The Continent (The Continent #1)(26)
Aven’ei. This word I know. “No,” I say quickly. “No, I’m not Aven’ei! Is that what you’re asking? I’m not Aven’ei, I’m from the Spire, and—”
“Aka on-api!” he shouts, startling me into silence.
The other warrior appears behind him, looks down at me, and frowns. He says something I can’t understand, and the two men begin bickering back and forth. My shoulder aches and my hands have gone numb.
The archer yanks me to my feet. I sway for a moment, then sag against the tree behind me while the two men continue to argue. The temptation to run is overwhelming. I stare over my shoulder, mentally forging an escape path between the trees. The man who bound my wrists looks at me sharply; I’ve given away my thoughts, and whether or not I would have acted upon them, the Topi is not amused.
He glares at me, pulls an arrow from the sheath upon his back, and plunges it into my outer thigh. I scream, more stunned than hurt, for initially there is no pain—only heat, and pressure. I stumble to my knees, my wrists straining against the leather cord.
The warrior grabs my chin and points my face toward his own. “Aka pa shinapi. Ama bei Topi!” he says, his lips curled with anger. In one horrible, smooth motion, he wrenches the arrow from my leg, and this—this hurts. I gasp, a shock of searing pain radiating outward from my thigh; the sensation is pure, prickling agony. I watch as my blood seeps through the fibers of my white trousers, soaking the fabric as it spreads. I am shaking, fixated, but look up just in time to see the Topi swing his fist toward my temple.
All dissolves into blackness, and merciful unconsciousness overtakes me.
CHAPTER 9
I OPEN MY EYES AND BLINK AT THE BRIGHTNESS of the white sky, its light blinding beyond the trees. I am on the ground, on my back, aching everywhere. I stare numbly at the soft snowflakes drifting through the air, my mind as blank as a new canvas. It is the throbbing pain in my leg that brings me back to myself. I sit up quickly—a dreadful mistake—and feel unconsciousness reaching for me once again. I close my eyes and force myself to stay alert.
When the dizziness ebbs, I take stock of my surroundings. I’m in some sort of campground; at least, that’s what it looks like to me: there is a crude tent pitched nearby, and one of the Topi—the shorter man, the one who was kneeling in the clearing—is sitting on the ground beside me, sharpening the edge of his hatchet upon a flat rock. He grins when I look at him, displaying a mouth full of teeth blackened by whatever root he is chewing, and says something I can’t understand. The other warrior is nowhere in sight.
Someone has placed a thick fur blanket over me; it has a strange smell to it, a scent I don’t recognize. My hands are no longer bound, but my wrists are chafed and raw where the cord cut into my skin. I wince, then lift the blanket to see a bandage—more precisely, a long strip of grimy cloth—wrapped tightly around my thigh, atop my bloody, sticky trousers. I press the wound experimentally and am rewarded with a pain sharper and more intense than anything I’ve ever felt. I clench my teeth, willing the pain to pass. My head, too, is pounding, the side of my face tender where the Topi struck me. I breathe deeply as the pain recedes.
There’s very little snow on the ground here, but considering how dense the trees are, I’m not surprised. The Topi beside me doesn’t seem at all worried that I might try to make a run for it; he probably assumes I learned my lesson when the archer wounded me with the arrowhead. If that is so, he is correct.
The man smiles again and reaches behind him to produce a leather satchel, which he tosses to me.
Tentatively, I loosen the cord and peek inside. It contains several strips of salted meat; I can’t be sure, but it smells like venison. Only for the briefest moment do I consider refusing the food. Thoughts of poison, of improper storage, of the filthy hands that prepared the meat—these notions carry very little weight right now. I’m famished. I shove an entire piece into my mouth, and the intense shock of salty, gamey flavor is astonishingly pleasurable.
The Topi laughs and throws a second bag at me; a quick look tells me it’s full of either clayberries or snowthorns. I have no way to determine which they are, but it doesn’t seem likely that the warrior would choose to poison me in this way. In any event, they look delicious. I stuff a handful of them into my mouth and am rewarded with a burst of rich clayberry juice, sweet and only very slightly tart in the aftertaste.
I eat every piece of meat and devour all of the berries. When I’ve finished, the warrior pulls a piece of cork from a large jug and passes the vessel to me. I drink straight from it without hesitation, dimly aware that this is probably the first time since infancy I’ve had anything to drink without a glass, aside from melted snow. The cold water, rich and earthy in its flavor, is more satisfying than any beverage I’ve had in my life.
I had worried that eating so much might make me sick after three days without food, but in truth, I feel invigorated afterward, if not still a bit dizzy. I sneak a glance at the Topi beside me, who has returned to the task of sharpening his weapon. He has a wide face and enormous eyes that protrude from the sockets. His black hair is cropped short, its uneven pieces sticking out in jagged wisps. He’s the only Topi I’ve yet seen with short hair; all the other men seem to wear it long, either in thick plaits or bound with cloth and colored wool. Also unlike the others, this man has no paint on his face, and doesn’t seem to be well outfitted. Whereas his companion was equipped with thick, fortified leather garments that were clearly designed for protection, this Topi wears only plain woolen clothes and a long coat that has obviously been patched many times.