The Skull Throne

But Abban had other skills, ones that made him invaluable to the Shar’Dama Ka—and to his sons. It was his plan they executed tonight. If they were victorious, Jayan would claim credit and Abban’s part would be struck from history. If they failed, Abban’s life wouldn’t be worth the dust on his sandals.

Qeran was needed out there in the darkness.

A few feet away, Dama Khevat paced restlessly by the window, the old man taking no more ease than Abban. Only Asavi, kneeling on the floor on her perfect white casting cloth, projected serenity. She watched the men coolly as she sipped her tea.

The Krasians had been careful to appear as if nothing were out of the ordinary throughout the day. Khevat presided over Waning prayers as warriors spent the day eating, resting, and lying with women. Many of the Sharum had sent for their families to settle and help hold the town, and others had taken greenland brides when the town was sacked.

But when they mustered for alagai’sharak, as all Sharum must on Waning, they did not follow the usual path they took to sweep the alagai from the town environs, flitting invisibly in their black robes to places where they might ambush the coming chin.

“When fire shrieks thrice across the sky, you must strike,” Asavi had told Jayan that morning after reading the dice. The power of the alagai hora was shown once more as a line of fire whined into the sky with a shriek that could be heard for miles.

The chin flamework was mirrored by another streaking missile from the surface of the lake. A third lit the sky to the south where Sharu had taken his dal’Sharum.

In the distance, he heard the Horn of Sharak, and he felt a thrill pass through him. For better or worse, the battle had come.

On cue, roaring fires sprang up in the sling baskets of dozens of Laktonian warships moving swiftly for the shallows. Mehnding crews went to work immediately, but they were still getting the range when flames began to arc through the air. Khevat stopped his pacing to watch the streaking missiles, trepidation on his normally impassive face.

Abban was unconcerned. His engineers and Warders had secured the building, bricking alagai corpses into the walls to power the wards. A crude imitation of dama’ting hora magic, but effective enough. Boulders would bounce off the walls like pebbles, and no flame could touch them. Even smoke would turn to a fresh breeze before it drifted inside. The whole town could be laid to ruin, but his warehouse would remain unscathed.

He had barely entertained the thought before the Laktonians tried to make it reality. In the past they had restricted bombardment to the beaches and docks, but tonight’s missiles ranged farther, blasting through buildings and setting fires throughout town.

“The first night of Waning,” Khevat growled, “and they would burn women and children from their wards!”

“I suppose it is fitting,” Abban said. “We gave little thought to their holy day of first snow when we took the town, and I’ve seen what Sharum do to women and children.”

“Chin women and children,” Khevat said. “Unbelievers outside Everam’s light.”

Abban shrugged. “Perhaps. Fools, in any event, if they believe there is profit attacking on Waning.”

Khevat grunted. “Even if they somehow manage to win the battle, the Damaji will not stand for it. They will empty Everam’s Bounty of warriors and kill a thousand chin for every Sharum lost.”

Briar watched as Thamos bent, putting match to the paper tube he stuck in the ground.

The archers had been ready for them, but there were not enough to stop the charge of Thamos’ armored cavalry. If the Krasians had positioned too many men atop the hill, they would have shown their hand too soon. They left the men on the hill to die.

The fuse sparked to life and the rocket took of with a great shriek, leaving a tail of red fire in the sky behind it. Briar’s eyes widened as he tracked its flight. His mother made toss bangs for festival days, but this was flamework like he had only heard tale of. To the south and east, other rockets rose in response, signaling the readiness of the forces to attack.

“They’re beautiful,” he said.

“Leesha Paper made them for a different new moon.” Thamos’ voice was distant, sad. “I’ve seen flamework fail many times, but not hers. Never hers.” He put two fingers into the seam of his breastplate as if to reassure himself something was there.

“I wonder what the Gatherer would think,” Sament said, “knowing her flamework heralds such bloodshed.”

Thamos turned to him, eyes ready to fight, but a horn sounded below them, stealing both men’s attention. The count took a deep breath, seeming to deflate as he let it out.

He put a foot in his stirrup, swinging himself into the saddle. “It is too late to worry what women think.”

He lifted his spear. “Archers! Kill anything that moves on the docks until the ships are in! Fire at will!”

Briar ran for one of the great stones by the road, climbing quickly and putting his belly to the rock as he looked out over the approaching forces.

“What do you see?” Thamos asked, riding close.

Colan’s Rise was sheer rock on three sides, with only one rock-strewn road leading to its top. “Too much cover to shoot,” Briar said. “They’re charging on foot. Archers held behind.”

“To be fresh and ready when they retake the hill,” Thamos said. “If they manage it, they can rain arrows on the docks as the Laktonians deploy.”

Briar moved to climb down, but Thamos checked him with a pointed finger. “Stay right there, Briar. This is soldier’s business.”

“My home,” Briar growled. “My fight, too.”

Thamos nodded. “But you fight in ways others cannot, Briar. You alone can escape this hill, and make sure others know what happened here.” He reached into his armor, removing a folded bit of paper.

“You alone can get this to Leesha, if I do not live through the night.”

Briar felt his throat tighten as he took the paper. He liked the count, but there were many Sharum coming.

Too many.

Thamos gave a wild cry, kicking his mare and leading the charge down the road.

Briar felt a surge of hope, watching the heavy horses. He had expected the charge to slow when they reached the Sharum spears, but the Wooden Soldiers and their horses wore lightweight wooden armor strengthened by warded lacquer. They turned the enemy spears even as the giant mustang mowed the men like grass, leaving nothing but bloody clippings behind.

But as they reached the base of the hill, great lights flared as the Krasians put fire to bowls of oil. Mirrors caught and angled the light as the horses came into the sights of the enemy archers. They launched indiscriminately into the press of warriors, heedless of their own men in the line of fire.

Arrows began to find seams and weaknesses in the Wooden Soldiers’ armor. Men screamed and horses reared in pain, even as enemy troops moved to surround them on the open ground.

Thamos gave a signal and his cavalry turned like a flock of birds to race back to the high ground.

It was a temporary respite, but already the Sharum gained ground, and more warriors were flowing up the hill. In the oil lights Briar could see their robes were not black or tan, but green.

That explained why their commander was so willing to waste their lives taking the hill. They were not Krasian at all, but Rizonan men pressed into service. They would do the bleeding, and then their masters would take the hill.