In the Skin of a Nunqua (27 page)

27

Snapping the String

C
aravey Delartay sat
on an uncomfortable chair as Lord Argu sauntered about the room and talked nonstop. Argu’s fist smacked his hand, and he lectured the general concerning war. A dozen mismatched chairs were scattered about, and large maps were rolled up inside a canister on the floor. Caravey’s feet rested on another chair, his legs crossed at the ankles. How he hated Argu’s impromptu speeches. The pompous ruler knew nothing of military tactics or the ways of a warrior. The only reason he tolerated Argu, who considered himself the greatest warrior ever, was because of his money and connections.

One of Caravey’s men opened the door and entered the room. “General Delartay . . .”

“How dare you barge in here!” Argu barked.

Caravey raised his palm. “It’s all right. What is it?”

“A woman is here to see you.”

“You interrupt me because of some
woman
?” Lord Argu put his hands on his hips. “Honestly, General, your warriors have no sense of things.”

Caravey held back the urge to punch Argu in the head for insulting one of his men. The warrior tossed a wristlet into Caravey’s lap. The wristlet contained three poisoned darts. “My apologies, Lord Argu,” Caravey said. “This is urgent, pertaining to the war. I have to go.” He followed the warrior out, happy for any excuse to leave Lord Argu’s company.

She stood between two black-clad warriors. Two swords were strapped to her back, and she wore Willovian attire yet looked like the half-breed she was.

“
Two
swords, Shanti?” He grinned. “You’re not that good.” He felt the sickness before he saw it in her weary features and glassy eyes. His smile disappeared. “What is it?”

“The queen . . . bit me. She’s . . . no.” She shook her head. “A bat.”

“Take her inside,” Caravey ordered. “Find a bed for her. How did she get here?”

“Horseback,” a warrior said. “She was alone. She’s been tracked since yesterday.”

“See that her horse is taken care of,” he said.

“What’s wrong with her?”

Caravey regarded the wristlet in his hands. “She’s dying.” He went into a crudely constructed wooden building and commanded the warriors to leave him alone with Shanti. Sitting on the edge of the bed where she lay, he put the wristlet on a small table.

“Why did you cut my ear?” she said.

“You’re hallucinating.” He touched her ear. “There’s nothing wrong with your ear.” Caravey held both her hands. They were dirty, limp, and hot.

“You cut my ear in half. You tied a string around my neck. Can you help me take these swords off?” The weapons were still strapped to her body, wedged between her and the mattress. Caravey removed the swords and laid them beside her.

“Why do you have two swords?”

“She hates me. I stole her sword, and she hates me.”

“Who?” Caravey pulled aside Shanti’s shirt to view the bite wound.

“The bat is retribution. The queen. Can you help me? I can’t . . . much longer.”

Caravey lifted Shanti’s quaking body to a sitting position. He put his hand gently on the back of her head and kissed her, tasting her lips and breathing in the sickness. His healing power flowed through her. She leaned against him, her cheek on his shoulder. He held her until the shaking of her muscles ceased.

“Why did you wait so long to come back?” he said.

She snored softly, her body exhausted. Caravey laid her back on the mattress and put a blanket over her. She hugged the two swords, in their separate sheathes, close to her chest.

“Shanti,” he whispered, and his smile returned.

*

Baylova wore her brown uniform. The sharp talons of a hawk clutched her leather-gauntleted arm. She removed the hood covering the hawk’s eyes. “Go. Find her.”

The bird spread its wings and leaped from her arm, gliding high above the trees and into the cloudless blue sky. Baylova watched until it vanished from view.

Commander Kyros was with her. He, too, wore a brown uniform. “Baylova, we’re ready.”

“Have you captured any monks?” she asked.

“Six have been imprisoned. Tobian is still missing.”

Baylova sighed. “I’m almost glad to be leaving. How many guards are there?”

“Four hundred and twenty two,” he said. “We’ll join another five hundred along the way.”

“Tell the guards not to touch or kill any animals they see. The wolves are also for my protection.”

“Your protection?” Kyros said. “What about food—rabbits and deer? The men will need to hunt for meat.”

“So be it.”

Baylova and Commander Kyros marched in front of silent soldiers standing straight. She mounted her stallion next to a soldier on horseback. Attached to his saddle was a blue flag adorned with a falcon. The flag flapped above their heads in the wind.

“Do you wish to speak to the men before we leave?” Kyros said.

The soldiers were lined up in an impressive display, motionless, ready to bow to her command. She searched for Aiden in the group but could not find him. “I have nothing to say.”

“Baylova,” he spoke through clenched teeth, “you must.” His jaw tightened, yet she did nothing. Kyros mounted a black horse with a white streak on its muzzle. He galloped in front of the men and unsheathed his sword, holding it high above his head. His horse kicked the air with its front hooves. The men cheered, their battle cry rising up to the clear sky.

“We face the invaders and fight for Willovia!” Kyros’s voice thundered above the noise. “For our families and our children. The Nunqua will not enslave us. We will not be second-class citizens to an inferior breed.”

Men shouted, “Hell, no!” and “Filthy Nunqua beasts!”

Kyros continued, “I would rather die! There is no glory in war, in what we are about to see and do. But we must do what is right, and send the bastards back to hell, where they belong! You are the strength of Willovia. From this point on, I serve you. Willovia will be victorious only because of honorable men like you.” Kyros returned his sword to its sheath and rode past Baylova, giving her a bitter, disrespectful glare.

*

Shanti woke to find a folded black uniform and boots on a table next to the bed. Never had she felt so grimy. She changed her appearance to full-fledged Nunqua, with scars on her arms. The sickness no longer weakened her body. She carried the swords, wristlet, and uniform outside. The warrior camp was flat with single-story wooden buildings—mere shells to break the wind. Young warriors gawked at Shanti as they passed. “Bathhouse,” she barked in the language of the Nunqua.

They directed her to a wooden building with six doors on the front. Various-size kettles and pots of water steamed above a large stove. She strode into the bathhouse. A Nunqua woman poured water into an empty metal pot.

“It’s about time,” the woman said. “I haven’t had a break all day.” Shanti grabbed a towel and wrapped it around the heated handle of a pot. “What do you think you’re doing?” the woman said. Then, seeing the black uniform and weapons in Shanti’s hand and the humorless look on her face, she grudgingly returned to her task.

Shanti entered a private room inside the bathhouse. Oilcloth lined a square tub half-full of clean water. She dropped her things, emptied the steaming water into the tub, then returned outside to get a new pot.

“You only get one,” the woman said.

Shanti ignored the comment and picked up another heated pot. A basket held rounded balls of soap. She took one and smelled it. “This all you have?”

The woman lifted a wet hand, red and irritated from the cleansers used in the bathhouse. “There’s honey-milk and lavender-scented soaps in the storage area. Might even have some perfume for you, too. Perhaps a pretty bow for your hair.”

“No one disturbs me,” Shanti ordered.

She bathed, washing her hair three times, until the water was cold and the soap a mere speck. Putting on the black uniform—the tight underclothes, pants, comfortable boots, and midlength jacket—was like traveling back in time. She strapped the wristlet onto her scarred arm, swung the two swords onto her back, and left the bathhouse. A different woman worked there now, stoking the fire with scraps of wood. She saw Shanti and quickly averted her eyes.

The uniform gave her a grandiose feeling of superiority. Shanti wrung water out of her hair and combed it with her fingers. Warriors walked toward her, chests out, chins held high. They were masters of camp.

“I can’t believe it,” they said. “She’s back.”

“We thought you were going to sleep forever.”

“I almost did.” Five warriors surrounded Shanti. The short man with bands around his biceps put his arms around her legs and lifted her off the ground, draping her over his shoulder.

“Tracker,” she said. “Don’t you owe me money?”

He put her down. “Ah, you’re still hallucinating, I see. How the hell did a bat bite you? Were you throwing rocks in a barn?”

“Actually . . .” She put her wet hair into a knot and secured it with a band. “The bat was possessed. I’ll tell you about it as soon as I get some food. I’m
starving.
”

“Same old Shanti,” a burly warrior said.

“Gitonk.” Shanti pulled a necklace of human hair from under his jacket. A lock of red adorned the morbid collection. “You bastard.”

“It’s war, nothing more.”

“Bullshit,” she said.

Tracker pulled her away from Gitonk. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you where you can eat.”

“I need to find my horse and saddle first.”

Tracker took her to the stables. Her horse grazed nearby, and her saddle perched astride a wooden wall inside a crude structure with a noticeable lean. Opening her saddlebag, she took out the feather, stained brown, and put it in her pocket. She searched for something else. “Somebody stole my money. I expected as much.”

Tracker pulled Shanti’s bag of coins from his pocket and threw it to her. “Just keeping it safe for you. Are we even?”

“Your debt is paid.”

Next, Shanti opened a box from inside her saddlebag. She put on the necklace with one lock of hair and hid it under her jacket. “General Delartay expects me to wear it,” she said. “Let’s eat.”

They went to a popular tavern a short distance away. Heaps of potatoes, eggs, and venison were mounded on Shanti’s plate. She felt light-headed drinking her second mug of ale. Tracker, Gitonk, General Delartay, and other warriors listened to her. “I slipped on the stairs and fell down about . . .” She took a bite of meat, then a swig of ale. “. . . twelve steps, maybe twenty. The castle guests just stared at me. I swear, I was an absolute mess. They finally helped me to my feet. The queen couldn’t very well come down in her nightgown—too busy pretending to be sick. So I ran out of the castle, got on my horse, and rode into the city. Then she sent wolves after me.”

“Wolves?” Tracker said.

“And if that weren’t bad enough, that witch turned my horse against me. Luckily, some people came out of their houses to help.”

“She’s powerful?” Caravey asked.

Shanti took a bite of eggs. “She’s
scary.
I don’t think she’s reached her full potential.”

“Why doesn’t she turn your horse against you now, send a pack of wolves to tear us apart here in this tavern?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Perhaps she needs to know my whereabouts before using her power against me. Maybe she needs to be closer or experience a strong emotional cue to initiate an attack. In all honesty, I think she’s terrified. We’re not defenseless children she can manipulate with fear. We are warriors!” Shanti lifted her glass in salute, and the men around her howled and beat their chests. Caravey remained quiet, nodding slightly to show his approval. “I went to the Hedgelands to get her sword,” Shanti said, “and that’s when I started hallucinating. Ghosts and demons chased me, tried to steal my soul, tear me apart. A small, sane part of my brain knew I was going mad. I’m surprised even I made it here.”

Caravey took a drink of his ale. “Whose hair hangs at the pavilion in the Hedgelands?”

Shanti put down her mug and thought of Pirro’s needless death. “Why did you go there? It wasn’t right. The hair belonged to the cook.”

“I doubt it.” Gitonk said thickly. “You wouldn’t insult the cook. You like food too much.”

“Oh, he was a good cook, too. His chicken stew and sourdough bread were the best.” Shanti gulped down the last of her ale and ordered another. “But he was an ass and needed to be dealt with.” She clasped her hands together and cracked her knuckles. “Tied him to a tree.”

A Nunqua woman in uniform, with a sword across her back, came to the table. “General Delartay, boys. Who’s this?” She regarded Shanti as if looking at something foul scraped from the bottom of her boot. “I thought you weren’t taking on new warriors, General.”

“What do you want, Yasmine?” Caravey said.

Yasmine watched Shanti get bread from a dish, devour it, and guzzle some ale. “She eats like a pig.”

“I haven’t eaten in two days,” Shanti said.

Caravey glanced at Yasmine only briefly. “I’m not taking new warriors into my group unless they have special skills I desire.”

Shanti wiped her mouth with a cloth and scrutinized the woman warrior. Black braids hung past her shoulders. Her uniform was tailored to accentuate her breasts. Her eyes were dark and her spots small. Body art, symbols of strength painted red, adorned her well-toned arms.

“What’s her skill?” she sneered.

Shanti took another drink. “I forget.”

“Surely not swords. Why do you have two? Do you think you can beat me?”

“I’m a little drunk right now, but . . .” Shanti stood, the mug of ale still in her hand. “what the hell.”

“No,” Yasmine said, scowling. “An official fight in the arena. If I win, General Delartay allows me to join his warriors. The best of the best.”

Shanti looked to the general for permission.

“You’ve been sick,” he said. “Not to mention out of practice. But a challenge is a challenge. You will fight.”

“All right.” She sat back down, and Yasmine left. “Is she any good?” Shanti asked.

“She’s more interested in
looking like
a warrior than being one,” Delartay said. “What do you want if you win? And you’d better win.”