In the Skin of a Nunqua (31 page)

Caravey’s lips moved, but all she heard was the pounding of her blood. No fear paralyzed her. She put both hands on the wall for balance and jumped at Caravey, pulling his hair and wrestling him to the floor. She stole his power, and her ear was restored. He couldn’t break free, and they thrashed about. Caravey’s ear split and bled as she reversed his healing power.

The two warriors finally wrenched her away from Caravey.

He touched his mangled ear. “You witch!”

“I guess I am,” she said. “I’ll not fight for you. You don’t control me anymore.”

“I
own
you!” A vein on his forehead stood out. “Where would you be if I hadn’t trained you? In a tavern, serving drinks? A servant in some rich man’s manor? A second-rate seamstress? A pathetic loner always living in fear that people would find out your secret? I made you a warrior. I made you great. Your fame in the arena came about only because I taught you how to fight, to overcome pain, to succeed. I carved out your destiny, not you.
I
did. You owe me.” Caravey pulled a small vial of out of his jacket and showed her a drug. “You will fight Baylova. And you will win.”

*

The sight of the arena filled Kyros with dread. Armed Nunqua warriors watched the procession of Willovian invaders, letting them pass unopposed. Three thousand brown-clad soldiers rode or marched behind Baylova, Kyros, and the blue flag. Dust, blown by a harsh breeze, pelted their faces. Crows soared low over the landscape, and vultures circled above.

They reached the arena overflowing with Nunqua men, and Baylova dismounted. She patted the stallion’s neck, then handed the reins to a soldier. He led her horse away. The two wolves approached and prowled about her feet. She looked to Kyros, terror evident on her face.

He remained on his horse. “I stay with the soldiers, Baylova. You do this alone.”

She headed toward the arena built of wood and rock. The wolves followed. Crows flew in loose formations around her. Brawny Nunqua warriors in full battle array backed away from the diminutive witch. Baylova and the wolves disappeared into the structure. Spectators inside the arena cheered.

Kyros galloped to the rear of the assemblage of Willovian soldiers and out of earshot of the Nunqua. He bowed his head and firmed his resolve, hating what must do. “For the good of Willovia.” He lifted his head and commanded the man on horseback beside him, “Tell the archers to prepare their arrows. On my signal, we burn the arena to the ground.”

Over hills in the distance, thousands of Nunqua warriors came into view. Kyros spoke into the wind, “Gy, where are you?”

*

Shanti coughed as the drug was forced down her throat. A hand clamped over her mouth, and she swallowed the liquid. Hair fell over her face, and her wrists were chained to the wall. She wore the black uniform now. She kicked at the warriors.

“Save it for the arena, my sweet,” Caravey said. His ear had healed, although it remained deformed. A wound inflicted by witchcraft. So a healer
could
be harmed. “Leave us alone,” he said. The warriors left the room. “Baylova demands your allegiance. I know you won’t bow to her. She tried to kill you, after all.”

He spoke of honor, Nunqua might, and the death of Baylova. Caravey’s speech became the purring of a leopard with padded feet and sharp teeth. The leopard rubbed its sleek head against her leg, wanting attention, but her arms were chained to the wall.

“So many cages,” she said.

“Kill Baylova, and you’ll be free,” Caravey said, once again in human form. “What do you want when you win? What is your request?”

Separating illusion from reality had become difficult. She rattled the chains to escape her bondage.

“What’s your deepest desire?”

She stared at him, her eyelids heavy, her mind confused from the vision. Or was it the drug? “Who are you?”

“You will is strong, but your mind is full of holes, my dear. You’ve blocked me out of your memory. Just as you blocked out the memory of the night we took you away from Willovia and you killed one of my warriors. When I gave you
this.
” He touched the hair on the necklace around her neck. “Baylova is not worthy to be queen. You will be a magnificent queen. You will unite the Nunqua and Willovians. You and I can rule. No longer will you have to hide your true self. The name ‘Shanti’ will be legendary.

“You are the offspring of the celebrated warrior Shintar. You were hidden most of your life. I brought you out of Willovia after your mother died, and prepared you for greatness. A grand arena will be built in Erbaut after the war. We’ll construct the best training grounds, host the finest fights. Thousands of spectators will cheer your name. The people of both countries will adore you, love you. And every night, you and I can feast, get drunk on the sweetest wine, sleep on sheets of silk. We’ll be together again. Remember the good times. Think of the future.”

Shanti licked her lower lip to taste the potion. Her surroundings became clear, as did her purpose. Blood pumped through her veins like ice water, awakening her senses and priming her to muscles to fight.

“Defeat Baylova,” he said. “Today, you will bring us honor, my warrior queen.”

31

The Arena

B
aylova’s breath came
in ragged gasps. Nunqua filled the stands, shouting in a language she didn’t understand. Wolves circled the pit.

Shanti entered the arena, unkempt hair in her face and dried blood splattered across her cheek and neck. A scar marred the skin above her collarbone, another scar her chin, and her hands looked burned. The cheering of the crowd intensified into a frenzy at the sight of Shanti, who held her sword with the dragon engraved on it, twirled it in her hand, flaunting the stolen scrap of metal.

“Lose something?” Shanti said.

Baylova lifted her hand, black fingernails held out like claws. A wolf charged, teeth snapping, poised to rip vulnerable flesh. Shanti slashed the creature’s belly open with her sword, and pain ripped through Baylova’s midsection. She lifted her other hand, and the second wolf charged.

Shanti, one sword strapped to her back, threw down the weapon and faced the animal barehanded. The crowd chanted Shanti’s name. Shanti grasped the fur and forced the animal to the ground, pressing her body on top of the beast. The animal whimpered.

Debris inside the arena blew into a dusty whirlwind. Baylova dropped to her hands and knees. Energy drained from her like water squeezed from a sponge. Shanti was stealing her power through the wolf that she possessed.

A thump reverberated through the arena, and the ground shook. Light flashed near the topmost tier of wooden benches. Multiple fires flared in the arena. Nunqua spectators poured out of exits, armed and ready to do battle. A trap.

Bayovla’s head dropped weakly to the dirt as Shanti absorbed more of her power. An eerie quiet enveloped her. She lifted her head. She was at the castle, inside the portrait room. A dream? A vision?
Now?
She studied the strange yet familiar place. The paintings of her ancestors were not how she remembered. Details had changed.

Shanti’s footsteps echoed in the long hall. She stopped—a tall and terrifying apparition. “Serova,” Shanti said. A woman in a black dress came into view.

“M . . . Mother?”

Serova touched Baylova’s face with a cold hand.

“She cannot speak in this place,” Shanti said. “You went to war with the soldiers, faced a traitor, faced death. You passed the final test. The Guardians of Willovia will accept you as queen.
Respect,
” Shanti hissed, “takes longer.”

“I don’t understand,” Baylova said.

“I’ll release the wolf when we return. You must enter the battle, use your power to defeat the Nunqua. You can end the war. Madiza has foreseen it. Show them your strength, and they will leave Willovia alone. “

Paint on the portraits bubbled, then blackened, spreading to the edges of gilded frames, to obscure past and future monarchs. Heat warmed her skin. Fire crackled. Burning portraits fell off walls to reveal smoldering seats inside the arena. Serova vanished. Shanti’s spirit returned to her body, still pressed on top of the wolf.

A scowling Nunqua warrior appeared in the disintegrating vision. He put a hand on Baylova’s shoulder. The blade in his other hand slid upward through her. The warrior pulled the sword out. Baylova felt the warmth of her life’s blood flow out of her. “Aiden,” she said. The man took the sharp edge of the blade and cut her throat.

Over. It was finally over. Shanti’s scream sang in her ears like a distant dream. The cumbersome body that encased her spirit crumpled to the ground.

*

“This is madness!” Commander Gy watched warriors thunder down hills on horses, toward men fighting each other. He rode toward the arena with reinforcements. It didn’t matter how many Willovian soldiers he had brought—it was a fight they were certain to lose. The Nunqua would expend all their strength, every resource, to save their lands from invaders—lands the Willovians didn’t even want.

Gy turned to a soldier with a horn fastened to his belt. “Sound the retreat.” He looked for Commander Kyros and saw him near the burning arena. “Retreat!” Gy yelled as he rode toward the battle. The horn blew, a deep hum penetrating the chaos. Other horns followed.

The Willovian flag, carried by a man on horseback, flew high near the fire. “Take down the flag,” Gy said. The soldier lowered the flag and rolled the material around the pole, tying it closed with leather strips. Gy searched for the Nunqua flag. He saw it on a hill not far away. The Nunqua Lord Argu, wearing black armor, sat astride his horse. Beside him was the gray-haired warrior, General Seiko.

The fighting subsided, replaced by an uneasy truce. Only a few casualties littered the ground. It could have been worse. Much worse. Gy weaved his mount through the horde. “Easy, men. It’s time for diplomacy.”

“Gy.” Kyros bent over, one hand on his knee. The other hand held his sword, covered with gore. “Thank the spirits.”

“Where’s Baylova?” Gy said.

Kyros looked in the direction of the burning arena.

Jun ran to them on foot. “Where’s Shanti?”

Once again, Kyros glanced at the fire.

An arrow flew past Kyros and hit Gy. His horse reared, and he was thrown off.

Fighting between Willovian soldiers and Nunqua warriors resumed.

*

Shanti picked the sword up off the ground and went to the body of Baylova, fighting back the surge of remorseful tears. “I can heal you. It’s not too late.”

“She’s dead,” Caravey said.

She knelt beside the corpse and put her hand over the wound on Baylova’s neck, trying to seal the cut.

“You can’t bring her back if she doesn’t want to come back,” Caravey said. “She tried to kill herself once. Death is what she wanted. Baylova was too weak to wear the crown. How many men died from her ill-conceived decrees? Now you are queen of Willovia, and I will be ki—” A finely crafted dart hit him in the shoulder. He tugged it out, threw it to the ground. “Stupid freak. You can’t poison me. I’m—” Another dart struck him in the chest.

She knew that the poison wouldn’t kill Caravey. If only she could touch him, steal his power, give him the sickness that once ravaged her body—the illness caused by the bite of a bat. Would it be enough? How did one kill a healer?

Caravey’s mouth opened in an angry roar. He sprang at her, squinting in the brightness of the fire, sword in hand, ready to deliver another scar for her disobedience. Now was the time to break free of her bondage. She would die as he had taught her to live: fighting.

Shanti countered the blow with Baylova’s sword. The force of his assault sent her staggering backward. She was no match for Caravey with a sword. Her arm swung in a smooth loop. The uninjured wolf attacked and tore at his arm. Shanti stood and curled her fingers into a claw, slashing her hand through the air. Caravey’s head, stung by the invisible force, whipped to the side. Although she never touched him, blood seeped from four gashes in his cheek. He had spilled her blood more than once; now, Shanti knew, she could spill his.

He scowled in anger—and a newfound fear that she could see in his face. Caravey was not indestructible. Shanti possessed the wolf. The animal jumped, clamping on to the exposed area of Caravey’s throat with a determination stronger than death.

She felt the animal’s rage, the thrill of the kill. Baylova’s power was
her
power. She twisted her arm. The wolf twisted Caravey’s neck with an unnatural force, snapping bone and nerves. His contorted body lay motionless on the ground.

Black smoke filled the arena. It hurt to blink, to breathe. Shanti coughed and went to Caravey’s body. She wouldn’t mourn. He had been dead to her for years. She cut off a braid of his hair with her sword. His hand contracted, and she backed away.

His fingers moved. The fingers of his other hand began to move. “Damn you,” she said. A painful tightness constricted her chest at the thought of what she must do to ensure his death. Using the wolves to attack Caravey had given her a sense of detachment. This was different.

Flashes of a forgotten memory—the night she taken away from Willovia—now surfaced: the warrior’s detestable grin, raspy voice, hands all over her, the flash of metal, other warriors staring in shock at the faded spots on her skin, which she could no longer control. A rag soaked with vapors had been forced over her mouth until her muscles refused to respond to mental commands. She was taken away from Willovia in a drug-induced stupor.

Shanti lifted the sword over her head in a two-handed grip and prayed to the spirits for strength, both mental and physical. This was the moment of truth. Everything else—the training, obstacle courses, endless hours of sword practice, competing in the arena for sport—was just a game. Was she a real warrior, a real soldier, or just an arrogant woman who prided herself on being something she wasn’t? Shanti concentrated on Caravey’s neck. Blood poured from the bite wound made by the wolf. She widened her stance. It must be a clean cut, a quick soldier’s death.

Caravey’s eyelids flickered. His arm bent slowly at the elbow.

She visualized an ax cleaving wood and swung the sword in a downward arc. Caravey’s head rolled away from his body.

Shanti howled in revulsion.
What have I done!

Smoke burned her eyes. She returned to Baylova’s corpse, the brown uniform soaked with blood. The lunacy of war, of seeing people she knew die so violently, cut deeper than any blade could reach. She picked up the lifeless arm to heave the body over her shoulder and carry it out of the arena.

Baylova’s blue lips moved. “Leave me.”

Was she hallucinating, or had the corpse just spoken to her?

The lifeless eyes were half open. “Let my body burn.”

“It wasn’t supposed to end like this,” Shanti said. “I didn’t plan—”

“Don’t let the monks find my body. Take my hair. End the war.”

Shanti put the body down, cut off a lock of hair, and kissed the forehead.

She searched for a way out. Fire blocked the exits. A white blur passed her like a ghost. A white fox. It stopped by the benches of stone.
Madiza.

Shanti coughed, followed the fox, crawled under seats to a hole in the rock. She entered a smoke-filled passageway that led to rooms and the outside. Two swords, hers and Baylova’s, crossed in an X on her back. The wolf was at her side. Her tongue tasted like charcoal. She stooped at the waist and fell. The wolf pawed at her, yipping to get her to move.

Shanti crawled along the ground, chased by the licking flames. Cooler air entered her lungs. She escaped the burning arena. Rising smoke blocked out the sun. She moved away from the fire and stumbled upon the motionless body of a Nunqua on the ground. The cries of a wounded Willovian nearby filled her with dread. She had left the scene of one horror only to find another. The Nunqua had started the war, yet the Willovians had invaded Nunqua territory. Whose side was she on? Jun’s question, as always, returned to her thoughts. Was she Willovian or Nunqua?

She was both, damn it.

Gathering what remained of her strength, Shanti walked into the midst of the battle, the wolf beside her. Tufts of smoke rose from her singed uniform. She lifted her bloody hands. In each was a long lock of hair. No men attacked her. They spoke her name in astonishment. She whistled for Baylova’s horse, and the wolf left her side. The stallion, confined at the edge of the battlefield, bolted free of its tether and galloped toward her. Shanti mounted the horse and galloped through the multitude of men. “Argu!” she yelled.

Lord Argu and General Seiko rode toward her. She showed them the hair. “General Delartay is dead. Queen Baylova is dead.”

Argu lifted his fist in the air. “Willovia is ours.”

Shanti shouted for everyone to hear. “Willovia is
mine.
I faced Queen Baylova in the arena.”

“You’ll be rewarded with lands,” Argu said. “A promotion. General Shanti—”

“I rule Willovia! Unless you wish to challenge me? Let’s fight, Argu. Take Baylova’s hair from my hand, and I’ll let you have Willovia. Take Delartay’s hair, and I’ll let you lead the Nunqua.” Shanti dismounted. “Afraid?”

Lord Argu dropped his fist and glanced at the unfriendly faces of those around him.

Shanti waited in the uncomfortable silence. Argu and his incompetence had been a pestilence to the people for too long. She put both locks of hair in her left hand and lifted her right hand to possess his horse. It kicked wildly. Argu held fast to the reins but lost more of his balance each time the horse bucked. Shanti went over and calmed the steed, then yanked Argu from the saddle. Taking the last dart from her wristlet, she plunged the poisoned tip deep into his neck.

“Arrogant witch!” He pulled the dart out. “You’re nothing but General Delartay’s whore.”

She showed him the braid of Caravey’s hair. “Not anymore.”

“You’ll never rule,” Argu said, his hand covering the puncture wound on his neck.

“And you’ll never know what it
means
to rule.” Shanti backed away from Argu. “General Seiko, bring me Lord Argu’s sword.”

Seiko looked at Shanti as if he had never really seen her before. He ordered his men to take the blade encased in a black scabbard. Three warriors seized the weapon from Argu, who fought but eventually succumbed to the attack. The men gave the sword to General Seiko, who, in turn, dismounted and offered it to Shanti. She took it and spoke to Argu. “It’s time for a new era—one that doesn’t involve you.”

She unsheathed the sword and lifted it for the benefit of those gathered around her. “Argu’s lands are my lands; his castles are my castles.” Shanti sliced the unmarked skin of Argu’s forearm, then said to a group of warriors, “Take him to the edge of the battlefield, and tie him to a tree so everyone will know of his defeat. He’ll be dead by morning.” Nunqua men seized Lord Argu and took him away.

“If anyone wishes to challenge me,” she said, “do it now.”

No one spoke. Commander Kyros stood near, the abomination of combat reflected in his once proud face. She spread her arms, inviting a confrontation. He shook his head to show he had no intention of challenging her. “Where is Commander Gy?” she asked.

“Wounded,” Kyros said flatly.

She returned Argu’s sword to its scabbard, then mounted Baylova’s horse, with two swords strapped across her back and another in her hand. She pushed the locks of hair into her jacket for safekeeping. “Commander Kyros, General Seiko, separate the troops. The fighting ends now. Post guards around the arena. Let the fire burn out. No one goes near the ashes. If anyone does, tie him to a tree next to Argu.”