Where Serpents Strike (Children of the Falls Vol. 1)
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
Author’s Note
About the Author
More Great Indie Fiction
Children of the Falls Vol. 1: Where Serpents Strike
Smashwords edition
Copyright © 2016 by C.W. Thomas
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any way or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system without permission in writing from the author.
Published in the United States by Lame Poet Books.
ISBN 978-1-5301479-1-5
Cover and book design by J.L.G. Designs
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.
To that college professor
who wrote me nasty letters
criticizing my writing
while I worked for that newspaper.
You’re in this book.
And you die very, very badly.
Acknowledgments
Ridiculous and dumb. Those are the two words I would’ve used to describe this novel had it not been for the encouragement, praise, feedback, and support of a handful of individuals.
A tremendous thanks goes out to Tanya Sousa, writer and illustrator extraordinaire, and my biggest cheerleader. I couldn’t ask for a better friend to encourage my creative endeavors. It always feels like you do so much for me and that the favors I give in return are like pittance from a peasant.
Thanks also to fellow indie author and Jedi Master John L. Monk. Were it not for his outstanding work, advice, and camaraderie I may never have found the inspiration to launch this series. You’re a class act, bro!
I’d like to thank an awesome team of readers, including: sister-in-arms Jenny Allen; my photography pal Benita Clark; fellow medieval fantasy enthusiast Brennan Kidder; Marla Miller (is it wrong for me to be thankful that you were able to read my book because you were on crutches?); Peter Murray (thanks for being a totally “into it” fan); and J.C. Stockli whose writing never fails to inspire me. You are all awesome!
To my beautiful wife Danielle I’d like to say a deep and sincere thanks. I know this writing thing takes up a lot of time, but without it I’d probably go nuts and become even more difficult to live with than I already am. Thank you for allowing me the time to pursue this silly little hobby. I love you.
And thanks be to God for the abundance of blessings he provides.
Even though this book may still be considered ridiculous and dumb by some people it’s finally something that I’m a wee bit proud of thanks to the support and input of all of you.
—Craig
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MEREK
Darkness enveloped Merek Viator as he crept into the throne room. Something unsettling ruptured in his heart, an ominous feeling that he hoped he wouldn’t regret ignoring.
Crouched on one of the bulky rafters high above the marble floor he took his time scanning the shadows below. He had never seen the inside of Perth’s castle, but as a frequent purveyor of the rich pockets in Edhen’s capital he had always longed to.
Merek sat hunched on the rafters for quite some time listening to the whistle of the warm wind outside and letting his eyes adjust to the dark. Before long the shadows opened, revealing a massive room long and narrow and empty. Its gray walls sequenced with carved granite pillars stretched up into a vaulted ceiling of dark timber beams and golden trim. He frowned at the crimson tapestries hanging on the walls bearing the golden viper emblem of High King Orkrash Mahl.
Much to Merek’s dismay the faint scent of rot hung in the air. He wondered if a table of food had been left unattended for too long in one of the dark corners.
Now to find the gold.
With perfect balance the master thief moved along the rafters toward the throne. In his mind he raked through the memory of the note he had received, searching for clues as to the whereabouts of the loot. The note had guaranteed a reward of gold if he could successfully sneak into the throne room, but more interesting than that was the promise of a greater opportunity.
Normally he would’ve ignored such a note. In fact, he figured he probably should have, but unlike the man he used to be just a few short years ago Merek Viator was now a desperate man.
He paused atop the rafters when he heard footsteps in the hallway.
The footsteps grew louder, a pair of them, until two men stepped into the room. One of them, lean with oily black hair and a bony face, moved with the grace of a cat under a long velvet coat. He carried a torch and took his time lighting the ancient sconces that adorned the columns, filling the room with light and shadow.
His companion looked about in awe. “The throne of the high king,” he said. “You honor me, Ustus.” He ran a hand over his bald scalp, the open sleeve of his tunic trailing after his arm. Merek admired the way the gold stitching on his long green robe glittered in the torchlight. He wondered how many starving mouths could be fed for the cost of sparkly gold stitching.
“You should feel honored,” said Ustus. His voice carried with it a disarming charm, smooth and sweet. “High King Mahl invites few into his throne room these days. His majesty considers this a deeply personal space. He does not wish it marred by the tiresome ramblings of commoners.”
“I hear his army is on the march for Aberdour.”
“Indeed. Four years of war and finally all the kingdoms will be under one rule.”
“About time, too. Those forested halfwits have caused this country enough undo stress. I trust The Raven leads the charge?”
“His majesty would have no other.”
Merek felt a twinge of pain in his heart. Aberdour, the last free kingdom on Edhen, was about to fall prey to the Black King’s tyranny. They would make a mighty stand, he knew, one worthy of their Aberdourian reputation.
“And will the high king be here soon?” asked the bald man, whose robe and long belted sash gave him the look of
a wizard.
“His majesty will arrive when he is ready.”
The wizard wandered into the center of the room. He sniffed a few times and wrinkled his nose, clearly as disgusted as Merek by the foul odor that hung in the air.
“Don’t keep me waiting, Ustus,” the wizard said. “I have many important things that demand my—”
“Other men have been killed for displaying such arrogance in the throne room of the high king,” said Ustus. “Your important matters are of no consequence. You will give him your respect. When he enters you will—”
“The high king has none of my respect,” the wizard shot back as calmly as though he were debating the weather. “He is a selfish brute of a king whose only pleasure, it seems, is to waste other people’s valuable time.”
With slow, but deliberate footsteps Ustus walked up to the wizard until he stood a hand’s width from the man’s nose. “This, I promise to you, Versch Leiern, if you speak to the high king in this manner you will not leave this room with your life.”
This seemed to shock Versch into silence. Merek grinned. He always found it gratifying to see a wizard put in his place.
But as much as wizards made him leery, Merek found himself becoming equally distrustful of Ustus. The man had a sly way about him, mannerisms tinged with menace, and it made Merek’s internal warning flags stand high.
“Now, as I was saying,” Ustus began, “when his majesty enters you will bow your head and greet him with his customary title. You will remain standing with your hands in front of you at all times. You may only speak when spoken to. Do not stare at him. Only when his majesty leaves are you free to go. Do you understand?”
Versch nodded.
When the large double doors at the far end of the throne room groaned open, Merek pivoted on his rafter perch to get a better look at those entering. He saw four men. Two black vipers, soldiers of the high king, their dark metal chests embossed with the kingdom’s serpentine emblem. They marched behind their captain, a brooding man in dark armor and a long red cape, a fierce-looking bear’s head helmet tucked under his arm.
In front of them all was the high king himself, Orkrash Mahl.
Merek couldn’t deny the excitement building within him at the sight of the infamous high king of Edhen. The Gold Viper, many called him. Orkrash the Ravenous. The Mauler of Edhen. But no title was more legendary than the one most despised by Orkrash himself—the Black King. As a result of the high king’s widely known disdain for the name, naturally, Merek loved it.
Orkrash strode across the floor, his black metal armor and thick-soled boots composing a ruckus of clatters and groans that echoed around the room. A long heavy cape brushed the floor behind him. He breezed past Versch, ignoring the wizard’s courteous bow. He stopped just long enough to whisper something into the ear of Ustus. Then he continued to the opposite end of the room where he stood at the bottom of a series of stone steps that led up to the platform holding his throne.
“His majesty wishes me to ask you a question,” Ustus said with great calm. “Are you acquainted with any of the other wizards he has summoned here?”
Versch looked nervous. His eyes trailed the three soldiers as they took up their positions in front of the raised platform behind the Black King—two on either side of him, the captain in the middle.
“Um, I heard that Commodus Lagein, of Tranent, and Moinen Weathersky, from the northern regions, had both come, but I do not know all those that were summoned, or even how many—”
“Six,” Ustus said. “There have been a total of six wizards summoned to the high king’s castle. His majesty presented each with the same problem. None of them were able to fulfill the high king’s request, which brings us to you.”
“And what, may I ask, was the request?”
Ustus paused. He folded his hands in front of him and sauntered toward the raised dais where the Black King still stood, his back to the room, no skin save that of his pale bald dome visible amidst his deathly black attire.
For the first time since sneaking into the room, Merek noticed what appeared to be three black pillars standing off to the right side of the platform. Upon closer inspection he realized the pillars were not actually black, but rather covered in long drapes of deep blue. A moment later he noticed three other shrouded pillars mirroring the first three on the other side of the platform. Six total.
Merek covered his nose as a strong whiff of the foul odor swept by him.
“Before we get to that,” Ustus said, “his majesty wishes to quell any desire within yourself to lie, cheat, or otherwise weasel your way out of solving this problem for him. If you cannot fix it, you cannot fix it. Simple as that. No need to waste the high king’s time. So, to reinforce my point, allow me to provide a visual aid.”
Ustus snapped his fingers and two of the guards sprang into action. One moved left. The other went right. They each took hold of one of the long dark drapes and gave it a yank. On the right stood the corpse of a bald-headed wizard in shredded brown robes. His back had been whipped to ribbons and his body impaled from anus to mouth on a long pole that now propped him up like a decorative statue on a stone base. Across from the corpse, a similar sight, only this wizard’s stomach had been flayed with his innards left hanging in a pile on the floor.
The stench of the rot seemed amplified now and Merek felt a punishing blow to his stomach’s constitution.
Versch had covered his mouth with one of his sparkly sleeves.
The black vipers yanked the drapes from the other four decorations, exposing four impaled corpses in various stages of decay. The oldest corpse was little more than a dried up skeleton, its crooked jaw hanging open in a silent ceaseless scream.
“The cost of failure,” said Ustus.
Versch hurried to the nearest ceiling column and vomited on the floor. Merek didn’t blame him. In fact, he believed he would’ve done the same thing were he not hiding over the head of the most violent high king Edhen had ever known.
The Black King seated himself on the large gold throne, the top of which fanned out like the folds of a serpent’s head. He remained in the shadows, but Merek could still see his pale face glowering down from his position of ultimate power.
Orkrash nodded to Ustus who pulled something out of the pocket of his long tunic. He walked over to Versch and held it out to him.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
Versch wiped his mouth, cleared his throat, and straightened up. “Murdering wizards,” he said, his throat hoarse. “You have no idea what you’re bringing upon—”
“Do you know what this is?” Ustus asked again.
Finally Versch looked at the item, a milky white gem about the size of his palm, flat, with a colored center that sparkled even in the dark. The small item seized the wizard’s full attention. He lifted and examined it, his eyes wide with fascination.
“A regenstern,” he answered. “It is a powerful wizard’s stone. This is… amazing. Where did you find this?”
“Can you empty it?” Ustus asked.
Versch looked stunned, like Ustus had just said something profoundly stupid. “Empty it? The value of a regenstern is in what it holds. Emptied, it is useless.”
“And do you know what this holds?”
Versch examined the stone again. “Only the wizard who crafted it knows that answer.”
“Precisely. Now, can you empty it?”
Merek watched, amused, as all at once it appeared to dawn on Versch the enormity of the problem he’d been challenged to solve. His enthusiasm melted, replaced with fear and confusion.
“Emptying a regenstern is–is impossible. To extract the power, without even knowing what it is, could be devastating. Why would you even want to—”
“It is no concern of yours why the high king has asked this of you,” Ustus said. “Your choice now is simple. Do as your high king has commanded, or do it not, but I am compelled to remind you that there is a seventh lance waiting nearby.”
Versch remained silent for a long moment before taking the regenstern between both his palms and lifting it to his lips. He whispered to it inaudibly then held his eyes shut tight as though listening for a response.
“I can extract the magic,” he finally said. “B–but without knowing what it is I–I do not know what will happen. It may do nothing. It may kill everyone in this room.”
Merek shivered. He glanced toward the window, itching to begin making his way back, but fear of being spotted held him in place. After all, the Black King had a lot of lances.
Versch kept the gem clamped between his palms as he knelt on the floor and began chanting some bizarre wizard’s speech. Merek rolled his eyes. He had never thought of wizards as anything more than fancy showmen whose sleight-of-hand tricks impressed fools, and he had held to that belief his whole life.