Kings of the Wyld (The Band #1)

Gabe spared a glance for Ganelon, and the warrior introduced the booker’s face to his steel-shod boot.

“Over there!” Kallorek blurted, pointing toward one corner of the chapel hall. “There’s a chest over there somewhere. Take the scabbard and get the fuck out of my house.”

Gabriel still wore his wide smile. “Oh, I’ll take the scabbard. And we’ll be out of your—” his eyes flitted to Kallorek’s greasy comb-over “—hair soon enough. Thing is, though, Kal—the Wyld’s a dangerous place. I think it’s probably best we grab a few more things while we’re here, don’t you?”

The booker looked as if he would spit again, or scream, or lunge at Gabriel and wring his throat, but then he flinched as his limited imagination reminded him what Ganelon’s boot tasted like. He nodded grudgingly and growled, “Sure. Of course. Take whatever you’d like.”

Gabe gave Kallorek’s jowls a friendly slap. He straightened, took a breath, and looked around at his bandmates like a man awakened from a restful sleep. “Gear up, boys. If we’re gonna play heroes we might as well dress the part.”

Moog went to pick through the wreckage of the broken bookcase, while Matrick snatched a pair of luxurious leather boots off a nearby table. Ganelon crossed to where a set of wrought-iron bracers glimmered beneath a glass casement. He used his bare hand to smash the glass and lift them clear.

Clay wandered idly, perusing a wicked-looking scimitar that he could have sworn whispered his name as he drew close, and a hammer whose ivory-bound haft was startlingly cold to the touch. He saw the imposing helm of Liac the Arachnian that Kallorek had shown them during their previous visit, and beneath it the suit of crimson mail called the Warskin, through which, the booker had alleged, no sword or spear could pass.

A fine quality in any piece of armour, Clay reckoned, and so he took it.

It fit as though it were made for him. There was a silk undercoat so the links wouldn’t chafe, and segmented steel bands above and below each elbow to allow ease of movement. There were pauldrons on either shoulder that flared into a high-collared guard to protect his throat. The coat itself draped almost to his knees, and it was belted at the waist by a metal band whose opposing ends seemed drawn together by some intangible magic.

“Oooh, magnets,” said Moog, who noticed Clay clasping and unclasping the belt in obvious wonder.

“Magnets?”

The wizard got that look in his eye, a teacher relishing in the ignorance of a student. “It’s actually quite fascinating …” he began.

“I’m sure it is,” murmured Clay, already walking away. He picked up the frigid hammer as he went, deciding on a whim to call it Wraith.

On his way back toward Gabriel he saw the sarcophagus over which Gabe and Kallorek had tripped during their previous visit. It was empty, its heavy lid ajar, and Clay wondered briefly what manner of ghastly horror they’d unleashed upon the world.

The rest of the band were busy equipping themselves as well. Ganelon found a suit of black dragonscale to match his shiny new gauntlets, while Matrick bore a gnarled horn at his hip. When he saw Clay looking he said, “Watch this,” and blew briefly in the mouthpiece. There was no discernible sound, but as he did so a small flurry of winged insects swarmed out the other end.

Clay brushed a wasp away from his eyes. “So … it’s a horn that vomits bees?”

“Isn’t it great?” asked Matrick.

Clay frowned, thoroughly disgusted. “Not really, no.”

“I win! I win!” Moog hurried between two armour-draped mannequins. He knocked one over in his haste and had actually turned to apologize before thinking better of it and moving on. He was wearing the sort of wide-brimmed, pointy hat that wizards wore all the time in storybooks and practically never in real life, probably because it looked ridiculous.

“Yep, you win,” Matrick agreed. “You look the stupidest.”

“That’s not a word,” Moog informed him. “But watch!” He pulled off the hat and plunged his arm in to the elbow. “It’s like my bag, but different. There’s an enchantment inside! You can’t put things in it, only take them out. But not just anything—oh, yes, here we are.”

Clay looked on in disbelief as the wizard withdrew a chicken from the confines of the hat—not alive, but plucked and roasted, glazed until the skin was brown and crisp. The smell alone set his mouth watering. “How …?”

Moog tossed the chicken aside and Matrick lunged for it, using his uninjured arm to brace it against his chest. “What the …” he started, but then Moog reached into his hat again and pulled out another, which he tossed to Clay, and then another. He threw this one to Ganelon, but the warrior sidestepped it, eyeing it warily where it lay on the ground.

“Chicken from a hat,” he muttered in distaste.

“It’s perfectly fine,” Moog assured him. “But anyway, there’s more.” He continued plucking foodstuffs out of thin air: loaves of bread, ears of corn, ripened tomatoes, pastries stuffed with fruit and topped with sweet-smelling icing.

By now Matrick’s arms were overflowing. “Now this,” he told Clay, “is better than a horn that vomits bees.”

Clay shrugged. On that, at least, they could agree.





Chapter Twenty-six

The Revenant in the Room

They were on their way out of the compound—Ganelon prodding a shambling and hugely uncooperative Kallorek ahead of them—when Valery emerged from a bedroom and called weakly to Gabriel. Clay saw her voice snag his friend like a hook, slowing him, dragging him round to face her. The air of confidence Gabe had radiated since reclaiming Vellichor slipped for an instant, and there was the coward again, the beaten dog slinking back into its master’s shadow.

“Valery,” he croaked.

She took a feeble step toward him. She looked wasted and pale. There were dark hollows beneath her eyes. Her hair was in disarray, and she wore a long white nightgown, as if she’d only just now roused herself from bed. Clay found himself staring at the angry red scars on her bare arms.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been … I’m trying to get clean. I’ve been sleeping.” She looked around in bewilderment at the empty house. “What’s happened? Why are you here?”

Gabe said nothing, but put his hand on Vellichor’s ornate pommel. Her tired eyes tracked his movement. “Ah, of course,” she said. A hint of bitterness soured her tone. “Did you know, Kal used to say that if he offered to give you back either Vellichor or me, that you would choose the sword? I think maybe he was right.”

Of course he was right, Clay thought, but opted to stay silent.

Gabriel didn’t bother responding, but Valery didn’t press the matter. She looked wearily around at all of them, lingering longest on Ganelon, but at last her eyes settled on Clay.

“You were here before,” she said. “I … remember.” And now her face crumpled, the dread of revelation darkening her gaze. When she spoke again her voice was thick with panic. “Oh. Oh no. Rosie? Is she—”

“She’s alive,” said Gabriel. “She’s in Castia.” He took a step closer, drawn to her by the hook in his heart.

“Castia.” She said it first without inflection, and then again, with a dawning horror that drew Gabe another step nearer.

“I’ll find her, Val,” he promised. “I will find her. And I’ll bring her home.”

Kallorek scoffed, which earned him a backhanded slap from one of Ganelon’s new gauntlets and a hateful glare from Valery, who looked as though she was torn between screaming and sobbing.

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