Kings of the Wyld (The Band, #1)

by Nicholas Eames

Moog had a wand in either hand, both of which launched bolts of violet light that took erratic routes to their targets but never, ever missed. Matrick plied his knives like a parade drummer, his rhythm so fast his enemies didn’t know he’d murdered them until their god asked them if they took milk in their tea. Ganelon killed with a brutal efficiency that humbled even Gabriel, because Gabriel left wounded in his wake, while Ganelon left the dead in pieces. Clay was amazed at how little his back hurt, or his arm, or the ribs he’d broken fighting Larkspur’s thralls. His face wasn’t throbbing as it had been earlier. He was weary, of course: Every breath was bought with a gasp, and his heart hammered like a blacksmith late for supper, but he felt … good. Really bloody good, all things considered. Strangest of all was the utter absence of fear. He’d been very afraid this morning. Afraid the wizard’s plan wouldn’t work, that the dragon would kill them. Afraid of going through the Threshold and coming back empty-handed. The Heartwyld Horde, in all its abominable might, had been the scariest thing he’d ever seen—aside, perhaps, from the look on Ginny’s face when she hit her head on a cupboard door he’d left open by accident. But now … all Clay felt was a sense of profound certainty, as if things—dire though they seemed—were exactly as they should be. He was among friends, shoulder to shoulder with his bandmates, who just so happened to be the four best men he’d ever had the privile...