Where Serpents Strike (Children of the Falls Vol. 1) (71 page)

She bent down and took the woman’s arm.
“Grab onto me! We’re almost there. Come on!”

The ceiling groaned and a single beam broke
away. It crashed down a few feet from the crypt’s entrance,
showering Dana with a hail of red embers. She reeled back at the
shower of hot sparks that stabbed her neck and face. She fell
backwards down the stairs with Ariella.

More of the ceiling collapsed above. Giant
beams wrapped in flame plummeted to the ground. The door to the
crypt slammed shut, plunging Dana into total darkness.

Merek Viator felt the impact of the top step
on his right shoulder first. The middle step jabbed into his back
as he tumbled. He skipped over the last one and landed on his face
in the muddied dirt. He was thankful for the alcohol coursing
through his blood, dulling the pain, but he knew he’d feel it in
the morning.

“Don’t ever come back here!” the bartender
shouted. With his muscle bound sidekick the bartender disappeared
back into the tavern, leaving Merek in the pouring rain.

Staggering to his feet, he wiped the blood
from his lip.

A moose of a man atop a tall black horse
trotted by. “Get out of my way!” he shouted. Merek shuffled back on
the greasy road.

Ugly Town. At least, that’s what everyone
called it, a slummy sector of Turnberry where the poor, the
destitute, and the sleeping never-washed beggars struggled to
survive. The permeating stench of cattle yards hung thick over Ugly
Town like a blanket, thicker, even, than the vapors of rejection
and cruelty that rose from every ruin.

Merek meandered up the street, slipping in
the mud, trying to remember if the way out of this section of the
city was up or down. Truthfully, he didn’t know if he was going
left or right.

He’d been on the continent of Edhen for four
months, wandering the taverns of Turnberry, picking fights, and
maintaining a degree of drunkenness that kept his brain in a
constant fog. He had done the same thing on Efferous for over a
year until he’d pulled together enough sense to leave for Edhen. He
had traveled in the cargo hold of a pirate ship called The Forge
Ahead. The journey had cost him another regenstern, which he had
given to the captain. From bottle to bottle he wandered, never
having a clear idea of where he was or where he wanted to go.

Awlin was dead, that he knew for certain,
and for the last sixteen months that was all he could think about.
That and his guilt. Just like before, the blame was on him. And
that was one pain that no amount of alcohol ever seemed able to
dull.

Merek’s slacks and leather jerkin were
soaking wet, chilling his skin. He had a cloak, but he couldn’t
remember where he’d left it. The only thought on his mind now was
to find another tavern.

He made his way out of Ugly Town, through
the curving narrow streets that rose to breezier hillsides. He
stumbled along between stone buildings leased by swordsmiths,
stonemasons, repairmen, tailors, armorers, and other tradesmen in
need of space to produce their crafts.

“What you starin’ at, drunky?” garbled an
armor maker when he stopped from hammering a hot steel plate into a
helmet.

Merek realized that his legs had stopped
walking. He was standing in the middle of the street staring at the
man for no good reason. On unsteady feet he turned up the road and
continued to the center of the city.

He wobbled to a stop when he saw a large
stone archway leading into what looked like a memorial ground. The
words over the gate read:
Allanvale Honorary
. The location
struck a dismal chord in his memory. He stood there a moment,
looking in, and though he hated himself for doing so he started
walking toward it. He passed under the drizzling stone arch, and
wandered along paths paved with granite slabs, scanning the names
of the noble families of Turnberry. Every highborn surname of the
kingdom that had ever lived was listed here, the names proudly
displayed on stone markers overlooking the family’s burial
plot.

The markers of the most honored families
featured a silver seal embedded into the stone above the family
name. The seal served as a symbol of the family’s honor within
society, which, in Turnberry, was valued above all other
things.

When Merek found the plot of Viator, he
stopped. A cold shiver ran up his spine. There was no silver seal
on his family’s marker. Not anymore. The grass had long grown over
the headstones of his ancestors, along with roots and brambles that
further represented all that Merek had cost his family.

Memories flooded him of the day he had
shamed his family name—his drunken stupor, his foolish actions, the
loss of his sister. The visions clamored around inside his head
until he couldn’t bear to look upon the dishonored plot any more.
He turned away, fighting back tears.

He needed a drink.

Merek staggered out of the honorary and back
into the street, but he had taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended
up in a back alley cluttered with garbage and teaming with rats. He
wasn’t sure how far he wandered, but he knew where his legs were
taking him, even though he was reluctant to go there.

Home.

It had been almost six and a half years
since he had looked upon the house of his birth, but it wasn’t his
anymore. It didn’t even belong to the family of Viator. Another
noble family had purchased the building after Merek had disgraced
his family name and fled.

Merek kept walking, down old familiar roads
and passed ancient memories.

He stopped in front of a humble cottage on
the outskirts of town. It was a simple straw and clay home situated
behind a rickety fence. Chickens mucked around the yard along with
a pair of goats and a few sheep, all looking dismal in the
continuous rain.

A gray haired woman in a long tattered brown
dress sat in a chair on the crooked deck of the small home, her
nimble fingers finishing the seam to what looked like a collared
tunic. She looked up at him, noticed him standing there with her
silvery blue eyes, and returned to her work.

Then she paused, the tendons in her neck
flinching. Her eyes lifted again and when they met Merek’s, he felt
another shiver course through him. The woman rose, shocked.

“Merek?” she whispered.

When he said nothing, here eyebrows drew in.
She frowned and left the porch, heading into the house and calling
for a man named Richard.

Merek reached out to the fence to steady
himself. His throat seized, hot with grief and regret. He should
have expected no less from his stepmother.

A man appeared in the doorway wiping his
butcher’s hands on a filthy rag. He eyed Merek with a pair of
intense brown eyes, his bulbous jaw set in a deep scowl. He was
angry, that much was evident, but Merek thought he saw a degree of
compassion as well.

“What are you doing here, boy?” the man
asked.

Merek staggered, forcing his mind to form
words, but all that emerged was drunken stuttering.

“If you’ve got something to say, say it.
Then be gone. You’re not welcome here.”

“I found her, father,” Merek said, and his
voice cracked. “Awlin. She’s…” His throat locked. He forced the
words passed the hot lump in his throat. “She’s dead.”

Richard Viator stomped down the steps and
approached Merek, his tattered black boots splashing in the mud.
“Is that what you came here to do, break our hearts all over again?
Haven’t you brought this family enough pain?”

Merek hung his head in shame, his shoulder
heaving as he sobbed. “I’m sorry, father. I’m sorry for
everything.” His sorrow made a mess of his face while he talked.
“I’m sorry for the dishonor I brought to our family. I’m sorry for
losing Awlin. I’m—”

“Stop.”

“I tried, father. I tried to save her.”

“Quit your babbling!”

Staggering, Merek gripped the fence to keep
from falling over as wave after wave of emotions crashed over
him.

Richard fell silent. His hand moved as if to
comfort Merek’s shoulder, but then it stopped. Looking at his
father Merek saw empathy in his eyes, but there was also anger and
an ocean of hurt.

He pulled his hand away.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” Richard
said.

Merek’s brows drew in. “My brother?”

“Broderick Falls was a good boy. His family
didn’t deserve—”

“The Falls want even less to do with me than
you did.”

Richard shook his head. “Lilyanna loved you
like a son. She would’ve come to see you more except the king
didn’t want her—”

“She was not my mother,” Merek blurted.
“Beth is my mother. And thanks to your infidelity she won’t even
speak to me anymore.”

“That was your doing!” Richard snapped. “You
abandoned this family with your pride and your selfishness.”

“And do you know why?” Merek shouted.

Richard flinched.

“Because my father had another son that he
loved more than me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? Lilyanna Falls was the woman you
loved, not mother. Broderick was the son you always wanted, not me.
You call me selfish? Your such a hypocrite. An selfish, tired,
cowardly old man.”

Merek lost his balance and fell when his
father’s fist caught him in the cheek. He landed sprawled in the
mud, his world spinning out of control.

“After all these years, still nothing but a
drunk and an imbecile,” Richard said.

Merek climbed to his feet, gripping the worn
old fence for support.

“You turn around and crawl back to your
cave,” his father said. “I never want to see you here again.”

“Father, please.”

Richard walked back into the house.

Watching from the door was his stepmother,
Beth, dabbing at her eyes with bony fingers.

Merek found his balance. He looked at the
house as a sudden rush of hate and self-loathing erupted within
him. “Curse the name of Viator! Damn your traditions and damn your
name. Curse this forgotten town and its bloody kingdom and all your
damn honor!”

Barely aware of what he had said he stumbled
back onto the street. For hours he wandered out of town on mucky
roads, plodding along on shaky legs.

He came across a musky clapboard tavern and
stumbled up the steps, drawing curious stares from the woodsy
patrons within. He ordered a drink, but realized he had no
money.

He noticed a man next to him slouched
against the bar in a long black cloak. He tapped his shoulder and
asked for a few coppers. The man turned to face him and stood up
straight, extending his massive frame until Merek’s eyes were level
with his sweaty neck.

“Yeh want a what?” the tower asked.

The man looked strangely familiar.

“Please. I just need a drink.”

The tower laughed. “Sure.” He thumped a fist
on Merek’s back, yanked him away from the bar, and dragged him
outside. The other patrons laughed. They gathered at the doorway to
watch as Merek was lugged across the street and thrown into a
gutter.

“Plenty of piss to drink down there,” he
yelled, and the people watching from the tavern roared with
laughter.

The tower stood over him as Merek tried to
right himself.

“Hey, don’t I know yeh?”

Once Merek had pulled himself out of the
gutter, soaked in excrement, mud, and who knows what else, the
tower kicked him over onto his back and leaned down close to his
face. Merek opened his puffy eyes. Through the rain and his bleary
drunkenness he saw a man he had tussled with almost four years
prior in a wizard’s tower on Efferous. Gall Shea was the man’s
name.

Merek chocked back his nervousness. He
couldn’t remember what exactly he had done to the soldier, but
judging by the look on the man’s face he was hungry for
vengeance.

Gall locked his fists around Merek’s shirt.
“I lost me job ’cause of yeh!” he said, hoisting him to his feet.
“Yeh remember? Jumped out the window, yeh did, and pulled a bed
down on top of me, broke me jaw and three o’ me fingers.” He
slugged Merek in the stomach. “Yeh slimy li’l bastard.” He slugged
him again, pushing him up off his feet. “Now I gotta work in the
dirt with all of these Turnberrian filths, pushing a bloody plow to
make a livin’.”

Merek’s brain hurt. His eyes shut. The world
shook so hard that he couldn’t tell from where the blows were
coming. He just felt pain—in his ribs, his jaw, his gut.

He vaguely remembered the soldier, or rather
he remembered his immense size. The man had been one of the black
vipers assigned to protect Versch Leiern, the troublesome wizard
from whom Merek stole the shards of the regenstern.

“What did yeh ever do with the gems?” Gall
asked, leaning down over Merek. “Keep ’em for yerself, did yeh? Now
what have yeh got? Nothing! Gotta ask for a copper just to buy a
drink. Gives me a good chuckle, that!” He sent a vicious boot into
Merek’s ribs.

“Yeh ever heard o’ the phrase, ‘an eye for
an eye?’” Gall asked as he pulled Merek to his feet. “No? That’s
a’right. Let me show yeh what it means.”

He drew his fist back and cracked him in the
chin, sending him spinning to the ground.

“That’s for me jaw!”

He knelt down on top of him, driving his
knee into his ribs. He lifted Merek’s right hand and latched onto
his three largest fingers.

“And this is for me hand.”

Merek’s fingers broke at the knuckles as the
man yanked them back.

Gall leaned down close to Merek’s ear. “And
here’s the kicker for yeh. Yer li’l bitch sister was always gunna
die. We had orders to kill her if we ever did find her. That Ustus
fellow, vile scum servant of the high king that he is, always had
it out for yeh.” He hoisted Merek to his feet. “Even if yeh’d
brought the stones back like yeh was supposed to he woulda killed
yeh, and that li’l whore, too. Yeh don’t make deals with the Ivy of
Edhen, didn’t yeh know?”