Where Serpents Strike (Children of the Falls Vol. 1) (43 page)

Ty shook his head. “No, I just thought—”

“A more skilled fighter would’ve cut you a
dozen ways in the time it took you to finish your little display.”
He turned to face the boys. “Listen up. You’re not trying to tag
your opponent. This is not a game of cat and mouse. You go straight
in at your enemy. Throw him off his guard. Seek the bind. What the
Fellians call
zum schleezen en
, or
attraversarie
in
Efferousian. Be the first to make the cross, draw blood, and
win.”

Sword fighting, Brayden had realized, wasn’t
like the way the poets of old romanticized it, or the way the stage
actors mimed it for entertainment. It was unquestionably violent
and cold, an art, with precision the paint and death the
portrait.

In the years since leaving Aberdour, the
boys had refined their reflexes with repetitive speed drills that
conditioned their muscles to react on instinct. They built their
strength by practicing with weapons that weighed three times more
than a standard broadsword. They lifted rocks to build their
muscles, pushed wagons across the hills weighted with grain sacks,
and spent afternoons sprinting along the northern cliffs.

Brayden could feel the results of the
training in his body, see it in the tautness of his muscles and how
combat was beginning to fit him like a glove.

The dinner bell rang and their swordplay
came to an end.

“Well fought today cousin,” Clint said,
slapping Brayden between the shoulder blades

The blow sent spasms of pain through
Brayden’s stiff neck. In that moment he wasn’t sure who to resent
more, Clint or Khalous.

His pain eased a bit when he sat down at the
table with Nairnah. They weren’t usually allowed to talk during
meals, the priests and nuns preferring silence, but they exchanged
a few whispers about the quality of their day.

When the evening meal was over, Brayden
retreated to the stables to finish his daily chores when he
glimpsed Clint and Broderick making their way behind the barn. They
sprinted off the road and over the grass, cloaks billowing behind
them.

His chest tightened in anger. He knew what
they were up to.

When he found them, Clint was already on top
of the fifteen-foot wall. He was dressed in a black travel cloak
with a brown leather satchel draped over his shoulder. When he saw
Brayden come around the corner he groaned. “Oh look, it’s the abbey
magistrate.”

Broderick glanced at Brayden through the
curly black locks spilling over his forehead. He looked irritated,
but said nothing. Like Clint he was dressed for a journey.

A hundred words hovered on the tip of
Brayden’s tongue, condemning words that he knew would sound harsh
and judgmental. He bit them back, searching for better ones that
might help him lure Broderick away from the dangerous influence of
Clint Brackenrig.

“Broderick, I, uh… I think—”

“I know what you think,” Broderick said,
“and I’m not interested in hearing it again.”

“We should invite him along,” Clint
said.

Broderick threw his head back and
laughed.

Even to Brayden the suggestion sounded
ridiculous, but when he realized all other words had escaped him,
he said, “All right. I’ll go.”

The stunned looks on the faces of both
Broderick and Clint almost made him smile.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Broderick
said.

Brayden moved past his brother, grabbed the
rope, and hoisted himself up the wall. Though he refused to show
it, he felt sick inside. He knew going with them was a mistake. If
they were caught Khalous would hold him responsible.

He crouched down on top of the wall next to
Clint and said, “So, where are we headed?”

“You better keep up,” Broderick said. He
pulled himself up the rope.

The three of them dropped down onto a grassy
slope high atop the northern cliffs. The ocean stretched before
them into a darkening horizon of blue and gray.

Broderick and Clint took off at a brisk
pace. They ran down a narrow trail edged by tall grass and thorn
bushes that followed the monastery’s northern wall. Brayden stayed
on their heels, crossed the ravine on a mossy tree felled long ago,
and up into the eastern hills. They emerged from the woods on a
narrow road. Broderick and Clint turned north.

Brayden had no trouble keeping up, though it
did surprise him to see the heavy-set Clint keeping pace with
Broderick.

“You ever see any black vipers on these
roads?” Brayden asked.

“Black vipers haven’t been seen on Efferous
in more than a year,” Clint said. “Everyone at the monastery would
know that if they ever ventured out into the world.”

“The duktori travels,” Brayden said, trying
not to sound defensive.

Clint scoffed. “Yeah, to visit other
monasteries where he hears the same lies from old men just as
paranoid as he is. It’s all a bunch of hogwash. Black vipers don’t
come around here any more. It’s that simple.”

“So where are we headed?” Brayden asked for
the second time.

Neither of them answered at first. Both
seemed to resent the fact that he had chosen to tag along.

“Mykronos,” Clint finally answered.

“Or, as we sometimes like to call it,
‘My-girl-ous,’” Broderick added.

Clint chucked.

Brayden didn’t bother to ask why. He had a
feeling he’d know soon enough.

Mykronos sat four leagues east of Halus Gis,
a ramshackle town of dilapidated wood huts that crowded the rocky
shores of the northern ocean. Night had settled upon the coast by
the time the three boys made their way into the village, but
Brayden could still see the crooked shacks in the shadows. Amidst
the scent of sea salt he could taste the stale smell of human sweat
and urine. A few scattered homes were lit with torches that
provided a sampling of light on the sprawling, disjointed village
of indigenous Efferousians.

The fringes of the village were quiet with
only a few sullen faced elderly folk awake to gawk at the three
young men striding into town.

Soon, however, a brighter glow out near the
beach caught Brayden’s eye. He even thought he could hear the faint
echoes of song.

As they got closer, Brayden saw that the
natives were dancing in the sand around a huge bonfire, carousing
in loin clothes and little else. Broderick and Clint strolled up to
the outskirts of the party, smiling and gawking at the limber,
topless women spinning in circles around the blaze.

My-girl-ous.

The villagers continued their celebration
without pause, unaware, or perhaps disinterested, in the presence
of the three foreigners.

Broderick and Clint peeled away from the
dance and sauntered over to a wooden hut in which sat several large
barrels of some kind of beer. The mawkish odor emanating from the
shack was like bad breath and piss. Brayden covered his nose.

Clint tapped the shoulder of the man serving
the drinks. Brayden watched the man’s face go from sweaty and tired
to sweaty and annoyed the moment he recognized Clint.

“No, no,” the server said. “Trouble too
much. No drink for you. Away!” He waved his hand in Clint’s
direction as if shooing off a fly.

Then Clint reached into his satchel and
offered him a handful of copper and silver coins, which seemed to
catch the man’s attention.

“Where did you get that?” Brayden asked.

“From people,” Clint snapped.

The server took the coins, filled two wooden
goblets with the rancid smelling beverage, and handed the cups to
Clint and Broderick.

“What is that?” Brayden said, wrinkling his
nose at the smell.

“More foul than a dead cat’s ass, but
stronger than wine. That’s all we know,” Clint said. He downed his
drink in a series of massive gulps. When he lowered the goblet his
face was red and he coughed.

Lifting his cup, Broderick tried to down the
whole thing like Clint, made it halfway and gagged.

A few nearby villagers in hand-stitched
leather vests laughed at them.

“At what point is this little adventure
going to become appealing?” Brayden asked.

Broderick wiped his mouth. “Why did you come
tonight, brother?”

Brayden pondered for a moment, wondering if
he even had an answer. “Curiosity, I guess.”

“Go home,” Broderick said. “Stop worrying
about me and worry about your little helper.”

Brayden could only assume he was talking
about Nairnah.

His brother knocked his shoulder into him as
he stepped past and returned to the dance celebration. Two of the
natives were now naked and copulating in the sand, unconcerned with
the mob of dancers that were still spinning and jumping around the
great fire.

Brayden’s eyes went wide with disgust. He’d
never seen such an open display of sexuality before. What was more
troubling was how nonchalantly Clint and Broderick seemed to regard
it.

He took hold of Broderick’s arm. “We
shouldn’t be watching this,” he said, but he didn’t know why. It
just felt wrong.

Broderick pulled his arm away. “Just because
you can’t see the beauty in it doesn’t make it wrong.”

“Beauty? It’s barbaric.”

“This couple has been trying for two years
to conceive,” Broderick said. “The entire village is now praying to
their gods to bless them. So, yeah, there’s something beautiful in
it.”

“So do they have to do it in the open?”
Brayden said.

Clint slapped him on the back. “We’ll
understand if this comes as a shock to you, Brayden, but we don’t
care.”

“Go home, brother,” Broderick said again. He
and Clint disappeared into the crowd.

Brayden threw his hands into the air and
left the beach.

He returned alone to the monastery
contemplating whether he should tell Khalous about what his cousin
and stepbrother were up to. He hated the idea of being a telltale,
but he also hated the destructive example Clint was setting for
Broderick. He hated how powerless he felt to stop it. He wished for
Broderick to see the negative habits in Clint without having to be
told, but he suspected Clint’s influence was degrading his
brother’s self awareness.

Brayden realized that Khalous was right: he
would need to make a stand against his cousin. Even if it meant
alienating him forever, he had to do it for the sake of the others,
especially Broderick. Estrange one, or divide them all. He loathed
having to make such a choice.

Brayden snuck into the barn, trying not to
wake Preston, Nash, and Ty sleeping in the loft above. He grabbed a
saddle blanket from one of the stalls and spread it out on a pile
of hay bales stacked on the ground floor. He reclined onto his back
and stared up into the rafters, hoping for sleep, but knowing it
wouldn’t come.

He lay awake for some time, wrestling with
his fear and uncertainty. Bit-by-bit he saw through the barn boards
a pale blue appear in the east. Dawn was approaching.

“My lord?” Nairnah called.

Brayden saw her tiny frame silhouetted in
the barn’s entrance. She crept inside, clinging to a thick blanket
around her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Brayden asked. “It’s
cold outside. And you should be sleeping.”

“I’m sorry, my lord. Please forgive me.” He
tone was near panic.

“Forgive you for what?” he asked.

“I had to say something. I didn’t want you
to get in trouble. I’m sorry.”

“Nairnah, what are you trying to—”

Brayden heard voices outside. One of them
belonged to Khalous, and the Old Warhorse didn’t sound very
happy.

Brayden hurried out of the barn to find
Khalous storming up the road driving Clint and Broderick ahead of
him.

“What were you thinking?” Khalous
growled.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Broderick
said.

“Just having a little fun,” Clint added,
belching mid sentence.

“And endangering the lives of everyone
here,” Khalous said. “You two could’ve been caught, interrogated,
tortured. What if you were forced to give up information about the
other refugees—”

“Caught by who?” Broderick challenged.
“Black vipers? There aren’t any—”

When Broderick noticed Brayden standing in
front of the barn watching them, he froze. His jaw fell open and he
said, “You told?”

“What?” Brayden said, surprised. “No.
I—”

Clint marched toward him, fists balled.

“Damn the stones,” Broderick muttered. “You
told!”

“I did not!” Brayden shouted.

“No,” Clint said. “Not him. Her.” He pointed
behind Brayden.

Brayden whipped around to see Nairnah
stepping out of the barn.

“Didn’t you, little puke?” Clint said. He
shoved past Brayden and charged at Nairnah. “Didn’t you?!”

“Stop!” she yelled. “No!”

Nairnah screamed when Clint slammed her in
the left side of the head, an open palm to her ear that sent her
straight to the ground.

“Little cunt!” he spat. “I ought to—”

Brayden plowed into Clint so hard the young
man flew back into the barn door and bounced off. He toppled to his
knees, landing face first in the dirt.

Clint jumped up. “You worthless dog!”

He tackled Brayden. The two tussled along
the ground, grunting and grappling.

Brayden could hear Nairnah screaming. He
glimpsed her out of the corner of his eyes, saw her lying on her
back, clutching her ear, blood seeping out from between her
fingers.

Preston, Nash, and Ty hurried out into the
early morning light, sleepy eyes jolting awake.

Clint stood over Brayden using his full
weight to pin him to the ground. He sent his fist into his ribs
once, twice, three times, until Brayden jabbed him in the middle of
the face. The blow wasn’t very hard, just enough to loosen Clint’s
grip. The blow that followed, however, shattered his nose with a
crunch.

Clint rolled off of Brayden, clutching his
face and sputtering through blood and mucus. He scurried away and
rose to his feet. Brayden tore into him with both fists, a knee to
the groin, an elbow to the cheek, and a blow to the side of the
head that threw Clint to the ground in a cloud of dust.