Where Serpents Strike (Children of the Falls Vol. 1)

by CW Thomas

  “Their ship probably landed north of us a few days ago,” he continued. “They’re taking the Merchant’s Road to Galori and they’ll be all over this province in a few days. We need to move out.”

  The captain led the way back to camp at a brisk jog. He extinguished the makings of an early fire that Placidous had started. He then informed the priest and Ariella of what he had seen.

  “Where are we going to go?” Dana asked.

  “The Chapel of Gis,” Placidous suggested.

  “The what?” asked Pick.

  “What Efferousians call Halus Gis. It is where I hail from. It is a community of faithful followers of the Allgod. They will give us shelter.”

  “A monastery?” Pick asked. “Is it far?”

  “Ten days. It is set on the northern cliffs far off the main road. The high king’s soldiers are not likely to go there.”

  “Savages,” said Sister Ariella, her tone infused with fear. “Dragon devils. Mountain trolls. That’s what lies between us and Halus Gis. The wilds of Efferous are a dangerous—”

  “There are no dragon devils this far north,” Khalous said. “And most savages dwell inland closer to fresh water. We’ll stay close to the shores and the northern cliffs.”

  “Can we risk moving the wounded?” Pick asked.

  “We will have to,” Khalous said.

  He ordered Pick to scout ahead and ensure that the brood had moved on. He warned him to be careful, reminding him that to be caught by the enemy would mean interrogation, torture, and then death.

  “The black vipers will try and get you to confess any information about the whereabouts of the remaining refugees,” he said. “If they believe that the children of Kingsley and Lilyanna Falls are still alive there’s no telling how far they’ll go to find them.”

  Pick nodded. “For the west.”

  “For the west,” the old captain responded.

  Pick took off into the trees, his sinewy legs sailing over the tall grass.

  Sister Ariella and Dana began rounding up the children.

  Khalous sent Brayden, Broderick, Clint, and the twins to gather as many supplies as they could carry. They rolled blankets packed with roots and herbs and plants for remedies, extra clothes, bandages, and some bread and dried fruit that had been given to them by Captain Alec. They tied off the ends with the willow bark rope and slung the improvised satchels over their shoulders.

  “This is so stupid,” Clint grumbled as he rolled up his belongings. “We should head for one of the towns.”

  “Weren’t you listening to Khalous,” Nash said. “The more populated areas are filled with black vipers, or soon will be.”

  “Old churl. He was given one task, protect the king and queen, and he failed, so what does that tell you about—”

  The beefy hands of Stoneman descended upon Clint like hot anvils. They grabbed him by his shirt collar, spun him around, and lifted him a few inches of the ground.

  Clint looked at him like he was some poisonous snake that he had surprised in a place he’d been about to put his hand.

  “Take a damn good look at me face, boy,” he growled. “See ’at nasty scar ’ere?” He inclined his head to the light to better reveal his left eye where an old gash tore a jagged brown mark along the outside of its socket. “Jackdaws came at meh. Sprung on meh five summers ago in ’em hills south ah Aberdour. Killed two of me mates. Bastards ate one a ’em alive. I watched ’em suck the bones clean as I hid, too damn scared and too damn hurt to move.”

  Brayden watched with no small measure of delight as the blood drained from Clint’s face. He trembled in Stoneman’s clutches as the big soldier held him suspended off the floor.

  “Jackdaws would’ah ate me up good, too, ’cept for that man out ’ere.” He pointed with his chin toward Captain Khalous. Stoneman drew the squirming boy closer toward his ruddy face. “That man you call ‘old churl’ save’ me life and he ain’t through savin’ yours so yeh best drop down to yer wobbly knees and thank whatever gods yeh pray to that it’s him leadin’ the ways and not me ’cause he won’t think twice ’bout given his life for spoiled rats like yeh, but I would.” He lowered Clint back down to the ground. “Next time I hear a disrespecting word come out yer mouth ’bout Khalous Marloch, I’m’a shove my boot in it.”

  Clint blinked in dumbfounded shock, then snatched up his bedroll and hurried away with a sour expression.

  Nash grinned at Stoneman, who stood over all of them like a small tower. “You are my new favorite person,” Nash said. “I mean it. Can we be friends?”

  Brayden watched Stoneman saunter off, his massive shoulders passing under streams of light cascading through the forest boles. The man was intense, and he carried an obvious chip on his shoulder. First Placidous, then Clint. Brayden wondered whom he might attack next.

  Over the next few days the refugees worked their way east, crossed the Merchant’s Road, and continued north until they reached the coastal cliffs. The going was hard and uncomfortable with cold winds still churning winter air over the northern countryside.

  Five days into their journey they made camp in a cleft of gray rock that sat high on the northern cliffs overlooking the ocean. The company broke up into small groups and huddled around scattered campfires. Exhausted, most of them went to sleep soon after rooting around for rare splotches of soft grass amidst the stony soil.

  Lingering by one of the fires, Brayden pulled out his father’s dagger. He turned it in the flickering orange light, his eyes roaming the silver blade.

  “Where did you get that?” Nash asked. He sat an arm’s length away, poking at a few stray embers with the point of a charred stick.

  “It was my father’s,” Brayden said. “I took it from his belt after he died.”

  Nash looked away, his face growing sad.

  “What happened to your parents?” Brayden asked.

  “Vipers got them,” he intoned. “Killed my brother Franklin, too. Father was inspecting the quarry up by the falls when the enemy flanked the city. The last thing he ever said to me was, ‘Run.’” Nash looked down, a look of remorse upon his face. “I should have stayed though. I should’ve tried to help him, or Franklin, or somebody.”

  “And you’d be dead, too,” Brayden said.

  “Maybe, but at least I wouldn’t have regrets.”

  “Regrets?”

  Nash didn’t look at him, only stared into the dying flames. “I regret being afraid. That’s why I didn’t do anything. I was too damn afraid.”

  Brayden hoped Nash hadn’t noticed the shiver that ran up his chest and neck. He looked away, trying to hide the fear that lingered in his eyes, fear that had been there all his life.

  “Goodnight, my lord,” Nash said. He lay down on his back in the grass, flopped an arm over his eyes, and began snoring soon after.

  Brayden pulled his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He wished that, for once, the fear in his heart would go away.

  When he closed his eyes he found himself hunting partridge with his father in the Aviemore Wood south of the city. He had always hated hunting. For some reason it scared him, the woods, the darkness, the sounds of unseen forest critters. He saw his father creeping through the bushes just ahead, his bow in his hands, arrow notched and ready. Brayden was far behind him, too scared to move. He was always so scared.

  Too damn scared.

  Ashamed of his own memories, he opened his eyes in hopes of washing them away.

  When he looked up he noticed Nairnah watching him. She was lying on the ground in the next group, her back to their campfire, her arm draped protectively over the chest of a young sleeping girl.

  When their eyes met, he felt his muscles relax. For a moment, his fear slipped away.

  Nairnah, on other hand, seemed terrified that he had caught her looking at him. She shut her eyes and pretended to be asleep.

  The voice of Placidous came staggering through the night. “I was only—”

  “Shut it!” grow
led Stoneman.

  Brayden turned to see the priest stumbling through the dark, trying not to trip over their sleeping companions.

  “What’d I tell yeh ’bout bein’ wit’ the women?” Stoneman said.

  “And I’m telling you, you have me confused with another—”

  Stoneman grabbed him by the collar and yanked him in until they were nose-to-nose. “I ’member when yeh stood ’fore the magistrate. Said yeh didn’ do it, but we all know what yeh did.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Khalous. “I thought I told you I’d handle this.”

  Stoneman released the priest. “He was sleepin‘ near the women, captain—Sister Ariella, Dana, and one of ’em orphans ain’t more ’an thirteen.”

  Watching from his campfire, Brayden strained to hear all their words.

  “I thought I made it clear to you that you were to have no interactions with any of the women or girls,” Khalous said to the nervous priest.

  “My lord, I am just—”

  “You’re just a womanizing fiend,” Khalous said. “Now I don’t have time for alleged rapists, so you’ll do as I say or you can make your own path home.”

  “I told you,” Placidous began, “and I told the magistrate, it wasn’t rape. She turned on me when—”

  Stoneman cuffed him in the side of the head just hard enough to shut him up. “Rape or no rape, what’s a so-called priest a the Allgod doin’ sleepin’ wit’ women anyway? Ain’t ’at against them rules?”

  Placidous lifted his hands in surrender. “I am seeking to make amends for my wicked ways. I truly am. I mean no harm to anyone.”

  “You can make amends all you want,” Khalous said, “but you’ll do it away from the womenfolk.”

  “It’s cold,” the priest said. “We all need to help each other keep warm.”

  “Stoneman?” Khalous said.

  “Sir?”

  “How would you like to keep our priestly friend here warm for the remainder of our journey?”

  Stoneman flashed a wicked a grin. “Love to, sir.” He grabbed Placidous by the nape of his neck and dragged him off to another campfire.

  Brayden flinched when he noticed Khalous look his way. He spun around, but he knew he had been spotted. Behind him he heard the crunching of the captain’s boots. He sauntered up to the fire where he stopped next to Brayden and sat down on the grass.

  Khalous dropped another log on the flames and stoked it with the toe of his boot.

  “I’m supposing you heard most of that,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Best to keep it to yourself for now. I don’t know the whole story, and it’s none of my business really. I just want to keep everyone calm and safe until we get to the monastery.”

  Brayden agreed.

  “Sir, can I ask a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s going to happen to us?”

  Khalous inhaled long and deep and then exhaled just as slow. His gaze drifted upward toward the stars and he thought for a while before saying, “I’m still trying to figure that out. You and your brother will be men soon, and Dana, well, she’s a woman now. It’s time the lot of you learn to make your own lives. But there’s a part of me that…” but he left his last sentence hanging.

  “Sir?”

  “I want to teach you to fight,” Khalous said. “I made a promise once, and I’ve never broken a promise my whole life, but keeping this promise means doing some rather extraordinary things, and I’m just not sure that’s the best thing to do right now.”

  “You made a promise to who?”

  Khalous looked at him. “Your father. I promised him… well, it doesn’t matter what I promised him. The point is, I need to take care of you, and the only way I know how to do that is teaching you how to defend yourself.”

  Brayden felt his stomach growing anxious at the mention of learning to fight. He knew how to swing a sword and aim a bow, but he had never seen combat, nor did he want to.

  “What do you mean ‘fight?’” he asked. “Fight who?”

  “The Black King,” the captain said matter-of-factly.

  Brayden’s stomach did a summersault up into his throat where it stayed for a moment or two.

  Khalous patted him on the knee. “Don’t worry about it now, my prince. Rest. We’ve a long journey ahead of us tomorrow.”

  The captain’s retreating footsteps failed to overpower the nervous thumping of Brayden’s own pulse. Like most boys throughout the realm he had long admired the valiant knights of Aberdour and the famous soldiers of history, but he had never imagined what it would be like to become one, and he didn’t want to.

  He let his eyes wander to the sky above, a dark navy blanket rupturing with thousands of gleaming stars. For a moment he imagined he was back in Aberdour, reclining in the grass of the castle’s courtyard, or perched in the window of one of its many turrets, gazing up at the sky. He imagined there was no Black King, and that there had been no invasion.

  And for a moment he didn’t feel afraid.

  MEREK

  Malium. Merek hated this part of the empire. The entire region was a sandy wasteland of mostly barren soil occupied by a diverse range of strange natives.

  Unlike the other ten provinces of Efferous, Malium, a southeastern bubble of the continent, had nothing to offer anyone except sand, miserable heat, illegal games, ugly people, and slavery.

  The locals of Malium disgusted him even more. They were an immodest and superstitious lot, adorning their bodies with obscene amounts of piercings and jewelry while covering themselves in fabrics that wouldn’t be considered clothing anywhere else in the world. Most of the locals lived in villages on the southern outskirts of the region, but they often conglomerated around larger cities where they would mooch off travelers and slave traders.

  Merek looked down from his horse at the disgusting rabble of native Efferousians crowding the road.

  “If Efferous were a donkey, Malium would be its ass,” he quipped.

  Riding next to him in a long cloak and hood, his head shielded from the sun, Patryk chuckled. “So what does that make us?”

  Merek kept a tight watch on his purse as he and Patryk meandered their horses into a city called Slavigo, which sat on Malium’s western border. Crude in its design, Slavigo was a sprawling place built in a rush by greedy men so eager to turn a profit that they never considered how to erect a proper city. The streets were narrow and dizzying, the buildings were lopsided and short—nothing was taller than two stories.

  Merek followed Patryk deep into the heart of Slavigo, the hooves of their horses scything the sand and stone road. After some time the closely-knit buildings gave way to a broad fighting arena that overlooked a two-story hole in the ground. Men fought men. Men fought beasts. Beasts fought each other. And no event was more popular than the enorbear fights. The massive, bear-like animals were imported from Edhen. After their gentle spirits had been crushed, they were turned into vicious fighting machines, an exotic spectacle for bloodthirsty tourists.

  “Tell me we’re not meeting here,” Merek said as he dismounted his ill-tempered horse. Patryk had loaned him the beast, which hadn’t proven to be the best-trained or most intelligent animal, although it was certainly well aged.

  “What’s wrong with The Pit?” Patryk asked.

  “Is that what they call it?”

  Cages filled with exotic animals lined the front of the arena. There was a large cat with brown spots that looked malnourished and afraid. It growled at Merek as he passed. The cage next to it contained a wingless dragon, about the size of a large dog, with an iguana’s head encased in a leather and metal muzzle.

  “What’s that for?” asked a man perusing the cages.

  “So he don’ spit at yeh,” said the beast master. “Burn right through yer flesh, it will.”

  “See that?” Patryk said, pointing over Merek’s shoulder to a white tower in the distance. To his amazement, it stood higher than two stories. The whitewashed st
one gleaned in the sun brighter than any of the beige buildings around it. “That’s where we’re headed.”

  Patryk greeted a large brown-skinned man at the entrance to the arena. He wore a slim leather vest that exposed his muscled arms and chest. They embraced, hand-to-hand, shoulder-to-shoulder, and Merek saw the brown man whisper something into Patryk’s ear. His friend then motioned for Merek to follow.

  A two-story wood and sandstone arcade encircled The Pitt through which spectators gazed down at the dirt battlefield below. The arcade itself was stifling, uncomfortably dark, and crowded with a mob of gamblers and crooks.

  Merek found himself reaching for his purse just to ensure it was still there.

  A monstrous roar ripped through the arena. The sound startled Merek and excited the throng of onlookers who crowded toward the open archways of the arcade. Through a gap in the crowd Merek saw a massive brown animal, twice the height of a man, walking on its hind legs toward its opponent. It had the head of a bear, only it was several times larger.

  Curious, Merek inched closer to the balcony to get a better look. In the arena below he saw two enorbears circling each other like titans of ancient lore. The oversized bears growled through angry teeth, glared through narrow black eyes, and swiped at each other with thick claws.

  Merek turned away, disgusted by the spectacle. On Edhen, the enorbear was considered a sacred animal, and though Merek had never been one to subscribe to the religions of his homeland, an engrained sense of respect for the enorbear had been passed on to him nonetheless. Enorbear fights were illegal on Edhen, and for the first time Merek found himself wishing they were illegal on Efferous as well.

  “This way,” Patryk said.

  He led Merek down a narrow flight of stairs lit only by stark shafts of sunlight that pierced through the cracks in the wooden walls.

  Patryk stopped him on the landing where they were as far away from listening ears as they could be in the cramped pit. “Now listen. I know you’re excited, but there’s something you’ve got to understand.”

  “I’m not going to like what you have to say, am I?” Merek said.

  “The man who owns Awlin is a nobleman by the name of Adairous Dolar. He’s the, uh, same man that I owe money to. He’s here today betting on the fights and then he’s going to the slave auction. This is our best chance of sneaking into his place and plundering his vault.”