The Continent (The Continent #1)(25)

The man is crouched in the snow, his body angled away from me, the back of his dark coat sprinkled with snow. A steel hatchet lies beside him, along with a blue satchel and two or three dead animals—squirrels, I think. I cannot see what the Topi is doing, but his head is bent in concentration and he appears singularly focused on whatever silent task is at hand.

He stiffens and turns to look beyond his right shoulder, a deep frown cast over his features; I stand frozen to the spot, certain that he has somehow sensed my presence. But it is not I that has drawn his attention—it is the heli-plane, cresting the mountains and moving gracefully into the sky above the valley.

My heart lurches at the sight of it. The four-pointed star of the Spire, painted in bright yellow on the side of the fuselage, seems like something from a dream. The Topi watches the plane for a moment before resuming his previous position, his face once again turned toward the ground in front of him.

I hesitate, unsure what to do. If I run out into the open, I might be able to attract the attention of those aboard the heli-plane. But if the Topi sees me first, I may not live long enough to be rescued. Perhaps I should quietly pick my way back to the escape pod—if it’s emitting a signal, they should find me quite readily, and at least then I could hide myself amongst the trees. But what if there is no signal? What if the light truly does indicate something else? And what if the plane has already flown over the pod—or worse, flown over and retrieved it, leaving me with no shelter whatsoever?

I wish my father were here. He would know what to do. He always knew exactly what to do.

The plane circles back, making another pass over the valley. It’s relatively close now; I can plainly see the tinted windows along the port side. I cannot wait. This could be my only chance to escape the Continent.

Shaking, I move away from the concealment of the trees and swing my arms wide, criss-crossing them again and again in a furious attempt to draw the attention of my would-be-rescuers. After a long moment, the plane turns toward me, and I am filled with a hope so desperate I can hardly breathe. Emboldened, I move farther out into the clearing, flailing my arms wildly, willing someone to see me.

And someone does. As the plane glides past, I look across the clearing to see a second Topi watching me intently from the rocks at the base of the mountain. He is impossibly tall, with broad shoulders and slashes of red and yellow paint angling from one side of his face to the other. Behind his right shoulder is a quiver full of darkly feathered arrows. The warrior’s expression is not fierce or savage as I might have expected, but curious—almost amused. For a moment, neither of us moves—we just stand there, locked in impasse. His eyes dart toward the sky; I imagine he can still see the heli-plane from his vantage point, although the trees behind me have obscured it from my view. He drops his gaze back to my face.

I take a step backward, my limbs rigid with fear. He watches me, but does not move, nor does his countenance change. For one ridiculous moment, I wonder if he has no more interest in me than a shark might have for a tiny fish in the sea—perhaps I am too small, too insignificant for concern. But then his voice booms out across the vale, a deep, heavy sound, as he calls to the warrior in the clearing. “Amashiha! Laza ma opi!”

The first man looks up in surprise and turns toward me.

There is no more indecision. I turn at once and flee.

I race through the trees, panic fueling my starving body. The skirts of my dress fly out behind me, snagging and tearing on the spindly tree branches that seem to reach for me with grasping fingers. I hear the men shouting behind me, getting closer with every step. The snow is thin here, and slippery, but I manage to keep my footing as I race through the wood. I’m veering to the southwest, toward the escape pod, toward my last hope of rescue.

An arrow zips past my left shoulder and sticks firmly in one of the trees ahead of me, its shaft quivering. Terrified, I cut across to my right and then again to my left, trying to become as elusive a target as possible. One of the Topi calls out, his voice like thunder in the dense thicket; he is much closer now. Foolishly, I look over my shoulder to see how much space lies between us, and as I do, the uneven terrain rises before me. I lose my footing and go sprawling forward, the frozen ground scraping my arms as I try to stop myself.

The Topi is on me in an instant. He puts one hand on my head, crushing the right side of my face against the snow. There is a terrible pressure between my shoulder blades—his knee, I think—and my hands are bound together. When the cord around my wrists has been pulled tight, the man rolls me onto my back.

I look up at him, the edges of my vision dark with fear. It’s the tall warrior who spotted me across the clearing, the archer with the painted face. Beneath the splashes of color, his skin is a rich reddish-brown, his face broad with hard angles and myriad scars. He stares down at me, his mouth slightly open, the curious expression returned to his face.

“Ama-zi?” he says.

I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

He bends down, his face so close to mine that I can smell his breath—it reeks of fish and decay. “Ama-zi?” he repeats, more forcefully this time. He shakes me roughly by the shoulders, rattling the arrows in his quiver. “Mo zapi. Mo zapi!”

“Please, I don’t understand,” I say, tears springing to my eyes. My vision doubles, and there are two of him for a moment. “I don’t know what you’re saying!”

He sits back and stares at me. I lie helplessly on the ground, my hands burning with cold in the snow. The man reaches toward my face and I flinch, but he merely lifts a lock of my hair and rubs it between his fingers. “Ama shai maza-an Aven’ei.”