Chosen (The Warrior Chronicles #1)(33)

Well now, she couldn’t let that happen.

Shanti was marching to the front of the line as Lucius answered, “It’s in progress, actually. The Mugdock has gotten more sophisticated lately. They have more than one battering ram. This is the last gate to be replaced. It’s just not ready yet.”

Shanti glanced upwards to the archers flanking the top of the gate. The top of the wall was fashioned after a castle, providing cover for archers as they fired on those below. There was enough room for two men to walk abreast, the wall made sturdy and probably able to withstand a heavy attack. Which didn’t mean anything at all when the gate was battered down.

Another push of violence slammed against her.

“They’re coming. We haven’t much time.” Shanti couldn’t control the fear in her voice. Images flashed through. Violence. Death.

The waiting was always the hardest part.

In the distance a hawk screeched, hunting through the night, descending on some unfortunate prey.

Shanti pushed through the last of the crowd toward the gate, noticing they gathered in a semi-circle, the more experienced knowing the gate would never hold. The anticipation of false safety acted like acid dribbling onto their nerves.

With a confident stride, she marched right up to the metal bar and slid it away. Turning back to the men, authority seeping into her bearing from more experience than anyone in this city, the Captain included, she stared down the men in front of her.

“Lucius, open the gate,” she commanded.

“Yes, sir.”

She wondered at him not asking why. Surely he’d think this was madness. He was trained to obey. Stupid. Battle was a place of madness; following without thought made men into animals. The lines of good and bad blurred, and if someone didn’t maintain the reins of logic, humanity wouldn’t find a way to creep back in. The good side would end up just as corrupt as the bad.

A conversation for another time.

As Lucius opened the door, a few male voices asked each other what he was doing. Two asked her right out.

The doors swung open, a gaping black hole at her back. Gazes stared past her, into the void. Wondering when it was coming. Fearing they wouldn’t be enough. That they couldn’t hold it.

“You will hold it,” she barked in a loud voice.

Gazes snapped to her.

Shanti addressed the group in a loud, clear voice. “Give me a nod if you understand why I have opened those gates.”

A couple heads bobbed within the cluster of men. Many more shifted their feet, uncomfortable. A couple voices muttered something about “foreign woman.” A couple others asked about her safety. One asked if the Captain knew she was here.

She wondered about that last question, too. He would shit himself, then probably strangle her, and not because she disobeyed his order to head to safety. If he found out she made a decision regarding the battle strategy and didn’t go through him first, he would flip.

“These gates will not hold. Those standing near the gates will get crushed. Those not crushed would then have to fight over them. It puts you at a disadvantage and only buys you a small amount of time to stand there and stew in your fear. I have removed the problem.”

“But they’ll have a clear shot of us now!” someone in the back yelled.

“They always had a clear shot of you, they just had to break the gate down to do it. The scant few your archers would have hit while the enemy worked would not be enough to outweigh fighting over obstacles as they rush you with the full advantage. Ask your war veterans.”

There were nods and murmurs.

“Who’s going to take on the attack, now?” someone shouted.

“Lucius, why are you guarding this bitch? What does she know?” someone else yelled.

They were getting angry. Their fear was boiling into rage and she was the catalyst. Good. Anger fueled courage. The presence was closer now. They were moving forward. Slowly, but it would speed up soon. She had to hurry.

“They are coming!” she yelled. She reached back and drew her sword with a smooth, practiced movement. The metal cleared the scabbard attached to her back, hungry for blood. The sword glinted in the torchlight, a long blade with a graceful arch. Holding it was like shaking the hand of an old friend. Silence descended. The hawk cried again somewhere in the battlefield.

“When they are in range,” she continued, looking to the top of the walls, meeting the eyes of archers, “loose the arrows. Everyone else, stay as you are. I will be the knife that parts the fabric. I have the experience you lack. I have been training for this all my life. I have weapons you don’t realize. I will act as their block, and you will kill anyone who makes it over. Are we understood?”

A horde of men stood and stared, no one even daring to shift on their feet.

She knew what they saw: she was a woman in pants with a sword. Foreign and small. She did not belong on their battlefield. She did not belong giving orders like she was born to the role. Her perfect stance, as if she were ready to start a ballet made no sense in their fighting history.

But they found themselves nodding anyway. They found themselves stealing their courage and saying, “Yes, sir” into her glowing violet eyes, shining with the glory of battles won, and the pain and remembrance of battles lost. She knew her eyes were as old as the world, but burned with the fervor of youth. She’d traveled a great deal, and heard sweet words as well as curses. She knew who she was, and she was born for this role.