The serpents coils, p.1
The Serpent's Coils, page 1
part #1 of A Tale of Blades and Darkness Series
Copyright © 2020 KN Timofeev
All rights reserved. This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons both living and dead, location, and places is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-0878-5771-8
ISBN-13: 978-1-0878-5771-8
To the absolutely amazing students from Writing Club. You guys are inspiring and give me hope for the future! Keep writing friends!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always to my partner in crime, Dmitry, thank you for resigning yourself to those long nights playing video games while I pounded the keyboard. Your support in all my crazy endeavors is the reason why I keep you around. JK love you babe.
A huge thank you to all the people who agreed to suffer through my early drafts as betas. Thank you for all your input and for keeping me straight. Especially Christina and Gayle. Your absolute love of this story from the get go and throughout everything really kept me going.
And I can’t leave without thanking Shelby for letting me create a writing club for the upper grades. You didn’t know it, but I was thinking about giving up writing. But working with those kiddos, helping them create their stories, rekindled the same fire that I used to have. Thank you soul sister!
It was hot, so unbearably hot. Taka was already sweating under his summer furs. He should have listened to his brother and purchased a linen garment from the Nealetian traders at the last port. Well, it was too late now.
A small breeze teased Taka, cooling his brow but bringing a horrid stench with it. Taka fought the urge to cover his nose with his sleeve. It wouldn’t help his sales for these southerners to see weakness, even if their city smelled like an archon’s backside.
Taka chose the least intrusive corner of the ship, watching the sailors bring the massive trade ship into the docks. Ships were fascinating. The seas around Cemont were too dangerous for anything larger than a sturdy canoe, and even then, it was a risk. He wondered if the waters around his homeland were as calm as the seas surrounding him if his people could trade more than furs taken from the great beasts of the ice fields.
“All ashore, that’s goin’ ashore!”
The cry shook Taka from his thoughts. He picked up his satchel, slinging it over his shoulder. “Trade time.”
His footsteps echoed against the gangplank. He stood to the side with the other merchants, waiting for his goods to be unloaded. Luckily, he was the first off the boat. A massive pile of furs of varying shades and sizes was lowered to the docks by an enormous wrench.
“Will ya be needin’ a cart?”
Taka turned. The ship’s captain stood behind him, shadowed by a sickly-looking man with a ledger. “No, I have a contact in the city.”
The captain nodded, stepping off to inspect the other goods being unloaded. The sickly man walked up to Taka and coughed pointedly. Taka rolled his eyes and tossed him a small purse filled with coins—payment for safe arrival.
The sickly man took the purse, scribbling into his ledger. “Return passage? We sail again in two days.”
Again, Taka shook his head. The sickly man scurried off to retrieve payment from the others. Taka checked the straps securing the furs together. The last thing he needed was for the bundle to fall apart, ruining the pelts.
“Taka! Quanuippit!”
Taka turned, beaming. “Quanuinngittunga, Nukilik! How’s that pretty wife of yours? Is she missing me yet?”
Nukilik threw his head back, laughing.
Though the pair had grown up in the same village, their yurts a stone's throw away from each other, they couldn’t look more different. Nukilik left to join the priesthood when he turned thirteen, the age of manhood, while Taka stayed, becoming a trader. Nukilik wore robes of their god, although altered to accommodate the southern heat. His hair hung loosely around his shoulders, black and shining. Taka’s furs were worn and sea-stained. His hair was in a long plait down his back. Though they were a part of two different worlds, once together, they quickly fell into old habits, conversing in their native tongue rather than the commonly used in Undros.
“It’s always good to see you, my friend,” Nukilik said, clasping Taka on the shoulder. “Let’s load the cart, and you can fill me in on everything from home.”
“How much longer is your indenture?”
A careless shrug. “A few more years, I think. They don’t really give you a concrete answer. One priestess was only here for a season before they released her.”
“But you’ve been here for three years already? And two years before that, you were at the Holy Isle.”
Again, Nukilik shrugged. “I think it’s because I studied under The Smelter. There are a lot of things that need to be fixed in the temple.”
Taka made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. Gods and priesthoods were things he knew very little about. Give him the physical world with problems he could solve with his hands any day.
As Taka filled Nukilik in on the comings and goings of a tiny village an entire world away, their little wagon wove its way through the spiraling streets of Verance. He always admired the old kings and queens who looked at a massive hill rising up from the shoreline and ending in a cliff and thought, Why not build a city here.
Their destination was the temple of Etunis in the Divine District, but to get there, they had to wind their way through the lower Merchant District, a short trip from the docks. Taka would come back tomorrow and sell the furs the temple didn’t take.
His stomach rumbled as they trudged past taverns, restaurants, and street vendors. Meals on the ship had been tasteless and tough; Taka looked forward to having a decent meal and a comfortable bed for once.
As they rounded a sharp corner, Taka spied a castle at the very top of the hill. Even from his position, the castle was massive, looming like an ice eagle searching for its prey.
“Never fails to inspire, does it?”
“I prefer home.”
Nukilik laughed again. “For someone whose life demands he travel, you’re rather sentimental.”
A small pack of street urchins ran across the street, yelling and laughing. To Taka, they were no different than the packs of wild dogs that scavenged at the village border. “At least at home, people are civilized.”
One of the urchins paused as if it had heard what Taka said. The urchin scowled behind a tangled mass of hair the color of pitch. Taka gasped. The urchin’s eyes were the same color as the floating ice mountains of the Northern Sea, and behind them, power simmered.
Mirra watched the cart roll by with a sneer on her face. What you know, fur head! She bet he’d be a bit rough if he grew up the way she did. It don’t matter. I ain’t got a family or a real home, but I got my gang, and they're better than any old fur head!
“Hey, Mirra, hurry up!”
Mirra spat at the retreating cart before dashing off to join her gang. The sun was setting, and they still had many things to steal.
The sun slowly crept over the tops of the buildings, casting beams of light into the dark alley below. Orphan Alley, where unwanted children slept together for protection against the elements, slavers, and child lovers. As the shadows retreated, huddled forms stirred. Here and there, a blanket or burlap sack was thrown aside, revealing children huddled together for warmth. Some were more fortunate, sleeping in makeshift shelters made up of discarded sail, broken crates, or barrels.
A band of light landed on one such crate, working its way through gaps in the boarding, shining a light on the sleeping forms below.
One band fell across Mirra’s eyes, waking her from her slumber. She rubbed the sleep and dirt from her eyes, landing on the empty crumpled blanket on the other end. She scowled at the blanket.
The vacant spot belonged to Bao, the leader of their gang, and the closest thing Mirra had to a friend. Her frown deepened. It wasn’t like him to be gone already. He must be up to something already. Groaning at the thought, she stretched, releasing some of the tightness in her back. She wiggled the top off the crate and crawled out.
She gazed about the alley, numbly taking in the dozens of other makeshift shelters like hers and scattered lumps of those less fortunate.
A few of the other orphans gave Mirra a short nod in greeting before quickly casting their eyes to the ground.
Mirra returned the gesture. She was a member of a notorious gang in service to Bossman Jax, the crime lord of the Merchant’s District. Which meant any disrespect toward her was disrespect toward him. And those who disrespected the Bossman ended up dead.
Mirra never threw that backing around. All it would take is one extremely pissed off person with nothing to lose, and it could be her that ended up with a blade to the belly.
Show respect. That was the first rule to surviving the underworld. Actually, the first rule was, never betray your people. No matter who you were warring against, never squeal to the lawmen. Two rules may not seem like too much trouble, but Mirra had witnessed the gutters running red with the blood of those who couldn't follow them.
Mirra made her way to the closest public fountain to wash up. Even this early in the morning, the fountain was crowded. Most people took what they needed and rushed back to the safety of their homes. But for those like Mirra, with no home of their own, they were left using the communal buckets.
Mirra picked up a bucket, turning it upside down. Sometimes drunkards left unpleasant gifts behind. Seeing and smelling nothing out of the ordinary, she dunked the small, rickety bucket into the ice-cold bubbling water. Without stopping to think, she withdrew the bucket and dumpe
If she lingered, a well-to-do housewife with too much time on her hands would approach, asking Mirra about her family. It was apparent she didn’t have one, but asking would give the housewife an excuse, not that she needed one, to set the city guard on Mirra. If caught, they would throw her in the nearest orphanage. Her early years had been spent in one of those crown sanctioned hellholes. The moment she turned five, she ran away, swearing to never enter one again.
Mirra wiped the dirty water away from her eyes, spitting whenever it ran over her lips. She looked about the square, hoping to see Bao or the other members of the Shadow Guild, their little gang. They only numbered six in total, but what they lacked in size, they made up for with skill.
There was Bao, their leader, even though he was twelve. The same age as Mirra. Unlike the rest of the gang, he actually had a formal education. His family hailed from the merchant class in Zallino. His formative years were spent safe and secure, learning things like reading, writing, philosophy, and math. He often tried to teach Mirra, but she refused. What use were books to her? They couldn’t feed you. They couldn’t protect you. The only thing they were good for was stuffing into your close to keep the chill away and burning. Now, if you’re wondering how a merchant’s son from Zallino ended up running a gang in Undros, it’s nothing complicated. His parents were killed in a marketplace riot during the summer of no rain. Mirra found him unconscious but alive under the wreckage, blood matted in his black hair. She took him home and treated him as best she could, fearful that his almond eyes would never open again. When he did, Mirra took him under her wing until he fully regained his strength. That was two years ago.
The road is not safe. Especially for a child with no protector. Too many children were lost to slavers or worse, who disguised themselves as a helpful hand. So, Bao stayed in Verance and learned the way of the underworld. His past turned out to be a mixed blessing. He was smart enough to pull off elaborate but lucrative schemes, but his morally right upbringing sometimes clashed with the harsh truths of his new world. The other members had similar stories with varying degrees of malaise.
Krill, ranked just under Mirra, had initially been from Lorcea—one of the Stone Clans whose name he refused to speak of. He was thirteen when his parents were killed during a Horse Lord raid. The war chief took him as a slave and sold him to a man that used Krill in ways that no child should be used. Luckily, his master caught a blade to the belly during a dispute over a card game. During the chaos, Krill filled a small sack with provisions and coin and stole away on a caravan heading south. Sometimes his dark eyes would grow darker as he thought about the past. It was on those days that his temper was short, and blood was spilled from his hidden daggers.
Sorro was from Nealet. His ebony skin stood out in stark contrast to the rest of the gang. He was a full head and shoulders taller than most of them, being the oldest, a hearty fifteen. He ran away from his village to pursue his dream of becoming a dancer. He actually did well, dancing with a traveling troupe, but when he got to Verance, there was something about the capital city that made him stay behind. Mirra suspected the what was actually a who, a moon-faced girl from the Night Jasmine, a brothel. His den was set up somewhere near there. It worked out well for him all the same. That area was thick with shops and restaurants. Street performers often gathered there, and he would dance to their music, earning some extra coin. Being a dancer meant that he was also a great acrobat, perfect for thieving.
The next two members of the gang looked like siblings, but they weren’t. Em and Tul were both Undrosen natives, born and raised in the slums. They both had blonde hair with gray eyes. But that’s where their similarities ended. Tul’s entire family died from the Sweating Sickness. He survived the sickness, but it stunted his growth, leaving him wiry and small with long delicate fingers, perfect for pick pocketing. Em’s mother and father were still alive, as were her seven other siblings. She ran away when her father drunkenly mentioned that he was going to sell her to a brothel. She had a fair face and used that to con her victims so convincingly that they weren’t even aware they had been robbed until much later.
Mirra was the only member who didn’t have an actual past. The only thing she knew about her parents was that they dropped her off at the orphanage when she was barely a moon old and never looked back. At night, Mirra bragged about her accomplishments to them. In her imaginings, they were ashamed that they gave her up and begged for Mirra to forgive them.
But even as much as she hated them, she couldn’t stop herself from looking for them in every strange face she saw. The capital brought in people from all over the world, yet none of them bore any resemblance to Mirra’s face. Beneath a thick layer of grime and filth, pale white skin streaked through on a narrow face. That pale skin was a stark contrast to her raven’s wing hair that she used to hide her most striking feature; ice blue eyes that held more sorrow and steel than they should at the tender age of twelve.
The madams of the pleasure houses clamored after her and her strange eyes for as long as she could remember. She'd like to think that it was her ruthless nature that kept her out of the madam's clutches, but that wasn't true. As an active member of a gang, her life belonged to Bossman Jax.
It was him that turned madams down because he valued Mirra more as a thief than a painted lady. But his favoritism wouldn’t last forever. One day he would sell her to the pleasure houses and pocket the coin without sparing her another thought.
Mirra closed her eyes and shook away the thought. She would plunge a blade into her own heart before she ever became a whore. There were painted ladies younger than her, not many but enough for her to worry. Whenever she came across one, a shudder ran down her spine at the sight of their soulless, empty eyes.
A shadow crept over her shoulder, breaking Mirra out of her thoughts. Her hand going to the blade strapped to her side. She spun around, pulling the knife loose.
Bao laughed, stepping back with his hands raised.
“Did I getcha”, he teased. Mirra scowled up at his smiling face, fighting the urge to smile back.
“Nah, knew you was there,” she said, sheathing her knife.
Bao just smiled wider and said, “Sure, you did.”
Mirra stuck out her tongue.
“If you’re done lookin’ at yourself, I got us some breakfast.” Bao held out two pastries. Mirra recognized the wrappers and smiled. Who could be mad when presented with fresh pastries from the most famous bakery in all the districts?
“I’ll forgive ya for runnin out on me this morning,” Mirra said, taking a pastry. Bao gave her a mocking bow before sitting on the ledge next to her.
Staring up at her friend, Mirra felt a wave of warmth crash over her that she never had a name for. Whatever god pushed Bao her way, she was grateful for it. Never in her life had she known someone with so much light in them. The streets usually beat it out of you at a young age, but Bao seemed immune.
His round face was always quick to smile, and his tilted eyes were always filled with laughter. Mirra liked to think that she kept him grounded, but Bao kept her tethered to the light. He held the darkness of their world from seeping into her soul, forever numbing it to the pain that surrounded them.
She bit into the pastry. Her mouth flooded with sweet cream filling. The pastry’s outer layer practically dissolved on her tongue, leaving only the barest hint of bread behind.
“Mmmm.”
Bao smiled briefly before reaching into his pocket, withdrawing a single black feather with a red ribbon around it. Mirra took note of it, the pastry turning to ash in her mouth.
“The tithe.”
Every Bossman enacted a tithe for their turf. If you were a gang that worked on that turf, you had to give a portion of your hauls to the Bossman. Refusal to do so usually ended with your entire gang “missing.” For the small businesses that couldn’t afford hired guards or bribe the city watch, paying tribute to the Bossman kept his goons from burning your business, along with your family, to the ground.
