The Continent (The Continent #1)(27)
He looks over at me and smiles again, but doesn’t speak. His expression is kind—genuinely friendly—and I find this perplexing. Outside the confines of war, are the Topi not as savage as they seem? Perhaps they only mistook me for an Aven’ei and now, realizing that I am not an enemy, intend me no further harm. Perhaps they can even help me get home.
Home! I jerk my head skyward and strain my ears, listening for the heli-plane.
There is no sound.
*
A short while later, the other warrior returns. He slides the quiver from his shoulder, drops it near the opening of the tent, and asks a question of the man beside me, who shrugs and gives a short reply.
The archer comes over and squats down in front of me. He stares for a second, then yanks back the fur blanket and takes my leg in his hand. I try to squirm away, but the warning in his expression stops me immediately. He casts his eyes back to my thigh and presses lightly on the wound. I cry out, tears filling my eyes, but he ignores me. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he replaces the blanket and sits back on his feet.
“Kema ia awapi ana?” he says.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
He pulls a knife from his boot and I recoil, but he merely leans forward and scratches something into the dirt. The picture is shaped like an oval, and he scratches a few carats into the top right-hand side.
He taps a spot below the carats. “Aven’ei,” he says, and then taps a point at the top left of the circle. “Topi.” Then he points to me. “Ama?”
It’s a map. He’s drawn the Continent and outlined the territories, and I’m fairly certain he wants to know where I fit into all this. I lean forward and draw another oval below his, then create a few squiggly waves between the two objects to denote the ocean.
“Spire,” I say, pointing to my own circle.
He gestures to the sky, then holds his knife flat and pretends to fly it through the air, like a child might do with a toy airplane. “Spi-er?”
I nod eagerly. “Yes, that’s right!” I take a twig from the ground before me and pretend it is the heli-plane, gliding above the Continent. Then I mimic its crash. “I’m stranded here, you see?”
He is quiet for a minute, his eyes on the map. And then, without another word, he stands and crosses to the other side of the campground, where he disappears into the empty tent.
Night falls, and the archer builds a fire. For the better part of the evening, the two warriors pass a jug back and forth, becoming increasingly boisterous. I sit on the opposite side of the campfire, wrapped in the stinking fur blanket, warily watching the men. They ignore me for the most part, content to chatter and drink and belch with great satisfaction. They throw dirt clods at one another and laugh like children. They are obviously, dangerously drunk.
The archer takes a swig from the vessel and spits into the fire, eliciting a flash of bright yellow flame. He laughs and asks me a question, his words as slurred as they are incomprehensible. His eyes linger on my face for too long before he turns his attention back to his companion.
Another hour passes, perhaps an hour and a half. I sit in silence, shattered by the pain in my leg, but too frightened to cry. The men grow quieter. It must be near midnight when the friendly one at last gives a great sigh and stretches out on the dirt beside the tent. He is asleep within seconds of pressing his face into the frozen earth.
The archer is still, his shoulders swaying slightly, the firelight casting ghoulish shadows upon his face. I watch him as a mouse would watch a cat—unmoving, unblinking, measuring the distance between us.
“Haja,” he says, so softly that I’m not sure whether he is speaking to himself or to me. “Taja in apa ei.”
I say nothing, but fix my eyes on the fire.
“Haja,” he says again, and gets to his feet. I feel his gaze as he lumbers over and stares down at me.
He leans over, grips me by the arms, and pulls me to my feet, lifting me easily despite his intoxication; my thigh screams with the effort it takes to stand. He puts a sweaty hand on the back of my neck and angles my face toward his own. The liquor is pungent and sour on his breath. Trembling, I lift my eyes to meet his, and he smiles. Please, God, no. Please. No.
“Apa ke ma ona,” he says in a wistful tone, and trails a dirty finger down the side of my cheek. He sighs, buries his face in my hair, and inhales deeply. I am shaking so violently that I can barely stand.
He rocks backward, unsteady on his feet, but his grip on my neck is firm. His eyes are glassy, the color of dull bark, the skin of his face mottled with pockmarks. There is a sticky white substance at the corners of his mouth; the sight of it turns my stomach. I have never been this close to a man before—not in this way. But I know instinctively that his intentions are lustful, and my heart pounds with such force that it seems audible in the quiet night.
“Please,” I say, my voice choked. “Please let me go.”
He traces my chin with his fingertip and takes hold of me by the waist, pulling me against him. He murmurs something into my ear and tries to kiss me, but I turn my face. His lips are on my cheek, hot and wet; I fight the urge to vomit.
I pound at his temples with my fists, but this seems to excite him. His breathing grows quick and ragged, his hands clutch me more tightly. All the while, his mouth moves over my face and neck, seeking my lips, savoring the chase.
The next moment is like a blur: there is a soft noise, and my attacker jerks away from me. The clasp of my necklace breaks, the chain caught in the archer’s fingers as he staggers backward. The Topi gropes at the side of his neck, where I see—in equal parts relief, confusion, and horror—the black handle of a knife protruding outward.