Chosen (The Warrior Chronicles, 1)

by K. F. Breene

  “Pretty.” She couldn’t help the monotone in her voice. At one time in her life, she’d cared about such things—about men and mates and what it meant to be desired. She was only twenty-four, but even still, those days were gone, along with her people. Now, she’d rather be invisible.

  “Say ‘thank you’,” Molly muttered disapprovingly, noticing Shanti’s shoes scattered across the cobblestones. Her answering scowl was fantastic.

  “Thank you,” Shanti said without emotion. It would behoove her to stick within custom—to stay within the good graces of these people—until she could move on and regain that invisibility. Still, she didn’t like the reminder of days lost. Or being noticed sexually. Not anymore.

  After a tsk, and some shoe orchestration, Molly said, “Let’s move. The Captain hates tardiness. And rudeness…”

  A short walk later, they approached a large square building with very few ornaments. In fact, besides a plain, burnished metal door knocker and weathered door knob, it was completely nondescript. And because it was so plain, standing next to domestic dwellings with scrolls and embellishments, it stuck out like a barge amid sailboats. Someone wasn’t very clever at disguises with this office.

  Xavier hurried forward, and Shanti danced off to the side to keep outside of arm’s reach. He opened the door with a flourish, waving them through.

  Shanti stopped altogether, beckoning him in before her, spreading out her mind again. Her awareness crawled across the space within, mostly empty of any heat signatures or brain patterns, until the far right. It was like the sea washing up a beach, the foam of her mind lapping at the awaiting consciousness.

  She strained, trying to reach farther. The effect had her limbs shaking and forehead beading in sweat. Hot pricks dug in her temples. She should’ve waited longer than two days to attempt this meeting. Not that she’d planned to meet at all...

  Xavier, unaware of her mental employment, tried to dislodge his smile and failed. “Ladies first.”

  “Yes, I saw to that,” Shanti replied distractedly, wondering how many awaited her. “Molly has entered. Please—“ Shanti gestured again for Xavier to go first.

  “Ladies first,” Xavier repeated.

  His smile was starting to get irritating.

  Shanti looked at him sternly, deciding. He wasn’t planning to budge, but she wasn’t planning on traipsing in front of him in stilts and green puffy wrapping. She might as well just offer herself for his amusement.

  She settled for removing her shoes, handing them to the youth, and using his confusion to slip inside, dress binding halfway down her back in case she met trouble.

  As she crossed the threshold a splash of deep crimson reached toward her feet. Fearing blood, wondering if Xavier was currently closing the door to her tomb, Shanti hopped over the offending color with nimble grace, landing on weak, half-numb legs. She staggered, crashing into a plant in a pot, her Gift sputtering with lack of concentration and insufficient energy.

  A quick glance told her that what she’d thought was a dead body spilling its life blood, was actually a large flower at the corner of an extravagantly ugly rug. Also extravagantly large. It reached from the door to the men, housing two glorious leather couches, quality beyond what Shanti had ever seen and certainly ever experienced, and two chairs to match. An expertly crafted table squatted among that cluster of relaxation. Along the sides of the room, lining the walls, were more tables, a few plants, and large tapestries she wouldn’t waste her time burning. Riches and wealth beyond what many could boast clustered in this room. Also a distracting lack of quality art. The skills of this People were somewhat skewed.

  Righting herself and brushing the billowing fabric straight, then trying not to squirm with the dress grabbing at her legs, Shanti raised her eyes to her waiting audience. It was better than she’d expected. The long rectangular room held an array of fighting men at its head, all flocking around the focal point, a large wooden desk where a dark haired man sat. To the left stood three men of a battle hardened caliber. Straight and hard, they wore their weapons like their shirts, analyzing her with hard eyes. Their line was arrow straight, jutting out from the focal point, ready to meet her head-on.

  The first man in the line was a block of muscle with a face like a bull. Next in line stood a striking man with a crisp blue uniform, crease-free and pristine—probably a very organized man. Last was a middle-aged man with gray temples, regal and self-important—lots of experience.

  To the right wobbled a bunch of kids learning to stand still, that weasel Marc among them. If they’d ever been in a fight she would’ve been surprised. Wide eyes adorned fresh faces, gazes darting from her to their shoes, in equal parts fear of their fighting counterparts and fascination with her, the foreign woman.

  Molly had scampered off to Shanti’s left, halfway down the richly furnished room. Xavier joined her momentarily, his smile finally and completely wiped off his face. At least she had that going for her.

  Walking calmly on the smooth finish of an expertly sanded floor, Shanti let the feelers of her mind reach forward ahead of her, finding the men nearly in range. Her focus shifted to the focal point, a man slightly her senior leaning back comfortably in a massive leather chair that would make cows proud to give their lives. His intelligent eyes were a beautiful pale blue, matching the sky in color and clarity, but much deeper, their rim a dusty blue. Wavy dark brown hair brushed the tops of muscular shoulders. His eye-opening attractiveness was somewhat diminished by the tight, severe set of his jaw and corresponding intense gaze. He had an agenda. His life was probably an agenda. He might be loved, but Shanti bet it wasn’t for a sense of humor. As a leader, he was much too serious by half, a trait she’d seen diminish even the best leaders’ abilities.

  Shanti stopped moving forward at about fifteen paces from the desk, which was still embarrassingly shy of her mental ability to glean any real awareness of the Captain. Wisps of vague intent washed into her consciousness, but the feelings were pale representations of their origin. When at full strength she could reach a kilometer or more, but now that it so ardently mattered, she was as good as useless.

  “Welcome to my city,” he began gently, his voice deep and graveled. “It seems you’ve avoided all personal questions while in the city thus far.”

  She titled her head in greeting with a marginally bent spinal column, denoting acquiescence, or possibly weakness. She hadn’t recognized the name of the city when she’d asked Molly, which meant she was unfortunately ignorant to their customs. She did know the generalities of the Mountain Region from her studies, however, and knew that they adhered to respect, but nothing so severe as groveling. Hopefully polite conversation, the reedy weakness of a female, and her foreignness would have her spit out of this place with a label of “not important.”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” she responded in a soft tone. “My business is mine alone on this journey. I hope you understand.”

  Pulses of irritation slapped her from the man to her left. The first in line, shorter than the men behind him, shifted in irritation.

  Shanti’s focus flicked back to the Captain when he said, “We’ve performed a service for you. Two, actually. In repayment, you’ve landed young Marc in some serious trouble. I don’t think a little history, given in good faith, would go amiss.”

  Shanti kept her tone level, deflecting his curiosity as subtly as possible. “I thank you for your help, but it’s probably best for all involved if I carry on. Business, such that it is, isn’t something to chat about idly. I’m sure you can agree, no doubt being in possession of your own trade secrets.”

  A small flame kindled in crystalized blue eyes. “Trade. I see.”

  She batted her eyelashes. Couldn’t hurt. She was in the ridiculous green frock no intelligent woman would agree to—possibly stupidity is what they expected in their women.

  “What’s your name?” the Captain asked next.

  “You can call me whatever you wish, though something long and hard to pronou
nce would match my personality.” She smiled, communicating the joke.

  His stern expression didn’t soften. “Where are you from?”

  She thought of her homeland along the beautiful western coast of the land. Surrounding forests, not unlike those around this city, enabled her people to live off the land for most of their needs. She missed it keenly. Missed the sea breeze from the ocean not far away, and the lazy evenings when all the work and training was done when her people could all share meals and laughter. She found the ache of home a constant companion.

  But she couldn’t tell him any of that. She couldn’t let him pinpoint her on a map, or the pieces would start falling into place for anyone that paid attention. Keeping her business to herself was not only safest for her, it was safest for this city, too. They didn’t need the Graygual’s interest. No one did, if they could help it.

  To that end, she said, “A distant place, but I’m afraid I’d just as soon keep it at that. In fact, I would love to be on my way if at all possible...”

  He leaned forward on the desk, his large arms bracing, revealing defined biceps to match those muscular shoulders. A tinge of uncertainty pinched her heart as a strange flutter sparked in her stomach. She would’ve much preferred a fat and lazy Captain who would grow tired of exerting energy over foreign things. Or movement.

  Instead she faced a man, probably in his early thirties, with an intelligent and intense sparkle to his eyes, and an upper body to make the Elders take notice. Should things go sour, this did not bode well for her survival. All she could hope was that his size meant he was slow.

  “You speak our language well,” he continued, “though it’s not your native tongue. Your accent is… hard to place…”

  “Hard to place, yes. I’ve traveled far, but I have a ways to go. I must have a collection of sounds in my speech by now. But please, I would just as soon cause you no more trouble and be on my way.”

  In a quick movement, almost faster than her eye, and certainly unexpected, the Captain snatched something off the floor and put it on the desk to his right. Two things went through her head: One, her bag was now fifteen steps away. Two, the Captain was lightning fast. For an arm so big attached to a torso of his size, it was…unnerving.

  “We’ll cut to the chase, shall we?” The Captain’s voice got a shade deeper. All the young men squirmed where they stood, traces of fear floating at the edges of her awareness. The older men didn’t move, but wariness poured off them.

  The Captain’s large hands snapped the bag open. Without preamble, he hauled out her sword, ripping off the scabbard with a practiced hand and laying it at the top of the surface in front of him. Almost like he dared her to reach for it. Next came her throwing knives, followed by their leg harness. A belt, a bow, a quiver long emptied of arrows—she was an excellent shot, but with more enemies than arrows, retrieving them from dead bodies was impossible. The last of the larger objects was a neatly folded stack of clothing she recognized as her undergarments for colder climates, soiled and holey from travel.

  The Captain paused for a second, his eyes meeting hers. “This is quite an arsenal. Care to explain how you came to possess it?”

  The way he asked almost made her wonder at his ignorance of women fighting. It sounded like he was accusing her of stealing. Which was fantastic, because that meant he’d not heard of her, her abilities, the Shamas—her people—or her plight. It also meant he hadn’t talked to the Graygual.

  The answer was, therefore, easy. “It was a fantastic find.”

  He picked up the sword by the hilt, holding it in front of his eyes and analyzing the blade. “They are well taken care of. Expertly crafted, oiled, polished—someone put great care into this weapon, both to make it, and to keep it.”

  She allowed a smile she didn’t feel. “Yes. I am an expert scavenger, it seems.”

  His blue gaze back on hers, he put the sword down gently, handling it like he’d owned it all his life. “The knives are of excellent quality, also. Balanced. They were made with care by an expert at his craft. And used—there’s a speck of blood near the hilt only a month or two old, if I had to guess.”

  Good guess. And a detailed observation. He knew his weapons and their uses. It wasn’t theoretical, either. He was a fighter, and judging by the muscle tone, the width of those massive shoulders, and his surety of even the smallest movement, a good one. The rumors on that score seemed true.

  Blast the Elders their jokes! Filthy beggars! she swore to herself.

  She adopted a smile she didn’t feel. “I am a woman with some world knowledge—however little. My kind tend to have an eye for shiny things…”

  “Do you also have an eye for craftsmanship? Because those weapons look like they were made by a similar artist.”

  She did have an eye for craftsmanship. And now she knew he did, too. He wasn’t making this easy. “I got lucky—they were together, so it stands to reason that they’d be similar.”

  “I see.” It was clear he didn’t.

  Adrenaline started to fill her body slowly, knowing this was all starting to unravel. He reached into a small pocket on his breast and extracted her gold amulet. “There is scripted language on here that we don’t recognize. It’s made of gold. It would fetch a nice price. Your weapons would fetch remarkably more, but instead of trading the items for food or transportation, you carried them nearly to your death. Why?”

  “You’re really concerned about this money issue. If I did have money, to whom would I give it to for food or shelter? Were there fairies in the dead trees that I missed as I walked through?” she said with a flash of anger.

  Surprise lit his face before fire crackled in those cold blue eyes. The fighting men, already still, went rigid. More than one boy squeezed his thighs together, trying not to piss himself, probably. She was nearing the Captain’s patience threshold but there wasn’t a bloody thing she could do about it.

  The Captain stared at her with an uncanny intensity. The strange flutter tickled her stomach again, only this time, it carried a tingle of fear. After a lengthy pause, he slowly lifted his right hand to his breast and extracted her father’s ring. He held it by the chain it was attached to, and lifted it so it was level with his eyes. He looked at it for a moment, making a show of analyzing it, and then flicked his eyes to hers. “A man’s ring?”

  A pulse of adrenaline rocked her body. Sweat started to dribble down the crease of her back. She yearned to rush forward and yank the precious heirloom out of his hand. Instead, she stilled the tremors and focused on the present. She didn’t have any weapons, nor any strength. Unlike the last person who had handled that ring and questioned her, this large man wouldn’t get a fork in the eye. Not yet. Not until Shanti had a weapon. Or a fork.

  “I’m not sure what there is to explain,” she said in an even tone, easily hiding the lie. “One of the men I traveled with was lost. I kept his ring for the sake of memory…”

  A moment rumbled by in the silent room. Another. The boys began to fidget, uncomfortable and not experienced enough to hide it. The army men held firm, but uncertainty rolled off them.

  The Captain continued to analyze her as she pretended to stand strong. Her legs were quivering ever so slightly, however, exhausted from the stress and strain. She thought about inching closer, trying to get a reading on this stoic man. That she hadn’t already was beyond her—everyone else seemed in range, why not him?

  The Captain finally said, “Tell me about these weapons.”

  “What can I tell you?” She spread out her hands in a plea. “I found them along the way, I picked them up—“

  A monsoon of power blasted out from the Captain, rocking her back a step and causing her to throw up her shields in panic. Raw, brute strength scrubbed at her barriers like sand paper. Her teeth clenched like her fists, fighting the assault. Her startled gaze retrained on the Captain. He sat as faux calmly as ever, eyes on fire, no intent to further use what could only be his own Gift.

  A lifetime of tra
ining pushed past her soggy head and tired body. Survival mode regained control. She stood still and assessed. This was impossible. Wasn’t it? The bloodlines in this part of the world were all wrong for the Gift.

  Confused, at a loss, she opened her shields a fraction, letting in the tiniest sliver of power. Assessing. And then her fingers started to tingle with implications.

  He was untrained. His power, nearly enough to rival her own, had no direction. No intent. It pushed against her skull like a gale-force wind, but had no fingers with which to pry open her defenses, or slip past her barriers. He was simply in a temper and blasting outward with a fifth sense so powerful it had the ability to kill… if he knew how. Instead, he used it like a child just learning.

  What’s more, his people had no idea why they were unsettled. They knew their Captain was lost in anger, close to rage, but no one questioned how they knew. It spoke of complete, utter ignorance on what the Gift even was.

  Her mouth dropped open. She couldn’t help it.

  She had been told she was the only one with this much power. Had been for a hundred years. But here she stood, shaking with the effort to combat the force from another talent out of the legends. Words could not describe how utterly floored she was.

  Her inactivity and silence must have signaled some quiet victory for him, because he leaned back in his chair, the force of his power abating. He’d gotten his way, and now he could relax.

  If she had any sort of strength, she’d show him what that power could do with a little experience.

  The next horrible thought that forced its way into her churning mind was: The Graygual would be tickled that there was another—that she wasn’t the only one. Another killing monster for their war vessel. Another breeder for the race of super fighter. And maybe he was worse. He could easily impregnate a horde of women. If even one of those offspring had the Gift, the Graygual would have more weapons in their arsenal to blow through the land, conquering as they went.

  The large, muscular man, with lightning speed, and the power of a city and army both, had to be killed.