As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)

by Allan Batchelder

  Peppers was yammering away again, making enough noise for several men. As usual, there was a faint tissue of sense to it that was utterly obscured in a hurricane of awkward and self-conscious rhymes. At present, the lunatic was furiously attempting to find purchase with the words ‘totem’ and ‘scrotum’ and having less luck than a eunuch in a whorehouse. The concept of futility, however, seemed as alien to Peppers as the notion of silence, so he kept at it until Long begged him to stop. Before he forgot why he’d stopped, Long tried to distract him with questions.

  “Say, Peppers,” he growled, “Why’d they throw you in here, anyhow? Don’t tell me it was your poetry.”

  “Verse, terse, rehearse, nurse, purse, worse. It was my poetry, it was my verse. They want old Peppers to be terse. But I says what I want, I don’t have to rehearse, I am no one’s wet nurse, therefore put money in thy purse and that’s how things go from bad to worse.”

  If any of that meant something, Long would be damned if he knew what it was. “Peppers, can’t you just…talk…like a normal fella? Just for a minute?”

  Peppers was quiet a moment and then, softly, furtively whispered “Don’t let ‘em show you the bleeding eye.” In the next breath, he returned to his rhythmic babbling.

  The bleeding eye? Long got goose bumps at the sound of it and a cold shiver ran down his spine, shaking his shoulders to and fro. “The bleeding eye?” he asked into the darkness.

  The mad poet ignored the question and carried on with his nonsensical mutterings. All hells, why couldn’t Long have been imprisoned next to a compulsive singer or chronic snorer? Right: he was in a dungeon. He was supposed to be miserable. Then, in a flash of inspiration, Long understood something.

  “Peppers, my friend, did you steal from this house? Is that why they put you in this trap like a mouse?” Not a great effort by anyone’s standards, but then, Long didn’t make a practice of rhyming.

  “Like a mouse? Like an ant. They threw me in this shithole ‘cause they didn’t like my rant. I made a jape about the master and what a disaster, I took off down an alley but they ran a little faster. Then they brought me here in chains after beating out my brains and my head hurts like a bastard, like a bastard.”

  “If your head hurts like a bastard,” Long began, “you might like a bit o’ quiet, you should try it…” He couldn’t think of any way to finish, but his more practiced neighbor had no such trouble.

  “Can’t deny it.” His voice grew softer. “I’ll apply it.” And faded into inaudibility.

  Long had learned nothing he hadn’t already guessed, except for the best – the only – way to communicate with Peppers. It was a tiny victory, but it beat all hells out of waiting for his own demise.

  *****

  Yendor, House Fyne

  There had been plenty of times in Yendor’s life when he’d belonged to nothing and no one, so that when he milled around aimlessly, it didn’t much bother him. Now that he was part of an alleged team, however, he wore his inertia uncomfortably, unable to escape the feeling that so much depended upon him and yet not knowing how to identify it or rectify the situation. He could not, after all, simply do any-old something for the sake of action; he needed to understand how it might advance the mission, such as it was.

  He’d discovered his employers had been spying on him. No surprise there, really. Indeed, he’d’ve been surprised if they hadn’t. The thing was, they’d been so careless in letting this fact slip that Yendor didn’t know whether they were actually incompetent or merely playing upon his supposed credulity in order to set him up for…well, he couldn’t imagine what. The more sober he became, the harder it was to think. He’d have been happier and more productive as a security guard in a distillery. Too late, too late: he was mired in the bowels of House Fyne without the slightest idea how to proceed.

  All of this went through his mind as he trudged dutifully along the parapet atop the Fyne mansion. It was night time, and a summer rain was doing its level best to drown Yendor in his clothing, but he was largely unperturbed by this fact, so lost in his thoughts was he. After much effort, he finally remembered a crucial point: the kind of gossip he needed could only be overheard in the presence of the House elite, the highest of its lords and ladies. They, after all, were the ones who stood most to gain from the Queen’s disappearance. Standing in a sodden mess on the roof, though, seemed about as far as Yendor could possibly get from the kinds of rooms and situations in which he might glean what he’d come for. Unless…

  He had an accomplice. An unwitting accomplice. Pivoting in a puddle to commence the return leg of his patrol, Yendor contemplated the other men in the bunk house, searching for one sufficiently weak-minded and pliable for his purposes. This was especially difficult because he suspected himself of being the single most weak-minded man in the guard, if not the estate. Ah, but he knew of an equalizer, did Yendor, an old friend that had gotten him out of or through many a worse scrape in the past. With some relief, he was pleased to discover he had the makings of a plan…

  *****

  “Wondrous poison!” Moult proclaimed. “What is this fell stuff?”

  “’S called ‘skent!” Yendor grinned, raising his flask in the air as if he were toasting the ceiling.

  Moult literally drooled as he looked up at it, for he was an accomplished drunk, a fellow citizen of the mythical land of Inebria. Yendor knew it the moment he’d laid eyes on him, and, with that knowledge, Yendor owned the man, because while skent was highly addictive, it was also relatively unknown in the midlands and, thus, hard to come by. But Yendor had a secret and reliable source. Soon, Moult would be willing to trade anything, do anything for one more bottle, gulp or sip. Yendor would like to have felt pangs of conscience, but, alas, the wondrous poison was doing its work on him, as well. The other guard would become his surrogate in all things dangerous, until such time as he had provided Yendor with something useful or been killed in the attempt. Naturally, if Moult got killed, Yendor would have to disappear quickly.

  *****

  Vykers, ashore

  It took until nightfall for the entire party and half the ship’s crew to come ashore and get situated in the makeshift camp Vykers and the chimeras had created out of driftwood. The fire they’d built was much larger than necessary (or probably prudent), but as it was their first in weeks, Aoife supposed it did more good than harm, bolstering morale and allowing the menfolk to celebrate their escape from the confines of the ship.

  Arune, former combat mage to a king, was considerably more wary. What are you doing? she demanded of the Reaper.

  Havin’ a bit o’ fun. What’s it look like?

  What’s it look like? She echoed incredulously. It looks like you’ve set up a beacon to announce our arrival.

  Like I said, havin’ a bit o’ fun. Besides, I thought you said there weren’t any threats nearby.

  They’ll be nearby, soon enough, if you keep building that Mahnus-cursed bonfire.

  Good. I’m itchin’ for a fight.

  If it’s a distraction you’re looking for, I’m sure the A’Shea can provide it.

  The Reaper was cannier than he came across, sometimes. Oh, now you’re steering me in her direction? What are you after?

  Arune instantly regretted her choice. She’d been too ham-handed and been caught out. I just think it’s healthier for you to chase after something you’ll never get than court an assault by unknown enemies in a foreign land. She hoped Vykers would respond with something like, “Oh, I’ll never get her? Care to wager on that?”

  But he didn’t. He tossed another log on the fire and stopped communicating entirely. In his experience, when someone said or did something out of character, it meant he had ulterior motives. Vykers didn’t like anyone attempting to manipulate him, least of all friends. For weeks, Arune had tried every argument she could think of to steer the Reaper away from the A’Shea; now, Aoife was just the lesser of two evils, the first of which was so common in Vykers’ life as to be mundane. His suspicions wer
e further aroused when she interrupted his brooding to apologize.

  I’m sorry. Your…personal business is…your business.

  Another, larger log flew onto the fire. Vykers had nothing to say, in part because the old ‘silent treatment’ was how they’d come to punish one another over the years, and in part because he needed time to consider and digest this latest development. He glanced beyond the fire to the rest of his companions, those welcome and those not. The Fool – fool, indeed! – was flirting with Aoife, whilst the Frog interrogated the Historian on some matter or another. A third of the way around the fire circle, the two chimeras, still given a wide berth by most of the sailors, huddled in close conference. Vykers wondered if Three had learned anything new about the smaller chimera and determined to ask at the first opportunity. The Reaper didn’t trust the creature. Or the Fool. Or the Historian. Or, sadly, Arune, at the moment. With a fatalistic grin, he realized he couldn’t recall a time when he’d ever trusted more than one or two people besides himself.

  “Let’s have a story!” one of the sailors called out. “We’ve got a fire; let’s have a good story to go with it!”

  A number of suggestions were called out, but Vykers cut them off. “I’d like to hear how it is that our homeland and this place have remained unknown to each other.” He was gratified to see the Fool frown, as this was clearly outside the man’s repertoire. “I’d like to understand how it is, in three thousand years, we ain’t interacted, much less conquered each other.”

  As expected, it was the Historian who spoke up. “The simplest, easiest answer is often the best, and that answer is that the gods have conspired to keep us apart.” He had everyone’s attention now, but paused in order to allow someone – the Frog, no doubt – to ask the obvious question. To Vykers’ surprise, it was Aoife who spoke up.

  “But why would they want to do that?” she challenged, the firelight flickering in her eyes. “We’re taught that we are their children.”

  The Historian nodded. “Yes, that is what we have been told, down the years. Several thoughts occur to me: first, why does any parent separate his children? Because they do not, cannot get along? Or because they might plot to overthrow their parents’ rule?”

  Vykers could tell by the expressions on the faces around the fire that these thoughts were new territory to most in the company; he sympathized.

  “There is another, perhaps more disturbing possibility,” the Historian went on, “Perhaps we are not the gods’ children, as we have been told.”

  One of the sailors jumped in this time, and the Reaper had to admit he admired the way the Historian led his audience. “If we ain’t their children, then what are we to them?”

  Aoife barely managed a feeble “Of course we’re their children!” before the Historian cut back in, louder.

  “There are few options, and none pleasant. It may be that we are their slaves, or their pets. It may be that we’re nothing more than insects to them. Has the poet not written ‘As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport”?

  “I will not believe that!” Aoife objected.

  “Then you have seen precious little death,” the Historian countered.

  Much as he was attracted to Aoife, Vykers had to agree with the Ahklatian on this point.

  “I’ve seen enough,” the A’Shea said, and then, almost to herself: “Too much.”

  “Still.”

  Aoife was taken aback. “I am aware of your own…suffering…Historian,” she said sharply. “But you do not have a monopoly on horror.”

  A cold anger burned in the Ahklatian’s black eyes. “I was not referring to myself, Mender, or my people. I am not so self-absorbed as to think my experiences are of interest to anyone present.”

  A quick look around the circle would have told him otherwise, Vykers thought. There wasn’t a sailor amongst them who wasn’t curious, fearful or both. Old prejudices die hard.

  “But I think whatever you have suffered pales in comparison to what has happened across our land over the three thousand years we do remember. And who’s to say what has occurred in this land?”

  Vykers grew tired of the bickering between his companions and shifted the dialogue in a different direction. “You’ve been here before. Tell us about it.”

  “I thought that’s what I was attempting to do.”

  “Yeah, well, keep attempting.”

  The Historian stared into the fire and got a far away look in his eyes. “So…many of you know the essentials of my story and that of my people. After our own awakening, each of us went through a seemingly endless period of soul-searching, followed by a longer period of literal searching, looking for answers, any kind of information that might explain what had happened to us and our…progeny.”

  Arune, listening carefully, was initially struck by that word, progeny. It wasn’t hard to see why he’d chosen it, instead of ‘children.’

  “Inevitably, I searched every acre of our homeland. Every forest, every village, every hole in the ground. Many things I found, but none of them shed the least light on the darkest episode of my people. And so, I had to cross the sea. The journey should have killed me, as it has undoubtedly killed countless others.”

  “And when was this?” Vykers asked.

  The Historian swallowed, smiled grimly. “Best have it out, eh?” he asked. “Some seven hundred years ago.”

  This was followed by much whispering amongst the ship’s crew and a smaller amount between Hoosh and the Frog.

  The Historian pretended not to notice. “I spent what you might call a lifetime exploring these lands,” he continued, gazing inland. “You cannot imagine what you’ll see in the coming days and weeks ahead of us.”

  “Such as…?” Vykers prompted impatiently.

  “People who think and act quite differently from us, beasts unlike any you’ve known, mountains that dwarf our own, deserts, jungles…”

  “Tell these men about ‘deserts.”

  “Imagine a plain of sand that stretches in every direction for weeks, a vast expanse without shade or water, watched over by a blazing sun. In this plain, experienced men die of thirst every day, others, from the unrelenting heat.”

  “Sounds like hell,” someone opined.

  The Historian laughed. “And so it is! Would you believe some have found a way to live and even thrive there, anyway?”

  “To what end?” One of the sailors asked. “Who wants to live in a place without water or plants?”

  “Those who don’t like to be disturbed?” The Historian responded. “I do not claim to understand their motives; I only know they exist.”

  “And the jungles you mentioned? What of those?” Hoosh asked.

  “As hot as the deserts, but full of plants and water. In sooth, the plants in these jungles grow to monstrous proportions, as do the predators. Do you know those biting flies we have at home? Tiny and few in number? In the jungle, they are the size of eggs and number in the millions. Men have been known to die whilst trapped in a swarm of them. And they are not close to the worst insects you’ll find in the jungle – leaping spiders the size of small dogs, wasps as big as birds with venom that burns like molten steel, ticks whose bite will make the flesh rot off your bones in mere hours…”

  “I think I’ve heard enough of these horrors,” Aoife exclaimed.

  The Historian smiled at her. “The best news is, Her Majesty’s captors may not be headed in that direction, or, if they are, may not travel that far. Chances are good we’ll never see a desert or jungle.”

  “We’ll never see one from the ship, that’s certain,” the chatty sailor said smugly.

  Vykers! Arune shouted.

  The Historian leapt to his feet.

  The night exploded. Mounted figures boiled from the darkness, as if forcing their way en masse through a door too small for their numbers. Shouts of panic and screams of terror erupted from those around the campfire. Magical energies flared up in several spots, and Vykers yelled, “Don
’t hurt the horses!” – a command that was greeted by a torrent of profanity from Arune. The mysterious enemies were armored in midnight blue steel adorned with golden stars. Their weapons and even their horses’ barding were of the same design and material. Vykers hoped to catch a sample of their speech, but he was to be disappointed, for they attacked in utter silence.

  Silence was not the Reaper’s way. He roared in fury and swung his sword – when had he drawn it? – at the nearest knight and sheared right through the man’s upraised weapon, through his armor, and into his shoulder with laughable ease. The man’s silence was broken by his cry of pain. Vykers whirled, swept two more knights off their horses. A third tried to smash Vykers in the back of the head with a gigantic mace, but the Reaper ducked and, dropping his left hand from the hilt of his sword, used it to pull the fellow from his saddle and into the fire, where he screamed in such fear and agony it gave Vykers goose bumps…of pleasure. Gone were his pain, his issues with Hoosh, his problems with Aoife and any and all of the myriad other annoyances he’d had to put up with since he’d been dragged from his sickbed. He was separating bodies from souls, and he hadn’t been happier in ages.