Chosen (The Warrior Chronicles, 1)

by K. F. Breene

  Another footfall.

  Leilius burst out from behind the wall. With one hand he gripped a thin, brown shoulder. With the other hand he brought his knife down with all his might. Sharp, hard metal slid into a soft, wet eye socket. A strangled scream cut off at its zenith as the knife pierced the enemy’s brain. Lights out.

  Leilius stood trembling over the slight body crumpled at his feet. Adrenaline grabbed hold of all his organs and shook. But at least he was still alive. No one would have to know about that.

  He stared down at what he’d done. Dazed. Two things flapped at his thoughts. The first was all the blood. There was so much. It was oozing in thick red rivers, leaking over the ruined eye socket and pooling in the cobblestone around the enemy’s head. Gross and fascinated, Leilius stared, transfixed, until the second thing shoved in and demanded attention.

  It wasn’t a Mugdock. Thin, shorter than him, and wiry. The man looked like he had muscle, but it wasn’t defined. He had a wicked sword, too. It was curved and very wide toward the end. The hilt had a weird yellow and gold rope hanging off of it. Plus, this man wasn’t dirty. His brown jump suit was clean except for the blood and some light scrapes, probably from climbing the wall, and it was a little lighter than the normal Mugdock color.

  He was an enemy, though.

  Leilius quickly grabbed the hilt of his blade and yanked. He let out a formless “huh” sound at the suction of knife leaving eye socket. He wiped off the blade immediately.

  Focus on the circle. Keep your family safe!

  He would. He would make Shanti proud. Focus on the circle. Only what he could control.

  Limbs quaking, stomach queasy, he drifted back into the shadows to wait.

  Chapter 19

  Shanti sucked air in, panting with fatigue. She’d heard Sanders yelling a while ago, his vicious body ripping and tearing his way out toward her, but he couldn’t get far enough. She was cast off in a sea of filth, disgusting Mugdock creatures all around her. Even Lucius had been forced back, trying to stick with her, but under siege and unable to hold his ground.

  She was actually happy. She was tired of this life, tired of overwhelming odds. She wanted to do her part and let the sea take her under, to die in battle, like her parents and grandparents. She would go down, but first she would take as many as she could.

  Summoning all her remaining strength, Shanti cut off the connection with Lucius and her Honor Guard, hoping they wouldn’t be overcome by the fear she was keeping hidden from their brains. She brought her mental net tight to her surroundings, then rezoned it out in front of her, aiming for the largest mass of enemy. There wasn’t much she could do with those behind her—she was too tired to pick out individual mental paths. She might accidently hit some of her own, and that would defeat the purpose.

  She blocked a thrust headed toward her head, turned another to the side, and grabbed the two minds in front of her as if her hands were made from needles. Mugdock released their swords immediately and clutched nasty, matted hair. Dirty faces screamed in agony as they fell.

  Now was the time.

  She seized everyone in front of her, out for fifty spans, all those bundles of emotion and intent flashing in her mind’s eye. She focused her power, called up her strength, pulled at the life-force in the surrounding wood, and flashed.

  A huge jolt of power ripped from her, dropping her to her knees. Sinking into hundreds of minds. Boiling spires with searing edges. Burning out their minds.

  The battlefield erupted in tortured screams. Swords dropped, falling into the mud with a soft thud. Dirty nails dug into temples, the pain unbearable. Consuming. And, finally, killing.

  Shanti allowed a relieved smile as she fell, face first, into the bloody mud. It was finally over. This life filled with pain and loss could finally be forgotten.

  ****

  She was pushed ahead of him, roughly. She didn’t want to go. She couldn’t. Her grandfather had been cut down ten feet from where she worked. Her Chance had felled the man, but there were more coming. Tens of hundreds of thousands running up the slope. They were beaten. She was beaten. They had lasted longer than expected, but the inevitable had come to pass. She had a destiny to fulfill.

  “Go, Chosen. Go!”

  She was pushed again, large hands steering her, forcing her to move away. Forcing her to retreat. Moving her to the path that would lead into the hills. She had her map and supplies hidden. She would start on her journey.

  Chance pushed at her. Harder now. She stumbled through the narrow lane of her village, the place deserted. Everyone had been evacuated to either join the fight or get the children away. Some had to knowingly sacrifice themselves so that others might live.

  Past the village they saw the first signs of struggle. Some of the enemy had snuck in the back, probably trying to ferret away anyone they could. The Graygual wanted specimens and promised a handsome payment for any living captures. They didn’t care the sex or age; they wanted examples. They would pay more for young women, however. Women exactly Shanti’s age and description. They wanted the woman that could kill from thirty paces away. They wanted her alive. They wanted to tame her. Then breed her. Then use her and her offspring as their ultimate weapon. The safe guard against the new empire.

  Chance pushed her along until she was stumbling into the small clearing behind her village. Into the pleasant green meadow where she had gone often with Romie. Her first kiss had been next to that old shed. She had lost her virginity to him just under the tree at the edge. It had been the site of some of her best memories.

  The breeze of the afternoon gently disturbed the green blades of grass. The flies disturbed the dead bodies.

  Shanti hesitated with surprise at the sea of limbs piled together, sticking out at grotesque angles.

  Chance shoved her forward, steered, and shoved again, working around the sightless eyes, the sagging faces. She felt like a wooden puppet held together with cable pulled too tight. Her legs and arms wouldn’t work properly, her head bobbing animatedly on her wagging shoulders.

  From a bloody patch of mud, brown eyes stared at her, rims outlined in blood. She staggered, a sob ripping from her throat.

  They hadn’t told her Romie was one of the Sacrificed. He hadn’t told her. He’d said he would be safe! He would be there when she got back. He was going to look after the children, he said. He wasn’t one of the best, but he was well liked. They had agreed to let him go.

  She crumpled to her knees beside him, pawing at his blood stained chest. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders, trying to drag her away. Her cries reverberated across the dead meadow.

  Romie had offered to die for their people. For her duty. For his own.

  He was leaving her to a world devoid of his spirit. Of his earthen eyes. He had left her forever, and she had no choice but to continue. Now alone.

  “You must go, Chosen. Go! Keep going!”

  Chapter 20

  Shanti opened her eyes in the dim light. Agony flared through her body.

  Pain meant she wasn’t dead. Now how did that happen?

  She wiggled her toes. It felt like two might be broken. She moved her fingers. They worked just fine. Each knee lifted with incredible muscle pain, but nothing deeper. Arms the same. Ribs felt like someone was sitting on her chest. One or two were probably cracked. She’d gotten a good blow by a fleking colossal. She’d ensured he died slowly with a puncture to the stomach, but still, it hadn’t been her finest moment.

  She was in a sterile-looking room, all white except for the furniture, which was metal. So much metal. This place was so rich it was almost disgusting.

  The door opened, revealing a tall man with a thin frame and thinner hair. He had a put-upon expression and a wooden board in his hand.

  “Lovely to see you again, Doctor. To what do I owe the privilege?” Shanti asked in a strained voice, trying to ignore the throb of her ribs.

  “Yes, it seems your wit is intact. Goodie.” The doctor closed the door behind him, his face ge
tting grimmer.

  “How did I get here?”

  The doctor pulled a chair from the corner and placed it at the middle of her bed. He sat slowly, crossed his ankle over his knee, and leaned back, thin slab of wood resting on his lap. “You were brought.”

  “Ah, this is a game, is it not? Twenty questions? Yes, Leilius loves this game. How is he, by the way? How are they all?”

  The doctor surveyed her, his face impassive. “Alive. For now.”

  Shanti tried to sit up. Pain stabbed her midsection—definitely cracked ribs—but she pushed through it. The sheet dropped to her mid-section and she realized she was in one of those bloody nightgowns the doctor loved so much.

  “What do you mean for now?”

  “Ah, you see? It is rather irritating when someone doesn’t adequately answer another’s questions, is it not?”

  Shanti glared at him. She knew better than to open her Gift, though. After what she’d done, it would definitely hurt. She winced just thinking of it.

  “Yes, painful, isn’t it? Being wounded often has that effect. But what do I know; I’m just a doctor. And yes, we do have a school for that here.”

  “Are you going to tell me, or are you going to force me to beat it out of you?”

  The doctor gave a loud sigh and looked at his small, rectangular board. “Cadet Leilius is in the mud tub, sitting up to his neck and tied that way, because he kicked Commander Sanders in the shin when he wasn’t allowed in here to make sure you were okay. Gracas is right next to him because he tried to punch Commander Daniels for the same reason. He missed, of course. He now has a black eye. Xavier is carrying rocks from one side of the training yard to the other because he was able to successfully punch Sterling, who had barred his way. Let’s see.” The doctor consulted his board again. “Ah yes, young Marc suffered a stab wound to his leg, but he is mending nicely. Rachie got a rather serious wound down his chest. I have stitched him up, and he will heal in time. He will forever have a scar, but he informed me that women like men with scars, and was excited to test the theory just as soon as he is released.”

  Shanti took a minute to thank her Elders their care. She’d grown fond of those boys—she would hate to hear any harm had come to them. “Then what did you mean ‘for now?’”

  “The Captain hasn’t gotten around to speaking with them about refusing his orders and following yours.”

  “Oh. Yeah, that probably pissed him in.”

  “I see you are working on your slang. How lovely. You aren’t quite there yet, however.”

  “Lucius?” Shanti continued.

  “Will have a great many women, if young Rachie is correct. He is alive, though. Sanders just barely got him out. He didn’t want to leave you. Neither of them did. For some reason.”

  “Sanders pulled me out?”

  The doctor gave her a flat, assessing stare for a moment. “Sanders couldn’t reach you. He did try, but....” The doctor shrugged with one shoulder.

  “Are you trying to teach me humility, doctor? Because the last person who tried was unconscious for twenty-four hours.”

  “I don’t doubt that. The difference between me and that unfortunate fellow is that I know a lost cause when I see one.”

  Shanti stared at him. She would get up and shake it out of him if she had to. Although, she really hoped she didn’t have to. It hurt just to sit up.

  The doctor must have read her mind because a ghost of a smile flickered at his lips. Finally he answered. “The Captain pulled you out. He wasn’t too happy you weren’t in the secure hold.”

  Shanti couldn’t help blurting, “The Captain did? Why?”

  “That is a great question.”

  “How did he get to me?”

  “By doing what he does—charging in, taking what he wants, and charging back out leaving a trail of bodies behind him.”

  So Cayan had gone after her. But why? Also, what an idiot! He was in charge of a whole city. Risking his life for a foreigner just to get the last laugh was just plain stupidity. And if she didn’t hurt so badly, she would go tell him.

  The doctor still gazed at her with his unimpressed countenance. Shanti suspected he loved being put out just for something to make a show of. He said, “He is mending, too, in case you’re wondering. I noticed that you didn’t ask.”

  No, she hadn’t. She didn’t want to hear how badly she owed him for her life. For giving her people another chance. It was a large pill to swallow.

  The doctor continued in his dry voice. “He had cuts all up and down his left and right side. Gashes, fairly deep, in his back. Two bruised bones, but nothing was broken. Here’s a question for you: some of the recovered bodies, those that died at your feet and another, oh, sixty paces out or so, didn’t have a mark on them. They died in agony, that was clear, and most were clawing at their face, eyes or head—one had bloodied his ears—but none had an actual wound. Would you know anything about that?”

  Uh oh. “You would know the bodies I killed—they had sword marks, or knives sticking out of them.”

  “Yes. Excellent knife throwing. If what I hear is true, you made extremely hard shots and never missed. Impressive. I’ve always said, however, that women tend to have better aim, where men tend to throw harder. I enjoy being right. Regardless, that doesn’t answer my question.”

  Shanti struggled for breath around her tight throat. She really wanted to lie back down—her ribs were killing her. “What were you doing wandering among dead bodies? Just what kind of a doctor are you? Should I be worried that you were planning to dress me, put makeup on me, and close me in a box?”

  “Your evasive conversational techniques need work. However, I will answer, since it is still on track with my questioning. I was asked to survey a few bodies before they were incinerated. Some did not look like the Mugdock, and a great many had no obvious signs of death. Add that to a pair of glowing violet eyes and a fainting woman, and you have need of a doctor’s opinion.”

  “And what is your expert diagnosis based on this folklore?”

  “Well, that you are impossible to work with and the Captain will have to sort you out because I cannot.”

  “Defeatist.” Shanti smirked.

  “Yes, it would seem. Now, lie back, because I can see that you are suffering merely to prove a point—point proven, decidedly—and get some rest. You will need it when the Captain gets around to visiting. He is not as…patient as I.”

  Shanti lay back with a grimace. It would hurt less to be dead.

  As the doctor moved to leave, she thought back to what he said. Cayan would be bursting through in an awful temper any time, she had no doubt. The question was, why was she so apprehensive?

  Chapter 21

  “Sanders, with me.”

  Sanders internally cringed. The hard gravel in that voice slid along his bones and pounded at his nerves. The Captain had not been in a great mood since he returned bloody and wild from the middle of a horde of Mugdock with a limp woman in his arms. Since then everyone had been afraid to be in his sights, especially his commanders.

  It was three days after the battle. Daniels and Sterling were leaning against the wall in front of the pyre, watching as the last of the smoldering bodies were transferred into a huge pit.

  “Yes, my liege,” Sanders said meekly, stepping in behind the long stride.

  They walked back into the city where every person they met gave some signal of thanks to the Captain. Enlisted men gave a salute. Civilian men gave a nod so deep it was almost a bow. The civilian women looked at him with love-sick eyes.

  The Captain was heading toward the hospital. Oh no.

  Panic started to crawl up Sanders’ spine. He looked in earnest for an escape, for a reason he had to be somewhere else. He almost wished they were being attacked again. It was the last meeting in the world he wanted to attend. Anyone wanted to attend.

  They walked in through the door. More nods. More smiles and sparkling eyes. More salutes. A few uncontrollable grunts that Sanders
let slip. If these idle bodies loitering in the halls could read his mind, they would realize those low guttural noises he couldn’t help were actually calls for aid. Why was no one helping him? Did they not see where he was headed? And with whom?

  Instead of turning right at the crossroads, though, they went straight ahead. Down a large white corridor. They were going to the badly injured ward.

  Sanders gave a huge sigh of relief.

  The Captain stopped in front of a closed door and paused. After a deep breath Sanders probably wasn’t supposed to notice, he knocked quietly before stepping inside. He motioned Sanders in after him.

  Sanders stepped into the sterilized space and immediately winced. It was a well-known fact that fighting men of Sanders’ caliber did not enjoy that overly clean lemon smell of the hospital ward. If you smelled it, you were either attending the sick or dying, or one of them. All bad things.

  Lucius was in his bed lying flat on his back, no color in his face. He had a bandage around his head, white squares of gauze around his neck, and a mending broken nose. Sanders was sure there were more bandages beneath the sheet.

  “Captain, Commander Sanders,” Lucius said by way of greeting. His voice was shaky and weak. Being that the man had been near death when he was brought in, the fact that he was conscious and talking was a great stride.

  “Lieutenant.” Sanders gave a stiff nod. “Good to see you are on the mend.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Captain took a chair from the corner and pulled it close to Lucius’ head. “I thank you for your valor, Lieutenant. I would’ve hated to lose you.”

  Lucius and the Captain had grown up together. It was said that the Captain trusted no one in the world as much as he trusted this childhood friend. And that was a nice sentiment, but why did Sanders need to sit in on this? He didn’t want to see any of the Captain’s vulnerability. That wasn’t what men did. That should be saved for the wives.