As Flies to Wanton Boys
Immortal Treachery, Book Two
©2013, Allan Batchelder
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from its author, Allan Batchelder.
The list of Santa’s Helpers continues to grow. Much thanks to:
Gillian Avery
Edward Batchelder
Avery Bento
Michael Bento
Kathi Fastnow Dirske
Bobbi Dreier
Rusty Dreier
Consuelo Gonzales
James L. Rogers
Rodney Sherwood
For my brother and sisters.
Sartre once wrote, “Hell is other people.” Occasionally, though, they can be our salvation, as well.
Also by Allan Batchelder:
Blood, Steel & Fire: Immortal Treachery, Book One
~ONE~
Neither men nor beasts thrive in a cage. And when the man in question is something of a beast himself, the situation becomes exponentially worse. And so it was for Tarmun Vykers, the Reaper, who spent three long years confined to the same bed in the same room, eating the same meals at the same time of day, having the same hopeless conversations with the same team of A’Shea. He was sick, of course, and he was sick of being sick even more. He’d once been the essence of action; now, he was an invalid, laid low by a sorcerous wound to what had otherwise been an almost indestructible body. At thirty-four (at least, that was his age as near as he could reckon: he had no real memory of a birthday), he had surpassed life expectancy for most men in his profession – if one could accurately describe what that profession was. Soldier? Reaver? Destroyer? Whatever the case, Vykers would just as soon have kept doing it for another twenty years, or until someone bested him. But he had never fully recovered from the injury given him by the so-called End-of-All-Things, which frustrated him, no end. Yes, he had slaughtered the fiend, even as the other man seemed certain he’d done the same to Vykers. The Reaper took no solace in defeating the End’s expectations, though, for as long as he remained a prisoner within this crippled body, within this damnable room, he would never again be himself. In effect, the End had killed him.
Worse than all this was the cloying sympathy – feigned or otherwise – that he received from all who visited him. The pitying, regretful looks in their eyes made Vykers want to kill them too, and he swore more than once that he would. Even the one A’Shea he begrudgingly cared for was too shaken by his illness – and perhaps her inability to help him – to remain at his side any longer. Without so much as a “fare-thee-well,” Aoife had abandoned him to the Queen’s staff and gone who knew where. Yet, there was one person who still seemed to enjoy Vykers’ company and even his plight. Her Majesty made a special point of visiting every Lons Day. At her age, her cynicism made her beyond pretense: she came only to see that the greatest living danger to her throne remained…inert. Perversely, inexplicably, Vykers developed a strange respect for the woman.
Their conversations usually began like this:
“I’d have thought you’d be dead by now,” the Queen would say.
“I was thinking the same of you,” Vykers would reply.
“What’s keeping you alive, do you think?”
“Dunno. Magic?”
“I rather suspect there’s more to it than that.”
“Might be. And you? What’s keeping you alive?”
“Sheer cussedness.”
Vykers hated it when she made him laugh; it always hurt like hell. But he figured that was why she did it: the old bitch was a bit of a sadist. Still, she brought news of the world outside his lavish and depressing cell. No gossip, she, the Queen spoke of the things the Reaper found most fascinating: wars, catastrophes and political bids for power. She even taught him a few games of strategy that simulated combat in one way or another and, naturally, Vykers was a fast learner. But he never beat Her Majesty, which was useful information in and of itself.
The Reaper did have one other constant companion in the form of his resident Shaper, Arune. “Resident,” because she lived within his body, shared his brain. Most of the time, she watched and listened, like a church mouse standing on the threshold between the safety of her hole and the wider world. Other times, she was alarmingly talkative, jabbering away as if attempting to win some prize for the most words uttered in an hour’s time. Often, Vykers let her ramble unopposed. She was a friend, after all, and he hadn’t many. And…she was helping to keep him alive.
Another part of that task was shared by his sword, which had changed dramatically since Vykers’ battle with the End-of-All-Things. It had devoured and absorbed the other man’s magic blade, acquiring some of its properties in the process, making it much, much more unpredictable. Like a cat. But also larger. Whereas the sword had once been a fairly plain-looking weapon, it was now a monstrous two-handed thing with little spurs and thorns all across the base of the blade and quillons. Sometimes, the sword’s laughter woke him in the middle of the night. On other occasions, the blade mewled and groaned. Servants and A’Shea stayed away at such times, so spooked were they.
There was another blade – the cold, invisible thing with which he’d been stabbed. Vykers had no doubt his sword would eat that, as well, given the chance. But the Queen had taken it off somewhere for experimentation and the Reaper hadn’t been near it since. He grinned, thinking about it, though. He could just imagine the frustration and rage felt by the End’s shade at the knowledge that his secret weapon had failed to kill Vykers.
Such was the daily routine, the life of the greatest warrior the world had ever known: all past, uncertain future. Until the Queen disappeared.
*****
Every two days, an A’Shea and a team of servants came in to change Vykers’ sheets and blankets, so the fluids that seeped from his incurable wound did not putrefy or, worse, congeal and glue him in place. The whole process was excruciating. One afternoon a few days shy of Lons, the Queen’s Shaper came in and brusquely sent the whole crew away. Vykers didn’t know whether to feel grateful that his regularly-scheduled jostling had been halted or concerned that this cryptic fellow had appeared in the first place. He waited.
The old Burner circled the room, whispering to…someone…and touched a number of surfaces, including the door, the windows, and the wall beside Vykers’ bed. The Reaper stared at the man. He was tall, gaunt and utterly bald. In fact, if Vykers had to guess, he’d say the man had never had a single hair on his scalp in his entire life. And his appearance hadn’t changed one iota since Vykers first laid eyes upon him, the very same moment in which he’d first met the Queen. Though no magician himself, the Reaper had come to understand Shapers better through his long relationship with Arune and very brief but momentous acquaintance with the great Pellas. Thus, despite his obvious vulnerability, he had no fear of his visitor.
“Tarmun Vykers,” the Shaper said at last, in a voice surprisingly deep. “The Queen has disappeared.”
Arune? Vykers asked his own Shaper.
Listening, came her curt reply.
If Vykers had expected the man to elaborate, he was disappointed. The Queen’s Shaper simply stared at him. It was most vexing, and Vykers finally gave up. “And…?” he prompted, none too gently.
The Shaper blinked. “I was gauging your reaction, assessing your…”
Vykers cut him off. “You were looking for any signs of guilt on my part,” he said. “And while I’m guilty of a great ma
ny things, this ain’t one of ‘em.”
“As I suspected. But one must be thorough.” What he said next stunned the Reaper. “Perhaps you can help us find her.”
“And how do you expect a dying man to be of service here?” Vykers snorted.
“Perhaps,” the man said again, “it is time for you to stop dying and get back to work.”
A wild thrill of hope surged through him, and Vykers fought to keep it under control. “You make it sound so simple.”
The man hedged for a second, a single, fleeting instant, which told the Reaper they’d had the means to get him back on his feet for some time. Maybe even the entire time he’d been bed-ridden. Now, he was angry. “Ah,” he said, “so that’s how it is.”
“That is how Her Majesty wished it to be.”
Vykers was shocked by the man’s temerity. “And now you want me to help find her?”
“I understand your position,” the Shaper countered, “but frankly, what choice have you got?”
Let the lion out of his cage and deal with the damage later, Arune offered, helpfully.
And there will be damage later, Vykers shot back. I’ve spent three fuckin’ years in this bed. Someone’s gonna bleed for it.
There followed a long, uncomfortable silence in which neither man spoke. Finally, the Shaper continued. “I’ll take your lack of argument to mean you agree.”
If looks could kill. “As you say, what choice have I got?”
“So. I believe this will be a three-part mission. The first part falls to me and the other Shapers. Our task will be to determine how the Queen was abducted – I’m fairly certain that is what’s happened here – and pick up the scent, as it were, of her captors. Your job will be to go after her and bring her back. A third party will have to do some snooping, for want of a better word, into connections between the Eight and Lunessfor’s criminal underworld.”
“The Eight?” Vykers asked, remembering his Five.
“The eight families jockeying for claim to the throne in the event of the Queen’s…demise.”
“And you can get me walkin’ again?”
The Shaper was caught off-guard by the question. “Yes,” he replied, after a moment’s thought. “Though it will be a test of your legendary strength, I am sure.”
“Then what else do I need to know?”
“Unfortunately, this is all I have right now. I’ll be back in…two days’ time to finalize the details. By then, I should have more to tell you. In the meantime, we are letting it be known the Queen is ill and cannot attend public events.”
“I wonder where you got that idea,” Vykers mused aloud, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
*****
Long Pete had never been so content. After the war, he and Mardine had been able to purchase a small apple orchard with a special dispensation from Her Majesty, on the recommendation of Major Bailis. He missed his old friends, of course – and most especially, those who had passed over: Short Pete and Esmun Janks – but the simple joys of domesticity, marriage, and fatherhood balanced the scales. Oh, he still carried lingering guilt and sadness for the things he’d done and those he hadn’t, but his wife and child had a marvelously soothing effect upon his soul.
And who knew apples were so versatile? When not tending the ripening fruit or picking the ready, he was pressing cider, of which he made both straight and hard varieties. He also helped Mardine in making apple sauce, apple jelly, apple butter, and tarts and pies of every shape and size. One could also make candy from apples, but Long found it too sweet for his taste, though children couldn’t get enough of the stuff. All in all, it was humble, honest, productive work. And his neighbors for miles around appreciated him for it, just as he came to appreciate the local cheese maker, the chandler, the butcher, and others. It was amazing, really, how often actual currency was unnecessary in local transactions. Bartering was the dominant practice, and Long rather enjoyed it.
It was springtime, nature’s celebration of birth, rebirth and life in general. Long had a bit of last season’s harvest stashed away in the form of dried apples and canned goods, but his excitement at seeing the myriad blossoms on his trees was almost unbearable. A gentle breeze wafted their scent across his face, and Long found he could not wait to see this season’s bounty. A honeybee landed on his forearm, launching him into fantasies of becoming a beekeeper, on top of everything else. Honey and apples! He’d be the most popular man in the county! Long took a deep and deeply satisfying breath of orchard air…and exhaled immediately, unsettled by the appearance of riders coming down his road.
His eyes weren’t what they had once been, so it was difficult to make out the identity of his guests from afar. One thing he did know, though, was that they’d brought an unoccupied horse along with them; nothing about that suggested good news. Long took off in an awkward sprint towards his farmhouse. Whatever was coming, he needed to meet it with Mardine at his side. Once upon a time, he might’ve shouted something, a greeting, a warning…something. But the End-of-All-Things had taken his voice. Years of attention from various Shapers and A’Shea had given him back some expression: he could croak in a dry, raspy monotone that made him sound much more dangerous than he actually felt. Shouting and singing, however, were lost to him forever, well outside the three or four note range of his voice. Approaching the house, he heard his daughter’s laughter, his favorite sound in the world. His wife was murmuring something, as well, but her deep, giant’s voice was so low it made words indecipherable at this distance. Allowing himself a moment to catch his breath and calm down, Long paused just outside the door. Esmine was cheerfully babbling something about a mama dolly and a dada dolly. The way she said “dada dolly” over and over almost made Long laugh out loud. With practiced nonchalance, he turned the doorknob and entered.
Esmine and Mardine looked over simultaneously; the toddler broke into the widest, sweetest of smiles. Mardine could tell in an instant something was bothering her husband. “We’re going to have company,” he crackled, as if that explained everything. With all they’d been through, perhaps it did. In one massive arm, the giantess scooped up the family cat, which had been sleeping quite comfortably on an old quilt. In the other, she swept up her daughter. “Mama and dada need to talk,” she told her daughter. “Be a good little thing and play with kitty in the back room ‘til we’re done.” With that, she deposited kid and cat in Esmine’s bedroom and shut the door. When she turned back around, she was not surprised to see her husband had already retrieved his sword. Without a word, she produced a massive meat cleaver from a cupboard near the ceiling.
“What do you figure?” she asked Long.
“No idea. But they’ve got an extra horse. That ain’t good news.”
“Isn’t,” Mardine corrected.
“What?” Long asked, bewildered.
“Isn’t good news,” she clarified. “Don’t want the baby growing up talkin’ like a mercenary.”
Long Pete studied his wife’s face. It was easily as large as a watermelon, with two little dark eyes stuck in it like currents in a massive scone. She had a riot of barely contained auburn and red hair and a wide, generous mouth. Her nose was actually quite normal, considering her size. Long loved that face beyond all sense or reason. If anyone could be truly ‘madly in love,’ it was he.
Outside, the sound of horses shuffling to a standstill and mounted men landing in the dirt gave proof Long’s visitors had arrived. He glanced again at his wife. A knock came at the door.
“Sergeant Major Peter Fendesst?” a familiar voice called out from the other side.
Fuck. Long heaved a sigh of resignation and opened the door. Major Bailis and a second man he didn’t recognize stood beyond the threshold. Further out, he spied three other men, all soldiers.
“May we come in?” Bailis asked and proceeded to do so without waiting for a response. “Ah, hello. Mardine, isn’t it?” he inquired of the giantess.
“You’ve a good memory,” she replied.
�
�Well, it’s not every day you encounter…” Here, he trailed off. He’d wandered into potentially dangerous waters and wasn’t entirely sure how to save himself. “Such a striking woman,” he finished with a flourish.
Mardine stared at him, unamused.
Long stared at him, as well. Bailis hadn’t changed much – a little more iron in his beard, a touch more weight around his midsection. Long cut to the chase, “I’m guessing you’re not here to buy apple products, Major,” he croaked.
Bailis had to lean forward to catch all of it. “It’s Colonel, now. They tried to kick me up even higher, but I wasn’t having any of it. Nobody really likes a general.” Bailis said. “Any chance of a bit of ale or some such? You know how the road gets after a while…”
“It’s an apple farm. I got cider and hard cider,” Long managed.
“Hard would be most welcome.”
“I’m sure,” Long grumbled as he went off to fetch it. When he returned with several mugs brimming with cider, he noticed the tension in the room hadn’t diminished any. “This’s for you and them others,” he explained, tilting his jaw towards the door.
As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2) Page 1