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

by CW Thomas

  “My feelings for Dana are beside the point.”

  “Oh, ho! You have a soft spot for little miss princess?”

  Preston stood up straight, letting his broad shoulders and full height expand. He was taller than Clint, and far more physically fit, but nowhere near his weight.

  “What I have for her is respect,” Preston said. “And I’d appreciate it if you could at least attempt to offer her the same. She’s your cousin, for pity’s sake.”

  Brayden climbed down from his ladder. He knew how sensitive Preston was to matters concerning women, and he could see the fire rising in his eyes. If Clint didn’t back off soon he had no doubt this confrontation would end in blows.

  “Oh, I’ll respect her all right,” Clint said as he stepped toward Preston. “I’ll respect her when she’s on her knees like a good little whore—”

  Preston’s fist knocked him across the jaw.

  Clint staggered back, his hand flying to his mouth. His fingers pulled away a trickle of blood. He whooped with delight and started to roll up the sleeves of his dingy brown tunic. “About time, pretty boy. You ready for this?”

  Brayden slid between the two of them, one hand stopping Clint’s advance and the other aimed at Preston. “That’s enough!”

  “Get back, Brayden,” Clint growled. His eyes narrowed at Preston and he raised his fists.

  “I said that’s enough!”

  “Let me fight him!”

  “If you don’t back away you’re going to fight us both!”

  Clint refocused his eyes on Brayden.

  “Actually you’ll be fighting all three of us,” said Nash, who stepped out from the adjacent row of fruit trees. He stripped off his tan tunic and dropped it on the ground, crossing his well-chiseled arms along his well-cut chest.

  Brayden thrust a finger at Clint. “Don’t forget, that’s my sister you’re talking about. When you insult her, you’ve insulted me.”

  Clint shrank back and tossed his hands up once more. “You three need to relax. I was just trying to liven up our day. It gets boring out here.”

  Brayden noticed Khalous standing among the apple trees twenty paces away. The Old Warhorse looked bleak clad in dark slacks and a loose tunic, arms crossed in disdain. When Clint saw him he slunk away through the apple trees, nursing his cut lip.

  “Damn the stones,” Nash said. “I was really looking forward to watching you two beat the piss out of that foul sack of wind.”

  “Weren’t you going to help?” Preston asked.

  “Nah. I’m all bark and no bite, remember?”

  “You’re my brother. How could I forget?”

  “Brayden,” Khalous called. He gestured with a jerk of his head and began to walk away.

  Brayden thanked Preston and Nash for standing behind him, and then jogged to catch up with the captain.

  Gloom covered Khalous like a dark cloak. When Brayden neared, he slowed, almost afraid to approach.

  “Sir?” he asked tentatively.

  “Why do you keep holding back?” Khalous asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. You’ve had more than one chance to put Clint in his place, but you never do. You’re holding back. Tell me why.”

  Brayden looked down, ashamed. A part of him knew how to beat Clint, but another part of him, a larger part, was too afraid to do so.

  “Sir, beating my cousin in combat won’t do anything but enrage him further.”

  “So what is your plan then, to let him continue to manipulate the others with threats and physical intimidation?”

  Brayden started to respond when Khalous cut him off. “Every time you don’t stand up to Clint, you lose the respect of the others. You’re acting like a coward when you need to be acting like a leader. They’ll never follow you otherwise.”

  “Sir, Clint is like a dog,” Brayden said. “He wants to be the leader of the pack, but he doesn’t know how. Once he sees that the others don’t think of him as a leader, he’ll back off.”

  “Patience?” Khalous questioned with a single eyebrow dubiously raised. “Your tactic for dealing with your cousin’s insolence is patience? You sure it’s not passivity?”

  Under the scrutiny of Khalous Marloch, Brayden’s strategy sounded ridiculous. He swallowed, nervous, unsure of what to say.

  “No,” Khalous began. “I want you to make a stand. The boys need to see you do it. Clint too.”

  “You want me to beat him up?”

  Khalous cupped Brayden around the nape of his neck in a firm, almost painful, grip. “I want you to make a stand,” he said again.

  The thick soles of the captain’s leather boots thumped along the worn path out of the orchard as he walked away.

  Brayden felt queasy inside. He didn’t understand why Khalous seemed dead set on turning him into a leader. Moreover, he hated that Clint was somehow his responsibility.

  “I’ve seen him do that before, you know,” Nairnah said.

  Surprised by the sound of her delicate voice, Brayden spun around and saw Nairnah standing under the shade of an apple tree, her apron full of red and green fruit. She looked beautiful, he thought, with a few renegade locks of brown hair on either side of her smooth face.

  “Do what?” he asked.

  “I’ve seen the way Clint treats the women,” she said. “I’ve seen him outside the washroom before, trying to peek inside.”

  “He hasn’t touched you has he?” The thought of it made his blood boil.

  She shook her head.

  “You would tell me if he does, yes?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Brayden smirked. “We’re a long way from Aberdour. I’m not a lord anymore.”

  She blushed. “Yes, you are. You’re a Falls aren’t you?”

  Brayden walked over to her. Her blue eyes, looking up at him, were like the sky on a cloudless day. He almost forgot what they were talking about.

  “Um, can I help you with that?” he asked, looking at her apron full of apples.

  “I can manage,” she said.

  “Oh.”

  After an awkward pause, she added, “You could walk with me back to the chapel. Sister Marleenious said she’d show me how to make apple tarts.”

  He agreed with a casual nod that belied his excitement.

  As they steered toward the monastery Brayden noticed plump clouds in the distant sky that looked ready to rain.

  A chill in the air made him acutely sensitive to the warmth emanating from Nairnah’s body as she walked next to him.

  “A thistle!” she exclaimed.

  Brayden followed her eyes to the tall grass abutting the worn foot trail. There he saw, not one, but several milk thistles, a popular flower throughout much of northern Edhen. He had never seen one on Efferous before.

  “It looks just like the ones we have back home,” Nairnah said. “Oh, I should tell Senona. She loves thistles.”

  “How do you know?” Brayden asked.

  “When she lived in Thalmia they grew around her house. They always remind her of home.” She giggled and leaned in close to Brayden, whispering, “I think Ty has his heart set for her.”

  Brayden held back his knowing grin. All the boys knew of Ty’s fondness for Senona, a raven haired Efferousian girl. The two had been orphans at Halus Gis together before the refugees of Aberdour had arrived. Brayden was sworn to secrecy regarding Ty’s affections though, and so he said nothing except, “Is that so?”

  “I think so,” Nairnah mused.

  They crossed the bridge leading to the southeast gate and started up the road that cut through the middle of the monastery.

  “Is that your father’s dagger?” Nairnah asked, gesturing with her nose toward the sheath on Brayden’s belt.

  He nodded.

  “Dana said you’ve carried it with you ever since your father died, but that you never use it.”

  Brayden fingered the dagger on his hip, recalling the day he’d pulled it off his father’s
belt. “I plan to use it some day.”

  “Use it for what?”

  He had yet to confide in anyone his intentions with the knife, but something about Nairnah made him feel safe to say it. “The Black King killed my father. Some day I’m going to use it to kill the Black King.”

  She didn’t offer any response to his words, no looks of surprise or indignation. If anything she seemed to expect his words.

  Their walk came to an end in front of the chapel. Nairnah shuffled off into the kitchen to help with the evening meal. She promised to save a seat for him next to her when dinner was served.

  The memory of walking next to Nairnah, feeling her warmth and basking in the sweet sound of her voice, lingered with him for the rest of the day. He found himself having difficulty concentrating during sword practice.

  Khalous slapped him on the back of the head. “Pay attention!”

  Shaking off his distracting thoughts, Brayden adjusted his padded helmet, which the captain had knocked askew.

  “This isn’t a dance,” Khalous said. “Focus!”

  Brayden charged forward with a downward swing. The captain, shirtless and bold, unpadded as always, deflected the blow with the flat of his blade. He looped the handle under Brayden’s armpit and slapped him in the neck with his sword so hard that Brayden flipped sideways. He crashed into the dirt on his right shoulder, feeling his ribs crunch as his sword and helmet went scattering.

  Nash gasped. “How the bloody hells did you just do that?”

  Khalous leaned down and glared at Brayden. “Are you awake now, young master?”

  His mind was spinning, partly from the pain, partly from the shock at what the captain had just done. Khalous had never shown them that technique before.

  “Sir,” he groaned.

  Khalous helped him up. “You are all under the impression that your skills with a sword rely on memorizing a finite number of movements. If you wish to die, by all means, continue this very limited line of study. If you wish to win in battle than you might want to start applying what you’ve learned.” He leveled his sword at Nash. “Helmet on.”

  Nash came forward. He was padded in thick brown leather from head to toe, not enough to protect him in actual combat, but enough to stave off some of the more serious blows the blunt practice swords could deliver.

  Khalous called for Broderick, who slipped his helmet on and readied his sword. He faced Nash and the two began to spar.

  “Keep moving!” Khalous said. “Don’t just parry and riposte. Be aggressive, audacious. Take the initiative.”

  Broderick struck first, a driving thrust that sent Nash scattering out of the way. He recovered and returned a thrust at Broderick who stopped him mid-strike with the flat of his sword. He jerked his blade up, a blow that would’ve ripped Nash’s forearm in half had it not been for the padded sleeve’s deflection of the dull metal.

  “Good!” Khalous said. “Let every move put you in a position to maim or kill.”

  Nash took a low L stance, his sword hilt in his left hand, the blade in his right. Across from him stood Broderick who held his broadsword horizontally in two hands over his head.

  “Displace your adversary’s blows with counter-strikes timed in the middle of his action,” Khalous said. “Intercept and stifle his attack. Every fight should last no longer than a few seconds and end with one of you dead.”

  Brayden watched the two boys continue practicing their strikes while he nursed the knot in his stiffening neck. Khalous’ flip had succeeded in making Nairnah a distant memory. He was now fully focused on the training, if not a bit distracted trying to figure out how Khalous had tossed him so easily.

  Brayden had long thought that sword fighting was a skill reserved for those with sharp reflexes and coordination, but those things, he learned, can be developed. Good sword fighting was about knowing and applying a handful of key principles having to do with adversarial perception, timing, distance, leverage, and technique.

  “The flat of the sword for deflecting,” Khalous said. “The edge for hurting. Move faster!”

  Nash lunged in with a downward thrust. Broderick deflected mid-strike and drove in, shoving the hilt of his weapon under his opponent’s chin. The move put Nash off balance and sent him spilling backward over Broderick’s leg.

  “Good!”

  Ty and Clint faced off next, which was like watching an enorbear take on a squirrel. Clint’s size and power always made for an interesting matchup against Ty’s agility and speed. Ty bounced around on his feet, dodging Clint’s blows to the left and right. He somersaulted behind him, lashing his sword across Clint’s padded back. The move was quick and effective. It impressed everyone except Khalous.

  “Is this a dance?” he said. “Are you trying to woo a virgin princess?”

  Ty shook his head. “No, I just thought—”

  “A more skilled fighter would’ve cut you a dozen ways in the time it took you to finish your little display.” He turned to face the boys. “Listen up. You’re not trying to tag your opponent. This is not a game of cat and mouse. You go straight in at your enemy. Throw him off his guard. Seek the bind. What the Fellians call zum schleezen en, or attraversarie in Efferousian. Be the first to make the cross, draw blood, and win.”

  Sword fighting, Brayden had realized, wasn’t like the way the poets of old romanticized it, or the way the stage actors mimed it for entertainment. It was unquestionably violent and cold, an art, with precision the paint and death the portrait.

  In the years since leaving Aberdour, the boys had refined their reflexes with repetitive speed drills that conditioned their muscles to react on instinct. They built their strength by practicing with weapons that weighed three times more than a standard broadsword. They lifted rocks to build their muscles, pushed wagons across the hills weighted with grain sacks, and spent afternoons sprinting along the northern cliffs.

  Brayden could feel the results of the training in his body, see it in the tautness of his muscles and how combat was beginning to fit him like a glove.

  The dinner bell rang and their swordplay came to an end.

  “Well fought today cousin,” Clint said, slapping Brayden between the shoulder blades

  The blow sent spasms of pain through Brayden’s stiff neck. In that moment he wasn’t sure who to resent more, Clint or Khalous.

  His pain eased a bit when he sat down at the table with Nairnah. They weren’t usually allowed to talk during meals, the priests and nuns preferring silence, but they exchanged a few whispers about the quality of their day.

  When the evening meal was over, Brayden retreated to the stables to finish his daily chores when he glimpsed Clint and Broderick making their way behind the barn. They sprinted off the road and over the grass, cloaks billowing behind them.

  His chest tightened in anger. He knew what they were up to.

  When he found them, Clint was already on top of the fifteen-foot wall. He was dressed in a black travel cloak with a brown leather satchel draped over his shoulder. When he saw Brayden come around the corner he groaned. “Oh look, it’s the abbey magistrate.”

  Broderick glanced at Brayden through the curly black locks spilling over his forehead. He looked irritated, but said nothing. Like Clint he was dressed for a journey.

  A hundred words hovered on the tip of Brayden’s tongue, condemning words that he knew would sound harsh and judgmental. He bit them back, searching for better ones that might help him lure Broderick away from the dangerous influence of Clint Brackenrig.

  “Broderick, I, uh… I think—”

  “I know what you think,” Broderick said, “and I’m not interested in hearing it again.”

  “We should invite him along,” Clint said.

  Broderick threw his head back and laughed.

  Even to Brayden the suggestion sounded ridiculous, but when he realized all other words had escaped him, he said, “All right. I’ll go.”

  The stunned looks on the faces of both Broderick and Clint almost made
him smile.

  “Please tell me you’re joking,” Broderick said.

  Brayden moved past his brother, grabbed the rope, and hoisted himself up the wall. Though he refused to show it, he felt sick inside. He knew going with them was a mistake. If they were caught Khalous would hold him responsible.

  He crouched down on top of the wall next to Clint and said, “So, where are we headed?”

  “You better keep up,” Broderick said. He pulled himself up the rope.

  The three of them dropped down onto a grassy slope high atop the northern cliffs. The ocean stretched before them into a darkening horizon of blue and gray.

  Broderick and Clint took off at a brisk pace. They ran down a narrow trail edged by tall grass and thorn bushes that followed the monastery’s northern wall. Brayden stayed on their heels, crossed the ravine on a mossy tree felled long ago, and up into the eastern hills. They emerged from the woods on a narrow road. Broderick and Clint turned north.

  Brayden had no trouble keeping up, though it did surprise him to see the heavy-set Clint keeping pace with Broderick.

  “You ever see any black vipers on these roads?” Brayden asked.

  “Black vipers haven’t been seen on Efferous in more than a year,” Clint said. “Everyone at the monastery would know that if they ever ventured out into the world.”

  “The duktori travels,” Brayden said, trying not to sound defensive.

  Clint scoffed. “Yeah, to visit other monasteries where he hears the same lies from old men just as paranoid as he is. It’s all a bunch of hogwash. Black vipers don’t come around here any more. It’s that simple.”

  “So where are we headed?” Brayden asked for the second time.

  Neither of them answered at first. Both seemed to resent the fact that he had chosen to tag along.

  “Mykronos,” Clint finally answered.

  “Or, as we sometimes like to call it, ‘My-girl-ous,’” Broderick added.

  Clint chucked.

  Brayden didn’t bother to ask why. He had a feeling he’d know soon enough.

  Mykronos sat four leagues east of Halus Gis, a ramshackle town of dilapidated wood huts that crowded the rocky shores of the northern ocean. Night had settled upon the coast by the time the three boys made their way into the village, but Brayden could still see the crooked shacks in the shadows. Amidst the scent of sea salt he could taste the stale smell of human sweat and urine. A few scattered homes were lit with torches that provided a sampling of light on the sprawling, disjointed village of indigenous Efferousians.