The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  “At last!” Jayan clenched a fist and ran for his spear.

  “You should not be fighting,” Asavi said. “Your sight will try to trick you with only one eye. You will need to grow accustomed to it.”

  “I would not have to, if you had healed it properly,” Jayan said acidly.

  Asavi’s veil sucked in as she drew a sharp breath, but she accepted the rebuke serenely. “You would be seeing from two perfect eyes had you allowed me to sedate you. As it is, I have saved the eye. Perhaps the Damajah can heal it further.”

  Again, Abban wondered at her motives. Had he truly been beyond her skills, or was this one more bit of leverage for Inevera to rein in her passionate son?

  Jayan waved a disgusted hand her way and headed out the door, spear in hand. His bodyguard, the Spears of the Deliverer, appeared in growing numbers at his back as he marched through the rooms.

  As the Sharum Ka predicted, there was plenty of time to assemble the disciplined Sharum on the docks and beach around the city before the boats could attempt to make landing. They gathered in tight formations on the docks and beach, ready to lock shields and protect the scorpions against the inevitable waves of arrow fire before the larger ships drew close enough to unload men on the docks. Smaller boats would make right for the shore.

  Abban ran his distance lens across the water, counting boats and calculating their relative sizes against the cargo holds he had seen in the captured vessels. The math did not reassure him.

  “If those ships are fully loaded,” he said, “the Laktonians can field as many as ten thousand men. Five times the number of Sharum we have.”

  Qeran spat. “Chin men, khaffit. Not Sharum. Not warriors. Ten thousand soft men funneled down narrow docks, or slogging through shallow water. We will crush them. A dozen will fall for every board of dock they take.”

  “Then let us hope their will breaks before they push through,” Abban said. “Perhaps it is time to send for reinforcements.”

  “The Sharum Ka has forbidden it,” Qeran said. “You worry too much, master. These are Krasia’s finest warriors. I would count on dal’Sharum to cut down ten fish men apiece even on an open field.”

  “Of course you would,” Abban said. “Sharum are only taught to count by adding zeros to fingers and toes.”

  Qeran glared at him, and Abban glared right back. “Do not forget who is master here simply because the Sharum Ka favors you, Qeran. I found you in a puddle of couzi piss, and you’d still be there if I hadn’t spent precious water cleaning you off.”

  Qeran drew a deep breath, and bowed. “I have not forgotten my oath to you, khaffit.”

  “We attacked Docktown for the tithe,” Abban said, as if speaking to an infant. “Everything else is secondary. Without it our people starve this winter. We have barely begun tallying it, much less shipped it to our own protected silos. That idiot boy is jeopardizing our investment, so you’ll forgive me if I’m not in the mood to listen to Sharum boasting. Jayan has needlessly provoked an attack against a foe with superior numbers, even with time on our side to wait the fish men out all winter.”

  Qeran sighed. “He wishes a great victory, to give credence to his claim on his father’s throne.”

  “All of Krasia wishes that as well,” Abban said. “Jayan has never impressed anyone in his life, or he would already be on the Skull Throne.”

  “It does not excuse his reckless leadership.” Qeran winked. “I did not send for reinforcements, but I did send messages to Jayan’s half brothers that we were about to engage the enemy. The sons of the Deliverer crave glory above all. They will come, even without orders.”

  Abban remembered the way Qeran used to casually beat him as a child, trying to force him into a Sharum mold. Abban had hated Qeran then, and been terrified of him. He had never dreamed that one day he might command the man, much less actually like him.

  He turned back to the window as the boats drew close enough for scorpion fire. Jayan gave the signal, and the Mehnding teams manning the weapons called numbers and adjusted tensions, aiming at the sky as twenty bolts, bigger and heavier than Sharum spears, were thrown like arrows. They climbed into the sky, dark and ominous as they reached the apex and arced down. Abban adjusted his distance lens to observe the results.

  They were less than inspiring.

  Mehnding scorpions could turn a charging sand demon into a pincushion at four hundred yards, more than twice the distance a bowman could manage. The teams were so fast, fresh bolts were loaded before the first struck their targets.

  Or missed them.

  Six bolts fell harmlessly into the water. One glanced off a ship’s railing. One passed through an enemy sail, causing a small tear that did not seem to impede the vessel. Two stuck harmlessly from thick enemy hulls.

  The teams adjusted and fired again, with similar results.

  “What in the abyss is the matter with those fools?” Abban demanded. “Their entire tribe only has one skill! A Mehnding who can’t aim is worth less than the shit on my sandal.”

  Qeran squinted, reading the hand signals of the men on the docks. “It’s this cursed weather. It was never a problem in the Desert Spear, but since coming to the green lands we learned the scorpion tension springs don’t like the damp and cold.”

  Abban looked at him. “Please tell me you’re joking.” Qeran shook his head grimly.

  While the Mehnding fell into disarray, the Laktonian ships grew ever closer. Watchers blew horns when they came in bow range, and the Sharum returned instantly to their formations, shields raised, locked together like the scales of a snake.

  Arrows fell like rain upon the shields, most splintering or skittering away, but some stuck quivering. Here and there were cries of pain from men with arrowheads in their forearms.

  In their other hands they readied spears. The boats would be drawing in to the docks in just a few moments. They would wait out the bowfire, then come out of the shield formation and crush the invaders as they disembarked.

  But volley after volley came down on the warriors, with more and more penetrating shields or slipping through cracks that formed in the scales as men were hit.

  Abban looked up to see that the ships had pulled up, staying just in range to strike at the docks.

  “Cowards!” Qeran spat. “They are afraid to fight us as men.”

  “That just shows they’re smarter than we are,” Abban said. “We will need to adapt, if we’re to survive till the Sharum Ka’s brothers arrive with reinforcements.”

  Long-armed rock slingers were loaded on the Laktonian decks. There was a horn and all loosed at once, arching small casks at the Sharum, blind in their formation.

  The projectiles shattered, spattering a viscous fluid across the shield scales. Abban’s stomach clenched in dread as another enemy slinger fired, launching a ball of burning pitch.

  The ball hit only one group of Sharum, but as the liquid demonfire—another secret of the greenland Herb Gatherers—flared white hot, it seemed to leap along the dock, the slightest ember or spark lighting shields soaked in the infernal brew. Men screamed as the fire slid through the cracks and rained on them like acid. They broke formation, those on fire shoving—and igniting—their fellows as they raced for the water.

  Just in time for another withering volley of arrows from the enemy ships. Without their formations, hundreds were struck.

  “This is fast becoming an embarrassment for Jayan, rather than a victory,” Abban said. Qeran nodded, even as Abban began calculating how much of the tithe they could get away with if the town was overrun.

  Many fell to the planking as more casks of demonfire were hurled in, spreading the fire so fast it seemed the entire boardwalk was ablaze, with the fire running fast toward their vantage.

  An arrow pierced the glass, missing Abban by inches. He collapsed his distance lens with a snap. “Time to go. Signal the Hundred to gather as many grain carts as possible. We will head down the Messenger road and rendezvous with the reinforcements.”

>   Qeran had his shield up to protect Abban. “The Sharum Ka will not be pleased.”

  “The Sharum Ka already thinks khaffit cowards,” Abban said as he moved for the door as quickly as his crutch would allow. “This will do nothing to change his opinion.”

  There was a pained look on Qeran’s face. The drillmaster had worked hard to make the Hundred into warriors that would be a match for any Sharum, and indeed they were well on their way. This would not bode well for their reputation, but it was more important they escape alive. Abban would happily watch a thousand Sharum fall before risking one of his Hundred in a pointless battle.

  By the time they made the street, there was smoke and fire abounding, but Jayan was not defeated. Hundreds of Dockfolk had been rounded up at spearpoint and marched to the docks, clutching one another in fear.

  “The boy isn’t a complete idiot, at least,” Abban said. “If the enemy can see …”

  They could, it seemed, for the rain of arrows ceased, even as the Mehnding began to return fire. The scorpion teams still struggled, but they were improving. Rock slingers began hurling burning pitch at enemy sails as the Sharum archers took their toll.

  “Already fleeing, khaffit?” Jayan said, coming up to them with his lieutenants and bodyguard.

  “I am surprised to see you here, Sharum Ka,” Abban said. “I expected you to be standing at the front of the docks, ready to repel the invaders.”

  “I will kill a hundred of them when the cowards finally step off their ships,” Jayan said. “Until then, the Mehnding will do.”

  Abban looked to the Laktonian vessels, but they seemed content to sit safely out on the water at the edge of bow range. Catapults continued to rain fire at any open areas of dock.

  “The ships!” Abban cried, fumbling with his distance lens and turning toward the stretch of docks holding the captured vessels. It seemed there might still be time. The Laktonians had not yet attacked their precious ships, and there was movement on the decks.

  “Quickly!” he told Qeran. “We must wet them, before …”

  But then his lens focused, and he saw that the movement on the decks was not a bucket line, but Laktonian sailors, many of them shirtless and dripping, frantically working lines and unfurling sails.

  There were bowmen as well, and the moment the Sharum noticed them, they began to fire, buying precious time as the moorings were cut.

  The first ship away was the largest and finest of the lot. Its pennant showed a woman’s silhouette looking into the distance as a man holding a flower at her back hung his head.

  A cheer came from the Dockfolk. “Cap’n Dehlia came back for the Gentleman’s Lament!” one man cried. “Knew she wouldn’t leave it in the hands of the desert rats!” He put fingers to his lips, letting out a shrill whistle. “Ay, Cap’n! Sail on!”

  Jayan personally speared the man, his bodyguard beating down anyone who dared cheer with the butt of a spear, but the damage was done. Two more of the larger captured vessels sailed away, the sailors hooting and baring their buttocks to the Sharum as they went.

  Warriors leapt onto the remaining vessels, ensuring that no more were lost. The sailors did not even bother to fight, shattering casks of oil and putting fire to them before leaping over the sides and swimming to small boats waiting nearby. The Sharum, none of whom could swim, threw spears at them, but it was an ineffectual gesture. In the distance, the other Laktonian vessels ceased fire, taking up the cheer as they turned away. Six stopped at the halfway point and dropped anchor as the rest sailed back to the city on the lake.

  Jayan looked around, taking in the lost ships, wounded Sharum, and destruction of the docks. Abban did not wait to see who the Sharum Ka would vent his anger upon, quickly getting out of sight.

  “This is a disaster,” Qeran said.

  “We still have the tithe,” Abban said. “That will have to do, until we can beat some wisdom into the Sharum Ka.

  “Have the men claim a warehouse we can fortify and use as a base,” he added. “We’re going to be here a long time.”

  CHAPTER 12

  FILLING THE HOLLOW

  333 AR AUTUMN

  “Should be out huntin’,” Wonda growled, “not answerin’ the same rippin’ questions every night and pushin’ scales like one of yur patients tryin’ to get their strength back.”

  “It’s the only way to get accurate results, dear,” Leesha said, making a notation in her ledger. “Add another weight to the scale, please.”

  Leesha watched through warded spectacles, her young bodyguard ablaze with magic as she pressed five hundred pounds the way another woman might open a heavy door. Leesha had been painting blackstem wards on Wonda’s skin for almost a week now, carefully recording the results.

  Arlen made her swear not to paint wards on skin, then turned around and did it to Renna Tanner. If the practice was as dangerous as he claimed, would he have risked it on his own bride?

  She’d meant to confront him about it before breaking her oath, but Arlen was gone a month, and had hidden his true plans from her. Even Renna lied to her face. When neither of them appeared at Waning, it was time to take matters into her own hands.

  You are all Deliverers, Arlen had told the Hollowers, but had he meant it? Truly? He spoke of all humanity standing as one, but had been stingy with the secrets of his power.

  And so Leesha spent a week testing Wonda to establish baselines for her metabolism, strength, speed, precision, and stamina. How much sleep she averaged per day. How much food she consumed. Every bit of data she could gather.

  And then the warding began. Just a little, at first. Pressure wards on the palms. Impact wards on the knuckles. The weather had turned chill, and the blackstem stains were easily hidden under Wonda’s gloves during the daylight hours.

  At night, they hunted alone, stalking and isolating lone corelings to gradually test the effects. Wonda began by fighting with her long knife in her dominant right hand, delivering warded slaps and punches with her off hand as she experimented with the utility.

  Soon, she was fighting unarmed with confidence, growing stronger and faster each night. Tonight had been her most intense kill thus far, slowly crushing the skull of a wood demon with her bare hands.

  Wonda eased the bar down until the basket touched the ground, then moved over to the carefully stacked pile of steel weights. Each was exactly fifty pounds, but Wonda picked up two in each hand as easily as Leesha might carry teacup saucers.

  “One at a time, dear,” Leesha said.

  “I can lift lots more than that,” Wonda snapped, irritation clear in her voice. “Why waste the whole night lifting one at a time? I could be out killin’ demons right now.”

  Leesha made another note. That was the eleventh time in the last hour Wonda had mentioned killing. She’d absorbed more magic in a few moments than an entire Cutter patrol did in a full night, but rather than feeling sated—or overwhelmed, as Leesha predicted—it only made her desperate to absorb more.

  Arlen had warned her about this. The rush of magic was addictive—something she’d witnessed firsthand with the Cutters. Those warriors Drew magic by feedback from their warded weapons. It remade them as perfect versions of themselves, healed wounds, even granted temporary levels of inhuman strength and speed.

  But warded skin was something else altogether. Wonda’s body was drawing directly with none of the loss experienced through feedback. It made her a lion amongst house cats, but the signs of addiction were frightening.

  “You’ve killed enough for tonight, Wonda,” she said.

  “Ent even midnight!” Wonda said. “I could be savin’ lives. Ent that more important than marks on a page? S’like ya don’t even care …”

  “Wonda!” Leesha clapped her hands so hard the young woman jumped.

  Wonda dropped her eyes and took a step back. Her hands were shaking. “Mistress, I’m so so—!” Her words choked off with a sob.

  Leesha went to her, reaching her arms out for an embrace.

 
Wonda tensed and took a quick step back. “Please, mistress. I ent in control. Y’heard how I spoke to ya. I’m magic-drunk. Coulda killed ya.”

  “You would never harm me, Wonda Cutter,” Leesha said, squeezing Wonda’s arm. Night, the girl was shaking like a frightened rabbit. “It’s why you’re the only one in creation I trust to test this power with.”

  Wonda remained stiff, looking at Leesha’s hand skeptically. “Got upset. Really upset. Don’t even know why.” She looked at Leesha with frightened eyes. For all her size, strength, and courage, Wonda was only sixteen.

  “Never hit ya in a million years, Mistress Leesha,” she said, “but I might’ve … dunno, shaken ya or something. Don’t know my own strength right now. Might’ve torn yur arm off.”

  “I’d have drained the magic from you before that happened, Wonda,” Leesha said.

  Wonda looked at her in surprise. “You can do that?”

  “Of course I can,” Leesha said. She thought she could, in any event. She had drugged needles and blinding powder ready, if not. “But it’s on you to see I never need to. The magic will try to sweep you up, but you need to account for it, like you’re aiming your bow in the wind. Can you do that?”

  Wonda seemed to brighten at the comparison. “Ay, mistress. Like I’m aiming my bow.”

  “I never doubted it,” Leesha said, going back to her ledger. “Please add the next weight to the scale.”

  Wonda looked down and seemed surprised to find she still held two fifty-pound weights in each hand. She put one on the scale, restacked the others, and went back to the bar.

  Leesha tried to take up her pen, but her fingers were stiff with tension. She squeezed her hand into a fist so tight her knuckle cracked, then flexed the fingers back to dexterity before dipping for fresh ink. The vein in her temple throbbed, and she knew a headache was coming.

  Oh, Arlen, she wondered. What was it like for you, going through this alone?

  He had told her some of it, on the many nights they spent in her cottage, teaching each other in wardcraft and demonology. In between the lessons they shared hopes and stories like lovers, but never so much as held hands. Arlen had his couch and she hers, a table carefully between them.