The Beggar's Wrath

by J B Drake

  A charged silence fell upon the friends as Larine wandered about them, a victor’s grin upon her lips.

  “And I expected so much more from you all,” she sighed at last. “So disappointing.”

  “I’ll have your heart before this is over, you bitch!” Thalas seethed. “You and your mistress both.”

  Larine shook her head as she stood before Thalas. “Thalas, please, stop talking. You’re only embarrassing yourself further. This is over, we’ve won.”

  “We’ll tell everyone,” Neremi added. “We’ll talk, we’ll sing!”

  “Tell everyone what, my dear?” Larine asked as she stepped before Neremi. “The truth?”

  With eyes aflame, Neremi nodded, but her nod called forth a simple shake of Larine’s head.

  “So naive. The truth, my dear, is what you can prove, not what happened.”

  Neremi frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Larine threw her arms wide as she looked about them. “Everyone here works for us. Everyone. Even the Fayre owners have an accord with us. The truth, the only truth that matters, is that you came here with those two wretches, and were seen walking all the way to the end of the Fayre and out into the woods, with the two in tow.”

  “No, wait—”

  “I have more than a dozen witnesses to attest to that, my dear. You came here with them, and you left with them.”

  “But that’s not—” Thalas began.

  “Not what was agreed?” Larine interjected before chuckling at the dread-filled Mage Adept. “You know, I felt sure, sooner or later, you would see through our ruse. I felt sure that the moment we told you about the Fayre, you’d see how vulnerable you were, how little power you had to bargain with. But my lady was right, your greed had clouded your judgement completely.”

  “Nobody’ll believe you,” Thane said, but there was little conviction in his words.

  “Is that a statement, boy, or a wish?” Larine asked as she sauntered over to him. “Or do you not think, given your reputation, people will not readily think the worst of you? Especially given how you treated those two in the past?”

  “But why?” Eldred asked. “The money’s considerable, yes, but you master’s aren’t exactly struggling. Why do this? Why taint us like this?”

  Larine walked towards him before staring deep into his eyes. “Vengeance, boy.”

  “Vengeance? On us?”

  “Oh, not you, boy, your parents.”

  Eldred frowned. “Our parents?”

  Larine nodded. “And that decrepit fool Gladespell.”

  “Gladespell?”

  Larine nodded once more.

  “How’s—”

  “How’s he involved?” Larine asked.

  Eldred nodded in response, eliciting a brief grin from Larine.

  “That’s the best part,” she replied. “When your Tower’s inquisition begins, and they learn of your involvement in the disappearance of those two, they will eventually learn of your little feast all those weeks ago, and they will, of course, ask themselves where you obtained the money.”

  “It came from Netari,” Thalas replied stubbornly, “not Gladespell.”

  Larine shook her head, sighing as she walked over to him. “Thalas, Thalas, Thalas. What did I just say? The truth is what you can prove, not what happened. You see, Thalas, we have agents everywhere. The young man who collected your fare for the dinner is one such agent, and upon receiving payment, he swapped the coins you’d given him with coins straight from Gladespell’s vault.”

  “Dear gods,” Neremi whispered as all blood drained from Eldred’s face. As for Thalas and Thane, their faces were a mask of confusion.

  “What does that mean?” Thalas asked as he stared from Neremi to Eldred and back again. “Neremi, what does that mean?”

  Shaking her head, Neremi tried to form her words.

  “We…” she began, her voice quivering, “…we mark all our coins in our vaults. We mark those we wish to keep and those we wish to spend separately. All the nobles do it. To catch thieves. The marks are meant to be removed before the coins are spent, but sometimes our vault caretakers miss a few, and if they’re spent, they get returned for the marks to be removed.”

  Thalas frowned. “Don’t your parents get told when that happens?”

  Neremi shook her head. “Not if they’re marked to be spent.”

  “Now do you see, my dear?” Larine asked. “Now do you see?”

  “Oh my gods,” Neremi continued. “They’re going to let the world think Gladespell paid us to kill them. The Tower’ll expel us, and they’ll…oh gods…they’ll cite Gladespell’s involvement as reason enough to end their accord with the king! He’ll destroy Gladespell over this, and our families! Why?”

  Larine sighed. “I told you, vengeance.”

  “For what?”

  Larine shook her head. “Ask. Your. Parents.”

  The silence that fell upon the friends was unbearable.

  “Oh, one last thing,” Larine said, banishing the silence. “A question, if you will.”

  “What?” Thalas asked.

  Larine grinned as she turned to pace about the bound mages. “How much did Thalas say was the advance? Five hundred? Or a thousand?”

  As one, the Mage Adepts turned to stare at their leader, or at least tried to.

  “Thalas?” Neremi demanded.

  “Don’t listen to her!” Thalas replied, his throat threatening to seize shut as he spoke. “She’s lying! She’s trying to—”

  “And how much was the balance?” Larine continued. “Five thousand? Or ten?”

  “She’s lying! She’s trying to turn us against each other!”

  “Oh, am I?”

  Walking to the front of the bound mages, Larine pulled forth a whispering stone, and holding it before her, she whispered a single word. Then, the stone echoed the words stored within.

  “A thousand gold for each of you, ten thousand each after the task is done.”

  “Each?”

  “Each.”

  Upon hearing those words, Thalas’s heart sank to depths he’d never thought possible.

  “You bastard,” Neremi said after a spell. “You bastard! I’ll kill you! You bastard, I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”

  “Neremi, no,” Thalas pleaded. “Please!”

  Larine smirked. “First, you betray their trust, then, you damn their families. Some leader you are.”

  In response, Thalas glared at the housekeeper with all the venom and ire he could muster.

  Shaking her head, Larine turned away from them.

  “Throw them out,” she said as he headed for the gate. “I have a child to find.”

  Caressing his cheek once more, the warrior between whose legs Tip had made good his escape crashed through the undergrowth, his face contorted with the deepest of sneers.

  “Are you intending to capture the brat or scare him away?”

  Stopping, the warrior glared at his ranger companion. “Spare me your babbling and just track the little bastard.”

  “Gods, man,” began the warrior behind him. “It was just a slap, why don’t—”

  In response, the warrior spun round, his eyes ablaze.

  “Just a slap?” he demanded. “That old bitch had no right to lay a finger on me! I have felled trolls and ogres, damn it, how dare she—!”

  “The boy’s up ahead,” the ranger interjected as he gestured at the ancient, gnarled tree before them. “Behind that tree I reckon.” Then he turned his gaze to the seething warrior, his disgust plain. “Perhaps you can convince him to come quietly with your talk of felling trolls and ogres.”

  With his anger straining on its leash, the warrior glared at his ranger companion until at last his ire was under heel. Adjusting the shield upon his back, the warrior barged past the ranger as he stormed forward, the rest of his team trundling behind him. As he walked on, the undergrowth seemed to grow thicker and taller, but the warrior paid it little mind. The sooner he had the brat, the soone
r he’d be done with the assignment. Then, as he rounded the gnarled tree, he caught sight of the boy. As the ranger had predicted, the boy was sat against the tree. As the warrior stared at the little boy though, his sneer grew. The child was sat with his knees raised and his head rested upon them. A pitiful sight if there ever was one. Fighting down the urge to draw his sword and split the child in two, the warrior instead glared at the little boy as his companions rounded the tree on both sides.

  “Come along, boy!” he snapped at last.

  The child remained unmoving.

  “I said come along!” he barked as he lunged for the boy, spinning on his heels the moment his fingers clasped the boy’s tunic. But then, as he turned, a deep sense of foreboding fell upon him. It was unlike anything he’d ever felt before.

  “Good gods!” his ranger companion shrieked from the other side of the tree. “Your hand!”

  “Hunh?” the warrior frowned. It was as if he was in a dream, his mind struggling to comprehend a fact that was simply too monstrous to accept.

  “Your hand, man, your hand!” the ranger yelled.

  The others had unsheathed their weapons and were training them upon the seated boy. Frowning still, the warrior brought his left hand up, then clenched it briefly.

  “There’s…” he muttered, then brought up his right.

  Except as he raised his right arm, his hand was not there. Instead, his gaze was met by a charred stump. It was then his mind finally cleared, and it was then he finally screamed, stumbling from the boy as he stared at his hand still clasped upon the boy’s tunic. In desperation, he reached for his sword, but his sword arm was his right, not his left, and as he finally freed his sword, he watched in fear and shame as it flew from his grasp.

  The little boy laughed. It was not the laughter of a child.

  “What are you?” the wounded warrior said.

  The little boy raised his head, and all who gazed upon his eyes fell back in terror, for the azure glow of the boy’s eyes froze the hearts of all who beheld them. Sighing, the child floated to his feet, blades of purest obsidian growing from the back of each hand as he rose.

  “What are you?” the wounded warrior shrieked.

  With a widening grin, the child turned his gaze to the warrior, then shrugged.

  “Your death,” the child said, then lunged at them.

  It was the screams that stopped Larine in her tracks. They were not of a child, but of a man fully grown, screaming in terror as he met a grim end. But rather than fill her heart with fear, it filled it with rage instead.

  “Gods preserve us,” Larine shook her head as she stared at where the screams had come from. “You’d think they’d have realised the reason for killing all witnesses was to hide our intent from the peacekeepers.”

  “At least the peacekeepers won’t be able to hear much with us being this far away,” the mage behind Larine said.

  “And the undergrowth being so thick,” the ranger beside her added.

  Larine shook her head. “But the boy might take it into his head to run further in.”

  Sighing, she shook her head once more.

  “Come on,” she said as she resumed her walk. “The sooner we finish this, the better.”

  As they walked on, however, it was not long before the air was filled with screams once again.

  “Oh, for the love of…” Larine began before hastening her steps. The screams were from a woman, that much was plain, but that was not the only difference. These were not the screams of a woman about to meet her end, but the recurrent shrieks of one running for her life.

  “Ready your weapons,” Larine ordered as she pulled free her battle fans. “Whoever this bitch is, she cannot be suffered to live.”

  As one, the sellswords behind Larine did as she’d bid. Then, movement from the corner of her eye brought her to a halt. Raising her fan, Larine spun to face whatever she had caught sight of in her periphery, but soon breathed a sigh of relief as the other sellswords she’d dispatched to comb the forest came into view, no doubt drawn by the shrieks.

  “Larine, look!” the mage behind Larine exclaimed as she pointed.

  Following the mage’s finger, Larine turned to watch a woman shrieking as she raced towards them, only to stumble forward as she threw a glance behind her.

  “End her,” Larine ordered.

  As the ranger behind Larine raised his bow, the woman looked up at them.

  “No, wait!” the mage said as she lowered the ranger’s bow. “She’s one of us!”

  “Is that…blood on her tunic?” the ranger asked.

  Larine had seen it too. The entire front of her tunic was covered in it. What’s more, from the way she was cradling her arm, this was a woman in dire need of care and attention. Stumbling to her feet, the wounded woman raced on towards them, waving at them as she shouted, but Larine could not make sense of her words.

  “What on earth is she saying?” Larine asked.

  Then, the woman looked behind her once more, only to stumble and fall once again, and as she fell, Larine and the others saw the child behind her.

  “Run,” the mage behind Larine said, fear creeping into her voice. “She’s saying run.”

  Once more, the woman staggered to her feet, only to fall a third time, except this time the child was perched on top of her, staring down at her. Then, the little boy raised his hand, a hand that seemed to have within it a blackened blade, and as Larine and the others watched, the child slowly slid the blade into the felled woman’s back until at last, she was still. Even at their distance, Larine could see the smile upon the child’s face, and what she saw turned her stomach, for it was the slow, luscious smile of one in the throes of sated want.

  “Gods preserve us,” the ranger whispered, his mouth agape. “What the hells kind of child is that?”

  “The screams,” Larine added, her fear climbing up her throat. “They were not witnesses, they were our people.”

  “Wait,” the mage replied. “That…boy killed them?”

  As they spoke, the boy raised his eyes to them, and as he stared at them, Larine felt a coldness unlike anything she’d ever felt in all her days.

  “His eyes…dear gods,” the mage said. “That is no mere child.”

  No, it was not, this Larine knew, for she knew precisely what it was, and that knowledge filled her with such raw terror as to bind her where she stood. Then, the boy rose and began walking towards them.

  “Larine, your orders.”

  The other sellswords had made their way to Larine, and it was their leader who’d spoken. But Larine neither noticed their presence, nor heard his words.

  “Larine!” the mage beside her exclaimed as she shook Larine clear of her terror.

  With eyes wide, Larine stared at those who looked to her for leadership. But she had no orders, she had no words, save one.

  “No,” she said as she shook her head before turning her gaze back to the advancing child.

  “No,” she repeated. “It can’t be. It can’t be!”

  Shaking her head, the mage pushed Larine aside before setting her staff before her.

  “Form on me!” she barked. “Whatever evil’s possessed that child, Netari’ll have to make do with his corpse!”

  As one, the other sellswords took up position around their new leader.

  The child stopped and watched them form, a smirk upon his lips.

  “Mages, prepare!” the mage barked fighting to ignore the cold hand clawing at her insides as she cast spells of protection and warding upon herself and her companions.

  “Archers, ready!” she barked once done.

  In response, the rangers rushed to the fore, taking a knee as they nocked an arrow each.

  The child’s smirk turned to a grin.

  “Aim!”

  The child remained unmoved.

  “Fire!”

  The archers loosed their arrows, a volley of death aimed at the child. Except the child had vanished.

  “Where’d
he go?” the mage said.

  Then, she heard it, gargles of the dying, coming from behind her, soon followed by screams as her companions scattered. Spinning on her heels, the mage stood rigid as her eyes fell upon the child, his head bowed low and his hands outstretched, hands from which obsidian blades extended, blades that were sheathed within the bellies of two of her companions. But that was not what stopped the mage’s heart and froze her soul, no. It was the sudden realisation that all her enchantments, all her wards, they were dispelled, and they were all vulnerable before this demon-child.

  “Kill it!” she shrieked as she leapt back, bringing her staff to bear upon the child. “Kill it!”

  What transpired next could only be described as deathly chaos, for while those sellswords of stouter heart deigned to rid their group of the child, in their desperation, they instead slew their own. It was the child, his speed one that was beyond their comprehension, beyond their skill. For as each arrow was let loose upon the boy, as each lethal spell was flung, the child simply darted out of its path, leaving the arrow and the spell to deal its death to another.

  As for the child himself, his blades sang a verse that would make the god of war brim with envy, for as he leapt, as he darted and dashed, his blades sliced through exposed flank and unguarded flesh, dealing death with each step of his dance. It was a battle the sellswords were doomed to lose, and it was not long before they themselves realised this, and soon, all those who had survived the slaughter broke rank and ran, their terror complete.

  But the little boy would not let them flee, and as they ran, he chased after them. The first to feel his wrath anew were the sellswords fleeing back to the Fayre. It was they he raced after first, leaping upon them on by one, just as he’d leapt upon the woman sellsword who had warned them all to flee. And, as with the woman sellsword, the child brought each in turn low with the weight of his person upon their backs and the bite of his blades as he drove them deep into their flesh, until none remained.