The Fly Guild

by Todd Shryock

  Sands led him down a narrow path through waist-high grass toward the looming shadows of the scrub trees that bordered the swamp that surrounded the city on three sides. Part of the reason the wall had been left to decay was the feeling of security the endless swamp provided to the inhabitants. The only practical way into the city was by sea, or the one road that ran through the swamp that was narrow, treacherous and seldom traveled by those without a heavy guard. Brigands, murderers and those who feed on the edges of society inhabited the distant parts of the swamp. Quinton wondered whether the walls were to keep evil out, or evil in.

  The path led into the trees, which were still sparse by most standards. The ground was already starting to squish underfoot, the grass was head high now, and insects and birds were chirping and singing to the lightening sky. Within a half hour, the path was a narrow strip of mostly dry land weaving through water-soaked ground that had several inches of standing water on it in places. As the sun climbed into the sky, Quinton saw that the water looked black, clouds of small insects swarmed around each other in small balls floating here and there across the surface and strange sounds emanated from every direction.

  “The swamp is a dangerous place,” said Sands over his shoulder as he walked. “Stay on the road and you’ll be taken down by murderous thieves; stay on the trails and you’ll be eaten alive by insects and legartos. Quite a choice.”

  “What’s a legarto, master?”

  Sands looked back and broke into a slight smile. “A legarto is a lizard that’s slightly longer than a man is tall and usually looks like a crusty old log floating in the water. The only give away is its narrow, yellow-green, reptilian eyes. If they’re not hungry, you can practically walk across them. If they are ready for lunch, you’ll be hard pressed to get away from them. Out of the water, they look like their smaller lizard cousins, but with a mouthful of teeth and claws as long as your hand.”

  “Are they dragons?” Quinton asked.

  “No, not nearly that big, but just about as dangerous.”

  “What should I do if I see one?”

  “Hope that he’s not hungry,” said Sands. “Otherwise, know that they will work together. One will try to chase you into a spot where two or three others await. Never run away from one. Instead, run toward him, hope you make it past him with all your limbs still attached and keep on going. If you get past the chaser, usually he just gives up, unless he’s really hungry.”

  “What do you do then?”

  “Pray that it is a quick end.”

  After some time meandering through the swamp, the trail turned onto what looked like a small island. The trees were evergreen and thicker and the ground was higher and dry. Quinton noticed as they made their way through the outskirts of the island, cut stones were in piles along the trail.

  “What was this place?” he asked.

  Sands said nothing, continuing to walk. After a few more moments, he stopped and motioned him forward. “Look,” he said.

  Before him were eight large stones, rectangular in shape, covered in vines, moss and other vegetation. In between the stones was a large area made of six-sided chunks of granite worn smooth by the passage of a thousand feet. Sands looked at him and grinned. Whatever the place was, it had been built by someone a long, long time ago.

  “Step to the middle, boy, and you shall see for yourself.”

  Quinton looked at him, then cautiously stepped forward, not sure what to expect. When he reached the middle of the obelisks, he became dizzy and nearly fell before catching himself.

  “Behold, the glory of an ancient civilization and the power that mankind once wielded,” said Sands, but his voice was distant and barely audible.

  Quinton turned to look at him to ask what was happening, but he was gone. When he turned back, there was a large, muscled man wearing a helmet with a full visor. There was no other armor, and his muscled frame showed that he was a trained warrior.

  “What do you seek?” the man asked.

  Quinton wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “Tell him the sword,” came a whispered voice. It sounded like Sands but a quick glance showed no one around him.

  “The sword,” Quinton stammered.

  The warrior nodded in approval. “Choose which,” he said, motioning with his right arm to a nearby weapons rack that Quinton hadn’t noticed before. There was every shape and size of sword on the rack. Some were as tall as he was, some were straight and some were curved.

  “Choose the short gladius,” whispered the unseen voice again.

  He walked over to the rack and pulled a sword that was shorter than some, but seemed to fit his own size and strength well.

  The warrior again nodded in approval and placed his hand on the hilt of his own sword, drawing it from the scabbard. It was the same sword Quinton had chosen.

  “What is your skill?” he asked.

  The whispered voice said, “Beginner,” and so Quinton said the same thing. The warrior nodded.

  “You have chosen a gladius, or short sword,” he said, his voice booming from behind the mask. “It has advantages and disadvantages, and I shall teach you both.”

  Quinton nodded, not sure what to make of the man behind the mask.

  “We will start with the positioning of your feet and the issues of balance.”

  The man showed him how to place his feet to better balance himself and then demonstrated some basic moves with the sword from that position. He then had Quinton do the moves, commenting on what he was doing right and wrong, complimenting him when he did something right.

  After several hours of instruction, Quinton paused and said, “What is your name?”

  The man paused and the mask, its worked metal in the shape of a human face, staring blankly back at him. “I am your trainer. Master is my name.”

  Quinton frowned. He was afraid to push the matter, but the arms master didn’t seem the same as the leaders of the thieves’ guild. There was something odd about him. “Very well. Shall we continue, master?”

  The man seemed pleased as his body posture resumed the more advanced technique he was teaching, though he never said a word.

  As the day waned, Quinton felt he was rapidly picking up the use of the sword. He was able to parry a series of attacks and thrust back at the arms master without exposing himself. Every time he did so, the man complimented him on his technique with a simple “good.” Late in the day, he was surprised at how energetic he was after all the training. They hadn’t even stopped for lunch.

  “Aren’t you tired, master?” he asked his trainer.

  The man stopped the parrying technique he was demonstrating and tilted his head to one side, saying nothing for several moments. “I cannot get tired,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  He tilted his head to the other side. “Because I am dead. Resume.” The man brought his sword up in a threatening position, forcing Quinton to mimic the parry move he had shown a few moments before, not giving him time to think about the answer.

  “Good,” the trainer said in response to his pose. “You have completed the expert course.”

  Quinton paused, thoroughly confused by the man’s answers. “Wait, I started the basic course, though. And did you say you were dead?”

  “The basic course was completed two weeks ago. Yes, I said I was dead.”

  Quinton didn’t know what to say. Nothing made sense.

  “Show your face,” he demanded.

  The trainer dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment, then flipped up the visor covering his face. When he flipped it up, the helmet was empty. Quinton heard a familiar voice laughing behind him. He turned and saw Sands leaning against one of the stones.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” he said.

  Quinton turned back to look at the trainer, but the circle was empty. All that was there were the large stones covered in vines.

  “You are now trained in the use of the short sword, maggot,” said Sands. “Not that we’ll let you have one – or t
hat we have one to give you -- but if the need arises, you’ll be ready. You can also use the same motions to effectively wield a nice solid club against someone with a sword.”

  Quinton was suddenly feeling very tired. “But I just started today.”

  Sands smiled. “You started four weeks ago. Time among those stones barely moves,” he said, motioning to the large obelisks around him. “You neither ate nor drank in that time.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to. Come over here and eat something. Tomorrow you start training on the bow.”

  Quinton shook his head but moved toward Sands, noticing the cooking fire he had going beyond the stones and the lure of food it promised.

  “Did the guild build this?”

  Sands shook his head. “If the guild was powerful enough to build this, Lord Wren would not rule the city and we wouldn’t be starving half the time. No, these were raised by an ancient civilization far more powerful than anything we could ever muster. We were just fortunate enough to find the training stones. The ancients used them to train their warriors for battles in a fraction of the time it would normally take. The civilization that built them is long gone, but the trainer remains, always ready for his next student. You did well in there, from what I saw.”

  “So you watched for four weeks, master?”

  “Hardly. I saw part of the first day and part of the last. The rest of the time I was back in the city.”

  Quinton nodded. “Why are you teaching me this?”

  “Too many questions for today. Eat and then sleep. You’ll need your rest for the next month’s worth of training.” He handed the boy some bread and a bowl of stew that smelled delicious. It looked like it had real chunks of meat in it. Quinton gulped it down and looked longingly at the pot over the fire. “Go ahead, have another,” said Sands. “You’ll need it.”

  ***

  Quinton entered the stones the next day and followed the same procedure, but this time selected a small bow as his weapon of choice. The same master showed him the proper stance and method of firing, and had him practice shooting targets for some time. The only thing the man said was the occasional “good” after he had mastered a task, but nothing more. It appeared to be around noon when Quinton got the same dizzy feeling he had before and once again found Sands standing before him.

  “Come, we must go. You have learned enough for now.” His mood was more somber than the last time he had spoken and his eyes stared blankly into the distance. Quinton started to speak but instead just nodded and stepped out of ring of stones.

  “We need to get back to the city, but there are still other things you need to know,” he said, turning to follow the trail that led back into the heart of the swamp. “Listen carefully, because there may not be time for me to teach them again.” Quinton wondered what was going on that there may be only one chance for Sands to teach him whatever it was he was talking about. Was Sands going someplace?

  As they worked their way through the tall clumps of swamp grass and the occasional portion of the trail that had been swallowed up by the swamp, Sands started to recite the lesson. His voice was somber but methodical.

  “There are certain rules that you must abide by in the guild,” said Sands. “As a maggot, the general rule is that you don’t do anything without asking first, and that’s easy enough to follow. But as you advance from maggot status, you have to do a lot more thinking for yourself. You have to follow the rules of the guild, because any violation can result in being put to death. Fist is a dangerous man, so never cross him. But that being said, you can work the rules in your favor when possible. Doing so is the only way you can get anything for yourself.” Sands said the last sentence with a sigh that had a slight sense of hopelessness.

  “There are seven laws that bind us all. Not even Fist dares break them, because all men, no matter how wild, need some sort of accepted norms to maintain order. Even barbarians have laws.” Quinton wondered if Sands had ever known any barbarians, but he didn’t have a chance to ask. “The first law is that you can only challenge your master directly. This means that once you are no longer a maggot and you want to run the guild, you cannot assassinate or poison Fist. The master of the guild should be free to run the guild without worrying about getting a knife in the back or poison in his wine. If you want to challenge him, you meet him face to face and the survivor is in charge, no questions asked.

  “The second law of the guild is, once in, never out. This one you already know. Once you have entered the guild, you are always a member, whether you want to be or not.” Sands paused to let a large red and orange snake slither across the trail. “Poisonous,” he interjected. “Try not to step on those. They don’t like that.” He started down the trail once the snake was safely across. “Where was I? Oh, right. If you should try to flee, you had better have everything planned out, because the guild will come after you and kill you. All guild members are obligated to kill an escapee if they find one. Death is the only thing that removes your debt to the guild family.”

  Sands stared out across the murky water for several minutes before continuing. Quinton followed closely behind, keeping a watch out for any logs that might prove to be a legarto.

  “The third law of the guild is, your interests are the family’s interests. It’s a complicated way of saying, ‘Pay up.’ You steal on the streets, and it all goes to the family, where it gets redistributed. The higher up you are, the bigger your share.”

  And the maggot’s share was zero, Quinton thought to himself. We do all the work, and someone else gets all the goods.

  “The fourth law is very simple. Do as you are ordered. When someone tells you to do something, you do it. Don’t ask why, just find a way and get it done.” Sands paused because the trail disappeared into the water for about ten feet before reappearing on higher ground. He studied the water in between and looked around for any sign of danger. Once he was satisfied it was safe, he entered the water, which only was about ankle deep, and quickly made his way to the other side. “Not as deep as it looked.

  “The fifth law is you never hurt your brothers without permission. You cannot hurt or kill any fellow maggot, or master, if you get that far, for any reason. No matter what they’ve done to you, you cannot do anything to them without the permission of Fist or whoever is running the guild.”

  He paused again to gently lift some thorny branches that were hanging over the trail. After holding them up for Quinton to pass, he spun away from them and took a couple of quick strides to retake the lead and continued his conversation. “The sixth law is, only crimes that pay are okay. If we aren’t making any money off of it, then don’t do it. There’s no point in getting arrested and hung for a crime that had no chance of profit. I will also tell you that assassination might pay, but it’s frowned upon. There are guilds in other parts of the world that deal in murder on a daily basis, but we are not one of them. So the general rule is, if there’s money to be made, then you are in the clear.”

  Sands paused again to scan a particularly deep-looking section of the swamp that bordered the next portion of the trail. Satisfied there was no imminent danger other than the small swarms of black insects that kept flying about them, he pressed on. “The seventh law is the best law, at least as far as I’m concerned. It’s simply referred to as, opportunity is yours for the taking. What this means is that if you are assigned a task, your only obligation is to complete that task. Anything else you do is yours. So let’s say Fist sends you to steal a jailor’s keys. If, along the way, you manage to steal the jailor’s money, then that money is yours to keep. As a maggot, your only task has been to steal food and money every day, so there’s no chance to pick up anything else. When you are made master, or if Fist or Red eye send you out after something specific, be sure to take advantage of this law. Sometimes it’s the only way to keep from starving. The food and little bit of money you can pick up for yourself can make all the difference, especially when you need it for ... ” hi
s voice trailed off.

  “Need it for what?” Quinton asked, swatting at the insects trying to fly into his eyes.

  Sands didn’t respond. He was lost in thought. After several seconds, he simply said, “Never mind. You’ll need it to survive.”

  The two walked for several hours, winding through the marsh and patches of scrub trees and dense underbrush. The trail was mostly a narrow strip of ground that was only slightly drier than the muck on either side of it. Various animal tracks were visible, some newer than others. Sands pointed out the occasional track, including the common deer and raccoon tracks, but there were a few others that he looked at and simply shrugged. “There are a lot of creatures in this world that I don’t recognize,” he said after looking at a particularly large claw mark. “Always travel the wilds with caution.”

  As they were making their way toward a large copse of trees, Sands motioned for him to stop. “Wait here, count to 100, then follow.” He didn’t explain any further, and Quinton, by this time, knew better than to ask. After all, law four was to do as you were told. Sands disappeared into the shadows of the wood. When Quinton finished counting, he warily stepped forward, only to have his right foot sink several inches into the mud. After freeing himself, he started toward the wood once again.

  As he entered the deep shadows, his eyes strained to adjust to the difference in brightness. Branches reached in every direction and leaves of every shape and size hung down around the trail. There were several open areas in the wood that he could see from the trail, places where the shadows of the larger swamp oaks and cedars devoured almost all the light. The bark of the big trees bore deep ridges, like an old man squinting to see who came calling at such an odd out-of-the-way place. Quinton could clearly see the trail where it wound through the old trees and across their gnarled roots, dodging small saplings that could only support a handful of leaves in a sliver of light that came to ground when the slow breeze pushed limbs aside.

  He looked around but saw no sign of Sands. With a last glance, he slowly walked down the trail into the heart of the wood. Strange insects ceased their shrill buzzes and shrieks as he approached, never giving a clue as to their whereabouts. Shadows fell long on the ground, and a squirrel scurried through the fallen leaves to regain the safety of the old trees. After a few minutes, he could see the bright doorway exiting the wood a stone’s throw away, its frame made of brambles and scrub trees reaching up to touch the lowest limbs of the old giants that held their hands low to spread their leaves to grab every ray of sun. When he got to within a few feet of the doorway, a voice to his left suddenly called out.