Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

She was getting to her feet when something struck her across the back of the head. She rolled with the blow, coming up to face the Sharum she had just rescued. His eyes were wild, and there was no mistaking the aggression in his stance.

“You dare lay hands on me, woman?” he demanded.

Ashia cast her eyes about the battlefield. The last of the demons was down, her Sharum’ting unscathed and standing in a tight unit. They watched the Sharum with cold eyes. The injured one was still on the ground, but the others were moving to surround her.

Do nothing, Ashia’s fingers told them. I will handle this.

“Find your center!” she shouted to the man as he advanced on her again. “You owe me your life!”

The Sharum spat. “I would have killed that alagai as easily as I did the other.”

“The other I knocked senseless at your feet?” Ashia asked. “As my sisters slew the reap that would have killed you all?”

The man’s answer was a swing of his spear, meant to knock her across the face. Ashia caught the spear shaft and twisted until she felt the warrior’s wrist break.

The others were coming in hard now, the magic thrumming in them multiplying their natural aggression and misogyny. To fail in battle and need to be saved was shame enough. To be saved by women …

Ashia spun behind the warrior, rolling across his back to kick the next man in the face. He fell away as she charged the third, slapping his spearpoint aside and striking her open palm against his forehead. Stunned, he stumbled until Ashia caught him in a throw that sent him tumbling into the other two, struggling back to their feet.

When the men recovered, they found themselves surrounded by Sharum’ting, spearpoints leveled at them.

“Pathetic.” Ashia lifted her veil to spit at the men’s feet. “Your sharusahk is as weak as your control, allowing yourself to become drunk on alagai magic. Pick up your fellow and return to your unit before I lose all patience with you.”

She did not wait for a reply, whisking off into the night with her spear sisters in tow.

Our spear brothers would as soon strike us as accept our aid, Jarvah signed as they ran.

For now, Ashia signed. They will learn to respect the Sharum’ting. We are blood of the Deliverer, who will remake this rabble before Sharak Ka.

And if my holy father does not return? Jarvah signed. What state will the Armies of Everam be in without him?

He will, Ashia signed. He is the Deliverer. In his absence, we must set an example to all. Come. We have killed not half the alagai needed to ease our master’s passage into Heaven.

They ranged farther, but most Sharum respected the night—and their own limitations—and they found nothing else needing attention. Deeper they went, leaving the dal’Sharum patrols behind as they passed from the Maze into what Northerners called the naked night.

Ashia found the tracks of a large passing reap, and the others followed silently as she tracked them. They fell upon nearly thirty alagai unawares, cutting into the center of the reap and forming a ring of shields. Ashia trusted her sisters to either side to keep her safe, and they she. Free from fear of counterattack, they began to stab at the demons with calm efficiency, like snuffing candles, one by one. Each kill sent a jolt of magic through the group, making them stronger. The power pushed against their control, but it was only a gentle breeze to the centered women.

Half the reap was dead before the demons got it in their heads to flee. By then Ashia and her sisters had coaxed them into a narrow ravine with steep sides not suited for their loping strides. At a signal from Ashia, her sisters broke into smaller formations, each cornering several demons.

Ashia let a group of alagai cut her off from her sisters, baiting them to surround her and draw close. She could see the lines of power that ran through their limbs, and closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

In your honor, master. Her spear and shield fell from limp fingers as she opened her eyes, dropping into a sharusahk stance.

The demons shrieked and launched themselves at her, but Ashia could see the strikes before they came, written clearly in the lines of their auras. Stolen magic gave her speed as she bent and turned a half circle, slapping the jaw of the quickest to redirect the full force of its attack into the path of two others. She sidestepped the jumble, stabbing stiffened fingers into one demon’s belly to knock it aside.

The wards on her fingernails flared with power, and the magical feedback that came from direct contact was a hundred times stronger than that which filtered through the wood of her spear. The field demon was thrown back, rib cage scorched and flattened, and struggled to rise. Ashia kicked the strength from another demon’s leg just as it was about to spring, sending it sprawling. The next she chopped to the temple, blinding it.

How dare that man strike her from behind? She should have killed him as an example to the others.

The alagai slashed wildly at her, but two simple blocks diverted sharp talons, walking her to her next strike. Inside the creature’s guard, she stabbed her fingers into its throat. The skin stretched and tore, as much from the strength of the blow as the searing magic that accompanied it.

Ashia shoved her entire forearm into the demon’s chest. Inside, the creatures were as vulnerable as any surface animal. She caught a grip where she could and yanked free a fistful of gore. The magic was thunder in her soul now.

The Deliverer gone. The Damajah living on a knife’s edge. Enkido dead. And her own spear brothers would as soon kill her for emasculating them as accept her aid. It was too much to bear.

She grew more aggressive, leaving her neutral stance to pursue retreating demons instead of lulling them in. She had scolded the dal’Sharum for this very thing, but she was blood of the Deliverer. She was in control.

She caught the next demon to leap at her by the head, turning a circle to use its own strength to break its neck.

Ashia took another pass, kicking, punching, and positioning herself for deadly strikes of her fingernails to the alagai lines of power.

Her vision grew red around the edges, and all she could see was the next demon. She did not even look at their bodies, only their true forms, the lines of power in their auras. It was these alone she saw, these alone she struck.

Suddenly her vision went dark, and she stumbled in her next strike. Another target appeared and she struck hard, but it rebounded off a shield of warded glass.

“Sister!” Micha cried. “Find your center!”

Ashia came to her senses. She was covered in ichor, and all around her lay dead alagai. Seven of them. The ravine was cleared, and Micha, Jarvah, and the others were staring at her.

Micha caught her elbow. “What was that?”

“What?” Ashia said. “I was honoring our master with sharusahk. ”

Micha’s brows tightened as she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper the others could not hear. “You know what, sister. You lost control. You seek to honor our master, but Enkido would be ashamed of you for such a display, especially in front of our little sisters. You are lucky the Sharum did not see as well.”

Ashia had been struck many times over the years, but no blow had ever hit as hard as those words. Ashia wanted to deny them, but as her full senses returned she saw the truth.

“Everam forgive me,” she whispered.

Micha gave her elbow a comforting squeeze. “I understand, sister. I feel it too, when the magic is high. But it has always been you we look to for example. With our master dead, there is only you.”