Kings of the Wyld

by Nicholas Eames

  Epilogue

  Home

  The following is an excerpt from The Same Old Song by Kitagra the Undying, Court Bard to His August Majesty, Emperor Matrick of Castia, first of his name:

  Should you wish to learn what became of those who survived the Battle for Castia, I suggest you visit either your local library or your favorite pub. What you find in the library might be closer to the truth, but what you hear in the pub will no doubt be the better story.

  If you insist on reading, Born in Fire: The Rise of the Watch is one of my favorites, as is I, Jain, which details the exploits of the brigand turned world-renowned mercenary after she left the Silk Arrows and began her solo career. The Sound an Eagle Makes gives a good summary of the battle itself, although the simply titled Castia, written by Syd (son of Barret) is widely considered the most comprehensive account of that auspicious day.

  The members of Saga survived the battle miraculously unscathed. For all they endured during their journey to Castia, they incurred little but bruises during the rout of the Heartwyld Horde. It was, incidentally, the last time all five members of Saga would fight alongside one another.

  Matrick Skulldrummer remained behind in Castia. He spearheaded efforts to repair the city, and when it came time to appoint a new governing body (most of the old one having succumbed to the plague), the people of Castia decided it was high time they had an Emperor after all. There was a vote, and Matty won by a landslide. He gave up drinking for good and arranged a peaceful separation from his former wife, Queen Lilith of Agria. He invited his children to visit him in Castia, and it surprised no one but their mother when they opted to remain by their father’s side.

  I need tell no one what became of Arcandius Moog, as he is among the most well-known and celebrated scholars of our time. Of any time, for that matter. In the aftermath of Castia’s liberation, he paid another visit to the witchdoctor Taino. After months of study Moog returned to, and rebuilt, his tower east of Conthas, where he developed a drinkable cure for the rot.

  It is the firm belief of this humble revenant that Arcandius Moog is one of the few figures in all of history (aside, perhaps, from Clay Cooper) possessed of the moral fortitude to do what he did next.

  He gave the cure to everyone. For free.

  Moog never remarried, and though I suspect his involvement in one or two covert liaisons, it is clear to all that his heart belongs, even after so long, to his deceased husband, after which he named his miraculous potion: “Freddie’s Finest Curative Cordial.”

  Ganelon bid farewell to the band and made his own way back to Grandual. We must conclude that somewhere along that fraught and forlorn path he decided that the world to which he’d returned to was not a place where he belonged, since his first stop east of the forest was the prison in which he’d spent a long, dark decade trapped in stone. The keepers warned him not to venture below, but those who tend the Quarry are pale, frail, and all but blind, so they sure as hell couldn’t stop him from doing so. He said to them, rather cryptically: “Wake me when she gets here,” and then descended, alone, to the lair of the Basilisk Broodmother, whose gaze renders living flesh to stone.

  Alas, Ganelon was sadly unaware that his coupling with Larkspur had produced a son. The boy is young, still, but I’m told he’s got a bit of an attitude.

  Gabriel’s story is invariably linked to that of his daughter, Rose. Their lives, along with those of her partner, Freecloud, have been the subject of numerous songs and stories, so I will spare you the details here.

  As for Clay Cooper … Two days after breaking the siege at Castia he stepped through the portal to Kaladar and walked home from there. He was accompanied most of the way by Jain and the Silk Arrows, and by Gabriel, with whom he had set out from Coverdale several months earlier.

  I was not present when Clay and Gabriel parted at last, but Jain claims it took place while the sun was setting. She watched their silhouettes from a distance as they shared a few laughs, shed a few tears, and finally embraced. Afterward, she says, Gabriel took Clay’s head in his hands and uttered something too quiet to hear, which one might assume was a heartfelt confession that he owed every happiness of his life thereafter to Clay and Clay alone.

  To which, Jain tells us, Clay Cooper responded with a shrug.

  On the long journey home Clay spotted several roadside plots that would be greatly improved by the presence of a modest two-storey inn. There would be a stable out back, he decided, and maybe a smithy, in case folk needed simple work done. Inside, sturdy round tables with plush leather seats, and a fireplace far from the stage for those who wished to sit and enjoy the fire’s warmth in relative peace and quiet. Blackheart would be mounted above, and if anyone asked what an ugly, charred, chopped-up piece of wood was doing up there on the wall, well, Clay might just sidle out from behind the bar, kick up his feet, and tell them a tale or two.

  By the time he reached town the sun had nearly set. His shadow stretched out behind him, as stoop shouldered and weary as the man it followed down the beaten track that passed for a thoroughfare in Coverdale.

  “Clay?” The voice was familiar, the tone incredulous. “Clay Cooper?”

  He looked up at Pip, who had stumbled out of the King’s Head with his helmet tucked under one arm. “I’ve been called worse,” Clay said.

  “Ha!” Pip attempted to slap his knee and got most of it. “‘Called worse,’ he says. Classic! Hey, when did you get home?”

  I’m not home yet, Clay thought. “Just now,” he said. “All’s well, I hope?”

  “Better than well, I’d say. You hear about Castia?”

  Clay couldn’t help but grin. “I did, yeah.”

  “Wild, eh? By the Holy Tetrea I wish I’d been there!”

  Pip was young, and had likely never ventured any farther afield than Conthas, or maybe Oddsford, and so Clay forgave the boy for saying something so incredibly stupid. “They ever catch that centaur out by Tassel’s farm?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Catch him?” Pip scoffed. “You mean you haven’t heard?” When Clay shook his head, the lad went on: “Your girl killed it!”

  “My …” Clay faltered, since his mouth had begun speaking while his brain was still trying to make sense of what he’d just been told. “You mean Ginny?”

  “Not Ginny, no,” said Pip. “Ginny was pissed as Glif!”

  Clay grabbed the boy by the shoulders, perhaps a bit more roughly than he’d meant to. “I need you to tell me what happened, Pip. Right now.”

  Pip blew a sigh that reeked of stale beer. “Well, that bastard—the centaur, I mean—chased Karl—that’s Ryk Yarsson’s oldest boy—out of the woods and down to that marsh by your place. Your girl saw ’em coming, I guess. Tripped it up with a stick or something. Broke its neck. Crack!” he added, in case Clay needed reminding what a breaking neck sounded like.

  “You’re telling me that Tally …my Tally … killed a centaur?”

  “She killed a centaur!” Pip said. “You’ve got a little merc on your hands there, Cooper.”

  This time Clay’s mouth and mind replied as one. “No fucking way,” he said.

  Pip laughed. “And what’s more, young Karl’s been on her like a wasp on a sweetcake ever since. Barely leaves her side, that one, and she seems to like it that way. Poor boy’s fallen hard, I think.”

  He doesn’t know hard, thought Clay. He pried his fingers from Pip’s sleeve and forced a smile onto his face. “Good seeing you, Pip.”

  “Good to see you, too,” Pip slurred. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  Clay set out for the west gate. I’m not home, he told himself. Not yet.

  He stopped to relieve himself on the road outside of town. It was true dark now. The stars above were incomprehensibly numerous, and so much brighter than Clay remembered. He craned his neck to look up at them, and despite everything he’d accomplished since seeing them last, he still felt beggared by comparison. It occurred to him that this would always be the case, and Clay decided he
preferred it that way.

  He walked on, listening to the crickets chirping in the grass, to the wind rustling through the trees, taking long, deep breaths of the chill night air.

  And then he saw her, shadow black against the warm light spilling from the open door. It seemed an impossible distance to the end of his lane, an immeasurable stretch from the edge of his yard to the stoop upon which his wife sat waiting for him. She didn’t actually see him until he was a few yards out and Griff came hurtling from inside the house, yapping and scampering madly around Clay’s feet. He knelt to pet him while Ginny stood, crossed her arms, and lifted her chin in that rural-imperious way of hers.

  “You’re alive,” she said.

  “I’m alive.”

  “And Rose?”

  “Safe and sound.”

  “Good.”

  “Tally?”

  “Fine. Asleep. You heard about the centaur?”

  He nodded. “I heard.”

  Her back got a bit more rigid then. Her chin climbed higher still. “That girl doesn’t pick up a sword, Clay. Ever. Do you understand me?”

  “No swords,” he assured her. “No axes, or knives, or bows. Not even a sharp stick, I promise.”

  That got the chuckle he was looking for. Clay took a step into the light and heard her breath catch.

  “Your face …”

  He stopped to graze a finger over his latest scar. “Yeah, well. I guess that makes you the pretty one now.”

  She laughed, and Clay could have wept for the sound of it.

  Ginny reached out to him, and Clay stepped into the circle of her arms like a pilgrim come, at the end of his days, to the last house of the holy. Her scent surrounded him. A loose strand of her hair tickled his nose and gods-be-damned if he was going to scratch it now. Her breath was warm and soft as summer wind on his neck as she whispered, “You’re home.”

  And finally, he was.

  Acknowledgments

  When you’re an aspiring author you don’t (or you shouldn’t, anyway) write with the absolute certainty that your book will be published. It helps, however, to be surrounded by people who are absolutely certain you will be. As it turns out, I was the very last person to know my wildest dream would eventually come true.

  The book that became Kings of the Wyld benefited from a great many patient and enthusiastic beta-readers. Chief among these was Devon Pipars, who read it three chapters at a time over the course of a year and always clamoured for more, and Eugene Vassilev, who read it as many times as I asked him to and was as critical and ebullient a friend as an author could ask for.

  I would also like to thank those with whom I shared the journey of writing my first, flawed attempt at a fantasy novel: Hollis Steele, Deyna Dodds, and Kaili Grant were champions of a book that might never see the light of day. Still, I am so very grateful.

  Also deserving of gratitude is Bryan Cheyne, who has been a friend, a writing confidant, and a fellow fanboy of You-Know-Who for longer than either of us would care to admit. I sincerely hope to find his name a few spines to the left in a bookstore someday.

  I should also give thanks to Richard Anderson for a beautiful cover, Kristine Cofsky for an excellent photo, Shannon Boyd for reading it aloud while I took notes and laughed at my own jokes, and Natasha McLeod, who listened patiently to every idea that made it into the book and several thousand more that did not. Because of her I emerged from this process as a (relatively) functioning human instead of a shambling, bleary-eyed troglodyte.

  I owe a huge debt to Sebastien DeCastell, who was accosted at a restaurant one night by a fan and aspiring writer who also happened to be his waiter. Sebastien was gracious enough to answer my questions on the publishing process and eventually commend me to his agent. I owe him a copy of this book, and so much more.

  The process of getting an agent can be a defeating, soul-crushing slog: You leap for a precipice, and more often than not you are dashed to pieces on the rocks below. I will be forever indebted to Heather Adams, who caught me, pulled me up, and continues to guide me toward ever more lofty heights.

  Which brings me to my editor at Orbit, Lindsey Freakin’ Hall: Editor Extraordinaire and righteous champion of this book from day one. Her support has been invaluable, her wisdom instrumental, and her enthusiasm rivalled only by my mom’s. I am so extremely fortunate that in pursuit of our own dreams we’ve found ourselves side by side on a road that I hope goes on for a long, long while.

  Lastly, I must thank my taller, broader little brother, Tyler. You have played many roles for me, Ty: the Robin to my Batman, the Man-At-Arms to my He-Man, the Luigi to my Mario. And finally, if you would indulge me once more, the Clay Cooper to my Gabriel. You’re a good man, Tyler Eames. And when all is said and done, I’d say it’s fairly obvious which of us is the real hero.

  extras

  meet the author

  Photo Credit: Kristine Cofsky

  NICHOLAS EAMES was born to parents of infinite patience and unstinting support in Wingham, Ontario. Though he attended college for theatre arts, he gave up acting to pursue the infinitely more attainable profession of “epic fantasy novelist.” Kings of the Wyld is his first novel. Nicholas loves black coffee, neat whiskey, the month of October, and video games. He currently lives in Ontario, Canada, and is very probably writing at this very moment.

  Author Interview

  When did you first start writing?

  In high school, while I was undoubtedly supposed to be doing something else. When I eventually got busted, my teacher sent it to a family friend of his (Ed Greenwood, the creator of Forgotten Realms) who graciously read it and replied that I “had the fire of a good storyteller.” Encouraging as that was, I sort of shelved writing (pun intended) during college, then decided after that to try my hand at it again.

  Who are some of your biggest influences?

  First and foremost, Guy Gavriel Kay. Reading him was what made me decide to take writing seriously, in hope of creating something that might affect someone the way his work affected me. More recently, Scott Lynch and Joe Abercrombie (for me, at least) sort of kicked open the door for infusing fast-paced, dramatic stories with a sense of humor.

  Where did the idea for Kings of the Wyld come from?

  It all began when I was struck by lightning … Kidding, of course. In fact I can’t remember what sparked it initially, only that I thought, How cool would it be to read a book in which mercenary bands acted (and were treated like) rock stars? Also, there’s that saying floating around and that goes something like, “Write the kind of book you’d most like to read.” Well, this is it.

  Blackheart is such a cool weapon. What made you choose a shield as your hero’s foremost weapon?

  To begin with, the weapons I assigned to each of the main characters were due to their assigned role in a metaphorical rock band—the most obvious being Matrick wielding a pair of “drumstick” knives and Ganelon using an axe, which is, of course, slang for “guitar.” Clay was envisioned as the guy on bass whose name everyone forgets but without whom the song just doesn’t feel right. The shield, originally, was a way of keeping him passive. As he developed, however, it became a huge part of his persona. Though he battles a violent nature, Clay is, at heart, a protector—someone who, due to certain events in his past, will never again be a spectator when the lives of those he loves are at stake.

  The pursuit of glory is a major theme in Kings of the Wyld—what drew you to focus on that?

  That was inspired by—surprise!—music. How many of us have heard someone say that the music of today pales in comparison to what came before? That phrase has always (and will always) make old people nod and young people snort with derision. I tried to apply that sentiment to the setting of Kings, wherein the mercenary bands of today try so very hard to outshine a past that feels, even to them, somehow more authentic.

  This book goes from breaking your heart to being laugh-out-loud hilarious, sometimes within a single page. How did you make sure the balance was rig
ht between these two elements of the story?

  The short answer? I listened to the sound advice of my agent and my editor, both of whom helped me find that sweet spot. The longer one? I set out to write a funny book. A ridiculous book. A book that didn’t take itself too seriously (hence the goblins, the erectile dysfunction potions, and the fact that my antagonist has bunny ears). But the characters just … got away from me. I blame Clay Cooper.

  Kings of the Wyld has a phenomenal cast of characters. If you had to pick one, who would you say is your favourite? Which character was the most difficult to write?

  First of all, thanks for saying so. Favourite? Tough call. Moog makes me laugh, and Larkspur is pretty badass, but I’ve got to say Clay Cooper. He’s honest, loyal, more clever than he gives himself credit for, and just so doggedly good. I mean, he’d die for you. Yes, you. And he barely evens knows you!

  Most difficult? Probably Lastleaf. Though he’s technically the bad guy, I find myself empathizing with him a lot—to the point that if our heroes failed and everything went his way it might not be such a bad thing after all. Making him suitably evil while giving him a perspective that a reader might relate to was tricky. Did I succeed? My mom certainly thinks so!

  Kings of the Wyld is the first book of the Band series. What’s in store for us in future books?

  The second book explores a bit more of the wider world we barely glimpse in the first, and features the next generation of mercenary bands, who are desperate for the chance to outshine their glorious predecessors. Unfortunately for them, they get what they ask for.

  If you could spend an afternoon with one of your characters, which would it be and what would you do?

  Pete—the guy at the bar in the Riot House. We’d sip our beers and talk about life, love, and the little things.