by J B Drake
“He didn’t even know you were back.”
Marshalla turned to face the vampire, biting her lip.
“Marsha, are you avoiding him?”
Marshalla couldn’t speak, lowering her gaze where she stood.
Sighing, Amala placed a gentle hand upon the young girl’s shoulder.
“Marsha…”
Marshalla looked at her.
“Are you avoiding him?”
Sighing, Marshalla shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I…” Marshalla began, then sighed once more. “On my way back, all I could think of was what Ani did, and what Weighton said. A lot of people have suffered because of what’s inside Tip, and I…I don’t…how can I justify—”
“Would you rather Weighton took Tip’s head?”
Pursing her lips, Marshalla shrugged. “A part of me does.”
“That doesn’t sound like you, Marsha.” Amala frowned.
“I know,” Marshalla nodded, “believe me, I know. But a part of me just…I don’t know, I just wish…”
“The Greater Good?”
Marshalla sighed. “Something like that.”
Shaking her head, Amala lowered her hand, her gaze hardening.
“Marsha, the idea of the Greater Good was made up by people looking to justify their own evil. Sacrificing one life to save a hundred isn’t a worthy cause, it just means you gave up on that one life. The only life you have the right to sacrifice is yours. Yours and no other’s.”
Gritting her teeth, Marshalla lowered her gaze as her cheeks reddened.
“Tip is as innocent in all this, as you are,” Amala continued. “Don’t ever forsake him. Ever.”
Shaking her head, Marshalla stared at her friend and smiled. “Never knew you to be so insightful.”
Amala grinned. “I’m more than just a pretty face, you know.”
“Pretty face…?”
“Oh, hush, you!”
Marshalla grinned in response, chuckling as she shook her head.
“Well,” Amala continued as she wandered past her friend, “I’d best go eat something.”
“How about a bath first?” Marshalla mumbled.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“Cheeky…”
“Heh,” Marshalla smiled, then her smile faded. “I suppose I should go see him, then.”
“Hrm?” Amala replied as she turned to face Marshalla once more.
“Tip.”
“Oh,” Amala replied. “Well, you needn’t go far, he’s outside.”
“What?”
“You can knock now!” Amala yelled, then headed for the kitchen, a smile upon her lips.
“What…” Marshalla began, then a knock came at the door.
Staring from Amala to the door and back again, Marshalla shook her head and headed over to the door, and as she reached it, she took a deep breath and flung it open.
“Sorry, Marsha,” the little boy standing before the door mumbled. “Really sorry.”
Marshalla stared at him in silence for a spell.
“Sorry, Marsha,” Tip repeated. “Sorry.”
“What you sorry for?” she snapped.
Tip pouted at her for a spell, as if wracking his thoughts, then slowly lowered his gaze to his feet.
“Don’t know,” he said at last.
“Don’t know?”
Tip shook his head.
“But you sorry.”
Tip nodded.
As they stood in silence, Marshalla stared at the young boy before her, and as she stared, memories of the many trials they’d faced together came flooding back, and the more she remembered, the more her heart grew, till at last, taking a deep breath, Marshalla let it out slowly as she nodded. Amala was right, of course, she couldn’t forsake him, not now, not ever. They’ll find another way. Her, Mardaley, Baern, Anieszirel, even Anise. Weighton be damned, they’ll free Tip their way.
“Come on in, then,” she said, a wide grin parting her lips.
Gasping, Tip stared at his dear friend as his eyes lit up.
“Better hurry up,” she added as she stood aside, “Amala’s gone to the kitchen.”
With a start the young boy darted past Marshalla and raced for the kitchen, Marshalla’s laughter filling the air.
*****
Grimacing, Weighton rose from his bed, his gaze upon the man knelt beside it.
“Tell me,” he said.
The man bowed low. “I’m sorry to wake you, sir, but—”
“It’s alright,” Weighton replied. “Tell me.”
“They’ve returned to the village,” the man said. “We tried to repel them, but got beaten back.”
“Damn it, man, I told you not to engage them without me! What were you thinking?”
“Forgive me, sir,” the man bowed, “but seeing you like this I…I take full blame.”
Weighton stared at the man a spell, then sighed. “How many innocents?”
“Nineteen, sir,”
“Nineteen?”
The man nodded. “Twenty, if you count Nancy.”
Weighton sat ramrod straight. “Nancy the cook?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What the hells was she doing there?”
“She’d gone to help the people escape, sir. She was born there. She knew many of them by name.”
“What happened?”
“Her husband came, sir, he was one of the turned. When she saw him she ran to him, tried to talk some sense into him, and he…tore her to pieces.”
“Damn it all!” Weighton roared, only to wince and shudder.
“Easy, sir,” the guard said, springing to his feet as he tried to steady his lord.
“I’m alright, Winston,” Weighton growled. “Truly, it’s—”
“You should listen to your man, Weighton,” came a voice from the shadows. “You’re in no fit state to fight.”
“Who’s there?” the man named Winston barked, drawing free his blade.
“I come in peace,” said the voice as a human stepped out of the shadows. With long blond hair and eyes of purest emerald, power radiated from him, one that put both men on their guard.
“Who are you, and how did you get here?” Weighton demanded.
The man smiled. “My name is Marcus, and—”
“Just Marcus?”
The man nodded. “Just Marcus.”
“How did get here?” Winston demanded.
“You’ll find I can go wherever I please.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” Marcus nodded. “Shall I prove it to you?”
Before either man could speak, the man named Marcus waved at the other end of the room, and from the shadows stepped an elven woman, a smirk upon her lips as she held aloft an emerald crystal pulsing with energy.
“My phylactery!” Weighton gasped.
“The very same,” Marcus said.
“But how? They took it!”
Marcus smiled. “Like I said, I can go wherever I please. They don’t even know it’s missing.”
At this, Weighton’s face darkened. “You know who they are.”
“Yes.” Marcus nodded.
Slowly, the lich sat up straight once more. “You will tell me, and you will tell me now.”
“Then, what?” the elven woman sneered. “You’ll limp after them broken as you are with this pathetic excuse of an army? Don’t make me laugh.”
“You little…” Winston growled as he took a menacing step forward.
“The delectable young woman over there is my general, and…uhm…Winston, is it? You attacking her is akin to a mouse attacking a lion. Do yourself a favour and keep that anger of yours in check.”
“What do you want?” Weighton said, his gaze upon the man.
“An alliance,” Marcus replied, folding his hand behind him.
“Alliance?”
The man nodded. “I know where those who hurt you have fled, but, more imp
ortantly, I know where young Terril is…”
At this, Weighton’s eyes widened.
“…but I can’t get to him as I am, and neither can you. I need an army to get to him, and you need someone who can deal with this protector.”
“The shade,” Weighton growled.
“The very same.”
“I don’t need your help dealing with her.”
Neremi laughed. “You couldn’t best her while she wielded a fraction of the power at her disposal. What hope do you think you have against her at her most potent?”
“I need an army, Weighton,” Marcus continued, “to assault their stronghold. Join me, rebuild your army, make it ten times the size it once was, and I promise not only to bring you to the child, but help you end his curse once and for all.”
Weighton cast a slow sideways glance at the man. “What do you know of Terril’s curse?”
“I know of Tien’razul’s hold on him, and I know how to sever it.”
“How?”
Taking a step forward, Marcus smiled. “Terril is not just his vessel, he’s his anchor to our world.”
“What?”
“Why do you think he keeps hold of the boy? Without Terril, Tien’razul cannot remain in our world.”
“That’s nonsense!” Weighton cried. “Tien’razul is a demon! He can just as easily possess another and—”
“Your friend Agril robbed him of that.”
“What?”
“Oh yes,” Marcus nodded. “Agril kept a lot from you, my friend. He’d worked on a means to bind one soul to another, and was going to use it against you should you try to betray him, but instead he used it to bind Tien’razul to the boy.”
“By the gods,” Weighton breathed.
“Quite. And I know how to undo the binding, or redo it upon another from his realm.”
The lich stared into the ether as he pondered all that he’d heard.
“I see you need a bit more convincing,” Marcus said after a spell. “Very well. How about my general and I see to your…pest problem?”
Weighton smarted at this.
“They are not your problem,” the lich growled, “they’re—”
“Sir,” Winston said, “is it wise to refuse their help in the state we’re in?”
Weighton stared at his man for a spell, then turned to Marcus once more.
“Give them a quick death, then we’ll talk.”
Marcus smiled at this.
“Of course,” he said, then turned to his general. “Shall we, Neremi?”
“Catch,” Neremi said as she tossed the phylactery at Weighton, then followed her master out of the room.
“Is it true?” she said once they were out of earshot.
“Is what true?”
“All that soul-binding talk.”
Marcus snickered. “Sadly not. Dear old Agril was just as clueless as Weighton is.”
Neremi smiled. “I thought I smelled your shite in there.”
“Now, now,” Marcus chided, “allow your master his moments.”
“Whatever.”
“You should be worrying less about my tall tales and more about your next trial.”
“Oh, joy,” Neremi muttered, “a lesson in mercy.”
“Not mercy, haste.”
“Hunh?”
“Those people are no longer people. You’ll have to strike hard and fast to avoid being overwhelmed. Tarry too long on one and the others will rip you apart.”
A slow smile parted Neremi’s lips. “You do know how to please a woman.”
Marcus smiled. “Are you ready then?”
“Watch and learn,” Neremi replied, then faded from view.
“That’s my general,” Marcus replied as he too faded from view.
About The Author
J.B. Drake is a London lad with a head full of ideas and a heart full of stories, stories he now wishes to share with any who would wish to read. The Beggar’s Past is the third installment of his Unbroken Bond series, and is chuffed he's now half-way through the series!!
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Table of Contents
Prologue
A Final Farewell
Secrets And Lies
The Scales Fall
An Unbearable Truth
Unseen Allies
Perils Of The Road
Spectres Of The Past
A Noble Sacrifice
Into The Abyss
Righteous Fury
Epilogue
About The Author