The Beggar Prince Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Uneven Brilliance

  Puppet And Master

  True Loyalties

  Mortal Machinations

  The Hunt Begins

  Flight of Despair

  The Bite of Betrayal

  The Beggar's Power

  Epilogue

  About The Author

  The Beggar Prince

  J.B. Drake

  Editor: Tim Marquitz

  Cover: Michael Gauss "Helmutt"

  Copyright © 2018 J.B. Drake

  Kindle Edition

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to others. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Prologue

  It was killing him and she knew it. The entire side of her robe was slick with his blood, and yet the bleeding continued. She had to stop, bind his wounds anew, allow him rest. She had to stop.

  “Almost there, my love,” she said instead, her every word tearing at her soul. Their only chance, his only chance, was for them to press on, get out of the marshland they trundled through, get out of the nightmare they'd found themselves in.

  Gritting her teeth, she looked down at him as he hung limply by her side. Her arms were heavy, almost numb. And the blood, gods, the blood, it was all she could do to keep a firm grip about him. But she couldn't let go, she daren't, and as he stared resolutely on, his breath coming in shallow snatches as he willed his feet to move slowly onwards, one before the other, her heart ached for him. He was trying, dear gods but he was trying.

  “Almost there,” she repeated hoarsely. “Please, stay with me. We're almost there.” It was a lie, like so many others she'd told since their escape from the compound. But, what else could she say? She raised her gaze up to their path. Everything was corrupted now, everything. From the trees to the buildings, even the birds of the air, nothing was spared, the stench of death and decay clinging to the both of them like a defiling miasma. The town didn't deserve this. Gritting her teeth, she fought to ignore the waves of guilt that had been threatening to drown her since the incident. She'd wallow in self-pity later. First, she had to get him away.

  “Stay with me,” she said as she adjusted her grip on her beloved's arm about her neck, the sweat in her palm weakening her grasp. She chanced a glance behind them. The screams had long since stopped. Was it their turn to be hunted, or were they now truly alone? As she stared behind them, however, she was oblivious to the dead root jutting out before her, and as she caught her leg upon it, a startled yelp escaped her lips as they both fell to the ground.

  Cursing feverishly, she hurried to her feet, turning to help her beloved onto his.

  “No…” he whispered, shaking his head weakly as he rose to sitting. “I need to rest.”

  “No, we have to keep moving,” she replied, shaking her head as she spoke. “He's still out there. We have to keep moving. Come, please.”

  As she reached for him, however, he looked up at her, his eyes pleading with hers. Shaking her head briefly, she looked behind them, staring intently into the fog as her heart beat loudly in her chest. They were not safe. He was still hunting them. They had to keep moving. Once more, she looked down at her beloved, but as her eyes fell upon him, she realised they had to stop. Relenting at last, she helped him to his feet and walked him over to the large fallen tree whose root had caused their fall. With a grateful sigh, he sat upon it. Once more, she scanned their surrounds. Nothing. But her fear remained. Sighing herself, she looked down at her beloved once more. His lips were purple, and he'd paled greatly. He looked up at her, smiling sadly once their eyes met.

  “I'm sorry,” he whispered. She shook her head at him.

  “We both made this choice,” she said as she grasped the edge of her robe. Tearing free a generous strip from it, she sat beside her beloved and bound his wounds anew.

  “But I talked you into it,” her beloved replied. “You were right, we shouldn't have done it. We tried to steal the power of the gods. We had no right.”

  “Save your strength, we–” she began, only for a lone howl to echo out from the mist. Its sound froze her heart as it chilled her soul. She looked at her beloved. His eyes were wide with the same terror coursing through her veins. Wordlessly, he offered his arms up to her. Their rest was over. Nodding, she let go of the torn fabric as she rose to help him up, but at that moment, as she took a single steadying step towards him, a huge, terrifying beast leapt up out of the very mist itself, knocking her away from her beloved as it crashed into him. But as her lover fell to the earth, he did not scream, he did not make so much as a sound, though not from lack of want or need, for the beast had wrapped its huge maw about his throat, ripping it open even as its bulk frame forced him to the earth on the other side of the fallen tree.

  Stunned, she stared at what little of the beast she could see, her fear stilling her tongue as the beast gorged on its unholy feast, and for a time, the only sounds to be heard were that of rending flesh and crunching bone.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  Startled back to life, she looked behind her, and the sight that met her gaze brought a sharp cry from her lips. Scrambling to her feet, she backed away quickly from the little child walking towards her.

  “Stay back!” she screamed. “You stay away from me!”

  The little boy smiled at his mother as he neared her. “Were you looking to leave without me?”

  She stared at his eyes, her fear shortening her breath as she buried her lips in her hands.

  “Please, just stay back,” she begged as she shuffled away from him.

  “That was very naughty of you, Mother, leaving your son alone like that. What would Father think of you?”

  “You are not my son!” she shrieked as tears streamed down her face. The little boy grinned. It was a soulless grin, an evil grin, one only the darkest of hearts could call forth.

  “You are not my son,” she repeated. “Just stay back.”

  The little boy laughed. He turned to stare at the beast, a hound of sorts, its body more smoke than flesh. But as the little boy turned his gaze from her, she seized her chance and ran, pulling up her robe and racing forth with all she could muster. Though, barely had she gone five paces when an unseen hand held her fast where she was.

  “Going somewhere?” the little child asked. Though she tried to speak, no words came, her tongue stilled as her heart threatened to explode in her chest. Slowly, the unseen hand lifted her off her feet, turning her about before bringing her back to her son. The hound was beside him now, its lips dripping with blood.

  “Well?”

  She stared at him. She couldn't speak, for her fear bound her as tightly as the spell within which the little boy held her.

  “No answer? That's quite rude, is it not?”

  Still she couldn't answer. Then, the hound began walking towards her. She stared first at the hound, then at her son, her breath coming in snatches once more, but still said nary a word. Slowly, the unseen hand tilted her to the side, lowering her towards the ground until her head was level to the hound's. Tears streamed down her face anew as she shook her head desperately at her son.

  “Please! Gods, please!”

  The little boy stared at her as he smiled the same soulless smile. The hound drew near, stopping just beside her, and, licking its lips, opened its huge maw and brought it about her head.

  “Please!” she shrieked, all control, all self-control lost to her. Her son giggled at her as a dripping sound echoed about them. The hound's jaw was now in line with her throat.

  “Somebody help me!” she cried as her gaze darted about her. “Please! Somebody help me!”

  The little boy laughed with glee. “Nobody's coming to save you, Mother Dearest, there's nobody left! You didn't think I let you live this long because I couldn't find you, did you?”

  She looked back at the little child, her breath in snatches once again.

  “Starlight,” she said. “My darling Starlight, please, stop him. Please!”

  Slowly, the little boy's face fell as he shied away from her.

  “Please, my darling,” she continued. “We didn't mean it! As the gods bear me witness, we didn't mean it! Don't listen to what he's said, we didn't mean for this to happen to you. Please, stop him! Help Mummy, please. Starlight, please!”

  The little child stared at her as tears brimmed his eyes. Pouting, the boy sniffled as he held his mother's gaze. Time stood still as mother and son stared at one another, one with a pleading stare, the other with a teary gaze full of pain and longing. Then, the little boy wiped the tears from his eyes as he sniffled once more. He looked from his mother to the hound. But as he looked back at her, his face was set once again.

  “Bye-bye Mummy,” the little boy muttered sadly, and as his mother drew breath to speak, the hound bit down.

  “Bye-bye.”

  Uneven Brilliance

  Merethia, wondrous Merethia. Hers was a majesty unrivalled in all the elven cities. From Aderelas in the northern highlands to En'tirien in the woodlands to the west, none could boast of such beauty, such serene wonder. It was a majesty that was hers by right, for she was the jewel of the elven lands, the pride of all elves whether they wished to admit it or not. It was a splendour made possible by the favour she enjoyed of the high elves of the Shimmering Tower, the greatest school of arcane learning in all existence, a people known as much for their arcane masteries as for their love of beauty.

  But, for all its un
rivalled majesty, fair Merethia was not immune to the one ill that has plagued every city of every race since the dawn of time. Uneven brilliance. Like all cities, there were parts of her that shone with her fabled wonder, and parts that sat in shadow and despair. It was indeed a most familiar tale, an imperfect magnificence felt most keenly by those denizens living in those shadows. And as the sun made its way up the morning sky, one such denizen was huddled within his meagre blanket, sleeping away the night's worries within the back doorway of a local seamstress shop, his light snores a clear sign of the peace he felt. That was, until the seamstress arrived.

  Stopping, the seamstress stared up the deserted alleyway that led to her shop, a deep frown upon her lips as she glared at the blanket huddled in her doorway. Shaking her head, she made her way towards the bundle, her frown deepening with each step as she muttered to herself. At last, she stood before the blanket, a deep and angry scowl twisting her lips as she glared at it, and with a frustrated grunt, raised her foot and began stomping and kicking the blanket with all she could muster.

  “Ow, ow!” came a cry from within the blanket, but his cries merely served to spur the seamstress on, her anger mounting with each blow. At last, a little boy appeared from within the bundle, his face twisted in agony as he rolled over into a ball, hugging himself tightly as the blows rained down upon him with increasing ferocity.

  “I. Told. You. To. Clear out of here!” she bellowed as she kicked and stomped on the little bundle. “Clear out of here! Clear out!”

  “Leave him alone!” came a cry from down the alley. Stopping, the seamstress looked round to see a young elven girl racing up the alley towards her, her eyes ablaze.

  “I told you to clear out of here!” she yelled in response, turning to direct her ire at the young beggar girl. “This not a hospice, it's a respectable enterprise! Clear out of here, damn you! Clear out, and take your rags with you!” Without waiting for a response, the seamstress gave the little boy one last vicious kick before opening the door to her shop and storming inside, slamming it behind her once in. A stunned silence fell upon the pair as they stared at the door.

  “You ok, Tip?” the young beggar girl asked as she broke her gaze from the door to stare at her little friend, going down into a squat as she did so. Smiling bravely, Tip nodded at her.

  “Was just pretending,” he lied.

  “Clever you,” the young beggar girl replied, smiling. Tip's smile widened in response.

  “Well, come on then,” she said as she began gathering up their blanket, “no telling what that old bitch is up to in there. Let's get out of here while we can.”

  “Ok,” Tip replied as he too began gathering up their blankets.

  “Marsha…” Tip said after a spell.

  “Hrm?”

  “Where'd you go?”

  Before she could reply, however, something tumbled out of the blanket and fell clattering to the floor. It was an ornate golden dagger. Stopping to stare at the dagger, Tip's young friend looked up at him, only for him to stare back at her, a guilty frown upon his lips.

  “Well, least we know where tomorrow's supper coming from,” she chirped as she swiped the dagger off the floor before shoving it into one of the myriad pockets in her trousers. She looked at Tip once more.

  “Come on, then,” she said, “grab the bag.”

  “Ok,” Tip replied as he did as he was bid, and once they both had shoved the blanket into their little bag of holding, both began making their way out of the alleyway to face whatever trials the day held for them.

  The older of the two, young Marshalla strode on in front, her fiery mane bundled into a messy pony tail as she led little Tip onwards, her left hand in his right as her emerald eyes scanned the crowds they wove their way through. Though no more than fifteen years of age, to look at her would be to think she was a woman full grown. But while many a girl prayed for the gift of such full and luscious endowment at such a tender age, to a street child like Marshalla, it was more a curse. A curse made all the more biting by her striking beauty.

  Occasionally, as they made their way through the crowd, she would throw a glance back at little Tip. And with each glance, her gaze was met by an innocent, almost incurable grin, a grin Marshalla couldn't help but return. It was infectious, Tip's innocence. Even though he'd been living their cruel and unforgiving life for little over a year, he still held on to the innocent wonder one would expect to find in a child who'd only just wandered into Merethia for the first time. It was this innocence that, were Marshalla to be honest with herself, bonded her so tightly with the little elven boy, for it was one of the very few things left in her life that still drove her on, that still gave her a pure purpose. That and the eternal shame she felt about how she had treated such an innocent little child when their paths first crossed.

  They'd woven their way through the city to one of the more affluent shopping districts, stopping across the street from one that, judging from the wares on display, was more appealing to the arcane-minded.

  “We going to Mardaley's?” Tip exclaimed suddenly. Grinning, Mashalla turned to stare at her little friend.

  “Now, don't you–” she began.

  “But he hates me!” Tip whined.

  “Only if you don't keep your hands in your pockets! That's the…” Marshalla's words faded as her gaze fell upon Tip's hands.

  “Tip, your left hand.”

  “Hunh?” Tip stared at his hands. His left hand was clenched. Frowning, he brought forward his hand before unclenching it. Within it lay a gold ring, one with two emeralds embedded within. Guiltily, he looked up at Marshalla.

  “Tip…” she sighed as she deftly swiped the ring from his hand. “Keep telling you, hands in pockets when going through crowds. Going to get us killed one day.”

  Tip's face fell as his frowned grew.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. Sighing, Marshalla ruffled his hair before turning and proceeding to cross the street, a contrite Tip in tow.

  “Now, remember,” Marshalla said as they reached the front door of Mardaley's Glorious Emporium, “hands in pockets, ok?”

  “Ok,” he mumbled. She turned to stare at her friend once more.

  “Stop moping, ok? Not mad, just–” But her words were cut short as the front door swung violently open just as a tall and very irate high elf barged right out of it. It was all poor Marshalla could to to stop herself from bumping into him.

  “And another thing!” he bellowed as he turned to glare back into the store. “I expect my items delivered by no later than this evening, or I guarantee, come tomorrow, the agreements and accords you have with the Shimmering Tower will all be reduced to dust! Good day!” As he finished, he turned on his heels, only to finally notice Marshalla and Tip. Almost at once, his face screwed up in disgust.

  “Always suspected Mardaley chose to surround himself with vermin,” he growled.

  “Hey!” Marshalla exclaimed. The high elf glowered at her in response, as if daring her to protest. But Marshalla kept her peace, choosing instead to glare back at him. Finally, he smirked.

  “Pathetic,” he muttered as he barged past Marshalla and Tip, almost knocking the poor little boy to the ground.

  “You alright, Tip?” Marshalla asked after a brief charged silence. Tip looked from the receding figure to his friend, before nodding.

  “Good,” Marshalla replied. “Come on, then.” Turning, she made her way into the store, Tip close in tow.

  “There you are!” A voice rang out to them as they walked in. Staring at the utterer, Marshalla's face broke out into a wide grin as she waved at the store's proprietor. Though it was rare for a human to be the proprietor of a store in Merethia, it was rarer still for the store to be as widely regarded and frequented as Mardaley's Glorious Emporium. Except, Mardaley Templeton was no ordinary human. Walking towards them, he glowered at the two newcomers, though the smile upon his lips softened the glare greatly.

  “And what time do you call this, young lady?” he demanded as he reached them. None in Merethia knew just how old Mardaley was, or even where he came from, but all knew he had means and ways of procuring items of and for arcane use that precious few could match.

  “Sorry, Mardaley,” Marshalla said, “got held up on the way to Tip.”