The Continent (The Continent #1)(92)
The tunnel of my vision widens and I see the Topi, swaying on his feet, examining the ruin of flesh at his side made by my knife. Skin and muscle have been flayed, now hanging in jagged flaps and ribbons. How many times did I stab him? How does he still stand?
I roll onto my stomach. I lie scraping in the dirt, saliva dripping from my mouth, creating soft puddles in the soil beneath my chin.
The Topi is not done with me yet.
With one foot, he nudges me onto my back and pins me there. I struggle to move, gasping as I try to push myself up. He swings the axe back as though it were a toy, and time seems to splinter as the blade moves toward me. I close my eyes, my fate sealed. This time, I will die, and stay dead.
But the weapon does not reach me—there is no cold blade at my neck, only the sound of a sharp, ear-splitting clang. I open my eyes to see that a long spear has been thrust directly in the axe’s path, stopping it mid-blow.
Shoshi Kaken stands to my left, holding the spear, his tattooed face spattered with blood. With a swift stroke, he pulls the weapon back and jams it up and into the Topi’s torso, piercing the heart. The man is dead before the stroke is complete. Skewered. His axe drops to the ground with a heavy thud, and Shoshi yanks the spear backward, wrenching it free. The Topi falls to the ground beside me.
“Get up,” Shoshi growls, gripping me under the arms and pulling me to my feet. He thrusts a weapon that looks like a long, flat spade into my hands, and points to my right. “Remember the bull, Vaela Sun.”
I follow his finger to see a Topi bearing down on me with all speed, not ten feet away. Shoshi is gone; I hear the clash of metal behind me, the grunting of men locked in battle. I grip the long handle of the spade and brace myself. The Topi is wild-eyed, his face smeared with paint, his muscled body lean and taut and dripping with sweat. He holds a hatchet in his left hand—a weapon meant for my head, I am sure. Just like the bull, that day on the farm—ready to spill my blood and remove me from his territory.
“Not today,” I whisper. I spring from his reach as he raises the hatchet above his head, and bring the spade full force into collision with his face. The impact knocks him off his feet, stuns him for a moment—and a moment is all I need. I drop the weapon, pull a knife from my belt, and end him.
Shoshi moves beside me; we are alone now at the edge of the wood. “The Aven’ei are nearly finished,” he says, and gestures to the field.
I look out across the sea of men: at the thousands and thousands who fill the field above the Vale, and anguish fills my heart. The Topi are so many, the Aven’ei so few. I cannot make a difference in this battle, nor can the brave Aven’ei warriors who now fight so fiercely. Numbers don’t lie. The Topi will prevail.
A noise fills the air, something greater even than the cacophony of war. It’s like the buzzing of a bee; a terrible humming that echoes across the plain. Instinctively, I turn my head skyward, and joy beyond reason consumes me.
There, moving swiftly into position above the battlefield, is not one heli-plane, but twelve.
The Spire has come.
CHAPTER 35
YES—THE SPIRE. BUT SOMETHING IS AMISS. THE four-pointed star on each plane has been removed; a dark blue gull is now painted across the side of each fuselage. A seagull—the symbol of the West.
These planes are much, much larger than the small craft I have seen before. They hover above the center of the field, white bodies massive and intimidating, the great propellers in the wings spinning like mad. Enormous cargo doors slide open on each plane, one after another, to reveal men clad in heavy body armor—six to each side, all positioned behind mounted guns. The largest craft, the one at the center of the formation, hangs lower in the air than the others.
In a pocket of clear ground, a hail of bullets rains down around the center craft. Clods of dirt and charred grass spike upward into the sky; the power of the Spirian weapons cannot be denied. A crackle cuts across the field, and an amplified voice booms out a warning: “Cease fighting. Cease this war. Stop, or you will be killed.”
The warriors are distracted, yet still they attack one another. Even the appearance of twelve massive heli-planes is not enough to impress the natives of the Continent.
The message is repeated; the fighting continues.
Shots ring out above us; the noise is deafening. Four Topi fall nearby, and hundreds more across the plain. With few exceptions, the battle comes to an abrupt halt.
“Cease fighting,” the voice calls out again; I am astonished to realize that it belongs to Mr. Lowe. “You will cease hostilities at once, or you will be killed.”
The few areas where skirmishing continues are now targeted, and more Topi fall dead. The warriors howl at the heli-planes with impotent fury. Arrows fly toward the aircraft, but glance away or are deflected by the men with shields.
“This war is ended,” booms Mr. Lowe. “Any further hostilities will result in violence against the perpetrators. Return to your own territories, and let neither pass into the other’s realm again.”
There is movement and general consternation amongst the throng of warriors. A single arrow flies toward the center plane; the man who loosed it is shot.
“Return to your territories.”
Whether or not the Topi understand the language, they have clearly received the message. The men step away from one another—the Topi backing away westward, the Aven’ei moving to the east.