The Skull Throne. Peter Brett V.

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СКАЧАТЬ not a one of them worth the trouble they caused. She would as soon be rid of the lot of them and let her sister-wives take direct control of the tribes through Ahmann’s dama sons.

      Aleverak was the only one that worried her, but hora magic could ensure that Maji win out against the ancient Damaji’s heirs.

      ‘Damaji Kevera of the Sharach,’ Ashan called. ‘Do you wish to challenge me for the jewelled turban?’

      Kevera, still on his knees with his hands on the floor, sat back on his ankles to look Ashan in the eyes. The Damaji was in his sixties, but still robust. A true warrior-cleric.

      ‘No, Damaji,’ Kevera said. ‘The Sharach are loyal to the Deliverer, and if it was his wish that you take the jewelled turban, we do not stand in your way.’

      Ashan nodded and called upon the next Damaji, but the answer was the same. Many of them had grown lax since taking the black turbans, no match for Ashan, and others were still loyal to Ahmann, or at least afraid of his return. Each man had his own reasons, but as Ashan went up through the tribes, none chose to face him.

      Until Aleverak. The one-armed old cleric stepped forward immediately, barring Ashan’s path to the steps of the dais and assuming a sharusahk stance. His knees were bent, one foot pointed towards Ashan, and the other perpendicular, a step behind. His single arm was extended forward, palm up and stiffened fingers aimed at Ashan’s heart.

      ‘Apologies, Damaji,’ he said to Ashan, ‘but only the strongest may sit the Skull Throne.’

      Ashan bowed deeply, assuming a stance of his own. ‘Of course, Damaji. You honour me with your challenge.’ Then, without hesitation, he charged.

      Ashan stopped short when he came in range, giving Aleverak a minimum of momentum to turn against him. His punches and kicks were incredibly fast, but Aleverak’s one hand moved so quickly it seemed to be two, batting them aside. He tried to latch on, turning the energy of the blows into a throw, but Ashan was wise to the move and could not be caught.

      Inevera had never thought much of dama sharusahk, having learned a higher form among the dama’ting, but she grudgingly admitted to herself that the men were impressive. They might as well have been relaxing in a hot bath for all their auras told.

      Aleverak moved like a viper, ducking and dodging Ashan’s kicks. He spun around a leg sweep and came out of it with a kick straight into the air that was impressive even for a dama’ting. Ashan tried to pull back out of range, but the blow was so unexpected he was clipped on the chin and knocked back a step, out of balance.

      Inevera breathed out the tension as the ancient Damaji moved to take advantage of Ashan’s momentary imbalance. His fingers were like a speartip as he thrust his hand at Ashan’s throat.

      Ashan caught the blow just in time, twisting Aleverak into a throw that would break the old man’s arm if he resisted.

      But Aleverak did not resist. Indeed, it became clear he was counting on the move, using Ashan’s own strength to aid his leap as he scissored his legs into the air, hooking them around Ashan’s neck. He twisted in midair, throwing his weight into the move, and Ashan had no choice but to go limp and let himself be thrown to the floor, lest Aleverak break his neck.

      But Ashan was not finished. As he rebounded off the floor with Aleverak above him, he used the energy to punch straight up. Even wooden Aleverak could not instantly embrace such a blow, and Ashan tucked his legs in, kicking himself upright and whirling to face the Damaji on even footing once more.

      Aleverak was angry now. Inevera could see it, a thin red film crackling on the surface of his aura. But the emotion did not claim him. His energy was centred, channelled into his movements, giving him terrifying strength and speed. He wielded his one hand like a knife, showing surprising knowledge of the pressure points dama’ting used in their own sharusahk. Ashan took a blow to the shoulder that would leave his right arm numb for a minute, at the least. Not long in Everam’s great scheme, but a lifetime in battle.

      Inevera began to wonder how much control she could keep if Aleverak ascended to the throne.

      But again Ashan surprised her, taking a similar stance to Aleverak and focusing his efforts on defence. His feet beat rapidly on the marble floor, back and forth, keeping Aleverak dancing but always stopping short of full attacks that might give the aged Damaji free energy to turn against him. Again and again Aleverak struck at him, but Ashan batted his hand aside every time, keeping up the dance. Aleverak’s kicks were dodged, or blocked smoothly with thighs, shins, and forearms.

      He kept it up, his aura calm, until, at last, Aleverak began to tire. Whatever reserves of energy the ancient Damaji had called upon depleted, and his moves began to slow.

      When he next stepped forward, he was not quick enough to stop Ashan from stomping on his foot, pinning it. Aleverak stabbed his right hand in, but Ashan caught the wrist, holding it as he snapped his hips around to add torque to a devastating punch to the chest with his now recovered right arm.

      Aleverak gasped and stumbled, but Ashan locked his arm and added several more punches before his opponent could recover, driving sharp knuckles into the shoulder joint of the Damaji’s one arm. He swept Aleverak’s feet from him and put him down hard on his back. The retort as he struck the marble echoed throughout the chamber.

      Aleverak looked up at Ashan, his eyes hard. ‘Well done, Andrah. Finish me with honour and take your place atop the steps.’

      Ashan looked at the ancient Damaji sadly. ‘It was an honour to face you, Damaji. Your fame among the masters of sharusahk is well earned. But tradition does not demand I kill you. Only that I clear you from my path.’

      He began to turn away, but Aleverak’s aura flared, as close to a loss of control as Inevera had ever seen. He clutched the hem of Ashan’s robe with quivering fingers.

      ‘Maji is still in his bido!’ Aleverak coughed. ‘Kill me and let Aleveran have the black turban. No harm will come to the Deliverer’s son.’

      Ashan glanced up to Inevera at this. It was a tempting offer. Maji would be safe from the foolish vow Ahmann had made, but in exchange the Majah would have a younger Damaji who might rule for decades to come. She gave a slight shake of her head.

      ‘Apologies, Damaji,’ Ashan said, pulling his robe free of the old man’s grasp, ‘but the Deliverer still has need of you in this world. It is not yet your time to walk the lonely path. And should any harm come to the Deliverer’s Majah son apart from an open challenge in court on the hour of your natural death, my respect for you will not stop me from having your entire male line killed.’ He turned again, striding for the seven steps leading to the Skull Throne.

      Asome met him there, blocking the path.

      Inevera hissed. What was the fool boy doing?

      ‘Apologies, Uncle.’ Asome gave a formal sharusahk bow. ‘I trust you understand this is not personal. You have been as a father to me, but I am the eldest dama son of the Deliverer, and have as much right as any assembled to challenge you.’

      Ashan seemed genuinely taken aback, but he did not dispute the claim. He bowed in return. ‘Of course, nephew. Your honour is boundless. But I would not leave my daughter a widow, nor my grandson without his father. I ask this once that you step aside.’

      Asome СКАЧАТЬ