60 pages • 2-hour read
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Kings of the Wyld takes place long after the heyday of its key characters’ legendary careers, and a running joke through the novel is how old they look now, encapsulated in Ganelon’s greeting when he emerges from his stone prison: “You all look like shit” (195). This observation gains emotional impact when Gabe is preparing to make his speech trying to rally all the bands attending the War Fair to help him attack the Horde. When he asks the others how he looks. Barret, the frontman of Vanguard, says, “Old,” and Moog answers, “Tired” (441). The joke articulates the novel’s ongoing exploration of mortality and aging, especially in contexts—like rock music and monster fighting—that valorize youth. While the novel dramatizes the consequences of aging on one’s strength and stamina, it suggests compensatory gains in wisdom, experience, and empathy.
The physical consequences of aging mean that the heroes can no longer rely on their bodies to handle whatever is thrown at them. They get injured more easily and heal more slowly than they used to. Clay articulates this sense of decline as he reflects on the course of life early in the novel: “Life […] wasn’t a circle; you didn’t go round and round again. It was an arc, its course as inexorable as the sun’s trek across the sky, destined at its highest, brightest moment to begin its fall” (8). For all but Ganelon—who has been in a state of suspended animation for 19 years—the toll of their years of physical activity and combat shows: Gabe is weathered, Clay feels sore, and Matrick has gained significant weight. This adds a sense of vulnerability to their heroic undertaking, especially when getting robbed by Lady Jain and the Silk Arrows—twice—shows the bandmates that they’ve gotten rusty as mercenaries. There’s a further dissonance when Clay notes the youthfulness of bands like the Screaming Eagles, whom they encounter at Fivecourt, or the Stormriders, whom they witness on parade in Conthas. The culture of monster fighting has changed, leading the band members to question their relevance as well as their efficacy. Their engagement at the Maxithon, where they are the headline attraction due to their past fame and where they work together to defeat a chimera, is a confirmation that their talents and abilities have not been lost to age, but it is also a disappointing pantomime of their past glory. Like an aging rock band performing long-ago hits, they appeal to their audience’s nostalgia, while a younger generation pushes the culture forward.
The band’s real goals, however, lie far outside the Maxithon. The novel suggests that added maturity leads one to adopt more meaningful and consequential goals or ambitions. Clay reflects that, when they were young and in their prime, the band’s interests were spending their money, impressing women, and getting more gigs. Now older, their needs have changed. Matrick has matured through his role as a father and realizes, in the course of his adventures, that what matters to him is having a rewarding relationship with his adopted children. Clay, too, feels the pull toward a more settled life and imagines a fulfilling career running an inn. Moog devotes his life to finding and sharing a cure for the disease that killed his husband, a different approach to saving lives. For all the bandmates, the greatest impact of aging is to reorient their priorities toward forging personal connections and having a positive impact on the world around them, rather than pursuing glory and riches.
In confronting the reality of getting the band back together, the members of Saga reckon with what their membership in the band meant to them individually and with what their influence as a group meant to their world. The bandmembers, as the opening chapter establishes, are living legends, and the younger generation marvels at and still remembers their feats. This means little to Clay, who has tried to distance himself from the man he was then, and who has invested himself in a different life. Early in the novel, he reflects on his family as the most important aspect of his life: “He did his best to be a man worthy of a woman like Ginny, and of their daughter, his darling girl, who was his most precious legacy, the speck of gold siphoned from the clouded river of his soul” (23). This metaphor, comparing Tally to the single speck of gold in an otherwise murky life, suggests that kindness and love make a more important legacy than fame and glory.
The wish for glory is a culturally dominant force in the world of the novel, and for the most part, it is not portrayed as a virtue. Gabriel makes it clear that he disapproves of the contemporary practice of bands performing in arenas, battling monsters who are bred in captivity. Clay isn’t impressed by the spectacle made by the Stormriders, who are parading their captives and throwing treasure to the crowd in Conthas, finding the spectacle self-aggrandizing and slightly ridiculous. Neither is Clay impressed by the self-importance of the Screaming Eagles and their argosy blocking the road to Fivecourt, as shown by his dismissive treatment of them at the Riot House. Gabe initially seems both proud and regretful that Rose has pursued the same career path he did, and Barret notes that his own sons prefer the newer, performative ways of gaining fame rather than doing the hard and dangerous work that bands like Saga did and Vanguard, Barret’s band, still does. This implies that whatever fame or accomplishments the newer mercenary bands can boast of, it still doesn’t demonstrate the skill, ferocity, or commitment of the older generation.
Clay’s reclusive life, in contrast to Gabriel’s tendency to ride on his past glory in search of continuing work, calls into question the value of fame as a legacy. Moog places little value on his fame and instead fears, when his experimental cures with the rot are failing, that he will have no real legacy to leave behind. Matty, in the course of their quest, realizes that he wants his legacy to be as more than a failed father and a drunken king; what he focuses on reforming, though, is not his leadership but his role as a father. And Clay’s thoughts as he returns home from his quest reveal that he values not his own reputation as a warrior, nor his daughter’s potential skill in the same profession, but the good he might do as a father and husband.
Gabriel’s exhortation to the bands of the War Fair that fighting for Castia is their claim to glory and immortality shows the motivating power of the wish to acquire fame and have one’s name be remembered in context of heroic adventures. But in actual events, while Gabe’s speech is a war cry, the real motivation to attack the Horde is for justice and peace, to free the people of Castia and thwart the rule of monsters; fame and glory are merely side effects. Rather than being remembered by legions of strangers for their daring or prowess in battle, the aging heroes prefer to be remembered for the good they did and the care they showed to their loved ones.
The definition of monstrosity is much debated in the novel, most intensely through Clay’s inner debate about what rules his own nature. Arguing with Clay shortly before their wedding, Ginny asks him, “Which are you, the monster or the man?” (154). This question frames monstrosity and manhood as mutually exclusive opposites. The same opposition is played out in the conflict that structures the plot. The people within the besieged Castia see themselves as innocents who deserve to be rescued, while they view the Horde besieging them as wholly monstrous. In actuality, many events and characters in the novel question the ease of these distinctions and the assumptions on which they are predicated, suggesting that the differences are not always clear.
One depiction that troubles the distinction are the men who exhibit monstrous qualities. Ganelon is fully human, but he is a merciless warrior, and Clay admits that he finds, or used to find, something about the man’s abilities faintly monstrous. Though he knew the Sultana was going to punish his friend for killing a Narmeeri prince, and even though he could admit Ganelon had provocation, Clay was troubled enough by the slaughter that he stepped back and let his friend be taken, thinking it a kind of justice. Once Ganelon is released, Clay is more accepting of his bandmate’s fearsome strength and ability. Clay has by this time confronted his own brutal tendencies, which were enough to make Ginny reconsider whether she wanted to marry him.
When Clay’s urge toward violence resurfaces, as when he throws Kallorek off of the skyship, he fears that his own brutal nature will overtake him again. What he comes to understand through the novel, especially through Larkspur’s example, is that he isn’t alone in feeling rage. He better understands that what triggers him is cruelty, or the threat of cruelty, toward the innocent—the legacy of witnessing his father’s murder of his mother. With this understanding, he no longer fears some monster inside him that might take over at any time. Instead, he comes to terms with the trauma of his past and makes conscious choices about where to use his strength to protect and defend.
Larkspur and Lastleaf both provide examples of past trauma instilling a tendency to resort to violence. Larkspur’s multiple identities provide a metaphor for this. Sabbatha, with her curiosity and friendliness, seems to have healed or at least moved on from the traumas of her childhood, while Larkspur has turned into a creature of vengeance, lacking remorse—or so it would seem. Her appearance at the Battle of Castia, battling on the side to free the human inhabitants, suggests she has decided to align herself with the humans rather than the monsters. Like Ganelon, she is an accomplished killer, but she employs reason about who her targets are, suggesting that monstrosity and humanity are choices, not innate categories.
Lastleaf has likewise experienced the traumas of losing his mother—multiple times—and being at war with his father. When he rages about what the “innocent people of Casta” (183) have done to those they deem monstrous—including imprisoning Lastleaf himself—Lastleaf suggests that “monster” is a matter of interpretation. Vespian certainly became monstrous in his behavior, slaying druin after druin in an attempt to resurrect his wife. Lastleaf’s ambitions to blot out humankind are, to the humans, monstrous, even though he sees his efforts as vengeance, not valor. But while the Infernal with its fearsome weapons and unstoppable aggression seems truly monstrous, if not demonic, a creature like minotaur that attacks Clay out of instinct alone introduces the question of motive as a defining aspect of monstrosity.
Other characters interrogate these distinctions even further. The Ferals are seen by many as monstrous because they are cannibals, echoing a taboo used by colonial powers in the real world to dehumanize colonized peoples, whether or not they actually practiced cannibalism. Taino, a troll, is a healer, but Ganelon misinterprets him as a threat and attacks him. The ettin is the clearest proof that the label “monstrous” can too often be substituted for merely “different.” While having two heads is well out of the norm for the humans, Gregor’s kindness and Dane’s cheerful innocence make the ettin one of the most benign characters in the book. Likewise, Kit the revenant, though described as repellent in appearance, is the most civilized, courtly, educated, and well-traveled personality among them. The definition of monstrosity, the novel suggests, has its basis in aggression and cruelty, and the ultimate difference between what is human and what is not might simply be a matter of perspective.



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