Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  “My name!” Hasik pulled the blade free and thrust it in again. This time it slid easily to the hilt. “Is not!” He yanked the blade out and stabbed a third time. “Whistler!”

  It was then that Earless returned. The mute stood at the entrance to the tent holding Abban’s treasure trunk.

  Abban said nothing, but raised his hand in the sign for kill, thumb pointed at Hasik.

  Silently as a diving wind demon, Earless took three running steps forward. Filled with gold, the trunk weighed over two hundred pounds, but Earless easily raised it over his head and threw. It struck Hasik in the back, knocking him from Jayan’s lifeless body.

  Protected by his own glass armor, Hasik was not seriously injured, but he stumbled to his feet, off balance as Earless closed the distance between them, grappling Hasik and bearing him down.

  “Quickly, boy!” Abban shouted, limping toward the exit. “Come!”

  The combatants rolled across the tent floor. Earless, heavier and in control, came out on top, pinning Hasik’s knife hand with a knee. He held Hasik’s other arm down at the wrist, pummeling him about the face with his free hand. They were powerful, terrible blows, but Abban had watched Hasik fight in the food lines since they were boys in sharaj and knew it would not end there.

  One of the punches knocked Hasik’s head to the side, and he bit hard into the wrist of the hand Earless used to hold him prone. The giant could not speak, but his toneless roar of pain was all the more terrible for it, an animal cry bereft of humanity.

  The moment the grip weakened, Hasik had his hand free, cutting off the mute’s cry with a punch to the throat. He surged, reversing the pin, and saw Abban drawing near the tent flap.

  “Not this time, khaffit!” Hasik cried, throwing the knife.

  Abban threw his arms up, but the blade was not aimed for his head or chest. It sank into the thigh of his good leg, and Abban fell again with a scream.

  “Father!” Fahki cried, rushing to him.

  “Flee now,” Abban told him. “Find warriors and tell them Hasik has killed the Sharum Ka.”

  “I won’t leave you,” Fahki said, squatting to try and haul Abban to his feet. Hot blood ran down his leg but Abban grit his teeth and planted his foot, leaning heavily on his camel crutch. He cried for help, but in the chaos outside, no one heard him through the heavy canvas walls.

  Hasik and Earless were on their feet now, trading blows meant to cripple and kill. Earless was holding his own—barely. Both men’s faces were bloodied and beginning to swell. One of Earless’ eyes was filling with blood, and Hasik’s nose was flat against his cheek, broken.

  But he was smiling. Their army was destroyed, Jayan dead, and Hasik fighting for his life, but the brutal eunuch was smiling like Abban had never seen.

  Abban tried to take a step, but even with Fahki to support him, the pain was unbearable.

  Hasik managed to get inside Earless’ guard, catching him by the ears. He pulled hard as he drove the crown of his helmet into Earless’ face. His helmet spike tore a jagged hole in the mute’s forehead.

  The giant shoved Hasik back hard, then gave a cry, clutching at his head.

  “Looking for this?” Hasik laughed, holding up the ear he had torn free. “Now you truly are earless!”

  The giant came back in, angry for the first time. His punches would have knocked out a camel, but Hasik batted them aside easily, getting in close and heel-kicking him in the stomach. Earless was knocked back into the central pole of the tent, cracking it in half and bringing the canvas roof down.

  Abban grit his teeth and moved for the exit with all his strength. One step. Two. But it was not enough as Hasik appeared from the tangle of canvas.

  “Behind me,” Abban said, gripping Fahki’s arm and pulling him out of Hasik’s path. “It’s me he wants.”

  “I won’t let him—” Fahki began, moving to stand before his father.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Abban cut him off. “You are no match for him.”

  “You should listen to your father.” Hasik was still smiling. “Run and leave your father to inevera.” His eyes flicked to Fahki’s spear. “Or I will fuck you with your own spear.”

  “As Shar’Dama Ka did to you?” Abban asked.

  The smile fell from Hasik’s face, and Abban thrust his camel crutch out, pressing the release that sprang a six-inch electrum from its tip. The blade was poisoned with tunnel asp venom, the deadliest poison known.

  But Hasik moved faster than he thought possible, grabbing the camel foot at the base of the crutch and turning the blade aside. He yanked it from Abban’s hands, sending the khaffit sprawling, and broke the crutch over his knee.

  Fahki gave a cry and charged, thrusting with his spear. His spearwork was fine, but he was only a boy, and Hasik one of the deadliest killers alive. He knocked the tip aside with the bladed half of the crutch, stomping hard on the side of Fahki’s knee. The boy screamed and dropped to one knee, using his spear for support.

  Hasik kicked the spear from under him, guiding Fahki’s fall with kicks and whips of the crutch shaft to put the boy on his back.

  Then Hasik thrust the electrum blade of the crutch up Fahki’s ass. The poison worked fast. Fahki began to convulse wildly, his mouth white with foam.

  “You took my cock, but I still fuck in my way,” Hasik said to Abban as he stalked in. He was smiling again.

  There was a rustle of canvas and a toneless cry as Earless freed himself from the tangle and tackled Hasik about the legs.

  It was a momentary advantage only. Hasik had both arms free, and even as they fell he was driving extended knuckles into the mute’s eyes and neck. He landed heavier blows as they hit the floor, and at last the mute lay still.

  “There will be no coming back from this,” Abban warned as Hasik rose for the final time. “The Damajah will find you. Your life is over.”

  Hasik laughed. “Life? What life? I have nothing, khaffit. You have seen to that. Nothing but daily humiliation.”

  He smiled. “Humiliation, and my revenge.”

  “Then kill me, and have done,” Abban said.

  Hasik laughed, drawing back a fist. “Kill you? Oh, khaffit. I’m not going to kill you.”

  CHAPTER 32

  THE NIGHT OF HORA

  334 AR WINTER

  “The attack is done,” Melan told the clerics. “It was a slaughter.”

  Ashia watched as the men wrung their hands and shifted their feet. News had come a day ago that Jayan had taken the bulk of his forces north to attack Angiers, greatly exceeding his authority as Sharum Ka. The clerics had been begging dama’ting for foretellings ever since. If Jayan succeeded—as he likely would—he would almost certainly move for the Skull Throne.

  The Damajah had grown tired of their dramatics, retreating to her own chambers to divine in private, leaving Melan to divine in her stead.

  The black-veiled dama’ting added dramatics of her own, casting the glowing dice from the twisted ruin of her right hand. It was whispered in the Dama’ting Palace that she had been forced to hold her first, imperfect set of dice up to the sun, burning her down to the bone. Melan had grown the nails long, and with the rough melted scars the hand looked like nothing so much as an alagai talon.

  The dama’ting’s dice had been drained throughout the morning by the incessant questions of the clerics, with no news to show. They had been forced to wait for sunset to try again.

  Ashia was the only other woman in the room, but none dared protest her presence. Her husband wanted her presence more and more, of late. Asome was under tremendous strain, and had come to rely on her support in recent days. He was push’ting still, but since they had lain as man and wife, Ashia dared hope they might find a way to keep their union on Ala without making life Nie’s abyss.

  “He did it?” Ashan had an edge to his voice. “Jayan has taken Fort Angiers?” It was a closed court, with only the highest-ranking clerics in attendance. Ashan sat the Skull Throne, with the Damaji and the dama sons of the De
liverer at the base of the dais, lining Melan on two sides as she knelt upon her casting cloth.

  “It is no surprise,” Damaji Ichach sneered. “The chin are weak.”

  Melan leaned in closer, tilting her head as she continued to study the pattern. “No. The dal’Sharum were broken. They are in full retreat. The Deliverer’s firstborn is dead.”

  There was a stunned silence. To a one, the Damaji had not wanted impulsive young Jayan to take another great victory so soon. But the alternative was too horrible to bear. The dal’Sharum broken? The Deliverer’s son slain? By chin?

  Victory after victory under Shar’Dama Ka had led their people to a national pride that for the first time in centuries began to transcend tribe. A sense they were all Everam’s chosen people, Evejans, and it was inevera the chin should be yoked and bent to Evejan law.

  It was Sharak Sun, the Daylight War that would unite all humanity for Sharak Ka.

  Defeat was unthinkable.

  “Are you certain?” Asome asked. Melan nodded.

  “You are dismissed,” Asome said, and the woman nodded, scooping up her dice back into her hora pouch and beginning to fold her casting cloth.

  “Stay,” Ashan commanded. “I have further questions.”

  Melan finished folding her cloth and rolled back onto her feet. “Apologies, Andrah, but the Damajah has commanded I attend her immediately with any news.” She turned to go.

  Ashan opened his mouth at the disrespect, but Asome cut in before he could speak, stepping right in front of the steps to the throne. “Let Melan see to my mother, Uncle. There is much we must discuss that does not concern the dama’ting.”

  Ashan looked at him curiously, and Asome bowed. “Apologies, honored Andrah, but your failed leadership has brought us to this point. Jayan would not have dared such a foolish attack if my father sat the throne. This is a clear sign of Everam’s displeasure at your rule.”

  He turned to sweep the room with his gaze, meeting the eyes of the other men. “It is time to accept that my father will not return. With my brother dead, it is inevera that I sit the Skull Throne in his place.” He looked at Ashan. “It is your right to attempt to deny me. Know that if you do, there will be no dishonor in your death.”

  Ashan scowled. “That is only if you can kill me, boy. But first, you must look to the Damaji to clear your path.”

  “Indeed.” Asome nodded, turning his back to Ashan as he strode down the aisle until he had passed the other men. “Damaji! Stand forth!”

  As one, his dama brothers all took a stride into the aisle, bowing in unison as they turned to face their respective Damaji. “Apologies, honored Damaji,” they said as one, “but I must challenge you for leadership of the tribe. It is your right to attempt to deny me. Know that if you do, there will be no dishonor in your death.”

  “Outrageous!” Ichach shouted. “Guards!”

  Asome smiled. “No guards can hear you, Damaji. Melan has sealed the room in wards of silence, and barred the doors.”

  Ashia and Asukaji were an island of peace amidst the sudden tension as men took battle stances. She froze, unsure what to do. Asome had clearly planned this, but she had not been privy to it.

  Suddenly Let Melan see to my mother took on an ominous tone. She turned a questioning glance at Asukaji just as her brother threw the garrote around her throat. She was fast, but not fast enough. He crossed his fists, pulling tight as he danced behind her.

  Ashia choked, her head whipped to the side, but she went with Asukaji’s pull and bent forward, setting one foot firmly and snapping the other up behind her to scorpion-kick him in the back of the head.

  Her brother held on, but Ashia managed to get a finger under the chain around her throat, pulling in an obstructed breath.

  Choking. In the end, it was always choking.

  She continued to kick and elbow Asukaji with her free arm, but he had the hold, accepting the flailing blows and tightening his grip as their feet danced the floor, seeking to gain leverage even as each denied it to the other.

  Ashia caught her feet for a moment, but when she lifted one leg for a kick, Asukaji was ready, hooking her other leg and taking her down to the marble floor.

  “Did you really begin to think you were his jiwah?” Asukaji demanded. “That you mean a thing to him? You spend one night under him and think you can supplant me? Asome is mine, sister. Now and forever.”

  Indeed, Asome glanced at them, his aura flat and cold. Asukaji might as well have been squashing a bug.

  Ashia pulled her finger against the chain until it bled, but could not manage to work in another. She felt her face swelling, and knew it was only a matter of time.

  She watched as the shar’dama executed their Damaji. It could not be called anything else. The Damaji were all sharusahk masters, but not a one of them was under sixty years old, with several much older. Many had gotten fat, as well. Asome’s half brothers were all young and strong, close to the prime of their lives.

  But it was more than that. All of them had scar-warded their hands by now, and each clenched a fist that glowed powerfully with hora magic. The power absorbed into the scars, giving them inhuman strength and speed, and stealing any honor from their victories as one Damaji after another fell to their brutal attacks.

  In seconds all were dead save ancient Aleverak, who danced back and forth with Maji. The ancient Damaji, too, had taken alagai in the night. He was still thin and withered, but stronger than he had been in decades. Thus far neither had landed a telling blow, hold, or throw.

  But even as her vision began to blur, Ashia could see Aleverak was only taking the boy’s measure, his aura calm as he explored Maji’s defenses and probed for weaknesses.

  She saw it in his bearing when he locked on to his target. The Damaji could not see in Everam’s light, but he, too, had noticed Maji’s increased abilities, and the fist he kept clenched tight as he fought.

  Aleverak could not see the lines of power that kept Maji’s fist clenched, but he shattered them as easily as Enkido, kicking a toe into the young dama’s wrist. His hand opened reflexively, and though he recovered quickly, balling his fist again, the damage was done.

  Caught up in the ongoing conflict, no one, not even Asome, took note of the shard of demon bone that fell from Maji’s grasp, bouncing across the floor.

  But all could see the shift in the battle. Aleverak’s expression remained neutral, but Maji’s grew fearful as the Damaji began to press more fiercely. He took a step back.

  Savas stepped forward to aid Maji, but Asome held a hand to stay him. “This test is for him alone, brother.” Savas did not look pleased, but he bowed and stepped back.

  A moment later, Maji was prone on the ground with Aleverak’s hand around his throat.

  Ashia chose that moment to renew her struggle, a last attempt before she lost consciousness. Asukaji, distracted by the battle, returned his attention to her, tightening his grip further, but it did not matter. Her grasping fingers closed around the bit of demon bone. She could feel the magic tingling against the wards painted on her nails, filling her with new strength.

  “Your father, Shar’Dama Ka, swore me an oath, boy,” Aleverak said. “That he would never challenge my rule of the Majah, and that Maji could fight my son for leadership on my natural death.”

  Asome bowed. “I know this, honored Damaji. But I am not my father. His oaths are not mine.”

  “It is said in the Evejah that oaths spoken by fathers are binding to their sons,” Aleverak said. “And oaths spoken from the Skull Throne bind us all. Had you kept that pact, I would not have stood against you this night.”

  He sneered. “Instead you break oaths and attack in the night like an honorless chin. And so your victory will not be complete.” He glanced down to Maji. “You have no other Majah to supplant me.” With that, he snapped Maji’s neck.

  The new Damaji all stepped back, clearing the floor for Asome and Aleverak. The ancient Damaji took position before the steps to the Skull Throne, blo
cking Asome’s path.

  Ashan stood ready atop the steps. Tradition demanded he wait until the path between them was clear, but her father had a warrior’s heart. He was eager for the fight.

  “You honor our people this night, Damaji,” Ashan said. “Everam will open the gates of Heaven to you Himself.”

  “We’re not dead, yet,” Aleverak said as Asome came at him.

  Ashia could see no glow of hora about her husband. He might have allowed his brothers to win dishonorably, but he fought as tradition dictated.

  He struck hard and fast. Aleverak slipped to the side, but Asome was ready for the move, twisting to drive an elbow into Aleverak’s armpit. He caught the limb as it lost strength, pulling the old man off balance. He grabbed the Damaji’s belt, lifting him clear off the ground, then planted his knee and broke Aleverak’s spine across it.

  Asome let the Damaji collapse, limp and forgotten, as he rose to his feet, eyes on Ashan.

  Ashia had managed to slowly work another finger into the chain. It was not yet leverage enough to break free, but she wheezed in a breath, and it doubled her power.

  Asukaji tightened his grip. “Everam’s beard, do me the honor of dying before my hair grays, sister.”

  Ashia had a third finger in place now, but she made choked sounds and fell limp while she gathered her strength.

  Ashan strode down the steps from the throne, and Asome gave ground before him, that they might stand as equals on the floor. His brothers cleared the dead from the path between them.

  “Does your mother know your betrayal, boy?” Ashan asked. “You, whom I raised as my own son?”

  “My mother knows nothing,” Asome said. “She shall ever be blind to her sons, the dice told Melan about my mother, and it has proven true time and again.”

  “She will not let you keep the throne,” Ashan said.

  “She will give up hers as well,” Asome said. “My grandmother is a more fitting Damajah. Her beatification will be my first decree as Shar’Dama Ka.”