The Skull Throne

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’Sharum’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 vulnerable 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.”

She did not wait for a reply, whisking off into the night with her spear sisters in tow.

Our spear brothers would as soon strike us as accept our aid, Jarvah signed as they ran.

For now, Ashia signed. They will learn to respect the Sharum’ting. We are blood of the Deliverer, who will remake this rabble before Sharak Ka.

And if my holy father does not return? Jarvah signed. What state will the Armies of Everam be in without him?

He will, Ashia signed. He is the Deliverer. In his absence, we must set an example to all. Come. We have killed not half the alagai needed to ease our master’s passage into Heaven.

They ranged farther, but most Sharum respected the night—and their own limitations—and they found nothing else needing attention. Deeper they went, leaving the dal’Sharum patrols behind as they passed from the Maze into what Northerners called the naked night.

Ashia found the tracks of a large passing reap, and the others followed silently as she tracked them. They fell upon nearly thirty alagai unawares, cutting into the center of the reap and forming a ring of shields. Ashia trusted her sisters to either side to keep her safe, and they she. Free from fear of counterattack, they began to stab at the demons with calm efficiency, like snuffing candles, one by one. Each kill sent a jolt of magic through the group, making them stronger. The power pushed against their control, but it was only a gentle breeze to the centered women.

Half the reap was dead before the demons got it in their heads to flee. By then Ashia and her sisters had coaxed them into a narrow ravine with steep sides not suited for their loping strides. At a signal from Ashia, her sisters broke into smaller formations, each cornering several demons.

Ashia let a group of alagai cut her off from her sisters, baiting them to surround her and draw close. She could see the lines of power that ran through their limbs, and closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

In your honor, master. Her spear and shield fell from limp fingers as she opened her eyes, dropping into a sharusahk stance.

The demons shrieked and launched themselves at her, but Ashia could see the strikes before they came, written clearly in the lines of their auras. Stolen magic gave her speed as she bent and turned a half circle, slapping the jaw of the quickest to redirect the full force of its attack into the path of two others. She sidestepped the jumble, stabbing stiffened fingers into one demon’s belly to knock it aside.

The wards on her fingernails flared with power, and the magical feedback that came from direct contact was a hundred times stronger than that which filtered through the wood of her spear. The field demon was thrown back, rib cage scorched and flattened, and struggled to rise. Ashia kicked the strength from another demon’s leg just as it was about to spring, sending it sprawling. The next she chopped to the temple, blinding it.

How dare that man strike her from behind? She should have killed him as an example to the others.

The alagai slashed wildly at her, but two simple blocks diverted sharp talons, walking her to her next strike. Inside the creature’s guard, she stabbed her fingers into its throat. The skin stretched and tore, as much from the strength of the blow as the searing magic that accompanied it.

Ashia shoved her entire forearm into the demon’s chest. Inside, the creatures were as vulnerable as any surface animal. She caught a grip where she could and yanked free a fistful of gore. The magic was thunder in her soul now.

The Deliverer gone. The Damajah living on a knife’s edge. Enkido dead. And her own spear brothers would as soon kill her for emasculating them as accept her aid. It was too much to bear.

She grew more aggressive, leaving her neutral stance to pursue retreating demons instead of lulling them in. She had scolded the dal’Sharum for this very thing, but she was blood of the Deliverer. She was in control.

She caught the next demon to leap at her by the head, turning a circle to use its own strength to break its neck.

Ashia took another pass, kicking, punching, and positioning herself for deadly strikes of her fingernails to the alagai lines of power.

Her vision grew red around the edges, and all she could see was the next demon. She did not even look at their bodies, only their true forms, the lines of power in their auras. It was these alone she saw, these alone she struck.

Suddenly her vision went dark, and she stumbled in her next strike. Another target appeared and she struck hard, but it rebounded off a shield of warded glass.

“Sister!” Micha cried. “Find your center!”

Ashia came to her senses. She was covered in ichor, and all around her lay dead alagai. Seven of them. The ravine was cleared, and Micha, Jarvah, and the others were staring at her.

Micha caught her elbow. “What was that?”

“What?” Ashia said. “I was honoring our master with sharusahk.”

Micha’s brows tightened as she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper the others could not hear. “You know what, sister. You lost control. You seek to honor our master, but Enkido would be ashamed of you for such a display, especially in front of our little sisters. You are lucky the Sharum did not see as well.”

Ashia had been struck many times over the years, but no blow had ever hit as hard as those words. Ashia wanted to deny them, but as her full senses returned she saw the truth.

“Everam forgive me,” she whispered.

Micha gave her elbow a comforting squeeze. “I understand, sister. I feel it too, when the magic is high. But it has always been you we look to for example. With our master dead, there is only you.”

Ashia took Micha’s hands in hers, squeezing tightly. “No, beloved sister. There is only us. With Shanvah gone, the Sharum’ting will look to you and Jarvah as well. You must be strong for them as you have been for me, this night.”

Ashia’s robes were still wet with demon gore as she made her way back to the palace chambers she shared with Asome and their infant son, Kaji.

Normally she would change from her Sharum robes to proper women’s blacks before returning, that she might not further the rift with her husband. Asome had never approved of her taking the spear, but it was not his decision to make. Both had petitioned the Deliverer to divorce them when he named her Sharum’ting, but her uncle had refused the request, his wisdom a mystery.

Ashia was tired of hiding, though, tired of pretending to be a helpless jiwah in her chambers even as she broke men and bled alagai in the night. All to protect the honor of a man who cared nothing for her.

Enkido would be ashamed of you. Micha’s words echoed in her mind. What was her husband’s displeasure compared to that?

She was silent as a spirit, but there was no sign of Asome—her husband likely sleeping in Asukaji’s embrace in the new Damaji’s palace. The only one present was Ashia’s grandmother Kajivah, asleep on a divan outside the nursery of her son Kaji. Her first great-grandchild, the Holy Mother doted on the boy, refusing a proper nurse.

“Who could love the boy better than his own grandmother?” she would always say. Implicit in that statement, of course, was her belief that Ashia herself was unsuitable, now that she had taken up the spear.

Ashia slipped by without disturbing her, closing the nursery door behind her as she looked down upon her sleeping son.

She had not wanted the child. She had feared what bearing would do to her warrior’s body, and there was no love lost between her and Asome. Her brother’s need to have his own sister bear his lover’s child had seemed an abomination.

But Kaji, that perfect, beautiful child, was no abomination. Having spent months with him suckling at her breast, sleeping in her arms, reaching his tiny hands up to touch her face, Ashia could not bring herself to wish any change upon her life that might undo him. His existence was inevera.

Enkido would be ashamed of you.

There was a creak, and the edge of the crib broke off in her hands with a loud crack. Kaji opened his eyes and let out a shriek.

Ashia tossed the broken wood aside, reaching for the boy. Always his mother’s touch could calm him, but this time Kaji thrashed in her arms, struggling wildly. She tried to still him, but he screamed louder at her clutch, and she saw his skin bruising at her touch.

The night strength was still upon her.

Quickly, Ashia laid her son back in his pillows, seeing in horror his soft, smooth skin bruised and stained with the demon ichor that still clung to her. The stink of it was thick in the air.

The door slammed open, and Kajivah stormed into the room. “What are you doing, disturbing the child at this hour?!”

Then she saw the child, bruised and covered in ichor, and let out a wail. She turned to Ashia, enraged. “Get out! Get out! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

She shoved hard, and Ashia, fearing her own strength, allowed herself to be driven from the room. Kajivah took the child in her arms, kicking the door shut behind her.

For the second time that night, Ashia lost her center. Her legs turned to water as she stumbled to her room, slamming the door and slumping to the floor in darkness.

Perhaps the abomination is me.

For the first time in years, Ashia put her hand to her face and wept. She wanted nothing more than the comforting presence of her master.

But Enkido was on the lonely path, and like her grandmother, he would be ashamed of her.