Chosen (The Warrior Chronicles, 1) (35 page)

Shanti
searched
ahead of them, but without knowing these people well, and across the great distance, she couldn’t tell minds apart, whether Inkna or not, and she couldn’t feel Sanders. But then, Sanders was probably way underground. She would have to be nearly right on top of him to feel him through that much earth.

That was no problem, though
; she could get that information when she got her hands on one of the disgusting, money-grubbing bastards who held this land prisoner.

A hundred yards from the black, gleaming gate she could make out faces. Two men stood to either side,
in addition to the uniformed guards, waiting with hands at their sides, crisp black shirts and black pants hanging still in the windless afternoon. Another black clad man stood atop the wall to either side, also wearing black. No arrows. No swords. Mental warfare. Bring it on.

“Cayan, shield yourself,” she yelled. “When they hit us I am going to take them down screaming. I want them to panic
, knowing someone stronger is knocking on their door. Scare those that fight with them.”

“Un
derstood,” came the graveled reply, thick with confidence. “Give ‘em hell.”

The pain snapped off
like a light going out, dousing him in pitch black. Through the haze Sanders realized something was happening. Shapes moved, shouts. Maybe they were finally going to kill him.

Thank God. He was done. He only hoped they
’d use a knife. He couldn’t handle any more pain to his eyes, skull, hair follicles, face, or chest. He knew that each black shirt had a different way to inflict pain, and he knew how hard they could push before they had to switch. Usually by the third one he was blacking out. He couldn’t even answer questions if he tried. He couldn’t think or understand after the first two slaps of pain. It was his city’s saving grace in the end.

“What is happening?
” Betty asked, spraying spittle in irritation.

Ah Betty, that ol’ bitch. He was patient a
nd seemingly pleasant. Sanders’ severe hatred for him was the only thing keeping him sane. The desire to give some back was the only thing waking Sanders up into the fog of agony, keeping his mind from drifting into the soft embrace of death.

One of the Black Shirts
answered in gibberish, which meant they had switched to their own language. Well, they weren’t going to finally kill him. Joy. He would live to hurt another day.

All the Black S
hirts ran out of the dungeon, followed by anyone else standing around. Weapons were pulled out and yells and shouts filled the halls. Something was indeed happening. Dare he hope the Captain was coming?

“What are you smiling about?” Betty
asked in his crisp tones. He was standing close to the bars, looking into the gloomy cell, trying to make out Sanders’ face.

“You better hope
she
isn’t here. She has a mean temper.”

A blast hit Shanti, the combined power of six men equaling three-fourths of her own
power. These men had to be their best, designed to bring an enemy to their knees so the gates could be lowered. Cayan’s power pumped into her, making her stronger, making the scrape against her shields nothing more than an irritating distraction.

“Bring them down,
mesasha
—the men are wilting!” Cayan roared.

The gate shook violently, metal creaking, then began to lower slowly. Shanti picked up her pace, grabbing s
ix minds as she broke into a run, clutching them with her and Cayan’s combined might, and then
crushing
, slow but complete, the city drenched in their screams before they dropped.

A wave of fear engulfed her, the chain of the gate now rattling franticly while the guards struggled to get it down.

“Forward!” Cayan yelled behind her, hooves picking up the pace.             

Shanti burst through the lowering gate and speared the man operating the crank. He slid off her sword in a boneless heap.

Horses streamed past her, the Captain with his giant sword cleaving the enemy in his way. His horse knocked down and trampled anyone directly in front. Lucius was off his horse and by her side, sword out, watching her back as she turned to the city, mind spread out, scouring for a mental attack while hunting for Sanders.

“S’am!” Leilius stepped beside her, out of breath. He was sweating and his eyes were wide. He had a bloodied knife clutched in a white knuckled grip. “What do I do?”

“Hide that knife. Blend in. Act—continue to be scared. Find Sanders. I will follow your progress and meet you there.”

“Yes S’am.”

Lucius’ sword whipped
out in front of him to make short work of a screaming Inkna in a red cloak running for the gate.

“Those wearing black have mental abilities,” Shanti warned. “Those in red or yellow are safe to approach on sight. Get someone to man this gate, then we find Sanders.”

“Yes, S’am. Following your lead.”

Shanti
searched,
huddling next to a stone wall, using her
Gift
more precisely
.
Cayan’s men couldn’t shield. They would be useless if even one Black Shirt lurked. And the Inkna were great at lurking, hiding their presence so as to use their
Gift
in secrecy. It was cowardly, but much more effective.

“Ready.” Lucius stood poised, balanced, coiled for action.

She and Lucius headed further into the city, trying to stay central until they either knew where Sanders was, or Shanti could identify more Black Shirts. Amazingly, the city didn’t hold as many troops as she expected. When the villagers and traders scrambled away or took up arms, it was a little less than two to Cayan’s one. The Inkna were vastly outmatched, however. The Spurna, Cayan’s people, were larger, stronger, and fiercer. They feinted and stabbed, or cleaved, or picked a body up and broke its back. It was vicious and nasty, utterly brutal. No one would be spared.

Shanti worked her blade, staying in
the shadows of traders’ stalls or animal housing as much as possible, jumping out to surprise an Inkna and slice him through. Until suddenly there was a concussion of silence. The air got as thick as molasses, drifting between clashing swords and sweating men.

Cayan’s men screamed, scrubbing at their eyes, or chests, or other parts of their body. Cayan, sword bloody,
standing amid a circling of dead enemy bodies, turned around in helplessness, knowing what was happening, but not knowing how to stop it. His gaze found and locked on Shanti, his mind dragging her focus toward him in desperation.

She
swatted away his scrabbling, their deeper link still prevalent, and fell to her knees, eyes closed, trusting in Lucius’ blade. Her mind registered the pain and suffering of Cayan’s men at the north end of the open compound. The Black Shirts’ reach wasn’t far, but it was potent, the
Gifts
more like torturing devices than weapons. It was lucky, it meant they took longer to kill.

Shanti honed in until she could feel cold malevolence, a professional detachment with edges of pleasure radiating out of weak minds. Fire welled up in her from this horrible use of their
Gifts
. Of the joy they took in torture and killing. They minds were twisted with it. Corrupted.

Wasted.

Cayan riding her, she took a pause of two more heartbeats; she monitored the way their minds connected, ten in all, a link boosting their power similar to Cayan and hers. But not boosting it overly much. Probably only a couple like
-Gifts
. It hurt their effectiveness.

As if delicately picking apart a spider web, she dissected this link and followed the trail into their heads.
Hello, vermin.

She
lingered, gathering her strength. With one massive outpouring, she
speared
, flashing through the weak minds in one stroke. Screams ripped from throats before bodies dropped to the ground in crumpled heaps.

When she opened her eyes, she found Lucius in front of her, his body grimy and sweaty, blood splashed across his rippled arms. A pile of bodies lay around them, blood oozing on the dirt floor, reaching for her knees. To her astonishment, Sterling was behind her, protecting her back, heading off a rush of men.

The Inkna had realized she had the
Gift.
She had just made herself the number one target.

A moment later Shanti was up on her feet, sword whirling, working through the men trying to get a piece of her. The eyes of fighters in red shirts balked, not expecting a
Gifted
to also know how to fight.

She almost yelled
surprise!

Ten paces to the left an Inkna raised his sword with the
intent of putting it in Tobias’ back. Shanti snatched a knife from her belt and threw, sticking him in the neck before the blade swung down. Tobias whirled around, seeing the dead man slide before looking up with wide eyes, but Shanti was already focused on the next.

“Beware the black shirts!” she yelled as loudly as possible between slashes of her swords.

“They have a
Sarsher,”
a Black Shirt yelled at Betty. “He is powerful.”

“We have many! Bring him down!
” Betty screamed back.

Sanders had never actually seen the man ruffled. He must be nervous.

“He took down a
Cospe.
” Black Shirt stared at Betty through the haze, his voice wavering, trying to hide fear.

“Then they must have more than one
, you idiot! Send out more of our
Sarshers
. Bring him down!
Why do you laugh?!”
Betty screamed at Sanders.

“It is not a he, and you are all gonna die
.”

Shanti
felt invigorated. Her body thoroughly warmed up, she laid into the enemy, punishing them for taking Sanders and his men. She was covered in blood and working her way toward a large building at the south end of the compound. Leilius had disappeared into the building, closing in on Sanders’ whereabouts. Attackers came at her in a steady stream, those closer to the outcropping of buildings more skilled and experienced than those in the outer parts of the city. They were protecting their leader. Who must be with Sanders.

She longed to meet him.

Sterling was still with her, protecting her as Lucius was doing, probably staying in case more Black Shirts arrived. Just when she was about to head into the building through a large archway, a large throb of stinging power slapped at her shields. Lucius and Sterling sank to their knees, eyes closed up in pain, swords clattering to the ground as their bodies bowed.

A swarm of red assaulted her, swords flicking by her head so fast she could barely get out of the way. The pulsing power pounded at her shields, distracting her, trying to break through.

Through her power-mated connection with Cayan she dumped a fervent plea, needing help. She couldn’t even spare enough attention to look around for his location, such was the press of enemy.

She blocked a strike, kicking out, crunching a knee and slashing at an arm. Another sword barely missed her head. Yet another made a shallow slice down her arm. She whirled, gearing up for a widespread mental assault, lacking the time to
search
for just the Black Shirts. It would severely reduce her energy level, making her less able to confront whoever had Sanders. But it would save her life.

Power gurgled up and blossomed out, at the edges of her command, ready to lash out.

And then Cayan was there, slashing through a wall of enemy to reach her, a pump of power boosting her, swirling their strength to the brink. His blade spun so fast it was hard to see, his strength and skill easily dominating four to his one. He slashed through a red shirt, then turned, knocking another with an elbow while he sliced through a third’s face. Turning back, he stabbed a man in the eye with a magically appearing dagger before turning to Shanti’s back and taking out someone else.

Together they
cleared their attackers in minutes, cleaving and slashing and stabbing through eyes or hearts or guts, all the while feeling the steady pressure of a cluster of minds focused on theirs, beating down, pounding and pulling and pushing, trying to work past their defenses.

In between strikes and slices, swords glinting as they swished by her head or narrowly missing her body, Shanti pinpointed a cluster of twenty or so men, hiding off to their right, focusing all their energy on Shanti’s location. They still did not know about Cayan.