Where Serpents Strike (Children of the Falls Vol. 1) (42 page)

Brayden watched his cousin stroll up to
Dana’s ladder with his gaze fixed shamelessly in the direction of
her bottom. When she reached up to pluck an apple, Clint shoved his
hand up between her legs and gave her right cheek a firm squeeze.
Dana squealed, dropping the apples.

Brayden’s insides flashed hot with
anger.

“Hey!” Preston shouted as he walked by with
an empty wheeled cart. He slammed the cart down and stormed up to
Clint. “What in all the hells was that?”

Clint shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re
talking about.”

Dana hopped down from the ladder. Her face
was as red as the orchard’s apples. She turned to Clint and slapped
him. “Don’t ever touch me like that again, dog!”

Clint, not even seeming stunned by her blow,
threw up his hands in surrender. “Relax, Dana. I was just playing
around.”

She spun about and marched away.

“What’s wrong with you?” Preston asked.

Clint jabbed him on the shoulder. “Oh, come
off it, Mr. Fancy. You’re telling me you wouldn’t—” he made a crude
thrusting gesture with his pelvis, “—her if you had the
chance.”

“My feelings for Dana are beside the
point.”

“Oh, ho! You have a soft spot for little
miss princess?”

Preston stood up straight, letting his broad
shoulders and full height expand. He was taller than Clint, and far
more physically fit, but nowhere near his weight.

“What I have for her is respect,” Preston
said. “And I’d appreciate it if you could at least attempt to offer
her the same. She’s your cousin, for pity’s sake.”

Brayden climbed down from his ladder. He
knew how sensitive Preston was to matters concerning women, and he
could see the fire rising in his eyes. If Clint didn’t back off
soon he had no doubt this confrontation would end in blows.

“Oh, I’ll respect her all right,” Clint said
as he stepped toward Preston. “I’ll respect her when she’s on her
knees like a good little whore—”

Preston’s fist knocked him across the
jaw.

Clint staggered back, his hand flying to his
mouth. His fingers pulled away a trickle of blood. He whooped with
delight and started to roll up the sleeves of his dingy brown
tunic. “About time, pretty boy. You ready for this?”

Brayden slid between the two of them, one
hand stopping Clint’s advance and the other aimed at Preston.
“That’s enough!”

“Get back, Brayden,” Clint growled. His eyes
narrowed at Preston and he raised his fists.

“I said that’s enough!”

“Let me fight him!”

“If you don’t back away you’re going to
fight us both!”

Clint refocused his eyes on Brayden.

“Actually you’ll be fighting all three of
us,” said Nash, who stepped out from the adjacent row of fruit
trees. He stripped off his tan tunic and dropped it on the ground,
crossing his well-chiseled arms along his well-cut chest.

Brayden thrust a finger at Clint. “Don’t
forget, that’s my sister you’re talking about. When you insult her,
you’ve insulted me.”

Clint shrank back and tossed his hands up
once more. “You three need to relax. I was just trying to liven up
our day. It gets boring out here.”

Brayden noticed Khalous standing among the
apple trees twenty paces away. The Old Warhorse looked bleak clad
in dark slacks and a loose tunic, arms crossed in disdain. When
Clint saw him he slunk away through the apple trees, nursing his
cut lip.

“Damn the stones,” Nash said. “I was really
looking forward to watching you two beat the piss out of that foul
sack of wind.”

“Weren’t you going to help?” Preston
asked.

“Nah. I’m all bark and no bite,
remember?”

“You’re my brother. How could I forget?”

“Brayden,” Khalous called. He gestured with
a jerk of his head and began to walk away.

Brayden thanked Preston and Nash for
standing behind him, and then jogged to catch up with the
captain.

Gloom covered Khalous like a dark cloak.
When Brayden neared, he slowed, almost afraid to approach.

“Sir?” he asked tentatively.

“Why do you keep holding back?” Khalous
asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. You’ve had
more than one chance to put Clint in his place, but you never do.
You’re holding back. Tell me why.”

Brayden looked down, ashamed. A part of him
knew how to beat Clint, but another part of him, a larger part, was
too afraid to do so.

“Sir, beating my cousin in combat won’t do
anything but enrage him further.”

“So what is your plan then, to let him
continue to manipulate the others with threats and physical
intimidation?”

Brayden started to respond when Khalous cut
him off. “Every time you don’t stand up to Clint, you lose the
respect of the others. You’re acting like a coward when you need to
be acting like a leader. They’ll never follow you otherwise.”

“Sir, Clint is like a dog,” Brayden said.
“He wants to be the leader of the pack, but he doesn’t know how.
Once he sees that the others don’t think of him as a leader, he’ll
back off.”

“Patience?” Khalous questioned with a single
eyebrow dubiously raised. “Your tactic for dealing with your
cousin’s insolence is patience? You sure it’s not passivity?”

Under the scrutiny of Khalous Marloch,
Brayden’s strategy sounded ridiculous. He swallowed, nervous,
unsure of what to say.

“No,” Khalous began. “I want you to make a
stand. The boys need to see you do it. Clint too.”

“You want me to beat him up?”

Khalous cupped Brayden around the nape of
his neck in a firm, almost painful, grip. “I want you to make a
stand,” he said again.

The thick soles of the captain’s leather
boots thumped along the worn path out of the orchard as he walked
away.

Brayden felt queasy inside. He didn’t
understand why Khalous seemed dead set on turning him into a
leader. Moreover, he hated that Clint was somehow his
responsibility.

“I’ve seen him do that before, you know,”
Nairnah said.

Surprised by the sound of her delicate
voice, Brayden spun around and saw Nairnah standing under the shade
of an apple tree, her apron full of red and green fruit. She looked
beautiful, he thought, with a few renegade locks of brown hair on
either side of her smooth face.

“Do what?” he asked.

“I’ve seen the way Clint treats the women,”
she said. “I’ve seen him outside the washroom before, trying to
peek inside.”

“He hasn’t touched you has he?” The thought
of it made his blood boil.

She shook her head.

“You would tell me if he does, yes?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Brayden smirked. “We’re a long way from
Aberdour. I’m not a lord anymore.”

She blushed. “Yes, you are. You’re a Falls
aren’t you?”

Brayden walked over to her. Her blue eyes,
looking up at him, were like the sky on a cloudless day. He almost
forgot what they were talking about.

“Um, can I help you with that?” he asked,
looking at her apron full of apples.

“I can manage,” she said.

“Oh.”

After an awkward pause, she added, “You
could walk with me back to the chapel. Sister Marleenious said
she’d show me how to make apple tarts.”

He agreed with a casual nod that belied his
excitement.

As they steered toward the monastery Brayden
noticed plump clouds in the distant sky that looked ready to
rain.

A chill in the air made him acutely
sensitive to the warmth emanating from Nairnah’s body as she walked
next to him.

“A thistle!” she exclaimed.

Brayden followed her eyes to the tall grass
abutting the worn foot trail. There he saw, not one, but several
milk thistles, a popular flower throughout much of northern Edhen.
He had never seen one on Efferous before.

“It looks just like the ones we have back
home,” Nairnah said. “Oh, I should tell Senona. She loves
thistles.”

“How do you know?” Brayden asked.

“When she lived in Thalmia they grew around
her house. They always remind her of home.” She giggled and leaned
in close to Brayden, whispering, “I think Ty has his heart set for
her.”

Brayden held back his knowing grin. All the
boys knew of Ty’s fondness for Senona, a raven haired Efferousian
girl. The two had been orphans at Halus Gis together before the
refugees of Aberdour had arrived. Brayden was sworn to secrecy
regarding Ty’s affections though, and so he said nothing except,
“Is that so?”

“I think so,” Nairnah mused.

They crossed the bridge leading to the
southeast gate and started up the road that cut through the middle
of the monastery.

“Is that your father’s dagger?” Nairnah
asked, gesturing with her nose toward the sheath on Brayden’s
belt.

He nodded.

“Dana said you’ve carried it with you ever
since your father died, but that you never use it.”

Brayden fingered the dagger on his hip,
recalling the day he’d pulled it off his father’s belt. “I plan to
use it some day.”

“Use it for what?”

He had yet to confide in anyone his
intentions with the knife, but something about Nairnah made him
feel safe to say it. “The Black King killed my father. Some day I’m
going to use it to kill the Black King.”

She didn’t offer any response to his words,
no looks of surprise or indignation. If anything she seemed to
expect his words.

Their walk came to an end in front of the
chapel. Nairnah shuffled off into the kitchen to help with the
evening meal. She promised to save a seat for him next to her when
dinner was served.

The memory of walking next to Nairnah,
feeling her warmth and basking in the sweet sound of her voice,
lingered with him for the rest of the day. He found himself having
difficulty concentrating during sword practice.

Khalous slapped him on the back of the head.
“Pay attention!”

Shaking off his distracting thoughts,
Brayden adjusted his padded helmet, which the captain had knocked
askew.

“This isn’t a dance,” Khalous said.
“Focus!”

Brayden charged forward with a downward
swing. The captain, shirtless and bold, unpadded as always,
deflected the blow with the flat of his blade. He looped the handle
under Brayden’s armpit and slapped him in the neck with his sword
so hard that Brayden flipped sideways. He crashed into the dirt on
his right shoulder, feeling his ribs crunch as his sword and helmet
went scattering.

Nash gasped. “How the bloody hells did you
just do that?”

Khalous leaned down and glared at Brayden.
“Are you awake now, young master?”

His mind was spinning, partly from the pain,
partly from the shock at what the captain had just done. Khalous
had never shown them that technique before.

“Sir,” he groaned.

Khalous helped him up. “You are all under
the impression that your skills with a sword rely on memorizing a
finite number of movements. If you wish to die, by all means,
continue this very limited line of study. If you wish to win in
battle than you might want to start applying what you’ve learned.”
He leveled his sword at Nash. “Helmet on.”

Nash came forward. He was padded in thick
brown leather from head to toe, not enough to protect him in actual
combat, but enough to stave off some of the more serious blows the
blunt practice swords could deliver.

Khalous called for Broderick, who slipped
his helmet on and readied his sword. He faced Nash and the two
began to spar.

“Keep moving!” Khalous said. “Don’t just
parry and riposte. Be aggressive, audacious. Take the
initiative.”

Broderick struck first, a driving thrust
that sent Nash scattering out of the way. He recovered and returned
a thrust at Broderick who stopped him mid-strike with the flat of
his sword. He jerked his blade up, a blow that would’ve ripped
Nash’s forearm in half had it not been for the padded sleeve’s
deflection of the dull metal.

“Good!” Khalous said. “Let every move put
you in a position to maim or kill.”

Nash took a low L stance, his sword hilt in
his left hand, the blade in his right. Across from him stood
Broderick who held his broadsword horizontally in two hands over
his head.

“Displace your adversary’s blows with
counter-strikes timed in the middle of his action,” Khalous said.
“Intercept and stifle his attack. Every fight should last no longer
than a few seconds and end with one of you dead.”

Brayden watched the two boys continue
practicing their strikes while he nursed the knot in his stiffening
neck. Khalous’ flip had succeeded in making Nairnah a distant
memory. He was now fully focused on the training, if not a bit
distracted trying to figure out how Khalous had tossed him so
easily.

Brayden had long thought that sword fighting
was a skill reserved for those with sharp reflexes and
coordination, but those things, he learned, can be developed. Good
sword fighting was about knowing and applying a handful of key
principles having to do with adversarial perception, timing,
distance, leverage, and technique.

“The flat of the sword for deflecting,”
Khalous said. “The edge for hurting. Move faster!”

Nash lunged in with a downward thrust.
Broderick deflected mid-strike and drove in, shoving the hilt of
his weapon under his opponent’s chin. The move put Nash off balance
and sent him spilling backward over Broderick’s leg.

“Good!”

Ty and Clint faced off next, which was like
watching an enorbear take on a squirrel. Clint’s size and power
always made for an interesting matchup against Ty’s agility and
speed. Ty bounced around on his feet, dodging Clint’s blows to the
left and right. He somersaulted behind him, lashing his sword
across Clint’s padded back. The move was quick and effective. It
impressed everyone except Khalous.

“Is this a dance?” he said. “Are you trying
to woo a virgin princess?”