“First you must reach the steps,” Ashan said.
As the Shar’Damaji looked on impassively, Asome and Ashan battled for the Skull Throne.
Aleverak lasted longer. Asome parried his uncle’s first three blows, setting Ashan up for an aggressive kick inside his guard. He deflected the blow, but could not prevent Asome leaping to hook his leg around Ashan’s neck. His own weight did the rest.
Ashia’s father was a sharusahk grand master before his fortieth year, but Asome broke him like a nie’Sharum. The snap of his neck echoed in the great hall.
Asome looked to his brothers. They hurried to kneel in proper order along the path to the throne, foreheads pressed to the floor as Asome began his ascent.
It was then, with all eyes on her husband, that Ashia struck, throwing her head back as she yanked hard on the garrote chain. She felt Asukaji’s nose crumple, and his grip loosened, allowing her to slip the chain.
All eyes turned to them in surprise, but Ashia did not hesitate, delivering a precise strike to the nape of her brother’s neck, shattering bone and severing his spinal cord.
“Asukaji!” Asome roared, his cold aura at last turning hot.
But he did not stop his ascent, taking the remaining steps in two great bounds to reach the dais. Ashia burst into a run for the rear exit that would take her to the royal quarters.
Asome leapt onto the throne, eyes turning to glare hate at her as he roared, “Kill her!”
Ashia threw herself against the exit to the Damajah’s wing of the palace, but as Asome warned, Melan had sealed all the doors with hora magic. She might as well have thrown her shoulder against the city walls.
She rebounded in a new direction, darting for one of the great pillars as the sons of the Deliverer turned their fury her way.
The moment their line of sight was blocked, she rolled to a second pillar, springing high and climbing quickly. By the time her cousins rounded the pillars and saw she was gone, she had already slipped into one of the alcoves used to guard the Damajah.
Everam’s spear sisters had their own exits from the throne room, and the dama’ting had not barred these.
The wards of silence around the court had kept the outside guards in ignorance. They stood calmly at their posts, easily avoided until she got to the open hall. Any moment, Asome would break the seals and put the entire palace on alert, but for now the way was clear. Her duty was to protect the Damajah, who might even now be facing a coup of her own.
“Everam forgive me,” Ashia whispered, running in the opposite direction.
“No, I most certainly will not give him to you!” Kajivah held her infant great-grandson protectively as Ashia reached for him.
“It isn’t safe for either of you,” Ashia said. “Asome is killing the Damaji in the throne room. I will take you into the Damajah’s protection until the unrest has passed.”
Kajivah took another step back, but Ashia caught her grandmother’s thumb and gave a half turn, catching Kaji smoothly as he fell from her grasp.
“How dare you lay hands upon me, you … !”
Ashia nestled her son into her breast, binding him to her in a sling of silk. Half awake, the boy began sucking at her robe, seeking a nipple. “He is my son, Tikka, not yours. If you would keep him safe, we must go. Now.”
“Your son?!” Kajivah demanded. “Where is your nipple when he hungers? Where are you when he cries? When he soils his bido? Off fighting alagai. And then I find you covered in demon blood, trying to crush the life from him …”
Ashia felt her face heat. “It wasn’t like that. That was an accident.”
Kajivah lifted her veil and spat at Ashia’s feet. “The accident was being cursed with a deviant granddaughter who brings shame to our family.”
It was so ludicrous Ashia had to laugh. “Are you that foolish, Tikka? Can you truly not see my ‘deviance’ is your doing? You pushed me and my sisters into the Dama’ting Palace without a thought of what it meant. I am what you have made of me, and nothing more.”
“And now you expect me to seek the Damajah’s protection?” Kajivah asked. “The very woman who twisted you is to protect me from my own grandson?”
Ashia pulled open her veil, showing the angry red line across her throat. “My own brother tried to kill me this night, Tikka. No one is safe.”
“Asukaji?” Kajivah asked in shock. “What did you do to him?” She came at Ashia in a rush, beating with her fists. “Witch! What did you do to Asukaji?!”
Ashia turned away to protect Kaji, diverting the blows easily. She caught the woman’s arm and put her thumb on a pain convergence, guiding her for the door. Every time Kajivah made to go any direction save the one Ashia wished, she sent a jolt of agony through the old woman, quickly overcoming resistance.
They made it to the hall before there was a shout, half a dozen Sharum rushing in on either side to block their path.
“Thank Everam we have found you safe, Holy Mother,” the kai’Sharum leading them said. “Your grandson is eager for news of your safety.” He turned, leveling his spear at Ashia. “Give the child to the Holy Mother and step back. Now.”
Ashia reached a hand behind her, wrapping it around the shaft of one of the short stabbing spears she wore crossed at her back. “My son belongs with me.”
The kai’Sharum smiled. “And so he will be. The Shar’Dama Ka is most eager for his Jiwah Ka’s safe return as well.”
“So he may kill me himself?” Ashia asked.
“You have little choice, Princess,” the kai said. “Will you fight instead, using your own son as a shield?”
It was Ashia’s turn to smile. “Do not fear for my son, Sharum. Fear instead for any fool enough to point a spear his way.”
“Enough.” Kajivah moved in, reaching for Kaji. “It’s over, Ashia.”
Ashia let out a breath, slumping as she took her hand from the haft of her spear. She turned to her grandmother, fumbling at the knot of the sling that bound her son to her breast.
But when Kajivah was in close, their bodies momentarily blocked the sight of the surrounding warriors. Ashia struck the old woman with a quick, precise blow, making a show of catching her as she collapsed.
“Tikka!” Ashia threw a panicked look at the warriors. “Help her! The Holy Mother needs help!”
The men froze, forgetting the weapons in their hands as they leaned in to the scene, unsure of what to do. The thought of laying hands upon the Holy Mother no doubt frightened them more than facing a horde of alagai.
Ashia struck in the confusion, her hand flicking sharp warded glass at the warriors closest to her.
The men were armored, but Ashia could clip a fly’s wings with her throwing glass. One warrior’s head was tilted just enough for her to slip a glass into his jugular. Sharum did not have nose guards on their helmets, so another caught a glass between the eyes. There was a tiny crack as it broke through the thin bone and drove up into his brain.
The confusion only mounted as the dying warriors stumbled back into their fellows. One Sharum was quicker than the others to catch on, but stepping forward he exposed the gap in the groin of his armor, allowing her to sever the knot of muscle connecting thigh to hip. As the warrior’s leg collapsed, he left her a clear path to the kai’Sharum.
Kaji woke and let out an irritated cry as Ashia put one of her stabbing spears into the kai’s throat. She pulled the other spear from its harness as she kicked the kai into the path of another warrior. A quick stab into the ensuing chaos, and the warrior’s spear arm fell lifeless to his side as she leapt past.
She was through the press then, the way clear before her. A quick sprint and she could climb into one of the secret ways.…
“Bura! Kamen! Take the Holy Mother to Shar’Dama Ka!” a voice boomed. “The rest of you, after her!”
Ashia looked back. A red-veiled drillmaster had taken command of the men, leading the charge himself as two warriors laid down their spears and stripped their cloaks to make a stretcher.
&
nbsp; Already she had killed three men, and crippled two more. Honorable warriors following their leader’s commands. Sharum now lost to Sharak Ka.
But she could not let the men take Kajivah to Asome, where he might use her to supplant the Damajah. Nor could she allow the warriors to go back to her husband with word that Inevera had custody of their son.
She looked down, and Kaji met her eyes. She knew then Kajivah had been right. She had let duty separate her from her child, and almost lost him as a result.
“Be brave, Kaji,” she whispered. “Though we walk the edge of the abyss together, I will never leave you again.”
Each of her spears was a two-foot shaft tipped with a foot of razor-sharp warded glass. Ashia popped caps from the ends and joined them with a twist as Kaji gave a yawn and closed his eyes.
Even the drillmaster pulled up as she charged, unsure how to attack without harming the child. She was under his guard before he knew it, and past before he realized he was dead.
She fell into her breath, watching in Everam’s light the lines of power running through the four remaining warriors as she picked her targets. A stomp broke the ankle of the first, giving her plenty of time to parry a thrust from the second. Ashia spun her spear in two hands, slipping the second blade down the edge of the next man’s shield, severing his spear hand. He fell away in horror, clearing the path to the next warrior. This one was ready, but Ashia stepped back, parrying another blow from the second warrior even as she lined up a killing blow for the first. The man had not found balance on his remaining ankle, and a simple shove opened a gap in his defenses.
She expected the warrior with the severed hand to need longer to recover, but the man gave an inchoate cry and rushed her with his shield.
With nowhere to dodge, Ashia twisted, taking the blow on the armor-plated robe at her back. She kept her spear held out crosswise before her, creating a safe zone around Kaji as she was driven into the other warrior.
But while the men took a moment to regain their balance, Ashia’s quick feet never missed a step. A shove and a trip put the warriors on their backs. The lines of the Sharum with the severed hand were dimming fast as his life bled away. She turned to the other, snuffing out his aura with a quick thrust before turning to face the last man standing in her path.
Bura and Kamen had Kajivah’s stretcher in hand by then, already rounding the far corner followed closely by the warrior whose arm she had disabled initially. Ashia snatched a discarded spear and threw, taking the fleeing man in the back.
The last warrior had his shield up, knees bent and ready to spring. His spear was lowered at her chest, pointed at Kaji.
But the tip shook.
“Find your courage and come at me, warrior,” Ashia said. “Die with honor in your duty, and Everam will welcome you at the end of the lonely path.”
The dal’Sharum took a breath, then gave a great cry and leapt at her, spear leading in a fine thrust.
Ashia killed him quickly, with honor.
“Witch!” Ashia saw as he fell away that the warrior with the crippled leg, forgotten on the floor, had raised himself on his good leg.
The spear had already left his hand, bound for her heart. The armor plates in her robes could have easily deflected such a blow, but Kaji, strapped above them, could not.
With no time to dodge, Ashia dropped her weapon and wrapped Kaji in her arms, twisting to take the blow on her side. The plates there were smaller, with gaps to allow freedom of movement. The point deflected from one, then sank into the gap in between.
Ashia was knocked back a step. For a moment she thought the blow nothing, but the weight of the spear pulled at her when she moved, embedded deep in her side.
She did not know the extent of the damage, but it was as irrelevant as the pain. She pulled the blade from her body and turned it on the thrower, then snatched up her own spear and sprinted after Bura and Kamen.
It was easy enough to get ahead of the men. The palace was riddled with paths known only to the Sharum’ting, allowing her to pass through walls while the men were forced to take a longer route, slowed by their holy charge.
Ashia was braced above an archway, waiting for them to pass. Kaji fidgeted, and her hastily bound wound ached, soaking her robe, but she was deep in her breath, and these things did not touch her.
Heralded by their frantic gasping, the warriors approached. She let Bura run past the arch, falling silently upon Kamen.
Kaji gave a laugh as they dropped, and the unfortunate warrior looked up just in time to see death coming. When Kamen dropped his end of the stretcher, the sudden drag cost Bura his balance, and she had him.
“Tikka!” Kaji cried, seeing Kajivah. Ashia grit her teeth as she lifted the woman’s dead weight and slung her across her shoulders.
Down the hall she heard the shouts of more warriors, combing the palace for her.
—Your firstborn is dead.—
Inevera stared at the dice, sorting through the mixture of emotions that passed through her.
It was the duty of all dama’ting to produce a female heir, but she had put her own needs aside for her people, using the dice to bless Ahmann with two sons first, one for sharaj and the other for Sharik Hora. The boys had been born out of duty, but as they grew within her, Everam worked His subtlest magic, for in that miracle she had come to love the infants as they suckled her breasts.
As they grew, the boys vexed her in equal measure. She had thought her sons would take after Ahmann, but they were their own creatures. For what son of the Deliverer could be anything but a disappointment?
Jayan was Sharum to the core—brutal and willfully ignorant. From cradle to the Maze, he had never wasted a moment on caution or personal safety, leaping without a glance below. As a leader, he was apt to solve problems with the spear rather than wisdom. He was clever in his way, and might have made a name for himself, but the only name anyone ever needed to hear was his father’s. Too much decision had been thrust upon him before he was fully a man.
The dice had never been much use with her own children, but she had always known in her heart he would die young.
That fear trebled at word he was heading north.
—Doom befall the armies of the Deliverer—the dice had said—if they should march north with enemies unconquered at their back—
Confirmation of Jayan’s death brought a wave of anguish, made worse by the guilty feeling of relief that the moment she’d dreaded for so long had finally come.
There would be time to fill tear bottles later. She envisioned the palm bending before the wind of her pain and focused her breath until she was ready to cast again.
—Three times will your power be challenged tonight.—
This gave her pause, and for a moment, she felt a touch of fear. Her eyes flicked to the single entrance to her casting chamber. Outside Micha and Jarvah waited with Damaji’ting Qeva, ready to defend her with their lives. Other Sharum’ting waited outside her chambers, as well as eunuch guards trained by Enkido himself.
If the news of Jayan’s defeat reached the Damaji, there was no telling what they might do. None of them could be trusted, schemers all. They would not hesitate to act if it was in their interests.
She lifted the dice a third time. “Almighty Everam, Giver of Life and Light, give your humble servant knowledge of what is to come. Who will challenge me this night?”
The dice flared and fell into a complex pattern as always, but the message was simple.
—Wait.—
There was a cry outside the chamber.
Melan looked up as Inevera entered the room. She had removed her white headwrap, holding her mother’s black one in hand. Qeva lay at her feet, aura extinguished in death. Across the chamber by the doors lay Micha and Jarvah. Their auras were flat and dim, and they lay unmoving.
To Inevera’s shock, Melan laughed. It was so unexpected, she hesitated.
“Come, Damajah!” Melan cried. “Can you not see the irony? Is this not precisely how we fou
nd you with my grandmother all those years ago?”
It was true enough. Inevera had not wanted to assume leadership of the Kaji Dama’ting prematurely, but when Kenevah had threatened her plans to put Ahmann on the Skull Throne, she had not hesitated to kill the old woman.
“Perhaps,” she allowed, “but it was not matricide as well.”
“Of course not,” Melan sneered. “The weaver’s daughter could never harm her sainted mother. How is Manvah? Still in the bazaar? Perhaps the time has come to pay her a visit.”
Inevera had heard enough. She raised her hora wand, firing a blast of magic at Melan.
The instant she raised the wand, Melan’s hand darted into her robe, holding a warded piece of rock demon armor, plated in gold. The magic bent around the warding, tearing apart the room and leaving Melan untouched.
She’s ready for me, Inevera realized. “How long have you planned this betrayal, Melan?”
Melan held up her burned, misshapen claw of a hand. “Do you have to ask?” She snorted. “Longer. Since your first bido weave, I have dreamed of this day.
“But Everam spoke to you. The dice named Ahmann Jardir Shar’Dama Ka and you his Damajah. What could I do, but obey?”
Melan pointed one of her talons at Inevera. “But you failed to foretell Ahmann Jardir’s defeat, and have not kept our people unified in his absence. Everam favors you no longer. The dice have spoken against you ever since the Northern whore supplanted you in the pillows. It is time for a new Shar’Dama Ka and a new Damajah.”
Inevera laughed. “You don’t have what it takes to satisfy my push’ting son.”
“No woman does,” Melan agreed, “and I haven’t the recognition our people need in any event.”
“Kajivah,” Inevera spat the name.
Melan clapped her misshapen hand. “How delicious that you yourself handed me the weapon. Asome will have beatified her by now, and she will occupy your pillows by the throne … a few steps down. A figurehead and blunt instrument, but one we’ve learned to aim quite effectively.”
Inevera raised her hora wand. “You won’t be aiming anything, Melan. You walk the lonely path tonight.”
Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne Page 71
