The Skull Throne

CHAPTER 8 THE TRUE WARRIOR 333 AR AUTUMN

“Deliverer!” Shanjat and Shanvah leapt to their feet, moving to stand apart. Without veil or robe, there was nothing to hide the blush of their skin or the guilty looks on their faces.

Indeed, their auras matched the look, shame and embarrassment palpable. Jardir assessed the situation, and his eyes darkened. Even if Shanvah had lain with him willingly, she was Shanjat’s daughter, and Jardir’s niece. Whether his spirit was penitent or not, Jardir would have no choice but to sentence his old friend to death.

He considered the thought grimly. Shanjat had served him loyally since the two of them were children in sharaj, and proven a good husband for his sister Hoshvah. More, Jardir needed Shanjat and the Sharum he commanded at his side when the First War began in full. Perhaps he could commute the sentence until after Sharak Ka. Give his loyal servant a chance to die on alagai talons and bring that his honor with him on the lonely path before he stood before Everam to be judged.

“Forgive us, Deliverer, we have failed you!” Shanjat cried before Jardir could utter a word. He and Shanvah fell to their knees, pressing hands and foreheads to the dirt floor. “I swear by Everam we tried every method in our power to escape and continue our search for you, but the Par’chin—”

“—is using hora magic to strengthen the our cell,” Shanvah cut in. Her fingernails were raw and dirty. In wardsight, Jardir could see the scratches where she and her father had tested every inch of their prison.

He looked around the room, seeing no robes or veils. Of course the Par’chin would have stripped and searched them before imprisoning them. Even he was not such a fool as to leave them tools to escape. The only other thing in the room was a covered chamber pot, too small and fragile to make an effective weapon.

Suddenly Jardir was the one to feel ashamed. Was the caress of parent and child, trapped in a lightless cell, a crime? He had been ready to assume the worst, to sentence one of his oldest friends to death, when his only guilt stemmed from the fear they had failed in their duty to him.

“Always quick to turn on a friend,” the Par’chin murmured, and Jardir grit his teeth.

“Rise in honor, brother, niece,” he said. “The Par’chin is beyond your power. There is no shame in defeat at his hands.”

Both stayed on their knees. When Shanjat hesitated, Shanvah spoke in his place. “It was not the Par’chin who captured us, Deliverer.”

Most fathers would have been enraged at the face lost having their daughter speak for them before the Deliverer, but Shanjat only looked at her with gratitude, and a pride Jardir had not seen him show either of his sons.

“Was me,” the Par’chin’s jiwah said. Jardir turned a skeptical eye on her. He knew the woman was formidable, but Shanjat and his daughter were kai’Sharum, Krasian warrior elite.

Shanvah raised her eyes to give the Par’chin’s jiwah an appraising look. “Her sharusahk is pathetic, Deliverer. A child could defeat her. But her magic is strong. Even with our night strength, she was beyond us. Our shields and spears lay broken.”

The words sent anguish through Shanvah’s aura. Jardir Drew through her as the Par’chin had taught him, seeing a vision around her. Inevera commanding Shanvah to seek the missing Deliverer. Her first assignment, one of such immense honor she could barely contain her pride. A chance to show the Deliverer and Damajah her worth.

And she had failed. Utterly.

Another vision arose, her defeat at the hands of the Par’chin’s jiwah.

“The Par’chin brought me down in the same way, niece,” he said. “You have been trained well, but you would be unwise to challenge his Jiwah Ka …”—he met Renna’s eyes—“… in the night. In day, she will be more vulnerable to sharusahk, and no match for you.”

The Par’chin’s jiwah glared at him. Jardir felt the weight of auras shift as face in the room was restored to balance. Shanvah looked at Renna in a new way. A predator’s appraisal.

Jardir waved for his warriors to rise and turned angrily to face the Par’chin. “If my brother-in-law and niece have been mistreated …”

“They haven’t.” The Par’chin whisked a hand. “Ask ’em yourself.”

“We have not, Deliverer,” Shanjat said as Jardir looked back to him. “We have been given food, water, and rest after days spent tracking you. The Par’chin treated the wounds we suffered when his Jiwah Ka subdued us.”

He looked at his daughter, and his aura shone with love. “And I do not regret having time to know my daughter.”

Jardir could well understand. He knew little about his own daughters, taken into the Dama’ting Palace when they were very young. They had been locked in the room as strangers, but trapped alone in the dark, father and daughter had found each other again.

“Thought a few days to reflect might do ’em some good,” the Par’chin said.

“And now?” Jardir said. “I will not allow you to shame them with further imprisonment, Par’chin.”

“Wouldn’t have shown ’em to you, I’d meant to keep ’em locked up,” the Par’chin said. “We’re leaving at dusk, and won’t be around to feed ’em and empty the chamber pot. Taking ’em with us.”

Jardir shook his head. “They are not prepared for the path we must walk, Par’chin. Set them free. One way or another, our task will be done before they find their way back to Everam’s Bounty.”

The Par’chin shook his head.

Jardir eyed him dangerously. “And if I free them anyway? What will you do then?”

“I’ll be done trusting that you put Sharak Ka first,” the Par’chin replied. “Mind demons can eat a person’s memories like a snack. Leave ’em not even knowing anything happened. They can plant commands that hold force in daylight. There could be spies anywhere, Ahmann, and we only get one throw at this. The less people know we’re still alive, the better.”

“Shar’Dama Ka!” The shout shocked Jardir. When was the last time Shanjat had spoken out of turn? He turned to his old friend, who bowed deeply. “If you walk a dangerous path, Deliverer, it is our duty to guard you with our lives.”

Shanvah nodded. “The Damajah bade us not return without you. She will not forgive us if we abandon you in your time of need.”

“They can help us in Anoch Sun, if they have the courage,” the Par’chin said. “Shouldn’t underestimate the princes. Your power will be limited while you maintain the field. Even with Renna, we’ll be overmatched.”

“If two warriors might shift the balance, why not bring an army?” Jardir asked.

“And hide them where?” the Par’chin asked. “I can draw wards of unsight in the air around two, but more will alert the minds to our presence, and all will be for naught.”

Jardir sighed. He could not deny the comfort the two gave him, balancing the shift in power when the Par’chin’s jiwah arrived. “Very well.”

“We’ll make the lost city in five days if we trample demons to charge the horses to speed,” the Par’chin said as they packed supplies, laying in food and water for the desert crossing. There would be little if anything to replenish their stores once they reached the clay flats. “Four if we really push.”

“That does not give us much time to prepare before Waning, Par’chin,” Jardir said.

The Par’chin shrugged. “Don’t want any sign we been there, so the less the better. Ent much to do once we get there save wait in any event. Better off readying ourselves than the tomb.”

“Shanjat and Shanvah will need new spears and shields,” Jardir said.

“Got a cache of weapons we can raid out in the desert,” the Par’chin said. “Meantime, I can stain their skin with blackstem wards, and we can all work on our gaisahk together.”

“Wise,” Jardir said. “I know my warriors’ skill, but I have not seen your jiwah fight.”

“Started teaching her a few months ago,” the Par’chin said. “She learns fast.”

Jardir nodded patiently, and called the five of them to practice while the sun was still high. The Par’chin and his jiwah produced brushes and painted impact wards on Shanjat’s and Shanvah’s fists, elbows, and feet. They cut the sleeves from their returned robes to bare the symbols to the air.

As expected, his warriors took quickly to gaisahk, but the Par’chin’s jiwah had forms even a novice could best. Shanvah had not been unfair in her assessment. If anything, she had been kind.

“You continue to place your feet wrong,” Jardir told her as she finished a sharukin. He had already corrected her stance a dozen times, but still she failed to give it her full attention.

“What’s the difference?” she asked. “Would’ve punched right through a demon’s face with that move.”

“The difference, fool, is that if there had been another at its back, you would have been off balance,” Jardir snapped. “Alagai’sharak is no game, where the loser can play another day.”

“Know that,” Renna said. The words were sullen, but he believed them. She was trying to place her feet right, but the move was beyond her. It was not fair of him to expect her to master in days what his warriors practiced their whole lives, but they did not have time to coddle her.

“Shanvah will tutor you each day when we stop under the sun to rest and water the horses,” he ordered.

“What?!” both women exclaimed at once.

Jardir looked to his niece. “She is not to be harmed. You must put aside any emotion over your imprisonment.”

Shanvah embraced her emotion and crossed her fists, bowing. “Your will, Deliverer.”

“Goes double for you, Ren,” the Par’chin said. “You need these lessons, but don’t forget you’re a lot stronger’n her, and we need you both in one piece come new moon. You’re learnin’, not fightin’.”

Renna spat in the dust. “Won’t break anything can’t heal.”

The two moved off to begin the lesson, and the Par’chin shook his head. “Gonna regret sayin’ that, isn’t she?”

“More than you know, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “But I have seen the pride in her aura. All warriors must understand their own weakness if they are to overcome it.” He looked at the departing women. “Shanvah will show her, delivering the same lesson your jiwah did to her.”

The Par’chin laughed. “Maybe that makes her the Deliverer, then.”

Hours later, Arlen paced the stable, watching the sun falling in the sky. In a few hours, they would be off, and he was anxious to begin. They were gambling the fate of everyone in the world on his plan.

What if I’m wrong? he wondered. Just some dumb Bales from Tibbet’s Brook going to poke the hive with a stick, thinking I’m so much smarter than the hornets.

But in his heart, he knew this was the only way. The people they were leaving behind were strong now. They would hold. They had to. Waiting behind the wards for each successive new moon was a losing strategy. The demons had the advantage in numbers, and people couldn’t ward the entire world. Cities built on greatwards might one day reach critical mass, but only with a head start.

There was a creak of floorboards, and Renna appeared, stealing him from his reverie. He was relieved until he took a look at her. She was bruised and bloody, with a swollen eye. Tears streaked the blood on her face, and she cradled her broken right arm with her left.

“You okay, Ren?” he asked.

Renna paused, surprised to see him. No doubt she had come to the stable to be alone. She gave a tired shrug, brushing past him as she went into Promise’s stall. She put her back to the divider and slid down to the floor. Promise nickered and nuzzled her cheek as she pulled the arm straight with a hiss, holding it in place while she waited for the magic in her blood to knit it back together.

Arlen nodded, leaving her in privacy. Inside the tower, he saw Shanvah laughing with her father as they prepared supper. The girl was seven years Renna’s junior and didn’t have Ren’s ability to heal, but there wasn’t a mark on her. She looked fresh as sunrise.

Oh, Ren. He shook his head. Jardir was right. This was a lesson Renna sorely needed. One Arlen had tried—and failed—to teach her himself. She liked being strong enough to bully folk a little too much for anyone’s good. Considering what she’d been through it wasn’t surprising, but …

Nie does not care about a warrior’s problems, he heard Jardir say.

But there was a difference between understanding the need for Renna to learn a little humility, and looking at his love, his wife, bloody and beaten. The only thing stopping him from setting Shanvah straight about the difference between lessons and fighting was the fact he knew Renna wouldn’t want him to.

Night, she’d never forgive him.

You weren’t any different, your first time in Krasia, he thought to himself. Ragen had taught him to fight—he’d thought as well as any man could. Then he met the Krasian drillmasters.

Arlen hadn’t wanted help, either. The Krasians would never have respected him if he’d asked for it, and it wasn’t any different with Renna. She would win Shanvah’s respect, given time.

That night, when they rode down a reap of field demons on the road to Anoch Sun, Renna’s sharusahk was noticeably better. She had healed good as new after a few hours’ rest, but strode into the fray more cautiously now. She lost none of her savagery when the time came to strike, but she waited for that time, now, and thought more than one move in advance.

He feared there would be another confrontation with Shanvah once Ren’s blood was up and she had her full night strength, but the two women kept their distance as they fought.

Only once did their paths cross. Shanvah braced herself for three field demons charging her when Renna lifted a hand and drew quick wards in the air. The demons burst into flame, burning away to ashes before they could reach the Sharum’ting.

Satisfaction was palpable on Renna’s aura as she turned away without waiting for a response. Shanvah could likely have taken the demons herself, but it was a strong reminder that her advantage was temporal. In the night, Renna Bales had powers she could not hope to match.

The next afternoon Renna still returned bruised and bloodied after their lesson, but she had a smirk on her face.

It was a start.

The Par’chin led them down cool stone steps, away from the desert heat. The beating sun was a familiar trial, but not one Jardir had missed. He better understood now why Everam had sent his people there to be tested and made hard. Already, the temperate clime and abundant resources of the green lands were having a softening effect on his people.

Sharak Ka had best come soon, he thought, but it was a fool’s wish. They needed time most of all. The Northern dukes would not kneel before him without a fight. It would be a decade at least to unite the green lands into any semblance of unity. And without unity, they had no hope of winning the First War.

“Take what you like,” the Par’chin said to Shanjat and Shanvah when they reached the bottom of the steps, “but don’t weigh yourselves too much. Ent gonna stand and fight once we’ve got what we’re after. Gonna run like all the Core’s after us.”

The words were casual, but as they slipped into darkness he drew light wards in the air, and the warriors stood transfixed, staring at the arsenal before them. Portable warding circles, bows of various sorts, dozens of spears and shields, hundreds of arrows and bolts. Piles of other weapons—hammers, axes, picks, and knives. Anything the Par’chin could find, it seemed. All intricately warded in his unmistakable hand.

Jardir expected the warriors to rush in, but they hesitated, like khaffit taken into a Damaji’s treasure room and told they could take any prize they wished. What to choose from the vast riches before them? And, they both glanced at the Par’chin, would there be a hidden price?

“Go,” Jardir bade them. “Explore. Find the weapons that best fit your hands. We will not leave until after sunset. You have several hours. Use them well. The fate of all mankind may ride on your choices.”

The warriors nodded, moving reverently into the room. Hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, they began to lift weapons, testing their weight and balance. Shanjat spun a spear through an intricate set of sharukin while Shanvah did the same with every shield until she found one to her liking.

“Where are the other rooms?” Jardir asked the Par’chin. “I would rest and refresh myself before our journey continues.”

The Par’chin shrugged. “Just got the one. Wasn’t sleeping much back when I used to frequent this place. ’Fraid there’s no fancy pillow chambers for Your Grace.” He pointed to a workbench, beside which lay a bundle of rags. It had been many years since Jardir had been in sharaj, but he knew a bedroll when he saw one.

A memory flashed in his mind—curled with Abban on a hard, dirty floor, sharing a thin blanket that didn’t even cover them. Jardir remembered the bitter choice between cold shoulders and cold feet. He’d been fortunate to have Abban, that they might pool their warmth. Other boys were forced to sleep alone, or to accept the price older boys often demanded in exchange for a partner. Jardir had fallen asleep shivering, listening to their muffled grunts.

How long since he last slept in such squalor? The Par’chin had done it for years, living in isolation from all other men, focused only on his sacred tasks, making weapons to face the alagai in the day, and killing them in the night.

Not all greenlanders are soft, he reminded himself.

“I can try to hunt up a goose, if you need a feather pillow,” Renna offered when he had been silent a while, staring at the bedroll. The Par’chin laughed.

Insolent. Jardir embraced the insult, swallowing a barbed retort. He ignored the woman, turning to meet the Par’chin’s eye. “I live in palaces because they are my due, Par’chin, but as Kaji tells us in the Evejah, The true warrior—”

“—need only bread, water, and his spear,” the Par’chin finished. He shrugged. “Guess I ent a true warrior, then. Always liked a blanket.”

Jardir laughed, breaking much of the tension in the room. The others relaxed visibly. “I too, Par’chin. If I live to complete the Ahmanjah, I will add a blanket to the proverb.”

He went to the cool stairwell, putting his back to the side of the stairs and sliding to the ground. They had been riding for three days, resting only when the animals reached the very limits of their endurance. Magic kept them running hard through the night, but in the day, they were as mortal as any. Even Jardir needed to close his eyes for an hour or two.

But sleep was elusive. His mind spun, trying to comprehend what they were about to attempt. The Par’chin’s plan was bold and larger than life, but it lacked detail. As with any battle, the opening blows might be planned, and an exit readied, but beyond that … inevera.

Inevera. He could use her advice now. He would even have welcomed her accursed dice. Was she all right? Had she installed Ashan as Andrah as they had agreed if he should fall? Or had the Damaji already killed her and all his sons? Or had Jayan killed Asome and seized power? Were his people in the midst of civil war even now?

He watched his warriors while he wondered after the fate of everyone he loved. Perhaps Shanjat and Shanvah were safer with him after all.

They had already chosen spears, shields, and knives, familiar weapons they could use like extensions of their arms. Now they were inspecting the bows curiously.

Ranged weapons were not considered dishonorable in Krasia, exactly, but shooting an alagai from a distance was a lesser glory by far than facing one at spear’s length, and before the fighting wards were returned bows could not harm the demons in any event. They had fallen from use, only the bare rudiments part of a warrior’s training. A single tribe, the Mehnding, had kept the practice, manning the slings and scorpions on the walls of the Desert Spear, and now specializing in killing from afar with their short bows, often from horseback.

But Shanjat and Shanvah were Kaji, not Mehnding, and the long Northern bows had little in common with their southern cousins. They held the weapons uncomfortably. So much that even the Par’chin noticed. He took a quiver of arrows, tossing it to Shanjat.

“Shoot me,” he commanded, moving to stand at the far side of the room.

Shanjat nocked an arrow, but glanced at Jardir.

“Do as he says,” Jardir said, whisking a hand. It was doubtful an arrow could do the Par’chin any lasting damage even if it struck, and looking at Shanjat’s tense grip on the weapon, a hit seemed unlikely.

Shanjat loosed, and the arrow missed the Par’chin by more than a foot.

“I’m standing still, warrior,” the Par’chin called. “The alagai will not be so thoughtful.”

Shanjat held his hand out, and his daughter slapped another arrow into it.

“Stop standing there and ripping shoot me!” The Par’chin slapped the large ward at the center of his chest. Again Shanjat loosed, this time missing by inches.

“Come on!” the Par’chin cried. “A pig-eating son of a khaffit can shoot better than that!”

Shanjat growled, pulling another arrow to his cheek. He had the weapon’s measure now, and his next shot would have taken the Par’chin in the shoulder, had he not caught the arrow in midair the way a quick man might snatch a horsefly.

“Pathetic,” the Par’chin growled, holding up the arrow. He turned to look at Shanvah. “Your turn.”

No sooner had he spoken than Shanvah had her bow raised, firing. Jardir had not even known she was holding it.

The shot was true, and the Par’chin gasped, dematerializing just in time to evade the missile. It struck behind him, embedding in the wall.

Jardir was impressed. Even he was a novice with the bow, but Shanvah and her spear sisters were trained by Enkido, whose name was legend in the Maze before he was even born.

“Better,” the Par’chin admitted as he solidified. “But you shoot straight, like you’ve got a short bow. Fine in close, but you’ll have more power and range if you arc your shots.”

“I’ll teach her,” the Par’chin’s jiwah said. Jardir expected Shanvah to protest, but she only nodded.

“As for you …” the Par’chin said, turning back to Shanjat.

Shanjat threw the bow to the ground. “I do not need this coward’s weapon. My spear will suffice.”

“Reckon it’ll come down to spears and fists before the end,” the Par’chin agreed, “but there’s more at stake here than your personal glory, Shanjat. You need to be able to shoot if you’re to protect your master.”

“Am I to master this weapon in a day?” Shanjat asked. “I have my pride, Par’chin, but not so much as that.”

“Don’t need to.” The Par’chin lifted one of the cross-shaped crank bows the Northern women favored. It had a wooden stock, shod with steel like the bow and firing mechanism. The “string” was a weave of thin wire.

Shanjat, too, recognized the device. “A woman’s weapon? Shall I dance in veils for the alagai next?”

The Par’chin ignored him, taking a heavy shield, warded steel riveted onto a thick wood frame, and set it against the wall. He moved across the room to stand by Shanjat. With two fingers he tugged the thick bowstring back until it clicked in place, fitting a bolt.

“Like this,” he said, bracing the weapon against his shoulder and bringing it level with the floor, sighting down its length. He handed the bow to Shanjat, who held it as he had been shown.

“Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot,” the Par’chin said. “Put your target between the lines at the end, keep steady, and squeeze.”

KA-CHUNG! The bow recoiled, surprising Shanjat enough that he took a step back.

“Missed,” he said. There was shame in his aura, but his face was grim as he moved to hand the weapon back.

“Did you?” the Par’chin asked.

Shanvah was across the room in an instant, lifting the shield to inspect it. All could see the finger she poked clear through from back to front. “A clean hole.” She looked behind her, then stepped away so the others could see the bolt, embedded in the rock wall.

“Everam’s beard,” Shanjat said, looking at the weapon with new respect. He tried to draw the string back as the Par’chin had, but strong as he was, it was beyond him.

“Crank it.” The Par’chin pointed to the mechanism.

Shanjat turned the crank, growing frustration on his face. At last it clicked into place and he looked up. “I could have thrown three spears in that time, Par’chin.”

The Par’chin nodded. “And then you would be out of spears. Don’t worry over the draw. With night strength you won’t need the crank.”

Shanjat nodded, but he selected three light throwing spears in addition to the bow and quarrels.

“Sleep while you can,” Jardir bade. “We’ll be in Anoch Sun before dawn, with only two days to prepare.” Immediately, Shanjat and Shanvah found a space by the wall to curl up. Jardir closed his eyes.