Kings of the Wyld (The Band #1)

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. “Rose 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?”

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