The Skull Throne

“You saved me, khaffit,” Jayan said. “Continue to serve, and I will not forget, when I take my father’s throne.”

“I haven’t saved anyone yet,” Abban said, looking at the fluid and debris still clinging to the warded glass. “We must get out.”

“Bah!” Jayan said. “You did not lie when you said your warded glass was proof against any blow. What have we to fear?”

He turned, just as the Sharum’s Lament launched another projectile, a flaming stinger, from one of her starboard scorpions.

“We must get out!” Abban cried as the missile arced their way. He made a quick series of gestures to Earless, who leapt across the room, scooping Abban up in his arms.

There was a deafening boom and a flare of light to singe the eyes of even a desert dweller as the missile struck the liquid demonfire clinging to the window. Still the warded glass held, blunting the shock and heat of the blast.

Abban drew a ward in the air. “Everam be praised.” The logical part of his mind knew the glass was performing exactly as it should, but in his coward’s heart, it was a miracle. “Go!” he cried, swinging an arm toward the door. For all the strength in the glass, the building that held it in place was only wood. Already smoke was beginning to seep through the floorboards.

Earless put his head down, charging the heavy door and kicking it from its hinges. The door hit Hasik, who was racing for the scene, but Abban wasted no time on it, gesticulating for Earless to move with all speed. The deaf giant held Abban like a child as he raced down the steps and through the great room below to the back door.

“Fire!” Abban screamed as they raced through the great room. “Flee!”

It wasn’t until they were outside that Abban realized Jayan had been fast on their heels. Abban quickly gestured for Earless to let him down, realizing it must have seemed to all that they had cleared an escape path for the Sharum Ka.

Others joined them, including Khevat, Asavi, Jayan’s bodyguard, and Qeran. “You had Earless carry you?” the drillmaster asked in disgust, his voice too low for the others to hear. “Where is your shame?”

Abban shrugged. “Where my life is concerned, Drillmaster, I have none.”

“I will put my spear in that witch’s heart and fuck the hole!” Jayan cried.

“I will hold her down as you mount her,” Hasik agreed. There was blood in his hair, but he looked ready as ever for a fight.

“Why would I need you to hold her, idiot,” Jayan snapped, “if I had already put my spear in her heart?”

“I …” Hasik began.

“The Sharum Ka does not want your excuses, Whistler!” Abban cried, relishing the moment. “It should have been you, not a pair of khaffit, clearing the path for him.”

Hasik looked as if he wanted the ground to swallow him, and Abban wished the moment could last forever. But then it was gone, and Hasik was baring teeth at him.

“We are blind back here,” Jayan said. “Go to the docks and find out what’s happening.” He pointed, and Hasik ran off like a loyal dog.

“You and the clerics should not remain here, Sharum Ka,” Qeran said. “Please allow the Spears of the Deliverer to escort you to a safer location where you may direct …”

“There!” Asavi shrieked suddenly. All eyes turned to her as she pointed to a Sharum exiting the building amidst the smoke and confusion, his night veil raised against the fumes. There was a satchel over his shoulder, black like his robes. The warrior froze, along with everyone else, the moment seeming to last forever.

“Don’t just stand there!” the dama’ting shrieked. “Stop him or the streets will run with blood!”

That got people moving, but the warrior was quickest of all, shoving a dama aside and moving for the clearest path of escape.

Right Abban’s way.

It made sense. Abban was a fat cripple, and far less likely to impede the spy than the Sharum and dama, and only a fool would venture too close to a Bride of Everam. A good shove would put Abban on the ground, right in the pursuers’ path.

But while it was true that Abban was fat and one of his legs wasn’t worth a coreling’s piss, his cultivated mannerisms were designed to make the infirmity appear far worse than it truly was.

He gave a terrified shriek, shifting his weight to his good leg as the warrior came in. But as the Sharum shoved, Abban caught his wrist, tripping him with his crutch and bringing them both to the ground.

That should have been the end of it, but the warrior somehow kept a measure of control, landing on top and forcing the brunt of the impact onto Abban. In that moment, his veil fell away, and Abban got a look at him.

He was young, almost too young for the black. His face was smudged with dirt, but still his skin was light for a Krasian, if darker than most greenlanders. His features, too, bore traits from both. A half-breed? There was a generation of those coming, but all save a few were still in their mother’s bellies, and the others busy screaming and soiling their bidos.

As Abban gaped, the half-breed drew back, then slammed his forehead between Abban’s eyes. There was a flash of light, and a muted thud as the back of his head struck the boardwalk. Abban watched dizzily as Earless moved in to grab the warrior, but again the half-breed was quicker, delivering a kick to the kha’Sharum’s knee. He took the wind from Abban as he sprang away, just as Earless fell hard atop him. The two of them rolled in a tangle, and there were angry shouts from the warriors hindered in their pursuit.

When Abban’s vision finally cleared, the spy was running full speed for the docks, half a dozen Sharum on his tail and more looking up at they rushed past.

Surprisingly, Qeran was first among the pursuers, gaining quickly on the spy. His leg of spring steel was not always ideal, but in a dead sprint there were few two-legged men who could hope to match him.

The spy seemed to know it, too. He veered off to catch a rain barrel and throw his full weight against it, spinning it into their path. The barrel moved slowly at first, wobbling even as the spy ran on, but as the weight of the collected water shifted, it moved with sudden swiftness, splashing water as it rolled into the pursuing Sharum.

The men scattered, some throwing themselves out of the way, others slipping in the wet as they sought to dodge. One man was tripped by the barrel itself.

Only Qeran kept the pursuit, leaping over the barrel in a spring any cat would envy. He landed in a roll, using his momentum to come back to his feet still running.

Two warriors farther down attempted to slow the spy, but he threw some kind of dust at them, and the men fell away, clutching their faces and screaming.

The dock was littered with barrels, ropes, nets, and other materials, and the spy used it all, zigzagging to use every bit of cover and terrain to slow pursuit.

Still the drillmaster gained. Qeran had dropped spear and shield for speed, but it did not matter. Not even a sharusahk master could long keep his feet against Qeran in close quarters.

Abban smiled, limping quickly toward them for the best possible view, and to be first to question the spy before the others did something rash. Jayan and the clerics followed, but he had a lead, and all moved slowly, riveted by the scene.

As Qeran’s reaching fingers brushed the cloth of the spy’s robe, he turned suddenly, whipping the shield off his back and slamming it into the drillmaster, arresting his momentum and knocking him back. The shield was an old design, dating back at least five years, before the combat wards were returned. Another curiosity.