by Nicholas Eames (1987)
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Imagine trudging through a monster-choked wilderness with five grizzled mercenaries, your boots caked in drake shit, laughing your ass off as a wizard fumbles a fireball into his own beard. That’s the pulse of Kings of the Wyld, where Nicholas Eames turns the epic fantasy quest into a raucous road trip from hell.
Clay Cooper, the steadfast shieldman who’s traded glory for a quiet life as a dad, gets dragged back into the fray when his old bandmate Gabe—yeah, the legendary bard known as Golden Gabe—shows up begging for help. Gabe’s daughter Rose has vanished into Castia, a city under siege by a horde of nightmarish beasts, and the only way in is across the Wyld, that festering no-man’s-land teeming with trolls, hydras, and worse. Clay rounds up the survivors of Saga, the greatest mercenary band ever: the brooding berserker Ganelon, the booze-soaked wizard Moog (who’s basically your eccentric uncle with apocalypse-level spells), and the cocky young archer Kallia. Together, they bicker, booze, battle, and bond like brothers on their last tour.
What hits you first is the sheer joy of it—the banter crackles like a bonfire, sharp and warm. Picture Moog turning a band of shrieking banshees into a conga line of the undead, or Clay facing down a cyclops while nursing a hangover. But Eames doesn’t skimp on the gut-punches: the ache of lost youth, the terror of a world gone feral, the fierce love that pulls these broken men forward. Every skirmish throbs with stakes—limbs fly, blood sprays, and you feel the exhaustion in your bones. It’s fantasy that sweats and bleeds, hilarious one page, heartbreaking the next.
This book flips the genre on its head by treating legendary heroes like washed-up rock stars: arenas packed with screaming fans for monster hunts, groupies chasing the band, even a manager scheming their comeback. No brooding chosen ones or intricate prophecies—just raw adventure, loyalty, and the thrill of one more impossible gig. It’s influenced the wave of heartfelt fantasy romps that followed, but Kings owns the stage.
If you loved the swashbuckling wit of The Princess Bride mixed with the monster-mashing heart of The Dresden Files, this is your anthem. Eames gets it: heroism isn’t shiny armor; it’s showing up for your mates when the world’s ending.
Crack it open tonight—Saga’s waiting to drag you into the Wyld, and you won’t want the encore to end.
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