In the Skin of a Nunqua (28 page)

“If it’s acceptable to you, General, I’ll wait until after the fight to make my request.”

“Keeping secrets from me?”

His tone hinted of a threat. It made the hidden scars and burns on her hands hurt in remembrance. She forced a laugh. “Like I said, I’m a little drunk. I don’t want to waste my request on something foolish.”

Caravey continued to drink, visibly displeased by the guarded answer.

“I need some time to think about it,” she said. “That’s all.”

They stumbled back to camp, their spirits high. The sun sank under the horizon. They passed men, Willovian prisoners carrying firewood and guarded by warriors. A familiar voice said, “Filthy half-breed.”

Hair covered his neck. His clothes were worn, and he limped with his back toward her. Iron chains shackled his feet, although he was still able to take small steps. Shanti passed the guards and approached the prisoners, pulling on his shoulder to view the bearded face. “Jun.”

“It’s the Willovian from the Hedgelands,” Tracker said.

“Jun,” Gitonk said. “Isn’t that a girl’s name?”

“Nice uniform.” Jun viewed her with disgust. “Why don’t you come into the Willovian camp for the night.”

General Delartay moved behind Shanti and peered over her shoulder. “You must have a death wish, Willovian. Killing Zindar is one matter. Shanti’s one of my warriors. She belongs to me.”

“Zindar?” she said.

“Oh, yes,” Caravey put his arm around the front of her shoulders. “Zindar challenged Jun to a fight in the arena. Your friend is quite skilled with a sword. He won. But instead of cutting his opponent’s arm, Jun here requested that Zindar stay at the prisoner-of-war camp, in the same tent where he sleeps. We found Zindar’s corpse the next morning, beaten so badly we could recognize it only by the ring on his finger.”

She felt as if someone had punched her in the gut. “You killed Zindar?”

“I killed a traitor.”

“Beat him to death.” Caravey ran his hand up and down Shanti’s arm. “Do you want to know how we captured Commander Jun? We found him jumping from a second-story window—a woman’s bedroom—trying to escape a jealous husband who had come home to find him in bed with his wife. That’s how he hurt his knee, not in some glorious battle.”

“A fight.” Jun stared at Shanti. “Just her and me in the arena.”

“Prisoners cannot challenge. Besides, someone else has already challenged Shanti. Gitonk, you’ll fight Commander Jun, as I promised.”

Caravey stepped away from Shanti. She took Baylova’s sword off her back and showed Jun the dragon engraved on the handle.

“Traitor
and
thief,” Jun said.

“You murdered Zindar and committed adultery. Don’t accuse me of crimes without first considering your own actions.” Shanti and the warriors left the prisoners.

She lay in bed that night with a knife under her pillow, two swords beside her, and poisoned darts within arm’s reach. The wind blew, making the walls creak. A loose board banged on the roof. Shanti hoped Caravey wouldn’t come to her bed to rekindle the flame that no longer burned for him. That fire burned for someone else.

Jun was locked in the prisoner-of-war camp. He appeared thin, scruffy, and full of hate. Was he acting, concealing his emotions to survive? What had happened with Zindar? How was Jun captured?

Shanti pulled a long thread away from the frayed edge of the sheet. She wrapped the thread around both hands. Was she a string pulled so taut it was bound to break, or was she the string meant to bind Willovia and the Nunqua together? She snapped the thread into two separate pieces—exactly how she felt.

28

Uncle Seiko

T
racker and Gitonk
sparred with Shanti, attacking her in a grassy field. Their swords swung smoothly, alternating blows blocked by Shanti in a dance of elongated arm movements and cautious steps. The exercise, the actions of her now healthy muscles, was invigorating.

“Technique over force,” Caravey said. “Brain over body, head over heart. The sword is your will, and your will is strong.”

She focused on the movements. Her surroundings faded. The only sound was the music of metal on metal. Her movements accelerated, her heart raced, and the sparring became easy. Gitonk and Tracker blocked her now, letting her take the offensive. Caravey talked; she didn’t listen. Both Gy and Caravey had taught her to ignore distractions.

“Enough,” he said. “Enough!”

She stopped, her chest heaving.

“Save it for the arena. Besides, someone’s here to see you.”

A Nunqua warrior with gray hair, a sturdy physique, and a wide nose waited at the edge of the field. His spots reminded Shanti of a puzzle. She returned the sword to the scabbard on her back. Caravey, Tracker, and Gitonk stayed behind as she went to the warrior and lowered her head. He put out his hand. Shanti grabbed his wrist as he grabbed hers.

“General Seiko,” she said.

“General?”

Shanti imagined that her father, if he were still alive, would have looked much like the warrior in front of her. “Uncle.”

He pulled her into a quick embrace, then held her at arm’s length. “You’re not such a skinny kid anymore. Let’s walk. I believe you wrote to inform me, in the utmost secrecy, that you weren’t coming back from Willovia.”

She walked on his left side, the proper position for someone subordinate in rank and family hierarchy. “I wasn’t planning on it. Things have changed because of the war.”

“And what of Caravey?” He glanced sideways at her. “Did you return for him? You can’t play warrior forever. A woman’s purpose is to
give
life, not take it.”

“That’s not the reason I returned.”

“Caravey is a general, able—”

“You’re worse than a woman, Uncle,” she said.

“It would be good to see you more than once in three years.”

“How goes the war?”

“I’ll not torment you with details, half-breed. Your nature prohibits you from choosing sides in this war, no matter what uniform you wear. My brother should never have gotten involved with that Willovian woman.” Angry wrinkles creased his forehead, then gradually smoothed. “He loved her, though. Would have married her if such a union were legal.”

“I didn’t see the light of day until I was six years old,” Shanti said. “They kept me inside until I could control my appearance. I remember my mother and father. They didn’t hide their feelings for each other from me—just from the rest of the world.”

“I hear you’re fighting in the arena already. You certainly have a way with people.”

“That’s not my fault. She challenged me. I think her name is Yasmine. Are you going to be there?”

“I’ll stay, but as soon as the fight’s over, I have to leave. Is that really the queen’s sword?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Always causing trouble, doing things the hard way. Just like your father, you are. We have word that Baylova’s riding with the Willovian forces to the Outer Boundaries.”

“The monks predicted she would.”

“I better not see you on the battlefield, half-breed,” he said.

She lowered her head in a show of respect. The battlefield was the last place she wanted to be.

*

Shanti lifted round weights to prepare her muscles to fight. Nunqua spectators packed the arena, making bets and getting drunk. Black-clad warriors watched from the stands or prowled around the edge of the pit. Jun waited at the west entrance for his turn to fight. His weight rested on one leg, and his hands were tied behind his back. He stared at Shanti, then directed his gaze toward the east entrance. He once again looked at Shanti, then fixed his attention on the east entrance.

She discreetly shook her head and bent forward. Too many warriors were present for her and Jun to attempt an escape from the arena.

“What’s wrong?” Caravey said.

She dropped the weights and picked up a handful of dirt, rubbing it between her palms. “Nothing, General.”

He put his hands on her shoulders.
“Anaya say midea.”

“Strength of will,” she said.

“Bring me honor.” Warmth and desire flashed in his eyes.

Shanti took the two swords off her back, handing the queen’s sword, plus her wristlet, to General Seiko to hold during the fight. She entered the pit while gazing down at her feet, oblivious of the noise of the spectators. What if she lost the match with Yasmine? If she lost, no one would pay attention to her. She would be ignored, ostracized, and Caravey would not try to rekindle the old flame if she failed to bring him honor. Then she could concentrate on getting Jun out of the prisoner-of-war camp. She would let Yasmine win.

Shanti reached the middle of the pit and raised her head to look at her challenger.

Yasmine sauntered toward her, swinging her hips. Whistles, cheers, and vulgar comments erupted from men in the crowd. Yasmine wore a black shirt, tight black pants, and thigh-high boots. Red body art adorned her arms and neck, and her shiny hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. Shanti switched the sword from her right hand to her left.

“I didn’t get a chance to ask your name the other day,” Yasmine said. “I like to know the names of the warriors I defeat in the arena. I would like to thank you in advance for—”

Shanti seized Yasmine’s neck, digging her fingers into the soft flesh, and tripped her, knocking her to the ground. Never would she let this wench cut her arm!

Yasmine jumped up, swinging her sword and ready to fight. “You’ll pay for that.”

Shanti switched her sword to her right hand and changed her appearance from Nunqua to Willovian. The crowd quieted. Murmurs spread through the audience. Then loud shouts.

“Shanti?” Yasmine said. “It can’t be. That’s just a myth. Shanti hasn’t fought in any arena, or even been seen, for years.”

The crowd chanted, “Shanti, Shanti!” The two women sparred, Shanti blocking the sword from getting anywhere near her head or body. She kicked Yasmine in the gut and sent her sprawling into the dirt. Reverting to the skin of a Nunqua, she descended on Yasmine. She grabbed the smooth ponytail and pulled tight, her boot on Yasmine’s upper back, and sword under the band of the ponytail. Nunqua warriors shouted in disbelief. Shanti was going to cut her opponent’s hair—a serious gesture indeed. But Shanti thrust the tip of her sword into Yasmine’s expensive boot instead, cutting the leather without cutting the leg.

Yasmine’s face contorted in concentration as she attacked. Strands of hair stuck to her sweaty cheeks, and the top of her boot flapped as she moved.

Something watched, something unnatural. A hawk, possessed, perched on the topmost tier of the arena. Shanti glanced at Caravey, the only other person in the arena to notice the hawk and discern an abnormal spirit controlling the bird. Caravey’s head tilted in bewilderment.

A blade bit into Shanti’s shoulder, returning her attention to the fight.

“A warrior clothes herself in pain, not pride,” she murmured as she swung her sword. Yasmine blocked the blow but was knocked off balance. “Pain is our teacher, sacrifice our duty. Brain over body. Head over heart.” She pushed Yasmine down and cut the soft leather of her other boot. “Match is over. You lose.” She stepped on the back of Yasmine’s hand, twisting the sword out of her grip and slicing her forearm. The noise of the crowd pierced her.

Ending the fight was like regaining consciousness.

The hawk continued to watch. Shanti retrieved the Queen’s sword from General Seiko and unsheathed it, holding it high in the air to show the bird as spectators slurred her name in a drunken stupor.

Caravey’s fingers ran along the bleeding cut on her shoulder; the narrow wound sealed itself.

Shanti pointed to the bird. “Baylova.”

*

Baylova smelled the bodies before her in the trampled field. The dead could not be moved, for fear of attack from the enemy. A bloated horse lay on its side, milky eyes unblinking and flies crawling over the carcass. Swords, arrows, and bits of clothing were strewn across the ground: a boot here, a water bag there, a bloody parchment, a letter from a loved one—the trinkets and trappings of lives wasted. She thought of Pirro and Aiden, then of Shanti, and closed her eyes. Through the eyes of the bird, she watched Shanti, wearing a black uniform and fighting a woman. Shanti held the sword engraved with a dragon.
Her
sword. Shanti had her sword!

Baylova opened her eyes. The dead spoke, mangled men pleading to be put in the ground. Blue lips of Willovian and Nunqua corpses called her name like croaking frogs on a hot night. Vision and reality entwined.

Shanti moved among the dead, licking the blade of Baylova’s sword. “Rega. Princess. Unworthy queen.”

Baylova’s pupils rolled back into her head. Only the whites of her eyes could be seen. She walked away from her guards and into the open, stretching her arms wide.

“Baylova, get back!” Kyros shouted. “We’re within range of their archers. You’ll be shot.”

“Baylova,” Commander Gy said. His hair had grayed considerably since the start of the war.

The queen, Commander Kyros, and several hundred men had arrived in the Outer Boundaries only minutes before. The royal guards, mystified by her appearance, did not pull the entranced woman out of harm’s way.

Her arms swung in fluid arcs, and a sudden wind swept the ground like a wave. High above, a buzzing black cloud darkened the sky. Wolves howled. Mice and rats skittered over the field, toward the enemy.

“Come get your sword,
Princess.
” Shanti ran toward her. Wasps flew through her. Mice jumped at Shanti’s feet, unable to stop her swift sprint.

Stingers pierced the spotted flesh of real warriors. Red lips of Nunqua cried out—irritated, annoyed, their swords and arrows useless against the angry swarm sent against them. Behind battlements and breastworks, pestilent mice, harbingers of disease, skittered up black boots and pants to bite muscular men with their tiny teeth.

Commander Gy watched the events openmouthed. He grasped Kyros by the jacket and shook him. “We attack now. I know the men are tired, but now is the time to force the Nunqua from the Outer Boundaries. Now!”

Shanti jumped, holding the queen’s sword high in the air. She landed and used the flat of the sword to sweep Baylova off her feet. Baylova fell onto her back. Her pupils returned to their proper place. Shanti crouched next to her, silent, calm.

The vision of Shanti evaporated like steam, while the wasps and mice remained to torment the warriors.

*

Shanti watched the fight with an uneasy feeling. Something was wrong.

The thin blade in Jun’s hand bent when struck by Gitonk’s large sword. The audience inside the open-air arena cheered. Gitonk was a brute, not a skilled swordsman. Jun worked day after day carrying firewood and performing other menial tasks. He was a prisoner, hungry and tired. The weapon given to him was substandard. Fighting in the arena was a sport—all competitors were supposed to be given a decent weapon and a proper chance to defend themselves.

“It’s not a fair match, General,” Shanti said. “You intend to kill him?”

“Why should that matter to you?”

Jun backed away from the sword, which ripped through his coat but did not cut skin.

“You’re testing Jun?” Shanti inhaled. “No, of course not. You’re testing me.”

“Three years is a long time to be away. This Willovian was at the camp in the Hedgelands with you.”

“I followed every one of your orders, became the princess’s personal guard, told you about her power. I gave you the information you asked for, and it almost got me killed.” Shanti took her weapon off her back.

“What is it you plan to do?” he said.

“I will not condone killing for the sake of killing, whether Nunqua or Willovian. I can’t change what I am.”

“Yes, you can change. And you have.”

He knew. Caravey knew she had never intended to return. She came back only so he could save her from the sickness caused by the bite of a bat. “I never liked Gitonk anyway.”

“Gitonk serves his purpose. He’s an ignorant, reckless son of a bitch. But he never questions my authority.”

Shanti moved to the edge of the pit, holding the sword inside its sheath, with the hilt facing out. She shouted to Jun above the noise of the crowd, “For Pirro!”

Jun ran and took the sword, dropping the bent, useless weapon.

“Shanti?” Gitonk said.

She lifted the necklace adorned with hair out of her jacket, then pointed to his neck. “For Pirro.”

Jun fought with a new spirit and won, pushing Shanti’s sword through Gitonk’s thick middle. She averted her gaze from the gruesome spectacle. Warriors carried Gitonk out of the arena, still alive. Caravey would heal his obedient servant once again.

Six Nunqua warriors surrounded Jun. “Drop the sword,” Caravey ordered. Jun threw the weapon down. “Impressive. You’ve won extra food for your tent, and a day’s rest.” Warriors tied Jun’s hands together and chained his ankles before escorting him out of the arena. Caravey returned Shanti’s sword to her, dripping blood.

“Death is an ugly business,” he said. “Commander Jun is not so noble. He could have simply cut Gitonk’s arm, but preferred to kill him instead, just like Zindar.”

“Gitonk won’t die. I’m certain you’ll heal him, General.”

“As I said, Gitonk serves his purpose, as do you. War won’t last forever.” Caravey moved close to her. “I was testing you, and you performed exactly as expected. You didn’t just give Commander Jun a sword; you gave him hope. You’re important, Shanti. So very, very important.”

“I’m the string that binds Willovia and the Nunqua together. The Willovians will accept you only because of me.”

“It’s more than that.”

Caravey’s skin was unblemished, perfect. He had a strong chin, wide brow, and intelligent face, but the pupils of his eyes reminded Shanti of tunnels from which there was no escape.