The Beggar's Past

by J B Drake

  “Don’t you see? He knew where that little girl was the whole time, he must’ve! Left us to chase our tail for two whole days. Must’ve helped the little bitch escape and all. Now he gives her to Weighton, makes Weighton think Jackdaws’ll run better under him.”

  “What you going to do?” another asked.

  A cold smile parted Byron’s lips. “Going to pay a visit to old Weighton I am, have it out three-ways.”

  “The old man’ll cut you in half,” a third pirate replied.

  Byron shook his head. “Weighton don’t care who runs Jackdaws so long as he gets what he wants.”

  “You sure Lucius not done a trade with him with the girl? Your head for hers?”

  Byron sneered. “Then, I’d best come up with a better offer, hadn’t I?”

  “What you planning, then?” another pirate asked.

  “Going to see old Weighton, have a chat with him real friendly-like. And when he watches me gut that little shite, he’ll know who really runs Jackdaws.”

  “Don’t know about this, Byron,” the third pirate said.

  Byron’s sneer grew. “You want to run and hide, you go and do that.”

  “Wait, never said nothing about running and hiding.”

  “Good!” Byron nodded, then swept his gaze about all within the tavern.

  “Grab your steel, boys!” he cried. “Let’s go gut us a weasel!”

  And, with those words, the seething pirate spun about and marched toward the stairs that would lead him down from the balcony.

  Marshalla kept her peace as she stood before the ornate door the human had led her to. It was the only one she’d seen thus far that had an engraving of any kind, and the engraving upon it showed a most tender of moments. A mother on her knees, embracing her young son, and while the son’s face was buried in the mother’s arms, the mother’s face was clear to her, with every intricate detail copied to perfection, the result of which sent a very real chill down her spine.

  “You see what I see, Ani?” she thought.

  “Yes. That’s the Therese woman’s face that Mardaley wore.”

  “Yeah,” Marshalla frowned.

  “He’s watching you.”

  Spinning round, Marshalla’s frown deepened as she faced the human.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  The human stared at her in silence for a spell, then shuffled forth. Stepping aside, Marshalla watched as he placed a hand upon the door, and a faint hiss filled the air. Then, he spun round.

  “You must enter this room with a strong stomach, an open heart, and a clear mind. Do you understand?”

  Marshalla stared at him in silence, her confusion plain.

  “Do you understand, child?”

  “Just open the bloody door.”

  The human stared at Marshalla in silence for a spell, but soon sighed and opened the door, then stepped aside. Tearing her gaze from him, Marshalla stared into the room.

  It was dimly lit, much of its light coming from the grand pedestal that stood at its centre, or rather the dome that rested upon it, bathing the room in a weak emerald light. But there was more to that light, and it filled Marshalla with a deep sense of foreboding.

  “We won’t learn anything standing out here, Marsha,” the chronodragon said after a spell. “Go in.”

  The young girl took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then gritted her teeth.

  “You’re being a baby, girl,” she muttered, then marched inside.

  As she crossed the threshold, however, Marshalla slowed and scanned her surrounds. Though the light was weak, she could still make out several pedestals arranged about the room, near the walls. Frowning, she stopped and turned, carrying her gaze from pedestal to pedestal. They were arranged in a circle, the grand pedestal at their centre. Atop each one was a dome similar to that upon the central pedestal, and in the dim light, she could just about make out something floating within them. Every single one of them.

  “What…?” she muttered.

  “They’re specimen bowls.”

  “Specimen bowls?” Marshalla thought.

  “Yes. Necromancers use them.”

  “Oh…? Oh!”

  “Yes. Wheaton must be a necromancer, explains his being a lich I suppose. Though what does this have to do with Tip?”

  “I don’t know,” Marshalla thought, then turned to the human.

  In response, Weighton pointed to the pedestal at the centre. As she stared into the old man’s eyes, she caught a glimpse of the guilt that wracked him, boundless and crippling, and as she turned back to the pedestal at the centre, her heart climbed up her throat.

  “Go on, child,” the old man said when Marshalla remained unmoving.

  “Go on, Marsha,” Anieszirel echoed.

  Swallowing hard, Marshalla began slowly rounding the grand pedestal. As she neared it, it became clear its dome had something floating within it. A head.

  “Oh, gods,” she muttered as she slowed.

  “It’s alright, Marsha,” Anieszirel soothed. “I’ll lend you strength should you need it. Let’s see whose it is.”

  Marhsalla neared the pedestal, and as she came abreast it, she took a deep breath, then stepped to its front.

  “No!” Marshalla gasped as she stared at the face within the dome.

  “No!” she cried, shaking her head violently as her mind railed against what her eyes beheld.

  “No!” she screamed, backing away from the head, her eyes wide as saucers.

  It was the head of a boy, his eyes wide and his mouth opened, as if in the midst of a scream, the emerald glow seeming to emanate from within the boy’s severed throat. Only it wasn’t just any boy, it was Tip. From the colour of his eyes to the shape of his nose, from the colour of his hair to contours of his lips, Marshalla knew this head was that of her beloved Tip, and as she stared at her little darling, trapped in eternal horror, she howled, the pain within her crushing her as she fell to her knees.

  “Marsha!” the chronodragon cried.

  But Marshalla was beyond reason.

  “Marsha, listen to me! It’s not Tip! You hear me? It’s not Tip! Look at the ears!”

  The chronodragon’s words were lost on the girl, for her grief had overwhelmed her. Then, as the human that was Weighton made his way to her, Marshalla stared up at him, tears streaming down her face.

  “Forgive me, my dear,” he said. “Simply telling you would’ve meant nothing. You had to see it.”

  Hugging herself close, Marshalla lowered her head and began rocking where she was.

  “For goodness sake, Marsha, snap out of it! It’s not Tip! Just look at the ears!”

  The young girl looked up, but still she didn’t see the ears, all she still saw was her beloved Tip, and with a cry, she sprang to her feet and marched to the pedestal, grabbing hold of the dome as she reached it and pulling with all her might.

  “Marsha, what are you doing?”

  Once more, Marshalla ignored the chronodragon. She’d failed to protect her Tip, but she’d be damned if she was going to leave him like this.

  Just then, light flooded the room, blinding the young girl for a moment. As she blinked her sight back, Marshalla scanned her surrounds. As she did so, she stared into the domes upon the pedestals lining the room, and as she beheld the heads within, the young girl stood tall as her jaw slowly fell.

  “What in the hells is this?”

  Marshalla turned to the old man. “What…?”

  The old man smiled. “Not what, who.”

  Then, he slowly spun round.

  “That’s Terril Philpott,” he said, nodding to the head at the centre of the room.

  “And that’s Terril Philpott,” he continued, nodding to the orcish head to the right of the door.

  “And that’s Terril Philpott,” he said, nodding to the gnome above the pedestal to the far left of Marshalla.

  “In fact,” he said, raising his arms wide, “they’re all Terril Philpott.”

  “What…?” Marshalla ga
sped, her brows furrowed deep.

  The old man smiled as he turned to her. “What do you know of Agril, my dear?”

  “Who?”

  “Now’s not the time for games, child. What do you know of Agril?”

  But Marshalla held her peace, her defiance stilling her tongue.

  Sighing, Weighton shook his head. “Stubborn to the last, I see.” Then he smiled. “I see why Terril chose you.”

  Not knowing what to say, Marshalla dropped her gaze to the pedestal before her.

  Sighing once more, the old man turned to the pedestal before Marshalla, a soft smile upon his lips as he lifted a gentle hand to the dome.

  “My family had been in Aldurn since before it was called Aldurn. We were the second family to move here, and soon grew to be the richest. With those riches came power, my dear. We owned Aldurn, plain and simple. Let no one tell you different.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Marshalla asked.

  Smiling, Weighton turned to her. “Agril and I had been friends long before he embarked on his little crusade. I’d known about his genius for a long time, and I’d profited from it on more than one occasion. And, when I learnt of his plight, and his plan—”

  “You wanted to profit once more.”

  “Yes.” Weighton nodded.

  Then, a thought struck Marshalla, filling her with disgust. “You wanted him to imbue you.”

  “Yes.” Weighton smiled.

  Marshalla shook her head at the human. “Are you mad?”

  Weighton stared into the ether for a spell.

  “Yes,” he replied at last, his smile growing, “I suppose I was.”

  “And your family said nothing?”

  Weighton shrugged. “The running of the estate had passed to me by then, and my siblings knew better than to get in my way.”

  “And he said yes, just like that?”

  “Oh, no.” Weighton shook his head. “Friends though we were, Agril was no fool. He knew how badly I wanted it, so he made a deal with me. I would finance his crusade, all of it, no questions asked, and in return he’d imbue me with the very most he could, and show me how to imbue others.”

  “You mad bastard,” Anieszirel gasped as Marshalla gaped at the man.

  Sighing, the old man shook his head and began pacing the room. “We went years without results. All that coin and nothing to show for it. It soured our friendship a great deal. And then, just as I was planning to throw him out, he had a breakthrough.”

  “What?” Marshalla and Anieszirel cried in unison.

  Weighton nodded. “Oh, it was a minor one. He imbued one of his test goats with the essence of an imp. The thing grew wings, then died shortly after.”

  “Gods,” Marshalla whispered.

  Weighton grinned. “Oh, they were far from my thoughts, my dear. And they stayed far. After the goat, Agril began having breakthrough after breakthrough, it was breathtaking. Agril and I were beside ourselves with joy. We truly thought he was going to do it. Gods, we were so stupid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Weighton spun round to face Marshalla. “Tien’razul, my dear, he was leading us by the nose. The pace of discovery, it was too fast to be anything else. If we hadn’t been so desperate for results we would’ve seen it.”

  “So what happened?”

  Weighton sighed. “The time soon came when Agril felt sure he could imbue a human safely, but I…I had my doubts.”

  “Doubts…?” Marshalla frowned, then her eyes went wide. “You told him to use Terril!”

  Weighton nodded. “I had to be sure it was safe. He was meant to use an imp’s essence, nothing too powerful. But the whole thing was a sham from the beginning. All our results, all our precautions, they meant nothing. Agril thought he was imbuing Terril with an imp’s essence, but instead he paved the way for Tien’razul to claim the boy.”

  “Oh dear gods.”

  Weighton nodded. “It was the energy released from the ritual that turned Aldurn into the marsh you know today. All of it, my home, my family, my friends, all gone in an instant.”

  “And you survived?” Marshalla frowned.

  Weighton nodded. “The whole building was spared, which made no sense. I was in the room with Agril and Terril’s mother when it all happened. By rights, we should’ve been dead, there should’ve been nothing left of us, yet we survived. We all did. And I’ve been trying to find out why ever since.”

  “So where’s Agril, then?” Marshalla asked. “What happened to him?”

  A soft smile parted Weighton’s lips. “We survived the blast, but Tien’razul slaughtered us all. Agril was the first to die. It was over so fast he didn’t even have time to scream.”

  “But he spared you…why?”

  The old man laughed. “Yes, he spared me. Gave me a gift, for my loyal service.”

  Marshalla frowned. “He turned you into a lich.”

  “Clever!” Weighton nodded, smiling. “I seem to have underestimated you, my dear. Yes, he turned me into…this.”

  “At least he spared you.”

  “Did he?” Weighton demanded, his smile dissipating. “Do you know what it’s like to watch your flesh rot away and fall off? Do you know what it’s like to wake up in the morning and want to puke your guts out because of your own stench? I was vain, my dear. I’d spent a fortune on preserving my looks. Tien’razul knew this, and he cursed me with…this. And now, I get to spend eternity remembering what I’ve lost. And it’s not just my beauty I lost. I had power, my dear, men feared me. But after what he did to me, they’d rather hunt me instead. So no, he did not spare me. Not in any true sense of the word.”

  Lowering her gaze, Marshalla turned from the human, but as she did so, her eyes fell upon one of the pedestals.

  “But why take Terril’s head?” she asked, turning to Weighton once more. “And why are there so many of them?”

  Weighton sighed. “That’s part of my promise, my dear.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You needn’t be a savant to know what Tien’razul is after. He intends to stay in our world and remain free of Hazuel, but I’ll be damned if I let him. I made a promise on Agril’s memory that I will end that creature’s reign here and send it back to its prison, or die trying.”

  “So you take heads?”

  “Yes.” The old man sighed as he turned to the central pedestal once more. Then, he smiled. “You know, the first time I hunted him, I didn’t quite know who Tien’razul was. He’d told me his name, of course, back in Aldurn, but that’s all he’d said, and it meant nothing to me. And, even with all I’d seen in Aldurn, even after all he’d done to me, I was convinced he was nothing more than a demon vassal, something I could handle. Such hubris…”

  Weighton turned to Marshalla once more. “I goaded him, you know, that first time. I’d spared no expense hiring the best I could, people who’d dedicated their lives to hunting demons. Thirty of us, arrayed against this one child.”

  Turning to the central pedestal, he shook his head. “You should’ve seen me standing there like some conqueror, my hired hands surrounding Terril as I threatened him till Tien’razul revealed himself. Hells, I even demanded he leave Terril’s body at once. Gods, I was so blind. But he opened my eyes that day, my dear. The speed with which he butchered us, some of whom had once bested vassals with such ease…it was astounding. Even now, as I stand here, I can still see the surprise on their faces.”

  “And yet, here you stand.”

  Smiling, Weighton turned to Marshalla. “Yes, here I stand. Do you wish to know how I survived?”

  Marshalla stared at him in silence.

  “I fled, my dear, like a craven coward.”

  “You what?”

  Weighton nodded. “I fled. While he was busy gloating to the others, telling them who he was and how far beyond them he was, I turned tail and fled.”

  “Wait…you left them?” Marshalla gasped.

  Weighton nodded once more. “Hearing that child’s
mocking laughter is the most humiliating thing I’ve ever endured. And hearing those people’s cries for my help as he slaughtered them…never will I be free of that.”

  With mouth agape, Marshalla stared from lich to pedestal.

  “You’re wondering how Terril’s head got here if I’d run,” Weighton said.

  Marshalla turned to him once more.

  Weighton nodded. “That’s because after my fear subsided and I’d buried my shame, I took stock of the battle and realised something. Given how long Tien’razul had taken to appear, had I launched my attack upon Terril immediately, I may well have been victorious. So I hired new hands and tracked Terril down again, only this time we made sure Terril was in control when we attacked, and this time we won the day with only half our numbers lost.”

  “But…” Marshalla shook her head. “How can that make any sense? If you took his head, how is he…?”

  Weighton smiled. “How can he have been by your side this whole time? Well, a few months after I killed Terril, and I did kill him, I heard reports of an orc who could do…special things. And the orc called himself Terril. Not Terril Philpott, just Terril.”

  Marshalla turned to stare at the orcish head near the door.

  “Yes, him.”

  “But how?” Marshalla said, her mind a blank.

  “Tien’razul grew himself a new body, my dear, and has done so many times since. It’s the only thing that makes sense. ”

  “Makes sense?”

  The lich smiled. “I know how it sounds, but Tien’razul can make himself a new body. Each time he’s kept hold of Terril’s soul…”

  “Bloody hells.”

  “…and each time it seems Terril’s forgotten about Agril and I, and only dimly remembers his mother. I collect the heads, my dear, because there is much I don’t yet know. Why keep hold of Terril’s soul? Why grow new bodies at all, why not just find a new vessel altogether? And why make a new body yet stake no claim to it? Every time I’ve faced him, Terril’s always seemed unaware of Tien’razul’s presence, as if the demon grows the new body, then simply hands it over to Terril.”

  Weighton sighed. “There’s much I don’t know, and I must know so I can free that boy from that damnable creature. It’s the least I can do for him.”

  “But why kill him over and over again?” Marshalla cried. “You have one head, isn’t that enough? You can learn as much from one as you can from ten, can’t you?”