Where Serpents Strike (Children of the Falls Vol. 1) (72 page)

Liquid rage coursed hot through Merek’s
veins, but his limbs were too numb with alcohol to respond. He
tried to latch onto the man’s collar, but ended up twisting his
already mangled fingers. Gall slugged him a final time and dropped
him back in the ditch where he landed in a painful heap.

Blackness swallowed him.

When Merek opened his eyes, or at least the
one that hadn’t swollen shut, night had settled upon the town. The
tower was long gone, and the surrounding air had chilled even
more.

Merek strained to pull himself out of the
gutter. Then he half limped, half dragged himself across the road
to the alley behind the tavern where he collapsed in the dirt and
passed out again.

Morning.

He awoke the following morning in a painful
haze. His stomach betrayed him and he wretched several times,
feeling the agony of every bruise from his beating the night before
with each violent clench of his gut.

He staggered out into the woods behind the
tavern, following the sounds of running water.

Lapping the edge of a soft mossy bank was a
narrow river. He stripped off his clothes and waded out to where it
was deepest, relishing the soothing rain-refreshed gurgle of the
creek and the invigorating coolness of the water. He submerged
himself, letting the shock of the cold bring him to his senses and
awaken his mind. He rose, punched through the surface, and gulped
air like purifying nectar.

Sitting on the forefront of his mind as if
just waiting to be called into focus were the words Gall Shea had
spoken to him the day before. The former black soldier had told him
the truth about Ustus Rapere. The Ivy of Edhen. That traitorous
swine had intended to kill Awlin all along.

Or was that all a dream?

Merek lifted his hand and examined his three
broken fingers, now swollen and purple. He took them as evidence
that he hadn’t imagined what the former black soldier had said.

“Thank you, Gall,” he muttered.

Purpose began to form within Merek once
again.

Tearing some fabric off his undershirt, he
fashioned a crude splint for his broken fingers. He washed his
clothes and hung them on some bushes to dry. Then he dressed and
wandered back into town.

He swiped a cloak off a fencepost and a pair
of leather gloves from a blacksmith’s bench. He went to the market
of Turnberry where dozens of farmers had gathered to sell bits of
their harvest. With the fingers of his dominant hand broken, he had
to rely on his left to pick a few pockets, which, for a trained,
hungry, and desperate thief like him, wasn’t a stretch.

After purchasing a few provisions and
stealing a few others, he left town. By mid-afternoon he was well
on his way along The Arch, a stretch of road that curved across the
southern half of the continent from Turnberry to Perth.

Later in the day a wagon rolled up behind
him with an old man seated in the front. He had dusty gray hair
along the sides of his head, and the strong rigid jaw of a man who
knew the value of a hard day’s work. There was an old woman with
him, his wife, Merek guessed, and a quartet of young people ranging
in age from adolescent to early twenties.

Merek raised his hand to them and the old
man drew the horses to a stop. The woman, he noticed, was regarding
the bruises on Merek’s face with no small degree of concern.

“Can I help you, pilgrim?” the man
inquired.

“I was wondering if I might travel with you,
kind sir,” Merek said. “The road is dangerous, and I can offer you
protection. I’ll fix your wagon if it breaks, tend to your horses
when they need tending, and help you in any other way that I can.
All I ask in return is some food.”

The man considered this for a moment as his
eyes searched Merek’s face. Old the man might have been, but Merek
could tell that he was no fool. Cautiously he agreed, and allowed
Merek to join the children in the back of the wagon.

He journeyed with them for two months, told
them his name was John Krullen, and that he was on his way to Perth
in search of work. He left out the part about him being a wanted
thief, and that he was out to murder one of the top advisors of the
high king.

To Merek’s relief the old man’s wife was a
nurse. She helped him tend to his broken fingers along the way.

The family traveled as far as the fertile
farming community of Mellow Brook, at which point Merek continued
to Perth on foot and arrived forty-two days later.

Sneaking around the cramped, shadowy
passages of the capital city of Edhen was easier than he
remembered. Compared to the open, sunlit spaces of Efferous, Edhen
was to a thief what a playground was to a child.

He spent a couple days lurking among the
crowds in the streets surrounding the castle, reacquainting himself
with the structure’s access points. He had broken into the throne
room once before, and so he figured that finding a way into Ustus’
chambers shouldn’t be half as hard.

But it was.

Aside from the Black King himself, Ustus
Rapere was the most protected man in all of Perth. Everywhere he
traveled, whether by foot or horse or caravan, a small contingent
followed. His entourage usually consisted of a young scribe, an
assistant, and anywhere from six to twelve guards. Moreover, his
bedchambers were in an area of the castle that was almost
impossible to reach from the outside, discretely at least. With the
right equipment, Merek knew he could scale the wall, but his
fingers, though they had healed on his journey, were still weak and
wouldn’t hold up to the vertical climb.

Four days later a hard rain came in from the
sea.

Merek took advantage of the storm’s noise to
mask his entry through the castle’s kitchen window, smashing it
with a broken tree bough. The sound of shattering glass brought a
maidservant rushing to see what had happened, but upon finding the
tree branch the woman assumed the storm had done the damage.

Merek stashed his wet cloak under a wooden
cabinet to avoid leaving a trail of water through the castle. He
worked his way up several flights of stairs, glad for the noise of
the wind and rain that helped hide the creaks of floorboards and
door hinges. Apart from the miniscule sound of his footfalls, Merek
moved in perfect silence. He had left behind his armor and leather
garments, favoring close-fitting and lightweight black fabrics that
made little sound when he moved.

He located Ustus’ bedchambers. The door was
locked. After waiting for a guard to pass through the hallway,
Merek pulled out his lock picks and went to work. Once the door
clicked open, he slipped inside.

He pressed himself into a dark corner and
waited.

Outside, the storm lingered on, bringing
with it sounds of distant thunder and high winds that rapt the
castle’s windows.

At long last the bedroom door opened and a
man in a hooded maroon cloak stumbled inside with the limbs of a
whore wrapped around him. She giggled, nipping at his neck and
mouth while drizzles of rain trailed down her bare arms. The pair
groped their way to the bed where the cloaked man threw the woman
down and started pawing at her body through her thin white
dress.

Merek crept across the dark room in total
silence, a dagger clutched in his right hand. His eyes stayed
locked on the outline of the man looming over the woman writhing on
the bed. He moved up behind him, the blade poised to thrust between
his ribs. He reached.

The pale leg of the whore slammed into
Merek’s stomach. He doubled over just as the man spun around and
knocked him in the ear with a solid fist.

It wasn’t Ustus.

Merek lunged at him, tackling him onto the
bed and off the other side while the woman ran to the door and
called for help. She delivered, not a panicked or frightened cry,
but a voice that came easily and controlled. She had been expecting
him.

Fear began to build within Merek.

The whore stood at the doorway nipping at
her cuticles while Merek tussled across the floor with the man.
Fists hit flesh. Knees pummeled ribs. Their bodies lashed against
the floor as they twisted and grappled.

Merek knew there was no way he could
outmuscle the man, and so he began to kick and claw his way out of
his clutches. When he had finally managed to put some distance
between him and his opponent, Merek sent a quick jab to the man’s
face, which broke his nose.

Two more guards barreled into the room.

Behind them, carrying a torch and a
victorious smile, was Ustus Rapere. He stepped into the room in a
floor length green and brown tunic, its collar, cuffs, and hem
fringed with gold patterning. Like a master commanding his dogs, he
said, “Grab him!”

Merek went on the defensive. He dispatched
one of the guards with little effort, but took more blows than he
could avoid from the second. When two other guards stomped into the
room, he knew it was over.

“I want him alive,” Ustus said.

Three of the guards restrained Merek’s arms
while the fourth jabbed balled fists into his ribs like hammers.
Sparks rushed to his mind like a tide, threatening to white out his
brain.

“Harder!” Ustus shouted.

The hammers drove him again and again. His
ribs gave, snapping and popping, until he could hardly breathe.

Ustus applauded. He walked up to the man
with the hammer fists and patted him on the back. “Well done,
sir.”

The Ivy of Edhen strolled over to the whore
standing in the doorway and caressed her cheek. She had a
fascinated grin on her bony face.

“What do you think, my beauty?” Ustus
asked.

She practically purred at his words.

“If I were to tell you to hit him, where
might you strike?”

The woman touched her chin as she considered
her options. Merek thought she looked far too excited by the
prospect.

“I want to kick him between the legs,” she
said.

He waved an open palm toward Merek. “Please.
Indulge yourself.”

The young whore’s blue eyes, rimmed with
dark circles, were alive with sadistic curiosity. She readied her
leg. Merek grit his teeth and braced for the blow. When her foot
connected, he crumpled, but was forced back to standing a moment
later by the guards.

“Merek, Merek, Merek,” Ustus said. He began
walking around the room, lighting candles with his nimble fingers.
“I have known some fools in my day, but you surely are the most
entertaining of them all. We spotted you two days ago strolling
around the streets outside the castle. If the high king were a
betting man he would have lost quite a bit of gold to me. He did
not think you would be foolish enough to attempt to break into the
most fortified castle in all of Edhen, but I—”

“Quit wasting my time,” Merek said, blinking
against dizziness. “Either kill me or let me go. Either way, shut
up.”

Ustus went to a wooden bench upon which lay
a folded brown blanket. Peeling back the folds, he revealed a wide
selection of oddly shaped knives—straight blades, jagged blades,
blades with hooked tips, curved edges, prongs, and pincers. His
fingers danced over the selection.

“So there is this little question I have
been wanting to ask you,” Ustus began. Finding the knife he wanted,
he declared, “Ah!”

He walked up to Merek, tapping his chin with
the small, spoon-like blade.

“It is a question I have been wanting to ask
you for more than three years now. Can you imagine that? Three
years to ask
one
question?”

He cut the buttons off Merek’s black shirt
and peeled it open.

“It is a very reasonable question,
considering our history together.”

He dragged the flat side of the cold metal
blade down Merek’s bare chest, teasing his skin. The blade was cold
and razor sharp.

Ustus cleared his throat. When he spoke
again, he enunciated very slowly. “Where are my gems?”

Merek grimaced, knowing that what he had to
say wasn’t going to make Ustus very happy.

“I’m curious,” he began, hoping to buy
himself a little time, “how do you plan to stab the Black King in
the back when you get your hands on the regenstern?”

Ustus looked appalled. “You dare call his
majesty by that name?”

“I’d call him a fat pig roasting on a spit
if I thought there was any difference.”

Ustus dug the spoon-shaped knife into
Merek’s skin and raked it across his chest. His toes curled. His
jaw locked. The knife peeled back a layer of skin, leaving a thick
red line in its wake that burned like fire.

“Where are they?” Ustus asked again.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Merek said
once he’d caught his breath. “I know you’re plotting something,
always coming up with ways to use others to get to the top because
you’re too weak to get there on your own.”

The Ivy of Edhen smiled. “You cannot provoke
me, Merek. I answer to the high king of Edhen, not my ego. Unlike
you. Now where are my gems?”

Merek took a deep breath, resigning himself
to a long night, and said, “I spent them. Never was much of a
saver.”

Ustus drew the knife across his chest again,
making an identical line right below the first. Merek tugged
against the guards holding him, hoping to get Ustus’ neck in his
hands for one brief second, just long enough to snap it in two.

“I am assuming you can imagine how that
makes me feel.”

Merek huffed. “If you want sympathy, you’re
at the wrong store with the wrong coin.”

“You spent all of them?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You saved not one?”

“That’s what ‘all of them’ means.”

The spoon-shaped knife dug another gash
across Merek’s chest. This time he cried out through clenched
teeth. Had it not been for the guards holding him upright he
would’ve fallen to the floor.

“Do you believe in the Allgod?” Ustus
asked.