by K. F. Breene
Shanti did not have the energy for this. She barely had the energy to keep walking.
“That is my Gift. It has many facets,” Burson called.
A man stepped out on to the path in front of her as Burson yelled, “I have one down here. What do I do?”
“We’re surrounded,” Rohnan said, looking over his horse at the man who stepped into an open space between the trees.
“We have money for you,” Shanti said in an elevated voice as she faced the bearded man walking on balanced feet up the path. She used the local language to appeal to them. They didn’t walk with halting steps or nearly cry at what could only be food in the packs on the horses. This band had the intent to kill seeping out of their awareness.
Shanti changed her strategy. “I have been granted access to this path. I also have the ability to kill you where you stand. As a truce, we will impart you with more wealth than you’d make in a moon’s cycle.”
“I, too, have the ability to kill you where you stand.” The man smiled through his thick, black beard. Piercing black eyes looked out of a ruddy face. An intricate hilt peeked out of a scabbard at his side. “We don’t take kindly to strangers in these parts. Dangerous people are about.”
“The woman is preparing to shoot,” Rohnan warned.
Shanti let her power whip out. She locked onto the woman’s mind and immediately used a trick to siphon off the woman’s energy supply, trapping her within Shanti’s hold. Brief shock and panic flooded the woman’s awareness. Her fingers began to release the string of the bow as Shanti twisted, draining the last of her resources. The woman jerked. The arrow zinged away to the right as a scream split the afternoon.
“She’s one of them nasty froons!” another man said in a terrified shout.
“Inkna don’t allow women to use mind-power. They’re more valuable as breeders,” the bearded man said, a throwing knife in his hand. He crouched down and drifted to the side of the path. Judging by his body language, he’d dive into the trees in an instant if an attack came.
“I’m not a Sarsher, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Shanti brought a knife out of her leg pouch.
“A man is preparing to throw a knife, Chosen,” Rohnan said in their home language as he held his staff.
“Chulan?” The man with the beard edged up. His gaze hit Rohnan over the body of the horse. “You called her Chulan?”
Those piercing black eyes swung toward Shanti. His knife lowered a fraction.
“You might also know her as the Wanderer. She is the violet-eyed girl, and with her travels the Ghost.” Burson’s voice rang high above the horses.
The bearded man’s knife lowered further. He tucked it into his belt. “Quite a few titles…”
“You have no idea…” Shanti couldn’t help a loud sigh.
“Please. Pass. You are always welcome here,” the man said.
Shanti hunched against her horse, shaking from exhaustion. She’d used valuable resources on the woman, and now had virtually nothing left. “Thank you. We’re on the run, though. A Graygual Superior Office chases us.”
Shanti tossed him a pouch of gold. He snatched it out of the air and tucked it into a pocket, all without looking away from her eyes.
“This Superior Officer knows who he is chasing?”
“Yes.”
“Then he will not rest until he has you. We’ll slow him down if we can.”
Shanti started forward, leaning heavily on her horse. “Thank you, but be careful. He’s one of the best. It might be safer if you steered clear to the side. He won’t bother you, then.”
“It was said you were coming. We follow the scriptures. When you command, we will be ready to follow.” The man put his fist to his chest. “We are the keepers of the Thieves Highway, and we stand ready. We’ll do what we can.”
Shanti shook her head, too tired to argue. A sweep of pain lanced her mind. Sharp needles cut into her eyes and stabbed at her ears. The Sarshers were in range.
She lashed out with a jab, slicing through the mind of the strongest of her attackers. She didn’t have anything behind the attack, though, there was no energy left. She slammed up her shields as the returned assault fell away. Burson had sheltered her.
“Great find, Rohnan. Really great find,” she muttered in a hollow voice. Her legs shook and her balance wavered. “I get rid of one title only to pick up another. It’s like a bad joke,” she murmured, barely holding onto consciousness as her adrenaline ebbed.
“Go Chosen. You must keep going,” Rohnan urged.
Those words called up memories of a grisly battle long past. She saw her grandfather hacked down with a giant, curved blade. Blood spattered as a deep gash split down his back. Kallon, her First Fighter, fled, followed by the dozens she’d chosen to live, to hide until she sent word from the Shadow Lands. Hundreds fell, crumpling to the ground in pools of blood as the enemy ran them through.
“Too many, Rohnan,” she whispered, overcome by the memories and succumbing to exhaustion. “We don’t have a chance.” Her eyes grew heavy as her body sagged. The memories crowded her drowsy consciousness, like a walking nightmare.
“Keep going, Chosen. You need to push through this. We’re almost there, and then you can ride. Then you can rest.”
Shanti took a deep breath and staggered forward. She felt a large, blunt nose hit the middle of her back. Her blasted horse was shoving her on.
“What is wrong with her?” she heard through a fog of fatigue.
Burson’s voice drifted up as that blunt nose pushed her again. “Stand ready, my friend. Stand ready. The journey has begun.”
Chapter Six
Sanders rode at the head of a long progression of soldiers. He’d spent only one night in the Duke’s city, showered with food, drink and attention from dancing girls with heaving bosoms. When he was younger, one night would certainly have turned into a great many, but now, with a wife at home and a gut constantly threatening him, he just wanted to get the job done and move on.
“Hurry up, you lot. Dragging your ass only makes the journey longer,” Sanders yelled at the men behind him.
He let his eyes glaze as he stared straight ahead. They traveled a common road with wide, easy to navigate lanes. It was a large, barren thoroughfare that cut through the land from the west to the east. Traders and travelers both, wanting to save time and travel quickly, used this route regularly, often employing hired swordsmen, or like Sanders, military men, to protect them against rough folk looking to make an easy few pieces of gold. There were always those who didn’t think they needed protection, though, assuming that with a heavily traveled route someone would come to their aid if a bandit tried to stop them. They turned out to be easy pickings—only the best bandits and thieves worked this road, appearing as traders themselves until they were in a position to seize their treasures quickly and brutally, often stealing horses in the process.
Sanders had stopped a couple of robberies in progress, but mostly he just saw the aftereffects—men on foot without a bronze penny to their name, walking to the nearest town. Skimping on guards created broke men; he’d seen the proof.
He leaned forward and braced his elbow on the pommel of the saddle, letting his gaze drift out to the side. Sparse trees dotted dusty, flat land. Mountain ranges lined the horizon away to the right, and rolling hills away to the left, but through the middle there wasn’t much but boredom, occasionally broken by people-watching, scratching and farting.
“I don’t like the look of that crowd.” Jerrol, a good rider and decent swordsmen, trotted up beside Sanders. He pointed ahead to a small group of riders.
Sanders squinted into the glare of the afternoon sun. Three slight figures rode with two larger ones. The breadth of their shoulders, even those with thinner frames, suggested men, but you never could tell in this part of the world. He’d seen some big women thundering through.
“What’s the problem?” Sanders asked, glancing at the younger man.
“Well, for one,
they’re trotting. Their horses look shiny, like they’ve been trotting for a while. This is a long road—a trot in this area is a sprint between two close towns.”
“Okay, they’re in a hurry. What problem is that of ours?”
“They’ve got swords, too. Two of them do, anyway. Those are good horses—I’d bet they’re army.”
Sanders squinted into the sun again, straining his eyes at the waists of the incoming group. He shook his head with his blurry vision—his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. “Most people along this route have swords, Jerrol. Have you always been this jumpy? We’ve got four times the number of men they have.”
Jerrol gave Sanders an incredulous look. “I would’ve thought you, of all people, would be leery of men in black uniforms.”
Cold washed through Sanders. Adrenaline spiking, he squinted into the glare again, focusing on those uniforms. Three of them wore long sleeved, high necked, black tunics. The uniforms of the larger men were of a different style, but also black.
“What color is the Graygual uniform?” Sanders asked. Heat worked into his body as his temper rose. Memories of the torture sessions at the hands of the Inkna burned into his mind. He could only think one thing: Vengeance!
“Black, sir. I remember the Captain saying their uniforms were black with a red circle on the front. Two of those approaching have the red circle, with slashes through them.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Sanders gritted his teeth, reining in the fire shooting through his limbs, begging for immediate action. “The Graygual own the Inkna, and the whole lot of them are our enemies.”
“What do we do, sir?”
The intense rage fueled a manic grin on Sanders’ face. “Kill them all. I will not let one Inkna walk this land if I can help it. And Shanti would thank me for taking out the Graygual. Let’s clean up this road.”
“But what about their power? We have no defense…”
Sanders could hear the fear in Jerrol’s voice. If Sanders was in any way sane, he’d have felt that same fear pinging around his body. They’d both seen, firsthand, what that mind power could do. And they’d get a full blast without Shanti or the Captain’s protection.
But Sanders was past fear where the Inkna were concerned. He’d extinguished all his fear in those torture sessions. They’d put him through the fires of hell, and he’d come out burnt and laughing. He would be damned if he’d bend his knee now.
“Act as if nothing is amiss. We’ll just walk along, calmly, letting them draw near. When they’re close, we’ll spring. Hopefully we’ll kill the Inkna before they have a chance to use their power. I want to capture one of those Graygual, though. We need to know their plans. Take that back and let the men know.”
“Yes, sir.” Jerrol didn’t hesitate to move back into the line. Sanders could hear the murmuring begin behind him as the message spread. Leather creaked and metal sounded, each man preparing for a confrontation.
Sanders didn’t want to tell Jerrol, but this skirmish would be important for the Duke’s men to witness. They hadn’t had any interaction with mind power, and they’d never seen a Graygual—not as far south as they were. Not yet. He wanted them to know, firsthand, what it felt like when invisible sandpaper raked over their eyeballs. The Duke’s men needed to know what they might be up against—the type of people that might come calling when the Captain was away.
As the group of five trotted closer, Sanders saw that Jerrol was right. Those horses were under pressure and close to exhaustion. They were in a hurry, and had been for a while. They didn’t care about obviously expensive thoroughbreds, which meant they were rushing to catch up with something infinitely more valuable.
Sanders wondered what that might be as he let his gaze drift to the side. Staring was the wrong way to make friends. He had to be patient. He had to act as if nothing was wrong. For a surprise to work, the other party couldn’t have any suspicion. When it came to the Inkna, the element of surprise, or having Shanti at one’s back, was the only way to play it.
Yes, the very best of friends. After his days in the dungeon, he could say that he was on intimate terms with the Inkna. They were such welcoming hosts, switching from one torturer to the other, taking turns hurting him as acutely as possible. Great bedside manner.
Sanders felt a grimace twisting his lips. Rage welled up, hot and heavy. His fingers itched to take his sword and run screaming at that group of disgusting people—they trained to be torturers. That was their trade. That was their sole purpose.
The grimace twisted Sanders’ mouth further. That foreign woman had turned his life upside down, but he’d break his back to help her put this land to rights. To scrape out all the filth like the Inkna and burn the vermin that put them in positions of power. He owed his future children justice. He owed the downtrodden his help—every able-bodied warrior did.
“They’re slowing Commander!” Jerrol hissed from behind. “They’re looking straight at you.”
“Shit.” Sanders turned his head slowly, the grimace still twisting his lips into a crazed sort of smile. He could see the approaching group clearly now. Three Sarshers, and two Graygual, one with four slashes on his chest and the other with three. He had no idea what rank that made them, but based on how they sat their horses, and their movements, they were certainly higher than an average foot soldier. Their swords were pretty, too. New leather on the grip and polished where the metal peeked out of the sheath. Not used often, which meant they were probably trained men who had been given a post, rather than warriors who had been elevated out of the dredges.
He’d long ago learned the differences in fighting style between those two types of men. And he’d once slapped the Captain on the back for making his army work for their positions.
“Play it easy, Jerrol,” Sanders said in a low tone, leaning over the pommel of his saddle in faux relaxation. “The Inkna that tortured me weren’t great at reading emotion or intent. They specialize in pain. The only emotion they recognize is suffering.”
“We’re wearing our uniforms, though…”
Sanders couldn’t help glancing down at his crinkled blue uniform. He gave a quick look back and saw most of the uniforms to the front of the progression were also blue. He shrugged. “Blue isn’t an unusual color. Just keep your body language relaxed.”
“Most of these guys were at that battle, sir. Hard to be relaxed when you know what kind of pain they can inflict.”
Sanders ground his teeth in frustration as one of the Graygual took out his sword. The other followed suit a moment before an intense, searing pain cut out Sanders’ thoughts. It felt like hot coals were dumped into his head while claws raked across his throat. Searing heat pierced his gut and churned his stomach.
“Push through the pain and take them down. That’s the only way to end this!” Tears of agony trailed down Sanders’ face. He kicked the sides of his horse. The animal burst forward into a gallop, heading straight for the enemy. Hooves sounded off behind him as the men followed, not to be deterred by the mind power.
His eyes were attacked next, like hot needles pricked into his pupils. He squinted, trying to block out the pain. He leaned forward to increase the horse’s speed. His horse screamed. It reared, throwing him back. He clutched the reins and squeezed with his knees, barely holding on.
The horse screamed again, bucking wildly. Sanders’ body ripped to the side. His weight carried him as the horse bucked again, throwing him completely. His eyes snapped open in time to see the ground rushing toward his face. The torrent of pain cut off for a moment, giving him time to feel the full effect of his cheek smashing against the hard dirt. His head bounced, dizzying his thoughts.
More horses screamed. Face on fire but his body fine, Sanders bounced up and ripped out his sword. Only one man managed to hang on to the back of his animal. The rest were on the ground, scrambling up just like him. Then the second attack came.
Pain lanced his body, buckling his legs and stabbing his head. Bursts of light flashe
d behind his eyes. Claws raked down his chest. He staggered forward, falling, sword out, desperately trying to keep going. Trying to get at those Inkna. He couldn’t get off his knees, though. He couldn’t fight whatever they were doing to him enough to get to his feet.
A shiny, black boot crunched the dirt and stones in front of him. Another joined it. Sanders looked up through tear-drowned eyes. A black uniform with a red circle and four red slashes stared back at him. An immaculate sword came up, reflecting the late afternoon light in its polished blade.
“We have heard about you. Westwood Lands, yes? The man with scar. Big brave man. Your head will make the perfect warning for this Cap-a-tan I have heard about. And perhaps the Being Supreme will give me a nod for doing what the Inkna failed to do and kill you.” The tip of the sword came up. The flat of the blade touched the underside of Sanders’ chin and applied pressure. Sanders kept his head down, resisting the unspoken command to look up.
“Ah. Proud. There are ways around this, of course.” The blade tilted until the sharp bite of metal cut into his soft flesh.
Sanders sucked in a breath, but did not raise his head. They were going to kill him anyway, what was the point in going quietly? To that end, he said, “You know, I really hate your accent. It sounds like you’re chewing shit when you speak. And it’s Captain. Cap-tain.”
The pain keeping him grounded surged, stabbing through his body and knocking him forward onto his hands.
“You see? There are ways to make you obey,” the Graygual said.
“You’re not making me obey, your minions are. Doesn’t count. You’re still a pansy with your shiny boots and stupid, swirly sword. I’d call you a girl, but I know a girl who could kick your ass…”
The Graygual’s boots scraped on the ground as the man shifted. The blade bit deeper into the underside of Sander’s chin and a trickle of blood dribbled down his neck. “Just know that your Cap-a-tan has been noticed by the Being Supreme,” the Graygual hissed. “Once he is done with his business in the east, he will burn your city to the ground, rape your women, and skin your men alive. Those that survive will be sold as slaves. Your Cap-a-tan will be put on display as an example of what happens when a nation defies our rule.”
