Servant of the Serpent (Serpent's War Book 1)

by Jason Halstead

  Dakota sniffed and frowned. “Old campfire?”

  “Almont’s not far,” the driver said. “Probably a chimney.”

  Dakota disagreed with a shake of his head.

  “Stay with the wagon,” Gildor said before he snapped his reins and urged Patches forward.

  “Gildor, come back! You can’t—”

  “You’re following me,” Gildor shouted over his shoulder. “I’m making sure your path ahead is clear.”

  Gildor rode on, the driver’s protests fading into the background. Patches went from a trot into a light gallop at Gildor’s urging. He rode between hills and followed the road, the smell of stale smoke growing stronger by the second. Gildor’s heart hammered in his chest and his throat dried. His fears turned to solid ice in his stomach when he saw the first blackened and charred building at the southern edge of the village.

  “Allie!” he hissed and put his feet to his horse. Patches snorted at the treatment but jerked forward, running harder and tearing through the burnt-out hulks that had been Almont. Bodies littered the ground, most of them human but a few covered in scales. Dogs, rats, birds, and other scavengers fled from the galloping horse, only to return after they passed by.

  Gildor slowed when he reached his father’s home and leapt off the saddle. The house, like the others, was burned to the stone foundation. The small barn, of all the structures in the village, remained untouched. Brownie and Stinkeye whinnied and pushed against the fence. Gildor glanced at the horses and then away, his eyes falling on the pile of splisskin bodies that had been picked over by scavengers. In the midst, he could make out a hand that wasn’t covered in scales.

  Gildor stepped closer and kicked the stiff limbs of a splisskin out of the way. A cloud of buzzing flies took to the air, disturbed by his action. He ignored them and reached into the gory mess of slain bodies. He pulled the hand out and found it had been severed just above the wrist. He dropped it and staggered back a step. His gorge rose and he had to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to collect himself.

  Battle and death wasn’t a problem; he’d had to deal with that in the past. Knowing the hand might very well belong to his father was another thing entirely. He forced his chest to work and draw in breath, no matter how charnel it was. The pile of bodies had no other sign of a man among it. Not a human man, at least.

  He turned to the burnt skeleton of Bucknar’s house and then looked to the ground. The sun was setting but it was high enough yet to shed a fiery glow on the remains of the town. It also allowed him to see a trail across the ground. Something—or more likely somebody—had been dragged to the barn.

  With his heart once again in his throat, Gildor walked as fast as he dared to the barn without breaking into a run. He reached the door and glanced at the anxious horses. Patches had already made his way to the fence to be with them in some sort of horsey camaraderie. Or perhaps commiseration was a better choice of words.

  Gildor opened the door and let the light fall past him into the barn onto the body of his father. He stared at the man, shocked into paralysis, and then rushed forward. He turned him from where he lay on his side, his bloody stump of an arm clutched to his side. Flies rose up from the body, upset and swarming. Bucknar’s eyes were open and filmed over. His body pale and beginning to bloat.

  “Saints,” Gildor muttered. He staggered to the side, his legs weak. He bumped into a table and used it to hold himself up while he stared at his dad’s body.

  Bucknar was cut and stabbed time and again. Gildor couldn’t tell if his severed arm was the worst of his wounds or not; he had several that would have been enough to kill him. But he’d fought like a devil, if the pile outside was a testimony. Gildor stared long and hard, his vision blurring with tears that filled his eyes and ran down his face.

  “Gildor!” Dakota shouted from outside. “Gildor? Where are you?”

  Gildor jerked his head up but didn’t answer. Dakota would want answers. Answers he didn’t have. His father was dead and he was sure the charred remains of his daughter were in the house. Because he’d left her instead of staying with her. Or keeping her with him. He kept promising that one more job and he’d retire and stay at home. He’d work harder to farm and make a living. He just needed a little more gold to buy a few more tools.

  Now all the gold in the world didn’t matter. Everyone was gone. His house, if he returned, would mock him. It would laugh at how foolish he’d been. It would be a fitting punishment from the saints for daring to think he could do more.

  “Gil—there you are! Oh saints—is that Bucknar?” Dakota asked as he found Gildor inside the barn.

  Gildor nodded but didn’t turn away.

  “He gave a good fight, though, didn’t he? Damn, that’s a lot of those snake-humping bastards for one man,” Dakota offered. “Say, what’s that he’s got there?”

  Gildor glanced at Dakota and then looked down at his father. He moved to the side, finding the strength in his legs returning. A plank of wood beside Bucknar was clutched in his hand. Gildor reached for it and pulled it free. He could see writing on it and had to move to the open doorway to get light enough to read it.

  “Saints! He wrote it in his own blood!” Dakota muttered.

  Gildor stared at the four-word message and read it slowly, as though he didn’t believe what he was seeing, “Down River. I’m Sorry.”

  “Sorry? What’s he sorry for? I think he done better than any man’s got a right to,” Dakota observed.

  Gildor turned and stared to the west. Did he mean they came from down river or they went that way? Not that it mattered, he supposed. They were gone and everyone was dead. The entire town, as near as he could tell. Maybe some outlying houses had survived, but if they had, where were the people who lived in them?

  Gildor turned back to his father’s house. They’d built it after he’d saved Allisandra. Bucknar had insisted, after the house was up, that they build a hiding spot beneath it. They’d dug it out and built the bolt-hole, but had never finished digging an escape tunnel. They couldn’t figure out where to take it. They were men, not dwarves—they didn’t know anything about supporting the walls and ceiling underground.

  But the bolt-hole itself might be all right. Bucknar would make certain Allie was in it. Gildor pushed past Dakota, surprising the man, and hurried to the remains of the house. The wooden floor was burnt and charred, cracking and crumbling underfoot. He made his way through the wreckage to where Bucknar’s bedroom had been. The bed was burnt and even the heavy wooden frame crumbled apart. He kicked the chunks of charcoal aside, exposing some coals that still glowed.

  The floor beneath the bed was in better shape. It was blackened from the fire but looked intact. He looked around for a tool to pry it open with. His father’s iron fire poker was what they usually used, but there was no telling where it would be in the mess.

  Gildor stopped and stared down at his feet. Had he heard something? He listened and then picked up his foot and stomped it down. A moment later, he heard a thump again and gasped. The stink of death and ash didn’t matter anymore. Someone was alive in the bolt-hole. There was only one person other than Bucknar who knew about it. It had to be Allie! Gildor turned, desperate to find the poker.

  Dakota watched him from outside the ruins and shook his head. “I’ll head back to the wagon,” he said. “You come when you’re ready. Nothing left for you here.”

  “My daughter!” Gildor said. “She’s trapped.”

  Dakota stiffened. “You got a kid? Saints alive, man, why didn’t you say so?”

  Gildor kicked the burnt wreckage aside, kicking up ashes and the occasional ember. He looked all around the fireplace but didn’t see the tool. He found the head of a hatchet, but the shaft had burned in the fire. Gildor cursed and turned back, searching the wreckage before the light faded for the day.

  “What are you looking for?” Dakota asked. “How do you know she’s trapped? There’s nothing here.”

  “Underneath,” Gildor said. “There�
�s a trap door. I need something to pick the door up with.”

  “Where is it?”

  Gildor pointed to where he’d cleared the bed away. Dakota went over and studied the ground. He nodded and dropped to a knee and took out his dagger. “Wedge knives in and pry it up, then we can grab it.”

  Gildor licked the soot off his lip and grimaced. “Good thinking,” he said as he hurried to join him. Between the two, they wedged knives in the crack and pried, lifting the section of floor up enough to get their fingers underneath. Once they had a grip, the trap door lifted easily, revealing the dark pit beneath.

  “Gildor—there’s nothing down there.”

  “There’s another door,” Gildor said.

  Dakota peered into the darkness. “Another door?”

  Gildor crawled into the sloping tunnel to the door. It was blackened by the heat but the door was solid. Gildor pounded his fist against it and received an answering thump a moment later. He turned to the latch and pulled up on it. The door jerked against the lock.

  “Damn, he locked it,” Gildor muttered.

  “Locked it?” Dakota asked.

  “Allie!” Gildor shouted at the door. “You have to unlock it. I don’t have the key.”

  He heard some scrambling through the thick door but the door remained shut. It wasn’t a simple lock, especially in the dark. He was about to give up and go and face the unenviable task of going through Bucknar’s pockets when he heard wood creaking and splitting.

  He looked down, his eyes having adjusted to the dark, and saw something white and sharp sticking through the door. It wiggled and moved, cutting across against the grain in a sawing motion and then pulled back through the door. A moment later, it reappeared, the sharp edges pointing up and down. The strange tool cut up through the wood and, after several moments, it sawed across to the edge of the door.

  Gildor waited several seconds after the knife disappeared before he pushed against it. The door swung up and the cut-out section around the latch fell free. A figure moved back in the gloom, the dull white dagger held out.

  “Allie! Allie, come out of there,” Gildor called. “It’s okay, I’m back.”

  The figure moved closer but kept the knife up. “I’m not Allie,” a man’s soft voice said. His speech was accented, but not enough that Gildor couldn’t understand him.

  Gildor stared at the man, his mouth hanging open. He searched around the hole, willing his eyes to pierce the gloom and find his daughter. He was alone. Gildor’s stomach dropped and he fell back.

  “She saved me,” the man said and approached again. He lowered his dagger but didn’t sheathe it. “Her and her grandfather.”

  “Saved you from what, the splisskin?” Dakota asked. “Who are you, one of the village boys?”

  “I’m no boy,” he announced with an edge to his voice. “My name is Corian. And they saved me from where I’d washed up after falling in the Asatra River.”

  “Asatra?” Dakota asked.

  The man approached closer, coming into the light enough for his features to be seen. “Your people call it the Silverflake.”

  “You’re an elf,” Gildor mumbled.

  Dakota grunted. “That explains it.”

  “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Allie?” Gildor demanded.

  “I was sick. They put me in here, but I barely remember any of it,” he said. “She locked me in here and left. When I woke up next, I was coughing and was sure I would die from the smoke and heat. I passed out again, certain to never wake. Then I heard you, and I thought she’d come back to save me again.”

  Gildor turned away and crawled out of the hole. He stood up and stared at the wreckage in the last rays of the sun. He shook his head slowly. He had to find her. He’d bury her and Bucknar together, and then he’d go after the splisskin. That was all he had left. Guarding wagons and guiding travelers didn’t serve a purpose anymore. A quiet life on a farm? For what? For who? It wasn’t a life he craved anymore, not without someone to live it with.

  “I’m sorry,” the elf said as he climbed into the light and looked around. “Blessings of the saints, what have they done!”

  Dakota frowned and looked at the elf and Gildor. “Gildor, I need to get back to the wagon. You should come too. Keep you busy and give you something to do.”

  “I’ve got something to do,” Gildor mumbled.

  “What?”

  He turned and looked at the barn. Bucknar’s tools were out there. A shovel and a pick, at least. “I said I’ve got something to do.”

  “Gil—”

  Gildor shook his head and walked away, stepping through the ashes and walking around the mound of slain snake men. Bucknar’s corpse was covered in flies again. He pushed his rage down and grabbed up the tools he needed. When he emerged from the barn, he saw Dakota was back on his horse and riding away.

  The elf stood and stared down at the corpses. Gildor ignored them both and walked around the barn. He attacked the ground with the pick, taking his rage and frustration out on the unsuspecting dirt. The sun had set and the moon and stars shone down by the time Gildor had cleared enough dirt for a grave for his father.

  He ignored the flies and the gore as he dragged his father into the grave. He stared down at him and then went and retrieved his missing hand. The elf was sitting on a rock, a sword resting across his thighs. Gildor frowned. The only sword the man would have was Bucknar’s. Bucknar didn’t need it anymore but that didn’t give anyone else a right to have it.

  “Hey,” Gildor grunted. “Where’d you get that?”

  Corian stood up and held out the sword. Gildor could tell it wasn’t Bucknar’s from a distance. The blade wasn’t thick enough and it looked new and still polished. “This was hers.”

  Gildor jerked his head back. “Hers?”

  “Your daughter, Allie,” Corian said. “I remember seeing it on her hip once.”

  “She didn’t—” Gildor paused. Bucknar had talked about having one made for her when she was ready. He thought it was idle talk; he wasn’t ready for her to have a sword of her own. “Let me see it.”

  Corian walked over and held it out to him. Gildor took it and looked it over. It was lighter than a normal sword but the balance felt fine. He frowned and then turned his attention to the hilt. He saw the desert star engraved on it and closed his eyes. “Damn you, Bucknar.”

  Corian gasped. “What’s that? Did you say Bucknar?”

  Gildor looked at him and nodded. He pointed at the bodies and said, “The man who saved your life and killed all these bastards. He was my father.”

  Corian stared at him, squinting his eyes and nodding. “I remember you. You were no higher than my knee when I saw you last.”

  Gildor tilted his head and then shrugged. “Sorry.”

  Corian shook his head. “It was a long time ago. Four decades?”

  Gildor shrugged and started to turn away. He turned back. “You know me and my father, and you show up at the same time this village is overrun by splisskin. I’ve only seen them do something like this once before in my life, and that was sixteen years past. What more do I need to know?”

  Corian opened and shut his mouth. He glanced at the pile of splisskin and then back to Gildor. “I came looking for help. I ran into some splisskin across the mountains and fought them. I killed several, but there were too many. I escaped, but only by falling in the river. I don’t know how I survived the rapids and waterfalls but your daughter found me. Between her and your father, they brought me back and saved me. He made me drink something and it took the fever and chills away. Some sort of magic, I expect. I’ve seen it before.”

  Gildor saw the way the elf shivered and noted it. “The splisskin followed you?”

  “Impossible,” he said. “There were less than a dozen left when I escaped. It would take three times that many to do this.”

  Gildor nodded. That much was true. It looked like Bucknar had accounted for more than half a dozen of the splisskin and the other men of Almont wouldn�
��t die without a fight. He looked at the sword in his hand again. His daughter’s sword. Bucknar’s message had said down river. “You know something about the splisskin? Do they take prisoners?”

  Corian’s breath hissed through his mouth. He nodded and said, “They took my sister. I came to find Bucknar because he served as a guide for her once before. I hoped he might help me find her.”

  “Good. You’re coming with me.”

  “What?” Corian blurted. “I—”

  “My daughter saved your life. That means you owe her. My father saved your life, but he can’t be owed, only avenged.”

  Corian clamped his lips shut and swallowed.

  “They went south,” Gildor continued. “My guess is they went to Snake Castle.”

  “Snake Castle?”

  “They call it Shathas. It’s in the middle of Lake Silvermist, on that island.”

  “You want to invade a castle full of them? By yourself? Humans really are crazy!”

  “Not alone,” Gildor said. “You’re coming with me.”

  “What? I—I don’t even have my bow.”

  “We’ll get you one on the way,” Gildor said. “Maybe find your sister, too. Won’t that be nice? Something about this all falling in place don’t seem natural.”

  “Thork!” Corian hissed.

  “What’s that?”

  “Th—nothing. A traveler I ran into. He recommended coming to your father for help.”

  “Bucknar met and helped a lot of people in his time.”

  Corian nodded. He turned and walked over to the open grave and stared into it. He shook his head and reached for a shovel.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Helping you bury him. What I know of humans doesn’t hold up against what this man has done. I will help you because of him and because of your daughter. Let’s start by giving him a proper burial.”

  Gildor stared at the elf and nodded. He walked over and dropped Bucknar’s severed hand in the grave. He tucked Allie’s sword in his belt and took the shovel. “Good. I was hoping I’d bury him before I started killing whoever’s responsible for this.”