or not, when you hit a man in the nuts with a magic hammer the least you could say was sorry.

  The wizard helped him stand. “That was cruel,” Moog said.

  “So was tossing hot soup in his face,” said Clay. “Was that—”

  “Infernal’s Breath, yes. Bad enough when it gets in your mouth, let alone your eyes.” The wizard actually looked guilty. “But he was trying to kill you!”

  “Exactly, so fuck him.” Clay pointed Moog back toward the helm. “Go. Keep us in the sky. I need to …” He scanned the deck: Matrick had downed one of his attackers and had the other on his heels. Ganelon, surprisingly, was still facing off against three opponents. The monks seemed content to engage him without committing to an attack that might get them killed, likely hoping to keep him distracted until their mistress finished dealing with the others.

  Larkspur, meanwhile, had her hands full with Gabriel. The monks she’d sent ahead of her were facedown on the deck, and now the manhunter herself was being slowly pushed back, her swords whirling to keep Vellichor at bay. Gabe wore something between a smile and a snarl on his face. Larkspur, he saw, bore the same expression. The rain slicked their hair and hummed from the steel plates of their armour, bone white and deathly black.

  “Clay?” said the wizard beside him.

  “Mm?”

  “You need to what?”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘I need to …’ and then you just sort of trailed off.”

  Clay gestured frantically at the empty cockpit and yelled, “FLY. THE FUCKING. SHIP!”

  The wizard clucked under his breath and yanked his hat back onto his head. “Fine,” he said petulantly and stalked off.

  Clay’s nose was throbbing. He could feel his right eye swelling where he’d smacked himself with his own hammer. He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, and set off to help Ganelon.

  The monks were too preoccupied to see him coming. He pushed one within Ganelon’s reach and the warrior took care of the rest, impaling the poor man on the tip of his axe. Clay leapt at the other, fending off a kick with Blackheart and striking back with Wraith. The monk evaded him once, but Clay caught him on the backswing. The hammer clipped the side of his head and the man stumbled, off balance. Clay pinned him against the rail and pummelled him until he stopped flailing.

  Ganelon chased his remaining adversary to the bow, where the monk, his eyes fastened on the hulking southerner, backed accidentally into Kit, who’d been standing innocuously by while the battle played out. Now the man spun, one hand raised to strike, and screamed when he saw the revenant grinning back at him.

  “Good evening,” said Kit.

  To be fair, that smile was a dreadful thing, but even still the monk reacted badly. Between what he likely mistook for a ravenous zombie and certain death at the hands of Ganelon, he decided to take his chances overboard. He climbed onto the rail and fanned out his garment, preparing to glide toward the dubious safety of the forest below. As he leapt, however, Ganelon managed to grasp a fistful of red robe. The monk slipped out the other end, naked as an infant, and fell screaming into the storm.

  Matrick was pulling a knife from his opponent’s sternum. He managed to wipe his blades clean on the dying man’s clothes before the monk dropped dead. When he saw Clay watching he gave his daggers a theatrical twirl.

  “I’ve still got it,” he said smugly, before fumbling the weapon in his injured hand and chasing it awkwardly across the deck.

  A growl from Larkspur drew Clay’s attention. The daeva was growing frustrated. She’d doubtless hoped to deal quickly with Gabriel, but instead found herself on the defensive. Her allies were dead, or unconscious, or too busy lamenting their hopelessly crushed testicles to be of use, and now Clay and the others closed a wary circle around her.

  “Larkspur!” said Matrick, but she ignored him, slashing viciously at Vellichor, ignoring everyone but Gabe as if they were nothing more than spectators. “Larkspur, it’s over! You’ve lost!”

  The daeva bared her teeth, dancing back and crossing her swords protectively. Gabriel relented, but kept his blade ready. He was breathing hard. If the fight had gone on much longer, Clay knew, he would have faltered, and Larkspur would have killed him.

  Then again, that was the point of being in a band, wasn’t it? A tiger, however fearsome, could be hunted into a corner. It fought alone, so it died alone. But to hunt a wolf was to constantly look over your shoulder, wondering if others were behind you in the dark.

  “Lost?” Larkspur’s laugh was mirthless. “Know what happened to the last man who told me I’d lost? I put his cock in his mouth and his head on a pike.”

  “No way my cock would fit in my mouth,” said Matrick, as though it were an obvious fact. Kit barked a short, incongruous laugh.

  Larkspur wasn’t amused. She returned her focus to Gabriel. “Is it true you’re headed for Castia?”

  Gabriel seemed reluctant to answer, but finally nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “My daughter is trapped inside.”

  For just a moment Clay could have sworn he saw something change in the daeva’s expression, as though the ice in her eyes were melting into merely frigid pools. Whatever it was, it passed quickly. The ice returned, harder than before.

  “Then she’s dead,” Larkspur told him. “And you’re a bloody fool for going after her.”

  “You’re half right,” said Gabriel. “Anyway, like Matty said: You’ve lost. Go back to Lilith and tell her … actually, I don’t care what you tell her, but kindly get the hell off my ship.”

  As if on cue the Dark Star appeared off the portside rail, a behemoth roaring in the rain.

  “With pleasure,” said the daeva. She made as if to stab at Gabriel and he slipped into a guard. Then she l
ashed at Ganelon, who parried with the haft of his axe. Clay brought his shield to bear, but Larkspur was already lunging at Matrick. She was inside his reach before he could react, tackling him against the rail. He cried out in pain and once again lost his grip on the knife in his damaged hand. His bandmates dashed to his rescue, but Larkspur unfurled her wings, forcing them back.

  The daeva launched herself into the air, dragging Matrick with her. Her wings swept down once, lifting them both out of reach, and then again, propelling them toward the open sky.

  “Matrick!” Gabriel raced to the rail, but Clay pulled him back by the shoulder as the air around them cracked with static charge.

  “Wait—” he managed, before thunder made a whisper of his voice, and light, impossibly bright, blinded them both.

  Against the red glow of his eyelids Clay’s mind played out the last thing it had seen: the shadow of wings against the searing glare of a lightning column …

  … Larkspur and Matrick entangled and falling, like birds shot dead from a tree.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  A Walk in the Wyld

  When his vision returned and the ringing in his ears abated, Clay saw Gabriel slumped against the side of the ship, one hand still clasped on the moonstone rail. Only minutes ago, as he warred with Larkspur across the storm-wracked deck of The Carnal Court, he had seemed formidable: a legend come alive, a champion sprung from the pages of a storybook. Now he looked decidedly mortal again, old and wet and weary.

  Gabe glanced over, and Clay saw the struggle warring across his friend’s face: to delay their journey and risk landing in order to look for Matrick (who was probably dead), or to press on without him and be left to wonder ever after if you’d condemned a friend to certain death. To Gabriel’s credit, it was not a decision he weighed for very long.

  “Tell Moog to land,” he said hoarsely. “We’re going down.”

  Clay had heard it said that once you’d walked in the Wyld, you could never really leave it behind. The adage was particularly true of those who contracted the rot, since the forest had literally infected them, but for Clay it carried a lesser, if nevertheless tormenting, connotation.