Turing seemed decidedly uninterested. One of his blackened branches made a weak stab for Moog’s eye, but the wizard casually swatted it away.
“Cure him of what?” Gabriel asked, and Clay wondered briefly if Turing the treant had come to reap the “restorative” benefits of Magic Moog’s phylactery.
The wizard looked up. The mirth had drained from his bright blue eyes and left them as cold and hard as a shallow pond in winter. “The rot,” Moog said.
Wizards were obsessive by nature, and Moog was no exception. There were two things about which he’d been passionate for near as long as Clay had known him.
The first of these was the owlbear, a mythical creature that no one alive had ever seen but whose existence Moog (along with a pathetically small society of owlbear enthusiasts) staunchly asserted.
The second was the rot, which had claimed the lives of a great many fellow adventurers, including the man Moog had loved more than anyone in the world: his husband, Fredrick. Even before Fredrick found himself afflicted by the Heathen’s Touch, Moog had nursed an interest in curing the infamously incurable disease. Afterward he became increasingly (and understandably) preoccupied by it. When the bonds that bound Saga began to fray, the wizard fairly leapt at the chance to quit the band and devote himself entirely to fighting the illness.
Alas, the rot had proved too implacable a foe for both Moog and his husband alike. Fredrick succumbed within months of Saga’s breakup, but Moog, apparently, had not yet given up on overcoming their old nemesis, which had taken everything from the wizard and, as yet, given nothing but grief in return.
Turing was dead.
Night had fallen, and Clay could see stars peeping through the roof beyond the crumbling second storey. Gabriel hauled the cauldron out of the hearth and got a real fire going, and Clay, rummaging through the tower’s pantry, found a loaf of stale bread, a basket of overripe tomatoes, and a brick of hard cheese. So he made sandwiches.
Moog had, throughout the course of the afternoon, moved from sulking over the treant’s corpse to sulking amidst the clutter of laboratory equipment to sulking while sitting on the steps to the upper floor. Currently he was curled up and hugging his knees in a huge armchair, sulking.
“It’s hopeless,” he muttered, as he had done every few minutes over the past two hours. His bony fingers clutched at his long white beard, and his eyes darted frantically, like a man who’d poisoned his wife and was expecting her ghost to appear any minute and cuss him out.
“You did your best,” said Gabriel, though even he sounded unconvinced by the platitude.
Moog didn’t bother responding, except to mutter “Hopeless” again beneath his breath.
Clay spent a good while ruminating on his sandwich and chewing on what to say next. Direct consolation seemed a wasted effort, and it had never been one of Clay’s strengths anyway. He opted for a different tactic, one that he used now and again on Tally when she was being obstinate: distraction.
“Those creatures in the cages, they all have the rot?” He got a brooding nod in response. “Did you collect them yourself?”
The wizard stirred, glanced sullenly toward the stacked cages, and then nodded. “Most of them, yes.”
“Is that wise?” Clay prodded. “The Heartwyld’s a dangerous place.”
Moog rubbed at his eyes with the back of one hand. He really did look like a child in those ridiculous pyjamas. “I bought a few of them, like Turing, off of mercenaries. But not many mercs are brave enough to dare the Wyld anymore. The Renegades do. And I hear the Stormriders just wrapped up a successful tour. Which reminds me: They have a parade in Conthas tomorrow.”
“It was yesterday,” said Gabriel.
Moog only blinked. “Oh.”
Clay swiped crumbs from the front of his shirt. “Do you hire bodyguards, at least?”
That drew a scoff from the wizard, who gestured at their humble surroundings. “I can hardly afford to pay off goons every time I need a specimen,” he declared. “Alchemy is a costly hobby, I fear. I barely make ends meet selling my phylactery. Frigid Hells, if it wasn’t for the limp dicks of Conthas I’d be flat broke! Besides, I’m careful about setting foot in the forest. I am a frigging wizard, after all, not some street magician peddling cantrips for silver shillings! I can handle a few monsters!”
Moog’s dogged good cheer was making its inevitable return, but Clay’s concern was mounting as well. “It’s not monsters I’m worried about,” he stated. “What if you—”
It was the look on Gabriel’s face that cut him short, and Clay cursed himself for a fool. The wizard had been grieving all evening. Reminding him of Turing’s death, or of Fredrick’s for that matter, was both counterproductive and cruel. Moog, however, loosed a chuckle that bore only the barest trace of bitterness.
“If I what, Clay? If I get the rot, you mean?”
“Well, yes. Exactly.”
“I’ve already got it.”
Chapter Ten
Through the Looking Glass
“Listen, you don’t—” Clay faltered. “If you—” and faltered again. “What? No. Just … no,” he repeated, like an idiot.
Gabriel looked dumbfounded, like a man who’d found himself stuck on the pointy end of a centaur’s lance.
The wizard, meanwhile, lifted his left foot and removed his slipper, so that Clay could see the black crust sheathing his two smallest toes. “Don’t worry,” he assured them, “it’s not contagious. There’s only one way to get the Heathen’s Touch, and that’s to be cracked enough to spend time in the forest.”
Clay considered a number of responses, many of which involved calling Moog a bloody fucking fool, but then he tossed them aside and settled on “Why?”
“Why put myself in danger?” Moog asked, replacing his slipper and sitting up in his chair. “Because I needed specimens, like Turing, who were actually infected. I needed to see what didn’t work at all, and what almost worked, and then figure out how come.”
“Why not ask”—rotters, he’d almost said—“people who are already infected? We saw one in Conthas.”
The wizard shrugged his bony shoulders. “I couldn’t afford to feed them. And besides, with people … there’s too many emotions involved. Theirs and mine. I mean, you see how upset I am over Turing, and he was a tree! He tried to strangle me in my sleep once, you know.” Moog smiled wistfully. “I’m going to miss that cheeky little bugger.”
“And what if there is no cure?” said Clay. “What if you’re wasting your time? What if you’ve thrown your life away for nothing?”
The wizard’s melancholy smile remained firmly in place. “Yes, well, what choice do I have? I’ve devoted nearly half my life in search of a cure for this damnable disease, and I’m no closer now than when I started. I’m not married, I have no children. You have a little girl, right?”
“I do, but—”
“You both do,” said Moog. “And Matty’s got, what, five, six kids now? And he’s the Glif-kissing king of Agria! And Ganelon … well, he’s frigging Ganelon, isn’t he? But me? What sort of legacy will I leave behind? I’ve got no family, no friends, except for you guys. What have I done that’s worth anything?”
“Well …” Clay looked desperately at a crate stamped with Magic Moog’s winking visage.
“Ah, yes, I do have erectile dysfunction by the throat!” He gave a derisive snort and curled his fingers around the imaginary neck of … well, Clay let that image slide right on out of mind. “No,” said Moog finally. “The rot has defined my life for so many years. It might as well define my death as well. Unless, of course, I find a cure. Now who wants hot chocolate?”
Clay opened his mouth and closed it. They could be at this for hours, going round and round in the ruts carved out by earlier arguments, but he knew it was no use. Moog was stubborn as a bugbear on its birthday when he set his mind to something—this business with the rot was evidence of that—and had always dealt with grief in his own unusual way.
And bes
ides, Gabriel had raised his hand. “I wouldn’t mind some,” he said.
Moog bounded to his feet. He poured water from an ewer into a brass kettle and hung it over the fire, then went to a cupboard and withdrew something wrapped in cloth that turned out to be a brick of black chocolate. “So what brings the two of you here?” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t tell me Matty invited you and not me to the Council of Courts?”
“The what of the what?” Clay asked.
The wizard pared off a slab of chocolate and used a mortar and pestle to grind it into powder. “Oh, it’s got something to do with that Horde laying siege to Castia. They say a druin’s the one who got all those monsters riled up in the first place. He arrived in Fivecourt a few weeks ago and demanded a meeting with the high and mighty of Grandual.”
“A druin?” Clay said.
“Where’s the meeting?” asked Gabriel.
Moog looked from one to the other. “A druin, yes. He calls himself the Duke of Endland.”
Clay used his tongue to ferret a tomato seed from between his two front teeth. “Since when does the Republic have dukes?”
“It doesn’t,” said Moog. “I doubt this druin has anything to do with the Republic. In fact, I’d say it’s clear he doesn’t like them very much. It’s possible the ‘duke’ thing is for the benefit of the courts. It’s a familiar title, regal enough to command their attention, but not as overtly pretentious as, say, Supreme God-Emperor of the City Formerly Known as Castia.”
“Fair enough,” Clay said with a shrug.
“Or maybe he’s just an asshole,” suggested Gabriel.
“Maybe,” Moog agreed, chuckling. “As for the council, it’s being held right here in Agria.”
“And all of Grandual’s monarchs will be there?” Clay asked.
The wizard nodded. “Those who are able will no doubt attend, and those who aren’t will send emissaries in their stead. Whether or not he’s an actual duke, having a hundred thousand monsters at his command gives the fellow a fair bit of clout. That, and it’s not every day you see a real live druin.”
True enough, thought Clay. He’d only seen a handful in his life, and they’d all been hiding out in the Heartwyld. Although the druins were rare enough to be considered harmless, they tended to steer clear of human populations, since most people tended to harbour a certain animosity for immortal beings who had once treated their kind as chattel.
It also didn’t help that scrubbing one’s scalp with a druin’s blood was said to cure baldness—this dubious fact alone made them fair game for bounty hunters the world over.
“Will the courts send an army, do you think?” Gabe sounded hopeful, and Clay, too, felt hope flutter in his gut. If the kings and queens of Grandual decided to send a professional army against the Heartwyld Horde, maybe he could go home after all.
Stow the thought, Cooper, he told himself. How long will it take for a host that big to gather? How long to march that many men and women through the Heartwyld and over the mountains beyond? Months, at least. Half a year, maybe. And how long do you think Castia can hold out?
“Beats me,” said Moog, answering Clay’s unasked question along with Gabriel’s inquiry. “Agria and Cartea are at each other’s throats these days. The Narmeeri tend to keep to themselves, and the northerners hardly get along with one another, let alone the rival courts.” He spooned the chocolate powder into a pair of cups. “As for the Phantrans … well, they’ve got all of Grandual between them and the forest, and I hear the fishmen have started raiding their coasts.”
“You mean the saig?”
The wizard shrugged. “I think fishmen sounds cooler.”
“It doesn’t,” Clay assured him.
When the kettle began whistling Moog crossed to retrieve it, then poured its scalding contents into each mug and began stirring. “You never answered the question, by the by. What brings you two to my humble tower?”
Clay looked over at Gabriel, who was busy gazing up at the stars beyond the second floor. Guess this is up to me, then, he thought with a sigh. “We’re headed to Castia.”
Tink-tink-tink …The stirring spoon fell silent.
“What? Castia? Frigid Hells, why? It’s about to be wiped off the map by the biggest Horde on record since the Reclamation!”
“Yeah, we know. Gabe’s daughter is inside.”
The wizard’s face dropped. “Ah …”
“So we’re …” Clay swallowed. Just say it, Cooper. “We’re getting the band back together. Or hoping to, anyway.” He lapsed into silence and waited for Moog to fill it with excuses. He had his phylactery business to think of, an elusive cure to find. Who would look after his animals? He was too tired, too old. He would rather die slowly over several years than trek across the black forest and get torn apart by monsters. Of all the reasons Moog might offer in his refusal, this last reason seemed the most likely. Clay certainly wouldn’t blame him for using it.
“Fantastic! Well, not the bit about Rose,” said the wizard. “That’s awful, Gabe. Just awful. But yes! Yes! Saga reunited? The old boys together again? Are you kidding me?”
“So … you’ll come with us?” Clay asked.
“Of course I’ll come! What kind of friend would I be otherwise?”
Clay found himself baffled, recalling the emphatic no he’d given Gabriel when he’d first come calling. “What about your research?”
“It’ll be here when I get back. This is Rosie we’re talking about! And besides, it’s not like I need to worry about catching the rot while we’re in the forest, right?” He glanced between Clay and Gabe, both of whom wore the same stricken expression. “Too soon?” he asked. “Too soon. Never mind. Anyway, I’m in!”
He strode over to Gabriel and offered up one of the mugs. Clay could smell the hot chocolate as it wafted past, and was beginning to regret not having raised his hand earlier.
“To Saga,” he said, clinking his cup against Gabriel’s. He was about to take his first sip when a heavy knock rattled the door and they heard Steve ask in his ring-hampered lisp, “Thtate your bithineth with my mathter.”
The rumble of low voices, and then a recognizable one spoke up. “Arcandius! Moog, you in there, pal? It’s Kal.”
Clay and Gabriel shared a look of panicked terror.
Moog wheeled toward the door. “Kallorek? Hi! I’ll be right—”
Too late, Clay clapped a hand over the wizard’s mouth.
“We went to Kal to try and get Gabe’s sword back,” Clay said as quickly and quietly as he could. “He threatened to kill us instead.”
“You mean Vellichor? Why does Kallorek have Vellichor?” Moog asked.
“We’ll explain later,” said Clay, when it looked like Gabriel was preparing to do so.
“You got company in there, Moog?” Kallorek’s voice was chummy as could be. “Our old friends Slowhand and Gabe, perhaps? How about you open up and we can all three of us talk things over, eh?”
Steve chimed in again. “Thir, would you pleath thtate your bithineth with my—” The door thundered as someone hit it with something heavy. The knocker’s customary politeness evaporated. “You punthed me!? You thon of a—”
Another thud shuddered the door, louder this time, and Steve went quiet.
“Moog?” Kallorek’s voice was losing affability like a wineskin with a hole punched in the bottom. “Open the door.”
The wizard squirmed out of Clay’s grip and rushed to a nearby counter, where a crystal ball rested on a swathe of dark velvet. The orb contained nothing but grey-white fuzz, but when Moog set his mug aside and touched his fingers to the surface an image began to materialize within a swirl of purple smoke. An instant later the image faded, replaced by static fuzz.
“I bought this off the witch that lived here before me,” the wizard explained hurriedly, hitting the orb a few more times without success. “Damn thing doesn’t work half the time. I swear it’s enough to drive a man to read.” He put his nose to the glass, muttering an incantati
on too quiet to hear. When that failed he swore and slapped the glass with his open palm. “Fucking piece of junk …”
The picture came suddenly clear, and Clay felt his gut curl up like a man pounced on by a bear. He saw Kallorek, dressed in scale armour beneath a cloak trimmed with black fur. He was surrounded by no less than sixteen armed guards. One of these, an especially big, brutish-looking bastard, was lurking just outside the door with a torch in one hand and a heavy maul in the other. Of the brass knocker there remained only a mangled ruin.
“Oh, poor Steve,” Moog whimpered. “When did Kal get so mean?”
Clay suspected the booker had bullied the midwife that pulled him from the womb, but there wasn’t time to speculate now. “We need to get out of here,” he said. “Is there a back door? An escape tunnel?” He looked around, seeing evidence of neither. “Any way of getting out of here?”
The wizard thought for a moment, and then slowly began to nod. “There is a way. It’s risky, though.”
It’s risky. Clay could remember Moog saying those words half a hundred times. More often than not they’d preceded some sort of wild debacle, but occasionally the wizard came up with something truly miraculous.
Clay blew out a sigh. “Let’s hear it,” he said.
“Go upstairs!” Moog pointed to what remained of the second storey. “I just need to grab some stuff first.” The first thing he went for was the crystal ball, hastily wrapping it in velvet cloth before dropping it into a bag. Next he collected a number of vials, tossing them into the sack without regard for whether or not they might break. “Go!” he urged them. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Clay started for the stairs, Gabriel hot on his heels. When they gained the second floor he looked around frantically for a means of escape. The tower’s roof had crumbled away, and a carpet of bright stars glittered above them. By their light he saw a single bed against one wall, another bookshelf, a nightstand, and no way out at all. Even the windows were too high to reach.
Kings of the Wyld Page 8