The Skull Throne (20 page)

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.

CHAPTER 9

ANOCH SUN

333 AR AUTUMN

As the sun rose, Arlen looked out over the lost city of Anoch Sun with a heavy heart. The Krasians had been reckless in their looting. When Arlen was living in the ruins seeking the secrets of demon fighting, he had been careful to preserve the place, digging carefully, leaving everything intact. The only relics he removed were weapons and armor, that he might study their wards. He had returned most of the items once he learned their secrets.

The Krasians had given no such consideration to preserving their antiquity. The city now looked like a crop field after a swarm of locusts and an army of voles. Massive piles of dirt and sand everywhere, shattered stone that had stood strong for thousands of years. The land was dotted with holes where roofs had been broken into for easier access to underground chambers, exposing them to the elements for the first time in millennia.

Only the great burial chambers were still intact. The Krasians had taken everything else of value, but even they balked at moving the sarcophagi and disturbing the rest of their sacred ancestors.

“And you were ready to kill me for taking one spear,” he muttered.

“It wasn’t yours to take, Par’chin,” Jardir replied. “It is a place of
my
people. Krasians, not greenlanders.”

Arlen spat over the side of his horse. “Wern’t so worried about cultural rights when you sacked Fort Rizon.”

“That was conquest, not grave looting,” Jardir said.

“So robbing living folk you have to beat and kill is more honorable than ones been dead thousands of years?” Arlen asked.

“The dead cannot defend themselves, Par’chin,” Jardir said.

“And yet you destroyed the resting place of your ancestors,” Arlen said. “Night, your logic just whirls around like a dust devil, doesn’t it?”

“I had a hundred thousand people to feed, and nothing here to sustain them,” Jardir said. He was keeping his outward calm, but his words were beginning to tighten. “We had to work fast. There was no time to peel the layers of the city back with brushes and hand tools.”

He looked curiously at Arlen. “How did you manage it, Par’chin? There is nothing to eat here, and without baggage, you cannot have carried much from the Oasis of Dawn.”

Arlen was thankful his aura was hidden in the morning sun. The question cut close to one of the few secrets he was not yet willing to share with Jardir. Likely he never would. He had eaten demon meat to sustain himself in the weeks he spent in Anoch Sun, something he knew the Krasians would never understand, despite the power it brought.

“Went out and brought back supplies,” Arlen said. It wasn’t a lie, precisely.

He shook his head to clear it. There was nothing to be gained, continuing to bicker. They needed to work together, now more than ever. He glanced at Shanjat and Shanvah to find their predatory eyes locked on him and Renna, as if awaiting Jardir’s command to kill them while the sun kept their full powers at bay.

But Jardir gave no such command. For better or worse, they were allies.

“Just as well you took anything of value,” Arlen said, “now that the demons know of it. That’s my fault, I’ll admit. Let them get in my head.”

“
Inevera,
” Jardir said. “It may be your failing is what saves us. Just this once, we know where our enemy will strike. Just this once, we have advantage. We
must
seize it.”

“First thing we need to do is find a spot near the tomb to stake the horses,” Arlen said. “We’ll paint wards of unsight around the place. Might need to ride out of here in a hurry.”

“And then what?” Jardir asked.

“We go to Kaji’s tomb and dig a secret exit,” he said. “Then we find places to hide, and we wait.”

“And then?” Jardir asked.

Arlen blew out a breath.
Core if I know.

“Bit to the left,” Renna said, looking down the shaft of the arrow Shanvah pointed to the sky. “Wind’s stronger that high. Got to account for it.”

She stood behind the younger woman, raised on the balls of her feet to put her sight in line with Shanvah’s. Renna had never thought herself short, but even the average Krasian was tall by Tibbet’s Brook standards. Her heel was only a little off the ground, but she resented that inch.

Shanvah accepted the correction with a nod, and loosed. Her arrow arced high over the dunes, then came down hard on the sand-filled bag they were using as a target. It wasn’t a perfect shot, but from such distance it was impressive nonetheless.

“How did you learn this?” Shanvah asked, lowering her bow. There was more respect in her tone now, though Renna was not fool enough to think them friends. “By your own words, you were no warrior until recently, but you handle that weapon too comfortably for the Par’chin to have been your only teacher.”

Renna shook her head. “My da taught me. Wern’t always enough food to go around back home. Everyone who liked eatin’ needed to go out and hunt sometimes.”

Shanvah nodded. “Among my people, women were not allowed to even touch weapons until recently. You are fortunate to have had such a father. What was his name?”

“Harl.” Renna spat. “But wern’t no fortune in him as a da.”

“In Krasia, we carry the honor of our fathers, daughter of Harl,” Shanvah said. “The pride of their victories, and the shame of their failures.”

“Got a lot to make up for, then,” Renna said.

“If we succeed tonight,” Shanvah said, “you will have cleaned the slate and dipped it in gold, even if your father is Alagai Ka himself.”

“Far as me and my sisters went, might as well have been.” Renna felt a throb in her temple. Thoughts of her father, of that corespawned farm, always made her angry. Less the memories themselves than the reminder they brought. The reminder of the old Renna. Weak. Scared. Useless. Sometimes she wished that part of her was a limb she could cut away and cast off forever.

Shanvah was staring at her. Why were she and Shanvah sharing stories like square girls, anyway? They might need to fight the same side, but neither trusted the other, and Renna saw no reason for that to change.

“You said you faced one of them,” Shanvah said. “An
alagai
prince.”

As if talk of Harl’s farm hadn’t been personal enough. Renna remembered the horror, the violation, as the demon had taken over her mind, burrowing deep and nestling in like a tomato bug. It was the last thing she wanted to talk about, but this, Shanvah had a right to know. Soon she would be face-to-face with them.

“Ay,” Renna said. “Keep your mind wards sharp that night. Paint ’em right on your brow. Don’t trust a headband. They get inside your mind, swallowing everything that makes you … you. Swallow it, and then spit out just the parts that cut the ones you love.”

Shanvah nodded. “But you killed it.”

Renna bared her teeth, magic boiling in her blood at the memory. “Arlen killed it. I put my knife right through its ripping back, and it kept fighting.”

“How is my bow supposed to make a difference against such a creature?” Shanvah asked.

Renna shrugged. “Honest word? Probably won’t. Against a mind demon, you strike a killing blow, or you might as well not have struck at all. Wouldn’t trust that to a bow.”

She looked at Shanvah. “But the minds are for Arlen and Jardir to worry about.” Shanvah stiffened at the informal reference to her uncle, but she kept her mouth closed. “Up to us to keep their guards away while it’s done,” Renna went on. “Minds can call other demons from miles around, and make ’em fight smart.”

Shanvah nodded. “So I have been told.”

“You heard about their bodyguards?” Renna asked. “The mimics?”

“Only whispers,” Shanvah said.

“Smarter’n other corelings,” Renna said. “Able to lead and summon lesser demons, but that ent the worst of it.”

“Shapeshifters,” Shanvah whispered, as much a question as a statement.

Renna nodded. “Turn into anything they can think of. One second you’re fighting the biggest damn rock demon you ever saw, and a second later it’s got tentacles, or wings. Think you got a grip and suddenly it’s a snake. Think you’ve got help coming, but in the blink of an eye it looks just like you, and your friends don’t know who to shoot.”

Shanvah gave no sign, but a trickle of fear came into her scent, and that was good. She needed to know what was coming and respect it, if she was going to live.

“Last one I fought killed over two dozen men before we brought it down,” Renna said. “Cut through a unit of
dal’Sharum
like a nightwolf in a henhouse. Killed half a dozen, along with Drillmaster Kaval and Enkido. And more Cutters than I can remember. Hadn’t been for Rojer and …”

She broke off, looking at Shanvah’s wide eyes. The young woman had stopped listening, staring at her openmouthed. Her scent changed dramatically, filling with mounting horror and grief as tears began to well in her eyes. It was more emotion than Renna had ever seen her show.

“What’d I say?” Renna asked.

Shanvah looked at her silently for a long time, her mouth moving slowly, as if needing to limber before forming words.

“Master Enkido is dead?” she asked.

Renna nodded, and Shanvah wailed. It went on till her breath caught, and she coughed out a sob.

She fumbled desperately at a pouch on her belt even as she wept, producing a tiny glass vial that slipped from her shaking fingers.

Renna caught the vial before it hit the ground, holding it out to her, but Shanvah made no move to take it. “Please,” she begged. “Catch them before they are lost.”

Renna looked at her curiously. “Catch what?”

“My tears!” she wailed.

It seemed a bizarre request, but Renna had seen the Krasian women doing this when they came for their dead after new moon. She unstoppered the vial, looking at its wide rim, the edge almost sharp, ideal for scraping a streaking tear from a cheek. She stepped close, catching one drop just before it fell, and then tracing its path back up with the vial’s edge.

Shanvah’s sobbing only increased, as if she were throwing herself intentionally into the emotion for this sole purpose. Fast as she was, Renna was hard-pressed to keep up. Shanvah filled two bottles before she was done.

“What happened to the demon?” Shanvah asked, when it was over.

“We killed it,” Renna said.

“You’re sure?” Shanvah pressed, leaning forward to grip her arm.

“Cut its head off myself,” Renna said.

Shanvah slumped back, looking as defeated as Renna had ever seen her, and she had beaten the woman unconscious just weeks earlier.

“Thank you,” Shanvah said.

Renna nodded, deciding it was best not to mention that she, too, had fought Enkido when they first met.

They reached Anoch Sun by the first morning of Waning. Arlen led them down to Kaji’s tomb, and they set to work preparing the chamber.

In the darkness beneath the sands, Anoch Sun was a place of strong magic, ancient and deep. It was embedded in every speck of dust, leached from the Core with powerful wards over thousands of years. Arlen reached tendrils of his own magic to join with it, and immediately felt the city come to life, like an extension of his own body. It hummed with power, lending him strength for the trials to come.

Jardir led a prayer to Everam, and Arlen swallowed his cynicism long enough to bow his head and be polite. He could see the honest belief in the auras of the Krasians, and the strength it gave them.

Even Renna shone with belief, in spite of all that had been done to her in the name of the Canon.

Night, wish I could share it.
The others in the room were convinced they were marching in the Creator’s great plan. Arlen alone understood they were making things up as they went along.

“That’s enough,” he said at last, when it seemed the chanting would go on forever and he could stand it no more. “Night’s falling. Take your places, and no more noise.”

Jardir looked at him with irritation. The sun had not yet set. Still, he nodded. This was no time for discord. “The Par’chin speaks wisely.”

Shanjat and Shanvah had made an ambush pocket off to one side, cut from the wall, which Arlen had etched with wards of camouflage. The wall would appear unbroken to demon eyes.

Renna drew her Cloak of Unsight about herself and went to stand ready to one side of the small doorway into the tomb. Arlen moved to stand opposite her, cutting himself off from the magic of Anoch Sun, lest the coreling princes sense his presence.

The next hour, silent and still, was the longest of his life. As the minutes ticked by, he almost wished they could go back to prayers.

Night fell, but attack did not come right away. Arlen knew it was a risk, but after an hour he could not stand it, and opened himself up to the magic of Anoch Sun, reaching out his senses for sign of the enemy.

They were out there. Night, there were thousands of them.

The mind demons had been in his head. They knew the layout of the city, and exactly where the tomb of Kaji lay.

But they were in no hurry. They had three days to desecrate and destroy the city, and obviously meant to savor the task. The ground shook as the demons began to tear down the city.