Chosen (The Warrior Chronicles, 1)

by K. F. Breene

  She wondered about that last question, too. He would shit himself, then probably strangle her, and not because she disobeyed his order to head to safety. If he found out she made a decision regarding the battle strategy and didn’t go through him first, he would flip.

  “These gates will not hold. Those standing near the gates will get crushed. Those not crushed would then have to fight over them. It puts you at a disadvantage and only buys you a small amount of time to stand there and stew in your fear. I have removed the problem.”

  “But they’ll have a clear shot of us now!” someone in the back yelled.

  “They always had a clear shot of you, they just had to break the gate down to do it. The scant few your archers would have hit while the enemy worked would not be enough to outweigh fighting over obstacles as they rush you with the full advantage. Ask your war veterans.”

  There were nods and murmurs.

  “Who’s going to take on the attack, now?” someone shouted.

  “Lucius, why are you guarding this bitch? What does she know?” someone else yelled.

  They were getting angry. Their fear was boiling into rage and she was the catalyst. Good. Anger fueled courage. The presence was closer now. They were moving forward. Slowly, but it would speed up soon. She had to hurry.

  “They are coming!” she yelled. She reached back and drew her sword with a smooth, practiced movement. The metal cleared the scabbard attached to her back, hungry for blood. The sword glinted in the torchlight, a long blade with a graceful arch. Holding it was like shaking the hand of an old friend. Silence descended. The hawk cried again somewhere in the battlefield.

  “When they are in range,” she continued, looking to the top of the walls, meeting the eyes of archers, “loose the arrows. Everyone else, stay as you are. I will be the knife that parts the fabric. I have the experience you lack. I have been training for this all my life. I have weapons you don’t realize. I will act as their block, and you will kill anyone who makes it over. Are we understood?”

  A horde of men stood and stared, no one even daring to shift on their feet.

  She knew what they saw: she was a woman in pants with a sword. Foreign and small. She did not belong on their battlefield. She did not belong giving orders like she was born to the role. Her perfect stance, as if she were ready to start a ballet made no sense in their fighting history.

  But they found themselves nodding anyway. They found themselves stealing their courage and saying, “Yes, sir” into her glowing violet eyes, shining with the glory of battles won, and the pain and remembrance of battles lost. She knew her eyes were as old as the world, but burned with the fervor of youth. She’d traveled a great deal, and heard sweet words as well as curses. She knew who she was, and she was born for this role.

  Light sprinkled through the trees as the sun climbed up past the horizon. A roar of male voices surged toward them. Metal clanged in the distance. Thunder rolled, feet and hooves stomping the dirt.

  “It begins. They are dirty, useless filth! We will be victorious! Fill your lungs with this sweet air, men. Soon we will soak it with blood. Victory!”

  The men raised their swords in the air, growling, shouting. Ready.

  Shanti bowed slowly to what had just become her men. She turned to Lucius, “You can fall back with the others.”

  “I am sworn to protect you. Since I have already failed in that, I will fight with you.”

  Shanti laughed, a carefree sound filled with adrenaline and excitement. She was about to do what she did best. “Fair enough.”

  Chapter 16

  Shanti turned, seeing the distant sparkle of steel in the early morning sun. Without needing to look down, she repositioned her throwing knives, making a quick grab easier. She swung her sword in a figure eight, loosening her wrists. She bounced a few times on stiff knees, trying to get her body keyed up. Mentally, she was ready. Her net was out, sensing the minds running at her, bundles of rage and malicious intent. Most had a singular focus: kill!

  The ground shook. Yelling from the men behind her curled around her ears. Leather creaked. Metal scraped.

  Her mental net pulsed, fueled by a rush of adrenaline. She brushed the minds around her, connecting, like holding hands in a pray circle. “Archers, hit the outskirts of the horde!” she commanded. “Make them come at me single file if possible. Slim them down. Aim for the sides! They will not bother with the wall when the gate is open. They will slow themselves down, waiting like a bunch of washerwomen. Stick an arrow in their eye!”

  The men at the wall roared.

  “Lucius, are you ready?” she asked in a firm voice.

  “More than ready, my Lady. Eager.”

  “Good.”

  The roar of battle rage filled the sky. Horses came first, harnessing a giant wooden rod between them, the ends of the beam covered with a layer of thick metal. Chains attached the pole to a harness draped over the horses’ backs. The metal on the front caught the early light, giving it an unearthly gleam.

  It looked like the Mugdock attempt at a battering ram, with men following up behind to pull the large contraption, having to let it go to make it swing. It would take a concentrated effort and a lot of strength, but it would’ve worked. Luckily for Shanti, the strange design and homemade quality meant it would be easy to use against them.

  The men behind her started to breathe heavily, adrenaline pumping into their veins. Some growled. Some urged the enemy on. Others shifted in anxiety.

  “Courage!” she shouted. “Hold your ground!”

  She touched the dull mind of the horses, imaging the fresh smell of wolves wrapping around their flaring nostrils. As their eyes rolled, she gave them a twist. Horses weren’t overly intelligent, and these in particular were malnourished and ill-treated, judging by the silver scars flashing in the dawn—a small discomfort would be enough to derail them entirely.

  As expected they screamed and bucked, making the ram between them roll and buck. Metal squealed as riders fell, landing under thrashing animals. An unshod hoof came down with force, popping a skull beneath it. Blood splattered to the sides, splashing the legs of men running by.

  A metallic pop sounded—the first broken chain. The freed horses reared again, hitting a man running too close. Another pop, then another. The heavy ram burst from its support and slammed to the ground, bouncing and rolling. The crowd pushed behind, trying to get around. The massive rolling log took out a line of bodies before settling into the blood-soaked dirt.

  Shanti crouched, feeling the minds around her coil. Feeling the rage charging. Absorbing the violence. Giving her blade a comforting squeeze.

  And they were on her, a tide of robust, pungent, screaming men.

  A rusty blade wielded by a tree trunk arm swung through the air, slashing toward Shanti’s face. She dodged and pivoted, bringing her blade through the middle of his chest. She whirled away, hitting the next with a downward swipe. She feinted to the side, narrowly missing a blade, and came back with her sword’s answer, severing his head in a clean strike. On to the next. And the next. Her body was warming up, the familiar dance filling her with joy. Bodies were piling up around her, death hanging in the balance of her strikes and dodges. But they were many and she was one.

  She danced closer to Lucius, who was felling as many as she. His style was vastly different, cleaving and hacking, blocking and stabbing, but just as effective. More bodies piled. A sword missed her head; an arm came in to punch.

  She sliced the arm at the elbow and kicked out, hitting a mammoth of a man in the stomach. She snatched a knife from her belt, the man too close for a sword strike, and stabbed him in the eye. Blood sprayed across her face as she whirled away, not wanting to get caught in the flailing limbs. Hefting her knife into the air, she grabbed it by the blade, and threw. Blood blossomed in the neck of a man running by.

  All these warriors were head and shoulders taller than she was. They were the Captain’s height at least, easily his brawn or bigger. Nowhere near as qui
ck or agile, thank the Elders their sympathy.

  An hour in and she was more than warmed up. She was starting to work now. Still smooth, still killing like a knife carving through cream, but hitting her peak. It was too early. She should not be so tired so early. There was still a horde at her gate, with a pile of bodies for them to clamber over, and there would be many more. Many, many more.

  Dying in battle was an honorable death.

  Chapter 17

  BOOM!

  The gate knocked inward. Dust sprayed the air. Wood creaked.

  “It’s holding!” someone shouted.

  And it would hold, Sanders reflected, walking along the trembling wall. A flash of sun on metal pierced his eye. The men held their breath as the giant metal fish came barreling forward.

  BOOM!

  Archers scattered their arrows into the amassed crowd of Mugdock, trying to throw up their ladders to climb over the wall. Not a chance—Sanders’ men were fast and good, taking down anyone who got close. Arms swung back, grabbed more arrows, and loosed. And again. Again.

  BOOM!

  “Courage, men! It will hold!” the Captain shouted somewhere among the men.

  Ignoring the screaming of the night, Sanders walked away from the main gate, seeing to the men. The archers were going at full speed, shooting, loading, shooting, loading, someone bringing them more arrows. He gritted his teeth at the next crash of ram against the gate.

  They had worried—this gate was untried. It was a new design and not up long. But it was holding. The Captain was right—this was an excellent use of resources. The main bulk of enemy worked away, trying to get through what had once been nothing more than a mild deterrent.

  Thank God that had changed.

  Sanders walked on. To the smallest entrance. The most vulnerable.

  Had the enemy figured it out, yet? They were stupid, but even a dumb beast could get lucky.

  Barely keeping his hands away from his sword, trying to portray steadfast confidence, Sanders walked on. The men were antsy and skittish, shifting constantly, trying to stay grim but waiting with barely suppressed trembles. They were green. Even the ones who had seen battle out in the Dead Forest were nervous. They weren’t good at playing defense and no amount of training could prepare them for the constant thumping of the giant Metal Fish against their gate. But their enemy wouldn’t get through here…

  He walked on. The first two, the Eastern Gate and Rear, were holding, but barely. The archers and knife throwers were doing their job, but the men standing by were getting ready to get their hands dirty. The Mugdock were getting just as scared, though. After close to two hours, seeing nothing but your own company’s death, and only a few fallen enemy archers, the Mugdock were having second thoughts. The Captain hadn’t thought they’d last this long. He had a suspicion something was driving them, but he didn’t know what. Sanders did—poverty and desperation. It would bring a man to the brink.

  On to the fourth and last gate. He was about to battle—they’d be about ready for reinforcements.

  A horse clattered below, causing Sanders to glance down. Daniels raced by, urgency on his face. Sanders pulled his eyes back up. A thrill went through his body. He picked up the pace.

  As he approached the corner he heard the roar of men in battle. Metal clanging, shouts. Excitement spiked his chest, tingling down his arms and out through his fingers. One of the boys bringing arrows startled from the gleam in his eye and the crazed grin on his face.

  Battle. He was good at battle. Battle and sex, two places where he felt the most alive.

  Sanders started to trot, unable to maintain his calm. The men at this gate were all his best. They were veterans, one and all—as much as they could be in a time of prosperity—and they had the best sword work. They would hold this gate. They had to. He had a wife and baby to protect.

  Hopefully the Captain was working on getting more men to change out. Give these guys a rest.

  As Sanders rounded the corner, sword in hand, he saw the last few lines of men standing, shifting uneasily from side to side, looking on, but not fighting. Waiting.

  Sanders stepped around Jaos, unleashing arrows as fast as he could, and stopped dead. The gate was not torn down; it was pulled open. In the middle of the open space stood two figures, fighting for all they were worth, taking the brunt while the men behind them formed a semi-circle and took the rest. Both covered in blood, one with short, matted brown hair, the other with a long braid down her back, red and white-blond.

  Shanti and Lucius.

  Sanders couldn’t help but stare. He had seen Lucius fight. The man was damned good. Aside from the Captain, Sterling, and himself, Lucius ranked above all others. Sanders had thought it was a waste that he had been assigned to the foreign woman. Now he was more than thankful. Any other man would’ve been cut down by now, but Lucius was moving through a pile of bodies, creating more every second. He had a large red line down his arm and was limping slightly, but he was not slowing.

  For all his excellence, he was outdone. Next to him was the foreign woman. Words could not describe how thoroughly Sanders had underestimated her. How they all had. She moved as if in some elaborate dance. Every nuance of her body was in perfect harmony as she glided through her fighting postures, slicing and cutting, weaving in and out. Even her sword was part of the dance, moving like an extension of her arm. She was breathtaking. And extremely deadly.

  Her pile was larger than her male counterpart’s. It was neater, too. One cut, maybe two, and they were brought down. Appendages sliced off, heads, limbs, incapacitated, then she moved on. Every so often she would throw a knife, hitting someone in their head, heart, or, most often, their neck.

  He had never seen anything like it.

  But she was flagging. She was barely staying ahead of her attackers. More were getting past her, quickly dying at the hands of the men fighting right behind her. She wouldn’t last much longer, but there was no one who could keep the Mugdock off the gate like she was. There was still a horde trying to get through.

  In the next instant Sanders was running, nearly falling down the steps. He barely paused to get a message carried to the Captain by the first man he ran into. Then he was running again, pushing people out of his way, trying to get to Shanti and Lucius.

  As he ran through the waiting men, shifting their weight in antsy anticipation, they surged forward, wanting to be in the fight. Wanting to do what they could. Sanders led them like an arrow straight at the surging Mugdock. Without slowing, crazy-eyed with a fanatical smile, he slammed into a wall of them. He stabbed the first man through the stomach and pushed him out of the way, growling. He grabbed another with one hand and yanked him closer, sticking his sword through the swine’s chest.

  “Get in there and drag out that girl. Get the Lieutenant. Get them out!” Sanders hollered.

  He cleared the shocked faces in front of him and launched himself at two more, both topping his size, and bigger around. He didn’t care. He stabbed one through the eye. He pulled the other’s hair and sliced his neck, hands everywhere. Battle rage taking over. The glory of battle!

  He shoved forward, slicing and killing. Bashing and ripping off whatever he could get his hands on. Some rotten pig got too close, trying to grapple. Sword arm hanging uselessly at his side. Sanders threw him a head butt and the pig’s nose cracked before Sanders’ knife lodged in his face.

  “Get in there!” Sanders hollered, trying to push forward. He could barely see Lucius, struggling against the tide. There were just so many. He’d barely be able to make it to Lucius.

  “Someone help the girl!” Sanders screamed.

  Chapter 18

  Leilius waited behind the wall, deep in a pocket of shadow. The echoes of screaming, of men dying, rolled through the alley like tumbleweeds. He could almost see the blood splashing against the ground. His hands trembled as he held his knife, trying to block out the battle and focus on his circle. That’s what Miss Shanti always said, right? Focus only on what he
was doing. Focus on his circle.

  A dribble of sweat quivered down his nose. He wiped it away silently, hearing the sound again.

  He squeezed his eyes shut and remembered to breathe. He was always supposed to breathe. That’s what Miss Shanti said. Breathe slowly. Deeply. He was doing that.

  Why were his hands shaking so hard?

  The scrape of a soft sole echoed against the walls, louder than someone screaming right next to his face. Louder than the banging of the battering ram. Louder than the gurgling death at the gates. The enemy was creeping toward the shadow, a quiet step at a time.

  He was hiding in the shadow. Waiting. Knowing the enemy would stay to the dark places. That’s what he always did when he got in trouble and was trying to hide—he knew where they’d go.

  He wiped the sweat out of his eyes. His breath trembled like a leaf as it crept out of his mouth.

  Another footfall. So close. A shoe scrape against the cobblestone. He wouldn’t even hear the footfall if it hadn’t been for Shanti. She always snuck around and hid from him—he hated when she scared him. It shocked his system when she jumped out of nowhere.

  This was like that. Just like that. Except he had to jump out.

  He wasn’t afraid. He didn’t know why, but he wasn’t.

  So why was he shaking?

  Another step. Two more and Leilius would jump out and stab. He would do it. He had to. Shanti said so. For his family. To protect everyone.

  He’d never killed anyone before.

  Focus on the circle. Focus on what you can control, Leilius.

  His breath thundered in his ears.

  He closed his eyes, listening. His hand gripped the knife blade, the sweat from his palm soaking into the leather. A tear of sweat dripped down his face. A line of moisture soaked through the crease between his shoulder blades, down his back. Focus on the circle.