As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)

by Allan Batchelder

  *****

  Aoife, Her New Grove

  These were not the children she remembered. This brood was sullen, taciturn. They were different in appearance, as well – darker, thornier, of dire and dangerous aspect. Looking for reassurance, Aoife endeavored to engage them in conversation, but they remained aloof. Only when the strange satyr, the one who was not Toomt’-La, appeared without warning did they rouse themselves, gurgling and chirruping as he moved near.

  “I warned you, human. Did I not?”

  The A’Shea would not be intimidated; she was too disappointed and tired to humor anyone’s temper. “You made some noises. Was that the warning you speak of?”

  Without moving, the satyr reappeared within inches of Aoife, grinning malevolently into her face. She stilled her breath and inwardly chanted a prayer. “Am I supposed to be afraid, woodling? I’ve stood nose-to-nose with the Reaper and survived.”

  “Ah,” the satyr sighed in a tone full of malice, “the Reaper. Yes, I have heard of this monster. Another blight, another abomination that must be dealt with in time.”

  “Before he deals with you?”

  She did not see his hand reach out to her neck, only knew that it was there and tightening its grip. The A’Shea tried to cast paralysis upon her foe, but the spell had no effect. She began to feel lightheaded, but whether that was from choking or some magic of the satyr’s, she couldn’t tell. She scorched the creature’s hand with a powerful burst of static electricity. He retaliated by striking her across the face with his other hand.

  “Enough!” cried a voice from the shadows.

  The satyr took his attention off Aoife for a second, and she desiccated the hand around her throat, provoking a scream of fury from her assailant.

  “Enough!” the voice commanded again. Toomt’-La stepped into the sunlight. “This must not continue!”

  The dark satyr stepped away from the A’Shea, shaking his ruined hand as if he could wriggle it back to health. “You have no authority here!” He spat at Toomt’-La.

  “Endu-Ro,” Toomt’-La said calmly, “It is ever the same argument from you. When will you see we are not concerned with a land, but the world entire?”

  “And we cannot preserve our world, but one land at a time!”

  Toomt’-La gestured in Aoife’s direction. “This woman is no threat to your land or our world.”

  “And yet, she has travelled with the Reaper – boasts of it, even!”

  “Then tell, me, brother,” Toomt’-La said, “when has the Reaper ever done battle with our folk? What forests has he burned? What species, eradicated?”

  Endu-Ro sneered, “Do you mean to say a man who calls himself the Reaper is as harmless as a shepherd?”

  “Oh, he’s a danger, brother. To his own kind. To any who oppose him. But he is like the adder: if you leave him alone, he’ll do the same for you.”

  The dark satyr ignored the comment. “I want her to use this grove to return to her land…”

  “Why, so I intend,” Aoife interjected. “But not today, nor tomorrow. But when I list.”

  Endu-Ro stared at her, his chest heaving with angry breaths. “I’ll take these children, too, and when you’ve gone, I’ll recultivate this place so you cannot return.”

  Aoife looked at her latest brood and felt no love in or for them. “That’s fair,” she allowed.

  The satyr flashed into the shadows under a tree, becoming all but invisible. “I’ll look to see you gone, then. Soon.”

  “Soon,” Aoife agreed.

  “And now,” said Toomt’-La, “you understand another reason for the sea between our lands.”

  The A’Shea crossed the grove and threw her arms about her old friend, saying nothing for the longest time. Eventually, her curiosity got the better of her. “Was that Endu-Ro truly your brother?”

  Toomt’-La laughed his strange, croaking laugh. “He is. And many thousands more.”

  Aoife stepped back in amazement. “You have thousands of brothers?”

  Toomt’-La nodded.

  “And do you know them all by name?”

  He nodded again. “I must return to sleep,” he said wistfully. “I must sleep.”

  Aoife had many questions, but her friend had vanished.

  *****

  Vykers, In Pursuit

  After climbing almost imperceptibly for days, the party crested a rise and looked out over a vast plain, far below. Vykers, Hoosh and the Frog were stunned by the altitude they’d achieved without being especially aware, though the Historian (and, of course, Arune) did not seem particularly impressed. The two prisoners, worn ragged by hard travel and constant fear, registered even less response.

  “What’s that smudge on the horizon?” the Fool asked, pointing a finger to direct everyone’s gaze.

  “’S an army,” Vykers answered. He might have been a bit more sardonic in his reply, but the thought of a battle excited him.

  That’s not an army, Arune contradicted. It’s a collection of armies.

  Vykers beamed. Even better.

  “And that bright spot in the middle?” Hoosh wondered.

  It was the Frog who replied. “Those are flames.”

  “You can see that from here?” said the Reaper, astonished. But then he remembered Number Three and recalled the extraordinary vision his friend had possessed. “’Course you can.”

  “Strange flames, though,” said the Frog.

  “How so?”

  “They climb too high.”

  What’s that mean? Vykers prodded Arune.

  It means we’ve found Her Majesty.

  They ain’t burnin’ her at the stake are they?

  It doesn’t appear so.

  What’s that mean?

  I don’t –

  Vykers approached the Historian. “The Queen alive?”

  The Ahklatian looked at the far away spark. “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “That’s all I can tell you.”

  Vykers grabbed the Historian by his shoulder and spun him so the two men were facing one another. The Historian, in turn, glanced at the Reaper’s hand with a rebuking look.

  “That’s an interesting choice ‘o words, that. I got a hunch you know a lot more than you’re lettin’ on.”

  The Historian regarded Vykers in silence, his all-black eyes giving nothing away.

  “And there’s a few things here don’t look too good to me.”

  “For instance?” the Fool prompted.

  The Reaper drew his sword from its sheath across his back. He hefted its weight experimentally, felt it quiver in his grip in anticipation of violence. “For instance,” he began, “I’ve been led to the middle o’ nowhere, months from home. The only men I’ve got for help or company were chosen by someone else or,” he pointed at the Frog, “came o’ their own accord. We finally catch sight of our destination and it’s swarming with unknown armies. Tell me this don’t look like a trap.”

  The Fool looked nervously at the sword and responded, “I can see how it might, yes. But I don’t think that’s the case.”

  “I ain’t tryin’ to hurt you,” the Frog declared.

  Vykers turned his gaze back to the Historian, who said “Do you think I fear death? If you’re going to try to kill me, have at it. Otherwise, you’ll have to trust me.”

  The Reaper lowered his sword; that was what passed for an apology in his mind. He would say no more about it. “Let’s start working our way down this slope, then.”

  You waited until now to start suspecting a trap? Arune asked in disbelief.

  I always suspect a trap; I’m just lettin’ the others know I may have to kill ‘em.

  I’ll bet they found that reassuring.

  It took hours to get to down to the plain. At one point, Vykers wheeled his horse in a circle, surveying the landscape in every direction.

  “I thought you said there was a giant lake down here somewhere,” he said to the Historian.

  “I did,” the other man agreed. �
�We’re standing in it.”

  The Fool whistled in amazement.

  The Historian shrugged. “A lot can happen in seven hundred years.”

  “Where’d the water go?” Vykers demanded.

  Still smarting from the Reaper’s rebuke, the Ahklatian replied, “Does it matter?”

  He had a point, Vykers supposed. Whatever his companions’ motives might be, he’d come here to find Her Majesty. Everything else was irrelevant.

  It is the way of things, when travelling great distances over land, that objects on the horizon seem closer than they are, and reaching them takes much, much longer than expected. Since evening arrived before their destination, the party made camp.

  “Fuck it,” Vykers growled. “I’m tired and hungry. Let’s call it a day.”

  “What of the prisoners?” the Historian inquired.

  It wouldn’t kill you to make some gesture of trust in the man, Arune pointed out.

  “Whatever you think best,” Vykers told him.

  See? Said Arune. Wasn’t that easy?

  I only said that to end the conversation. I reckon we’ll be doin’ some fighting tomorrow, and I wanna get some rest.

  You could say one thing about Vykers, Arune thought: he didn’t beat around the bush.

  Come morning, Vykers surprised himself and everyone else by being the first to rise. Normally, the Frog had that honor, but the Reaper was so excited by the prospect of bloodshed that he couldn’t contain himself any longer and rose as the first stars began to fade from the sky. He finished the previous night’s game without any concern for the rest of his party and turned his attention to ensuring his weapons and gear were in fighting condition.

  “I can now tell you more of what waits ahead, if you wish,” the Historian said, intruding upon Vykers’ preparations.

  The Reaper was sitting, gingerly, on a pile of saddlebags. He looked up. “Why now?”

  “Because we have drawn considerably closer.”

  “Makes sense,” Vykers said, more to himself than the Ahklatian.

  “There is, as you’ve suggested, a collection, a gathering of armies.”

  As I said, Arune boasted.

  “However,” the Historian continued, “they are not allied with one another.”

  “Oh?” Vykers sat up a bit taller.

  “No. They appear, instead, to have reached a stalemate or agreement of sorts over their relative positions around that fire our friend spoke of.”

  The Frog.

  I figured. “And what can you tell me about that fire? It’s gotta be magic, no?”

  “It does feel that way. But if it is, it’s beyond my ken.”

  “Huh.”

  Now, the Frog approached. “Master?” he asked with a degree of meekness that seemed almost laughable in one so fearsome.

  “Frog,” Vykers said by way of acknowledgement.

  “Will we be fighting today?”

  “I sure as hell hope so!” Vykers replied cheerfully.

  “But…”

  “But?” Vykers didn’t have a lot of patience, even on a good day, and never before a battle.

  “I’m afraid o’ what I might do.”

  “Frog, I can’t wait to see what you can do.”

  “But I might…I might…”

  “Good,” Vykers said. “Serves the bastards right!” And that was it; he was done chatting. It was time to focus.

  Hours passed, and the group found itself surrounded by scores of ruined, discolored pillars, or at least their bases, anyway.

  “What’s all this?” Vykers wondered aloud.

  “Petrified wood,” the Ahklatian replied. “It seems there was a forest here, even before the large lake I spoke of. The remains of these trees were preserved by the salt and the lake silt.”

  “So, how long ago was this?”

  “Tens of thousands of years, I shouldn’t wonder. Perhaps more.”

  Tens of thousands of years. How in the infinite hells could he know that? Vykers let it go. The only mystery he cared about at the moment was what had happened to the Queen.

  *****

  Long, House D’Escurzy

  Long Pete didn’t waste any time getting settled. He understood that something catastrophic had happened to the D’Escurzys in the last day or so, and those who had somehow survived the mysterious event were so rattled that they barely knew how to handle themselves, much less the affairs of the estate. After seeing to his companions’ accommodations, Long plunked himself down in a chair in the first room that seemed large enough to conduct business and commanded the family members that had met him at the gate be sent for. They came at his bidding and were none too happy about it.

  “Who are you, pray tell, to order us about?” Doughy sniped petulantly.

  “I’m the current Lord o’ this House, is who,” Long croaked. “Accordin’ to Lord Titus’ last will and testament, witnessed by the constable and several others. And it seems I’m the only one ‘round here still has his wits about him!” A page standing off to Long’s left started to giggle, and Long cut him off with a look of extreme censure. “Now, what in the infinite hells happened to you people the other night?”

  A look passed between the three men he’d summoned. Finally, Doughy spoke. “I’m confused as to how you wouldn’t know. After all, it was at a banquet in your honor.”

  Long leaned forward in his chair, glared at the man. “Humor me. What happened?”

  Doughy backed down. “Er…some of the family’s…um…more important members felt it important to celebrate your…ascension to Head of House from the position of…” he turned to his mates, conferred with them in hushed tones, then turned back to Long. “From the position of manservant to His Lordship.”

  “And how long had I been in His Lordship’s service?”

  Again, Doughy consulted his friends. “Several weeks. We are not sure of the exact date.”

  Long did the math in his head; it fit. That, combined with the surviving family’s inability to describe the ‘Long Pete’ who had served Lord Titus confirmed, for Long, that Spirk Nessno had preceded him. But what had become of the young man since?

  “Tell me everything you know about this disastrous banquet,” he croaked.

  It was an astonishing tale, the conclusion of which demonstrated beyond doubt that Spirk had in fact, as he had always claimed, somehow become a vessel for Pellas’ gifts. Most of them, anyway. It was abundantly clear he hadn’t acquired the old Shaper’s intellectual prowess. After all, he’d chosen Long’s name as his alias, and it was never wise to use the name of an actual person, especially one’s leader. Had it not been for that gaffe, however, Long would still be languishing in the Thortons’ dungeon, or even dead. This gave Long pause. It could be that Spirk was the imbecile he’d always imagined the young man to be, or he might be a genius, a prodigy whose intelligence so far outpaced Long’s that the captain would never understand the fellow’s actions.

  No. There were miracles, and then there were fairytales. Long had just gotten lucky.

  He looked at the three men before him. “How comes it you’ve all survived this…explosion?”

  “Like I said, it was the family’s more important members – leastwise, in their view – and many of us weren’t invited.”

  “To your good fortune, I’ll warrant.”

  Doughy nodded. “I’ll not gainsay it, though some of us lost a few friends into the bargain.”

  Long understood: wealthy families were amongst the most dysfunctional, but even within their ranks, love and camaraderie could be found in ample supply. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said with evident sincerity.

  The men seemed mollified.

  “My name’s Dendul, your Lordship,” Doughy offered.

  “And I’m Jasper,” the tall one said.

  “I’m Tane,” said the third.

  “Pleased to meet you, good sirs,” Long responded. “Though I wish it had been under other circumstances.”

  “Aye,” “Indee
d,” “That’s a fact,” the men said.

  “But, er, your Lordship…” Dendul said, “the other survivors won’t take your title seriously, not bein’ an actual D’Escurzy and all.”

  Long seemed to think about this for a moment and then said, “I’ve an idea about that. Can you tell me who manages the estate’s coin?”