Kings of the Wyld (The Band #1)

“How did you survive?”

The self-exiled king of Agria shrugged. “Beats me,” he said. “I woke up right before I went over, but the drug—that shaderoot, or whatever—hadn’t quite worn off yet. I couldn’t move, at least not until I’d taken a couple knocks on the way down, which loosened me up enough I could swim to shore when it was all over. Still, I think being a bit limp was what spared me getting all smashed up. Well, more smashed up. Anyway, I managed to keep these ladies safe.” He patted the pair of daggers resting beside him on the rock.

The wizard moved to the edge and peered down into the churning water. “The boat? The treasure?”

“Lost, I’m afraid. Except what I’ve got on me.” Matrick brandished his hands, glittering with golden rings. He was still wearing several chains as well, but the crown was gone. Nevertheless, they’d left the castle with full rations, and what remained on Matrick’s person could be pawned for more than enough to keep them fed for however long the gods saw fit to let them live.

“Lucky,” said Gabriel.

Clay glanced at him sidelong. “I’m not sure that word means what you think it means.”

“We should keep moving,” Moog declared. “There might be folk seeking a scrap of that treasure. Or Lilith might wise up and send someone out to look for us.”

“True enough,” Clay agreed. He scratched at his beard and looked to Gabriel. “You sure about Fivecourt?”

“What’s in Fivecourt?” Matrick asked. He reached tentative fingers to his wounded ear and winced in pain.

“Ganelon,” said Clay and Gabriel at once.

The king frowned at his bloody fingers. “Really? Fivecourt’s backtracking a bit, though …”

“Even so,” said Gabriel, glancing over at Clay. “We need him. If we’re going to cross the Heartwyld. If we’re to have any hope at all of getting Rose out of Castia. He is—”

“He’s Ganelon,” Clay said. “I know. And I know we need him. I just … don’t think he’ll be all that happy to see us.”

“Yeah, well. We have to try.”

Clay exhaled. “Okay. All right. Fivecourt it is.”

“We can follow the river right to it,” Matrick suggested. “Four, maybe five days through these woods? It’s not as fast as the road, but we should keep a low profile anyway, right? If someone sees us and Lilith finds out I’m still alive she’ll have my head on a platter. All our heads, in fact.”

“And its likely Kallorek knows where we’re going,” added Gabriel. “He’ll have men on the road, I should think.”

Fantastic, Clay mused. A spiteful queen and a vengeful booker to watch out for. As if heading into a monster-infested forest on our way to a hopelessly besieged city wasn’t trouble enough. Whoever wants us dead should just sit back and let us kill ourselves.

They set off east. Gabriel took the lead, with Moog and Matrick chatting excitedly behind, while Clay brought up the rear, still lost in thought.

Ah, but look on the bright side, Cooper: You have friends by your side, food to eat, and gold to spend.

He didn’t know it then, of course, but by noon the next day he would lose two of the three.





Chapter Fifteen

Breakfast with Thieves

They stopped for a rest shortly before sunrise. Matrick offered to keep watch while the others snatched an hour or two of precious sleep, and so Clay set his back against the mossy corpse of a fallen tree and was out within minutes.

He dreamt of home, imagining his house filled with frogs of every shape and size as Tally pulled more and more from inside her pockets. Next he was swimming in Kallorek’s so-called pool, when suddenly one of the tiled walls fell away and he plunged over the edge into black oblivion. Finally Clay dreamt of Jain, the woman who had robbed him and Gabriel on the road to Conthas. He saw her standing over him in those silly patchwork clothes, a bow in her hands and a great big smile on her dirt-smeared face.

“Mornin’, Slowhand.”

He blinked. Could you blink in your dreams?

“Rise and shine, man!” Jain kicked him gently with her boot, and he glimpsed one of his wife’s knitted socks peeking out the top.

His voice was a hoarse croak. “I’m not dreaming.”

The brigand snorted at that. “Course not. Or I wouldn’t be wearing so many bleedin’ clothes now, would I?”

Clay straightened and glanced around. Jain’s gang—the Silk Arrows—were scattered around the camp. They were all of them armed, but none looked particularly threatening. In fact it looked as though they’d been here for a while before Clay had finally stirred awake. They’d long since relieved Matrick of what valuables he’d managed to salvage from his funeral, jamming rings onto already ring-crowded fingers and adding chains of gold and silver to the numerous scarves and shawls around their necks. A few were sitting with Moog while the wizard regaled them with some story that required him to flail his arms like a pair of flapping wings. His audience laughed and clapped, and so Moog—an entertainer at heart—redoubled his efforts, which drew another bout of laughter from his crowd.

He spotted Gabriel sitting by a small fire, eating eggs out of a frying pan. When his friend saw that Clay was awake he swallowed and set down his fork. “We’re being robbed,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Evidently.” Clay rubbed at his eyes to clear them. He looked at Matrick, who was leaning sullenly against a nearby tree. “Weren’t you supposed to be keeping watch?”

“Sure was,” said Matty. “I watched them appear out of nowhere with bows.”

Clay frowned. “Fair enough.”

Jain prodded him again with her foot. “Up and at ’em, Slowhand. There’s eggs and bacon—maybe even a few sausages left, if your friends haven’t gobbled them up already. Just cause we’re taking your stuff don’t mean we can’t be civilized about it. We’ve had some fair good fortune since we saw you last. More than you anyway, from what I’ve heard.”

Sure enough, the profusion of garments on Jain’s person did seem to be of slightly higher quality than when he’d seen her last week. When she saw him eyeing her black silk gloves, the bandit raised her hand and pushed her sleeve up to the elbow to show it off.

“You like?” she asked. Jain had cut the tips off the thumb and the first two fingers so she could draw an arrow without losing her grip. Clay had to admire the woman’s pragmatism, if not her fashion sense. “Scooped these off some highborn lady on her way to the king’s funeral,” she said, before kissing the exposed fingers and touching her heart. “May the Summer Lord light his way.”

She hasn’t recognized Matrick, Clay realized. They don’t know who he is. Better to keep it that way, he figured. Once Lilith discovered their deception—and she would, eventually, of that he had no doubt—she would come after them like a dragon who’d counted its hoard and found it a penny short. Which was to say: swiftly, and with terrible vengeance.

Clay climbed slowly to his feet. His back ached, and his knees popped when he straightened them. He was careful not to make any sudden move that Jain or one of her lady-thugs might perceive as aggression. Getting an arrow in the chest was a sure way to spoil a good breakfast, and if he was going to be robbed he might as well score some bacon in the deal.

Jain led him to the fire, where he settled down beside Gabe. She passed him a skillet and a crude wooden fork before claiming one for herself and squatting to eat. The eggs were cold, but there was a thick slab of salted pork belly and a few fat sausages that were still warm when he bit into them. All in all, a pretty square meal.

“The birds say there’s a bounty out for the pair o’ you,” said Jain, nodding toward him and Gabe.

Nicholas Eames's books