The Core

by Peter V. Brett

  Who was he? What did he want? And why in Everam’s name was he weeping?

  Capture him and find out.

  Ashia tightened her grip on her staff, keeping the blades retracted. With her other hand, she drew a few inches of silk cord from the spindle on her belt. There was a point where the lines of power converged in the back of the neck. Leaning forward, head between his knees, the spy had bared it for her. A precise strike would stun him long enough for her to loop the cord around his wrists and ankles. She would be back in the camp with her prisoner before Kaji began to miss her.

  She leapt, silent as a diving wind demon, but somehow the spy noticed her. He rolled forward at the last moment and her staff struck only the wet soil where he sat.

  The enemy will not wait for you to hit them, Enkido’s fingers taught.

  Ashia used the energy from her landing to roll after him, managing to throw a loop of cord around his ankle. She pulled, but he caught his balance mid-trip, twisting to kick her in the face with his free leg.

  Ashia was knocked back, losing her grip on the cord long enough for him to slip free. The spy might have pressed the advantage, but instead he turned and ran.

  Ashia moved immediately to pursue. The spy cut left, then ran two steps up the trunk of a tree and leapt to the right, grabbing a branch and pulling himself up.

  Ashia wasn’t fooled by the move, gaining inches on him as she ran up the trunk of the second tree, as light on the branches as he. For an instant, there was a gap in the foliage and she threw, staff striking him between the shoulder blades as he reached for another branch. His arm fell short, hand spasming, and he fell from the branches.

  Ashia dropped straight down, dispersing the energy in a tumble as she pulled more cord from her belt.

  But the spy landed in a roll as well, turning to face her as she rushed in. He threw a push-kick she easily slipped, trying to catch the foot in a loop of cord. He was too fast, grabbing the silk and pulling her in as he threw a punch.

  Ashia parried with minimal contact and moved in to grapple, but the spy’s skin was gummy with sap. He wrestled free before she could get a firm grip.

  They both got to their feet, and he came at her in a straightforward attack. His kicks and punches were perfectly executed, but they were basic. Sharukin taught to children and chi’Sharum.

  But what he lacked in skill, he made up for in speed and adaptability. He caught one of her return punches in a twist of her own cord, then dove between her legs. Ashia threw herself forward into a flip to reverse the hold and use it against him, but he let go and used the distraction to sprint away.

  Again she raced after him, drawing farther and farther from her camp. Kaji began to cry, and Ashia grew worried. It was full dark, and the sounds might draw alagai to him.

  But this man was too dangerous to let escape. She put on a burst of speed, snatching a stone from the muck and throwing to strike the convergence at the back of his knee. The leg collapsed on his next step, and he tumbled, trying to keep balance, as Ashia closed the gap.

  This time she did not hesitate. Having taken his measure, she struck again and again, kicks and punches, knees and elbows. If she could not bind him without harm, she would force him to submit.

  The spy was quick and strong, blocking or dodging the first blows of the flurry, but soon one slipped by, and then two more. He reeled, off balance. His limbs, numbed by her blows, betrayed him.

  He tried to say something, but she struck him in the throat, and he choked on the words. It was not time for talk. She caught his arm and began to twist it into a submission hold.

  Still coughing, the spy turned to her and spat stinking juice in her face. It stung her eyes and she pulled back, giving him space to heel-kick her away from him.

  By the time her vision cleared, Kaji’s cries filled the night, and the spy was gone. She sniffed at the sticky juice on her fingers. Like the spy himself, they reeked of the herb dama’ting used to treat demon wounds.

  You must seek the khaffit, the Damajah said. And find my lost cousin. You will know him by his scent.

  But what did it mean? Could this vagabond be the Damajah’s lost cousin? It seemed unlikely. And if so, what then? Did he have information she needed? Was he a friend? A foe?

  Could she afford to find out, with Kaji to protect?

  She recovered her staff on the way back to camp. A bog demon had been drawn by Kaji’s cries. It shambled around the circle, testing the wards.

  The wards sewn into Ashia’s robes made her all but invisible to the demon. She slipped behind it, extending one of her spearpoints and impaling it in the back. The demon shrieked and thrashed, but Ashia hung on as magic pumped into her, crackling around the wards painted on her nails. It made her feel strong. Fast. In moments she had broken camp and set Kaji back in his pack on her shoulders. She removed the rags around Rasa’s fetlocks, revealing the wards carved into her hooves. These she painted with alagai ichor until they shined brightly in her wardsight.

  Then she mounted and kicked the horse hard, galloping into the night. There were occasional corelings on the road, and she purposely ran a few down, activating the wards on Rasa’s hooves and boosting the animal’s strength and stamina. She drew upon her hora jewelry for the same. Kaji, soothed by the steady hoofbeats, fell fast asleep.

  She reached Everam’s Reservoir an hour before dawn, pausing to replace her disguise. She thought she caught his scent again, but after sniffing about, she became convinced she imagined it. No warrior on foot—or even a normal mount—could have kept pace with Rasa.

  At sunrise Ashia broke camp. This close to Everam’s Reservoir, the road was active with Sharum returning from patrol and vendors preparing for the coming day. She was just another old dal’ting woman with a child—invisible.

  But the spy would stand out, if he tried to follow. She would either lose him or draw him from hiding.

  —

  Briar ran as fast as he could, zigzagging through the trees, over and under obstacles and through water, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and that terrifying woman.

  Stela Inn had frightened him, but at least she spoke, and he understood her motivations. This woman moved like a kai’Sharum Watcher. Was she Sharum’ting? Traveling with a baby? It didn’t fit.

  Whatever she was, he was no match for her in a fair fight. She was too fast, too skilled.

  Before he felt protective, determined to guard innocent travelers on their path. Now he was curious. Was the woman a spy? The child a ruse to draw attention from her mission? Greenlanders were known to sympathize with Krasian women, often seeking to free them from bonds they did not wish to be free of.

  Given the chance, such a warrior as this could infiltrate the resistance and assassinate leaders.

  When he was certain he’d lost her, he cut diagonally back to the Messenger road, trying to get ahead of her. Before long, she came thundering up the road, the hooves of her simple mare glowing brightly with ward magic.

  Whoever she was, whatever, he needed to know. To warn his people before she could cause any harm.

  He waited for her to pass, then set off after.

  —

  As expected, the Sharum in Everam’s Reservoir ignored Ashia. Any woman who was not bearing food or sexually available was beneath their notice. She walked unmolested all the way to the piers.

  Women and children far outnumbered the men in Everam’s Reservoir. Jayan’s warriors were entrenched so long that many sent for their wives and children to settle in homes doled out by the prince as spoils to his warriors.

  Most of those men rode off with Jayan, never to return. Asome, not wanting to draw eyes to his brother’s former stronghold, had been slow to send reinforcements. The result was a shadow of a town, missing some essential part of what made a community thrive.

  Ashia’s cousin Sharu, the Deliverer’s fourth son, had been left in command of Everam’s Reservoir. She could see his banner flying over the town hall. They had been close a
s children, but Ashia passed the building by. Sharu was one of the only men east of Everam’s Bounty who might recognize her, and Asome had always dominated his younger brothers. Sharu would betray her without a thought.

  She could see that her cousin’s forces were spread thin. There were not even enough warriors to protect the town hall, should it come under concentrated attack.

  The only places that seemed fully alive were the docks. A steady stream of chin and dal’ting poured on and off the ships, hauling supplies, checking manifests, cataloging spoils, selling food and drink. The Krasian fleet was so large only a portion of its vessels could dock at a given time.

  Seek the three sisters, Inevera advised after consulting her dice. As with many of the Damajah’s foretellings, it did not make sense at the time, but now a quick scan of the docks was all she needed.

  A lone pier, large enough for half a dozen vessels, was dedicated to Tan Spear, the flagship of Everam’s Reservoir, and its two escorts: Tan Shield and Tan Armor.

  The names were a reminder that while Sharu technically ruled in Everam’s Reservoir, his strength came from the kha’Sharum privateers under the command of Drillmaster Qeran. Scorpions and slings lined their decks, lashed in neat rows. Each of the vessels—superior to any in the fleet—flew the camel crutch flag of Abban the khaffit. It was said the Battle of Everam’s Reservoir would have been lost without them.

  The crew members all wore loose tan pants, though many were shirtless as they labored. Ashia knew it was sinful, but she let her eyes drift over their bodies. She had only lain with her husband twice. Was that the only contact she would ever have with a man, apart from fighting?

  On the decks, those on duty worked efficient maintenance, while those off practiced sharusahk and spearwork. Ashia could not deny the warriors were skilled. Drillmaster Qeran was a legend, having trained the Deliverer, himself. Even her master Enkido spoke of Qeran with respect.

  There were any number of ways Ashia might have snuck onto Tan Spear unnoticed, but there was no reason to risk swimming or climbing with Kaji when the boy provided the perfect cover. She walked right up to the kha’Sharum guard at the gangplank. He looked at her—through her. This was not one of the lax dal’Sharum that filled the city. He searched with his eyes, assessing potential contraband or threat.

  Ashia’s disguise satisfied him. Kaji lent a weight to it that no clothing or makeup possibly could. Eliminating the possibility of threat, the warrior’s interest waned and his guard dropped.

  “I am Hannali vah Qeran, eldest daughter of your master,” Ashia lied. “My father will want to meet his latest grandson.”

  The Sharum’s brows raised slightly. He signaled a runner, who quickly returned with permission to come aboard. The Damajah’s foretelling revealed Qeran’s affection for Hannali.

  It was obvious to Captain Qeran the moment she stepped into his cabin that she was not his favored daughter, but he said nothing, waving two fingers to dismiss her escort.

  Ashia watched as the former drillmaster bounced to his feet, walking on one muscular leg and one curved sheet of metal. A wooden limb would have cost him balance, but Qeran was fully in control, using the spring of the artificial limb to propel himself around.

  There were few Sharum Ashia felt could threaten her in sharusahk. Knowing he had lost his limb, Ashia did not expect to add Qeran to the list, but the captain surprised her. He would be fast, harder to unbalance, and the tense steel leg made possible moves other warriors could never attempt.

  Qeran, too, gave her an appraising glance. “You’re wearing armor under your robe. If you’re an assassin, I thank you for the respite from my endless paperwork. Set the child aside and let us have done.”

  The words were casual, but she could see in his eyes the threat was real. Having sent his guard away, Qeran was fully prepared to fight and kill an assassin, alone in his cramped cabin.

  “I am no assassin,” Ashia said. “I am Sharum’ting Ka Ashia vah Ashan am’Jardir am’Kaji. I am here on business from the Damajah.”

  Hold nothing back with Qeran, the Damajah said after consulting her dice, but still Ashia tensed, ready to fight and kill should he threaten to expose her. Her eyes flicked around the room, looking for ways to use the close walls, low ceiling, and numerous support beams to her advantage.

  Qeran shifted, ready for an attack, but he crossed his arms. “I knew Ashia as a child, but I have not seen her face since she was taken into the Dama’ting Palace a decade ago.”

  He thrust his chin at her pack. “You mean to say that is Kaji asu Asome am’Jardir am’Kaji? Heir to the Skull Throne?”

  Ashia kept her breathing even. “Yes.”

  “Prove it,” Qeran said.

  “What proof would satisfy you?” Ashia asked.

  Qeran smiled. “I don’t know Ashia’s face, but I did know Enkido. He was my ajin’pal.”

  Ashia blinked. Her master had been such a part of the Dama’ting Palace that she seldom gave thought to his life before. Wives and children he left to serve Damaji’ting Kenevah and learn the secrets of dama’ting sharusahk. Sharum trained in his years as a drillmaster.

  And brothers. The bond of ajin’pal was as strong as blood.

  “The great drillmaster took one nie’Sharum each year as his ajin’pal,” Qeran said. “Drillmaster Kaval was the year before mine, a bond that made us brothers as well. I am told Kaval and Enkido died together on alagai talons, their glory boundless, while I trained khaffit back in Everam’s Bounty.”

  His voice did not waver, but Ashia could hear the sorrow in Qeran’s words. The pain. He would have gladly died at his brothers’ side.

  He locked eyes with her. “That is why you must fight me, Princess. If you have been trained by Enkido, I will know, and help you in any way I can. If you have not…” His eyes flicked to Kaji. “You have my word that after I kill you I will raise the boy as if he were my own.”

  Ashia felt a chill at the words, but she did not hesitate, removing the pack with Kaji and laying it on a bench as far out of the way as possible in the tiny cabin. She stripped off her thick dal’ting robe, standing in her silk Sharum’ting blacks, plated with warded glass. She drew a white silk scarf from her sleeve and wrapped it over the black scarf and veil of her dal’ting disguise.

  She bowed. “You honor me, Drillmaster.”

  Qeran bowed in return. “It is I who am honored, if you are indeed the Sharum’ting Ka.” He shifted his foot slightly, adding just a bit of tension to the curved blade of metal supporting the other limb. His hands came out in a sharusahk readiness position Enkido had drilled countless times into Ashia and her spear sisters. She flowed to mirror him.

  Hold nothing back with Qeran.

  “Begin,” Qeran said, and she was moving, but not in the direction he expected. Ashia quickstepped from a stool onto the wall, spinning into a kick to take the drillmaster in the face.

  But Qeran was quick to react, slipping the kick and catching her armpit as she sailed past. He twisted, using her own momentum to add force as he punched her in the chest.

  It was as if her breastplate had been struck with a maul. She slammed down into the deck, losing her wind, but she kept balance, sweeping a leg at his ankle.

  Qeran hopped back out of range of the sweep, using the sudden bounce on his metal leg to spring at her as she kicked her feet up to throw herself upright.

  This time Ashia met him head-on, matching the drillmaster blow for blow. He might not have been privy to the full secrets of dama’ting sharusahk, but Qeran knew what Ashia was doing when she tried to drive fingers, knuckles, and even toes into convergence points on his body. Most he was able to slip or block, always with a powerful series of blows to flow in after. Ashia worked hard to honor her master’s teachings, picking them off and countering, searching for an opening.

  Once, he let a blow slip past his defenses and Ashia thought she had him, but when her stiffened fingers struck the hidden plate beneath his robe, Ashia knew she had been played. Like
hers, Qeran’s robes were lined with warded glass. She breathed away the pain, thanking Everam the fingers were not broken.

  Unable to dominate the battlefield enough to strike at the convergences, Ashia shifted her focus to targets more difficult to defend against, and it became a slow attrition. She landed a punch, but it cost her a knee to the stomach. She kicked out his good knee and barely avoided his metal leg taking her head off.

  Little by little, they worked out the pattern of armor plates in each other’s robes, aiming blows for the weakened areas.

  Ashia landed a kick to Qeran’s ribs. The drillmaster was quick and caught the leg. Ashia twisted to slip his grip, but it cost her, giving Qeran an opening to strike her in the back.

  But instead, the drillmaster shoved her away. Ashia did not question her fortune, rolling with the throw to come back to her feet out of range. There were bookshelves built into the bulkhead, and Ashia ran up them, readying to strike from above.

  “Enough, Princess.” Qeran’s guard was down, his stance unthreatening. Ashia dropped lightly back to the floor. Both were breathing hard.

  The drillmaster knelt, putting his hands on the floor. “What are the Damajah’s commands? Is there any word of reinforcements?”

  “There are none to send,” Ashia said. “Everam’s Bounty is in chaos. The Majah have left the Deliverer’s army. They march with their slaves and spoils back to the Desert Spear.”

  Qeran spat on the deck. “Majah dogs.”

  “They have just cause for grievance,” Ashia said. “My cousins used hora stones to give advantage when they murdered the Damaji, but even with the assistance—”

  “Young Maji was no match for ancient Aleverak,” Qeran finished. “An outcome that should surprise none.”

  “The Majah had a pact with the Deliverer,” Ashia said.

  “I know,” Qeran said. “I watched your father fight Aleverak for the Skull Throne while you were still in tan, Princess.”