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

  “No!” The word rushed from Lia’s mouth so fast it surprised her. By the time she realized that she had screamed it loud enough for the soldiers to hear, she was halfway out of the barn. She sprinted up the narrow path to the house as fast as her little legs could move, tears on her cheeks, and hot rage in her stomach.

  Abigail cried, cradling Thomas as the last bits of life quivered out of him.

  Lia dropped to her knees next to Thomas, calling his name. Her hands reached for him, shaking as they cupped his paling face. He blinked, those beautiful sparkling blue pools, and smiled for one brief moment before death took him.

  Lia heard a soldier stomping up next to them, but she ignored him, unable to pull her eyes from Thomas. Only when Abigail gasped did Lia glance up. The soldier yanked her head back and drew a silver blade across her throat, cutting a deep gash that spattered blood onto Lia’s clothes.

  A second soldier reached down to grab Lia, but her quick feet were far too clever. She sprang away from the man and sprinted toward the big knight, anger washing through her blood. Her hands slipped from a small leather sleeve the knife her father had given her for her tenth birthday. She had never used it to slice anything other than a dead quail, a piece of rope, and some fabric, but, still, she kept it sharp. It slipped into the armored soldier’s thigh, right between the plates of his armor and deep into the skin. He growled, a sound wrought of pain and irritation. He spun and backhanded Lia across the face with his metal arm. She flew backward into the trampled leaves of the pockmarked road, the right side of her face exploding with pain.

  Some of the soldiers laughed.

  The armored man looked down at Lia, eyes steady and cool. Brown tangles of hair tumbled from his head, veiling his pale face, a stark contrast to his black uniform. He removed her dagger from his leg like a scholar withdraws a quill from an inkwell, and handed it back to her handle first.

  “Would you care to try again?” he asked, his voice indifferent, cavernous and cold. “Go for the inside of the thigh this time. Twist the blade to open the wound.”

  “I think you should keep her, sir,” one of the soldiers said. “Might make good sport later.”

  Bellows of laughter followed.

  The large armored man smiled wolfishly. “Kill her,” he said.

  From the barn a horse neighed, beckoning the soldiers’ attention. Lia scurried away from them on her hands and knees until she glimpsed Khile bounding toward the house atop Aggie. He arrived at her side in a matter of seconds and pivoted the horse’s flanks to throw the closest soldiers off balance. He reached down and grabbed Lia by the arm. She gave an undignified yelp when he hoisted her onto his lap and urged the horse forward.

  Aggie was afraid, Lia could tell, acting half on instinct and half at the commands of the stranger on her back. The horse rushed along the uneven road.

  Lia watched the soldiers behind them ready their crossbows as Khile’s two companions stood at the entrance to the barn, looking after him in confusion. Sprightly took a short arrow through the face. Fatty ducked back into the barn as the soldiers moved in to claim his life.

  Before Aggie descended the next crest in the road, Lia glimpsed the massive man in the black armor staring after her, calm as an oak tree in a gathering storm.

  Lia squirmed to right herself, but Khile shouted at her, “Keep still!”

  “I’m slipping!”

  He hooked an arm around her small waist and pulled her up in front of him to straddle the animal’s bare back. The road ahead, with woods crowding up to both sides, rushed past in a blur before Lia’s wet eyes.

  “Why did he kill them?” she asked. “They didn’t do anything.” Then she thought of the baby in Abigail’s stomach, that precious little girl, or boy. No one would ever know.

  “That’s Sir Komor Raven, one of the high king’s marshals,” Khile answered. “He is the very extension of the Black King’s sword itself. He’s led the siege of almost all—”

  “I know who he is,” Lia spat, her voice shaking with sorrow and rage. “Everyone knows The Raven.”

  “Then you know to fear him.”

  “I fear no one! And someday I’m going to kill him for what he did to them.” Lia knew how absurd she sounded. She knew ten-year-old girls didn’t kill soldiers clad in thick armor, but deep within her boiled a growing hate she had never felt before.

  “That man will gut you like a fawn,” Khile said.

  “I don’t care. I’m going to rip his heart out!”

  Khile huffed. “You’re a feisty little thing. What’s your name?”

  “Lia Falls.”

  Khile’s body tensed. “Falls? Of Aberdour? You’re a princess?” It sounded like less of a question and more an exclamation of disbelief. “What are you doing out here all alone with no protection? Are you crazy?”

  Lia didn’t answer. She only sobbed.

  “You’re lucky I found you,” Khile said. “Those men would’ve killed you right along with that man and woman.”

  “They were my friends,” Lia said, her voice cracking. She shut her eyes as images flooded her mind of Thomas teaching her how to ride, and Abigail helping her brush the coats of their mares. Years of memories flooded through her as tears washed down her cheeks.

  “I don’t understand,” she cried. “Why did he kill them? They didn’t do anything?”

  “This is the back road to Aberdour, yes?” Khile said. “And you know who Komor is, then surely you know what he’s doing.”

  Lia knew the answer, but she didn’t want to say it. Maybe, if she didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be true. Maybe if she squeezed her eyes tight enough the nightmare would end and she would look up to see the post and beam ceiling of her bedroom in the castle, her violet drapes blowing in the crisp morning breeze, sunlight kissing her pale skin.

  But this was no nightmare. The black vipers were real, and they were headed for Aberdour, which could only mean one thing: the invasion had finally arrived.

  Aggie lurched over a log in the road, forcing Lia to latch onto Khile’s arm. He must have felt her grip, because he brought his arms in closer to her. He smelled of wood and earth.

  “Do yourself a favor and forget about Komor The Raven,” Khile said. “Aberdour is about to fall, and that makes you and your brothers and sisters the most important people in the realm right now.”

  As Khile pushed the horse hard over the rough road, Lia thought of her home lying not too far ahead. Aberdour. The last free city on Edhen. She wondered if she and Khile would arrive in time to warn the people. Perhaps they already knew. Perhaps the western towers had already spotted the Black King’s army on the crest of the Northern Road. The bells could be sounding throughout the city right now.

  Lia longed for her father, Lord Kingsley. She longed for him to scoop her up in the safety of his arms, hold her tight against his barrel chest, and tell her everything was going to be all right. He was supposed to go hunting this morning with her brother Brayden. She wondered if they were out there now, creeping through the trees, bows at the ready, unaware that they were soon to be the prey.

  BRAYDEN

  Brayden groaned, ignoring his mother’s call. Burrowing deeper into the blankets, he pulled the pillow over his head, blocking out the piercing beams of sunlight.

  “I don’t want to go,” he mumbled.

  His mother called to him again, her voice echoing down the castle hallway, amplified and hollow.

  Brayden tossed his pillow aside in annoyance. He lay there for a moment, listening to the spring breeze stealing through the open window and wishing sleep would come take him again.

  A shadow passed his bed. Rolling over, the young prince watched in shock as an owl flew toward his window and perched on the sill, shaking out its brown and white-feathered wings. He’d never seen an owl this close before. The bird gazed at him, bright hazel eyes unblinking over a striking yellow beak.

  Brayden sat up, heartbeat racing, for he knew owls were bad omens. In fact, a bird of any kind coul
d be a sign of horrible things to come—if it looked you in the eye.

  The metal latch on the thick maple door to his bedroom rattled, frightening the bird. The creature dove from his windowsill, wings spread, caught the wind and rode the breeze away.

  Queen Lilyanna Falls swept into the room. A fine linen dress dyed navy and embroidered with golden flowers along the curving neckline dusted the floor beneath her.

  Behind her trailed a middle-aged maidservant clutching a warm basin of water and a towel.

  “I swear, sometimes I feel like I’m talking to the floor,” Lilyanna said. She went to the wardrobe. “This past moon marked your twelfth year, Brayden. You are to be a man soon, and a man meets his commitments.” She picked her way through the clothes, slinging over her arm a few fresh items for him to wear.

  “But I hate hunting,” Brayden said.

  “And you think that means you don’t have to go? We all have to do things we don’t want to do. Besides, this is very important to your father.”

  Brayden threw back the bed sheets and walked to the table where the servant woman had set the water.

  “I don’t care.” He splashed the water on his face and patted himself dry with the towel. “If he wants to hunt, let him hunt. Why do I have to go?”

  His mother slammed the wardrobe shut with an exasperated huff. “Must you fight me on everything? For once it would be nice to…” Catching his eye, she softened. Lilyanna pushed a lock of reddish-brown hair behind her ear and tried to compose herself. She was getting old, the signs of her age appearing in the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, and in the faint blemishes on her thinning skin. No doubt being queen and having reared six children had advanced her years much sooner than she’d wanted.

  In that moment, Brayden could see the irritation on her tired face—irritation, he noted, that he had put there.

  “Your father has been looking forward to this. He just wants to spend some time with you. Please try to make the most of it.”

  She handed him the clothes she’d selected and left the room as gracefully as she had entered.

  Brayden dressed—gray slacks, a linen shirt, a brown jacket traced with copper thread.

  As he assessed himself in the wardrobe’s full-length mirror, guilt washed over him. He didn’t know why he had to be so difficult, or why he so often resented his father.

  Before following his mother outside he glanced back to the windowsill, where the owl had dropped a solitary white feather.

  He skipped down the narrow stone steps of the castle’s southeastern turret that brought him into the lower vestibule where the air was dry and crisp. He could already smell fish and sizzling meat wafting in from the kitchen.

  Before entering into the small dining room that his family used for breakfast, he noticed a lone figure sitting in the Great Hall just ahead of him. Judging from the mop of scraggly black hair spilling onto slouched shoulders it was his younger brother. Brayden hesitated a moment before going in.

  The beauty of the Great Hall was lost on Brayden, being a sight he had long grown accustomed to. Over the years he had heard visitors from all corners of Edhen comment on the rare wooden architecture and vaulted ceiling, but he took little notice of it anymore. The last time he could remember even thinking about the castle’s majestic hall was when his sister, Lia, dared him to climb to the topmost rafter, which he had declined to do out of fear of falling. Lia had called him a coward, but Brayden had always considered himself cautious.

  He did notice, however, that after his grandfather’s funeral the day before, the Great Hall seemed to carry the chill of unfriendliness. Lord William Falls, his grandfather, had been one of the most beloved kings on Aberdour. His death had rattled the realm for many feared it signaled the end of the era.

  Brayden took a seat next to his brother, Broderick. “You all right?”

  His brother nodded, sniffling.

  An uncomfortable silence fell between them.

  Brayden wanted to say more, but what were brothers supposed to say to each other in times like this? He fidgeted with his hands and looked about the room, hating how uncomfortable he felt. When the silence became more than he could bear, Brayden stood up.

  “Listen, maybe mother would let us hike up to grandpa’s cabin and visit his tomb,” he said. “We could go fishing at his favorite spot.”

  Again, Broderick nodded.

  “You should come get some breakfast.”

  In the dining room, Brayden ate in a rush, inhaling his fish and sausages in a few bites and chasing it all down with a cup of honeyed wine. He shoved an apple into the pocket of his brown jacket for later.

  “You young ones have no respect for traditions,” said Old Betha, one of the castle’s cooks as she removed the unused white plate that she’d set for Brayden. “Eating out of the pots and pans like a pack of wolf pups.” The woman had been old for as long as Brayden had known her, but, oddly enough, she never seemed to get any older.

  “They take after their father,” Lilyanna said.

  “Why do we always eat off white plates?” asked Brayden’s little sister, Brynlee.

  He scrubbed the brown locks falling in waves off her tiny head. “You know the answer to that. It’s in your history book.”

  “I don’t remember that part,” Brynlee said, scrunching her face.

  “You don’t remember something from your history book?” Lilyanna said.

  “There’s a first time for everything, they say,” Betha said.

  Brayden hurried out the door, but not before grabbing a chunk of white bread and stuffing it into his mouth.

  A soldier waited for him outside the castle next to Brayden’s lightly tacked horse, Arrow, a fine showy chestnut, well bred and supple in stride. Arrow pawed at the ground in excitement as the young prince neared.

  “Up at the crack of noon today, Master Brayden,” said the soldier, Moreland Fields, a member of an elite group of bodyguards that formed the King’s Shield. Brayden had always found Moreland easy to get along with. The man had an even-tempered disposition and a dry sense of humor that usually emerged when mocking people, sometimes to their face, but mostly behind their backs. It had earned him the nickname Pick.

  “It’s not noon,” Brayden said.

  “My mistake, young master” He handed Brayden the reins. “This worn path here must have been made by another man such as myself, pacing back and fourth half the morning, with my exact boot size, and my vast degree of patience.”

  “All right, all right. Sorry,” Brayden said, mounting Arrow.

  “We best hurry,” Pick said. He adjusted his black leather gloves. “Your father is waiting.”

  Moreland was a trim fellow of shorter than average height whose unassuming qualities often made others underestimate him. He was ambidextrous and quick, with a reputation among those who knew him as a reliable ally.

  He swung himself up into the saddle, his long navy cloak swishing behind him.

  Brayden followed at a swift trot down the main road, through the narrow streets of Aberdour, and out the southern gate. Pick quickened the pace and the two riders galloped across the expanse of field on the southern plains.

  To his left sat acres upon acres of spring fields, recently tilled with most of the crops already planted, the furrows closed over. Soon there would be rows upon rows of barley, peas, oats, and beans.

  Brayden refocused his attention ahead of him, and on the increasing pace of his horse. He always liked stretching Arrow’s legs. She was fast. Even his father had said so. It was the very thing that had earned the horse her name.

  He hunched over the mare’s neck and stood in his stirrups, lightening his load on Arrow’s back. She sped up, her hoofs thundering beneath him. She rushed past Pick and plowed through the tall grass, cutting a line across the plains as straight and trim as a sharp sword. Brayden rode her fast to the edge of the wood where the ground bristled with the stumps of trees felled.

  “Good girl,” Brayden said. He slowed th
e horse to wait for Pick.

  The morning was bright and crisp with a pleasant spring sunshine flickering through the blooming tree boughs above. Somewhere, red-winged blackbirds traded tiny chirps and rattling whistles. Beneath his horse’s hooves lay last year’s leaves, damp and black with rot as they crumbled into the soil.

  Brayden inhaled long and deep, relishing this brief moment of solitude. He liked being alone. There was nothing to fear when he was by himself, no standard to live up to, no one to impress.

  Pick took the lead, weaving through the forest until Brayden heard voices echoing through the trees.

  Brayden’s spine stiffened. His moment of pleasant solitude was over. Ahead of him sat his father, the king, and a contingent of loud, annoying, and frightening men that Brayden normally tried to avoid. He exhaled long and slow, his hands tightening around the reigns in nervous anticipation.

  The king sat high atop a regal brown stallion in the middle of a grassy glade. He was clad in a long blue and black gambeson embroidered with twining silver leaves. It was cinched at the waist with a sharp leather belt that would’ve matched his dark black boots had they not been caked in dust and mud. This was Lord Kingsley Falls, The King of Aberdour, Watchman of the East, Servant of the Northern Province, and a dozen other glorious sounding names that Brayden had never cared about.

  Kingsley looked up when Brayden and Pick entered the glade, his bright tawny eyes narrowing to slits against the folds of his smile. His dark wavy hair, pulled back from his face, hung in a loose ponytail against the deep blue of his long cape. “The mighty warrior enters,” he said.

  “No, that’s just Pick,” quipped one of the men in Kingsley’s entourage, Khalous Marloch, the captain of the King’s Shield and a hard looking man if there ever was one.

  A few of the other men in the group laughed.

  “Khalous tells me that a pair of partridges are nesting to the west,” Kingsley said, “an owl to the east, and a few deer in the fields south of us. Your choice, my boy.”