Nicholas Eames's Reviews > Kings of the Wyld

“Among them is a renegade king, he who sired five royal heirs without ever unzipping his pants. A man to whom time has imparted great wisdom and an even greater waistline, whose thoughtless courage is rivalled only by his unquenchable thirst.

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.

Look here at a warrior born, a scion of power and poverty whose purpose is manifold: to shatter shackles, to murder monarchs, and to demonstrate that even the forces of good must sometimes enlist the service of big, bad motherfuckers. His is an ancient soul destined to die young.

And now comes the quiet one, the gentle giant, he who fights his battles with a shield. Stout as the tree that counts its age in aeons, constant as the star that marks true north and shines most brightly on the darkest nights.

A step ahead of these four: our hero. He is the candle burnt down to the stump, the cutting blade grown dull with overuse. But see now the spark in his stride. Behold the glint of steel in his gaze. Who dares to stand between a man such as this and that which he holds dear? He will kill, if he must, to protect it. He will die, if that is what it takes.

“Go get the boss,” says one guardsman to another. “This bunch looks like trouble.”

And they do. They do look like trouble, at least until the wizard trips on the hem of his robe. He stumbles, cursing, and fouls the steps of the others as he falls face-first onto the mud-slick hillside.”
― Nicholas Eames, Kings of the Wyld

“The pool,” said Kallorek, pointing. “The pool, right there.”
“You mean the pond?”
“I mean the pool,” growled the booker. “Get in. Swim.” He accompanied these words with effusive gestures that set his jewellery ringing.
Clay examined the pond. “Swim to where?” he asked.
“What do you mean swim to where?” Kallorek’s brow deepened.
“Is it a healing spring?” Gabe asked. He flexed his arm, wincing as he extended it fully. “Because I think my elbow—”
“Listen, fuck your elbow!” Kallorek blew up. Clay had forgotten how short the booker’s fuse was. That big toothy smile one moment, and the next …“It ain’t a spring, or a pond, or a godsdamned sea nymph’s bathtub. It’s a fucking pool. Just a pool! You swim around in it to relax.”
― Nicholas Eames, Kings of the Wyld

“But what does a mirror know? What can it show us of ourselves? Oh, it might reveal a few scars, and perhaps a glimpse—there, in the eyes—of our true nature. The spirit beneath the skin. Yet the deepest scars are often hidden, and though a mirror might reveal our weakness, it reflects only a fraction of our strength.”
― Nicholas Eames, Kings of the Wyld

“A tiger, however fearsome, could be hunted into a corner. It fought alone, so it died alone. But to hunt a wolf was to constantly look over your shoulder, wondering if others were behind you in the dark. “Lost?”
― Nicholas Eames, Kings of the Wyld

“As individuals they were each of them fallible, discordant as notes without harmony. But as a band they were something more, something perfect in its own intangible way”
― Nicholas Eames, Kings of the Wyld

“Well, you see how big he was. Apparently he broke through a latrine seat and drowned in the sewage below.” A shitty way to go,”
― Nicholas Eames, Kings of the Wyld

“And so it goes, thought Clay. Life was funny, and fickle, and often cruel. Sometimes the unworthy went on living, while those who deserved better was lost.

Or not lost, he considered, since they lingered on in the hearts of those who loved them, who love them still, their memory nurtured like a sprig of green in an otherwise desolate soul. Which was, he supposed, a kind of immortality, after all.”
― Nicholas Eames, Kings of the Wyld

“You should write a book," Matrick suggested.
Kit snorted. "Who wants to read the self-pitying lamentations of an old revenant?"
"There's your title right there," said Ganelon.”
― Nicholas Eames, Kings of the Wyld

“How do I look?" he asked.
Barret grinned. "Old."
Moog glanced over appraisingly. "Tired."
Gabriel snorted a laugh. "Fuck you guys.”
― Nicholas Eames, Kings of the Wyld