Chosen (The Warrior Chronicles #1)(79)

“What is happening?” Betty asked, spraying spittle in irritation.

Ah Betty, that ol’ bitch. He was patient and seemingly pleasant. Sanders’ severe hatred for him was the only thing keeping him sane. The desire to give some back was the only thing waking Sanders up into the fog of agony, keeping his mind from drifting into the soft embrace of death.

One of the Black Shirts answered in gibberish, which meant they had switched to their own language. Well, they weren’t going to finally kill him. Joy. He would live to hurt another day.

All the Black Shirts ran out of the dungeon, followed by anyone else standing around. Weapons were pulled out and yells and shouts filled the halls. Something was indeed happening. Dare he hope the Captain was coming?

“What are you smiling about?” Betty asked in his crisp tones. He was standing close to the bars, looking into the gloomy cell, trying to make out Sanders’ face.

“You better hope she isn’t here. She has a mean temper.”

Chapter 41

A blast hit Shanti, the combined power of six men equaling three-fourths of her own power. These men had to be their best, designed to bring an enemy to their knees so the gates could be lowered. Cayan’s power pumped into her, making her stronger, making the scrape against her shields nothing more than an irritating distraction.

“Bring them down, mesasha—the men are wilting!” Cayan roared.

The gate shook violently, metal creaking, then began to lower slowly. Shanti picked up her pace, grabbing six minds as she broke into a run, clutching them with her and Cayan’s combined might, and then crushing, slow but complete, the city drenched in their screams before they dropped.

A wave of fear engulfed her, the chain of the gate now rattling franticly while the guards struggled to get it down.

“Forward!” Cayan yelled behind her, hooves picking up the pace.

Shanti burst through the lowering gate and speared the man operating the crank. He slid off her sword in a boneless heap.

Horses streamed past her, the Captain with his giant sword cleaving the enemy in his way. His horse knocked down and trampled anyone directly in front. Lucius was off his horse and by her side, sword out, watching her back as she turned to the city, mind spread out, scouring for a mental attack while hunting for Sanders.

“S’am!” Leilius stepped beside her, out of breath. He was sweating and his eyes were wide. He had a bloodied knife clutched in a white knuckled grip. “What do I do?”

“Hide that knife. Blend in. Act—continue to be scared. Find Sanders. I will follow your progress and meet you there.”

“Yes S’am.”

Lucius’ sword whipped out in front of him to make short work of a screaming Inkna in a red cloak running for the gate.

“Those wearing black have mental abilities,” Shanti warned. “Those in red or yellow are safe to approach on sight. Get someone to man this gate, then we find Sanders.”

“Yes, S’am. Following your lead.”

Shanti searched, huddling next to a stone wall, using her Gift more precisely. Cayan’s men couldn’t shield. They would be useless if even one Black Shirt lurked. And the Inkna were great at lurking, hiding their presence so as to use their Gift in secrecy. It was cowardly, but much more effective.

“Ready.” Lucius stood poised, balanced, coiled for action.

She and Lucius headed further into the city, trying to stay central until they either knew where Sanders was, or Shanti could identify more Black Shirts. Amazingly, the city didn’t hold as many troops as she expected. When the villagers and traders scrambled away or took up arms, it was a little less than two to Cayan’s one. The Inkna were vastly outmatched, however. The Spurna, Cayan’s people, were larger, stronger, and fiercer. They feinted and stabbed, or cleaved, or picked a body up and broke its back. It was vicious and nasty, utterly brutal. No one would be spared.

Shanti worked her blade, staying in the shadows of traders’ stalls or animal housing as much as possible, jumping out to surprise an Inkna and slice him through. Until suddenly there was a concussion of silence. The air got as thick as molasses, drifting between clashing swords and sweating men.

Cayan’s men screamed, scrubbing at their eyes, or chests, or other parts of their body. Cayan, sword bloody, standing amid a circling of dead enemy bodies, turned around in helplessness, knowing what was happening, but not knowing how to stop it. His gaze found and locked on Shanti, his mind dragging her focus toward him in desperation.

She swatted away his scrabbling, their deeper link still prevalent, and fell to her knees, eyes closed, trusting in Lucius’ blade. Her mind registered the pain and suffering of Cayan’s men at the north end of the open compound. The Black Shirts’ reach wasn’t far, but it was potent, the Gifts more like torturing devices than weapons. It was lucky, it meant they took longer to kill.

Shanti honed in until she could feel cold malevolence, a professional detachment with edges of pleasure radiating out of weak minds. Fire welled up in her from this horrible use of their Gifts. Of the joy they took in torture and killing. They minds were twisted with it. Corrupted.

Wasted.

Cayan riding her, she took a pause of two more heartbeats; she monitored the way their minds connected, ten in all, a link boosting their power similar to Cayan and hers. But not boosting it overly much. Probably only a couple like-Gifts. It hurt their effectiveness.