Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

“We have your brother and his lieutenants,” Thamos said. “Harm us, and you will never see them again.”

“Icha?” Jayan asked.

Thamos nodded. “And three kai, half a dozen drillmasters, and more than fifty Sharum. Grant me honorable combat, and they will be released.”

Jayan turned to his dal’Sharum. “See how even chin warriors attempt to bargain for their lives like khaffit merchants!”

The Krasian warriors jeered, many around the ring spitting at Thamos.

Jayan turned back to Thamos. “Keep my brother and his men! If they were weak and stupid enough to be captured by chin, they deserve no better. We will come for them soon enough.”

He raised his veil. “But if you wish me to kill you personally for thinking you could cuckold the Shar’Dama Ka, that I will grant.”

Thamos was quick to replace his helm and snatch up his long spear, kicking his horse to circle counter to Jayan as he readied himself.

Neither man hesitated long, kicking their great mustang into nearly identical charges, spears lowered.

At the last moment before they struck, Jayan lifted his spear to take aim at Thamos’ chest. Thamos, unexpectedly, tossed his long spear expertly in the air, catching it in a reversed grip much closer to the head.

Jayan’s spear struck the count full in the chest, but there was a flare of light from the wards on Thamos’ armor, and the weapon shattered.

And then Thamos was in close, able to put force and speed to a series of rapid spear thrusts, poking holes at Jayan’s defenses, searching for an opening.

Jayan tried to ride off and regroup, but the count was the better horseman, his mare herding Jayan’s stallion like a sheepdog, keeping them locked close as the count continued the battering.

Jayan moved his shield with frantic speed, and under its wide shade and his own glass armor, he found shelter enough. But he was on the defensive, and without a spear to strike back. It seemed the count would soon manage to find a seam in his armor and deliver a killing blow.

Jayan shoved against his shield, knocking Thamos back just enough to strike at his mount. The back of the mare’s neck was armored, but its throat was not, and Jayan buried the broken haft of his spear into it.

The giant mustang reared and gurgled, stumbling on hind legs as its forelegs kicked wildly. Thamos kept his seat until the animal began to topple, managing to throw himself clear of its bulk as they struck the ground.

Briar thought it would end there, but Jayan rode back to his lieutenants, dismounting and taking up a six-foot infantry spear.

Thamos was back on his feet as Jayan began striding toward him. He left his ten-foot cavalry spear in the mud, pulling a three-foot Angierian fencing spear from its harness on his back as he waited for his enemy to come.

Jayan growled, his feet set in the stance Briar’s father had taught him long ago. His skittering steps forward were fast and economical, spear resting on his shield arm. His arm was a blur as he pumped the weapon much as the count had on horseback, searching the wooden armor for weaknesses to exploit.

Thamos took most of the barrage on his shield and breastplate, thrusting his own spear low at the gap between the armor plates on Jayan’s thigh.

But Jayan twisted the limb out of the weapon’s path. With his shield hand he grasped the harness straps on Thamos’ back and hauled, driving a knee into his stomach as Thamos was flipped onto his back, momentarily stunned.

But again Jayan let the advantage go, circling while the count shook himself and rose to his feet, growling. He hunched low, tamping feet like a cat.

“I may not see the dawn, but neither will you,” Thamos promised.

Jayan barked a laugh. “You have great balls, chin. When I have killed you, I will cut them off and shove them down your throat.”

Thamos came in fast—faster than Briar would have thought possible. The wards on his armor were glowing now as his fencing spear whipped through the air in thrusts and parries.

Jayan picked them off confidently now, his skittering steps never losing balance. He circled away from one thrust, spinning around to strike Thamos hard in the face with the rim of his shield. The count stumbled back, and Jayan pressed in, delivering hard jabs into his armor that battered and stung, even if they could not penetrate. Thamos was herded like an animal into the center of the ring.

The count struck back with a shield attack of his own, but Jayan was ready for it. He dropped his own shield and reached in to take the biceps of Thamos’ shield arm. He pivoted clockwise, straightening the arm, then thrust hard into the gap beneath Thamos’ helmet.

The count stood shaking a moment, then dropped limply to the ground.

At last Qeran gave the signal, and the slinger teams let loose another volley, casks of heated tar that shattered against the hulls of the enemy ships making their final press for the port.

Marring the wards.

The effect was immediate. Abban saw the glow of water demons as they came streaming toward the vulnerable ships, and caught a rare glimpse of the creatures as they broke the surface here and there to break hulls with tentacle and snapping claw. A few braved the open air long enough to slither onto the ships, sweeping the decks as easily as a wedge of Sharum.

The surface of the lake turned to a churning froth, men and women screaming as they were pulled under.

Then, as they looked on in horror, a huge demon came close to the surface. The water heaved in great spumes as tentacles the size of Sharik Hora’s minarets rose around one of the largest vessels, wrapping about the hull and squeezing. The deck splintered in the crush, hapless sailors flailing as they were sucked down. In moments, the entire ship vanished beneath countless tons of water.

Khevat turned his dark glare on Abban. “Is this your doing, khaffit ?”

Abban swallowed, but after what he had just witnessed, there was little the cleric could do to frighten him.

He straightened, steeling himself. “It was, dama. Do not blame Drillmaster Qeran. He argued most vehemently against the plan, and Jayan was never told.”

Khevat only stared. It was a negotiation tactic Abban knew well, giving one’s adversary the rope for his own hanging, but Khevat was a sharusahk master, and the ranking cleric in Everam’s Reservoir. If he decided to kill Abban here and now, there was nothing Abban could do to stop him.

Best to convince him otherwise.

“Look,” Abban said, pointing to the chaos on the water. As instructed, Qeran and his captured ships retreated with all speed when the demons began their feeding frenzy. “Most of our captured ships are safely away, and the enemy fleet is destroyed. Already the few that remain are fleeing back to their floating home. Even the Sharum’s Lament runs from us, and I daresay Captain Dehlia is not showing her breasts this time.”

“You gave our enemies to the alagai, ” Asavi said, her voice low, dangerous. “Gave them to Nie. ”

“I did,” Abban said. “There was no other choice, if we were to defeat the attack and escape with enough ships to end the stalemate. Should I have left our men to die?”

“They are Sharum, ” Khevat said. “Their souls are prepared, and they know the price of war.”

“As do I,” Abban said. “I know the price, and I paid what I must for victory. These men attacked in the night, on Waning. They are no brothers of ours, no enemies of Nie. Indeed, they do her bidding, and so I gave them to her.”

He pointed a finger at Khevat, a simple action that was nevertheless reason enough for a dama to kill a khaffit by Evejan law. “I paid the price for our men, and I paid it for you.”