Kings of the Wyld
Page 48
Lastly, we have to ask: If you could have any superpower, what would it be?
Besides perfect spelling? Hmm … I’d like to be able to stop time, because then I could finally read every book, watch every film, play every video game, and spend as much time as I want with loved ones without that pesky nuisance known as “dying of old age” rearing its ugly head. Wouldn’t that be nice?
introducing
If you enjoyed
KINGS OF THE WYLD,
look out for
THE NEXT INSTALLMENT IN THE BAND SERIES
by Nicholas Eames
It was said Rose had killed a cyclops when she was sixteen years old. She hadn’t been a mercenary at the time—just a scrappy young girl eager to escape the long reach of her father’s shadow. There’d been no band to back her up, no bard to watch what transpired and record it in song. Only a handful of awestruck farmers were there to see it, but farmers spread gossip like seed, and word of Rose’s exploit grew quickly. She’d become a celebrity almost overnight, earning herself the moniker under which she would live forever after: Bloody Rose.
There were those who didn’t believe the story, who thought she’d found it dead or used her daddy’s gold to hire mercs to slay the beast on her behalf. Tom, of course, had never doubted it was true. But here in the arena, seeing a cyclops in the pallid, towering, monstrous flesh, he felt a pang of uncertainty in his gut, because how could a sixteen-year-old girl—how could anyone at all—overcome this? How did you even begin?
By running straight at it, evidently.
Rose took the lead at a sprint. Her rune-inscribed gauntlets pulsed blue-green, and the scimitars at her waist leapt like spawning salmon into her hands. Freecloud raced behind her, clenching Madrigal’s scabbard in one hand and leaning as though he were running into a gale.
As Rose closed with the cyclops it aimed a clumsy kick in her direction, which she dodged without slowing. She sprang onto its other foot and stabbed one of her swords into its shin. She used the weapon’s leverage to haul herself up, planting the other blade an arm’s length higher. The cyclops barely registered the wounds. Tom supposed that years of harsh captivity in the dim cells below the arena had somehow inured it to pain. It pivoted on the foot nearest Freecloud, unable to locate Rose, who was stabbing her way up the back of its leg.
While she climbed toward the creature’s waist, Freecloud made an obvious target of himself by standing directly in front of it. The druin still hadn’t drawn his sword, but his right hand hovered threateningly above its hilt. The cyclops tried stomping him flat, but Freecloud—who’d seen it coming—stepped clear. He did so with unhurried ease, like a pilgrim making way on the road for a farmer’s cart. When the beast tried again with the other foot, Freecloud ducked aside. Tom heard a shrill ring and caught the flash of sunlit steel as Madrigal finally left its scabbard. Gripping the sword two-handed, the druin brought it down across the monster’s toes, which split like logs beneath a woodsman’s axe.
Blood and noise followed. The cyclops roared in pain, and Tom heard one of the mercs behind him clap and yell, “Attaboy!”
Freecloud moved in a slow circle around it, Madrigal poised like a scorpion’s tail above him. The cyclops tracked him warily. Red gore dripped in viscous strands from its open mouth, slopping over the swell of its belly and into the matted loincloth below.
Rose must have suddenly hit a nerve, because the thing yelped and slapped her with a meaty hand. She weathered the blow, gripping her hilts like a climber clinging to purchase above a yawning abyss. She was twenty feet from the ground now; a fall wouldn’t kill her, but it would leave her prone, which could prove lethal.
Determined to recover the beast’s attention, Freecloud darted in and chopped at its ankle. The cut was shallow, glancing off bone, but was enough to distract the cyclops, who spun around as the druin danced between its legs. It stooped to swat at Freecloud, who didn’t bother trying to evade it—only stood there as the gnarly hand swiped through him.
The cyclops looked bewildered as wisps of green smoke curled in its empty palm. Tom was confused as well, until he spotted Freecloud standing beneath its legs, exactly where he’d been a moment earlier.
Tom had heard songs about druic sorcery. It was said they could cast illusions and pass unseen by mortal eyes. The songs were true, apparently, though by this point in the day it surprised Tom not at all.
When Rose reached the monster’s waist she let her swords tumble to the ground. Using the soiled loincloth for purchase, she clambered onto the creature’s back as it bent to reach for Freecloud. There was a ridge of coarse blue fur running the length of its spine, which Rose climbed hand over hand with alarming dexterity.
Below her, Freecloud was forced to retreat as the cyclops lunged at him with both hands. Fast as the druin was, his adversary was simply too big to evade for long. In his effort to distract it from Rose, he was forced to put himself in jeopardy. He could no longer afford to counter the creature’s attacks, and twice more was obliged to rely on illusions to save his skin. Tom watched as he narrowly ducked a blow from the beast, and when another came there were suddenly two of him: mirrored swordsmen in silver mail and swirling sky blue cloaks.
The monster picked one and punched, at which point both Tom and Freecloud learned—rather painfully, in the latter’s case—that even a cyclops gets lucky from time to time.
Freecloud—the real Freecloud—went tumbling violently across the stone floor of the arena. Where he stopped, he lay unmoving. His illusory double vanished in smoke.
From all over the arena came the sound of breathless gasps. The cyclops loosed a chortling roar as it advanced on the crumpled druin.
Tom leaned into his brother’s shoulder. “It can’t kill him, right? They won’t let it.”
Kars shook his head. “Who’s they?”
Tom looked to one end of the canyon, where a cordon of shield-bearing spearmen were stationed in case any of the arena’s monstrous denizens made a break for it. None of them appeared eager to rescue Freecloud. In fact, he doubted they would challenge the cyclops even if it came right at them.
Rose was lost to sight on the monster’s back. She might have guessed from the crowd’s reaction that Freecloud was down, but what could she do about it?
No more than I can, thought Tom miserably.
He started as Kars laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Look away, brother.”
Look away.
So he did. He looked away, and found his gaze drawn to the face of Fable’s old bard. Although Kamaris may have resented his previous band, he didn’t hate them. He wasn’t evil. And despite his earlier comment about Tom’s first song as Fable’s new bard being an elegy, his expression now was utterly desolate, the face of a farmer finding his crops destroyed by an early frost.
When Tom bolted from the cave window his brother probably assumed he had gone to retch or to spare himself the sight of Freecloud’s death. In truth, Tom had no idea what he was doing, except that at some point in the past few moments he’d decided that he should do something, even if it amounted to nothing.
He pushed through the press of mercenaries behind him, and rushed to the lip of the cave before remembering he had no weapon but the knife his mother had given him. Without thinking he snatched up a bow from against the wall, shrugged the lute case from his shoulder and replaced it with a bristling quiver. And then he was past the door guards, sprinting all-out down the stone ramp.
The sound of the crowd hit him like a physical force, a percussive roar louder than anything he’d ever heard. The quiver bounced painfully against his side, and the bow was so tall he had to hold it sideways so—
Gods fuck me, Tom thought, only now recognizing the weapon in his hand. It’s Jain’s bow. I just stole Lady fucking Jain’s bow! The realization of this—more than the fact that he was charging out to fight a cyclops—almost turned him back.
Too late now, since he was on the arena floor, running as fast as his legs could carry
him. He was already short of breath, because it turned out—surprise!—that playing at being a mercenary was more physically taxing than clearing glassware off tables. He cast a glance toward Freecloud, facedown on the stone, but then Tom’s gaze went up and up, and he found himself looking into the abysmal black eye of the cyclops.
He felt his knees threaten to buckle. He slowed his pace without meaning to, because every instinct was screaming at him to turn and run the other way. The creature was bleating at him, but Tom could barely hear it over the noise coming off the canyon walls and the rasp of his own ragged breath.
Having decided that the boy with the bow presented no threat whatsoever, the cyclops took another step toward Freecloud. One more, and it could crush the druin with a stomp of its foot.
Now or never, Tom told himself. He skidded to a halt, chose an arrow at random, and let the quiver fall at his feet. The sun was in his eyes, so he had to squint to see. On his first attempt to draw the bow he barely bent it at all. With a newfound respect for Lady Jain’s upper-arm strength he tried again, gritting his teeth, knuckles whitening as he pulled the fletching to the edge of his jaw. He aimed the point of his arrow at the only target he could think of, because when you fought something with one huge eye in the middle of its head, choosing something to shoot at was sort of a no-brainer.
Beyond his centre of focus he saw Rose gain the giant’s shoulder. She extended an arm—the bracer on her wrist glowing bright—and one of her swords sprang into her waiting hand.
Tom took a breath, trying in vain to keep his hands from trembling. The muscles in his arms were on fire. He could feel the arrow straining against his grip, like a trained falcon awaiting the command to kill.
He let it fly.
Tom awoke with the roar of the arena echoing in his ears, rising and falling like a sailor’s memory of the sea in a storm. His head was throbbing, and his jaw ached as if he’d taken a punch from someone a great deal stronger than himself. He was lying on a cot in a large lantern-lit tent, the ceiling of which was lost to shadow. He could make out the sound of music and harsh laughter beyond the canvas walls. From nearby came the slow rasp of quiet breathing.
Still alive, then, thought Tom, whose last memory was of fainting the moment after he’d loosed the arrow.
“Your brother was here.”
Easing his head to the right, Tom saw Rose seated beside another cot upon which Freecloud was laid out, unconscious or asleep. Her hair was drawn back from her face, tied into a haphazard knot at the back of her head. It might have made her look younger, except her eyes were as hard and cold as a mountain in winter. They were, Tom decided, the sort of eyes that held a knife to your throat as they rifled through the pockets of your subconscious.
“Where is here?” Tom asked, propping himself on one elbow. His head grumbled a warning that doing so had been a bad idea.
Rose placed a hand on Freecloud’s forehead, frowning at whatever it was she felt. “Remember those big tents we passed on the way to the arena?”
“We’re in the Fighter’s Camp?”
She nodded yes.
And so Tom found himself in yet another place he’d never imagined being before today. From what little he’d heard, Fighter’s Camp was sort of an after-party for mercenaries only, though select members of Ardburg’s nobility were invited, and pretty much anyone clever enough to slip past the loose cordon of sentries was permitted as well. It was said the guards could be bribed with booze, sex, or silver, though paying with actual currency was generally frowned upon.
Tom looked to Freecloud. There was a series of small cuts marring one side of the druin’s face, which Rose was gently patting with a dampened cloth. His chest was rising and falling with the slow cadence of deep slumber.
“Is he okay?” Tom asked.
Rose took a long breath before answering. “He will be,” she said quietly. Her eyes roved to Tom and she chewed a moment on her bottom lip. She appeared to be weighing her next words carefully. “What you did today was …”
“Stupid,” Tom finished for her.
“Very,” she agreed.
“Reckless,” he added.
“Wildly so, yes.”
“I’m a fool.”
“No argument there,” said Rose. She raised a hand to forestall further bouts of self-recrimination, then placed the other hand on Freecloud’s chest. “But what you did was very brave.”
Tom’s face boiled like a kettle. He swallowed, if only to keep the steam from spewing out his ears. “My mother—”
“Is going to kill us both,” said Rose.
“I won’t tell her,” Tom blurted.
Rose laughed. A grin like spearing sunlight broke across her face. “You won’t need to. I’d wager all of Ardburg is talking about the boy with the bow. These things get around, believe me.”
“Did I kill it?” Tom asked.
Her eyes narrowed. “The cyclops?”
He nodded.
“No, you didn’t. I cut its throat.”
Tom didn’t know whether to be disappointed or greatly relieved. “So my arrow missed, then?”
Rose shrugged. “That depends on what you were aiming for.” She stood, grimacing, and Tom saw a strip of bloody cloth binding her right thigh.
Tom bolted upright. He felt the heat leach from his face. “I shot you,” he breathed.
“You shot me,” she confirmed. “Did a piss-poor job of it, though. I’ve had slivers that bled more when I pulled them out.”
“I shot you,” Tom repeated dumbly.
Rose resumed her seat. “Yeah, well, good luck convincing anyone of that. According to some half a hundred thousand witnesses you killed a cyclops with a single arrow.”
Tom was still in shock. “I shot Bloody Rose …”
Rose looked at him seriously. “Say it one more time and I’ll return the favour.”
“Sorry,” he said. The pain in his head was receding, crowded out by awe and disbelief. Tom swung his legs over the side of his cot. His boots were on the ground beside the bed, along with Jain’s longbow. A single arrow lay atop it, and he had no doubt at all as to whose blood stained its iron tip red.
Tom sat in silence while Rose soaked her cloth in a basin of water, then continued mopping the druin’s brow. At last he summoned the courage to ask whether or not he was fired, but only got so far as drawing the breath to say it.
“I almost killed him today,” said Rose without taking her eyes off Freecloud. She licked her lips, and Tom noticed for the first time that they were stained a bluish-black on the inside. “I should have been more careful. We could have fought that thing together and brought it down, no problem. But I charged ahead, tried to take it on my own. I put all of us in danger.”
“You were fearless …” Tom began.
“That wasn’t fearlessness,” she snapped, looking up. Her eyes were narrowed, accusing, though Tom had the sense her ire was directed inward. “That was fear.”
Tom was about to ask, perhaps unwisely, what she meant by that, but then Freecloud stirred in his sleep. He murmured a string of sibilant words in a language Tom didn’t recognize before slipping back under.
Rose stroked one of his twitching ears with gentle fingers. “You should head outside,” she said to Tom. “Find Cura and Brune—they’ll look after you. Be a shame to spend your first Fighter’s Camp in bed.” She glanced up again, the ghost of a grin haunting her lips. “In bed alone, anyway. And say good-bye to your brother,” she added. “He’s going north tomorrow, along with everyone else.”
“But not us,” said Tom.
Rose looked away. “No. We’ve got a contract in Conthas and a few other errands to take care of down south. We’re leaving first thing in the morning. You can sleep on the argosy.”
Guess I’m not fired, Tom thought. He pulled on his boots and threw his heavy cloak across his shoulders. After a moment’s consideration he picked up Jain’s bow, deciding he’d better return it, even if doing so felt like returning to a d
ragon’s lair because you’d lost an earring while stealing its hoard.
He was almost to the exit when Rose spoke up behind him.
“They’ve named you, by the way.”
Tom paused. He could feel night air trickling through the tent flap, cool where it licked his skin. Turning, he saw that her back was to him still. She looked very small just now, crouched in the gloom like a solitary candle’s fitful, futile flame—this woman the world called Bloody Rose.
“Named me what?” Tom asked.
She sighed, a sound like the cold breeze whispering in his ear. “Oh, I expect you’ll find out soon enough.”
introducing
If you enjoyed
KINGS OF THE WYLD,
look out for
THE DRAGON LORDS: FOOL’S GOLD
by Jon Hollins
It’s not easy to live in a world ruled by dragons. The taxes are high and their control is complete. But for one group of bold misfits, it’s time to band together and steal back some of that wealth.
No one said they were smart.
Will stood, momentarily paralyzed by the vision of a cave full of goblins.
Run! screamed a small and eminently sensible part of his mind, but for some reason his legs weren’t paying attention. They, it seemed, were more fatalistic. They would only carry him from so many attempts on his life in one day before simply giving up and accepting the fate as inevitable.
“Sorry,” he heard himself. “Wrong cave. My one’s a few entrances down.”
He went to take a step away from the goblins but his cowardly legs were still not on the same page as the rest of him.
A low growl seemed to rise from every small mouth in the room, a whisper brought to the volume of a roar by the sheer density of the bodies packed into the space before him.
“I’ll be off then,” he said, more to his own anatomy than to the crowd. His knees shivered in response, but he thought the movement boded collapse more than any sort of horizontal traction.