Where Serpents Strike (Children of the Falls Vol. 1) (5 page)

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 the
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.”

Relieved his father wasn’t upset with him
for being late, Brayden rested his hands on the grip of his saddle
and tried not to look as uneasy as he felt.

“An owl came to my room this morning,” he
said. “It perched on my window. Looked me right in the eye.”

Khalous shook his head. “Bad omen having a
bird look at you like that. Bad enough just to have one in your
room.” He scratched his iron colored hair that was drawn back from
his retreating hairline into a mangled plait that hung just passed
his neck.

“And an owl at that,” said Fierdrick,
another member of Kingsley’s personal bodyguard.

“I’m not afraid of an owl,” Brayden said,
though, truthfully, the memory of the owl sitting in his window had
haunted him since he woke up.

“That’s a good lad,” said Khalous, a smile
cracking his otherwise gaunt visage. “Fearless. You’ll be a mighty
hunter some day.”

Brayden had a sense that wasn’t true. Deep
down he had always felt like the stern captain was disappointed in
him, like he saw the flaws in Brayden’s character that his father
overlooked.

Kingsley smiled. “Shall we hunt him
down?”

Looking east, Brayden hesitated. “I don’t
like owls,” he said, curling his lip as though the thought of owl
meat repulsed him. “Partridge stew is better.”

Khalous lifted a thick, worn hand to his
stomach and closed his eyes. “Ah, the dreams I have about Lady
Lilyanna’s partridge stew.” His fingers drummed on his small
gut.

Kingsley lifted a questioning eyebrow. “I’m
not sure I like you dreaming about my wife’s stew.”

“Oh, it’s marvelous stew!” Khalous said. “I
bet there’s not another queen in the realm that can match her
stew.”

“I bet there’s not another queen in the
realm who can cook at all,” Pick said.

The banter continued as the men steered
their horses west, toward the nesting quail.

Brayden lingered behind, reluctant to
follow.

Pick turned his horse around and sauntered
up next to him. “What’s the matter, young master? Still waking
up?”

“I hate hunting,” Brayden said. “It’s
servant’s work.”

“And who calls it servant’s work?”

Brayden shrugged. He didn’t actually believe
what he’d said. He was just too afraid to admit the truth. “I just
hate it.”

Pick flopped his hands over each other on
his saddle. “Did you know what your grandfather—may he slumber in
peace—enjoyed doing most?”

“Using his bow. Everyone knows that. He had
the best aim in the realm before the stiffness took his hands.”

“And do you know what your father hated to
do the most when he was your age?”

Brayden offered a guess, “Using his
bow.”

“Your father hated using a bow, but his
father, your grandfather, loved it. And what does your father love
doing that you hate?”

“Let me guess. Hunting.”

“And do you know what makes your father such
a good hunter?”

Brayden waited for the answer, even though
he knew what it was.

“His skills with a bow.” Pick paused. “Were
it not for your grandfather’s passion your father never would have
learned how to enjoy his.”

“But what am I ever going to learn from
hunting?” Brayden argued.

“That’s for you to find out, young
master.”

He was out of excuses. He could stall no
further. With a reluctant sigh, Brayden urged Arrow forward.

The company of hunters moved through the
woods, looking, listening. They all had their bows ready, arrows
notched, but Brayden knew the only ones who would draw their
strings were he and his father. This hunt belonged to them.

After a while the company stopped. Pick
gestured for Brayden to trot ahead. “Your father wants you,” he
said, pointing toward the head of the line.

Kingsley sat atop his stallion on a gentle
slope overlooking a descent of forest shrubbery. He cracked a smile
when Brayden neared. “Down there. I’ll go down around the west side
of those bushes and flush them out. When they take flight, they’ll
be headed east, so track them first before you let go of your
arrow.”

“Yes, Sir,” Brayden said quietly.

There was no avoiding it now. The moment he
always feared had come.

He watched as his father, tall and regal in
the saddle, meandered down the slope to the left. The young prince
of Aberdour lifted his bow, fingers teasing the taut string, ready
to set his arrow free at a moment’s notice.

He wondered if he would hit his target this
time, and if the others would rib him when he missed. He would
miss, of that much he was certain. Broderick and Dana were better
at archery than he was. The only thing Brayden ever got from using
his bow was the look of disappointment on his father’s face when he
failed to hit his marks.

Behind him, Fierdrick made a noise as though
he’d just been slugged in the stomach. Brayden turned around on the
back of his horse to see the soldier tumble from his saddle. The
impact of his body on the forest floor sounded like a single
partridge wing beat, sudden and strong.

Brayden remembered the owl, the way it had
perched on his windowsill, staring at him with those big haunting
eyes.

But then he saw the arrow in Fierdrick’s
back.

The silence of the woods evaporated, and
everything seemed to happen at once. Footsteps crashed through the
leaves on the hill behind them. Soldiers shouted. An arrow flew
past Brayden’s head. Pick galloped forward, and Khalous called for
his father. Black soldiers of the high king lined along the top of
the ridge, yelling and drawing their weapons.

“Broods!” Khalous said.

Brayden saw Kingsley’s horse come hurrying
back up the slope, startling the pair of partridges at last. The
birds shot up into the air in a panicked flurry of thumping
drumbeats as more arrows whipped past.

“Brayden!” his father yelled. “Go back to
the castle! Now!”

An arrow found its mark in the nape of
Kingsley’s neck. He fell forward on his horse, choking on the
spurts of blood that showered from his throat.

Fear entered Brayden like a monster,
invading every corner of his soul. “Father!” he shouted.

Pick grabbed Arrow’s reins and yanked the
horse around. “Move!”

“What? No! Father!”

More arrows careened past him.

He and Pick rushed their horses down the
forest slope toward Aberdour. Brayden glanced back to see Khalous
riding away with Lord Kingsley just as two other members of the
king’s company were brought down by arrows.

The hill at their backs, he saw, was
crawling with black vipers. The brood poured over the ridge like
ants out of an anthill.

“Come on,” Pick said.

His fierce tone scared Brayden, sharpening
his focus as the pair wove their way out of the forest. Once in the
clear, their horses raced across the southern plain to the city’s
gate, where the navy and silver flags of Aberdour waved high.

Brayden charged into the southern gate,
through the tunnel under the city’s stout wall, to the brown and
gray stone entry court beyond. Pick dismounted to inform the guards
of the attack. His words were met with resounding surprise, voices
that echoed in the portal’s vaulting.

“Why didn’t the scouts warn us?” a soldier
said.

“What happened to the outpost?” asked
another.

“Brayden?” came the tiny call of a little
girl. He pivoted in his saddle to see his sister Brynlee running
toward him, her silky hair springy with her steps. Their youngest
sister Scarlett was with her, her tiny feet shuffling under the
folds of a long ivory dress.

“What’s happening?” Brynlee asked.

Brayden wasn’t sure he could explain it—or
even if he should. Brynlee had turned seven last fall, and Scarlett
was only five. Could they even comprehend what was happening?

An image of their father covered in blood
rushed into his mind, and tears welled in the young boy’s eyes.

From atop the wall someone shouted,
“Look!”

The surrounding commotion grew silent. When
Brayden saw Pick make a dash for the gate, he jumped off his horse
and followed.

“What is that?”

“There, coming over the hill!”

Brayden looked to the west where he saw a
horsed scout approaching dressed in the colors of Aberdour. At
least, it used to be a scout. The man’s head had been severed and
placed in his lap. His body was tied to his horse, and the symbol
of Aberdour on his chest had been scribbled out with his own
blood.

Soldiers hurried ahead to catch the man’s
horse and cut his body down.

Beyond the hills, visible against the pale
blue sky, rose a column of smoke.

“The outpost burns,” said one of the
soldiers.

“And now we know why we had no warning,”
Pick said.

Khalous came barging up the southern slope.
“Make way for the king!” he shouted, his voice edged with urgency
and rage.

Kingsley’s horse galloped alongside his own,
faithfully bearing its lord upon its saddle. The moment the horses
came to a stop within the city, however, the King of Aberdour
plunged to the ground.

“Father,” Brayden cried, running toward him
with Brynlee and Scarlett on his heels.

Kingsley’s eyes fluttered open, a gurgling
sound emanating from deep in his throat.

“Get back!” Khalous said. He started to pull
Brayden away when the king latched onto his son’s shoulders and
pulled him in close.

“Father?” Brayden said, fresh tears
springing to his eyes.

Kingsley fought for breath, choking on the
arrow shaft still lodged in his throat. “Fight hard,” he whispered.
“Love well. You’re a man now… my son.”

Kingsley’s hand fell from the boy’s
shoulders, limp. Brayden felt a wave of cold wash over him, and
then he lost control. He clutched his father’s velvet shirt and
begged him not to leave. He apologized. He pleaded. He cursed and
fumed and told his father that he loved him, but Lord Kingsley
Falls was dead. The king of the last free city on Edhen had been
murdered.

To the west, the army of the high king
marched up over the road.

Aberdour became a city of panic when the
brood of black vipers appeared on the southwestern hillside.
Thousands of spears and halberds jutted up from the mob like the
talons of a monster while the golden insignia of a viper flapped
high in the breeze on crimson flags. The soldiers filed over the
hillside step-by-step, unit-by-unit, until the green field
sprawling before the city sat covered with a dark patchwork of
enemy divisions and siege weapons.

The dirt and stone streets of Aberdour,
soiled by remnants of winter’s runoff, churned under the footsteps
of thousands of citizens pushing and running, screaming and calling
for loved ones, fleeing to whatever shelter they could find—barn
lofts, crawl spaces, wooden homes with shingled roofs.