Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

Hasik and two of the Sharum were still clinging to the rowboat when Abban reached the place where the spy had leapt from the dock. The Sharum who attempted to follow Hasik and the spy out into the lake had not resurfaced.

It was no surprise. Krasians were not swimmers, and the heavy armor plates sewn into their black robes pulled those who fell into the lake’s cold waters down faster than they could shed the weight.

Abban tried to imagine what it must be like. He had been choked enough in sharaj to know how it felt to black out from lack of breath, but to do it surrounded by dark water, not even knowing which way was up …

He shuddered.

Qeran was standing on the dock, anger simmering on his features. Sharum were ruled by their pride, and the spy had made him look a fool in front of dozens of onlookers. No doubt Qeran would kill the first inferior to look at him wrong.

But khaffit or no, Abban was no inferior, and he needed his drillmaster, not some moping child.

“You did well,” he said quietly, coming to stand next to the man.

Qeran grimaced. “I failed. I should be—”

“Proud,” Abban cut the drillmaster off before he could make some masochistic proclamation. “You outshone the other Sharum in the chase. Such speed! Such skill! Your new leg puts the old to shame.”

“It was still not enough,” Qeran growled.

Abban shrugged. “ Inevera. Nothing happens, but that Everam wills it. Whatever the spy stole from the Sharum Ka’s manse, the Creator wanted our enemies to have it.”

It was nonsense, of course, but inevera had always been a balm and a crutch to disgruntled Evejans.

“Like He willed that my leg be lost?” Qeran asked through gritted teeth. “That I drown in couzi and my own filth until a fat, crippled khaffit proves my better and puts a boot to my neck? And now, it is inevera that I can’t even hold a chin spy when I have him in my grasp.”

The drillmaster spat into the water. “It seems Everam wills nothing but humiliation upon me.”

“There is glory to come, Drillmaster,” Abban said. “Glory enough for all in Sharak Sun and Sharak Ka. Bad enough I found you wallowing on the floor bemoaning fate. I did not pull you out of it so you could wallow on your feet.”

Qeran looked at him sharply, but Abban met his stare. “Embrace the pain, Sharum. ”

The drillmaster’s nostrils flared, but he nodded. Abban turned to bow as Jayan approached.

The Sharum Ka looked out over the dark lake. “How did the spy run across the water like that?” He turned to Asavi. “I thought you said the chin do not use hora magic.”

“It was no magic, Sharum Ka,” Abban said, drawing the attention of all. “I have heard of this phenomenon from men returned from the chin villages in the wetland. They build little islands called crannogs, reachable only by stone paths hidden just under the surface of the water. The steps are irregular, easy enough for one who knows the path, but difficult for a demon … or man, to follow.”

Jayan grunted, digesting the information as he watched the first of the Sharum be hauled back onto the dock. The man shivered, coughing water and soaking the deck, but he seemed well enough.

Until a tentacle whipped from the water, wrapping about his leg. The man had barely a moment to scream before it was cut off with a splash and he was yanked back into the water.

Hasik froze, eyes searching the dark surface for sign of the water demon, but the other Sharum began to shout and wave his free arm as he clutched at the boat with the other. “Everam’s balls, throw me the line! Quickly!”

Of course, the commotion drew the demon right to him. A tentacle wrapped around his throat, and his cries were choked off as he was pulled under.

Hasik used that exact moment to attempt to pull himself into the boat. The small craft tipped from his weight, threatening to capsize, but somehow Hasik managed to roll in and shift his weight to right it.

All the boats at anchor were water-warded, and Hasik no doubt thought himself safe until a tentacle wrapped around his ankle. The warrior had already lost spear and shield to the lake, but he clutched at his waist, pulling a curved warded dagger as the boat capsized and he was pulled under.

There was a hush as everyone assembled stared at the surface of the water, watching as the ripples where the warrior disappeared began to fade. Sharum were fearless against the demons of land and air. It was fair to say the demons feared them more than the other way around. But water demons, mysterious nightmares that pulled their victims down to drown, terrified them.

Abban was no different, but he could not bring himself to weep at Hasik’s fate. He wanted the man to suffer, but after all Hasik had done to make his life an abyss, it was good, too, to have an end.

But then there was a flash, like lightning under the water. It came again, and again, then all went dark. A moment later Hasik broke the surface, gasping for air. He was naked, having discarded his armor lest it pull him down, but he still held the knife. He stuck it in his teeth as he clumsily paddled toward the dock.

“Everam’s beard,” Jayan muttered, a sentiment echoed all around as Hasik was thrown a line and hauled himself onto the dock, very much alive. There were puckered wounds all over his skin where the demon’s tentacles had latched on, but they were already beginning to close from the magic he’d absorbed in the killing.

As he stood, one of the Sharum who helped pull him up gaped at the sight of Hasik’s crotch, smooth like a woman’s with only a scar and a metal tube where his manhood should be.

Hasik growled, taking the warrior’s neck in his mighty arm and flexing, breaking it with a loud crack. He turned from the others as he stripped the man’s robes, and the remaining warriors gave him a wide berth as he quickly pulled on the pantaloons and robe. Jayan made no mention of the killing, so his advisors, too, remained silent on the matter.

“I will see to your bodyguard’s wounds,” Asavi said.

Jayan caught her arm as she passed, his eyes angry. “Hasik can wait until you tell us what he almost died for.”

Everyone froze. It was death to touch a dama’ting so. She could demand his hand be cut off, or he be killed, and Evejan law would demand it be carried out.

But Jayan was Sharum Ka, firstborn son of the Deliverer, and likely the next leader of Krasia. Abban wondered if any would dare so much as take the dama’ting’s side, much less try to carry out a sentence should she deliver it.

Asavi seemed to know it, too, her eyes scanning the reaction of the witnesses. If she demanded punishment and was refused, it would weaken her greatly in the eyes of Jayan’s council. Khevat and the other dama grated on the new, more vocal role of the dama’ting since Inevera’s display in the throne room.

She reached out with her free hand instead, seeming only to tap Jayan on the shoulder, but Abban could spot a pickpocket three stalls down the market, and saw the sharp jab of her knuckle.

Jayan’s hand dropped away limp, as if he had decided of his own volition to let her go, but his eyes said otherwise.

“The Sharum Ka is right to be concerned,” Asavi said, her voice serene, “but they are words for your private council chambers, not the open docks.”

“I have no council chambers!” Jayan snapped. “The water witch set them afire.”

Abban bowed. “There are other manses claimed by your loyal kai, some with a view of the docks, while safely out of slinger range. I will bring you a list to choose from, and see your lieutenant recompensed while we move your possessions. In the meantime, I have a warehouse nearby with a richly appointed office where you may relax until arrangements are made.”