Kings of the Wyld (The Band, #1)

by Nicholas Eames

At his shoulder walks a sorcerer, a cosmic conversationalist. Enemy of the incurable rot, absent chairman of combustive sciences at the university in Oddsford, and the only living soul above the age of eight to believe in owlbears.

The frontman sighed. “Gods damn it. Dump the furniture.” Out went the couches, the chairs, the chests crammed with clothes and armour. Out went the mattresses, the barstools, the bar. Matrick himself tipped the booze cabinet over the rail, wincing as he heard it smash. Clay caught Ganelon sizing up Piglet. “Hey,” he said, drawing the warrior’s attention, “no.”