The Skull Throne
Page 172
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
CHAPTER 32
THE NIGHT OF HORA
334 AR WINTER
“The attack is done,” Melan told the clerics. “It was a slaughter.”
Ashia watched as the men wrung their hands and shifted their feet. News had come a day ago that Jayan had taken the bulk of his forces north to attack Angiers, greatly exceeding his authority as Sharum Ka. The clerics had been begging dama’ting for foretellings ever since. If Jayan succeeded—as he likely would—he would almost certainly move for the Skull Throne.
The Damajah had grown tired of their dramatics, retreating to her own chambers to divine in private, leaving Melan to divine in her stead.
The black-veiled dama’ting added dramatics of her own, casting the glowing dice from the twisted ruin of her right hand. It was whispered in the Dama’ting Palace that she had been forced to hold her first, imperfect set of dice up to the sun, burning her down to the bone. Melan had grown the nails long, and with the rough melted scars the hand looked like nothing so much as an alagai talon.
The dama’ting’s dice had been drained throughout the morning by the incessant questions of the clerics, with no news to show. They had been forced to wait for sunset to try again.
Ashia was the only other woman in the room, but none dared protest her presence. Her husband wanted her presence more and more, of late. Asome was under tremendous strain, and had come to rely on her support in recent days. He was push’ting still, but since they had lain as man and wife, Ashia dared hope they might find a way to keep their union on Ala without making life Nie’s abyss.
“He did it?” Ashan had an edge to his voice. “Jayan has taken Fort Angiers?” It was a closed court, with only the highest-ranking clerics in attendance. Ashan sat the Skull Throne, with the Damaji and the dama sons of the Deliverer at the base of the dais, lining Melan on two sides as she knelt upon her casting cloth.
“It is no surprise,” Damaji Ichach sneered. “The chin are weak.”
Melan leaned in closer, tilting her head as she continued to study the pattern. “No. The dal’Sharum were broken. They are in full retreat. The Deliverer’s firstborn is dead.”
There was a stunned silence. To a one, the Damaji had not wanted impulsive young Jayan to take another great victory so soon. But the alternative was too horrible to bear. The dal’Sharum broken? The Deliverer’s son slain? By chin?
Victory after victory under Shar’Dama Ka had led their people to a national pride that for the first time in centuries began to transcend tribe. A sense they were all Everam’s chosen people, Evejans, and it was inevera the chin should be yoked and bent to Evejan law.
It was Sharak Sun, the Daylight War that would unite all humanity for Sharak Ka.
Defeat was unthinkable.
“Are you certain?” Asome asked. Melan nodded.
“You are dismissed,” Asome said, and the woman nodded, scooping up her dice back into her hora pouch and beginning to fold her casting cloth.
“Stay,” Ashan commanded. “I have further questions.”
Melan finished folding her cloth and rolled back onto her feet. “Apologies, Andrah, but the Damajah has commanded I attend her immediately with any news.” She turned to go.
Ashan opened his mouth at the disrespect, but Asome cut in before he could speak, stepping right in front of the steps to the throne. “Let Melan see to my mother, Uncle. There is much we must discuss that does not concern the dama’ting.”
Ashan looked at him curiously, and Asome bowed. “Apologies, honored Andrah, but your failed leadership has brought us to this point. Jayan would not have dared such a foolish attack if my father sat the throne. This is a clear sign of Everam’s displeasure at your rule.”
He turned to sweep the room with his gaze, meeting the eyes of the other men. “It is time to accept that my father will not return. With my brother dead, it is inevera that I sit the Skull Throne in his place.” He looked at Ashan. “It is your right to attempt to deny me. Know that if you do, there will be no dishonor in your death.”
Ashan scowled. “That is only if you can kill me, boy. But first, you must look to the Damaji to clear your path.”
“Indeed.” Asome nodded, turning his back to Ashan as he strode down the aisle until he had passed the other men. “Damaji! Stand forth!”
As one, his dama brothers all took a stride into the aisle, bowing in unison as they turned to face their respective Damaji. “Apologies, honored Damaji,” they said as one, “but I must challenge you for leadership of the tribe. It is your right to attempt to deny me. Know that if you do, there will be no dishonor in your death.”
“Outrageous!” Ichach shouted. “Guards!”
Asome smiled. “No guards can hear you, Damaji. Melan has sealed the room in wards of silence, and barred the doors.”
Ashia and Asukaji were an island of peace amidst the sudden tension as men took battle stances. She froze, unsure what to do. Asome had clearly planned this, but she had not been privy to it.
Suddenly Let Melan see to my mother took on an ominous tone. She turned a questioning glance at Asukaji just as her brother threw the garrote around her throat. She was fast, but not fast enough. He crossed his fists, pulling tight as he danced behind her.
Ashia choked, her head whipped to the side, but she went with Asukaji’s pull and bent forward, setting one foot firmly and snapping the other up behind her to scorpion-kick him in the back of the head.
Her brother held on, but Ashia managed to get a finger under the chain around her throat, pulling in an obstructed breath.
Choking. In the end, it was always choking.
She continued to kick and elbow Asukaji with her free arm, but he had the hold, accepting the flailing blows and tightening his grip as their feet danced the floor, seeking to gain leverage even as each denied it to the other.
Ashia caught her feet for a moment, but when she lifted one leg for a kick, Asukaji was ready, hooking her other leg and taking her down to the marble floor.
“Did you really begin to think you were his jiwah?” Asukaji demanded. “That you mean a thing to him? You spend one night under him and think you can supplant me? Asome is mine, sister. Now and forever.”
Indeed, Asome glanced at them, his aura flat and cold. Asukaji might as well have been squashing a bug.
Ashia pulled her finger against the chain until it bled, but could not manage to work in another. She felt her face swelling, and knew it was only a matter of time.
She watched as the shar’dama executed their Damaji. It could not be called anything else. The Damaji were all sharusahk masters, but not a one of them was under sixty years old, with several much older. Many had gotten fat, as well. Asome’s half brothers were all young and strong, close to the prime of their lives.
But it was more than that. All of them had scar-warded their hands by now, and each clenched a fist that glowed powerfully with hora magic. The power absorbed into the scars, giving them inhuman strength and speed, and stealing any honor from their victories as one Damaji after another fell to their brutal attacks.
In seconds all were dead save ancient Aleverak, who danced back and forth with Maji. The ancient Damaji, too, had taken alagai in the night. He was still thin and withered, but stronger than he had been in decades. Thus far neither had landed a telling blow, hold, or throw.
THE NIGHT OF HORA
334 AR WINTER
“The attack is done,” Melan told the clerics. “It was a slaughter.”
Ashia watched as the men wrung their hands and shifted their feet. News had come a day ago that Jayan had taken the bulk of his forces north to attack Angiers, greatly exceeding his authority as Sharum Ka. The clerics had been begging dama’ting for foretellings ever since. If Jayan succeeded—as he likely would—he would almost certainly move for the Skull Throne.
The Damajah had grown tired of their dramatics, retreating to her own chambers to divine in private, leaving Melan to divine in her stead.
The black-veiled dama’ting added dramatics of her own, casting the glowing dice from the twisted ruin of her right hand. It was whispered in the Dama’ting Palace that she had been forced to hold her first, imperfect set of dice up to the sun, burning her down to the bone. Melan had grown the nails long, and with the rough melted scars the hand looked like nothing so much as an alagai talon.
The dama’ting’s dice had been drained throughout the morning by the incessant questions of the clerics, with no news to show. They had been forced to wait for sunset to try again.
Ashia was the only other woman in the room, but none dared protest her presence. Her husband wanted her presence more and more, of late. Asome was under tremendous strain, and had come to rely on her support in recent days. He was push’ting still, but since they had lain as man and wife, Ashia dared hope they might find a way to keep their union on Ala without making life Nie’s abyss.
“He did it?” Ashan had an edge to his voice. “Jayan has taken Fort Angiers?” It was a closed court, with only the highest-ranking clerics in attendance. Ashan sat the Skull Throne, with the Damaji and the dama sons of the Deliverer at the base of the dais, lining Melan on two sides as she knelt upon her casting cloth.
“It is no surprise,” Damaji Ichach sneered. “The chin are weak.”
Melan leaned in closer, tilting her head as she continued to study the pattern. “No. The dal’Sharum were broken. They are in full retreat. The Deliverer’s firstborn is dead.”
There was a stunned silence. To a one, the Damaji had not wanted impulsive young Jayan to take another great victory so soon. But the alternative was too horrible to bear. The dal’Sharum broken? The Deliverer’s son slain? By chin?
Victory after victory under Shar’Dama Ka had led their people to a national pride that for the first time in centuries began to transcend tribe. A sense they were all Everam’s chosen people, Evejans, and it was inevera the chin should be yoked and bent to Evejan law.
It was Sharak Sun, the Daylight War that would unite all humanity for Sharak Ka.
Defeat was unthinkable.
“Are you certain?” Asome asked. Melan nodded.
“You are dismissed,” Asome said, and the woman nodded, scooping up her dice back into her hora pouch and beginning to fold her casting cloth.
“Stay,” Ashan commanded. “I have further questions.”
Melan finished folding her cloth and rolled back onto her feet. “Apologies, Andrah, but the Damajah has commanded I attend her immediately with any news.” She turned to go.
Ashan opened his mouth at the disrespect, but Asome cut in before he could speak, stepping right in front of the steps to the throne. “Let Melan see to my mother, Uncle. There is much we must discuss that does not concern the dama’ting.”
Ashan looked at him curiously, and Asome bowed. “Apologies, honored Andrah, but your failed leadership has brought us to this point. Jayan would not have dared such a foolish attack if my father sat the throne. This is a clear sign of Everam’s displeasure at your rule.”
He turned to sweep the room with his gaze, meeting the eyes of the other men. “It is time to accept that my father will not return. With my brother dead, it is inevera that I sit the Skull Throne in his place.” He looked at Ashan. “It is your right to attempt to deny me. Know that if you do, there will be no dishonor in your death.”
Ashan scowled. “That is only if you can kill me, boy. But first, you must look to the Damaji to clear your path.”
“Indeed.” Asome nodded, turning his back to Ashan as he strode down the aisle until he had passed the other men. “Damaji! Stand forth!”
As one, his dama brothers all took a stride into the aisle, bowing in unison as they turned to face their respective Damaji. “Apologies, honored Damaji,” they said as one, “but I must challenge you for leadership of the tribe. It is your right to attempt to deny me. Know that if you do, there will be no dishonor in your death.”
“Outrageous!” Ichach shouted. “Guards!”
Asome smiled. “No guards can hear you, Damaji. Melan has sealed the room in wards of silence, and barred the doors.”
Ashia and Asukaji were an island of peace amidst the sudden tension as men took battle stances. She froze, unsure what to do. Asome had clearly planned this, but she had not been privy to it.
Suddenly Let Melan see to my mother took on an ominous tone. She turned a questioning glance at Asukaji just as her brother threw the garrote around her throat. She was fast, but not fast enough. He crossed his fists, pulling tight as he danced behind her.
Ashia choked, her head whipped to the side, but she went with Asukaji’s pull and bent forward, setting one foot firmly and snapping the other up behind her to scorpion-kick him in the back of the head.
Her brother held on, but Ashia managed to get a finger under the chain around her throat, pulling in an obstructed breath.
Choking. In the end, it was always choking.
She continued to kick and elbow Asukaji with her free arm, but he had the hold, accepting the flailing blows and tightening his grip as their feet danced the floor, seeking to gain leverage even as each denied it to the other.
Ashia caught her feet for a moment, but when she lifted one leg for a kick, Asukaji was ready, hooking her other leg and taking her down to the marble floor.
“Did you really begin to think you were his jiwah?” Asukaji demanded. “That you mean a thing to him? You spend one night under him and think you can supplant me? Asome is mine, sister. Now and forever.”
Indeed, Asome glanced at them, his aura flat and cold. Asukaji might as well have been squashing a bug.
Ashia pulled her finger against the chain until it bled, but could not manage to work in another. She felt her face swelling, and knew it was only a matter of time.
She watched as the shar’dama executed their Damaji. It could not be called anything else. The Damaji were all sharusahk masters, but not a one of them was under sixty years old, with several much older. Many had gotten fat, as well. Asome’s half brothers were all young and strong, close to the prime of their lives.
But it was more than that. All of them had scar-warded their hands by now, and each clenched a fist that glowed powerfully with hora magic. The power absorbed into the scars, giving them inhuman strength and speed, and stealing any honor from their victories as one Damaji after another fell to their brutal attacks.
In seconds all were dead save ancient Aleverak, who danced back and forth with Maji. The ancient Damaji, too, had taken alagai in the night. He was still thin and withered, but stronger than he had been in decades. Thus far neither had landed a telling blow, hold, or throw.
