“Then I will kill him, too,” Asome said.
“And rule over a civil war with Sharak Ka on our heels,” Inevera said. “No. I will not allow you to kill your brother. If you persist, I will cast you down myself. Recant, and you will have the succession on Ashan’s death. I swear it.”
“Announce it now,” Asome said. “Before all assembled, or cast me down as you say. My honor will be appeased with nothing else.”
Inevera drew a deep breath, letting it fill her, and flow back out, taking her emotions with it. She nodded, sliding the stones on her pedestal to remove the veil of silence.
“Upon Ashan’s death, Asome will have the right to challenge the Damaji for the jeweled turban.”
Jayan’s aura swirled with emotion. The anger was still present, but he seemed mollified for the moment. There was no telling what he would have done if his younger brother had been given the chance to fight for a throne that sat higher than his. But seeing Asome thwarted had always brought Jayan pleasure. Ashan was not yet forty, and would stand between Asome and ascension long enough for Jayan to claim his father’s crown.
He stamped his spear loudly on the marble, and turned without leave to exit the throne room. His kai’Sharum followed obediently behind, and Inevera could see in them, and many of the Damaji, a belief that the Deliverer’s eldest son had been robbed of his birthright. The Sharum worshipped Jayan, and they outnumbered the dama greatly. He would be a growing danger.
But for the moment he was dealt with, and Inevera felt the wind ease as Ashan at last climbed the dais to sit the Skull Throne. He looked out at the assembled advisors and said the words Inevera had instructed, though she could tell they were sour on his lips.
“It is an honor to hold the throne for the Shar’Dama Ka, blessings be upon his name. I will keep the Deliverer’s court much as he left it, with Damaji Aleverak speaking for the council, and Abban the khaffit retaining his position as court scribe and master of logistics. As before, any that dare hinder or harm him or his interests will find no mercy from the Skull Throne.”
Inevera twitched a finger to Belina, and the Majah Damaji’ting stepped forward with hora to heal Aleverak. Soon the Damaji was rising shakily back to his feet. The disorientation would soon pass, leaving him even stronger than before. His first act was a bow of submission to the Skull Throne.
Satisfying as that submission was, it was nothing compared to the flick of Ashan’s eyes to her, obviously asking if this scene was at its end. She gave a subtle nod and Ashan dismissed the Damaji and moved to meet with Asukaji and Asome, as well as his advisors, Halvan and Shevali.
“Little sisters,” Inevera said, and the Damaji’ting remained as the men filtered out, clustering at the base of the dais to take private audience with her.
“You did not tell all, Damajah. My dice foretell that Ahmann may never return.” Belina kept her voice steady, but her aura was like a raw nerve. Most of the Damaji’ting appeared the same. They had lost not only a leader, but a husband as well.
“What has happened? Truly?” Qasha asked. Less disciplined than Belina, the Sharach Damaji’ting could not keep her voice steady. The last word cracked with a whine like a flaw forming in glass.
“Ahmann spared the Par’chin in secret after claiming the spear,” Inevera said, disapproval in her tone. “The man survived and challenged him to Domin Sharum.”
The women began to chatter at this. Domin Sharum literally meant “two warriors,” the name given to the ritual duel first fought by Kaji himself against his murderous half brother Majah three thousand years ago. It was said they battled for seven days and nights atop Nie’s Breast, the tallest of the southern mountains.
“Surely there is more to the tale than that,” Damaji’ting Qeva said. “I have trouble believing any man could defeat the Shar’Dama Ka in fair combat.”
The other women voiced their assent. No man nor demon they could imagine could stand against Ahmann, especially with the Spear of Kaji in his hands.
“The Par’chin has covered his skin in inked wards,” Inevera said. “I do not understand it fully, but the symbols have given him terrifying powers, not unlike a demon himself. Ahmann held sway in battle and would have won, but as the sun set the Par’chin began misting like an alagai rising from the abyss, and the Shar’Dama Ka’s blows could not touch him. The Par’chin cast them both from the cliff, and their bodies were never found.”
Qasha gave out a wail at that. Damaji’ting Justya of the Shunjin moved to comfort her, but she, too, had begun to sob. All around the semicircle of women, there was weeping.
“Silence!” Inevera hissed, her enhanced voice cutting through the sobs like a lash. “You are Damaji’ting, not some pathetic dal’ting jiwah, weeping tear bottles over dead Sharum. Krasia depends on us. We must trust that Ahmann will return, and keep his empire intact until he can reclaim it.”
“And if he does not?” Damaji’ting Qeva asked, her words a calm breeze. She alone of the Damaji’ting had not lost a husband.
“Then we hold our people together until a suitable heir can be found,” Inevera said. “It makes no difference in what we must do here and now.”
She looked out over the women. “With Ahmann missing, the clerics will try to leech our power. You saw the magic I displayed to the Damaji. Each of you has combat hora you have been husbanding against need. You and your most powerful dama’ting must find excuse for displays of your own. The time to hide our strength is over.”
She looked around the semicircle of women, seeing determined faces where a moment ago there had been tears. “Every nie’dama’ting must be put to preparing new hora for spells, and all should be embroidering their robes with the Northlander’s wards of unsight. Abban will have spools of gold thread sent to every dama’ting palace for the task. Any attempts to prevent us walking in the night should be ignored. If men dare hinder you, break them. Publicly. Kill alagai. Heal warriors near death. We must show the men of Krasia we are a force to be feared by man and demon alike, and not afraid to dirty our nails.”
CHAPTER 3
ASHIA
333 AR AUTUMN
Ashia stiffened as her husband challenged her father for the Skull Throne. It was unthinkable that she should interfere, but she could not deny the outcome would greatly affect her, whomever the victor.
She breathed, finding her center once more. It was inevera.
Shifting slightly, she relaxed some muscles as she tensed others to maintain the pose that held her suspended over the alcove to the left of the Skull dais, braced against the arched ceiling with toes and fingers. In this way she could hold the position indefinitely, even sleeping without losing her perch.
Across the room, her spear sister Micha mirrored her in the opposite alcove, silently watching through a tiny pinhole in the ornate carving above the archway. Jarvah was positioned behind the pillar just past the Skull Throne, where none save the Deliverer and Damajah could tread without invitation.
Cloaked in shadow, the kai’Sharum’ting were imperceptible even to those stepping into the alcoves. But should the Damajah be threatened they could appear in an instant, launching a spray of sharpened, warded glass. Two breaths later, they could interpose themselves between her and any danger, spears and shields at the ready.
The kai’Sharum’ting and their growing number of spear sisters guarded the Damajah openly when she was on the move, but Inevera preferred them to keep to the shadows whenever possible.
At last the court was adjourned and the Damajah was left alone with her two most trusted advisors, Damaji’ting Qeva and her daughter, nie’Damaji’ting Melan.
The Damajah gave a slight flick of her fingers, and Ashia and Micha dropped silently from their perches. Jarvah appeared from behind the pillars, all three moving as escort to the Damajah’s personal chambers.
The Deliverer’s dal’ting wives, Thalaja and Everalia, were waiting with refreshment. Their eyes drifted to their daughters, Micha and Jarvah, but they knew better than to speak to the kai’Sharu
m’ting while they guarded the Damajah. There was little to say, in any event.
“A bath has been prepared for you, Damajah,” Thalaja said.
“And fresh silks laid,” Everalia added.
Ashia still could not believe these meek, obsequious women were wives of the Deliverer, though her holy uncle had taken them many years before coming to power. She had once thought the women hid their skills and power, much as she herself had been taught.
Over the years, Ashia had come to see the truth. Thalaja and Everalia were wives in name only now that the usefulness of their wombs had faded. Mere servants to the Deliverer’s wives in white.
But for inevera, Ashia thought, that could have been me.
“I will need new silks,” Inevera said. “The Deliverer is … traveling. Until his return, I will wear only opaque colors.” The women nodded, moving hurriedly to comply.
“There is more news.” Inevera turned back, first meeting the eyes of Qeva and Melan, then letting her gaze drift to rest on Ashia and her spear sisters.
“Enkido is dead.”
Ashia pictured the palm, and bent before the wind that rushed over her. She bowed to the Damajah. A step behind, Micha and Jarvah mirrored her. “Thank you for telling us, Damajah.” Her voice was steady and even, eyes carefully on the floor, seeing all in periphery. “I will not ask if he died with his honor intact, for it could be no other way.”
Inevera nodded. “Enkido’s honor was boundless even before he severed his tongue and tree to serve my predecessor and learn the secrets of dama’ting sharusahk.”
Melan stiffened slightly at the mention of Inevera’s predecessor, Qeva’s mother and Melan’s grandmother, Damaji’ting Kenevah. It was said the Damajah choked the old woman to death to wrest control of the tribe’s women from her. Qeva gave no reaction.
“Enkido was killed by an alagai changeling, bodyguard to one of Nie’s princelings,” Inevera went on. “These mimic demons can take on any form, real or imagined. I watched the Deliverer himself in pitched battle with one. Enkido died doing his duty, protecting Amanvah, Sikvah, and their honored husband, the son of Jessum. Your cousins live because of his sacrifice.”
Ashia nodded, bending her center to accept the news. “Does this … changeling still live?” If so, she would find a way to track and kill it, even if she had to follow it all the way to Nie’s abyss.
Inevera shook her head. “Amanvah and the son of Jessum weakened the creature, but it was the Par’chin’s Jiwah Ka who at last took its unholy life.”
“She must be formidable indeed to succeed where our honored master failed,” Ashia said.
“Beware that one, should your paths ever cross,” the Damajah agreed. “She is nearly as powerful as her husband, but both, I fear, have drunk too deeply of alagai magic, and made the madness that comes with it a part of them.”
Ashia put her hands together, eyes still on the floor. “My spear sisters and I beg the Damajah’s leave to go into the night and kill seven alagai each in his honor, one for each pillar of heaven, to guide our lost master on the lonely road.”
The Damajah whisked her fingers. “Of course. Assist the Sharum.”
Ashia’s hand worked with precision, painting wards on her nails. They were not long in the fashionable way of pampered wives and some dama’ting. Enkido’s students kept a warrior’s cut, barely past the nub, the better to handle weapons.
But Ashia had no need to claw at the alagai. A knife or speartip served best for that. She had other intentions.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she watched her spear sisters, silent save for the sounds of oil and leather, stitching and polishing as they readied weapons for the coming night.
The Damajah had given her kai’Sharum’ting spears and shields of warded glass, much like the Spears of the Deliverer. The blades needed no sharpening, but the grips and harnesses were just as important, and Enkido had inspected all their equipment regularly, never satisfied. A single crooked stitch on a shield strap, barely visible and irrelevant to performance, and he would rip out the thick leather with his bare hands, forcing the owner to replace it entirely.
Other infractions were treated less gently.
There were three kai’Sharum’ting remaining in Everam’s Bounty. Ashia, Micha, and Jarvah. Micha and Jarvah were full daughters of the Deliverer, but born to his dal’ting wives, Thalaja and Everalia. They, too, had been refused the white.
Their blood might have ranked them above the Deliverer’s nieces, but Ashia was four years older than Micha, and six older than Jarvah. The girls walked in women’s bodies thanks to the magic they absorbed each night, but they still looked to Ashia to guide them.
More women were becoming Sharum’ting every day, but only they were blood of the Deliverer. Only they wore the white veils.
Only they had been trained by Enkido.
That dusk, the gates of the city opened to release the Sharum into the vast territory they dubbed the New Maze. Two hours later, when full night had fallen, the three kai’Sharum’ting and half a dozen of their new spear sisters slipped quietly over the wall.
The Damajah’s command to “assist” the Sharum was very clear. They would hunt the outer edges of the New Maze, where demons were thickest, and patrol for foolhardy Sharum, so drunk on magic and eager for carnage they let themselves be surrounded.
Ashia and her spear sisters would then step in to rescue the men. It was meant to create blood ties with as many Sharum as possible, but being saved by women stung the warriors’ pride. This, too, was part of the Damajah’s plan, for they were to invite challenges from the men, killing or crippling enough to send clear examples to the others.
Miles melted away under their fleet steps. Their black robes were embroidered with wards of unsight to render them invisible to the alagai, their veils with wards of sight to let them see as clearly in night as in day.
It wasn’t long before they found four overeager Majah dal’Sharum who had ranged too far from their unit and been caught by a reap of field demons. Three of the demons were down, but so was one of the Sharum, clutching a bloodied leg. His fellows ignored him—and their training—fighting as individuals when a formation might yet save them.
Drunk on alagai magic, Ashia signed to her sisters. The madness of magic’s grip was known to them, but it was easily ignored by a warrior who kept her center. We must save them from themselves.
Ashia herself speared the field demon that would have killed the abandoned Sharum as Micha, Jarvah, and the others waded into the dozen remaining demons in the reap.
The jolt of magic as she speared the demon thrummed through her. In Everam’s light, she could see the magic running like fire along the lines of power in her aura. The same lines drawn in the Evejah’ting, and tattooed on her master’s body. The Riddle of Enkido.
Ashia felt the surge of strength and speed, understanding how easily one could get drunk upon it. She felt invincible. Aggression tugged at her center. She bent her spirit as the palm in the wind and let it pass over her.
Ashia examined the deep wound in the Sharum’s leg. Already it was closing as the alagai magic he had absorbed turned its workings inward to repair. “Next time, angle your shield properly.”
“What would a woman know of such things?” the warrior demanded.
Ashia stood. “This woman saved your life, Sharum.”
A demon leapt at her, but she bashed it aside with her shield, sending it sprawling near one of the other dal’Sharum, who speared it viciously. It was a killing stroke, but the man tore free his spear and stabbed again and again, roaring in incoherent fury.
Another demon leapt for his back, and Ashia had to shove the warrior aside to stab at it. She struck a glancing blow, but the angle was poor, and the force of the alagai’s leap knocked the weapon from her grasp.
Ashia gave ground for two steps, batting aside flashing paws with her shield. The demon tried to snap at her, and she shoved the edge of the shield into its jaws, lifting to bare its vulnera
ble underbelly. A kick put it onto its back, and before it could recover its feet she fell on it, pinning its limbs as she stuck her knife into its throat.
She was getting to her feet when something struck her across the back of the head. She rolled with the blow, coming up to face the Sharum she had just rescued. His eyes were wild, and there was no mistaking the aggression in his stance.
“You dare lay hands on me, woman?” he demanded.
Ashia cast her eyes about the battlefield. The last of the demons was down, her Sharum’ting unscathed and standing in a tight unit. They watched the Sharum with cold eyes. The injured one was still on the ground, but the others were moving to surround her.
Do nothing, Ashia’s fingers told them. I will handle this.
“Find your center!” she shouted to the man as he advanced on her again. “You owe me your life!”
The Sharum spat. “I would have killed that alagai as easily as I did the other.”
“The other I knocked senseless at your feet?” Ashia asked. “As my sisters slew the reap that would have killed you all?”
The man’s answer was a swing of his spear, meant to knock her across the face. Ashia caught the spear shaft and twisted until she felt the warrior’s wrist break.
The others were coming in hard now, the magic thrumming in them multiplying their natural aggression and misogyny. To fail in battle and need to be saved was shame enough. To be saved by women …
Ashia spun behind the warrior, rolling across his back to kick the next man in the face. He fell away as she charged the third, slapping his spearpoint aside and striking her open palm against his forehead. Stunned, he stumbled until Ashia caught him in a throw that sent him tumbling into the other two, struggling back to their feet.
When the men recovered, they found themselves surrounded by Sharum’ting, spearpoints leveled at them.
“Pathetic.” Ashia lifted her veil to spit at the men’s feet. “Your sharusahk is as weak as your control, allowing yourself to become drunk on alagai magic. Pick up your fellow and return to your unit before I lose all patience with you.”
Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne Page 6