The Skull Throne

Jardir nodded, feeling the flow continue. He opened his eyes, seeing magic drifting to him from all directions in a steady current, like a river heading to a fall. It was a slow process, but eventually the chasm began to fill. He felt stronger.

Then his elation cost him his center, and the flow stopped.

He looked to the Par’chin. “Amazing.”

The Par’chin smiled. “Just gettin’ started, Ahmann. We’ve got a lot more to cover before we’re ready to face a court of mind demons.”

“You do not trust me with the Spear of the Kaji, but you give me the secrets of your magic?”

“Sharak Ka comes before all else,” Arlen said. “You taught me war. Only fair I teach you magic. The rudiments, anyway. Spear’s a crutch you’ve leaned on too long.” He winked. “Just don’t think I’m teaching you all my tricks.”

They spent several more minutes thus, the Par’chin gently coaching him in how to Draw the power.

“Now hold the power tight,” the Par’chin said, producing a small folding knife from his pocket. He opened it and flipped the blade into his grip, passing the handle to Jardir.

Jardir took the small blade curiously. It wasn’t even warded. “What am I to do with this?”

“Cut yourself,” the Par’chin said.

Jardir looked at him curiously, then shrugged and complied. The blade was sharp, and parted his flesh easily. He could see blood in the cut, but the magic he’d absorbed was already at work. The skin knit together before it could begin to well.

The Par’chin shook his head. “Again. But keep a tighter grip on the power. So tight the wound stays open.”

Jardir grunted, slicing his flesh again. The wound began to close as before, but Jardir Drew the magic from his flesh into the crown, and the healing stopped.

“Healing’s great when your bones are in the right place and you’ve got power to spare,” the Par’chin said, “but if you’re not careful, you can heal twisted, or waste power you need. Now let out just a touch, sending it straight where it’s needed.”

Jardir let out a measured trickle of magic, and watched the cut seal away as if it had never been.

“Good,” the Par’chin said, “but you might’ve done with less. Two cuts, now. Heal one, but not the other.”

Holding tight to the power, Jardir cut one forearm, and then the other. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, releasing a fraction as much magic as before and willing it to his left arm alone. He could feel the tingle run along the limb, and opened his eyes to see the cut slowly sealing, the other still oozing blood.

There was a howl not far off, the sound of field demons. Jardir looked in that direction, but the alagai were still too far off.

“Draw power from that direction,” the Par’chin said. “Take it in through your eyes.”

Jardir did so, and found that even though there was no direct line of sight, he could see the creatures in the distance, running hard for their position.

“How?” he asked.

“All living things make an imprint on the ambient magic,” the Par’chin said, “spreading out like a drop of dye in water. You can read the current, and see beyond the limits of your eyes.”

Jardir squinted, studying the approaching creatures. A full reap, more than a score of demons. Their long, corded limbs and low torsos glowed fiercely with power.

“They are many, Par’chin,” he said. “Are you certain you do not wish to return the spear to me?” He scanned the sky. There were wind demons beginning to circle as well, drawn to the glow of their power. Jardir reached for his Cloak of Unsight, ready to pull it close, but of course the Par’chin had taken that, too.

The son of Jeph shook his head. “We can’t take them with gaisahk alone, then we got no business in Anoch Sun.”

Jardir looked at him curiously. The meaning of the word was clear enough, a conjunction of the Krasian gai, meaning “demon,” and sahk, meaning “unarmed,” but he had never heard it before.

“Sharusahk was designed for men to kill one another.” The Par’chin held up a warded fist. “Needed to change it up a bit to bring the wards to bear properly.”

Jardir crossed his fists before his heart and gave a shallow bow, the traditional bow of sharusahk pupil to master. The move was perfectly executed, but doubtless the Par’chin could see the sarcasm in his aura.

He swept a hand at the rapidly approaching field demons. “I eagerly await my first lesson, Par’chin.”

The Par’chin’s eyes narrowed, but there was a hint of smile on his lips. His face blurred momentarily, and his clothes fell away, leaving him in only his brown bido. It was the first time Jardir had truly seen what his friend had become. The Warded Man, as the Northerners called him.

It was easy to see why the greenlanders thought him the Deliverer. Every inch of his visible flesh was covered with wards. Some were large and powerful. Impact wards. Forbiddings. Pressure wards. Like Jardir, a demon could not touch the Par’chin, but that he willed it, and his punches, elbows, and kicks would strike the alagai like scorpion bolts.

Other wards, like those than ran around his eyes, ears, and mouth, were almost too small to read, conveying more subtle powers. Midsized ones ran up and down his limbs. Thousands in all.

That in itself was enough to amaze, but the Par’chin had always been an artist with warding. His patterns, simple and efficient, were rendered with such beauty they put Evejan illuminators to shame. Dama who had spent a lifetime copying and illustrating sacred text in ink made from the blood of heroes.

The wards Inevera had cut into Jardir’s flesh were crude by comparison. She would have needed to flay him alive to approach what the Par’chin had done.

Magic ran along the surface of those wards, crackling like static on a thick carpet. They pulsed and throbbed, brightening and dimming in a hypnotizing rhythm. Even one without wardsight could see it. He didn’t look like a man anymore. He looked like one of Everam’s seraphs.

The field demons were close now, racing hard at the sight of prey. They stretched out in a long line, a few loping strides apart. Too long spent fighting the first would have the second upon him, and on and on, till he was fighting all of them. Jardir tensed, ready to race to his friend’s aid the moment he began to be overwhelmed.

The Par’chin walked boldly to meet them, but it was warrior’s bravado. No man could fight so many alone.

But again his friend surprised him, slipping in smoothly to grab the lead demon and turn its own momentum against it in a perfect sharusahk circle throw. Cracked like a whip, the field demon’s neck snapped a split second before the Par’chin let go. His aim was precise, crashing the dead alagai into the next in line, sending both tumbling to the ground.

The Par’chin glowed brightly now. In the seconds of contact, he had drained considerable magic from the first demon. He charged in, stomping down on the living demon’s head with an impact-warded heel. There was a flare of magic, and when the Par’chin turned to meet the next in line, Jardir could see its skull had been crushed like a melon.

A crash and shriek stole Jardir’s attention. While he had been focused on the Par’chin, a wind demon had dived at him, hitting hard against the warding field that surrounded Jardir’s crown for several paces in every direction. Including up.