Brood of Vipers

by Maggie Claire

  “Send half the soldiers after the bitch and her new lover,” Wolf growls, standing up and hurrying over to a makeshift bed of folded animal skins. He roughly sets the newborn onto the pile, not even flinching when the child hiccups awake. “Lynx! He’s hungry again!” Wolf calls out as the child cries for his mother. Wolf wraps his clawed fingers into his hair, and when he pulls them free, clumps of tangles rip away from his scalp. “Tell the men to find my brother and the traitor, but do not engage them. Instead, report back to me. I intend to play the spy like she has managed to do in my camp! Then, when I find the best means of ripping all that she loves from her grasp, I will seize the moment in cold, calculated clarity.”

  Jackal nods once just to prove that he’s heard his leader’s commands, backing out of the room just to keep out of trouble. Wolf twitches by the window, his claws biting into the frame, permanently marring the whitewashed wood.

  “Wren! Get in here!” Wolf demands, shouting to be heard over the child’s wails. He cuts his eyes over to the baby’s wide-eyed, open mouthed grimace. So tiny and innocent, Wolf realizes, leaning over to pat the child’s head softly. So easily hurt. “I’ll take care of you, little one, even when all the rest turn their backs on you.” Just do not leave me, Wolf amends in his mind, stroking the soft, auburn curls that already dust the child’s scalp.

  “You wanted me?” Wren exclaims, examining Wolf’s bright eyes with a gnawing sense of worry in his stomach. “Something wrong with the boy?” Eyeing the sniffling child, Wren quickly assesses him for any bloody or open wounds. Seeing none, Wren hides his sigh of relief and asks, “What can I do for you, Wolf?”

  “I want you to help me create a plan to catch the traitor and her Ddraigs,” Wolf declares, turning to face the purported master of disguises of the House of Vultures. “She told me how you tricked her when she was trying to help the child from Déchets. You were able to get past her defenses in ways I cannot. You know her better than anyone else, I suspect. So how can I trick her into coming back to me?” Wolf stresses the vehemence of his conviction by pounding his fist on the desk. “What is her greatest weakness? How can I exploit it? And most importantly, how can I make it seem like the choice to return to me is her own, not some forced reaction to stave off an attack from me?”

  “I will consider it and get back to you,” Wren defers diplomatically, carefully putting his hand on Wolf’s shoulder. “Right now, let me help you upstairs. You look exhausted, and I think it would be in your best interest to rest. Jackal and I will keep things running smoothly until you wake.”

  “Fine, fine,” Wolf mutters as he follows Wren’s wishes. He stumbles up the staircase to the room he’s claimed as his bedchamber. Wren watches him slump down onto the bed, not even bothering to remove his dirty boots. “What’s wrong with me?” Wolf mumbles, yanking the covers off the empty side of the bed, cocooning himself into the soft linen until only his mask can be seen.

  “Well, I think part of it has to do with Lynx’s child. He’s kept you awake for the last few nights,” Wren explains with a sigh as he carefully uncovers Wolf’s boots and unties the laces.

  “Then kill it, Wren,” Wolf demands, his speech slurring as a wave of nausea overpowers his stomach.

  “I’ll…take care of it,” Wren assures without giving away any sign of disgust. Yet the very thought of killing a child brings bile up into his throat. After dropping Wolf’s boots beside a dresser, he adds, “I think the other part has to do with Iri—”

  “Don’t say her name!” Wolf howls, covering his ears with his clawed fingers. He digs into his skin until tiny scratches appear on his scalp and cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, Wolf,” Wren murmurs, genuine pity flooding his heart as he watches Wolf suffer. “The mental connection you share with her through the naming bond is—”

  “Going to tear me apart from the inside out,” Wolf interjects as another bone-jarring pain rattles his skull. “It was getting bad before she came into camp and proved herself to be a whore by betraying me. But seeing her stilled the ache. Now our new separation has caused it to begin anew.”

  “Why doesn’t she seem fazed by it?” Wren wonders as he watches Wolf’s quaking fingers wipe across his mouth. “Iris spoke and acted so lucidly when she was here.”

  “It must be her wretched Ddraig,” Wolf growls, his claw-tipped fingers biting into the silky sheets. “I bet her precious beast has a means of blocking the naming connection, shielding her from any of the unpleasant side effects.” Wolf sighs, sinking lower into the bed.

  “Okay, so how do we help you?” Wren questions as he paces around the bed, but Wolf has already slipped into a fitful sleep. Wordlessly Wren stalks out of the room, gliding down the stairs without making them creak even once. He slips into the kitchens, intent on finding Lynx.

  “Something I can do for you?” Lynx snaps from her seat at the table, and Wren feels his face flush as he notices her nursing her child.

  “Wolf’s going crazy, and he’s told me to kill your son. Says he’s making too much noise at night,” Wren explains, deciding that the best means of getting any cooperation out of this irritable young mother is to simply be direct.

  “I didn’t want this child,” Lynx declares, a haunted, half-crazed gleam brightening her eyes as she stares at her son’s little hands. “He was not…made by my choice. And I thought when he was born, I would want to kill him myself. I fully expected to hand him to a nursemaid and demand she find him a new mother. But I was wrong. Instead, when I heard him cry out after that horrible labor I endured, all I wanted was to protect him. Love snuck up on me; somehow, it found a way to grow and overpower the hate I feared would be the only emotion I’d ever felt again.” Lynx carefully grabs for a knife on the table, holding it out in Wren’s direction. “So, if you try and touch him, you will die. And if by some miracle you do manage to hurt my son, I will make sure your death is agonizing and slow.” Though her words are quiet enough to not disturb the baby, Wren fully believes Lynx is capable of making good on her threats.

  Wren raises his hands to show his compliance. “I have no intention of following Wolf’s orders! Despite my unscrupulous reputation, I do have some standards. Killing children has never been something I could stomach. Actually, I want to help you, but I need to know where your loyalties lie.”

  “With him,” Lynx answers immediately, dropping her gaze to her son. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him alive.”

  “Even if that means running to Iris and the Ddraigs?” Wren whispers as a fear douses his veins like icy water. The plans taking shape in his mind thrill and terrify him. He’s never had any reason to involve anyone else in his exploits before. Yet circumstances have changed; Lynx and her son need an ally, and Wren could use a scapegoat to his advantage. Accuse Lynx of desertion and spying for Iris, and Wolf will never suspect that I am actually the traitor. He’ll focus his hatred on Lynx. He’s already got a bad taste in his mouth from a woman, so it will be easy to persuade him that this woman is just as bad as Iris. He’ll gain some measure of trust towards me, and I’ll secure my place in his pack…until the time is right.

  “If it keeps my son safe, I’ll do it. I mean, I owed Wolf a great debt for killing the monster that gave me my son, but that debt only goes so far,” Lynx replies as emotionlessly as if she were discussing the weather.

  “Then slip out tonight, and get as far from this place as you can. I suspect that the Ddraigs will return to a location they know. Go to the Pith,” Wren urges, his hands reaching for bits of dried meat and day-old bread for Lynx to carry on her journey. “Give a message to Mynah for me. Tell her I have joined Wolf’s pack, and I will get her any information I think valuable.”

  “You mean to stay and act as a spy? Why not come with me?” Lynx demands, securing her child in a sling over her shoulder. With her free hands, she ties the food into a cloth that can be slipped into a sack on her back.

  “I t
hink I’ll be useful here. If I can find out what Wolf means to do, maybe I can get word to Iris so she can thwart his plans. You just be careful, Lynx. Jackal’s men are scouring for nameless unchosen. Do you have a bigger knife than that little kitchen cutter?” Wren inquires as he watches her stow the tiny blade into the top of her boot.

  Lynx scoffs at his query, ripping a nasty looking serrated blade from a holster hidden in the folds of her skirt. At least as long as her forearm and shaped like a long canine tooth, this thick steel’s sharp edge gleams hungrily in the light. “After I endured Lion’s attentions, I never left home without this baby. If I run into trouble, I’ll be able to get myself out.”

  “Okay. Get whatever else you think you need, and be ready to run at dusk,” Wren reminds her, leaving her to her preparations.

  Despite all his years as a clever, cunning spy, never once did Wren notice Jackal’s shadow at the window, a silent observer to their plans.

  Chapter 2

  Sweat drips off Helena’s chin as she dangles precariously from the highest ramparts of the castle walls. “I can’t do it,” she screams, one hand slipping off the polished marble, her chipped fingernails scraping for anything to cling to as she slips. “I’m going to fall!”

  “You made it this far,” Ithel reminds her, his voice as impassive as his next command. “Climb the rest of the way, Helena. Or don’t…it’s up to you, really.”

  Her arms muscles twitch and clench, unused to exerting this much effort after all her years of idleness in the palace prison. Helena’s feet swing, toes searching for a foothold along the smooth, sculpted wall. “It’s no use, Ithel! I’m not going to make it!” Helena pants as her fingers begin to go numb.

  “Then you fall, and you use your Windwalker magic to soften the blow,” Ithel suggests, leaning over the ledge to smile at Helena’s outraged face.

  “You haven’t let me test my Windwalker abilities!” she shrieks, wishing she could punch that smirk off his face. “Who knows if I can still use Windwalker magic at all?!”

  “Then I guess you die, and I’ll be straight behind you in death,” Ithel drones on, never moving from his perch as he waits for Helena to finish her climb. “If that doesn’t sound pleasant to you, Helena, then I suggest you move your—”

  A groan pours from Helena’s mouth as her left foot finally feels a slight chink in the marble. Wedging her toes into the crevice, she gives a final push with her legs. Helena elbows her way up over the rampart’s last ledge, sprawling on the sun-warmed stone of the infirmary’s patio. She closes her eyes and lets the sweat evaporate from her clothes. Huge blisters ooze on her feet from the friction created by climbing up slick marble. Scrapes and bruises mar her ghostly pale flesh with their vivid colors. A hysterical, laugh-like sob erupts from her lips as tears slip down her face and pool on the stones under her head.

  “See there? You made it just fine,” Ithel murmurs, smirking as he paces around her prostrate form.

  “You are such a bastard!” she cries, sucking air into her over exerted lungs. Her hair splays out around her head, and she can feel a breeze rushing over her midriff as her shirt flaps over her stomach. Still, the marble at her back fills her with a sense of safety, and she is too tired to move even her aching fingers.

  Ithel saunters away and crouches in the shade of a nearby statuesque angel, twirling a knife in his hand. “That’s as may be. But you made it without relying on your Windwalker abilities to save you. And you didn’t fall. I call that progress.”

  “Yes, I survived, but barely!” Helena huffs, dizziness overtaking her as she attempts to sit up. “I hardly think my performance was worth bragging about.”

  “Barely alive still counts, so quit complaining.” Ithel jerks himself away from the angel, leaning over Helena’s body to examine the blood stains trailing down her arms. “Show me your hands,” he instructs, carefully inspecting her wounds even as he ignores her vulgar gesture. “And your feet?” Ithel dodges her foot as she kicks, catching her ankle and wrenching it up toward his face.

  “Easy!” Helena wails as her overworked muscles scream at the mistreatment. Her knee quivers as the tendons holding her kneecap in place threaten to snap in their fatigue. “Please! Let go.”

  Ithel hardly seems to notice her pain as he exclaims, “Not bad for a first try! These wounds will form hard calluses. Soft hands and feet would not keep you alive in this challenge anyway. Keep going like this, and you might make it through the tunnel successfully after all.” He drops her foot like it’s a weight too heavy to be carried.

  “What’s in the tunnel?” Helena asks with a moan as she finally sits up, her spine creaking as a wave of nausea and shock overtakes her. I could have died just now! If I’d let go, I’m sure I would have. The cold reality washes over her nerves as bile rises in her throat. “How am I supposed to survive if I don’t know what I am fighting? No one ever talks about what’s actually in the tunnel.”

  “That’s because no one knows. Those that have attempted the challenge have never survived long enough to spill its secrets,” Ithel admits as he hoists her off the ground, dropping his hold on her tiny waist as soon as her feet are stable. “The few people out there who were there when the tunnel was constructed are not allowed to speak of its secrets. They are spelled into silence; revealing the contents of the tunnel is a death sentence for them. So, we must prepare you for everything imaginable.”

  “Why not just float out using my powers?” Helena suggests hopefully as she moves into the shadows along the wall, wincing as her blisters squish on the marble. Cursing the pain, she struggles to walk, waving off a couple of doctors who attempt to treat her wounds. “I’ll be fine. Don’t use your energies on me,” Helena mutters as guilt pangs rise in her stomach. The faces of the slaves who’d already saved her life float through her thoughts, slowly shifting into piles of sand just like their bodies had done. How many more must die for me? How much more can I endure before I go mad?

  “Make all this death mean something, Helena, and it will be worth their sacrifices,” Ithel whispers gently, backing away from her side. Not to be deterred, the medical team swarms around her, slipping into her mind and forcing her body to heal despite her wishes.

  Relief brings fresh tears to Helena’s eyes when none of these people die. Though they appear to be extremely fatigued and ashen faced, all of them are able to walk away from her side. “Thank you,” she croaks as they go to rest in the infirmary, wordlessly slipping into the sick beds that line the walls. Sighing, Helena turns to Ithel and whispers, “How did you know I was thinking about the ones that sacrificed for me?”

  “I recognize that sadness in your eyes. As to using your Windwalker abilities, I suspect you will not be able to compel the magic once you’re in the tunnel. You will have to rely on your own strength and wits to survive.” Ithel smirks as he retorts, “Though from what I know about you, your wits won’t help you much.”

  Helena’s arms are too weak and jelly-like in their movements to strike Ithel for his insolence. Choosing to ignore the jibe, she asks, “Well, climbing I can do, so now what?” Helena stretches her muscles, the feel of her healthy skin a delight under her fingertips. For so long, she’s been nothing more than a waif of the Déchets’ prison. Stroking her smooth, shiny hair, Helena savors the sensations of being clean, well-fed, and hale once more.

  Ithel’s mouth forms a thin line as he holds his knife toward her chest. “Believe it or not, that climb was an easy one. But what if Alaric has your hands broken or your feet burdened with heavy chains around your ankles? What if you are stabbed or shot with an iron arrow, so the wound does not stop bleeding? What if you are given a hallucinogen? No, Helena, you are not even done with climbing.” He lunges over her before she can react, his blade sliding easily through her palms and the pads of her fingertips. While she stares at him in stunned silence, Ithel shoves her to the ground. Sitting on her legs, he makes quick work of h
er feet with his knife, slicing each one at least five times below the now hardened calluses and the fleshy parts of her toes. “Now, go back down to the ground floor and do this again, Helena. And I want you up here even faster!”

  “You son of a—”

  “Let’s see if your Windwalker magic still works, too,” Ithel interrupts as he drops her over the side of the rampart.

  Helena cries out, her body flipping in a freefall state as panic overwhelms her senses. Seconds pass like hours as she tries to slow her breathing, to grab hold of any thread of magic in her veins. “Please!” she wails, searching for any means of slowing her fall.

  We thought you’d left us, a tiny voice whispers in her head, a tinkling bell that almost gets lost in the rush of the wind. Then, a familiar, tingling sensation begins as magic sizzles to life in her veins once more, like a lid has been ripped away from an overfilled jar. Power ripples around Helena’s body, slowing her speed until she floats toward the earth like an autumn leaf gracefully descending from its branch. When her feet hit the ground safely, Helena shouts a stream of curses and obscenities up to the snickering guard at the top of the ramparts.

  “Flattery, Helena, gets you nowhere!” Ithel calls back, desperately trying to tamp down the relief billowing through his heart as her irate voice filters up to him on the breeze. “Keep it up, and I’ll become even more diabolical. You’ll thank me if you survive. Now get back up here without your powers!”

  “I hate you!” Helena shouts back, pure rage urging her to climb. Her bloody fingerprints stain the side of the palace, but she does not feel anything but fury. “I am going to kill you!” she rasps, using the ever-growing rage to fuel her ascent.