Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  For an instant, Ashia lost her center, swept away by a memory.

  “Let him defeat you,” the Damajah told Ashia.

  “Eh?” Ashia asked. She had only just been raised to Sharum’ting, she and her spear sisters to be sent to the young Sharum Ka for the first time.

  Inevera had claimed the young women as her bodyguard, but they were still Sharum, and subject to Jayan. He was to “assess” them this night, to deem their worthiness and where he would position them in alagai’sharak.

  “Jayan is proud,” Inevera said. “He will seek to dominate you in front of your sisters, to ensure you do not threaten him. He will challenge you to spar under the guise of assessing your sharusahk, but the fight will be very real.”

  “And you wish me to … lose?” Impossible. Unthinkable. How many years had she been forced to feign weakness—Asome the push’ting’s timid bride? The Damajah had promised that would change when she was given the spear.

  “I command you to lose,” Inevera said, her tone sharpening. “Show him your mettle. Earn his respect. And then lose. If you do not, he will kill you.”

  Ashia swallowed, knowing she should be silent and nod. “And if I kill him?”

  “He is the firstborn son of the Deliverer,” Inevera said. “If you kill him, every Sharum and dama in Krasia will call for your head, and the Shar’Dama Ka will not deny them.”

  She said nothing of her own part in that, but Jayan was her firstborn, as well. Ashia knew Inevera’s oldest son vexed her, but she loved him, too.

  “I know this command pains your Sharum heart,” Inevera said. “But I give it in love. I am the Damajah. Your pride, your life, are mine.” She laid a gentle hand on Ashia’s shoulder. “I value the first less than the second. Everam has a plan for you, and it is not to die for the sake of a man’s frail ego.”

  Ashia nodded, shrugging off the hand as she knelt, putting her hands on the floor and pressing her forehead between them. “As the Damajah commands.”

  There had not been many witnesses. Jayan knew the Sharum’ting had his father’s favor, and did not wish to discredit them publicly. It was just her and Shanvah, Jayan, Jurim, and Hasik. Shanvah’s father Shanjat, first among the kai’Sharum, should by rights have been there as well. His absence was telling.

  The Sharum Ka and two elite Spears of the Deliverer. Even if she and Shanvah could kill them all before they raised the alarm—a prospect of which she was by no means certain—dozens of warriors had seen them enter the audience chamber. There would be no lasting escape.

  Jayan grinned as the two women placed their hands on the floor before him. “My timid cousins! Shying from every sound and never speaking in more than a whisper. Who but Everam could have imagined you spent years learning sharusahk in secret?”

  “There are many mysteries in the Dama’ting Palace,” Ashia said.

  Jayan chuckled. “Of that, I have no doubt.” He undid the clasp of his cape and opened his armored robe, standing bare-chested in his pantaloons. “But while you learned at the hands of women, I studied at the feet of Shar’Dama Ka himself. I must judge your prowess, if I am to find a place for you in sharak.” He held a hand out, beckoning.

  Ashia’s breathing was steady as she rose. She, too, removed her cape and unslung the shield from her shoulder, passing them to Shanvah. She did not remove her robe, but she slid her hands into its many pockets with practiced efficiency, removing the ceramic armor plates within and stacking them neatly on the floor.

  She was lighter when she rose to her feet, gliding out onto the floor to begin circling opposite Jayan.

  His stance was strong. Jayan was not lying when he said the Shar’Dama Ka had taught him, and her uncle was the greatest known sharusahk master. Perhaps he could win the battle fairly. It would bring no shame to Enkido to be defeated by the Deliverer’s son, and Ashia would prefer to lose in truth than dishonor them both by throwing the match.

  But then he came at her, and Ashia was the faster. Instinctively she tripped him, jabbing her toe into a convergence point that numbed his foot momentarily. He lost balance as he passed, and Ashia stole the energy, slipping her hand under his armpit and using it to throw him onto his back.

  A hush fell on the room. The men looked dumbstruck, having expected a very different result. Ashia wondered if she had already gone too far; if the men would kill her to save face for their Sharum Ka.

  But after a moment, Jayan forced a laugh, getting back to his feet, stomping to restore feeling to the numbed appendage. “A fine throw! Let us see what else you have.”

  He kept better guard this time, delivering a flurry of punches, kicks, and open-hand blows. Ashia dodged most of them, diverting the others with minimal contact. She made a few halfhearted strikes of her own, assessing his defenses.

  He was good, as Sharum went. One of the best. But many of his blocks left convergences open, giving her points she could use to disable, cripple, and kill.

  Instead she leapt over one of his circle kicks, somersaulting away to put space between them.

  “You are wise to retreat, sister,” Jayan said. “I would have had you there.”

  Ashia’s jaw tightened. She could have killed him three times over by now. Her eyes flicked to Shanvah.

  Her spear sister knelt serenely, but she worked the fingers of one hand into a question. Why are you giving up advantages?

  Why indeed? Ashia wondered. The Damajah had commanded it, of course, but what example was she setting for Shanvah and future Sharum’ting if she allowed Jayan to defeat her?

  “You cannot circle forever,” Jayan called. “I have given you too much energy already. Come, show me what strength you have when you are not stealing mine.”

  Ashia shot in so quickly Jayan was unprepared. She parted his arms with cobra’s hood, and then bent forward and held his waist as her right foot came up over her back to kick him in the face.

  He stumbled back and she spun to the floor, hooking the back of his knee with hers and pulling him off his feet.

  Jayan was no novice at ground fighting, twisting and shifting his weight to offer minimal targets and leverage. But Ashia was in close now, where the dama’ting sharusahk Enkido had taught was its deadliest. Precise strikes broke his lines of power as she worked into a submission hold atop him, her forearm cutting off his windpipe and the artery supplying blood to his brain.

  Jayan shook, sweat broken out on his face, and she saw fear in his eyes. And, at last, respect. She imagined herself forcing a submission from him, but the Damajah’s words came to her again.

  Show him your mettle. Earn his respect. And then lose.

  Jayan made a weak pull at her choking arm, and Ashia eased back slightly, as if the effort had made a difference.

  Jayan caught a breath, and with a surge, he came forward, punching her hard in the face. Unprepared for such ferocity, Ashia fell back as he landed blow after blow, striking her face, her body, blows meant to do lasting damage.

  He rolled her onto her stomach, pinning her under his weight as he took hold of the collar of her robe from behind, pulling in opposite directions to close off the air and blood to her head, much as Ashia had done to him.

  Did he mean to kill her? She did not know. If she had taken it too far, humiliated Jayan past reason, he would not hesitate. He was the Deliverer’s firstborn, and if he killed her, he would get no more than a scolding from his father and the support of all others.

  Even now, she could turn it around. Even now, with the world blackening around the edges, she could strike the convergence in his elbow, sucking a breath as his grip loosened then reversing the hold.

  Let him defeat you.

  Ashia wanted nothing more than to show Jayan and these men that she was their better, but that was not the way she had been taught.

  Battle is deception, Enkido taught. The wise warrior bides their time.

  She reached a shaking hand toward Jayan’s arm as her vision shrank down to a dark tunnel, the light at the end ready to wink out a
t any moment. But instead of striking the convergence, she slapped twice, weakly.

  The sign of submission.

  Jayan grunted, loosening the hold. Ashia drew a breath, sweeter than any save the first one Enkido had allowed her, those many years ago.

  But though he seemed to have accepted her submission, Jayan did not roll away, keeping her pinned, his mouth close to her ear.

  “You fight well, cousin, but you are still only a woman.”

  Ashia grit her teeth, saying nothing.

  “How long?” Jayan whispered, shifting atop her. “How long since my push’ting brother last treated you as a wife? I expect it was just the once.” He ground his hips into her backside, and Ashia could feel his erection. “When you are ready for a true man, come to me.”

  “Jayan must not take the throne,” Ashia said. “He would have to kill my father to do it, and he would not be wise in his rule.”

  Asome nodded. “Help me stop him.”

  “How?” Ashia asked. “If he is to find victory this night, we cannot change it even if we wanted. And I will not help you steal the throne in his absence. The Damajah has spoken. Shar’Dama Ka will return.”

  “The dice say he may return, girl,” Melan said. “Not that he will.”

  “I have faith,” Ashia said.

  “As do I,” Asome agreed. “I do not ask you to help me take the throne, jiwah. Only to help me win glory to match my brother, that his claim be diminished and the Andrah hold power until Shar’Dama Ka comes again.”

  “How?” Ashia asked again.

  “It is Waning,” Asome said. “Tonight I will go out with my newly raised dama brothers and fight the alagai.”

  “It is forbidden,” Ashia said.

  “It must be done,” Asome said. “You heard the dama’ting. The Damajah cannot keep Jayan from the throne, nor can the Andrah. Only I can do it, and only tonight. Tomorrow will be too late.

  “I do this because I must,” Asome added. “For the good of all Krasia. For the good of the world. But I am afraid.”

  He held out a hand to her. “No doubt you felt much the same, the first night the Damajah bade you to defy Evejan law and claim your Sharum birthright. I beg you, if ever you were a wife to me, stand with me now.”

  Ashia hesitated, then took his hand. “I will stand with you, husband. With pride.”

  Ashia watched the Damajah from the shadows as Inevera entered her chambers. She remained alert to the slightest danger to her mistress, but still her thoughts reeled. It was her duty to serve the Damajah in all things, but Asome was her husband, and the son of the Deliverer.

  Where did her greatest loyalty lie? To Everam, of course, but how could she, barely worthy of His notice, judge His plan? Was that not the job of the Damajah? She should inform her of Asome’s plan—now—and let Inevera judge Everam’s will.

  But she hesitated. Perhaps she could not know His plan, but in her heart, the voice of Everam was clear. Sharak Ka was coming, and there was little room for those who would not fight. Asome had a warrior’s spirit, a warrior’s training, but as she had been, he was forbidden to use it, even as Nie’s forces mounted.

  The Deliverer had given the right to fight to khaffit, to women, even. Why not the clerics? Was the cowardice of old men to dictate the lives of the young, even as the alagai tore Everam’s Bounty apart?

  Once Asome killed an alagai, there would be no stopping it. He was the dama son of Shar’Dama Ka and the Damajah, and his glory would be boundless. Not even the Damajah could halt it then.

  But until that moment, his plans could still be thwarted, costing Everam warriors and putting an unworthy boy on the Skull Throne.

  Inevera stopped as she passed, looking right at Ashia as if the shadows that cloaked her were not there. Ashia froze. She knew she could not hide from her mistress, but it was always unnerving when the Damajah looked at her directly when she was concealed. “Are you well, child?”

  “It is nothing, Damajah,” Ashia said, quickly finding her center and letting her fears and doubts fall away.

  But Inevera narrowed her eyes, staring, her divine Sight peeling away Ashia’s center like the layers of an onion. “The coming night troubles you.”

  Ashia swallowed the growing knot in her throat, nodding. “It is Waning, mistress.”

  “Alagai Ka is attempting to lure us into relaxing our defenses by not appearing,” the Damajah agreed. “You and your sisters must be extra vigilant, and rush to inform me if you witness anything out of the ordinary.”

  “I will, Damajah,” Ashia said. “On my love of Everam and my hope of Heaven, I swear it.”

  Inevera continued to scrutinize her, and it was all Ashia could do to hold her center. At last, the Damajah nodded. “Return to your chambers and spend the remaining hours until muster with your son.”

  Ashia bowed. “I will, mistress. Thank you, mistress.”

  Ashia held young Kaji close as she watched Asome and Asukaji prepare for the coming night.

  Her own preparations were quick and efficient, the result of years of training. Her weapons and armor were oiled and laid out in precise fashion. Though she lounged in a plain robe of silk in their private chambers, she could be armored and ready to fight in moments.

  Her brother and husband, however, paced and preened like pillow wives. Their hands were wrapped tightly in white silk, only the first knuckles exposed. Much like Ashia and her sisters, Asome had painted fighting wards on Asukaji’s finger and toe nails, layering clear polish over the symbols to harden and protect them.

  Asukaji clenched his fists, moving through a series of sharukin with the precision of a master, flexing his fingers to bring different combinations of wards into play.

  “Try it with the silvers,” Asome said, and Asukaji nodded, going to a lacquered wood case on his vanity. Inside were two pieces of polished, warded silver, shaped to be slipped over the fingers. They rested comfortably to protect his top knuckles, giving her brother fists that would strike the alagai like thunderbolts.

  Asukaji went through his sharukin again, layering in moves to make the most of the new weapons.

  “Now the staff,” Asome said, taking Asukaji’s whip staff from its stand and throwing it to him.

  The whip staff was a glorious weapon—six feet of flexible Northern goldwood, carved with wards of power and capped on either end with warded silver. Asukaji caught the staff, spinning it into a blur he incorporated into his sharukin. The whip staff moved faster than the eye could see, and in the hands of a master, the supple wood could bend to strike around defenses that would deflect a rigid weapon.

  Ashia looked to Asome, wearing only his alagai tail, the weapon all dama carried. The barbed tips of its prongs were no doubt warded, but it seemed like little compared to the myriad weapons her brother was preparing to bring into the night.

  “What of you, husband?” Ashia asked. “You have not so much as painted your nails. What dama weapon will you bring to alagai’sharak?”

  Asome pulled the whip from his belt, hanging it on its hook on the wall. “None. Tonight I fight as you did on the night the Sharum’ting revealed themselves.”

  Ashia hid her surprise. “You will fight spear and shield, like your honored father?”

  Asome shook his head. “Dama are forbidden the spear, and a shield would slow me, when I must be fast.”

  Ashia looked at him, understanding slowly dawning on her. “Husband, you cannot mean to fight with sharusahk alone.”

  “My father did it, when he was only a kai,” Asome said.

  Ashia knew the story. One of the first legends of the Shar’Dama Ka’s rise. “Your honored father had spent years in the Maze by then, husband, and his own retelling had it an act of last resort. To go unarmed into Waning is …”

  “Madness,” Asukaji agreed, but Asome glared at him, and he dropped his eyes.

  “Anyone can kill alagai with weapons,” Asome said. “My Sharum brothers do it every night. It is not enough if I am to win glory to match my
brother.”

  He clenched one of his bandaged hands into a fist. “Either Everam wills me to succeed, or He does not.”

  They went into the night wrapped in black cloaks, Asukaji and the dama sons of the Deliverer. Only Asome walked boldly in the night in his white robes. Sharum looked at him with apprehension, remembering the Shar’Dama Ka’s forbiddance that clerics to go out at the night. But they recognized Asome, blood of the Deliverer himself, and none dared hinder him.

  There were no alagai close to the city proper, held back by walls, wardposts, and regular patrols. They had to range far before the sounds of battle came to them. At last they came to Hoshkamin, Asome’s younger brother, wearing the turban of Sharum Ka as he directed men culling field demons on a wide plain.

  Hoshkamin looked at them in surprise. “You should not be out in the night, brother! It is forbidden!”

  Asome stood before him, slender where Hoshkamin was thick with muscle; clad only in silk, where Hoshkamin wore the finest armor; weaponless where Hoshkamin carried spear and shield of warded glass.

  And yet it was Asome who dominated, Ashia saw immediately. There were but two years between them, but that was vast for men not yet twenty. Asome leaned in, and Hoshkamin took a step back.

  “The Deliverer is not here to stop me,” Asome said quietly. “Nor is our elder brother.” His smile was dangerous, predatory. “Will you try?”

  He didn’t raise his voice, or make a threatening gesture, but Hoshkamin paled visibly. He glanced at his men, no doubt imagining the shame if his elder brother were to beat him in front of them while he wore the white turban.

  Hoshkamin took two steps back, giving Asome a respectful bow. “Of course not, brother. I only meant that it is dangerous in the night. I will assign you a bodyguard …”

  Asome whisked a hand dismissively. “I have all the bodyguard I need.”

  With that, Damaji Asukaji and Asome’s dama brothers cast aside their cloaks, their white robes bright in the flames and wardlight. Hoshkamin and the Sharum stared, speechless, as they strode into the field of battle.

  Asome went first, striding toward a reap of field demons being harried by a unit of dal’Sharum, their shields locked in a V-formation.