The Beggar's Past

by J B Drake

  “Go on to your friend, girl,” she said. “Go on, now.”

  The boy’s smirk grew. “Yeah, go on, piss off! That rancid smell’s ruining me lunch!”

  On any other day, the young adventurer’s words would’ve been little more to Marshalla than the pathetic ramblings of a jilted fool. But at that moment they bore into her, stoking her rage till it strained on its leash, and as her face darkened, so too did the young adventurer’s smile widen.

  “Go on, then,” he snickered, “piss off. Go on.”

  Clenching her fist, Marshalla snarled, but held her peace, and, bringing her rage to heel, she turned at last and resumed her march back to her table.

  “Rancid whore,” the young adventurer spat.

  As those words reached Marshalla’s ears, the red mist descended. With her snarl returned, the seething girl spun about and marched over to the adventurer, and before any could say a word she grabbed his tankard and flung his mead at him, then spat in his face

  “Wha—” the boy spluttered.

  “Oh, gods,” the inn-keeper gasped.

  “Perhaps that’ll cool your tongue,” Marshalla growled before slamming the tankard on the counter and spinning about once more.

  As she took her third step, however, a hand grabbed her arm, holding it in a vice before spinning her back around.

  “Get your—” Marshalla yelled as she spun, pulling her arm away as hard as she could, but her words were cut short by a fist crashing into her jaw, the blow stunning her almost as completely as the shock of it all.

  Stumbling to the floor, Marshalla scurried away from the adventurer, her eyes wide.

  “You stupid cow,” the boy seethed as he made his way towards Marshalla. “I’ll rip your bloody head off for this!”

  The inn had come alive now, the other patrons crowding round to watch the unfolding scuffle. Scrambling to her feet, Marshalla glanced through the crowd at Anise, but the Archmage had her back to her. As Marshalla reached her feet, however Anise turned. For a brief moment, both stared at each other, and as Marshalla stared deep into the Archmage’s eyes, the coldness she saw within them chilled her to her core and held her rigid. And there she stood, unmoving, till a fist slammed into her gut, doubling her over on the spot, before a knee crashed into her face, the searing pain shooting through her nose sending her bolt upright, and before Marshalla could even cry out, the young adventurer smashed his fist into her jaw once more, sending her crashing to the floor as blood poured from her nose.

  “Get up, bitch!” the adventurer spat. “Not done with you!”

  Rising to sitting, Marshalla sucked in breath through gritted teeth as she fought to banish the stars dancing before her eyes. Her whole face was on fire now, her mouth filled with blood.

  “I said get up!”

  Turning, she stared at Anise once more. The Archmage was still staring at her, her eyes just as empty.

  “Get up!” the adventurer yelled, grabbing Marshalla by her hair and pulling her onto her feet.

  But once more the red mist descended, and, as the boy pulled, Marshalla bowed low before springing forth, the suddenness of her charge catching the adventurer off guard and giving Marshalla the opening she needed to slam her head into his chest, knocking the wind out of him. As he staggered backwards, Marshalla spat her blood into his eyes before smashing her forehead into his nose with all the might and rage she could muster, his squeal drawing a savage smile to her lips as the roar of the crowd filled her heart with the resolve to rip the young bastard apart.

  But the boy was not to be so easily beaten, and as Marshalla stepped back from him, he swung for her temple, his fist too fast for her to see, and as her vision whitened from the blow, the boy charged forth, raining blow after blow upon Marshalla. Some blows she blocked, some she dodged, but there were just too many, and the boy was too fast, and so it wasn’t long before Marshalla was on the floor once more, this time curled up in a ball, waiting for the blows to end. And then at last, they stopped.

  “Had enough, eh bitch!” the boy yelled as he backed away from Marshalla.

  As if in response the crowd roared, hearty throats demanding Marshalla rise and see to the young upstart. Only Marshalla did not, choosing instead to stay where she lay. But the crowd was in no way forgiving, roaring and demanding her return to the fight, and as the voices reached a deafening crescendo, Marshalla rose to sitting once more, calling forth a cheer fit to shake the rafters.

  As she sat, however, Marshalla did something no one expected; she turned to the young adventurer, stared deep into the his eyes, and wept. Neither boy nor crowd knew what to make of Marshalla’s tears, for her wails were deep and haunting, tearing at the hearts of all those within the inn, and it wasn’t long before her wails were all that could be heard. Then, sniffling and stuttering, Marshalla reached for the boy.

  The young adventurer looked from the wailing girl to his companions, his face a mask of pure confusion. But Marshalla’s cries continued, her arms raised towards the boy. The boy’s sneer soon returned, however, turning to Marshalla once more before sauntering over to her, his steps every bit the victor’s. As he reached her, he crouched and grasped her outstretched hand.

  “Next time, bitch,” he spat, “show some respect to your betters,”

  “I…I…I…” Marshalla stuttered between tears.

  “What?” the boy demanded.

  Marshalla wailed once more, clawing at the boy’s tunic. With his face twisted in disgust, the boy stared from her hands to her face.

  “Speak up!” he demanded.

  “I…I…I…” Marshalla repeated as she grasped his tunic.

  “I said speak up!” the boy bellowed.

  “I…” Marshalla stuttered as her grip tightened.

  “You deaf?” the boy yelled. “I said speak—”

  As a vicious snarl parted her lips, Marshalla yanked the young adventurer forward with all her might before crashing her forehead against his nose once more as he stumbled towards her, and as he squealed, Marshalla let go of his tunic and smashed her hands against his ears, the loud clap deafening him and sending a searing pain through him as he clattered to the floor.

  Stunned, the crowd watched as Marshalla scrambled to her feet while the young adventurer writhed where he lay, and as the boy rolled onto his back they all watched as Marshalla pulled a foot back and slam it between the boy’s legs with such fury as to elicit a sharp cry from every single man in the crowd, all of them doubling over as they felt the boy’s pain coursing through them.

  “I am your better, you bastard!” Marshalla yelled at the boy, who’d now rolled into a ball, one that was rocking back and forth upon the floor.

  Sniffing loudly, Marshalla turned and began making her way back to her seat.

  “Where you think you’re going?” said one of the boy’s companions, the venom in his words bringing Marshalla to a standstill.

  Turning, she faced the utterer square, then swallowed hard as she saw his hand upon his blade’s hilt.

  “You would draw your blade against an unarmed girl?” came a voice from behind the man. “Such a brave warrior you are.”

  Turning, the man glared behind him. As he did, Marshalla saw who had spoken, and a smile parted her lips in spite of herself. As she stared, she watched as Anise held the man in a cold stare, her hands upon her blades’ hilts.

  With a deepening sneer, the man turned to face Anise square, his hand gripping his blade tight. But before he could draw it, one of his companions laid a hand upon his arm and shook his head.

  “Tower,” was all his companion said.

  That one word seemed to rob the man of any desire to fight, and glaring at Anise a spell, he spun on his heels and rested upon the counter once more, his companions hurrying to help the young adventurer to his feet. Taking that as a sign the battle was over, the crowd began to disperse, and Marshalla made her way to her seat once more.

  “Here, put your arm around me,” Anise said as she appeared beside Marshall
a.

  For a brief moment, Marshalla thought to refuse, to demand Anise leave her be, but there was warmth in Anise’s eyes now, a warmth to match the smile upon her lips. And so, smiling herself, Marshalla did as she’d been bidden.

  “Ow, ow, ow!” Marshalla winced as Anise sat her down gently.

  “Baby…” Anise muttered.

  “Baby?” Marshalla demanded, then instantly regretted it as pain shot through her from her jaw. Wincing, she cradled her face as she closed her eyes and sucked a breath in through her teeth.

  “Is it bad?” Anise asked.

  Wincing still, Marshalla stared at her companion. She was wincing too.

  “I’ve suffered worse beatings,” she said at last, but her words merely served to deepen Anise’s wince.

  “Hold,” the Archmage said, then lifted a bag to her knees before rummaging through it.

  “You know, you could’ve stepped in at any moment,” Marshalla said after a spell.

  “I know,” Anise smiled as she pulled out a carefully wrapped bundle, “but then you wouldn’t have learnt your lesson.”

  “Lesson?” Marshalla demanded as her ire began to build once more. “He could’ve killed me.”

  “I’d never have let it get that far.”

  “Oh, so now you care?”

  “I’ve always cared,” Anise replied, pulling forth a blade from out of nowhere, “but you’re simply too pig-headed to see that.”

  “Pig…Oh, forgive me for not seeing how much you bloody cared. I suppose I was distracted by you looking to condemn Tip to that—”

  Slowly, Anise sat tall. “Must we bring this up again?”

  “You’re the one who said you cared!”

  “Yes, I do. I was trying to protect you from…her.”

  “By condemning Tip.”

  “Marsha, this is going to sound heartless, but I care little for Tip. Well, not as much as I care for you. You say I was condemning him, and you’re right, I was. I was condemning him to free you from her. You, Baern, my brother, and all I hold dear in the Tower. I will not apologise for protecting those I care for, Marsha, and if you wish me to apologise, then you must apologise for what happened to Durlin, or are you saying his actions justify you condemning him to an eternity in that thing?”

  “Me?” Marshalla hissed. “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Precisely. You let it happen to save Tip. What I set out to do was no different.”

  Marshalla glared at the woman before her, but she couldn’t refute the Archmage’s words, and as the silence grew, she lowered her gaze.

  “What is it?” she said as her eyes fell upon the bundle before Anise.

  “This?” Anise said, staring at the bundle. “Well, this is something you’ll be needing a bit of right now, I think.”

  “What is it?” Marshalla repeated as Anise undid the bundle.

  “Healing moss,” Anise replied as she opened the bundle before slicing off a strip.

  “Here,” the Archmage said, pressing the strip carefully against Marshalla’s jaw. “Hold it in place.”

  With a quivering sigh, Marshalla did as Anise commanded.

  “If you didn’t care for Tip,” she said as Anise re-tied the bundle, “why do you look out for him so much?”

  “Because of you, silly. You keep acting like he’s your kin.”

  Marshalla moved to speak, but her words failed her.

  “Look,” Anise sighed, “shall we leave all that in the past? What’s done is done. We’re here now, both of us. And we have a duty to perform. If you wish to be distant, I can do that. If you wish for rancour, I can more than accommodate. But I’d rather we just…get on with this.”

  Marshalla stared at Anise a spell, before at last sighing.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Good,” Anise nodded, then smiled. “Though I must admit, that must be the most underhand brawling I’ve ever witnessed.”

  Marshalla smiled. “I had an excellent mentor.”

  “Some mentor!” Anise exclaimed, eliciting a chuckle from Marshalla, one she instantly regretted.

  “Easy,” Anise said, reaching out to comfort the wincing young elf.

  “Though in all truth,” Marshalla replied after a spell, “he’d probably give me a tongue-lashing for getting into the brawl in the first bloody place.”

  “Oh?”

  Marshalla nodded. “I should’ve known the boy was trouble, even without the the inn-keeper’s warning. He’d taught me to read the room, learn who to avoid. I tell you, that Tower’s made me soft.”

  Anise laughed. “Gods forbid we teach you some civility.”

  “Hey!”

  “What?”

  “Ugh!”

  Just then, a maid appeared with a tray laden with food and drink.

  “From mistress,” she said as she set the tray upon the table.

  “Oh, we couldn’t possibly!” Anise shook her head.

  The maid shook her head. “Mistress won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Isn’t it what we ordered?” Marshalla asked with a frown.

  “Yes,” Anise nodded, “but when it’s from the inn-keeper it means you pay nothing.”

  Marshalla’s frown deepened. “Why?”

  The maid smiled. “Been a long time since someone put that boy in his place. He’s got it coming from long time back.”

  Then, her smile faded. “But now you two got to stay here tonight. Mistress got a room for you. Should be safe enough.”

  Anise and Marshalla shared a glance, their brows furrowed deep.

  “Safe from what?” Marshalla asked.

  The maid stared at Marshalla as if she’d grown a second head. “From them bandit boys of course!”

  “Bandits?” Marshalla said as all colour drained from her face.

  “Oh, gods,” the maid said. “You didn’t know.”

  In response, Anise turned to stare at the group. All save the boy were glaring at them, while the boy was bent over with his head upon the counter.

  Anise turned back to the maid. There was no warmth in her eyes.

  “We’ll be fine,” was all she said.

  “I…uh…” the maid stammered.

  As if sensing the maid’s discomfort, Anise smiled.

  “We’ll be fine,” she repeated. “Truly.”

  “No.” The maid shook her head. “Mistress already sent Judith for the sheriff, not that he’ll bloody answer… And anyhow, you two going Kirsk, yeah?”

  Anise frowned. “How did you know that?”

  “Your friend told mistress.”

  Anise turned to Marshalla. “Did that boy overhear you?”

  Marshalla held Anise in a blank stare for a spell, and when the full meaning behind the Archmage’s words became clear, her face whitened.

  “Hrm,” Anise muttered before turning to stare at the bandits once more. “We’ll have to do something about them.”

  Slowly, Marshalla sat tall as the hairs on the back of her neck stood tall. Never had she heard Anise sound so cold.

  “What, you mean kill them?” asked the maid, her voice quivering.

  Forcing a smile, Anise turned to the maid. “Don’t worry, we have no intention of causing a scene.”

  “Bloody hope not!” the maid replied. “The next Kirsk caravan passing through about noon tomorrow. You here, you can ride out with them.”

  “In that case,” Anise said, “we’ll have our meal in our room.”

  Nodding, the maid picked up the tray.

  “Fair,” she said, and stepped back, staring at the pair.

  Nodding, Anise rose, then turned to Marshalla.

  “Give me the heavier bag,” she said as she stretched out a hand to Marshalla.

  “I’m sorry,” Marshalla said as she did as Anise asked.

  Anise frowned. “For?”

  Marshalla nodded at the bandits.

  Anise smiled. “No matter. At least now you’ve learnt your lesson.”

  Marshalla frowned as she rose. “Wha
t lesson?”

  “There is method to my madness. A little faith in me will go a long way.”

  Marshalla blinked as her lips fell agape. “You’re going to have to explain that one.”

  “I read the room.” Anise grinned. “I was waiting for them to leave before getting up.”

  “Ugh,” Marshalla groaned as she rolled her eyes at her companion, an act that elicited a chuckle from the Archmage.

  “This way,” the maid said, then turned and led the pair to the stairs near the door, stairs that would take them to the rooms above, all three doing their damnedest to keep their eyes forward.

  The moment the pair were out of sight, however, the leader of the bandits rose and headed towards the door, his face set and hardened. As he marched, his companions rose and followed close behind. None barred their way, none so much as stared after them. Except, as they left, one other patron rose. It was a patron that had entered not long after Marshalla and Anise, a patron that had sat in the darkness throughout, and one that now hurried after the bandits, the light of the candles by the door glimmering off her silver hair as she left.

  “Ow,” the young bandit winced as he hobbled after his companions.

  “Shut up, boy,” the lead bandit snarled, his pace unforgiving.

  “Phaedus, slow down,” one of the others pleaded. “The boy can barely stand, let alone walk.”

  But the leader pressed on, his pace unwavering.

  “Slow down, damn you!”

  At this, the bandit leader spun upon his heels, his eyes wide and bright as an open snarl twisted his lips. Glaring at the one who dared speak, he took a step forward, but his bandit companion held his gaze square.

  “He’ll keel over, Phaedus,” the bandit said at last. “That girl did him up good.”

  “I think I’m bleeding, Pa,” the boy bleated.

  “Shut up, boy!” the bandit name Phaedus barked. “Shut your yap! You’re bleeding? You’re bleeding? You got your arse handed to you by some fool girl! A girl, for gods’ sake, and all you doing is whining! You’re bleeding? Worthless little shite is what you are!”

  “Wasn’t a fair fight, though, Phaedus,” one of the remaining three bandits muttered.