Where Serpents Strike (Children of the Falls Vol. 1) (25 page)

The front door to the weathered narthex
opened sending out a group of five nuns in garb similar to
Ariella’s. Leading them was an abbot, followed by another priest
who wore a spotless belted alb that made the filthy robe Placidous
wore look even more horrific. The nuns went like mother hens to the
young children.

The two men greeted Placidous. They chatted
in Efferousian for a short while before retreating back inside with
Ariella.

The nuns brought out bread and water, which
the refugees eagerly consumed, including Broderick, who had not
been able to quell the ache in his stomach since their first night
on Efferous.

He sat down on the grass alongside Preston
and Nash. They were soon joined by Clint who had a look of contempt
on his brooding face.

“Religious freaks,” he mumbled. “You know
why they’re so nice, don’t you? They want to lure you in so they
can shove their putrid beliefs down your throat, meaningless
speeches you’ll be asked to cough up coin for.”

“Clint, you’re such a moron,” Nash said.

“What did you say to me?”

“Knock it off,” Brayden said. “Both of you.
At least we’ve got food to eat and shelter tonight, which is more
than we’ve had in almost three weeks.”

“I vote that Clint sleeps in the barn,” Nash
said.

Clint jumped up. “I’m going to shove my fist
in your mouth!”

“Hey!” Brayden shouted.

The door to the monastery creaked open and
Placidous stepped outside once again. He was with the same two men
as before, along with a grim looking priest and a man Broderick
assumed was the duktori. He stood apart from the other two with his
silvery hair and brown robe that was adorned with a gold sash. He
had a look of compassion on his aged face as he looked over the mob
of shabby refugees gathered before the doors of his church.

“Look at Ariella,” Preston whispered.

Broderick had to peer around Clint before he
spotted the former nun, who had been stripped of the rest of her
habit and given a plain cream-colored shift to wear. The most
startling change, however, was her shaved head. Broderick recalled
hearing how this was often done as a sign of shame. Ariella was
smiling though, despite the tears in her eyes.

Khalous walked up to her and gave her a hug
that lasted for several long moments.

“Uh, what’s going on here?” Nash asked.

“Not very observant, are we?” Pick said,
standing behind the boys. “She gave up her life in the church for
Khalous.”

“Why?” Broderick asked.

“Why do you think, dummy?” said Nash.

Clint rolled his eyes and sighed in
disgust.

Broderick watched alongside Brayden, Clint,
Preston, Nash and Pick as the nuns ushered Dana, Nairnah, and the
other refugees into the church, leaving the older boys outside with
the men, including the dark-robed duktori and his serious-faced
advisor.

The duktori shook Khalous’ hand and said,
“My name is Bendrosi. I am the duktori of this chapel.” He gestured
toward the other robed man over his right shoulder. “This is
Brother Gravis. Welcome.” He spoke the language of Edhen, but his
words were broken and thick with the Efferousian accent.

“Khalous Marloch.” The captain pointed to
Pick and Stoneman, and ticked off their names. “Thank you for
having us.”

“I apologize, but I’m afraid we have run out
of room,” Bendrosi said. “Our orphanage is overflowing as it is. We
can accommodate the youngest among you, but all we have left for
your men and the older boys is the loft in the barn, which you are
more than welcome to.”

Clint sighed in disgust, unashamed to
express his displeasure.

“Actually,” Khalous began, casting a brief
glance toward the brown clapboard barn, “that’s preferable.” He
took Bendrosi by the shoulder and led him and Gravis a short
distance away from the group where the three of them spoke together
at some length.

“What are they talking about?” Nash
asked.

“Probably you,” Preston said.

“What did I do?”

“You mean apart from being annoying?”

“Hold your tongues, boys,” Pick said.

Broderick noticed Pick and Stoneman
exchanging nervous glances, like they knew what the captain was up
to.

“Is he sure about this?” asked Pick.

“Cap’ain’s always sure,” Stoneman
replied.

“Does that mean I have to like it?”

“Nope.”

Whatever Khalous and the abbot were talking
about it didn’t sit well with the stern-faced Prior Gravis. He
argued with them at some length. Bendrosi remained calm while
Khalous stood firm with crossed arms.

Bendrosi and Gravis retreated into the
monastery.

“Stand up,” Khalous said to the boys after
he had returned to the group. He eyed each and every one of them
for a moment, his thick fingers stroking the grizzled beard on his
chin.

“What did they think of your master plan?”
Pick asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Khalous said. “The
duktori is a reasonable man, but we can’t expect everyone under him
to welcome us so warmly.”

“Gravis didn’t look too pleased.”

“Forget about him for now.”

The door to the church opened and a boy
jogged over to the group. He looked about twelve, an Efferousian
judging by his tanned skin and black locks. He had a quick looking
physique and square brow that gave him a constant air of
seriousness.

“Are you the one Bendrosi told me about?”
Khalous asked.

The boy nodded.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Taighfinn Torinfinn Deelyous,” the boy
said. “Son of Torinfinn and Sorcha Deelyous.”

“Gunna give me a headache tryin’ say all
’at,” Stoneman grumbled.

“I vote we call him, Boy,” Pick said,
raising his hand. “All in favor?”

The boy’s serious expression made it
difficult to tell if he was offended or not. “Some calls me Ty,” he
said.

“Even better,” Pick said. “Two letters
instead of three. I like it.”

Stoneman shrugged his heavy shoulders. “He
can stay.”

“Ty is too old to live among the women and
children,” Khalous said. “The lodgings here are almost full, so
he’s going to stay with us.” He looked at Ty and put a hand on his
shoulder. “They’re a rough bunch, so I apologize in advance.”

“Don’t be having worries for me, sir,” the
boy said.

Khalous looked at the ground. “Listen up
now.” His tone had darkened, like a veteran warrior to his unit on
the eve of battle. All at once Broderick knew that something was
about to change. “Some of us have to learn to grow up a little
faster than we’d like,” he began. “A few weeks ago you were all
ten, eleven, twelve years old, well on your way to becoming men,
but today I tell you that you are men.” His eyes moved from one boy
to the next, a gaze that imbued confidence and hope. “Your training
begins tomorrow. The duktori doesn’t condone violence, so we’ll
train off the grounds, but we’ll live here in the barn and earn our
keep. You will learn to fight. You will learn to survive.”

An excitement had risen within Broderick
that thrilled and terrified him, told him that something was
beginning, a tidal wave of retribution, right here among this group
of eleven.

Slowly he raised his hand to speak.

Khalous looked at him. “Yes?”

“Does this mean we’re going back to
Aberdour?” he asked.

“Do you want to?”

Broderick looked to Brayden, then Nash and
Preston. When none of them responded, his eyes went to Khalous and
he nodded.

“Why?” Khalous said.

“I want to help my sisters. I want to help
Edhen, and kill the bloody Black King.”

Khalous smiled. “And do you think you have
the means to do that?”

Sighing in shame that bordered on
embarrassment, Broderick said, “No. Not yet.”

Khalous put a hand on his shoulder. “Good
lad. You will.” His eyes drifted over the bunch. “Listen to me and
you will.”

“We’re really going back?” Nash said.

“We are. It will take time, but yes. We
are.”

A few murmurs of approval whispered through
the group.

“To all the hells with the Black King,” Pick
said.

“How long?” Broderick asked.

Khalous’ smile faded. “Some of that depends
on you. But give me time, and I promise I’ll turn you all into the
most deadly fighting force the world has ever seen.”

The door to the back of the wagon cage swung
open on creaky hinges and the sore, exhausted female prisoners of
Aberdour filed out. Brynlee held Scarlett close as they were led
single file to a cobblestone plaza where they were chained four to
a post in a busy market section of Edhen’s capital. Some of the
girls dropped to their knees, too weak from months of cramped
travel to even stand.

The crowded market streets of Perth gave off
a suffocating feel. Busy consumers browsed carts loaded with goods
while merchants hocked jewelry, perfume, weapons, pottery, dried
foods and more. High stone buildings eclipsed the late summer sun,
plunging the market district into a shadowy epicenter of commerce
that stunk of small animals and fish.

Brynlee began to notice a large number of
wealthy looking men and women lining up on the street in front of
her. Their probing eyes made her feel self-conscious. She huddled
on the ground with Scarlett who trembled as she observed the
gathering spectators.

“Look at me,” Brynlee said. “Remember our
home? Remember Aberdour?”

Scarlett seemed confused for a moment, but
then nodded her head.

“Do you remember Broderick and Lia trying to
climb the banister up the spiral staircase? Lia could do it easy,
and none of us thought Broderick could do it, but he did.”

Scarlett smiled a little, which encouraged
Brynlee to go on.

“I was always trying to get Lia to play
dolls with us, but she never wanted to. One day mama made her play
with us, so Lia took the dolls, all of them, every single doll, and
hid them all throughout the castle, and then she had a contest to
see who could find the most.” She forced a giggle. “Such a silly
way to play dolls, isn’t it?”

Scarlett nodded.

“Brayden on the other hand, his idea of
playing dolls was to put them on trial for black magic and behead
them. He used to—”

“My lovelies!” came the joyous shout of a
short, pot-bellied man. He sauntered up to the row of prisoners in
a long velvety red tunic, arms open wide, fingers adorned with gold
rings. Adjusting the wreath of tiny green leaves and white flowers
that sat atop his balding head, he said, “Welcome, welcome,
welcome! Stand, please, all of you. Let me look at you.”

One by one the girls rose to their feet,
heads down, eyes worried and nervous.

“My name is Morogh Slagenach,” the man said,
“but you’ll soon learn that most people call me Mungo. It’s an
unusual name, I know, but—” he thrust a finger into the air,
“—unusual is what folks remember best.” He smiled. “And that’s good
for business.”

Mungo waved his hand at Captain Fess
Rummick, inviting him to join them. The mean-spirited captain, who
had escorted the prisoners from Aberdour along with several hundred
black soldiers, looked as irritated as he did exhausted.

“Captain, you have done well,” Mungo said.
“They are lovely. They look a little chubby though. What have you
been feeding them?”

“Porridge,” the captain answered. “Just like
you asked.”

A lie, Brynlee knew. The company’s cook,
Efrem, had tried to feed the girls porridge, but Fess had told him
not to on more than one occasion.

“Uh-huh.”

Mungo walked up to the line of chained
girls. He eyed them for a moment before singling out Oriana, the
thirteen-year-old sister of the now deceased Othella. Mungo cupped
her chin and lifted her eyes to his. He gasped and pressed a hand
to his heart. “Oh, what breathtaking eyes. Tell me, my beauty, what
have they been feeding you?”

Oriana looked too terrified to answer. Her
eyes went to Fess whose grim, rough shaven face had found a way to
look even more menacing.

“Please, child, you can tell me. It’s all
right.”

When the words, “Bread and cheese,” slipped
out of her mouth, Mungo’s jaw went tight with rage, his fists
clenched and he staggered back. He grit his teeth as he walked up
to the captain.

“Bread and cheese,” he repeated. And then,
in a voice that made the air explode, he roared, “BREAD AND
CHEESE!”

Fess winced, like a dog receiving a
scolding.

“Bread and cheese makes whores fat,” Mungo
fumed. “I told you to feed them oats and rice. Oats and rice.” He
stormed away from the captain, kicking at the ground. “Bread and
cheese,” he muttered. “Of all the incompetent, stupid…” He looked
at the captain. “Get out of my sight!”

Fess left in a storm of rage.

Brynlee smirked, as did the other girls.

Their smiles were short lived, however, when
the eccentric Mungo turned his attention back onto them.

He walked up to Brynlee and Scarlett. “How
old are you, child?”

“Seven, sir.”

“And that one?” he pointed to Scarlett.

“Um, she doesn’t speak. She is five.”

“She doesn’t speak?” Mungo said, perplexed.
“Is she a halfwit?”

“No, sir. She is not a halfwit. She just
can’t speak.”

“I see. And how long have you been locked in
that abysmal wagon?”

“About three and a half moons, sir.”

Mungo clamped a hand over his face in
disgust. “Three and a half moons. Gods take that man’s life. Tell
me, child, are you tired of being locked away in there?”

Brynlee hesitated a moment before
nodding.

“Are you hungry?”

With a little more urgency, she nodded
again.

“Come work for me and you will know rest,
food, and a soft place to sleep.” Mungo turned to address the rest
of the girls. “That goes for all of you. You are my property now.
Serve me well and you shall never know cold or hunger ever
again.”