Servant of the Serpent (Serpent's War Book 1) (5 page)

She laughed. “See, I told you you’re not that old!”

Chapter 5

Corian’s eyes ached from the strain of studying every fallen leaf and twig. He was exhausted in mind and body, but his will pushed him on. He had to find his sister. It was no accident that her necklace had been found near the eastern gate; he was sure of it. She’d torn it free and dropped it, knowing he’d find it. No one else knew of it. No one else would recognize it for what it was.

That meant there’d be more signs. She’d leave a trail for him; he knew it. No one else had stuck by her side. No one else was as devoted to her as he was. Even his trip to Fylandria had been an attempt of his to find a way to restore the family honor and erase her shame. She’d begged him not to go, but that’s because she cared about him too. She swore up and down she didn’t want him wasting his time or endangering himself for an impossible quest.

The worst part of his sister’s mark of shame was her lack of guilt. She had loved the human. She’d even confided to Corian that she’d loved him to the point she’d been willing to leave their home behind. She would live among humans, if it came down to it. Humans with their short lives and fickle ways.

They’d all considered it a blessing from the saints when her not-so-secret lover had been found slain. They could move on, her romance nothing more than a momentary embarrassing lapse of judgment. It would be forgotten in the long lives of the elves.

Then she discovered the baby. It was a rarity among even the low birthrate of the elves, but it had happened. She’d conceived a half-breed child and refused to seek a healer who knew how to handle the situation. That mark of shame was not something to be forgotten. It branded her and her family for the rest of their lives.

Corian put his arm against a tree to rest. He blinked and let out a ragged sigh. He was tired. He’d gone back after finding the necklace to get more arrows from his friend. A full quiver this time, a score of the broad-bladed war shafts. The same as he’d trained with. All his time spent hunting, training, and practicing to be ready to undertake some quest that would expunge her shame hadn’t prepared him for this.

He’d trained as a child, working hard and then resting until he could work hard again. A man—no, a hero—would train beyond their endurance. They would be ready to do what must be done, even when it was beyond the means of what most other men could do. He hadn’t realized it; he thought enough was enough. But he’d acted like a child. He’d seen seventy-five summers, enough to take up a trade and be considered seriously among the elves, but still young enough that most of his peers would be senior apprentices at a trade or still in training.

Jillystria was skilled enough she was considered a seamstress, but she knew better than to press to set up her own shop. Whether the people of Glennduril had the need or not, she knew she wouldn’t be granted the rights to do so. Instead, she worked for the tailor Jaca. She was the reason his work was regarded the highest in the southern forest.

Corian found himself staring at a bunch of bluebell flowers that shimmered in a beam of midday sunlight. The flowers bloomed from mid-summer through fall, attracting bees for their nectar as the other, sweeter, flowers faded away. Jilly often threaded the vines through her hair, though it was a secret extravagance since she always wore a hood to cover them. She’d shown her skill at sewing by making several flowers out of dyed cloth and affixing them to her shirts, dresses, and scarves.

Corian smiled as he remembered seeing them in his sister’s hair. These were alive and growing, not trimmed to be used as decoration. A few had fluttered and fallen to the ground, which was unusual given how hardy Jilly said the vines and stems were.

He picked his head up and began to look for other signs. Whoever had taken her wouldn’t have taken the road. He didn’t know who to track. Who could slip into Glennduril undetected and then get away? Who but an elf? And what elf would strike against their own kind?

The wild elves in the north were unpredictable, but still distant kin. Besides, word had passed down that they had been slaughtered by an army of ogre-kin. The survivors had fled to the northwest, to parts unknown.

The young elf whipped his head back around to the bluebells. His eyes narrowed before he rushed over to them and knelt down to pick up the fallen flower. It hadn’t fallen in single cupped petals, but as an entire flower. That wasn’t how nature worked.

“Jilly,” he whispered as he held the silk flower in his hand. He jerked his head up and looked around. She’d been here. This was hers, and dropped near real flowers to fool her captors. “I’m coming for you, sister.”

Corian dropped his eyes to the ground, hunting again for tracks. Jilly was light, even for an elf. He joked that she could walk on water and not leave a trail when she was in one of her moods and not eating. Her captors, whoever they were, would have to be heavier.

He stepped carefully, moving and searching. Corian began to despair when, nearly a quarter hour later, he found some depressions in the ground that weren’t natural. He studied them and then nodded. There were no identifying marks, but he made out an outline that helped explain why there were no hard edges from a boot. He was tracking splisskin. Their smooth feet and webbed, stubby toes made a track like no other.

“Snakes,” he hissed and thought back to the group he’d fought yesterday. He frowned. Was it yesterday? It seemed like earlier the same day. Or had it been a week ago? Corian shook his head and studied the direction of the tracks. He branched out, looking around and finding more. He couldn’t guess the number of splisskin in the group, but it was enough. Enough to take a harmless elf maid hostage.

“I’m coming, Jilly,” Corian vowed again. “And I’ll kill every last splisskin on Kroth if I have to!”

The forest accepted his vow in silence.

Corian looked around and nodded. “All right, let’s find you,” he said and began walking in the direction of the splisskin raiding party. He moved through the forest as fast as he dared. They had a full day’s head start on him that he had to make up for. The problem was, every time he began looking up and around, he risked losing the trail.

Despair slipped around the edges of his thoughts, whispering that he wasn’t fast enough or strong enough. His sister was gone, stolen by the snake men and on her way to the humans. Maybe she’d arranged it behind his back. The timing was right—he’d left to go to Fylandria and she had no one to stay with her and watch over her. The perfect time to escape her persecution. She was shunned by the elves, but he’d heard humans didn’t care about the purity of their blood. They were barely better than animals; she’d be like a queen among them.

A second silk bluebell dropped amid a cluster of flowers that grew beside a trickling stream pushed the dark thoughts away. Corian let out a sigh of relief and snatched it up. He brought the decoration to his face and inhaled, trying in vain to catch his sister’s scent.

His faith restored, Corian lurched to his feet and splashed into the tiny stream. He slipped on a rock and slipped again when his other foot slid on the mud. Corian grunted as he crashed to the ground and knocked his head against the root of a tree. He lay dazed for a moment, staring up at the trunk and panting for breath.

The leaves rattled on the callowill as a breeze blew across the roof of the forest. Corian tilted his head, marveling at the way the branches spread out and covered the sky. They shaded him and the forest floor around him at the same time they captured as much sun and star light as they could.

The trees were like the elves, he mused. They sheltered and protected what was within their realm and spread themselves as wide as they could to ensure they had what they needed. Beyond that, the world didn’t matter. The affairs of humans and splisskin were just that: the affairs of others. Until they came with axes to chop them down, that is. Or steal their sisters away.

Corian shook his head and rolled onto his side. The shadows had grown longer while he lazed on the side of the stream. His bow dug into his back, making him reach up to the bump on his head and wonder how hard he’d hit. He hissed as he probed the bruise. Hard enough to knock the sense out of him.

Corian climbed to his feet and staggered. He reached out and caught the rising bank to steady himself. He shook his head again and groaned. A whisper jerked his head to the side, searching for its source. A flitter of movement pulled his eyes the other way, but nothing was there.

“I’m mad then,” he muttered. A rustle of leaves jerked his eyes up and to his right. This time he spied a squirrel hurrying about his business as he leaped from branch to branch. Corian grinned, pleased to restore a tiny measure of faith in his senses.

He forced himself upright and moved on, searching for new signs of his sister and her captors. Panic gripped him when he realized his floundering had destroyed their tracks. He searched wider, circling slowly and retracing his steps to the other side of the stream. A scrap of cloth he’d missed earlier was wedged in a crack.

Corian cried out and ran over to reach for it. He stopped, his hands hovering inches above it, and studied it more closely. It looked the same color and texture as one of his sister’s dresses, but the bundle of fabric was ripped in a peculiar way. The bulk of the scrap was caught up in the rock at the waterline. Several loose threads were caught in the current, trailing downstream from it. Corian stared at it, sensing there was a message to it.

His sister knew cloth and string better than anyone alive, as far as he knew. Why would she risk letting so much of it be visible? Fear the water might rise and hide it? Or was there more to it?

Corian’s eyes followed the stream to the south. He stepped away and began to study the bank as he moved one cautious step at a time. After a dozen paces, he cried out. He’d spied a footprint! A print with a harder edge near the water. That meant some kind of footwear. Even better was a partial handprint in the mud. He made out three fingers before the soft mud melted away to a smooth surface.

“Jillystria,” he breathed. He clenched his fist and closed his eyes as a wave of relief washed through him like he’d stepped into a refreshing waterfall. He straightened and continued south, moving along the bank of the stream and spotting a fresh sign of passage more and more often.

The sun sank in the west, plunging the forest into a darkness that the stars and moon did little to penetrate. Corian slowed but pressed on, driven beyond reason by the nagging feeling that he was almost there. He’d find her around the next bend or over the hill just ahead; he knew it. He’d wasted too much time already. If he paused to rest, they’d get away. Or worse, be done with her and leave her just as dead as the father of her child had been.

Even with his elven eyes, Corian soon gave up on tracking the splisskin party. Like most elves, he could see in starlight as though it was a cloudy day. The dense coverage of trees blocked the stars and made the details of the tracks fade into the dirt and rocks they were scattered among. He rushed on, certain they’d continue their journey down the hill until they reached their destination or some other landmark marked a change in course.

The darkness, combined with his fevered exhaustion, tripped him more than once along the way. Corian winced each time he made a noise loud enough to startle the birds in the trees or the nocturnal animals prowling the forest. There were hunters out at night this far south, animals that might see a lone elf as a meal rather than someone to avoid. Or worse, he might alert the splisskin that he was sure were ahead of him.

Corian pressed on, stumbling through the darkness and splashing into the stream as it twisted to his right. He followed it around the curve and staggered to a halt. The moon and stars shone down and sent hundreds of twinkling lights shining on the forest floor ahead of him. They moved and shifted, baffling his eyes until he blinked and shook them clear. He was staring at the waters of the Sarana River.

Corian jerked his head right and left, afraid that he was exposed and easily seen. He was right, yet there was no one to see him. He spun about and stared up the creek he’d followed. Where had he gone wrong? The Sarana was a major river that flowed from the northwest, its headwater in the same mountains Fylandria was nestled among. The elves and others used it for trade, though traveling upstream was more and more difficult the farther one went.

Corian was about to stumble back to the north when a scent caught his nose. Smoke again, but this time it smelled moist and stale. He turned back, searching for the source, and halted when he looked downstream.

The grasses and flowers along the edge of the Sarana were lower there. Even the callowill trees left a spot barren along the bank. Corian walked towards it, slipping his bow off his back and stopping only once to bend it and fit the string in the notches. He drew an arrow and walked again, his heart in his throat.

He stepped through a rift in the bushes that proved he was not the first to breach them. The arrow fell from his trembling fingers and bounced along the matted grass. A blackened fire pit remained in the midst of the tiny clearing. A few charred chunks of wood remained, as well as some split wood that was tossed in a pile nearby. The final knot in the noose that tightened around his neck and choked his breath was the drag marks of three boats that had been pulled ashore.

Corian stumbled to the edge of the river and fell forward to his knees. The strength in his legs left him at the sight of the pale blue cloth his sister had worn as a shirt. He picked it up in trembling hands and sought the frayed edges of the fabric. It had been torn, but it was no small amount. Had she left this or had her captors? Had they known? Were they taunting him?