Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

In seconds all were dead save ancient Aleverak, who danced back and forth with Maji. The ancient Damaji, too, had taken alagai in the night. He was still thin and withered, but stronger than he had been in decades. Thus far neither had landed a telling blow, hold, or throw.

But even as her vision began to blur, Ashia could see Aleverak was only taking the boy’s measure, his aura calm as he explored Maji’s defenses and probed for weaknesses.

She saw it in his bearing when he locked on to his target. The Damaji could not see in Everam’s light, but he, too, had noticed Maji’s increased abilities, and the fist he kept clenched tight as he fought.

Aleverak could not see the lines of power that kept Maji’s fist clenched, but he shattered them as easily as Enkido, kicking a toe into the young dama’s wrist. His hand opened reflexively, and though he recovered quickly, balling his fist again, the damage was done.

Caught up in the ongoing conflict, no one, not even Asome, took note of the shard of demon bone that fell from Maji’s grasp, bouncing across the floor.

But all could see the shift in the battle. Aleverak’s expression remained neutral, but Maji’s grew fearful as the Damaji began to press more fiercely. He took a step back.

Savas stepped forward to aid Maji, but Asome held a hand to stay him. “This test is for him alone, brother.” Savas did not look pleased, but he bowed and stepped back.

A moment later, Maji was prone on the ground with Aleverak’s hand around his throat.

Ashia chose that moment to renew her struggle, a last attempt before she lost consciousness. Asukaji, distracted by the battle, returned his attention to her, tightening his grip further, but it did not matter. Her grasping fingers closed around the bit of demon bone. She could feel the magic tingling against the wards painted on her nails, filling her with new strength.

“Your father, Shar’Dama Ka, swore me an oath, boy,” Aleverak said. “That he would never challenge my rule of the Majah, and that Maji could fight my son for leadership on my natural death.”

Asome bowed. “I know this, honored Damaji. But I am not my father. His oaths are not mine.”

“It is said in the Evejah that oaths spoken by fathers are binding to their sons,” Aleverak said. “And oaths spoken from the Skull Throne bind us all. Had you kept that pact, I would not have stood against you this night.”

He sneered. “Instead you break oaths and attack in the night like an honorless chin. And so your victory will not be complete.” He glanced down to Maji. “You have no other Majah to supplant me.” With that, he snapped Maji’s neck.

The new Damaji all stepped back, clearing the floor for Asome and Aleverak. The ancient Damaji took position before the steps to the Skull Throne, blocking Asome’s path.

Ashan stood ready atop the steps. Tradition demanded he wait until the path between them was clear, but her father had a warrior’s heart. He was eager for the fight.

“You honor our people this night, Damaji,” Ashan said. “Everam will open the gates of Heaven to you Himself.”

“We’re not dead, yet,” Aleverak said as Asome came at him.

Ashia could see no glow of hora about her husband. He might have allowed his brothers to win dishonorably, but he fought as tradition dictated.

He struck hard and fast. Aleverak slipped to the side, but Asome was ready for the move, twisting to drive an elbow into Aleverak’s armpit. He caught the limb as it lost strength, pulling the old man off balance. He grabbed the Damaji’s belt, lifting him clear off the ground, then planted his knee and broke Aleverak’s spine across it.

Asome let the Damaji collapse, limp and forgotten, as he rose to his feet, eyes on Ashan.

Ashia had managed to slowly work another finger into the chain. It was not yet leverage enough to break free, but she wheezed in a breath, and it doubled her power.

Asukaji tightened his grip. “Everam’s beard, do me the honor of dying before my hair grays, sister.”

Ashia had a third finger in place now, but she made choked sounds and fell limp while she gathered her strength.

Ashan strode down the steps from the throne, and Asome gave ground before him, that they might stand as equals on the floor. His brothers cleared the dead from the path between them.

“Does your mother know your betrayal, boy?” Ashan asked. “You, whom I raised as my own son?”

“My mother knows nothing,” Asome said. “ She shall ever be blind to her sons, the dice told Melan about my mother, and it has proven true time and again.”

“She will not let you keep the throne,” Ashan said.

“She will give up hers as well,” Asome said. “My grandmother is a more fitting Damajah. Her beatification will be my first decree as Shar’Dama Ka.”

“First you must reach the steps,” Ashan said.

As the Shar’Damaji looked on impassively, Asome and Ashan battled for the Skull Throne.

Aleverak lasted longer. Asome parried his uncle’s first three blows, setting Ashan up for an aggressive kick inside his guard. He deflected the blow, but could not prevent Asome leaping to hook his leg around Ashan’s neck. His own weight did the rest.

Ashia’s father was a sharusahk grand master before his fortieth year, but Asome broke him like a nie’Sharum. The snap of his neck echoed in the great hall.

Asome looked to his brothers. They hurried to kneel in proper order along the path to the throne, foreheads pressed to the floor as Asome began his ascent.

It was then, with all eyes on her husband, that Ashia struck, throwing her head back as she yanked hard on the garrote chain. She felt Asukaji’s nose crumple, and his grip loosened, allowing her to slip the chain.

All eyes turned to them in surprise, but Ashia did not hesitate, delivering a precise strike to the nape of her brother’s neck, shattering bone and severing his spinal cord.

“Asukaji!” Asome roared, his cold aura at last turning hot.

But he did not stop his ascent, taking the remaining steps in two great bounds to reach the dais. Ashia burst into a run for the rear exit that would take her to the royal quarters.

Asome leapt onto the throne, eyes turning to glare hate at her as he roared, “Kill her!”

Ashia threw herself against the exit to the Damajah’s wing of the palace, but as Asome warned, Melan had sealed all the doors with hora magic. She might as well have thrown her shoulder against the city walls.

She rebounded in a new direction, darting for one of the great pillars as the sons of the Deliverer turned their fury her way.

The moment their line of sight was blocked, she rolled to a second pillar, springing high and climbing quickly. By the time her cousins rounded the pillars and saw she was gone, she had already slipped into one of the alcoves used to guard the Damajah.

Everam’s spear sisters had their own exits from the throne room, and the dama’ting had not barred these.

The wards of silence around the court had kept the outside guards in ignorance. They stood calmly at their posts, easily avoided until she got to the open hall. Any moment, Asome would break the seals and put the entire palace on alert, but for now the way was clear. Her duty was to protect the Damajah, who might even now be facing a coup of her own.

“Everam forgive me,” Ashia whispered, running in the opposite direction.

“No, I most certainly will not give him to you!” Kajivah held her infant great-grandson protectively as Ashia reached for him.

“It isn’t safe for either of you,” Ashia said. “Asome is killing the Damaji in the throne room. I will take you into the Damajah’s protection until the unrest has passed.”