The Beggar's Wrath Read online

  The Beggar’s Wrath

  J.B. Drake

  Cover: Michael Gauss “Helmutt”

  Editing: Martin Ouvry/Jericho Writers

  Copyright © 2019 J.B. Drake

  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.

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  Prologue

  His loins ached as he stared drooling at the scene before him. Standing at the edge of the shadows within which he hid, he watched as Toriel neared Marshalla, his eyes fixed upon Marshalla’s heaving bosom. Leaning upon the wall, he leered as Toriel lunged for her, then winced as Marshalla rammed a knee between Toriel’s legs.

  “Get up, Toriel,” he whispered as he watched his drunken friend crumple to the floor.

  “Get up.”

  With a worried frown, he watched Marshalla leap at the door, then smiled once again as Toriel grabbed hold of her hair. It was a smile that grew as he watched Toriel do away with the meddlesome brat that was always by Marshalla’s side, a smile that grew still as he watched Toriel put Marshalla on her back before pummelling her into oblivion. And it was a smile that only dimmed when he watched Toriel caress Marshalla’s bosom, a scene that sent the throbbing in his loins to new lustful heights. Licking his lips, he stared on as his hand slid from his belt slowly down the front of his trousers, and as he stared, he watched as Toriel tore Marshalla’s tunic, the sound of rending fabric fuelling the dark desire coursing through him as he gently caressed himself.

  With a distracted smile, he watched as Toriel tore and pulled, first Marshalla’s trousers, then her undergarments down to her knees, and as he slipped his hand into his own trousers, he watched with mounting want as Toriel undid and pulled down his trousers and undergarment before going upon both knees between Marshalla’s sprawled legs. As Toriel began lifting Marshalla’s thighs, however, Toriel looked up, and with a nod, his good friend Toriel invited him to join in the spoils. Grinning, he hurried forth and began undoing his trousers, but as he took his first step into the light, he heard it. It was a growl, deep and guttural, of a kind that froze his heart and held him rigid where he stood. Turning, he stared at its source. And as he stared, the shivers within him grew in strength. It had come from the brat, of this his eyes did not deceive, and yet his heart felt sure such a sound could not have come from any creature of this realm.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw Toriel rise. Turning, he watched Toriel stare at the source of the growl, a deep frown upon Toriel’s lips as he pulled up his trousers.

  “That supposed to be scary?” Toriel sneered.

  In response, Tip turned to face Toriel square. As Toriel locked gazes with Tip’s however, he watched Toriel recoil in horror.

  “Is all well, Toriel?” he heard the boy say. “Do I frighten you?”

  Though it was Tip who spoke, though it was Tip’s own voice he heard, it was not Tip. And as he stared at the back of Tip’s head, he slunk back into the shadows, for the evil emanating from the little elven boy threatened to drown him in its dark miasma. Cowering from the child, he watched on as Tip closed upon Toriel. With eyes wide and frame rigid, Toriel stared up from Tip to him, but as Tip turned to follow Toriel’s gaze, he darted behind the barrels beside him. It was there he sat, quivering in the dark, his ears pricked to hurting, listening for the sounds of approaching footfall.

  He heard none.

  Instead, he heard Toriel’s pained gasp, then the sound of boots scraping on the stone floor, but only for a moment, then Toriel’s gasps filled the air once more.

  With the greatest care, he turned to peer back round the barrels, his curiosity now far greater than his fear. But he wasn’t prepared for the sight he beheld. As he stared, he watched as a terrified Toriel hung above the waste devourer, Tip standing before him. Then, he watched as Toriel’s limbs withered and decayed before falling into the waste devourer. First, Toriel’s legs, then his fingers, then his hands and then his arms. Then, he watched the decay spread across Toriel’s body, poor Toriel quaking and thrashing throughout. He watched it all, unable to tear his gaze away. Even as Toriel’s entrails tumbled down into the waste devourer in a liquefied heap, he stared on. And he watched till all that was left was Toriel’s head.

  “Goodbye, Toriel,” he heard Tip mutter as Toriel’s head was engulfed in flames before finally falling into the waste devourer. But even then, he couldn’t look away, and thus he watched Tip turn to Marshalla before walking towards her. A part of him begged him to run, to flee while he could, but he stayed, rooted to the spot, unable to look away, let alone flee, and as he stared on, he watched as Tip knelt between Marshalla’s sprawled legs as he undid his trousers, a smirk on the little boy’s lips.

  “No,” he whispered, the scene before him filling him with revulsion. Then, without warning, Tip stared at him. It was then he finally saw into Tip’s eyes, and what he saw froze his soul. So complete was his fear that he remained staring into those eyes, unmoving, until at last he realised the little boy was in the grip of some great internal struggle, a struggle that held his hands firm and rigid upon his trousers, until at last, he fell forward upon Marshalla.

  “…argus! Get up, damn you!”

  With a startled cry, Fargus awoke from his nightmare, stumbling off the meagre bar stool upon which he sat. Wide-eyed, he stared up at the barkeep who had shaken him awake.

  “We’re closing, come back tomorrow.”

  Nodding, the drunken elf rose and headed for the door, the cold air embracing him the moment he stepped out into the night. As the door closed behind him, he lifted his eyes to stars before whispering a single prayer, one he’d come to know by heart. It was a prayer for forgiveness, a prayer for salvation. It was a prayer to gods he scarcely believed in to save him from the nightmare haunting his dreams. And with nothing else for it, the homeless drunk that was Fargus shambled on into the night.

  A Nightmare’s End

  With a deep frown, Thuridan Grovemender sat back into his seat, his eyes fixed upon the door at the end of the room as he toyed with the glimmering ring upon his finger.

  “If you keep playing with that thing, I may have to commission another before the week is out.”

  With a smile, he turned to the Matriarch.

  She was smiling at him.

  “My apologies, Matriarch,” he said as he lowered his hands. “I suppose I’m still getting used to it.”

  “Truly?” Matriarch Naeve Earthchild asked, her smile widening as she leant forward to place her clasped hands upon her desk. “A post you’ve coveted for as long as I’ve known you, and now that it’s yours you’re still getting used to it?”

  Thuridan moved to speak, but his voice failed him, an act that widened the Matriarch’s smile even further. Finally, smiling himself, he turned to the door once more.

  After a brief spell, Thuridan turned back to his Matriarch.

  “Do you regret it?” he asked.

  As Matriarch Earthchild stared at him, her smile took on a decidedly more mischievous glint.

  “Ask me again in a decade or so,” she replied.

  Shaking his head, Thuridan turned to the door once more. But just as he turned to address his Matriarch once again, there came a knock at the door.

  “Come,” the Matriarch ordered as both she and Thuridan sat tall in their seats. At Naeve’s command, the door swung open as Magister Baern Meadowview entered, but both Thuridan and Naeve’s gaze went to the cowering little elf following behind.

  “We were beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Matriarch Earthchild said, her eyes upon Magister Meadowview as she spoke.

  Baern smiled. “Yes, well, my apologies Matriarch, lit
tle Tip was quite nervous this morning.”

  As he spoke, Tip skulked further behind the Magister.

  “At least you’re here now,” Matriarch Earthchild replied. “That’s all that matters.”

  Smiling, Baern nodded before turning to Thuridan.

  “How does it feel to be a Magister at last?”

  “He’s still getting used to it,” Matriarch Earthchild said before Thuridan could draw breath.

  “Is he, now?” Baern asked with a grin.

  Fighting back a scowl, Thuridan turned to Tip.

  “Come closer, Tip,” he said. “Don’t be shy.”

  “That’s not shyness,” Matriarch Earthchild said, her gaze softening. “That’s fear.”

  Taking a deep breath, the Matriarch rose from her seat and walked around her desk towards Tip. Stopping beside Baern, she stared down at the little boy, who looked up at her with a mix of fear, revulsion, and quite some hate. With a sigh, she went down on both knees before the little elf, smiling at him throughout.

  “I don’t blame you for hating me, Tip. After all,it was I who ordered you be hounded like an animal. And yes, I gave the order for your friend Martha—”

  “Marsha!” Tip yelled.

  Naeve smiled. “Marsha. I gave the order for her to be used like she was. I am sorry for all I put you both through, but know that I had to stop Anieszirel no matter the cost. Would that I could explain to you the danger she posed, but I suspect she’s won your affections already. Nevertheless, I am sorry for all that you endured, truly, and I do hope by having you here you will learn to forgive me.”

  A brief silence fell on all as both Matriarch and child stared at one another.

  “Everyone said you was scary,” Tip said at last, chasing away the silence.

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Everyone. Davian, Mardaley, even Baern.”

  With her smile frozen in place, Matriarch Earthchild turned to stare at the Magister beside her.

  “Well, you can be quite frightening sometimes, Naeve,” Baern mumbled.

  With a shake of her head, Matriarch Earthchild turned to Tip once more.

  “And what say you?”

  A slow smile parted Tip’s lips. “You not that scary.”

  Naeve smiled back before nodding. “Thank you. And I look forward to seeing more of you, my young friend.”

  “He has yet to pass the Birthing,” Thuridan said, a deep frown upon his lips.

  “He’ll pass,” Baern said as he stared at Thuridan.

  “You’re tutoring him?”

  “Of course he is,” Naeve said as she rose, her eyes still upon Tip. “Tip is his ward now, remember?”

  “Yes, but…” Thuridan began, staring from one to the other before his gaze finally fell upon Tip. “…having Tip running around in the Tower grounds is one thing, having him training as a mage is quite another. I mean—”

  “We’ll discuss this later,” Matriarch Earthchild said in a tone that brooked no insolence, her eyes upon Tip still.

  “Tip, do you know the way back?” Naeve asked the little boy.

  Tip nodded.

  “Excellent. Would you mind waiting for Baern downstairs a moment? I just need to borrow him a spell.”

  “Okay,” the little boy nodded once more before turning and leaving, and as the door closed behind him, Matriarch Earthchild turned and headed to her seat.

  “You were saying, Thuridan?”

  “You can’t possibly allow that boy to take the Birthing.”

  “Why not?” Baern asked as he too moved to sit.

  “Because—”

  “Because he’s a street rat,” Baern interjected.

  “Precisely! And we—”

  “But I was a street rat once.”

  “Oh, don’t give me that, Baern, things were different in your case, far different, in fact—”

  “It didn’t stop you from welcoming them into your home.”

  “Will you let me speak? Besides, Davian was besotted with the little boy, he still is! And I can’t very well say no to the boy now can I? Even so—”

  “So, what are you trying to say?”

  “Damn it, will you stop—!”

  “Stop what? What precisely are you trying to say?”

  Throughout all this, Matriarch Earthchild stared silently on as a slight smile parted her lips, but as Thuridan’s glare came close to incandescent, she leant forward, a slight cough escaping her lips.

  Both men fell silent as they turned to her.

  “I believe Thuridan’s concerns stem from the void sphere.”

  “Precisely!” Thuridan exclaimed. “While Anieszirel may no longer be a threat, it would be foolish to assume she hasn’t already formed some sort of bond with the boy, and given her resourcefulness, it would be naive to think she won’t be trying to find a way to exploit that bond to aid her escape.”

  “That is nonsense and you know it. Given where Naeve’s ordered the void sphere kept, and given what it would take to even get to it, I highly doubt Tip will ever be able to free her.”

  “Not now, perhaps, but if we teach him our secrets, can you truly say he won’t try again once he’s Archmage?”

  “Are you sure that’s not your guilt talking?” the Matriarch asked. “After all, it was your idea to have the void sphere on display.”

  “What?” Baern exclaimed, his eyes darting from Thuridan to Naeve and back.

  “I can assure you, Matriarch,” Thuridan said as he stared pointedly at his Matriarch, “this has got nothing to do with guilt. Furthermore, I stand by my decision to show the masses the dangers we face daily.”

  “Look, Thuridan,” Naeve said after a moment’s charged silence, “your fear is noted, and, dare I say, real. If we bring Tip under our wing and arm him with knowledge, there is a very real chance he will use that knowledge against us.”

  “Naeve!” Baern bellowed, prompting Naeve to raise a hand briefly.

  “But, Baern also has a point, and I think his outweighs yours.”

  “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this,” Thuridan sneered as he turned to glare at Baern.

  “Knowledge, you short-sighted troll!” Baern thundered.

  “Baern…”

  “He is!”

  “He is entitled to his opinions, Baern, opinions I would like to hear, as a matter of fact. And you haven’t told him yours.”

  “I…ugh! Fine.”

  Gritting his teeth, Baern stared back at Thuridan. “Records of any of Anieszirel’s vessels being free of her are sparse, and sparser still of what happened to them afterwards. We have a chance here to observe for ourselves the effect the whole process has on her vessels. Tip is a boy whose exposure to the arcane was very limited before this whole endeavour, which makes him the perfect test subject. We have a chance to monitor and measure what changes the bonding has on the bonded, a chance to learn more about the nature of a chronodragon. And who knows, perhaps Tip can in turn give us a way of restoring chronomancy to the world.”

  “That last one is a bit far-fetched,” Naeve said, “but we cannot pass up this opportunity, and that is why I have agreed to this.”

  “This is a mistake,” Thuridan warned.

  “And that’s why I asked you to be here,” Naeve said in response. “You’re going to help me make sure it’s not. Baern’s task is to train and study Tip, yours is to make sure he doesn’t damn us all.”

  “Thank you for the vote of confidence, Naeve.” Baern growled.

  “Oh, don’t be like that, Baern. I have complete faith in you. Thuridan is only here in case we’re both wrong.”

  “And if you are?” Thuridan said, his gaze darkening.

  Matriarch Earthchild held Thuridan in a darkening gaze of her own. “You will bring proof of this to me first, before acting upon it.”

  “Very well,” Thuridan said after a moment’s silence.

  “Good,” Naeve said before turning to Baern once more.

  “You’d best get going before Tip goes wandering off.”


  “Right,” Baern said before rising and leaving, the wooden smile upon his lips doing little to hide his disgust.

  With a contented smile, Tip let his eyes wander about him before taking a rather large bite of the roasted apple in his hands.

  “Good?” Marshalla asked as Tip licked his lips.

  Tip nodded in eager response as he stared at her grinning.

  Grinning herself, Marshalla took a bite out of hers as Tip allowed his eyes wander once more.

  “Thanks, Marsha,” he said as he swallowed, before taking another gargantuan bite.

  Marshalla turned to smile at him.

  “Welcome,” she said, but just as she was about to take another bite, movement on the other side of Tip caught her eye, causing her to stop and stare, or rather, glare.

  Curious, Tip turned.

  “Oh, great.”

  Tip frowned as he watched a mage walk towards them, albeit with some hesitation.

  “What is it, Ani?” Tip thought to the chronodragon within him.

  “Do you not recognise her?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it seems Marsha does.”

  At that moment, the mage reached them, and though her smile was warm, she kept her distance.

  “Greetings.” she said as she looked from one to the other.

  “Hello,” Tip said, smiling at her, but Marshalla merely glowered

  “Name’s Tip,” Tip continued, prompting a wide grin from the mage.

  “Anise,” she said. “Anise Fairweather.”

  “What you want?” The edge to Marshalla’s words was keen, keen enough to unnerve even Tip, and as he turned from the mage to Marshalla, his smile turned to a frown.

  “I see you remember me, at least,” the mage said, frowning as she spoke

  “Blame me?”

  His frown deepening, Tip turned to his friend. “Marsha, what’s wrong?”

  “I’m afraid your friend has yet to forgive me,” Anise said in a sad, if a little guilty tone. “I was placed in charge of her welfare while she was held prisoner in Archm…Magister Grovemender’s storehouse.”

  “Oh,” Tip said as he turned to stare at the mage. As he turned, however, a memory forced its way to the fore of his mind.