Where Serpents Strike (Children of the Falls Vol. 1) (4 page)

Some of the soldiers laughed.

The armored man looked down at Lia, eyes
steady and cool. Brown tangles of hair tumbled from his head,
veiling his pale face, a stark contrast to his black uniform. He
removed her dagger from his leg like a scholar withdraws a quill
from an inkwell, and handed it back to her handle first.

“Would you care to try again?” he asked, his
voice indifferent, cavernous and cold. “Go for the inside of the
thigh this time. Twist the blade to open the wound.”

“I think you should keep her, sir,” one of
the soldiers said. “Might make good sport later.”

Bellows of laughter followed.

The large armored man smiled wolfishly.
“Kill her,” he said.

From the barn a horse neighed, beckoning the
soldiers’ attention. Lia scurried away from them on her hands and
knees until she glimpsed Khile bounding toward the house atop
Aggie. He arrived at her side in a matter of seconds and pivoted
the horse’s flanks to throw the closest soldiers off balance. He
reached down and grabbed Lia by the arm. She gave an undignified
yelp when he hoisted her onto his lap and urged the horse
forward.

Aggie was afraid, Lia could tell, acting
half on instinct and half at the commands of the stranger on her
back. The horse rushed along the uneven road.

Lia watched the soldiers behind them ready
their crossbows as Khile’s two companions stood at the entrance to
the barn, looking after him in confusion. Sprightly took a short
arrow through the face. Fatty ducked back into the barn as the
soldiers moved in to claim his life.

Before Aggie descended the next crest in the
road, Lia glimpsed the massive man in the black armor staring after
her, calm as an oak tree in a gathering storm.

Lia squirmed to right herself, but Khile
shouted at her, “Keep still!”

“I’m slipping!”

He hooked an arm around her small waist and
pulled her up in front of him to straddle the animal’s bare back.
The road ahead, with woods crowding up to both sides, rushed past
in a blur before Lia’s wet eyes.

“Why did he kill them?” she asked. “They
didn’t do anything.” Then she thought of the baby in Abigail’s
stomach, that precious little girl, or boy. No one would ever
know.

“That’s Sir Komor Raven, one of the high
king’s marshals,” Khile answered. “He is the very extension of the
Black King’s sword itself. He’s led the siege of almost all—”

“I know who he is,” Lia spat, her voice
shaking with sorrow and rage. “Everyone knows The Raven.”

“Then you know to fear him.”

“I fear no one! And someday I’m going to
kill him for what he did to them.” Lia knew how absurd she sounded.
She knew ten-year-old girls didn’t kill soldiers clad in thick
armor, but deep within her boiled a growing hate she had never felt
before.

“That man will gut you like a fawn,” Khile
said.

“I don’t care. I’m going to rip his heart
out!”

Khile huffed. “You’re a feisty little thing.
What’s your name?”

“Lia Falls.”

Khile’s body tensed. “Falls? Of Aberdour?
You’re a princess?” It sounded like less of a question and more an
exclamation of disbelief. “What are you doing out here all alone
with no protection? Are you crazy?”

Lia didn’t answer. She only sobbed.

“You’re lucky I found you,” Khile said.
“Those men would’ve killed you right along with that man and
woman.”

“They were my friends,” Lia said, her voice
cracking. She shut her eyes as images flooded her mind of Thomas
teaching her how to ride, and Abigail helping her brush the coats
of their mares. Years of memories flooded through her as tears
washed down her cheeks.

“I don’t understand,” she cried. “Why did he
kill them? They didn’t do anything?”

“This is the back road to Aberdour, yes?”
Khile said. “And you know who Komor is, then surely you know what
he’s doing.”

Lia knew the answer, but she didn’t want to
say it. Maybe, if she didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be true. Maybe if
she squeezed her eyes tight enough the nightmare would end and she
would look up to see the post and beam ceiling of her bedroom in
the castle, her violet drapes blowing in the crisp morning breeze,
sunlight kissing her pale skin.

But this was no nightmare. The black vipers
were real, and they were headed for Aberdour, which could only mean
one thing: the invasion had finally arrived.

Aggie lurched over a log in the road,
forcing Lia to latch onto Khile’s arm. He must have felt her grip,
because he brought his arms in closer to her. He smelled of wood
and earth.

“Do yourself a favor and forget about Komor
The Raven,” Khile said. “Aberdour is about to fall, and that makes
you and your brothers and sisters the most important people in the
realm right now.”

As Khile pushed the horse hard over the
rough road, Lia thought of her home lying not too far ahead.
Aberdour. The last free city on Edhen. She wondered if she and
Khile would arrive in time to warn the people. Perhaps they already
knew. Perhaps the western towers had already spotted the Black
King’s army on the crest of the Northern Road. The bells could be
sounding throughout the city right now.

Lia longed for her father, Lord Kingsley.
She longed for him to scoop her up in the safety of his arms, hold
her tight against his barrel chest, and tell her everything was
going to be all right. He was supposed to go hunting this morning
with her brother Brayden. She wondered if they were out there now,
creeping through the trees, bows at the ready, unaware that they
were soon to be the prey.

Brayden groaned, ignoring his mother’s call.
Burrowing deeper into the blankets, he pulled the pillow over his
head, blocking out the piercing beams of sunlight.

“I don’t want to go,” he mumbled.

His mother called to him again, her voice
echoing down the castle hallway, amplified and hollow.

Brayden tossed his pillow aside in
annoyance. He lay there for a moment, listening to the spring
breeze stealing through the open window and wishing sleep would
come take him again.

A shadow passed his bed. Rolling over, the
young prince watched in shock as an owl flew toward his window and
perched on the sill, shaking out its brown and white-feathered
wings. He’d never seen an owl this close before. The bird gazed at
him, bright hazel eyes unblinking over a striking yellow beak.

Brayden sat up, heartbeat racing, for he
knew owls were bad omens. In fact, a bird of any kind could be a
sign of horrible things to come—if it looked you in the eye.

The metal latch on the thick maple door to
his bedroom rattled, frightening the bird. The creature dove from
his windowsill, wings spread, caught the wind and rode the breeze
away.

Queen Lilyanna Falls swept into the room. A
fine linen dress dyed navy and embroidered with golden flowers
along the curving neckline dusted the floor beneath her.

Behind her trailed a middle-aged maidservant
clutching a warm basin of water and a towel.

“I swear, sometimes I feel like I’m talking
to the floor,” Lilyanna said. She went to the wardrobe. “This past
moon marked your twelfth year, Brayden. You are to be a man soon,
and a man meets his commitments.” She picked her way through the
clothes, slinging over her arm a few fresh items for him to
wear.

“But I hate hunting,” Brayden said.

“And you think that means you don’t have to
go? We all have to do things we don’t want to do. Besides, this is
very important to your father.”

Brayden threw back the bed sheets and walked
to the table where the servant woman had set the water.

“I don’t care.” He splashed the water on his
face and patted himself dry with the towel. “If he wants to hunt,
let him hunt. Why do I have to go?”

His mother slammed the wardrobe shut with an
exasperated huff. “Must you fight me on everything? For once it
would be nice to…” Catching his eye, she softened. Lilyanna pushed
a lock of reddish-brown hair behind her ear and tried to compose
herself. She was getting old, the signs of her age appearing in the
way her eyes crinkled at the corners, and in the faint blemishes on
her thinning skin. No doubt being queen and having reared six
children had advanced her years much sooner than she’d wanted.

In that moment, Brayden could see the
irritation on her tired face—irritation, he noted, that he had put
there.

“Your father has been looking forward to
this. He just wants to spend some time with you. Please try to make
the most of it.”

She handed him the clothes she’d selected
and left the room as gracefully as she had entered.

Brayden dressed—gray slacks, a linen shirt,
a brown jacket traced with copper thread.

As he assessed himself in the wardrobe’s
full-length mirror, guilt washed over him. He didn’t know why he
had to be so difficult, or why he so often resented his father.

Before following his mother outside he
glanced back to the windowsill, where the owl had dropped a
solitary white feather.

He skipped down the narrow stone steps of
the castle’s southeastern turret that brought him into the lower
vestibule where the air was dry and crisp. He could already smell
fish and sizzling meat wafting in from the kitchen.

Before entering into the small dining room
that his family used for breakfast, he noticed a lone figure
sitting in the Great Hall just ahead of him. Judging from the mop
of scraggly black hair spilling onto slouched shoulders it was his
younger brother. Brayden hesitated a moment before going in.

The beauty of the Great Hall was lost on
Brayden, being a sight he had long grown accustomed to. Over the
years he had heard visitors from all corners of Edhen comment on
the rare wooden architecture and vaulted ceiling, but he took
little notice of it anymore. The last time he could remember even
thinking about the castle’s majestic hall was when his sister, Lia,
dared him to climb to the topmost rafter, which he had declined to
do out of fear of falling. Lia had called him a coward, but Brayden
had always considered himself cautious.

He did notice, however, that after his
grandfather’s funeral the day before, the Great Hall seemed to
carry the chill of unfriendliness. Lord William Falls, his
grandfather, had been one of the most beloved kings on Aberdour.
His death had rattled the realm for many feared it signaled the end
of the era.

Brayden took a seat next to his brother,
Broderick. “You all right?”

His brother nodded, sniffling.

An uncomfortable silence fell between
them.

Brayden wanted to say more, but what were
brothers supposed to say to each other in times like this? He
fidgeted with his hands and looked about the room, hating how
uncomfortable he felt. When the silence became more than he could
bear, Brayden stood up.

“Listen, maybe mother would let us hike up
to grandpa’s cabin and visit his tomb,” he said. “We could go
fishing at his favorite spot.”

Again, Broderick nodded.

“You should come get some breakfast.”

In the dining room, Brayden ate in a rush,
inhaling his fish and sausages in a few bites and chasing it all
down with a cup of honeyed wine. He shoved an apple into the pocket
of his brown jacket for later.

“You young ones have no respect for
traditions,” said Old Betha, one of the castle’s cooks as she
removed the unused white plate that she’d set for Brayden. “Eating
out of the pots and pans like a pack of wolf pups.” The woman had
been old for as long as Brayden had known her, but, oddly enough,
she never seemed to get any older.

“They take after their father,” Lilyanna
said.

“Why do we always eat off white plates?”
asked Brayden’s little sister, Brynlee.

He scrubbed the brown locks falling in waves
off her tiny head. “You know the answer to that. It’s in your
history book.”

“I don’t remember that part,” Brynlee said,
scrunching her face.

“You don’t remember something from your
history book?” Lilyanna said.

“There’s a first time for everything, they
say,” Betha said.

Brayden hurried out the door, but not before
grabbing a chunk of white bread and stuffing it into his mouth.

A soldier waited for him outside the castle
next to Brayden’s lightly tacked horse, Arrow, a fine showy
chestnut, well bred and supple in stride. Arrow pawed at the ground
in excitement as the young prince neared.

“Up at the crack of noon today, Master
Brayden,” said the soldier, Moreland Fields, a member of an elite
group of bodyguards that formed the King’s Shield. Brayden had
always found Moreland easy to get along with. The man had an
even-tempered disposition and a dry sense of humor that usually
emerged when mocking people, sometimes to their face, but mostly
behind their backs. It had earned him the nickname Pick.

“It’s not noon,” Brayden said.

“My mistake, young master” He handed Brayden
the reins. “This worn path here must have been made by another man
such as myself, pacing back and fourth half the morning, with my
exact boot size, and my vast degree of patience.”

“All right, all right. Sorry,” Brayden said,
mounting Arrow.

“We best hurry,” Pick said. He adjusted his
black leather gloves. “Your father is waiting.”

Moreland was a trim fellow of shorter than
average height whose unassuming qualities often made others
underestimate him. He was ambidextrous and quick, with a reputation
among those who knew him as a reliable ally.

He swung himself up into the saddle, his
long navy cloak swishing behind him.

Brayden followed at a swift trot down the
main road, through the narrow streets of Aberdour, and out the
southern gate. Pick quickened the pace and the two riders galloped
across the expanse of field on the southern plains.