The Maiden and the Serpent

So a while back I reviewed BK Bass’s The Ravencrest Chronicles. Afterwards I chatted with him about some of his plot points and characters and what his plans were for future novels. One of the characters that intrigued me the most was Helen, the caretaker of the orphanage. When I asked BK what his plans were for Helen and he didn’t have any, I was totally blown away. She has so much potential! So I asked him if he would mind if I wrote something exploring her background.

Of course, it’s difficult writing in someone else’s world, but with a little help and feedback from BK, I was able to breath life into Helen, and (hopefully) not screw up BK’s world of Seahaven too much.

So thanks for letting me take the reigns on Helen, BK. I will definitely write more on her as time goes by. As for everyone else, let me know what you think of my prequel/backstory to BK’s the Ravencrest Chronicles.

https://bkbass.com/b-k-bass-author/the-pirate-king-duology/

The Order of the Maiden and the Serpent

She turned the carved wooden horse and knight over and over in her gnarled hands. The sound of the rain driving against the roof of the orphanage and the open door of her balcony competed with the crackle of the fire in the hearth. The low fire in her room warded off the chill, flames flickering in the night breeze that carried the tang of salt from the harbor. Not that she ever really needed the heat, she was always warm, even in her old age. Kholas joked that the fires burning within her kept her hotter than most women. She always smiled, though she had never shared a bed with the younger pirate. He was more right than he knew. She left a low fire burning in the small hearth in her room more for the light, or if any of the young orphans in her care felt the need to come to her in the night. She glanced once more at the pool of rain collecting just inside the door to her balcony. The night beyond was black as pitch, darkness and sound of pouring rain hanging heavy on her heart.

Yes, nights like these do make our souls yearn for home, she thought. It can’t be too many more seasons now, before the Goddess Mayda calls me home. Or she asks one more lifetime of me. She traced a finger over the horse’s carved and painted black mane. She smiled at the detail the toymaker had paid to the steed’s muscled neck and flanks. The silver armor, lance and shield of its rider gleamed as she examined the exquisite detail. She closed her eyes and sighed, the long-atrophied muscles of her thighs ached in memory of long rides on stallions and mares now turned to dust. She set the toy aside on the small table next to her chair. Her heart throbbed as she eased herself to her feet and padded across the room to a low cedar chest in the corner. She put her hands on her hips, examining the carving of an apple tree in bloom against the weathered wood. She tapped a floorboard twice, one with a knot that looked like a face of a cat. The ancient floor groaned as the heavy chest slid aside.

Most thought that her father left her the Inn and she turned it into an Orphanage. She never corrected them. She was old enough that no one living now exactly remembered when she came back to Seahaven or how she acquired the inn. It was better that way. Most people wouldn’t believe the truth anyhow. Maybe young Gareth would. She smiled to herself again at the thought of the handsome young thief Kholas had brought her long ago. She was already old when Kholas was in his prime. What adventures they might have had if she’d met either when she was young.

Using the wall, she eased herself down to her knees, hips aching as she felt along the floor molding for the switch. With a practiced flick, the trap door hinged open, revealing the secret compartment beneath. It was the first thing she’d done after moving into the old inn, she’d built this compartment. Her green-gray eyes scanned the various small gilded boxes and bottles along with leather-bound books in languages few could read anymore. Memories of times past. Most of little to no value to anyone but her. The stories, magics, potions and curses contained within would pass away with her; save but to one.

She lifted the frail yellow silk with shaking hands. Nestled against her old leather tunic, the sword smiled back at her like an old friend. Gold and scarlet serpents twined like vines around the scabbard, jeweled eyes twinkling in the firelight. She wrapped her thin fingers around the ornate handle. Just like the first time she held it so long ago, it seemed to mold to her hand. She licked her lips, tasting the salt of blood and sweat as she held on. Her arms twitched with longing, remembering the times when she had wielded this sword with ease, slicing through enemies like butter. Mayda’s light and energy pulsed through her, giving strength to her old muscles as she lifted the heavy sword from the compartment. Her heart throbbed in time with the Serpent Sword as its energy flowed through her, rejuvenating her. It whispered to her, its soothing hiss filled her soul. It reminded her of her purpose.

Shaped like a voluptuous woman, the Goddess Mayda gazed up at her above her thin, blue-veined hand. The blazing rubies of her eyes stared straight back into her own, reminding her of her vow. Mayda clutched a snake between her ample breasts, its body twining around hers like a dress. Above her head, pulsing to the beat of Helen’s heart, rested the Serpent Blood Opal. The deep red stone breathed with a life of its own, giving life to the sword and to Helen.

“Yes, my Goddess. I will uphold my vow to the order of the Maiden and the Serpent. I will defend the weak, the innocent. Your spirit within me, I will rejuvenate and restore the balance when you call,” Helena whispered, stone glowing brighter in her eyes. “When the time comes, I will test my replacement to ensure they are worthy of your power and their heart is true, then I will pass my soul onto you.” She kissed the hilt, finishing her vow, heart aching as memories flooded over her.

“The Maiden and the Serpent?” A voice like an angel asked behind her.

Hatha. I should have known, Helen said to herself, withered muscles too slow to cover the old sword and hole in the floor fast enough. Besides, who knows how long she’s been watching me. She always seems to show up on the nights I’m thinking of this sword. Almost like the Aljini the Hessian’s tell of. The kind that live in enchanted boxes and lamps. Maybe her spirit is tied to this sword. Or maybe…the goddess is calling her to it. No, she’s too young for that. She turned, the old scar on her left ribs giving a sharp twang as she faced the young waif.

“Why does it interest you, young sparrow?” Helen asked. “Or maybe tonight you’re a mermaid? You sure are wet as one.”

The girl shook the water from her blonde curls. The burlap that posed as her garment dripped onto the ancient warped wood beneath her bare feet. The trail of water from the balcony to where the girl stood gave away how the child had entered the room.

Hatha shrugged, blinking eyes as blue as the glaciers of the lands of the Borska. “You open that,” she pointed with a tiny finger to Helen’s alcove in the floor. “You look at that sword.” Hatha shuffled her feet and gazed at the sword again.

Helen suppressed a grin. So Gareth’s quietest little sparrow had more cunning than anyone thought. Hatha never spoke much to anyone, maybe a word or two. Helen looked at the sword again as the Serpent Opal glowed. Perhaps this would be a means of drawing the girl out of the protective shell she had built around herself.

“Indeed I do, Hatha. Is this sword the only thing that brings you here tonight?” She looked the girl up and down, wanting to offer a bed for the night, but knowing that wasn’t why the girl was here. “Shouldn’t you be out gathering information for your spy master?”

Placing her skinny arms on her hips, flat footed, she shook her head. Her eyes slid away from Helen to the open balcony. The hair stood up on the back of Helen’s neck as Hatha said, “Secrets.”

“Secrets?” Helen asked, back stiffening.

“A man in a mask,” Hatha stared back at the sword. “He told me come. Keep secret.” She put her finger to her lips.

Helen’s breath caught as she asked, “A black metal mask? Dressed all in black?”

Hatha nodded, blonde curls winding tighter as they dried from the warmth of Helen’s fire. She moved closer to the hole in the floor, crouching down and examining the contents and then looking at Helen. “He had a sword, but not like that.”

Helen clutched at her ribs again, the old scar there throbbing again in sympathy with the memory. So, my love, you’re back to see me again after so much time. She glanced toward the balcony, eyes searching the darkness. Her body grew hotter her at the thought of him outside in the night, listening.

“Very well then. Help an old woman out. I know you’ve been watching me long enough to see how to get to this,” she motioned to the sword. “Let’s put it back, then put the kettle on the fire.” The girl moved closer, biting her lip as she gazed at the sword in the hole.

“Beautiful,” Hatha said, eyes glittering as she clasped her hands in front of her. “Is the stone alive? It breathes.”

“Do you want to touch it?” Helen asked, hands hovering over the cloth, trembling with more than just age as she awaited her response.

“No,” Hatha replied, red stone reflecting in her eyes. “Not mine.”

Helen drew a deep breath. So maybe not now and not her, but maybe Hatha will lead the next owner of the sword here. Who knows, maybe Mayda will call her to it later. It may not be the right time. No—that’s not true. The instant I saw the sword, it called me. Kalana knew it too, and she was happy. She knew I was destined for it and her long wait was over. She knew I was her replacement. But maybe this is my sign it is time to share the story.

“Very well then,” Helen said. The silk rustled as she placed it back over the weapon, sword almost whispering goodnight. Hatha flicked the switch with her tiny, nimble fingers and secured the hidden door with ease. Without being prompted, she touched the correct board on the floor, moving the chest back into place. Helen suppressed the laughter bubbling up in her chest. The young sparrow had indeed been watching for some time.

Helen settled back in her chair. She couldn’t help but admire the little girl’s stealth and grace. She slunk around the room, light on her feet as a cat. The girl’s angelic face had fooled many into believing she was too innocent for mischief, a mistake they would come to rue when they found their pockets or their purses empty later.

Careful not to look at the balcony, she said with as loud of a voice she could muster, “Hatha, I think we should have some sweet rolls with our tea tonight.” The girl licked her lips and nodded, clutching her hands in front of her skinny body. “Why don’t you go down to the kitchen. Julla should be finishing up for the night. Tell her I want two mugs and a plate of rolls.” Her hand shook as she handed Hatha an ornate brass key from the table at her side. It was more a formality than for a real lock. In an orphanage packed to the brim of small children who’d cut their teeth on the streets as thieves and cut-purses, it was nothing to pick a lock. The key was Helen’s way of letting Julla know a child had permission.

Helen looked back at the balcony. Before the door had even closed behind the girl, a pair of crimson eyes materialized in the darkness. Then a face. The red and gold firelight gleamed off the polished black steel. The frozen smile held no terror for Helen. Instead it brought a flush of heat to her skin, and her breath came faster. He stepped into the light, black cloak dripping with rain.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” he said, doffing his black, wide-brimmed leather hat and bowing low. She could see hilt of his sword protruding from the top of his cloak, the simple black hilt made for his long broad hands. The leather and metal straps of the mask crisscrossing around the back of his head, held down a neat club of inky black hair.

She smiled, leaning back in her chair. “Really Rayne? I’ve not been Queen for more than two centuries.”

The soles of his black leather boots made no sound as he approached her chair and kneeled before her. He lifted her hand and pressed it to the lips of his mask. She shivered, and not just from the cool metal meeting her weathered skin, but the memory of the real lips behind that mask, exploring her body. She closed her eyes, and let out her breath in a long sigh. When she opened them, his glowing crimson eyes stared back up at her through the holes in the mask.

He lowered her hand but didn’t release it. He continued to trace his leather-clad thumb over her knuckles. “My Love,” voice low and raspy through the hole at the center of the lips. “It matters not how many centuries or lifetimes pass. You will always be my Queen.”

She closed her eyes at the memories, heart swelling as she thought of the last few times Mayda had called upon her to regenerate instead of sending a replacement. But Rayne had been there, the one bright spot in this life of pseudo-immortality she had accepted as her fate. Mayda had chosen her, and her sister Shayla had woven her thread. She squeezed his hand in return.

“And you will always be my Knight and my Love in the darkness. Tell me,” she commanded urging him to his feet. “What brings you to Seahaven after so many years. You and your brother, Lord Piotr aren’t exactly friendly.”

“I will never forgive him for what he did to you,” Rayne growled. She could see the flash of him baring his long sharp teeth through the hole in the mask. He ran his hands over the braid wound around her head like a coronet. The once flaxen hair had long ago turned silver. Helen had seen it happen so many times, she actually looked forward to it. She felt the color suited her better. “It fills my heart with terror that you live here in his shadow. He still wants you. Thinks he can possess you. I fear that he is waiting for you to rejuvenate again. He would think nothing of using your orphans against you. He sees them and all humans as merely chattel.” Rayne cupped her face, blinking as he shook his head. “But I have been summoned, so have others in the family. There’s news abroad. Darkness is rising again. I came to see—if…” he paused, eyes darting to the floorboards beneath the chest.

“Yes, the sword has been awake lately. Calling me,” she admitted. She hung her head and put trembling hands over her eyes as tears rose. “And I’ve seen no signs that the goddess is granting me a replacement. I will rejuvenate once more and spend another lifetime on this land.”

“It will be alright,” he insisted, kneeling before her again. He took her by the shoulders. “I wouldn’t have come, if not for you. I wanted to see if—it’s completely selfish of me, I know—I wanted to know if I would have one more lifetime with you, or if I would be taking you away to bury you. Then ending my life to lay beside you forever.”

She removed her hands from her eyes. Tracing her fingers along the contours of the mask, her chest heaved as she let out a long breath. Then she smiled down at him. “We shall find out soon, I suppose, my Love.”

“I must go,” he said brushing his fingers along her cheek. The fire within her burned hotter at his touch. It’s as if he can summon Mayda with his fingers. She clutched her hands against the linen of her olive dress, remembering their times together. One more lifetime with him. If that’s the price I pay for serving her, I will gladly pay it. Thank you Mayda, for sending him to me.

He rose to his feet and bowed deeply once more. “I will return and bring you news.”

“I thank you, my Love,” she replied.

“Enjoy your evening of storytelling. She’s a unique one,” he said, moving across the room to the balcony like a shadow created by the fire.

“She is indeed,” Helen replied, thinking of Hatha’s stealth and boldness.

“If I didn’t know better,” Rayne said as he straightened his hat and disappeared into the falling rain. “I’d swear she’s one of my kind.”

Helen settled back into her chair marveling at how he could disappear into the darkness without a trace. Hatha, a vampire? Yes, she could see how the girl would make a fine one. She had the stealth and cunning. An edge of ruthlessness too, unusual for one so young. But the child was certainly mortal—at least for now.

She pondered the rest of their conversation while she waited for the girl to return.

So the darkness is rising again. The Ravens are converging on Seahaven once more. Yes, I can feel it. This is why the sword called me back to Seahaven so many years ago. I was meant to wait here, watch and listen. I will have to question some of Gareth’s sparrows. Strange things are coming.

Hatha returned with a heavily laden tray. Lingonberry sweet rolls topped with clotted cream steamed as if Julla had warmed them in the oven. Soft white cheese fresh from the dairy and slices of pink juicy apples gleamed on the chipped brown plate next to two heavy ceramic mugs. Helen smiled at Julla’s attempts to fatten her up. It was always this way when the Serpent Sword slept and she aged. For some reason food never seemed to cling to her tall, wiry frame, even when she was young. Now, she was so thin, the floor boards didn’t even creak beneath her weight. Hatha poured the hot water for the tea while Helen served her a generous plate of the victuals.

She handed Hatha both the plate and a thick woolen blanket and motioned for her to take a seat on the round woven rug in front of the hearth. Helen gathered her thoughts. Hatha’s piercing blue gaze took in every detail while she huddled under the blanket, chewing on a sweet roll.

She picked up the toy Gareth had brought her earlier in the evening. The horse and rider seemed to take on a new weight. Indeed, this was a night for lost souls to return home.

Holding the horseman high, she forced her now frail voice to sound out the words clearly.

“You know how there’s the great stone walls around the city?” Helen said. Hatha nodded, cheeks puffed up like a squirrel as she stuffed a roll into her tiny mouth.

“They were built during times of war, centuries ago. Times of darkness and struggle. Not just here, but across many lands…”

The Sword Calls

Barges sat low in Bleakstone Bay, loaded to the brim with pink limestone. The great ships from the lands of Ciel waited patiently in the spring sun to be unloaded by the large wooden cranes. Teams of oxen strained up the steep hills of Seahaven day and night, carting the precious supply of stone. Meanwhile men worked around the clock to reinforce and repair the ancient wall that protected the vital seaport. The freshly repaired portions shined in the summer sun like pink pearls in comparison to the older sections of long-blackened, moss covered stones.

Flags from a hundred nations fluttered in the wind blowing off the bay, carrying the tang of salt and seaweed. Their ships laden with soldiers and supplies for the Western Front bobbed in the high tide, others were moored in the Bay.

Helen gripped the harness around the brown hog’s fat neck as they waited their turn to cross High Street. Her eldest brother Maximillian had convinced their father to allow her to come along with her brothers to take the animals to the butcher to trade for bacon and cured meats for the Inn. It was always a treat to watch the great processions go by, even though their purpose in coming through Seahaven was ominous. The lands far to the west had been at war since just before Helen was born. Rumors of terrible plague and darkness were whispered amongst the adults. Always a vital port, Seahaven became a thriving boomtown for supplies within a decade. The merchants thrived off the war trade and created a self-appointed council of Barons to manage decisions for trade and roads. Her father, owner of one of the largest Inns in the new part of the city was amongst them. The decision to reinforce the ancient wall came from both at home and abroad. Seahaven was too important of a shipping port for the war effort to allow it to fall to the enemy forces.

“Is it true, Max? Are we going to get to see elephants?” Helen whispered, craning her neck to look down the street, standing on the tips of her toes in her brown leather shoes. A procession of Borska soldiers marched in time with a steady drum beat. Helen marveled that they weren’t melting in the sun with their heavy leather packs, fur lined uniforms and beards. The sweat gathered under her armpits and down the back of her linen dress beneath the strict corset her mother made her start wearing recently. She couldn’t understand why. At eleven winters, she’d barely begun to sprout breasts and hips. Helen’s bony ankles poked out from the bottom of her already too-short skirt. Her mother constantly complained about her growth spurts that seemed to be non-stop lately. Her brothers called her Twig, because she had no curves to speak of. She glanced over at her elder sister Lucilla who’d stood a few feet away, dressed as if she were going to a ball. The sun gleamed off the coral satin dress Lucilla had worn to watch the processions of soldiers and supplies. Helen rolled her eyes as her buxom seventeen-year-old sister batted her eyes at a group of sailors, all the while using her fan to draw attention to her ample cleavage. The only reason father lets her come with us is she draws more men to the inn. She never helps with the real chores.

“That’s what I heard Twig—oh look! Here they come,” Max said, placing a hand on Helen’s shoulder.

Helen gasped at the sight of the line of giant gray beasts. Their jewel spiked tusks extended twelve feet or more. Large triangular ears flopped as they walked, fanning themselves. Their long tubes extending from their faces swept side to side as they walked, the finger like ends probing and sniffing. Their enormous velvet feet made hardly a sound as they plodded gracefully up the hill. Each creature had two men clad in white tunics with red sashes holding onto guidelines. A rider sat high on the back in a peculiar sort of leather seat. The large round wheels on the carts laden with coal squeaked and groaned under the heavy weight as they rolled over the cobblestones.

“So, it’s true then,” she heard her brother Isaack say to Max. “They’re really burning dead bodies at the front.”

Max nodded, not taking his eyes of the procession. “Aye, that’s what they’re saying last night at the council. It seems that if they don’t burn them, they come back and join the other side in the fight.”

“But how is that possible?” Isaack asked.

“No one knows. Dark magic, maybe.” Max said, lips pursed as the last wagon went by. Helen shivered despite the hot day, eyes darting toward the west. Even with the breeze from Bleakstone Bay, an ever-present dark cloud hung just above the horizon. The front was supposedly a month or more march across the mountains and plains, but the cloud from the continuing battle could be seen on a clear day—a rare thing in Seahaven, where rainfall and fog were more the norm. Their parents and the other adults rarely talked about what was really going on with the war, not in front of the younger kids. They had to depend on sixteen-year-old Max to give them information, now that he was deemed old enough to be let into the grown-up conversations. But much of what he heard was still rumor.

Max motioned to Isaack and Helen, and they got ready to cross, but the soldier directing traffic held up his hand, motioning for the crowd to wait.

“Wow, another procession?” Isaack said. “We’re going to be here all day.”

A low tinkling of bells and crystals filled the air as a procession of cream horses rounded the corner. The saddles and livery of the steeds were covered in ornate beadwork. Glittering snakes and fierce voluptuous maidens sparkled in the sun as the horses pranced along the cobbled street. The most amazing sight of all, atop the horses were women warriors. Their long hair plaited in beaded braids down their backs, steel swords flashing against their white and olive uniforms. The snakes on their green leather tunics almost seemed alive, slithering and writhing in the sun, red eyes flashing a warning to those watching.

“Wow!” Isaak whispered to Max. “Did you ever see the like? Women warriors!”

Mounted on a stallion at least three hands taller than the others at the lead, sat an ebony skinned woman. Her long, muscled arms gave little doubt to her capabilities in battle. Her obsidian eyes scanned the crowd as the procession crept along. Helen’s breath came faster at the sight of her sword. Red and gold jeweled snakes twined up the sheath. While too far away to exactly make out the ornate carving of the handle, the round crimson stone pulsed and breathed, seemed to call Helen’s name. Involuntarily, Helen found herself lifting her hand, as if to grip the handle of the sword. She couldn’t explain it, but she longed to twine her fingers around it, feel the metal in her grip. The fierce woman at the lead pulled on her reigns, the procession coming to a jarring halt. Her beaded braids sparkled gold, emerald and ruby in the sunlight as she swung her head. Helen felt the pull of her large black eyes as they found her in the crowd, but no where near as much as the sword that seemed to still whisper and call for her. The woman’s lips curled up in a smile, and white teeth flashed Helen’s way. She turned over her shoulder and said something in a peculiar language to the women following her. The tinkling sound of beaded braids and horses shuffling filled the silence as several of the mounted women glanced Helen’s way.

But all Helen could do was stare at the sword. She couldn’t seem to take her eyes off it.

“Helen, Helen!” Isaack’s voice penetrated her daze just a moment too late. In reaching for the strange sword, she’d let go of the harness holding the large hog upright. Taking that as his cue, he decided that the large, deep puddle of mud next to him would be the perfect wallow to cool himself from the hot sun. With a grunt and a snort, he flopped onto his side, spattering mud for six feet around.

Lucilla’s shriek of rage cut through the air as the crowd laughed. She wiped the muck and mud from her dress and face as she sputtered, “You clumsy little bitch! You did that on purpose!” Lucilla’s plump cheeks flushed with rage, blonde curls twitching as she held up her hands, ready to claw at Helen.

“It was an accident,” Helen insisted taking a step back, planning her escape. “Besides—you were just going to muck it up anyway behind the stables with the Butcher’s Boy.” Helen gave the hog a swat with the flat of her hand. He jumped to his feet and spun in a circle, kicking mud all over Lucilla and snorting while the crowd laughed harder.

“You’d better run, Twig!” Max chortled as he held his sides.

Helen dodged through the laughing crowd. She sprinted toward the stone wall behind her and scaled it like a spider.

“Just wait until I tell mother!” Lucilla shrieked from the ground below.

Helen ran along the top like a cat, not glancing back. Oh boy. Have I earned a whipping tonight or what?

She swung herself down over the wall into a back alley that she was sure would lead to the butcher’s eventually. Lucilla will probably run home and complain to mother. She sighed, may as well take my time, and really earn my punishment this time. Father’s probably never going to let me go watch the processions again.

The sound of footsteps made her turn and look behind her. The woman from the procession stood in the alley, hands on her hips, penetrating eyes fixed on Helen. Helen gaped. On her horse, the woman had been imposing. Standing before her, the woman was easily the tallest, most athletic woman she’d ever seen. Helen wanted to be terrified, the woman had come out of nowhere, but as soon as Helen saw the sword on the woman’s hip, it was all she could think about it. Entranced she walked toward the woman. The red stone pulsed and breathed at the hilt. Up close, it was even more alive, more beautiful.

She reached out her hand, wrapping her fingers around the handle shaped like a voluptuous woman clutching a snake. The hilt seemed to mold to her hand, gripping her fingers in return as she made to pull the sword from the sheath. A hiss filled her senses, calling her name. The woman put a leather gloved hand over hers, halting her motion.

“Have you ever held such a weapon, child?” Her voice carried on the air like a soothing melody played by the bairds that stopped at the inn.

“No,” Helen whispered. She jerked her hand back, heart pounding. Still, the stone hissed her name. “I—I’m sorry. That was rude of me. I don’t know why, but I just want to touch it.”

The woman’s smile broadened as she looked Helen over. She ran her fingers over Helen’s messy braid of flaxen hair. “All is well Child. Be on your way. We will meet again soon.”

Helen nodded, not sure how to answer as the woman turned away, exiting the alley. Helen walked down toward the bay and the butcher’s shop, hoping Max or Isaak could help defend her from their sister’s and their father’s wrath later. Still the memory of how the sword clung to her hand, molded to her very fingers haunted her.

*****

Thanks for reading, my own adventure, The Dark Land, is available on Amazon: