Chosen (The Warrior Chronicles #1)(84)

He was loaded onto a stretcher as a cooling mist enveloped his mind. The voice of the foreigner, soft and feminine, whispered in the din, “Sleep, Sanders, I will help heal you. Not everything I learned from these nasty rats was awful.”

Sanders barely held onto consciousness as his stretcher carriers followed the Captain out of the dungeon. The Captain carried a limp Shanti, who, shortly after putting him in a wonderful, numbing kind of fog, sank against the disgusting stone wall and hung her head, grief etched in every line on her face. Whatever Betty had showed her had worked its way deep into her being and eaten away at her core.

When the Captain informed her it was time to go, she didn’t even look up. Apparently she wasn’t even planning to bother continuing on. Despite all that Sanders had been through, somehow that knowledge was the worst. Her quitting seemed the end of all things. Even though he couldn’t say why, some part of him registered that for her to give up would mean great peril to them all.

The Captain bent and scooped Shanti up easily, waving everyone away, including Marc, who was trying to look after her shoulder where Betty had pierced her with a throwing knife. Good thing the weasel was a terrible shot.

It seemed the Captain had developed some kind of kindred spirit with her, and from what Tobias had told Sanders when the tight-lipped Sterling wasn’t hovering close by, whatever the foreign girl could do, the Captain could do, too, and they could do it better when they were together.

Wasn’t that some shit. Sanders felt bad for the Captain. She would be a helluva woman to have to share a kindred spirit with. Though, he had to admit, a good one to have in your corner.

Chapter 47

The day after the battle Marc sat beside the woman who was responsible for his success thus far. She had believed in him when everyone else had given up. She had given him patience when others showed him frustration. She had literally kicked him in the butt when others had walked away. There was just something about her to look up to. She always had a reason for what she did, and she knew how to work with each guy, no matter how different, to bring out the best in him. Leilius was living proof. And now Leilius was a celebrity. He couldn’t walk two steps without someone giving him a nod, or a pat on the back, or a job well done. On the way there, those same guys had shunned, or ignored, or sneered at the younger soldier.

“C’mon My’pol, you need to eat.” Marc urged the bowl of gruel into Shanti’s hands. It had always been a running joke, the things Leilius came up with when his brain was short circuiting, thinking about something else. They had always loved that she didn’t care what she was called. It set her apart. It made everything seem lighter, more fun and less tedious. She usually smiled when they used the titles, in eyes if not in mouth, but now it didn’t help.

“I’m okay, Marc. Thank you. And job well done. I hear you are excelling.”

“Don’t worry about me. You need to eat. I made this special for you. Just one bowl. Please.” The gruel was full of nutrients, remedial herbs, electrolytes, and immunity building properties. The best part was that it tasted similar to broth. One bowl went a long way. So far the three sick men, including Commander Sanders, were doing excellently on it.

“I’m not hungry, Marc, but I thank you. Why don’t you leave it beside me and I’ll eat in a while.”

Shanti was sitting at the base of a tree, her body resting against the rough bark, nearly limp. Her eyes were lackluster and her speech came out nearly monotone. She was agonized. Anyone could see it. Whatever she had found inside the mind of that guy in the white shirt was eating away at her, and she wasn’t doing anything to revive herself. She was giving up.

Marc looked around for help. They were removed from the city somewhat, the group of men hanging around the wounded taking a break and getting some rest. The three mind-wounded, which is what they were calling Sanders and the other two, dozed in the soft grass. The physically wounded were spread out, wherever they were comfortable, healing. Marc had seen to everyone. They had lost nearly two dozen men, and five more probably wouldn’t last the night. But based on the fact that they demolished the enemy, their numbers were excellent. At least, that’s what all the veterans were saying.

Mark looked at Sanders, lying on his back with a grimace aimed at the sky, knowing the vicious battle commander could sometimes give the woman pause. But while he was healing quickly, which had something to do with Shanti, he was in no shape to talk sense into her, let alone get her to eat. Lucius was the next best option, but he was in the city, trying to reestablish their government and a sense of order. He had a mind for business and the Captain trusted him more than anyone else, so that made sense. But it didn’t help Marc at the moment.

The only other person who would make a difference was the Captain himself, and Marc would rather chew his arm off before approaching that man. When the Captain looked at a guy it made him want to hide, or pee himself. It wasn’t that the looks were overly aggressive, either. Sometimes he was even half smiling—at least when Shanti or Lucius was around and not pissing him off—but he always had that alpha thing going on that made a guy realize he was nowhere near as tough and confident as he had originally thought. That really, he should just fall in line like everyone else. And Marc wasn’t even one of the tough and confident ones, so he just got scared straight away.

But Shanti was wasting away. She was spending all her energy healing the mind-wounded and none on herself.