The Magician's Help // A #BattleTheBeast Story

The Magician's Help

Her name was Ina. She didn't look anything like a warrior.

When Penny had captured the Questing Beast in one of expletive forests, he'd selfishly asked for two things: a cheeseburger and a bottle of scotch. After Quentin had screamed at him, Penny had rolled his eyes and asked the Questing Beast to send them a vicious warrior to help them kill Martin Chatwin. Martin was the "Beast" they were after, and the man they had a penchant to kill before he could do any more harm to Fillory and to Earth--or at least, more than he had already caused.

The "vicious warrior" the Questing Beast conjured up was Ina. And before Penny could call bullshit, the Questing Beast had vanished into the depths of the forest from whence he came.

As the young girl reclined on the thin birth of a tree branch, her pointy ears twitching as she hummed some repetitive tune, Quentin wondered if the word warrior meant something different in Fillory that it did on Earth.

Perhaps it meant "twelve-year old  girl who likes to whistle and climb in trees".

To Quentin, that made a lot more sense. Because Ina didn't look like she could a person, even if she used the sharpest blade in the universe to attack them with.

Quentin cleared his throat, trying to get the girl's attention, but she didn't hear--or at least pretended she didn't. He didn't want to prod her further; who knew what she was capable of, and what necks those pale little hands had snapped in the past? Quentin knew that, even though he had read the Fillory and Further books dozens of times, Fillory was still as predictable as a game of roulette.

"Hey Legolas," Margo called to Ira, "we didn't call you here for you to pull this bullshit."

Margo clearly had had enough of the day already. So had Eliot, who stood next to his best friend, his arm loop through hers. He closed his eyes for a moment, whether out of fatigue or daydreaming, Quentin couldn't tell. "Now I'm not going to be able to stop thinking about Orlando Bloom's ass in those tight elvish pants."

Ira slid from her spot on the tree branch, landing gracefully on her feet. She crouched down in the high grass, her eyes nearly slinking behind the heavy tufts of green, before she pounced toward Margo, moving at the speed of a wildcat. Ira had Margo's head in a death grip before she could so much as stammer an expletive.

"I am Ira, Warrior of the Grey People." She cocked her head to the side, her lips sliding back into a smile, revealing straight, white teeth. "I have killed more men then you can count."

Margo gritted her teeth. "I can count very high."

Eliot took a step back before agreeing. "She can; I would know."

Ira released Margo quickly--so quickly, in fact, that Margo went flying to the ground. She caught herself before her face smashed into the dirt, but that didn't stop her clothes from collecting grass stains.

Quentin couldn't help the small smile that twitched at his lips.

"You think this is funny?" Margo snarled as she rose to her feet. "You know what else would be funny? One of my Jimmy Choos up your ass--"

"I think we should be going," Alice cut in, her wide eyes flitting between Margo, Ira, and Quentin. "This really isn't the time to be threatening each other. We have a Beast that actually wants to kill us."

"I'm with the princess," Penny shrugged. "We've wasted enough time as it is. And I've finished my sandwich, so . . ."

"Where is this Beast you speak of?" Ira spit, his eyes narrowing. "I shall kill him swiftly; he will feel no pain." She paused, her hands pressing down on the skirts of her grey dress. "Unless you want him to. I can arrange that rather easily." The dress was like silk, conforming to her body's every angle, save for the hard iron breastplate that gleamed with some fancy sigil; probably the Grey People coat of arms.