Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  “So we are left to sit on our spears in this worthless chin hamlet?” Jayan demanded.

  “The Evejah tells of many winters Holy Kaji was forced to wait out in captured lands, ere the winning of Sharak Sun. Conquest is ever thus, Sharum Ka. Months of moving men and supplies, waiting for the perfect moment to strike,” Abban clapped his hands for emphasis, “crushing your enemies.”

  Jayan seemed mollified at that. “I will crush them. I will take their eyes and eat them. The fish men will whisper my name in terror for generations.”

  “Of that, there is no doubt,” Abban agreed, keeping his eyes down, lest he stare at the milky orb of Jayan’s right eye. He had commissioned a patch of beautifully warded gold, but Jayan refused to wear it. The young Sharum Ka knew his eye unnerved men, and gloried in their discomfort.

  “In the meantime, you can spend the winter in luxury,” Abban waved a hand at the lavish chambers, “with warmth and an abundance of fine food, even as the lake dwellers shiver on their frozen vessels, gnawing fish heads to fill empty bellies.” He doubted things were so dire, but it was always wise to exaggerate when flattering the Sharum Ka. “Work has begun again on your palace in Everam’s Bounty, and you have greenland jiwah to warm your bed.”

  “I want glory, not luxury,” Jayan said, ignoring the soothing words. “There must be a way to attack. Now, before the winter comes in force.”

  Indeed there was, but Abban was not about to let the boy know that. It was a risky plan under the best of circumstances, and Abban would not trust the timing to a boy whose foolish pride had cost them almost the entire captured fleet.

  Of the ten large vessels that survived the Sharum’s burning, four had been stolen back by the Laktonians, and two more burned beyond repair. One was lost to a tide of water demons that had claimed several smaller vessels, as well. Abban had sent the remainder to a hidden bay guarded by his own men, where they studied sailing and shipmaking lore pulled from books, bribes, and the tongs of his torturers.

  A Sharak horn sat both men up straight. Abban looked out the window and saw the cause immediately. “Sharum’s Lament.”

  Jayan hissed, grabbing his spear and running to the window as if he meant to try and throw it a quarter mile to the sleek fighting vessel that swept in from the north, using the fading light to hide its approach.

  Captain Dehlia had renamed Gentleman’s Lament after taking it back from the Krasians. The flag still had a silhouette of a woman staring off into the distance, but the rejected suitor had been replaced with the silhouette of a Sharum on fire. The ship attacked regularly, testing their defenses and giving credence to its name. It had been Dehlia and the Sharum’s Lament that stole the scorpion, allowing the Laktonians to copy the design.

  Every time Sharum’s Lament came in sight, it meant grief and loss for the occupiers, and impotent rage for Jayan. Most often the ship would pull up on the edge of range, loosing flamework from its slinger or a deadly hail of arrows—sailing off before the Mehnding could calibrate their weapons to return fire.

  Jayan had tried moving chin to the docks and buildings closest to shore, but somehow the captain caught wind of the plan, attacking elsewhere to draw Jayan’s forces while other ships effected a daring rescue of their conveniently placed brethren.

  Every time they attempted to prepare for or counter Sharum’s Lament, Captain Dehlia seemed to know their plans and change tactics. There was no telling now if she was simply sailing in to harry, or moving with cunning purpose.

  Abban watched carefully as the ship sailed along the shoreline, just out of range. She would veer sharply inward only when approaching her target. All along the docks and shores, Mehnding scrambled and held their breath, knowing they would have only a few moments to target and fire. Jayan had promised a palace to the team that could sink the cursed ship.

  But then the ship turned, and Abban felt his sphincter tighten. “Nie’s black heart.”

  “Eh?” Jayan asked, turning to look at Abban even at the slinger arm came forward, launching a heavy missile their way.

  “Sharum Ka!” Abban cried, throwing himself on the man.

  Jayan was heavily muscled, but even he could do little to resist Abban’s bulk as he bore the man to the floor. He punched Abban as they struck the carpet, sending him rolling away. “How dare you lay your unclean hands upon me, you pig-eating camel scrotum! I will kill—”

  At that moment there was a crash as something struck the great window. The warded glass Abban had installed held against the blow, but the entire building shook from the impact.

  Jayan looked from the window and back to Abban, who managed to get his good knee under him. Again he looked at the window, clouded with bits of wood clinging to the surface, and back to Abban. “Why?”

  The young Sharum Ka was not known for articulation, but Abban understood him well enough. Why would a cowardly khaffit risk his own life for someone who had abused and derided him for years?

  “You are Sharum Ka,” Abban said. “Blood of the Deliverer, and the hope of our people while your father remains locked in battle with Nie. Your life is worth far more than mine.”

  Jayan nodded, a rare thoughtful look about him.

  The words were nonsense, of course. Abban would happily let the boy take a spear for him. More than once he had pondered having the fool killed himself. He might have, if not for the risk of the Damajah’s wrath.

  But if the Sharum Ka were killed in his presence and Abban survived, Hasik would come for him. It might be that Qeran or Earless could stop him in time, but it wasn’t something Abban was willing to bet his life upon. Hasik would be all too willing to die if it meant he could take Abban with him, and that sort of man was not the kind to gamble against.

  “You saved me, khaffit,” Jayan said. “Continue to serve, and I will not forget, when I take my father’s throne.”

  “I haven’t saved anyone yet,” Abban said, looking at the fluid and debris still clinging to the warded glass. “We must get out.”

  “Bah!” Jayan said. “You did not lie when you said your warded glass was proof against any blow. What have we to fear?”

  He turned, just as the Sharum’s Lament launched another projectile, a flaming stinger, from one of her starboard scorpions.

  “We must get out!” Abban cried as the missile arced their way. He made a quick series of gestures to Earless, who leapt across the room, scooping Abban up in his arms.

  There was a deafening boom and a flare of light to singe the eyes of even a desert dweller as the missile struck the liquid demonfire clinging to the window. Still the warded glass held, blunting the shock and heat of the blast.

  Abban drew a ward in the air. “Everam be praised.” The logical part of his mind knew the glass was performing exactly as it should, but in his coward’s heart, it was a miracle. “Go!” he cried, swinging an arm toward the door. For all the strength in the glass, the building that held it in place was only wood. Already smoke was beginning to seep through the floorboards.

  Earless put his head down, charging the heavy door and kicking it from its hinges. The door hit Hasik, who was racing for the scene, but Abban wasted no time on it, gesticulating for Earless to move with all speed. The deaf giant held Abban like a child as he raced down the steps and through the great room below to the back door.

  “Fire!” Abban screamed as they raced through the great room. “Flee!”

  It wasn’t until they were outside that Abban realized Jayan had been fast on their heels. Abban quickly gestured for Earless to let him down, realizing it must have seemed to all that they had cleared an escape path for the Sharum Ka.

  Others joined them, including Khevat, Asavi, Jayan’s bodyguard, and Qeran. “You had Earless carry you?” the drillmaster asked in disgust, his voice too low for the others to hear. “Where is your shame?”

  Abban shrugged. “Where my life is concerned, Drillmaster, I have none.”

  “I will put my spear in that witch’s heart and fuck the hole!” Jayan c
ried.

  “I will hold her down as you mount her,” Hasik agreed. There was blood in his hair, but he looked ready as ever for a fight.

  “Why would I need you to hold her, idiot,” Jayan snapped, “if I had already put my spear in her heart?”

  “I …” Hasik began.

  “The Sharum Ka does not want your excuses, Whistler!” Abban cried, relishing the moment. “It should have been you, not a pair of khaffit, clearing the path for him.”

  Hasik looked as if he wanted the ground to swallow him, and Abban wished the moment could last forever. But then it was gone, and Hasik was baring teeth at him.

  “We are blind back here,” Jayan said. “Go to the docks and find out what’s happening.” He pointed, and Hasik ran off like a loyal dog.

  “You and the clerics should not remain here, Sharum Ka,” Qeran said. “Please allow the Spears of the Deliverer to escort you to a safer location where you may direct …”

  “There!” Asavi shrieked suddenly. All eyes turned to her as she pointed to a Sharum exiting the building amidst the smoke and confusion, his night veil raised against the fumes. There was a satchel over his shoulder, black like his robes. The warrior froze, along with everyone else, the moment seeming to last forever.

  “Don’t just stand there!” the dama’ting shrieked. “Stop him or the streets will run with blood!”

  That got people moving, but the warrior was quickest of all, shoving a dama aside and moving for the clearest path of escape.

  Right Abban’s way.

  It made sense. Abban was a fat cripple, and far less likely to impede the spy than the Sharum and dama, and only a fool would venture too close to a Bride of Everam. A good shove would put Abban on the ground, right in the pursuers’ path.

  But while it was true that Abban was fat and one of his legs wasn’t worth a coreling’s piss, his cultivated mannerisms were designed to make the infirmity appear far worse than it truly was.

  He gave a terrified shriek, shifting his weight to his good leg as the warrior came in. But as the Sharum shoved, Abban caught his wrist, tripping him with his crutch and bringing them both to the ground.

  That should have been the end of it, but the warrior somehow kept a measure of control, landing on top and forcing the brunt of the impact onto Abban. In that moment, his veil fell away, and Abban got a look at him.

  He was young, almost too young for the black. His face was smudged with dirt, but still his skin was light for a Krasian, if darker than most greenlanders. His features, too, bore traits from both. A half-breed? There was a generation of those coming, but all save a few were still in their mother’s bellies, and the others busy screaming and soiling their bidos.

  As Abban gaped, the half-breed drew back, then slammed his forehead between Abban’s eyes. There was a flash of light, and a muted thud as the back of his head struck the boardwalk. Abban watched dizzily as Earless moved in to grab the warrior, but again the half-breed was quicker, delivering a kick to the kha’Sharum’s knee. He took the wind from Abban as he sprang away, just as Earless fell hard atop him. The two of them rolled in a tangle, and there were angry shouts from the warriors hindered in their pursuit.

  When Abban’s vision finally cleared, the spy was running full speed for the docks, half a dozen Sharum on his tail and more looking up at they rushed past.

  Surprisingly, Qeran was first among the pursuers, gaining quickly on the spy. His leg of spring steel was not always ideal, but in a dead sprint there were few two-legged men who could hope to match him.

  The spy seemed to know it, too. He veered off to catch a rain barrel and throw his full weight against it, spinning it into their path. The barrel moved slowly at first, wobbling even as the spy ran on, but as the weight of the collected water shifted, it moved with sudden swiftness, splashing water as it rolled into the pursuing Sharum.

  The men scattered, some throwing themselves out of the way, others slipping in the wet as they sought to dodge. One man was tripped by the barrel itself.

  Only Qeran kept the pursuit, leaping over the barrel in a spring any cat would envy. He landed in a roll, using his momentum to come back to his feet still running.

  Two warriors farther down attempted to slow the spy, but he threw some kind of dust at them, and the men fell away, clutching their faces and screaming.

  The dock was littered with barrels, ropes, nets, and other materials, and the spy used it all, zigzagging to use every bit of cover and terrain to slow pursuit.

  Still the drillmaster gained. Qeran had dropped spear and shield for speed, but it did not matter. Not even a sharusahk master could long keep his feet against Qeran in close quarters.

  Abban smiled, limping quickly toward them for the best possible view, and to be first to question the spy before the others did something rash. Jayan and the clerics followed, but he had a lead, and all moved slowly, riveted by the scene.

  As Qeran’s reaching fingers brushed the cloth of the spy’s robe, he turned suddenly, whipping the shield off his back and slamming it into the drillmaster, arresting his momentum and knocking him back. The shield was an old design, dating back at least five years, before the combat wards were returned. Another curiosity.

  Qeran caught himself quickly and came back in, but the spy twisted fast to the ground, trying to hook the drillmaster’s leg and take him down.

  Qeran was wise to the trick, leaping above the sweeping leg, but the spy was not taken unaware. He kept his momentum and whipped the shield around, striking its heavy edge into the drillmaster’s metal leg as he came down.

  The spring steel recoiled, and Qeran landed uncharacteristically off balance. The spy took full advantage, and they traded a quick flurry of parries and blows. The man was small and impossibly fast, never giving the Drillmaster a moment to find his balance. He hit Qeran in the face with the shield, then leapt to kick the drillmaster full in the chest.

  Qeran fell back hard, not seriously harmed, but the spy wasted no more time on him, turning and running down the dock.

  Ahead, Mehnding warriors from the scorpion and slinger teams had clustered to block his path. The spy looked back, but behind him more than a score of warriors charged past Qeran, Hasik at their lead. It was the first time Abban could recall when he wanted the cursed eunuch to succeed.

  The spy turned down a less-used dock, leading out to a section of cove too rocky and shallow for all but the smallest vessels. There were a handful of these tied at the dock, simple rowboats even a Sharum could use, but it seemed unlikely the spy could even untie one in time, much less row out of spear range before he was killed. He sprinted for the end of the dock instead. Did he mean to swim?

  Hasik mere steps behind, the spy turned sharply, leaping into one of the boats. Hasik lost seconds adapting to the change, but he leapt from the dock, spear ready to skewer the man before he could cut the ties.

  “Demonshit,” Abban muttered. Hasik was not known for leaving men alive for questioning.

  But the spy never attempted to cut the moorings, hopping two steps across the boat’s benches and jumping right out into the water.

  Abban held his breath, but the spy did not sink, seeming to bounce off the surface of the water into another leap, where he landed with only a splash about his ankles. He ran three more steps, then turned sharply to the left, still running on the surface of the water.

  Hasik struggled to keep his balance on the rocking boat, throwing his spear with surprising accuracy. The spy saw it coming, ducking by mere inches.

  “Everam guide me!” Hasik cried, leaping from the boat much as the spy had. Miraculously, he, too, landed on his feet, seeming as surprised as any. With a howl, he took off in pursuit even as other Sharum jumped into the boat to follow.

  Hasik took two steps, then dropped like a stone with the next. The other Sharum fared little better, two of them thrown into the water by the wildly rocking boat. A third made the leap, skidding on whatever Hasik and the spy had landed upon, but he lost his balance, pitching
into the water. Sharum threw spears at the spy, still running on water, but he was fast getting out of range. At last he slung his shield and leapt, arms outstretched as he cut the water and began swimming.

  The Sharum’s Lament had launched a boat in the confusion, three men rowing with remarkable speed. In moments, they had intercepted the spy and pulled him aboard as spears fell short in the water, lost.

  There was a horn, and the Sharum’s Lament let loose a barrage at the warriors clustered on the dock, killing dozens with burning pitch and stingers, even destroying a slinger and two scorpions. The Mehnding, having left their engines to keep the spy from escaping, were unprepared to return fire.

  As they watched helplessly, the launch returned and the warship made one last pass, swinging close for a final starboard barrage, crew jeering. As it turned, they saw Captain Dehlia standing atop the aft rail, baring her breasts as she jeered at them. All around her, the men and women of her crew turned and dropped their pantaloons, slapping their buttocks as the ship sailed away.

  Hasik and two of the Sharum were still clinging to the rowboat when Abban reached the place where the spy had leapt from the dock. The Sharum who attempted to follow Hasik and the spy out into the lake had not resurfaced.

  It was no surprise. Krasians were not swimmers, and the heavy armor plates sewn into their black robes pulled those who fell into the lake’s cold waters down faster than they could shed the weight.

  Abban tried to imagine what it must be like. He had been choked enough in sharaj to know how it felt to black out from lack of breath, but to do it surrounded by dark water, not even knowing which way was up …

  He shuddered.

  Qeran was standing on the dock, anger simmering on his features. Sharum were ruled by their pride, and the spy had made him look a fool in front of dozens of onlookers. No doubt Qeran would kill the first inferior to look at him wrong.

  But khaffit or no, Abban was no inferior, and he needed his drillmaster, not some moping child.