The Skull Throne

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.