The Skull Throne (5 page)

Ashan bowed in return. “The honored
Damaji
is correct. The Shar’Dama Ka instructed me to announce my claim without hesitation, and kill any who stand in my path to the throne before any of the
Damaji
dare murder his
dama
sons.”

Aleverak nodded, turning to look Inevera in the eye. Even he had lost a moment’s composure at her show of power, but his control was back, his aura flat and even. “I do not challenge your words, Damajah, or the Deliverer’s command, but our traditions must be respected if the tribes are to accept a new Andrah.”

Inevera opened her mouth to speak, but Ashan spoke first. “Of course, Damaji.” He bowed, turning to the other
Damaji.
Tradition dictated that they could each challenge him in turn, starting with the leader of the smallest tribe.

Inevera wanted to stop it. Wanted to force her will on the men and make them see she could not be denied. But the pride of men could only be pushed so far. Ashan was the youngest
Damaji
by a score of years, and a
sharusahk
master in his own right. She would have to trust in him to make good his claim, as Ahmann had.

She cared nothing for the
Damaji
—not a one of them worth the trouble they caused. She would as soon be rid of the lot of them and let her sister-wives take direct control of the tribes through Ahmann’s
dama
sons.

Aleverak was the only one that worried her, but
hora
magic could ensure that Maji win out against the ancient
Damaji’s
heirs.

“Damaji Kevera of the Sharach,” Ashan called. “Do you wish to challenge me for the jeweled turban?”

Kevera, still on his knees with his hands on the floor, sat back on his ankles to look Ashan in the eyes. The
Damaji
was in his sixties, but still robust. A true warrior-cleric.

“No, Damaji,” Kevera said. “The Sharach are loyal to the Deliverer, and if it was his wish that you take the jeweled turban, we do not stand in your way.”

Ashan nodded and called upon the next
Damaji,
but the answer was the same. Many of them had grown lax since taking the black turbans, no match for Ashan, and others were still loyal to Ahmann, or at least afraid of his return. Each man had his own reasons, but as Ashan went up through the tribes, none chose to face him.

Until Aleverak. The one-armed old cleric stepped forward immediately, barring Ashan’s path to the steps of the dais and assuming a
sharusahk
stance. His knees were bent, one foot pointed toward Ashan, and the other perpendicular, a step behind. His single arm was extended forward, palm up and stiffened fingers aimed at Ashan’s heart.

“Apologies, Damaji,” he said to Ashan, “but only the strongest may sit the Skull Throne.”

Ashan bowed deeply, assuming a stance of his own. “Of course, Damaji. You honor me with your challenge.” Then, without hesitation, he charged.

Ashan stopped short when he came in range, giving Aleverak a minimum of momentum to turn against him. His punches and kicks were incredibly fast, but Aleverak’s one hand moved so quickly it seemed to be two, batting them aside. He tried to latch on, turning the energy of the blows into a throw, but Ashan was wise to the move and could not be caught.

Inevera had never thought much of
dama sharusahk,
having learned a higher form among the
dama’ting,
but she grudgingly admitted to herself that the men were impressive. They might as well have been relaxing in a hot bath for all their auras told.

Aleverak moved like a viper, ducking and dodging Ashan’s kicks. He spun around a leg sweep and came out of it with a kick straight into the air that was impressive even for a
dama’ting.
Ashan tried to pull back out of range, but the blow was so unexpected he was clipped on the chin and knocked back a step, out of balance.

Inevera breathed out the tension as the ancient
Damaji
moved to take advantage of Ashan’s momentary imbalance. His fingers were like a speartip as he thrust his hand at Ashan’s throat.

Ashan caught the blow just in time, twisting Aleverak into a throw that would break the old man’s arm if he resisted.

But Aleverak did not resist. Indeed, it became clear he was counting on the move, using Ashan’s own strength to aid his leap as he scissored his legs into the air, hooking them around Ashan’s neck. He twisted in midair, throwing his weight into the move, and Ashan had no choice but to go limp and let himself be thrown to the floor, lest Aleverak break his neck.

But Ashan was not finished. As he rebounded off the floor with Aleverak above him, he used the energy to punch straight up. Even wooden Aleverak could not instantly embrace such a blow, and Ashan tucked his legs in, kicking himself upright and whirling to face the
Damaji
on even footing once more.

Aleverak was angry now. Inevera could see it, a thin red film crackling on the surface of his aura. But the emotion did not claim him. His energy was centered, channeled into his movements, giving him terrifying strength and speed. He wielded his one hand like a knife, showing surprising knowledge of the pressure points
dama’ting
used in their own
sharusahk.
Ashan took a blow to the shoulder that would leave his right arm numb for a minute, at the least. Not long in Everam’s great scheme, but a lifetime in battle.

Inevera began to wonder how much control she could keep if Aleverak ascended to the throne.

But again Ashan surprised her, taking a similar stance to Aleverak and focusing his efforts on defense. His feet beat rapidly on the marble floor, back and forth, keeping Aleverak dancing but always stopping short of full attacks that might give the aged
Damaji
free energy to turn against him. Again and again Aleverak struck at him, but Ashan batted his hand aside every time, keeping up the dance. Aleverak’s kicks were dodged, or blocked smoothly with thighs, shins, and forearms.

He kept it up, his aura calm, until, at last, Aleverak began to tire. Whatever reserves of energy the ancient
Damaji
had called upon depleted, and his moves began to slow.

When he next stepped forward, he was not quick enough to stop Ashan from stomping on his foot, pinning it. Aleverak stabbed his right hand in, but Ashan caught the wrist, holding it as he snapped his hips around to add torque to a devastating punch to the chest with his now recovered right arm.

Aleverak gasped and stumbled, but Ashan locked his arm and added several more punches before his opponent could recover, driving sharp knuckles into the shoulder joint of the Damaji’s one arm. He swept Aleverak’s feet from him and put him down hard on his back. The retort as he struck the marble echoed throughout the chamber.

Aleverak looked up at Ashan, his eyes hard. “Well done, Andrah. Finish me with honor and take your place atop the steps.”

Ashan looked at the ancient
Damaji
sadly. “It was an honor to face you, Damaji. Your fame among the masters of
sharusahk
is well earned. But tradition does not demand I kill you. Only that I clear you from my path.”

He began to turn away, but Aleverak’s aura flared, as close to a loss of control as Inevera had ever seen. He clutched the hem of Ashan’s robe with quivering fingers.

“Maji is still in his bido!” Aleverak coughed. “Kill me and let Aleveran have the black turban. No harm will come to the Deliverer’s son.”

Ashan glanced up to Inevera at this. It was a tempting offer. Maji would be safe from the foolish vow Ahmann had made, but in exchange the Majah would have a younger
Damaji
who might rule for decades to come. She gave a slight shake of her head.

“Apologies, Damaji,” Ashan said, pulling his robe free of the old man’s grasp, “but the Deliverer still has need of you in this world. It is not yet your time to walk the lonely path. And should any harm come to the Deliverer’s Majah son apart from an open challenge in court on the hour of your natural death, my respect for you will not stop me from having your entire male line killed.” He turned again, striding for the seven steps leading to the Skull Throne.

Asome met him there, blocking the path.

Inevera hissed. What was the fool boy doing?

“Apologies, Uncle.” Asome gave a formal
sharusahk
bow. “I trust you understand this is not personal. You have been as a father to me, but I am the eldest
dama
son of the Deliverer, and have as much right as any assembled to challenge you.”

Ashan seemed genuinely taken aback, but he did not dispute the claim. He bowed in return. “Of course, nephew. Your honor is boundless. But I would not leave my daughter a widow, nor my grandson without his father. I ask this once that you step aside.”

Asome shook his head sadly. “Nor would I leave my cousin and wife without a father. My aunt without a husband. Renounce your claim and allow me to ascend.”

Jayan leapt to his feet. “What is this?! I demand … !”

“Silence!” Inevera shouted. There was no need to enhance her voice this time, the sound echoing around the room. “Asome, attend me!”

Asome turned, climbing the steps swiftly to stand before Inevera’s bed of pillows. There was a flare in his aura as he passed by the throne. Was it covetousness? Inevera filed the information away in her mind as she manipulated polished stones on a small pedestal beside her, covering some wards and uncovering others. She could use the stones to control a number of effects, powered by
hora
placed around the room, and now placed a wall of silence around her pillows, that none save her son should hear her words.

“You must give up this foolish claim, my son,” Inevera said. “Ashan will kill you.” Having seen Asome’s
sharusahk,
she wasn’t certain this was true, but now was not the time to flatter the young man.

“Have faith, Mother,” Asome said. “I have waited my entire life for this day, and I will prevail.”

“You will not,” Inevera said. “Because you will not continue your challenge. This is not what Everam wants. Or your father. Or I.”

“If Everam does not wish me to take the throne, I will not,” Asome said. “And if He does, then it should be Father’s and your wish as well.”

“Wait, my son,” Inevera said. “I beg you. We have always meant the jeweled turban for you, but it is too soon. Jayan will drive the
Sharum
into revolt if you take it now.”

“Then I will kill him, too,” Asome said.

“And rule over a civil war with Sharak Ka on our heels,” Inevera said. “No. I will not allow you to kill your brother. If you persist, I will cast you down myself. Recant, and you will have the succession on Ashan’s death. I swear it.”

“Announce it now,” Asome said. “Before all assembled, or cast me down as you say. My honor will be appeased with nothing else.”

Inevera drew a deep breath, letting it fill her, and flow back out, taking her emotions with it. She nodded, sliding the stones on her pedestal to remove the veil of silence.

“Upon Ashan’s death, Asome will have the right to challenge the
Damaji
for the jeweled turban.”

Jayan’s aura swirled with emotion. The anger was still present, but he seemed mollified for the moment. There was no telling what he would have done if his younger brother had been given the chance to fight for a throne that sat higher than his. But seeing Asome thwarted had always brought Jayan pleasure. Ashan was not yet forty, and would stand between Asome and ascension long enough for Jayan to claim his father’s crown.

He stamped his spear loudly on the marble, and turned without leave to exit the throne room. His
kai’Sharum
followed obediently behind, and Inevera could see in them, and many of the
Damaji,
a belief that the Deliverer’s eldest son had been robbed of his birthright. The
Sharum
worshipped Jayan, and they outnumbered the
dama
greatly. He would be a growing danger.

But for the moment he was dealt with, and Inevera felt the wind ease as Ashan at last climbed the dais to sit the Skull Throne. He looked out at the assembled advisors and said the words Inevera had instructed, though she could tell they were sour on his lips.

“It is an honor to hold the throne for the Shar’Dama Ka, blessings be upon his name. I will keep the Deliverer’s court much as he left it, with Damaji Aleverak speaking for the council, and Abban the
khaffit
retaining his position as court scribe and master of logistics. As before, any that dare hinder or harm him or his interests will find no mercy from the Skull Throne.”

Inevera twitched a finger to Belina, and the Majah
Damaji’ting
stepped forward with
hora
to heal Aleverak. Soon the
Damaji
was rising shakily back to his feet. The disorientation would soon pass, leaving him even stronger than before. His first act was a bow of submission to the Skull Throne.

Satisfying as that submission was, it was nothing compared to the flick of Ashan’s eyes to her, obviously asking if this scene was at its end. She gave a subtle nod and Ashan dismissed the
Damaji
and moved to meet with Asukaji and Asome, as well as his advisors, Halvan and Shevali.

“Little sisters,” Inevera said, and the
Damaji’ting
remained as the men filtered out, clustering at the base of the dais to take private audience with her.

“You did not tell all, Damajah. My dice foretell that Ahmann may never return.” Belina kept her voice steady, but her aura was like a raw nerve. Most of the
Damaji’ting
appeared the same. They had lost not only a leader, but a husband as well.

“What has happened? Truly?” Qasha asked. Less disciplined than Belina, the Sharach
Damaji’ting
could not keep her voice steady. The last word cracked with a whine like a flaw forming in glass.

“Ahmann spared the Par’chin in secret after claiming the spear,” Inevera said, disapproval in her tone. “The man survived and challenged him to
Domin Sharum.
”