As Flies to Wanton Boys (Immortal Treachery Book 2)

by Allan Batchelder

  *****

  Vykers, In Pursuit

  South, South, ever South. The Reaper set a grueling pace. Fortunately, he and his fellows had twice as many horses as they needed, courtesy of the knights who had ambushed them on the beach, and although they were not A'Shea, the Historian and Arune together were able to extend the horses’ health and range. The two Shapers also did a fine job of clearing the path ahead, keeping potential threats at bay or misleading them entirely. In truth, the greatest threat the party faced was Vykers’ ever growing impatience, his need, which became an almost corporeal force, to close with the Queen's abductors. With every day that passed without sign of his prey, the Reaper grew increasingly irritable, to the point that both Hoosh and the Historian gave him a wide berth whenever possible.

  "Where in the endless hells are these bastards?" Vykers grumbled.

  It was hot, and the sun burned noticeably brighter than it did back home. How this was possible was beyond Vykers’ understanding, nor did he care to understand. All he knew was that his discomfort grew with every mile. But what was a little more discomfort on top of what he already felt? Toss it onto the shit heap of grievances he already had with the gods.

  The heat and the light were not the only things Vykers noticed. In these warmer, drier climes, the lush, verdant groundcover and underbrush with which he was familiar gave way to sparse, feeble vegetation. The mighty pine trees, the maples, alder and ash, were replaced by groves of oaks and by other trees whose names he did not know or recognize. He wondered what sort of people would choose to live in such a place, how they made do without the plants and animals that everyone depended upon back home. For a man who lived exclusively to do and to be, he had a lot of questions. It occurred to him that his curiosity was born of a desire to understand this new land better in the event he chose to come back and claim it for his own. On the whole, he was not particularly covetous of the place, but then he hadn't really had time to explore, so driven was he to rescue Her Majesty. And then, of course, there was his gaping wound. Time was, he’d have wondered if he'd ever recover; now, he steered clear of the question altogether.

  He grunted. In another hour the sun would set. Vykers would take the longer, cooler summer days of his homeland, any time.

  Ever so subtly, the Historian led his mount close to the Reaper, and after several minutes the two men rode side-by-side.

  "Something on your mind?" Asked Vykers.

  The Historian’s movements were so precise and minimal that the Reaper barely noticed the man's nod in response. "The boy, the Frog, is still out there."

  "Glad to hear it."

  "Over the last few days he's been working his way closer and closer to our little party."

  Vykers’ gaze never deviated from the horizon. "Don't tell me the boy’s got you worried."

  "Worried? No. I believe he'd like to rejoin the group, but he's too afraid or… ashamed."

  "Well," Vykers sighed, "he did eat my best friend."

  The Historian said nothing in response. And how in Mahnus' name was the Reaper supposed to discuss the Frog without dredging up memories the Ahklatian would as soon leave buried?

  Shaper! Where in the countless hells are you?

  I am here, Arune responded.

  Well, what the fuck are you doing?

  Just listening to you step in the shit.

  Some friend you are, Vykers complained.

  Oh, said Arune. Now were friends.

  Vykers was angry. What a surprise. Where have you been these last few days? He demanded.

  Where have I been? Are you mocking me? Where have I ever been these past few years but trapped inside you?

  So, it's that bad, is it?

  Arune knew she had gone too far. “I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.”

  Vykers had no idea how to respond to that, so all he said was, Bullshit!

  As if he could hear the conversation and had been waiting for a pause, the Historian interjected, “It may be easier to bring the boy in if we make camp while it's still light, and he can still see and follow our actions.”

  To everyone's surprise, Vykers agreed. "Yeah, might as well call it a day. I don't suppose an hour or two is gonna make a difference. And I could use someone new to talk to, besides a couple of crazy Shapers and a fool who ain’t funny."

  With that pronouncement, rough-edged as it was, the party members fell into their usual routines: Hoosh gathered wood for a fire, the Historian lit the fire, and Arune attracted game into the camp where it was easily killed. Naturally, the Reaper did the killing. Normally, in a family or a military unit the choicest cuts of meat went, by right, to the head of household or the commander. In this case though, the act of killing was the choice of meat, and Vykers never failed to claim it for himself.

  Once everyone had settled by the fire with a meal of his choosing, Vykers cleared his throat and looked over at the Historian. "The boy out there now?"

  "He is," the Ahklatian responded.

  "Huh,” Vykers grunted, "he must be using that fey magic he learned, ‘cause I don't see him."

  The Historian regarded him with renewed respect. "You are correct; he is about 200 strides to the North East."

  "I'm going out there to bring him back," the Reaper declared.

  I believe he's afraid of your sword, Arune replied.

  Afraid of my sword? Vykers repeated, astonished. It ain't my sword that makes me what I am.

  That attitude isn't going to make him any more comfortable.

  Vykers thought up an immediate retort, but the fact was he missed Arune whenever she went silent too long. He tried a different tack: So, I'll leave the sword in camp and approach him unarmed.

  The sword was none too happy with this turn of events and let Vykers know it in no uncertain terms: it squealed, it whined, it intensified his pain, but the Reaper remained intractable. He didn't like being manipulated. At the same time, he saw this as a test of his own recovery. How long, how far could he go without his sword? Time to find out. Setting it down across a log near the fire, Vykers struck out in the direction the Historian had indicated.

  He walked what he reckoned to be about halfway to the Frog's location, but was still unable to spot the boy. “Okay, then,” he said aloud, “think I’ll take a seat right here, lad, and whenever you’re ready to talk, you can come on in. I’m unarmed, I’m on the ground. Couldn’t be less of a threat, unless I was asleep. But that wouldn’t make for much of a conversation.”

  Vykers waited. The sun went down. Back at the campfire, the Fool began singing, softly. Vykers didn’t imagine that was for the Historian’s benefit; perhaps it was meant to provide further cover for the Frog, or maybe it was meant to soothe the boy’s nerves. Whatever the reason, the Reaper found it just a bit harder to hate the old man.

  He’s working his way closer, Arune said quietly, after more than an hour had passed.

  He's taking his sweet time.

  He's a boy, and he's lost. You will understand when you see him.

  The Fool continued to sing.

  Later, Vykers had just about fallen asleep when a voice called to him from the dark.

  "Reaper?" It was a husky, gravelly voice but strangely vulnerable for all that.

  "I'm here, son," said Vykers.

  Son? Thought Arune. That's a nice touch. Who would have thought the Reaper had it in him?

  A hulking, muscular shape that was much larger than Vykers had expected emerged from the landscape. “What did I do? What’ve I done?” it mewled pitifully.

  The Reaper wanted to stand, remained sitting. “Nothin’ bad, son. Nothin’ wrong.”

  “But I ate…I ate… and now I’m…I’m…”

  “You’re the Frog, lad. You’re my friend, the Frog.”

  The Frog came to within fifteen feet of Vykers, fully visible now. He’d changed all right. Fully as large as Number Three had been and perhaps bigger, he was an impossible am
algamation of human and animal parts and attributes. The Reaper did not feel pity, but he understood the boy’s desolation.

  "I ate the other one, too. The smaller one. I didn't mean to, but he kept trying to catch me; he wouldn't leave me alone."

  Another soul on Vykers’ conscience. He barely felt it. "Why don’t you come back to the fire with me?" He asked the boy. "I think there's some game left from dinner; you're welcome to it, and you can warm yourself up."

  "You gonna kill me," the Frog queried. "Back at camp?"

  "No."

  "But someday?"

  He wasn't going to lie to the kid. "I don't think so. I hope not."

  "Me too," the Frog said, as he fell in beside the Reaper and they began the journey back to the campfire.

  Well done, Vykers. Well done, Arune wanted to say. But it was not her moment, so she stayed out of it.

  *****

  Mardine, On the Trail

  Everyone understood that giants were harder to injure and healed faster than other races; everyone, that is, save Mardine herself, who was having such a difficult time just breathing in and out that the conventional wisdom seemed offensive and idiotic to her. Harder to injure? Faster healing? She was broken and undeniably so. She could feel the snapped ends of her ribs grating against each other, and every such occurrence caused her pain beyond anything she had previously experienced, including childbirth. From what she could tell she had been struck from behind by a humungous log, possibly weighing several tons. How her attackers had gotten it airborne defied comprehension. Anyway, Mardine had more important things to worry about, like remaining alive and finding her daughter.

  If only she could remain conscious.

  She was jostled awake sometime later and realized she lay bound in a rustic wagon that trundled along the forest path without a care for her comfort or sanity. It was never especially bright in the forest but now it was growing well and truly dark. She could make out the sound of horse hooves negotiating the path, the creaking of her wagon and its wheels, and the faint sound of conversation, though she could not tell who was speaking or what was being said. Probably it was that treacherous bitch Nelby and her equally conniving man. Well, she would sort them out, given half a chance.

  Come morning, Mardine felt no better but at least she could see. Still in the forest, then. She heard the sound of footsteps shuffling in the rocky soil and waited to see who approached. She might have expected Nelby, but it was a man who could only have been Jaddo that rounded the wagon’s corner and smirked at her upon making eye contact.

  "Thirsty?"

  She wanted to squeeze his skull in her hands until she felt his brains oozing out his ears. That would have to wait. "Yes," she managed. Even that single syllable practically taxed her to her limit.

  Jaddo dipped a ladle into a bucket he'd been carrying and held it to the giantess’ lips. "You surely can take a thumping," said he. "But I'm glad you survived; you're worth a lot more alive than dead. Truth to tell, you ain't worth nothing dead."

  "My… Daughter?"

  "Oh, she's fine, she's fine," the former thrall said in an offhand way. "She's the real prize anyhow. Wouldn't let any harm come to her, no way.” He grinned and showed his tobacco-stained teeth.

  "Why?" -- Not meaning why was she the real prize, but why had Jaddo and Nelby stolen her in the first place.

  "Why?" Jaddo cackled. "Didja damage yer brain when ya fell? For the money! Any and everything for the money, always! Your girl’s a bit of a freak, and there's a feller up north what collects ‘em. Freaks, that is."

  If only Mardine had the strength to respond. Her world was naught but a bitter, reddish fog.

  *****

  Later still, she woke to the sound of giggling. She made it about mid-day, felt no better. And now, on top of her omnipresent thirst, she was also ravenous. Hard to believe, given her injuries, but there it was. How long had it been since she’d… Oh, her nose told her, she'd already done it, must've happened when she'd been struck. They'd left her to stew in her own filth like an animal.

  Craning her neck to one side and turning her head with great difficulty, she sought out the source of the giggling. If there was any room for further pain, she felt it now upon seeing not Nelby, but Tresa in Jaddo’s arms, nuzzling him, nibbling upon his neck and otherwise engaging in all manner of shameless foreplay.

  "Where's Nelby?" Mardine called out in a voice that was half shout, half-groan.

  The lovers approached her wagon, still wrapped around each other. "What do you want with that stupid cow?" Jaddo asked in amazement.

  Tresa snorted derisively, "The big oaf's just figured it out, love, she's just now realized ‘twas not Nelby who deceived her, but me!"

  Mardine forced a smile, despite the pain.

  "What?" Tresa snapped. "You think that's funny, do you?"

  Mardine shook her head no. "You just saved me from killing the wrong woman."

  Jaddo found this amusing and chuckled at the giantess’ pluck. Tresa, on the other hand, was infuriated by the remark and slapped Mardine across the face with a resounding crack.

  "You keep talking like that, bitch, and I'll gut you while you lie there!"

  The giantess closed her eyes; there was nothing to be gained from prolonging this conversation. Instead, she would bide her time. If she only ever got one chance to escape, to rescue her daughter, to enact her revenge, she wanted to be ready. She was dimly aware that the thrall woman continued to hurl invective her way, but she lacked the energy and desire to make sense of it, and so it became a rapidly fading droning noise in the background of her consciousness. She sank back into sleep.

  Jaddo spoon-fed her cold stew, which she fairly inhaled without tasting or thanks. She had never been so hungry in her life.

  "Always wondered how much you folk et,” Jaddo remarked.

  Mardine couldn't risk a response. He was feeding her, and that was all that mattered for the moment. She didn't want to do or say anything that would kill his generosity, whatever his motives might be. And anything good that might come in the future was predicated upon her regaining her health and strength.

  "Imagine you might like a little wine to go with this here."

  Mardine nodded. Jaddo poured half a bottle of wine down her throat. It wasn't a good vintage; Hells, the giantess wouldn't even use it as a cleaning solution under normal circumstances. Things being as they were, she drank it gladly.

  The former thrall had a strange smile on his lips. "Oh, you like that, do you? Might as well finish the bottle, then."

  And so she did.

  As Jaddo withdrew the bottle at last, his arm not so subtly brushed against Mardine's breasts. Now she understood. It seemed men were the same everywhere, excepting of course her beloved Long. Well, that wasn't exactly true, either. Shortly before they first met, Long Pete had made his living as a gigolo. But there were so many qualities her man possessed, or rather came to possess, that this man did not that the comparison was utterly unfair. So, Jaddo was curious, was he?

  Mardine felt a brief surge of euphoria: an idea was beginning to take shape in her mind.

  *****

  Rem, House Hawsey

  He'd been acting like a coward, really, and he knew it. The thought of spending even another moment between Her Ladyship's legs was more frightening than anything His Lordship might do to him if the man discovered the forgery. He’d been on the verge of approaching her door numerous times, but lost his nerve. Indeed, Rem had intended to switch the diaries within 24 hours, but 24 had become 48 and then 72 and now almost a week had passed. Funny, he had never been afraid of a woman before. Of course, Her Ladyship was no ordinary woman. How long could he continue to avoid her? Well, he wasn't dead yet, so he figured he could hold out until Lord Hawsey killed him for one reason or another.

  What foolishness! This mission was not about him and his petty little fears, but about Her Majesty's disappearance. Too, if he never escaped House Hawsey, his acting career and his growing fame woul
d be finished. There was nothing for it but to put on his best doublet, strap on his most dazzling codpiece and sally forth into battle. It could hardly be as bad as he remembered; he must've embellished certain details with his over active imagination. Yes, yes, that had to be it. Just to be on the safe side though, he downed a half bottle of excellent brandy before leaving his chambers and heading off to confront Her Ladyship.

  As he approached the door to her bedroom, he couldn't help but notice the two guards stationed outside smirking at him. At least, he thought they were smirking at him. Perhaps they were as drunk as he. If not, he pitied them their station in life.

  "Is Her Ladyship in?" said he.