Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

There were angry rumbles through the court at that, but Dama Gorja ignored them, continuing to read:

“But Everam’s mercy is infinite, and His divine justice need not extend to your people, with whom we have ever wished only friendship and brotherhood. Set your affairs in order and kill yourself for ordering this abomination. On the first day of spring, your successor will deliver your head to me and be allowed to touch his forehead to the carpet at my feet. Do this, and your people will be spared. Fail, and we will hold all Angiers responsible, and bring Everam’s infinite justice down upon you all.

“I await your response—Jayan asu Ahmann am’Jardir am’Kaji, Sharum Ka of Krasia, Lord of Everam’s Reservoir, firstborn son and rightful heir of Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji, also known as Shar’Dama Ka, the Deliverer.”

Rhinebeck’s face was bright red as the dama looked up from the parchment. “You expect me to kill myself?!”

Dama Gorja bowed. “If you love your people and wish them to remain untouched by your crime. But even in the south, it is known that Duke Rhinebeck is fat, corrupt, and seedless, a khaffit who does not deserve his throne. My master expects you to refuse, and invite Everam’s divine wrath.”

“Everam has no sway here, Dama,” Shepherd Pether said.

Dama Gorja bowed. “Apologies, Highness, but Everam holds sway everywhere.”

Rhinebeck looked like he was choking on a chicken bone, his thick-jowled face nearly purple. “Where is my brother’s body?” he demanded.

“Ah, yes,” Dama Gorja said, snapping his fingers. The two Sharum approached the throne with their lacquered box.

Leesha felt a mounting dread as that box drew closer. Janson and half a dozen Wooden Soldiers intercepted it before they made it to the steps, and the Sharum stood impassively as the first minister looked inside.

“Night!” Janson cried, turning away in horror. He snatched a kerchief from his pocket, heaving into it.

“Bring it here,” Rhinebeck commanded, and two of his guards took the box up to the throne. Pether and Mickael stood from their seats, stepping up to see as Rhinebeck opened the box.

Mickael gasped, and Pether heaved. He was not as fast as Janson, catching the bile on his hand and the front of his pristine robes. Rhinebeck only looked coldly at the contents, then waved the box away.

“I’ll see that box, Wonda,” Araine said.

“Ay, Mum,” Wonda said, and she intercepted the guards, steering them to the royal box.

Janson rushed to her. “Your Grace, I do not advise …”

But Araine ignored him, opening the box. Leesha stood quickly. She had already guessed the contents, but the had to see it for herself. The horror inside was what she expected, but worse.

Inside were two great sealed jars of warded glass, filled with what looked like camel’s piss. In one floated Thamos’ head, the other, Lord Sament’s. Thamos’ genitals had been severed and shoved in his mouth. Sament’s mouth was filled with dung.

The sight cut through her like a demon’s talons, but she had hardened her heart, and gave no sign of her pain. Lorain, too, had more anger in her gaze than horror.

The same could not be said for Araine. Leesha had seldom seen a hint of emotion from the woman, but this was too much for even her regal aura to bear. Leesha watched her powerful spirit collapse as she reached out and took the jar with Thamos’ head, clutching it tightly as she wept.

“Guards!” Rhinebeck shouted. “Drag these desert rats to the dungeons!”

Dama Gorja’s aura changed at the words, his smug arrogance changing to a thrill of victory. He had been hoping for this response. Goading it, even.

Gorja bowed deeply to the dais. “Thank you, Highness. I was prepared to simply leave, as it is written in the Evejah that an emissary is as a man in the night, inviolate. Even in your heathen culture, these rights are granted a Messenger. As your guest, I could not honorably strike at you.” He smiled. “But since you choose to compound your crime, I am free to kill you myself.”

Rhinebeck’s snort of derision caught in his throat as Gorja whipped around, driving the heel of his hand into the nose of the closest guard. Cartilage crumpled and bone shattered, the shrapnel driven into his brain. Leesha saw his aura wink out, and he fell to the floor, dead.

The two Sharum exploded into action as well, breaking bones and bending joints in directions they were not meant to go.

Dama Gorja was at the steps of the dais by then, moving with impossible speed. Janson produced a knife from somewhere, but Gorja caught his wrist and pulled, hardly slowing his stride as he flipped the first minister onto his back on the hard stairs and continued.

He could have taken the knife, Leesha knew, but Evejan clerics were forbidden to use bladed weapons. Gorja needed no weapon in any event. His aura flared brightly when he began his attack. There was magic at work.

In an eyeblink, the dama was on Rhinebeck, landing heavy blows. The duke’s aura had already winked out as the force of the leap tipped the great chair back. Gorja took no chances, continuing to punch as he rode it down atop the duke. By the time they hit the dais floor, Rhinebeck’s head looked like a melon cast from the South Tower.

Mickael leapt to his feet. The prince was fitter than Rhinebeck, larger than Gorja and with greater reach. He grabbed the dama roughly by his shoulders, attempting to pull him off his brother.

Gorja barely looked back, backhanding Mickael with a closed fist. There was little leverage to the blow, but the lower half of Mickael’s face exploded with a crack and burst of blood, teeth, bone, and flesh left hanging in a ruined mass.

The dama planted his foot, using the momentum of his rise to add force as he whipped around and sank his fist into Mickael’s chest. The sound of his ribs shattering echoed from the ceiling as the prince was thrown from the dais. He landed twenty feet away, aura snuffed like a candle.

Shepherd Pether attempted to flee, but the dama caught his robes and casually flung him back into his seat. “Stay, infidel, that we may further debate Everam’s sway.”

It happened so fast the duke and prince were dead even as Leesha was rising to her feet, but as Gorja gripped the front of the Shepherd’s robes and raised his fist, she lifted her hora wand and let loose a blast of magic that lifted the dama off his victim and threw him clear across the room. He struck the wall, cracking stone and leaving a great webbed crater as he fell to the floor.

Leesha felt the burst of magical feedback buck up her arm, filling her with strength. She felt giddy with it, until the baby kicked hard in response. She gasped, clutching her stomach.

The Sharum had killed the guards by now, though one had taken the thrust of a spear in the fighting, bleeding but not out of the fight. Other guards rushed forward, but they would not be in time to save Pether as the freshly armed Sharum rushed up the steps to finish the dama’s work and end Rhinebeck’s line.

“Corespawn you!” Leesha was terrified of what the magic might be doing to her child, but she could not stand by. Again she raised the wand, loosing two more blasts that picked off the assassins one by one.

The baby was beating the inside of her belly like a drum, as if it were trying to burst free months early—and might manage it. Leesha was weeping as she lowered the wand again, wrapping her arms around the lump of her stomach.

“Mistress, look out!” Wonda cried. Leesha raised her gaze, seeing Gorja, scorched and bloody but still bright with power, kill two guards and race her way.