The Beggar's Wrath

by J B Drake

  “Fine, then,” Thalas growled. “Be that way.”

  Laughing, Neremi gently caressed Thalas’s cheek before turning back to Marshalla.

  “Thane said you two have never been to the Fayre before, is that true?”

  Marshalla nodded. “Peacekeepers didn’t want us anywhere near it last time. Didn’t want us street rats ruining it for everyone else. And the time before that, well, we got to Merethia after they’d been and gone.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “You lot go every year, then?”

  Grinning, Neremi nodded. “Oh yes. It was Fallon who introduced us to it. You wouldn’t think it, looking at him, but he absolutely adored it.”

  At the mention of the departed Fairshroud boy’s name, Tip felt his joviality slowly sip away.

  “It’s not your fault, Tip. I killed him, not you.”

  “His mother used to take him and Durlin to it, apparently, as a treat, if they were well behaved all year. The first time we came, gods, he was so excited it was almost embarrassing!”

  “Ha, yes!” Eldred added. “He kept racing from one tent and stall to the next, dragging one of us along, telling us we’d love this one, or we had to see that one—”

  “Yes,” Thane mused. “Never seen him like that before.”

  Neremi laughed. “Yes, it was rather a peculiar sight.” Then she sighed. “It’s just a shame he and his brother met such gruesome fates. It’s almost unfair.”

  There was an undercurrent to Neremi’s final words, a second meaning to them. It was a meaning that was not lost on Tip, and as he glared at her, his eyes ablaze, he soon realised he was not the only one who’d heard it.

  “What you trying to say exactly?” Marshalla demanded, stopping.

  “Hrm?” Neremi asked, her tone one of pure innocence.

  “You think we enjoyed killing them, that it?”

  “Oh no, I didn’t—”

  “Kin-Slayer killed Fallon. Not me, not Tip, Kin-Slayer. And she only killed him because Fallon tried to kill Tip. Want me to feel sorry she saved Tip?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “And your Durlin. We didn’t kill him, did we? Kin-Slayer entered him when you lot wanted to stick Tip into the void sphere, didn’t she?”

  “But why him?” Thalas asked. “Why enter the one person closest to the sphere? Why leave Tip at all?”

  Marshalla shrugged. “Go ask her. Tower got the void sphere, don’t they?”

  Turning to Neremi once more, Marshalla took a step forward.

  “But you answer me this. That day, at the market, when you lot caught us and threw sleeping powder in Tip’s face, where was you taking us? You tell me that.”

  “I…” Neremi began, then turned to her beloved. Marshalla followed her gaze.

  “Well?”

  With his lips pursed in a tight thin line, Thalas held Marshalla in a cold stare before replying.

  “To our void sphere. We were going to put Tip in it.”

  Marshalla sneered. “And me? What was you going to do with me after?”

  Thalas stared at Marshalla in silence for a spell.

  “You know the answer to that already,” he said at last.

  Marshalla’s sneer grew. “And you want me to feel sorry.”

  In response, Neremi placed a soft hand on Marshalla’s arm before gently turning Marshalla round to face her.

  “You’re right, Marshalla, and…I’m sorry, alright? What happened back then, it’s just…no, you’re right, it’s the Kin-Slayer we have a quarrel with, not you. If anything, we owe you an apology. We didn’t see you as a person back then, more as…entertainment. Gods, it sounds so horrible when I say it out loud!”

  “You got no idea,” Marshalla snarled.

  “Listen,” Neremi continued, “let’s just forget all this and get to the Fayre, shall we? Thane and Eldred are saying we start over, so let’s just do that, alright?”

  Marshalla glared at her in silence for a spell before shrugging. “Fine.”

  “Good,” Neremi replied, and resumed her pace. A frosty silence fell upon the group as they walked on, and it was a silence that remained as they joined the South Gate queue. It was a silence that remained still when they were searched by the peacekeepers, and it was a silence that hung stubbornly about them as they made their way down the short path from Merethia’s South Gate to the Fayre’s gate.

  “Oh, bloody hells,” Marshalla muttered once the ticket-seller at the gate came into view.

  “What is it?” Tip asked, a worried frown upon his lips.

  Marshalla stared down at him, her face creased with a worried frown of her own. “Forgot me purse.”

  “It’s alright, I’ll pay for you,” Thane said as he began digging out his purse.

  “No,” Neremi replied as she pulled her purse out. “I’ll pay for her. And Tip.”

  “No, you—” Marshalla began, but Neremi turned to her, smiling.

  “Consider it my way of apologising.”

  Neremi’s words silenced Marshalla, and instead brought a smile to the elven girl’s lips.

  “Fine,” she said instead.

  Grinning, Neremi nodded as she began digging out her coins.

  “So, what do you wish to see first?” Neremi asked as she counted the coins for the three of them.

  Marshalla shrugged. “Don’t know what’s in there.”

  Oh, that’s right! Do forgive me, I—”

  “Story-Maker’s Tent!” Tip interjected. “Let’s go Story-Maker’s Tent first!”

  Neremi grinned as she looked at Tip.

  “Excellent choice, young sir!” she said as she handed her coins to the ticket-seller. “I think you and—”

  “Hear, you can’t bring that creature in here!” the ticket-seller exclaimed, pointing to Gray as he barred Neremi’s path.

  Frowning, Neremi looked from Gray to the man before her.

  “She’s a panther, not a creature.”

  The ticket-seller frowned. “I can see that, but—”

  “Then, stop talking like you’re an idiot!” she exclaimed with an ever-so-sweet smile.

  In response, Marshalla spluttered and laughed as the others stared on in surprise.

  “What did you say?” the fare collector growled.

  “Is there a law against pets accompanying us in?”

  “That’s a pet?”

  “Whatever else would she be?”

  “You—”

  “You’ve collected my coin, good sir, so unless there is some law against us bringing pets in with us, I suggest you step aside.”

  The ticket-seller glared at Neremi for a spell, but Neremi merely stared back at him, a smug smile upon her lips.

  “Fine, then,” the ticket-seller snarled as he stepped aside. “But if that thing hurts anyone, I’m sending the peacekeepers to your door.”

  With her smug smile turning into a grin, Neremi sauntered past the snarling man. Behind her came Tip and Marshalla, Gray, as ever, by Marshalla’s side.

  “You gone mad, girl?” Marshalla whispered once she was by Neremi’s side.

  Neremi shrugged, her grin still in place. “Just a little.”

  Shaking her head, Marshalla grinned, too, as the others joined them.

  “Shall we, then?” Neremi said, and began leading the way, her arm linked with Marshalla’s.

  Eager not to be left behind, Tip fell in step behind them. But as they walked, Tip’s eyes wandered, and the more they wandered, the more they grew. Truth be told, he never quite pondered what a fayre was, but the sights that his eyes beheld were nothing like he could’ve imagined. From the stalls with tables groaning under the weight of such wondrous bounties, to the hedge mages conjuring intricate illusions to bedazzle the crowd, to the strongmen lifting people two and three at a time, and the troupes of fiddlers dancing through the crowds, their joyous music drifting to the young boy’s ears and tickling his feet, everything was a wonder to the little elf, his laughter ringing loud and true. But even as his ey
es wandered, even as he laughed and clapped, in his joy, young Tip missed one crucial thing. It was a simple thing, but one whose significance was both dark and foreboding. He could not see it, young Tip, but Anieszirel did.

  “Tip, are you not seeing this?” Anieszirel asked as the Story-Maker’s Tent drew near.

  Tip frowned. “See what?”

  “The people, they’re staring.”

  His frown deepening, Tip stared at the faces of those about them. Anieszirel was right, they were staring at them.

  “Maybe they never seen a panther before,” Tip offered.

  “No, Tip, those aren’t the stares of the inquisitive. It’s as if they waiting for something.”

  At Anieszirel’s words, Tip looked more closely at the sea of faces, and soon saw what Anieszirel saw. Their gazes were too intense. And it was everyone who stared, the hedge mages, the strongmen, even the maidens who danced with the fiddlers. Some, like the strongmen, stared fully at them, while some, like the dancing maidens, cast furtive glances at them. Icy tendrils began clawing at Tip’s insides once more as he began so slow his gait.

  “Why they staring, Ani?”

  “I…”

  “Is something wrong, Tip?” Eldred asked from behind the boy. Turning,

  Tip forced a smile as he shook his head.

  “Good. Come, the Story-Maker’s Tent is over there.”

  “Blast! Get to Marsha, Tip, quickly!”

  “What is it?” Tip asked as he resumed his earlier pace.

  “It’s a trap! The Story-Maker’s Tent! That’s why they’re staring!”

  Tip’s frown deepened. “What you mean?”

  “They’re luring us into a trap! Get to Marsha, quickly!”

  “But it was me who—”

  “It was Eldred’s idea, not yours! He planted it in your head! Hurry, Tip, hurry! Before it’s too late!”

  At her words, the icy tendrils within Tip pierced his heart, numbing him as he came to a dead stop.

  “Quickly, Tip, quickly! Get between Marsha and Gray, then give me control.”

  Finding his feet, Tip did as he’d been bid, or at least tried to.

  “Ah, here we are!” Neremi exclaimed as she pulled the flap of a tent directly before her aside for Marshalla. “After you.”

  “Marsha, no!” Tip screamed, stopping Marshalla cold just as she was about to step through.

  Spinning round, Marshalla stared at Tip square, a worried frown twisting her features.

  “Tip, you okay?”

  “Get to her, Tip, get to her!”

  Shoving past Thalas, Tip tried to hurry to Marshalla, but barely had he taken his second step when it all went horribly wrong.

  “Tip, behind you!”

  Spinning round, he watched as Eldred lunged for him. With a cry, the startled boy leapt to the side, Eldred’s fingers narrowly missing the hem of his shirt.

  “Hey! What’d you think—!” Marshalla began as she moved to march over to Eldred, but before she took even one step, Neremi leapt before her, and, placing a hand upon Marshalla’s chest, uttered a single word, and with it, called forth a gust of wind powerful enough to fling Marshalla backwards. The strength of the gust was enough to send poor Marshalla flying into the darkness of the Story-Maker’s Tent, and the moment she was within, she was gone.

  “Damn it all!”

  Marsha!” Tip shrieked as he prepared to race after her.

  “No, Tip, no! Give me control! Quickly!”

  But Tip was beyond reason. Though, even in his haste to reach his dear friend, there was one who was more determined than he, and as he sought to race forth, young Gray pounced at Neremi, seeking to open the conniving elf’s throat with her teeth.

  But Neremi was ready for the panther, and as Gray leapt forward, so, too, did Neremi leap back, bringing both her hands up before her. And as Gray sailed before the Story-Maker’s Tent, the sneering Mage Adept called forth another gust of wind, one more powerful than the last, flinging the snarling panther into the tent to share the same fate as her mistress.

  “Tip, for the love of the gods, give me control! Now! Please!”

  At last, Tip acquiesced, and as control flowed to Anieszirel, she stood tall, her lips twisted into a hateful snarl. As one, Neremi and the other three turned to face her square. But as Anieszirel readied herself to bathe in their blood, she remembered the many eyes upon them. Upon her.

  “Are you truly that fat-fingered that you couldn’t hold onto a little child, Eldred?” Thalas sneered as he sauntered towards the snarling boy.

  For her part, Anieszirel backed away from him.

  “Ani, what you doing?”

  Anieszirel kept her peace as she glanced over her shoulder at the advancing crowd.

  “You got to help Marsha, Ani! You have to got her!”

  And she would love nothing more than to do just that. She would love nothing more than to bring the hateful Mage Adepts to their knees and force them to tell her where Marshalla was. But if even one of the onlookers were to see her do that and escape, if even one were to share what they saw with the Shimmering Tower, Tip’s fate would be sealed. She had to get them away, away from all the prying eyes.

  “Tip, I need you to trust me,” she thought as she backed away still, turning her gaze back to the advancing Mage Adepts.

  “But—”

  “You must trust me.”

  “Please, Ani—”

  “Do you trust me, Tip?”

  As Tip fell silent, Anieszirel felt a presence behind her.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  Tip’s voice was soft, unsure. But it was enough, and as the strongman behind Anieszirel lunged at her, Anieszirel dropped to the earth before scurrying between his legs, and, racing to the fence, the chronodragon scampered over before racing into the surrounding woods.

  “Ani!”

  “Trust me, Tip, trust me!” she cried as she raced on as fast as Tip’s little legs could carry her.

  Vengeance And Slaughter

  With eyes bright and an open snarl, Larine marched towards the strongman between whose legs the brat had made good his escape.

  “Now, hold a moment,” the warrior said, raising his hands before him in minor plea as he backed away from Larine. But his words fell upon deaf ears, and, as Larine reached him, she slapped him with all the might she could muster. The muscled warrior staggered back, a meaty hand caressing his reddening cheek as he bowed to Larine.

  “A boy,” she seethed. “A blasted little boy, and you let him get away!”

  “It’s not so—” the warrior began, but Larine held a finger to his face.

  “Take your men and go after him,” she growled after a brief silence. “Do not come back without him.”

  With his hand still upon his cheek, the warrior nodded before turning, gesturing to some within the staring crowd.

  “You too,” Larine continued, turning to three of the fiddlers in the crowd. “Gather your men and get going.”

  “For one child?” one of the fiddlers asked, incredulous.

  “Do you not know how big the woods are?”

  “But,” replied another fiddler, “the more of us there are on the hunt, the greater the chances of a passer-by seeing.”

  Larine stared at the fiddler a spell.

  “If you chance upon any,” she said at last, “kill them, hide the bodies. Let the others know.”

  The fiddlers stared at Larine for a spell before finally nodding and turning to do as she’d commanded.

  “Where’s Netari? She’s—” Thalas began, but a raised finger from Larine silenced him.

  “I want you and your sisters to head to the South Gate,” Larine continued as she turned to the maidens who had danced with the fiddlers. “Be sure to keep the peacekeepers occupied. Should the boy make his way there, the peacekeepers must not see him or aid him. Understand?”

  As one, the maidens nodded and made for the gate just as other maidens within the crowd did the same.<
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  “Look, Larine—” Thalas began anew.

  “Quiet!” Larine barked before turning to the crowd.

  “Remember your orders. This is meant to be a fayre, and I know you shall make it so. But fayres are meant to be a raucous affair, and this fayre is no exception. I do not want the cries of that boy reaching the ears of the peacekeepers. Understand?”

  Murmurs of understanding drifted from all around the crowd as the gathered throng turned to do her bidding, and as the fayre slowly came back to life, Larine turned to Thalas.

  “Yes?” she demanded.

  “Where’s Netari?” Thalas replied through gritted teeth.

  Larine smirked. “And why would a duchess have anything to do with the likes you?”

  Thalas sneered. “Do not play with us, Larine. Netari was meant to be here in person, that was the arrangement. To show her hands were as stained as ours. And, for that matter, why is there a portal in the tent? There was to be a binding circle in there, not a portal. Where’s the girl now?”

  Larine’s smirk grew. “My, so many questions, I don’t quite know where to begin.”

  “Thalas, what’s going on?” Neremi asked as she neared her beloved.

  “You’re being betrayed, my dear,” Larine replied.

  “What?” the Mage Adepts replied in unison.

  “Lord and Lady Fairshroud are on official business far from here. Official and very public business, and will not be coming.”

  “Damn you!” Thalas spat.

  “As for the portal, that was my lord Fairshroud’s idea. What better way to whisk our charges away in total secrecy?”

  “Why lie?” Eldred asked, frowning in confusion. “Why lie to us like that?”

  Chuckling, Larine turned her gaze to him. “Isn’t it obvious? Had we told you about the portal, you’d naturally have asked where it led.”

  Shaking his head, Eldred’s frown deepened. “So?”

  “So, if we told you where it led, where we intended to keep the scum, you might decide upon some foolish plan to retrieve them once you realise we had no intention of paying you.”

  “What?” Thane and Eldred exclaimed in unison.

  “You thieving bitch!” Neremi spat.

  “You’ll regret this,” Thalas snarled.

  As one, all four began walking towards Larine. In response, Larine began walking backwards from the advancing Mage Adepts. Spurred on by her retreat, Thalas quickened his steps, along with his friends. But just as they were within arm’s length of Larine, vines erupted at their feet, growing at frightening speed as they spun about them right up to their necks. Bound, the four Mage Adepts stood rigid as they stared wide-eyed at their captor.