In the Skin of a Nunqua (30 page)

Shanti belonged to him.

30

Quest for a Sword

J
un awoke, and
Shanti wasn’t beside him. She moved about the barn, getting ready for the day. Her black boots stuck out from the dark skirt a village woman had given her. Above this, she wore a white shirt and a man’s beige overcoat. The mismatched clothing was functional though not fashionable.

“Come with me to the Outer Boundaries,” he said. “Commander Gy will be there; so will Commander Kyros. They can confirm your story.”

“Baylova is at the Outer Boundaries. Do you remember how she hates me? I assure you, it’s only gotten worse.”

He wanted to pull her back onto the blanket and bury himself in her arms, her warmth. “Stay with me, Shanti.”

“I . . . can’t. Not right now. The Willovians think I’m a traitor, and I’m certain the Nunqua want my head for helping you escape. When the war’s over, things can be different.”

“You’re so pigheaded sometimes. Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.” She strapped the sword to her back, and the dart wristlet to her arm. “Somewhere I don’t have to wear these all the time. Somewhere I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not.”

Jun buttoned his shirt. “Does such a place exist?”

Her movements slowed at the stinging remark. Why did he have to say something so dumb? It didn’t matter to him that she was a half-breed. She should know that, especially after last night.

“I have money,” she said. “Not much, but enough that we can trade the horses for better ones. I’ll see if they’re awake.” She slid the barn door open enough to squeeze her body through.

The morning sky was gray, and fog settled in the distance. The smell of eggs and sausage came from the house. Jun folded the blankets and draped them over the stall door. It didn’t make sense for her to be alone. Shanti would stay with him. They would go to the Outer Boundaries. That was final. After all, he was still a commander in the Willovian military and could vouch for her allegiance. She had saved his life; it was his turn to return the favor.

He put on his coat and looked in the mirror. The cut on his lip had healed, along with his black eye. His body felt strong. Too strong. Jun hopped up and down to test his knee. The persistent pain that had caused him to limp since being captured by the Nunqua was gone.

Shanti, that witch!
She must have retained a measure of Caravey’s ability to heal and unknowingly transferred it to him. Which meant she was a repository for Baylova’s power, too. No wonder Delartay coveted her!

The old man entered the barn, dragging Shanti in by the arms. Her heels left two long tracks in the dirt. “We got trouble, boy.” He dropped Shanti and pushed the sliding door shut. The shaft and feathers of an arrow protruded from her left side. Shanti panted. The color drained from her face, and spots emerged on her skin.

The old man backed away. “Wha . . . ?”

Jun knelt beside her and lifted the flap of her jacket. The bleeding was minimal. He broke the shaft in two, leaving the arrowhead buried between her ribs, to extract later. She would recover. A tear rolled down her face. Jun rolled her onto her uninjured side to ease her breathing. “Who’s out there?” he asked the man.

His eyes widened. “She
is
a Nunqua.”

“Who is out there?”

“Nunqua warriors. The wife left through the tunnels to get help from town.”

Jun reached for Shanti’s sword.

“No . . .” She struggled to speak. “Fire.”

“Fire?”

Voices loomed outside the barn. Nunqua voices.

“Fire,” she said. “. . . will hurt . . . their eyes. Blind them.” Another tear rolled down her nose.

“Don’t worry, Shanti. You’ll get through this. Trust me.” Jun took hold of the lantern. A small flame burned inside. He picked up the jug of alcohol. “I’m sorry,” he said.

The man placed both hands on his bald head. “Not my brew! Oh, all right.” He opened a trapdoor hidden under straw. Reaching down, he pulled up five jugs of the strong liquor and kissed the last jug. “For the good of Willovia.” He pointed to the barn door. “You take that side; I’ll take this one.”

Jun put down the jug and gathered a handful of straw. He lit the end with fire from the lantern. The old man did the same.

Both doors slid open at once. An arrow flew by the man and stuck into the wall. Jun threw the jug in front of the opening. It broke, and he lit the spilled alcohol. Flames mushroomed outward to reach a pile of straw. Jun opened the stall gates to release the two horses, smacking them on the rump to get them out. The horses bolted toward the exit not blocked by flames. Warriors backed away from the charging beasts. The hooves of a horse just missed trampling Shanti.

The old man threw down the next jug, lighting the alcohol with the straw torch. “Over here!” he yelled to Jun.

Nunqua warriors crossed the fire. The old man tossed a third jug into the blaze, near the intruders, and they retreated from the dazzling flames, covering their eyes with their arms. Jun lifted Shanti, who was in too much pain to stand. Her breathing was labored. The arrow must have nicked her lung. He followed the old man to an unblocked exit at the side of the barn.

The spiked metal ball of a mace hit the old man in the chest. He soared backward into Jun. Two spotted hands grabbed Jun’s coat, hauling him over the injured old man. Jun released Shanti and, pulling the sword from her back, grazed the warrior’s side. The warrior blinked, his eyes darting back and forth. The mace whizzed through the air, missing its target. Jun lifted Shanti’s weapon over his head and swung it, but a sword stopped him from killing the Nunqua armed with the mace.

General Caravey Delartay squinted as he fought with Jun. Fire shone on the blades.

“Get her!” Delartay shouted.

The warrior with the mace grabbed Shanti’s arm and dragged her away.

Jun ran toward Delartay, ready to ram the weapon into his heart. Delartay repelled the attack and kicked Jun’s knee, which, after a night spent with Shanti, was no longer sore. Jun picked him up and slammed him to the ground. The swords fell from their hands. Delartay punched, kicked, and tried to gouge out Jun’s eyes. Jun, on top now, pushed his forearm against Delartay’s throat. Delartay sputtered for air.

A monstrous blast knocked them over, shaking Jun to his core. He rose sluggishly. Had the fire reached a still or an entire barrel of alcohol hidden in the barn? Turning his head, he saw Delartay snatch Shanti’s sword while shielding his eyes from the flames.

Jun was as good as dead. There would be no prisoner-of-war camp—none of Delartay’s games this time. The bald man, his shirt spotted with blood, yanked Jun backward, close to the burning barn, toward the intense heat.

Willovian voices mingled with the crackle of the fire. Delartay stepped away from the burning barn and searched the flames.

“Can’t see us,” the bald man said. “Fire’s too bright for Nunqua eyes.”

A warrior on horseback brought Delartay his mount. Shanti slumped in the saddle with the unknown warrior.

Delartay got on his horse, and the warriors rode away into the fog.

“No!” Jun said.

“Papa?” a woman called out. She saw her husband, injured but standing. Clasping her hands together, she looked up to the sky.

A gang of armed Willovian men ran to their aid, but it was too late. Shanti was gone.

“A horse!” Jun grabbed the man’s bloodied shirt, making him groan. “I need a fast horse.”

“It’s too late. Better this way, boy. She’s back with her own breed.”

*

The Nunqua stopped in the middle of the forest to regroup. The man holding Shanti dismounted and pulled her off his horse. He tied the reins of his horse to a tree branch, leaving Shanti thrashing on a layer of leaves. Warriors left her alone as they filled skins with water from the stream. Tree roots spread along the ground like giant snakes. Frogs and turtles jumped off rocks spotted with lichen and splashed into a nearby stream. The horse pushed her with its soft muzzle.

Kidnapped again
.

Caravey knelt beside her. He opened her jacket and reached inside her torso. She shrieked, pushing the remaining air out of her one uninjured lung. Her eyes closed, and her body slacked. The warmth of his healing touch replaced the agony. The fibers of her muscles weaved together, and her lungs expanded with an inflow of fresh air. Caravey showed her the bloody arrowhead in his bloody hand. “Another scar to chronicle your disobedience. Do not test my patience. I’m not through with you.”

Leaves tangled in her hair. She was too weak to stand. Caravey dripped water onto her lips and into her mouth from a bag. He lifted her sleeve and removed the wristlet. “Gitonk is dead.” He waited for a response.

Shanti remained silent.

*

Commander Kyros and six other Willovian soldiers stood in an informal circle around a captured Nunqua warrior as Baylova interrogated him. They had entered enemy territory days ago with three thousand men. Sickly trees, bent by wind, dotted the grassy landscape.

Kyros watched the wolf snap at the warrior’s legs.

“Where’s my sword?” Baylova asked the prisoner. Another wolf, snarling, hackles standing on end, lurked about her feet.

“Shanti has it.” The warrior’s face contorted, and he tried to kick the beast away. Sweat dripped from his spotty skin. “She waits for you.” The wolf tore at his boot.

“Where?” Baylova said.

“The arena. Death match. She wants to kill you with an audience watching.” The wolf clamped down on his calf. “Get him off me!” Froth dripped from the wolf’s mouth. “Shanti wants to show both the Nunqua and the Willovians that you’re weak. Get him off!”

Baylova whistled, and the wolf released the warrior, licking its teeth and snout. She petted the snarling beast. “It’s not a ‘he.’ It’s a she-wolf.”

He gripped his bleeding leg and sniveled. Baylova left the group, followed by the two gray beasts.

Kyros clapped when the queen was out of sight. “Bravo! What a brilliant performance.”

The warrior stood to his full height, no longer sniveling.

“How many warriors await us at the arena? Four thousand? Ten thousand?”

“Personally,” the Nunqua said, “I’d like to see Shanti fight your queen. It’d be a hell of a show.”

“Your generals have planned quite a diversion,” Kyros said. “The real battle occurs outside the arena while the royal witch is preoccupied. Whose idea is this? General Seiko’s? Surely not Lord Argu’s—he’s a bit thick to come up with that sort of ruse.”

“If you must kill me, do it now and spare me the conversation,” the warrior said. “My duty’s done.”

“Take him away,” Kyros ordered. “You’ll live to perform again.”

Soldiers tied the prisoner’s wrists together and departed with him. Kyros held back one Willovian soldier. “Go to Commander Gy. He’s at the Outer Boundaries. Tell him we’re being led into a trap and need more men to fight.”

“Commander, why not tell this to Baylova.”

“Because she’s a young woman, stubborn and foolish. I’ll do all I can to slow our progress to the arena.”

“Why not . . . ?” He closed his mouth, lips pressed tight together.

“Speak your mind,” Kyros said.

“Why not turn around? The soldiers don’t want to be here, inside Nunqua territory. Many will disobey Baylova’s commands and follow you or Commander Gy. Why not leave?”

“This war will end and another begin if Baylova’s orders are not heeded.
Civil
war. I’d rather kill a Nunqua warrior in battle than a Willovian brother. Arm yourself well, keep off the roads, and don’t travel at night.”

“Yes sir.”

Kyros sighed and looked deep into the messenger’s youthful face. “May the spirits protect you.”

“And you.”

*

Shanti sat on a bed inside a windowless room. Someone unlocked the door and entered. It was Tracker. He tossed a black uniform onto the bed. “You never planned on coming back. Only after you were bitten by the bat.”

“He never burned
your
skin . . . cut you with a knife so he could heal you . . . pretended to be your savior.”

“Do as he says,” Tracker whispered. “The more you defy him, the more he’ll hurt you. You can’t fight a healer and win.”

“Tell General Seiko I’m here,” she said.

“He already knows.”

Footsteps approached the room. “Only a coward follows blindly,” Shanti said.

His sneer was like salt rubbed into open sores. She waited for him to spit on her, call her a backstabbing bitch, cut off a lock of her hair. But Tracker said nothing—the cold shoulder of a friendship gone sour.

Caravey entered the cramped space, shadowed by two warriors. “Shanti, my sweet, two-faced mongrel.” He threw her sword and wristlet of darts onto the bed, by the uniform, and ordered Tracker to leave. “I saved your life twice: first from the sickness caused by the bat’s bite, and then from the arrow lodged in your lung. You owe me. One last fight.” He took Baylova’s sword off his back and pulled the shiny blade out of its scabbard. “In the arena.”

“No.”

“Don’t do it for me.” Caravey pointed the sharp tip of the weapon at her throat, lifting her chin with the blade and forcing her to look at him. “Do it for the Nunqua. For yourself. Hell, do it for the Willovians. Baylova’s no benevolent queen. You can defeat her. You
will
fight Baylova.” He pulled the sword back from her throat.

“I will not.”

Baylova’s sword arced through the air. Shanti turned away from the blade. The sharp edge cut her ear, slicing it in two. The room spun, and the contents of her stomach lurched. The pain and nausea were not as great as the knowledge. Madiza’s prediction had come true. Caravey had cut her ear!

The room dissolved. She was inside the portrait room of the castle—a vision. Now? It seemed so real. Blood dripped from her mangled ear and pooled on the marble floor. The three portraits of Baylova, Gy, and herself hung on the wall. Pathways to the future. Nothing had changed. Nothing was set in stone. Madiza wasn’t with her; neither was Serova. She was alone.

She had brought herself into the vision; she could bring herself out of it. Shanti willed herself back to the present.