The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  KA-CHAK!

  The enemy was in full rout now, those still able wheeling their horses and heading back through the gates. Half the Mountain Spears fired again, then began to reload as the other half fired.

  When all had reloaded, the Mountain Spears began their advance. Behind them, thousands of men from the levies followed, some with weapons and others with heavy tools. The leaders had despaired for these men in open combat, but they were ideally suited for bashing in heads and cutting throats as they moved through the enemy wounded. Leesha watched them work, and sicked out the window, spattering the turban of one of the fleeing Sharum.

  The Mountain Spears retook the gatehouse in minutes, flowing up to the wall tops and spreading out, reloading with practiced precision.

  The enemy forces were in disarray, the cavalry riding back through the ranks of infantry that had been on the march in their wake. The Mehnding looked confused, unsure where to direct their fire and perhaps wondering if they, too, should flee.

  That moment’s confusion was all the Mountain Spears needed. They opened fire on the sling and stinger teams first, and even the wood and hammered steel of their shields was no protection. They were devastated, collapsed torn and bloody atop their engines of war.

  Again the Mountain Spears began to reload. Five hundred men, each with three shots to their flamework weapons, and they had reloaded how many times now? Four? Leesha had to grip the windowsill for balance as she sloshed up again.

  “Time we got back to the palace, mistress,” Wonda said as a dozen Mountain Spears finally unbarred the door, marching past the flustered archers to take position at the windows.

  Leesha nodded, hurrying for the door, but she was not quick enough, wincing with every blast of the flamework weapons.

  Leesha was pale and worn by the time she returned to her chambers. She knew she should find Araine and report, but there seemed little point. The Krasians were broken, and the whole city would know it soon enough.

  The horror of it all kept flashing in her memory. The Mountain Spears firing at the backs of fleeing Krasians. Levies brutally finishing off the wounded.

  Bodies blown apart by her thunderstick.

  Was she any better than Euchor? She had preached for years about why the Herb Gatherers kept the secrets of fire, but when truly pressed, she had not hesitated to kill with them. She was a Weed Gatherer. A better killer than healer.

  Wonda kept her bow in hand, even as they passed through the halls of the women’s wing. None challenged them. The two women were filthy and reeking of blood and smoke, but immediately recognizable to all.

  Wonda opened the door, and all Leesha could see was the inner door to her bedchamber. She made for it directly.

  But the moment Wonda closed the door she let out a yelp. Leesha turned to see her on the floor, somehow pinned helplessly by tiny Sikvah. The rooms around her had been ransacked.

  Amanvah appeared in front of her. “Where are they?!”

  “Where are what?” Leesha demanded.

  Kendall came out of Wonda’s room. “They ent hidden in there.”

  “Ay!” Wonda yelled from where Sikvah held her prone.

  “Sorry, Won.” Kendall shrugged.

  “Where have you hidden my hora pouch?” Amanvah snapped, drawing Leesha’s eyes back to her. She did not wait for an answer, hands digging at the pockets of Leesha’s apron.

  “Take your hands off me!” Leesha tried to shove the woman away, but Amanvah diverted the attack easily, glancing up only long enough to punch a knuckle into Leesha’s shoulder. The limb went numb a moment, then filled with tingling. It would recover shortly, but for now it hung limp, useless.

  “Ah!” Amanvah held up her hora pouch and turned from Leesha as if she were no further matter. “Kendall! Sikvah!”

  Sikvah let Wonda go, and the women followed obediently as Amanvah headed for Leesha’s bedchamber. It was only then Leesha realized the young dama’ting’s pristine white robe was soaked with blood.

  Wonda was up in an instant, a long knife in her hand. Leesha raised an arm to forestall her. “Amanvah, what’s happened?”

  Amanvah looked back. “Come and bear witness, daughter of Erny. This concerns you, too.”

  Leesha and Wonda exchanged a worried look, but followed cautiously after.

  Sikvah had overthrown the bed, clearing the floor and putting the mattresses over the thickly curtained windows. Leesha slipped her warded spectacles back on as the door was closed, leaving them in utter darkness.

  Amanvah knelt in the center of the room, bathed in the red glow of her dice. She was covered in blood, but none of it seemed to be her own. She gripped a bloody wad of her robe and squeezed, hand coming away soaked red. She slipped the alagai hora into that hand and began to roll them in her palm, coating them.

  “Whose blood is that?” Leesha asked, dread growing in the pit of her stomach. Her baby roiled as if it meant to kick itself free.

  “Everam, Creator of Heaven and Ala, Giver of Light and Life, your blessed son, Rojer son of Jessum of the Inns of Riverbridge, son-in-law to Shar’Dama Ka and my honored husband, has been murdered.”

  Leesha’s throat constricted at the words, and she thought she might choke. Rojer? Dead? Impossible.

  Her thoughts were cut off as Amanvah continued. “Where must Sikvah lie in wait for the one responsible, that our vengeance be swift in bringing him to your infinite justice?”

  She cast, and there was a flash of magic as the dice were twisted to fate’s pattern. Leesha did not believe the messages were Heaven-sent, but she could not deny the alagai hora had very real power.

  Amanvah studied the symbols a moment, then looked to Sikvah. “The lavatory in the southeast corridor, fourth floor.”

  Sikvah nodded and vanished. Even in wardsight her aura changed, becoming a blank veil of energy, blending like a Cloak of Unsight with her surroundings. There was the barest blur as she slipped from the door, somehow not letting light into the room in the process.

  “She’s going to kill someone?!” Leesha demanded, grabbing Amanvah’s wrist as she gathered up her dice for another throw.

  Amanvah gripped the dice in her fist and rotated her wrist, reversing the grip and bending Leesha’s wrist back so far Leesha feared it would break. The pain was intense, making it difficult to think.

  “Do not touch me again,” Amanvah said, releasing her with a shove back. Wonda moved forward, but a glare from Amanvah checked her.

  “Yes,” Amanvah went on. “Sikvah is doing what I should have ordered her to do months ago. Destroy the enemies of the son of Jeph. It is my failure, and now honored Coliv and blessed Rojer are on the lonely path.”

  “Amanvah,” Leesha said, “if someone killed Rojer, we can tell …”

  Amanvah hissed, cutting her off. “I am through waiting for corrupt chin justice while our enemies strike. I need neither assistance or permission to avenge my husband.”

  “And suffer the same fate?” Leesha asked. “I cannot help you if you have this man murdered.”

  Amanvah gave her a withering look. “You can, and you will.” She pointed to Leesha’s belly. “Your child has cousins growing even now in my and Sikvah’s wombs. Children of the son of Jessum, tied to yours with blood. Will you trust them to your chin justice?”

  Leesha stared at her, knowing she was beaten, but hating to admit it. “Corespawn you, no.”

  Leesha hadn’t needed to fake her weeping at the sight of Rojer brought down from the tower. She’d thought herself drained of tears forever after the massacre in the courtyard, but seeing her friend, pale and bloody, brought new reserves. She had waited too long, thinking Rojer safe in the South Tower. Amanvah was right. She should have pressed harder.

  “Rojer dead in the tower,” Araine said later at tea. “Janson found sliced open on the commode.”

  “Both within hours of each other,” Lorain noted, “right under our noses.”

  “Let us not forget a dozen palace guards,” Leesha noted. “One
of whom murdered my friend in his cell after you agreed to his release. Men who reported to Janson for orders and pay. Why were a dozen armed guards crammed into Rojer’s cell, do you think?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Araine said. “What I do know is that they are dead. Palace guards, Leesha. My guards. Dead, while Amanvah is missing.”

  “Perhaps her brother sent men to rescue her while we were distracted at the wall,” Leesha said, “and they took the opportunity to dispose of a dangerous minister in the process.”

  “Or perhaps the witch managed to smuggle in some demon bones,” Lorain said.

  Leesha nodded. “Perhaps. Or perhaps there are other explanations still. Regardless, it seems the matter is resolved, and I would as soon leave it behind us.”

  “How can you say that?” Araine demanded. “You wish no justice for your fiddler? Don’t you care?”

  “That fiddler has saved more lives that the Mountain Spears have taken,” Leesha snapped. “He was my best friend in all the world, and my heart is broken that he is gone.”

  She leaned in, eyes hard. “But I have watched this cycle long enough. Two years ago Jasin Goldentone killed Rojer’s master and put Rojer in my hospit. Then Jasin tries to finish the job, and Rojer is imprisoned for defending himself. Now Rojer is dead, likely at Janson’s command, and Janson is dead in return. How many deaths does it require to end this?” She shook her head. “Nothing can bring Rojer back to me, and so I want nothing more than to take him back to the Hollow and lay him to rest.”

  “Perhaps you have the luxury of letting things go,” Lorain said, “a week’s ride to the south. But the murder happened in the palace. The killer must be found, and Rojer’s body is evidence.”

  Leesha visibly lost patience, slamming her teacup down on the table so hard it rattled and spilled. It was an act only, but she thought Rojer would have been proud of her performance. “Unacceptable. My people and I have been held prisoner in Angiers too long. Baron Cutter will be in the city soon with thousands of Cutters. When he gets here, he’s going to have questions about how his best friend was murdered in your care, and one way or another we will be leaving.”

  “Is that a threat?” Lorain demanded.

  “It is a fact,” Leesha said.

  Lorain shook her head. “Angiers is no longer weak …”

  “Don’t think your little trick impresses me, Princess,” Leesha said. “I know more of the secrets of fire than you. You’ve saved Angiers, but what you’ve unleashed may be worse still. We do the demons’ work for them when we should be banding together.”

  Lorain snorted. “You can’t possibly believe all this Demon War Deliverer business.”

  “I don’t believe in the Deliverer,” Leesha said, “but there can be no denying the demons are mounting against us. I felt one in my mind, and know what they are capable of. Your new weapons will be worthless against them.”

  “We shall see,” Lorain said. “But we stood against the demons for three hundred years. It was not us who attacked.”

  Leesha nodded. “All of us have been … compromised in this battle. There is blood enough for all our hands.” She looked at each of them in turn. “I saved your son’s life, Araine. And yours, Lorain. Both at the risk of my own, and the life within me. Pray, let us part in peace, as allies.”

  The two duchesses looked at each other, already speaking volumes by expression alone. Araine nodded to Leesha. “Take Rojer and your new apprentices and go in peace.”

  New apprentices. Jizell would be closing her hospit to take position as Royal Gatherer to the Duchess Mum, and sending the rest of her apprentices south with Leesha to train in the Hollow. Among these “apprentices” was the pregnant Duchess Melny, and—unbeknownst to Araine—Amanvah and Sikvah.

  The duchesses would have questions when those two reappeared back in the Hollow, but those were questions best answered by Messenger and not face-to-face. Leesha had no intention of leaving the Hollow again with anything short of an army of Cutters to escort her.

  CHAPTER 31

  WHISTLER

  334 AR WINTER

  Abban had never seen Sharum flee before. Everam his witness, he was not could not remember a time they ever had. It was an ugly, disorganized thing, born of panic.

  Thousands of dal’Sharum, the elite of Jayan’s forces, had ridden into the city. Only a handful made it back out, screaming and bloody. Those who did abandoned the field entirely, racing their chargers back the way the army had come without anything approaching a plan. They left the rest of the forces—siege crews, kha and chi’Sharum, and Jayan’s personal guard—standing confused in the churned mud of their passing. Others took their cue, abandoning their posts and following.

  “Everam’s beard,” Abban breathed as the enormity of the defeat began to dawn on him.

  He turned to Earless. “Fetch my trunk.” As the mute kha’Sharum rushed from the tent, Abban turned to his other bodyguard, his son Fahki. “The maps and papers, boy, quickly. We must flee before—”

  Just then the tent flaps burst open and Jayan stormed in, followed by Hasik and two kai’Sharum Spears of the Deliverer.

  “So much for your bold plan, khaffit!” Jayan barked.

  “My plan?” Abban asked. “I merely agreed with the wisdom of the Sharum Ka. It was the dama’ting who seemed to promise victory.”

  “The chi’Sharum cowards are surrendering,” Hasik said, peeking through the tent opening. He stepped outside, and shouting and chaos filled the tent until the heavy flap fell back in place.

  “Better than turning their spears on us,” Abban said. “Without spoils or dal’Sharum whips to propel them, there is nothing for them to gain in sharing our defeat.”

  “I will kill that lying witch when we return to Everam’s Reservoir,” Jayan said.

  “She did not lie, precisely,” Abban noted, still gathering papers and stuffing them into a satchel Fahki held. “She promised you would shatter the gates and enter the city, and indeed you did.”

  “Leaving out that my men would be slaughtered moments later,” Jayan growled.

  “I have never cared for dama’ting prophecies,” Abban said. “They never tell all.”

  “Don’t they?” Hasik asked, entering the tent once more.

  Jayan turned to him. “What’s that?”

  “The dama’ting prophecies are not meant to tell us what we wish to hear,” Hasik said. “They are to tell us Everam’s will. I did not truly believe it before today.”

  “Everam’s balls, Whistler!” Jayan shouted. “What you are babbling about?!”

  “I asked Dama’ting Asavi if I would ever have my revenge on Abban the fat khaffit,” Hasik said. “She told me there would come a day of smoke and ruin, when the Sharum Ka would lose Everam’s favor.” He slipped a curved blade from his sleeve. “And on that day, none could stand against my wrath.”

  “What are you doing?!” Jayan gave a shrill whistle. “Whistler! Heel!”

  The two kai’Sharum were fast, moving instantly to stand side by side in front of Jayan, weapons at the ready.

  Hasik charged in fearlessly, his face stone as he swatted away a spear thrust and kicked hard against the kai’Sharum’s shield, knocking him across the floor to crash into Abban’s table, landing in a flurry of papers.

  Hasik stepped into the space before the other kai could adjust position. He pivoted, thrusting his curved knife into the armpit of the warrior’s shield arm where there was a small seam in the impenetrable glass armor all the Spears of the Deliverer wore.

  Jayan launched his own attack before Hasik could withdraw the knife, a spear thrust for his unarmored throat. Hasik saw the move, ducking away from the thrust. It skittered off the helm under his turban instead, taking part of his ear with it.

  Hasik laughed, grabbing the spear shaft just under the head and pulling it aside while he punched out hard, fist wrapped around the heavy knife handle. Jayan’s nose crumpled, and he fell back, senseless.

  “Flee, Father!”
Fahki cried, shoving the satchel into his hands and propelling Abban toward the exit. His intent was good, but the boy was still an idiot, continuing to push even as Abban’s crippled leg buckled. He fell to the floor, Fahki landing on top of him.

  The surviving Spear of the Deliverer was back on his feet amidst a cloud of swirling reports. He had lost his spear, but drew a knife to match Hasik’s and moved in, shield leading.

  The shield should have been a telling advantage in a knife fight, but Hasik feinted a thrust, then dropped his own knife, spreading his arms and locking his hands around the shield. He twisted, lifting with savage strength. The kai was thrown bodily over Hasik, and Abban heard the snap of his arm at the apex of his flight.

  He landed on his back, and Hasik effortlessly broke his other wrist, taking the kai’s knife to replace his. With the man prone, he gripped his breastplate and yanked, snapping the fastenings and baring his chest for a knife thrust.

  Abban’s leg screamed at him, but he ignored it, pulling hard on both Fahki and his crutch to get to his feet.

  Jayan groaned, pushing himself onto one arm. “Whistler, what … ?”

  Hasik leapt upon him, thrusting his knife into Jayan’s mouth. His face was a demon’s snarl as he pushed the curving blade up into the brain of the Deliverer’s first son.

  “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.