Kings of the Wyld (The Band #1)

Now and then they heard the surge of tidal engines as the Dark Star sailed overhead, still searching for its fallen mistress.

At last they stepped clear of the forest’s black eaves. There was a bank of stone-riddled foothills ahead, humped like worshippers before the awesome glory of the Emperor’s Mantle. It was said that four hundred years ago, after he’d led his exiled court through the perilous Wyld, the heir of Grandual’s short-lived Emperor had stood upon the crest of these mountains and looked back, sighing in despair at all his father’s hubris had lost him.

Clay craned his neck, gazing along the line of peaks from north to south. Whereas most mountains had imposing monikers like Hell’s Talon or Soulreaper, the ones in this range were called things like Vigilance, Patience, and Trust, as if they’d been named by some commune of peace-loving Getalongs. Clay didn’t know which peak was which. He was bad with names, after all.

Gabriel was glaring at the mountains with an annoyed smirk, as though they were a gang of thugs who’d stopped him in an alley and demanded a toll. “We’re close,” he said.

“Sure,” Sabbatha quipped. “Just a few thousand feet of snow and stone between us and a Horde big enough to wipe an entire city off the map.”

Ganelon looked heartened by the prospect of violence. “So how you wanna do this?” he asked of Gabe. “The Nightstream might be fun.” The Nightstream was a shallow river that snaked an arterial path through the heart of the mountains.

Kit raised his hand. “The Nightstream is infested by goblins. We’d have a thousand of the devils on us the moment we set foot inside.”

Ganelon bared his teeth. “Sounds fun to me.”

Sabbatha barked a laugh. She’d grown less timid since claiming Shadow’s scythe for herself. She leaned on Umbra as if it were nothing more than a walking stick, but even still Clay found the weapon unnerving. His mind kept returning to the moment after the druin’s death: The one-winged daeva standing over Shadow’s corpse, clenching his ears in an iron fist.

“We could take Garric’s Gap?” ventured Matrick.

Clay scratched at his beard. “The Gap closed, I heard. Landslide filled it in a few years back.”

“Too far south, anyway,” said Ganelon. “What about the Defile?”

“Giants,” Matrick and Moog spoke in unison.

Ganelon shook his head, the beads in his braids clattering softly. “You two were a lot more fun twenty years ago, you know that?”

Gabriel drew his gaze from the mountains. “We’re taking the Cold Road,” he said, and when no one spoke he went on: “It’s the fastest way.”

“It’s dangerous,” warned Ganelon.

“Too dangerous,” Moog added. “If it was winter, then maybe—maybe—it might be an option, but now it’s just … it’s crazy, Gabriel. I’m telling you. I’m telling you it’s crazy—that’s how crazy it is!”

“What’s the Cold Road?” asked Sabbatha.

“It’s a bridge,” said Clay before either Kit or the wizard could spin their answer into a story. “A bridge made of ice. Wide enough to cross five abreast in winter, but now …” He shrugged. “If you fall off, it’s a long way down.”

Kit made the wet, gurgling sound that passed for clearing his throat.

“Also there are rasks,” Clay said. “Ice trolls,” he added, noting Sabbatha’s confusion.

“Like Taino?” The daeva sounded mildly hopeful.

Clay shook his head. “I don’t think anyone’s like Taino but Taino.”

“Rasks don’t speak, or read, or play the drums,” Moog told her. “They kill. And then they eat what they kill. That’s pretty much all they do.”

Sabbatha frowned. “So the bridge is a bad idea?”

“A terrible idea,” said the wizard.

“Reckless,” said Kit. “The Cold Road takes its toll. Always.”

Matrick groaned and rubbed his face. “So which is it then? The Defile?” He eyed the ettin warily. “Not sure how we’ll sneak these two past the giants …”

“My vote’s for the Nightstream,” said Ganelon, which earned him a sour look from Kit. “What? They’re only goblins.”

“We’re not voting,” said Gabriel calmly.

Moog wheeled on Clay. He jerked his head toward Gabriel as if to say, Talk some sense into him, and his eyebrows jumped as if to add, Please.

Gabriel was regarding him as well, and behind that placid stare Clay caught a glimmer of uncertainty. Gabriel knew the bridge was a bad idea. He knew, as well, that if Clay refused to follow him across, then so would the others.

The Defile was the safer choice. Giants were dangerous, sure, but easy enough to avoid, especially at night. And it wasn’t as if every giant was a vicious killer—except the children. The children were nasty buggers. In general, however, they treated humans the way humans treated spiders, which is to say they were as likely to cup you in a palm and carry you to safety as they were to scream and step on you.

The Nightstream wasn’t the worst idea, either. They’d lose a week or so on the journey, but it was a fairly straight path to the other side, and goblins—even in numbers—were a lot less scary than rasks. As well, spending a few days in the dark felt preferable to crossing a narrow strip of ice over several thousand feet of empty air.

So, yeah, there were safer ways to cross the mountains, but there was not, assuming they could cross the bridge without incident, a faster way. Clay might have weighed these things against one another. He could have taken into account the protests of the others, except that, in the end, only one thing really mattered.

You would come it if was me, right, Daddy?

Clay closed his eyes against the ache in his chest. He clenched his fingers, imagining he could feel his daughter’s tiny hand in his. What would he give to see her now? To hold her in his arms and breathe her in? What would he risk to keep her from harm? What would he dare if her life were threatened?

Everything. Anything. Clay opened his eyes.

“We take the Cold Road,” he said.

“No …” Moog’s voice was barely a whisper.

“Moog, listen, it’s the—”

“Impossible,” breathed the wizard.

“Well, c’mon now, I wouldn’t say …” He trailed off, since Moog was very obviously not listening to a word he was saying.

The wizard’s expression slipped from shock to disbelief—the sort of amazed wonderment you’d expect from a child who’d begged for a horse for their birthday and was given an entire herd. He raised his arm and pointed a trembling finger past Clay’s shoulder.

Clay turned to look. At first he saw nothing but a rising slope littered with rugged brown stone, but then something shifted against the hillside, and he saw … he saw …

Matrick’s voice broke over his thoughts. “Is that what I think it is?”

Clay squinted, shading his eyes from the sun. What he saw looked a great deal like a bear, except it was bigger than any bear he’d ever seen. It had grey feathers in place of fur, horned ears above a stubby black beak, and a pair of large eyes. Comically large, in fact, which spurred Clay to realize, at last, what exactly he was looking at.

“OWLBEAR!” Moog was dancing on the spot. “It’s an owlbear! I told you, didn’t I? I told you! It’s real! I knew it!”

Ganelon smirked. “Then why do you sound so surprised?”

The wizard ignored him. “This is incredible! Nobody’s ever seen an owlbear up close and lived to speak of it. Gods of Grandual, if that old bastard Katamus could see this!”

“What did you say?” Matrick asked.

“He was my professor of Biological Impossibilities at Oddsford. He didn’t—”

“No,” Matrick cut him off. “I mean about no one seeing one up close and living?”

“Well, obviously,” said Moog, as though it actually were obvious. “Or else they wouldn’t be considered a myth, would they? Also, did you see its claws? It could cut a tree to kindling with one swipe!”

He went on speaking, but whatever he said was drowned out by deafening and distinctly territorial WHOOOOOOOT!

Clay was hoping no one had seen him jump when Ganelon reached suddenly for Syrinx. The runes blazed to life and the axe muttered like a sleeper kicked awake. “It’s charging,” he announced.





Chapter Forty-two

Nicholas Eames's books