The Skull Throne

  Briar kept hidden as he watched them, but he was fascinated. He didn’t understand their ways, but thought in time perhaps he could.

  They made good time the first few days out of the Hollow, but it was slower going when they entered the vast wetlands surrounding the lake. The cold kept the worst of the mosquitoes at bay, but the men still slapped at them, complaining.

  Briar pointed to some tracks. “Bog demons.”

  “I’ve never seen one,” Sament said.

  “Nor I,” Thamos said.

  “Short,” Briar said, putting his arms out in front of him. “Long arms. Bogspit sticks to anything. Burns and eats through, you don’t wash it off.”

  “How do you kill them?” Thamos asked.

  “Step to the side. Boggies can’t put their arms sideways. Have to turn.” He lifted his own arm, pointing to the hollow beneath his rib cage. “Put your spear right here. No armor.”

  “You seem to know a lot about them,” Thamos said.

  Briar smiled. He didn’t know much about maps, but he knew cories. “Make camp. Can’t walk horses through the bog at night. Show you how to make boggie traps.”

  Briar twisted to conform with the gnarled trunk of the stooped swamp tree, watching unseen as the Krasian scout made his way though the wetland. The kha’Sharum carried a heavy rucksack of supply, noting landmarks on oiled paper.

  He was alone. Briar had made sure of it. He wasn’t attached to a hunting party, or otherwise likely to be missed. Just a lone scout sent to map the wetlands.

  But he was heading right into the path of Thamos and his men. In an hour, he would hear them, or see sign of their passing. Soon after, he would be running to tell his superiors.

  Briar clutched his spear. He hated this. Hated killing people. The Krasians looked so much like him that it felt like killing himself each time.

  But there was nothing for it. When the scout passed under the tree, Briar fell upon him, spear punching down through his shoulder into heart and lungs. He was dead before they hit the ground.

  Briar took his rucksack and papers, leaving the body to sink beneath the murky swamp water.

  It was fifteen days before they reached the monastery, as Briar guided Thamos and his men past enemy scouts and dry land with grazing for the horses. Nine Wooden Soldiers were lost to boggies, and seven horses suffered broken ankles and had to be put down. One of the Mountain Spears took a slimy wad of bogspit in the face. Briar packed it with mud and poultices, but it looked like a melted candle when he finally took the bandage off.

  The Monastery of New Dawn stood on a high bluff stretching out over the lake. Water on three sides, it was accessible only by a narrow road with a moat that cut clear across to link the waters of the lake. The wooden walls were thick and high, with a drawbridge to allow entry and egress. The docks to the north and south were low on the rocky bluffs—goods and livestock coming by ship had to be taken up a narrow stair cut zigzag into the rock face.

  The drawbridge was lowered for them, and they rode inside.

  “Creator,” Thamos said, seeing the refugee tent camps inside the walls. The folk were filthy and thin, used now to missing meals.

  “I had no idea it was this bad,” Sament said. “The refugees in the Hollow …”

  “Have the benefit of being safe in allied territory,” Thamos said. “These poor souls …”

  He turned to one of his captains. “Find the quartermaster and deliver our supply. Learn if there is anything else we can do to provide comfort for these people.”

  The man saluted and was off as Briar led Thamos and Sament to the monastery doors.

  Tender Heath was waiting for them. The fat old Tender hugged Briar tightly. “Creator bless you, boy.”

  He looked to the count, bowing deeply. “It is an honor, Your Highness. Welcome to the Monastery of New Dawn. I am Tender Heath. I will take you to the Shepherd.”

  It wasn’t often Briar was allowed into Shepherd Alin’s private offices. The Shepherd wore plain brown robes like Tender Heath, but his inner chambers were richer than anything Briar had ever imagined. The carpeting was thick, soft, and colorful, woven with powerful church warding. Acolytes followed him with ready brooms, lest any mud slip from his sandals.

  The seats and couches were great pillowed things—so soft. Heath said he was not allowed to sit lest he stain them with hogroot sap, but Briar walked close to a velvet sofa as they passed by, shivering with pleasure as he ran his fingertips along its length.

  Great shelves of lacquered goldwood ran floor-to-ceiling along the walls, holding countless books. Heath had been trying to teach him to read, but Briar was more interested in the pictures.

  The Shepherd was waiting for them in the back office with two other men.

  Briar’s father, Relan, had taught him all about bowing. The Shepherd’s was deep and long enough to be respectful, without relinquishing dominance. The bow of an equal.

  “An honor to meet you, Your Highness,” the Shepherd said. “We hoped Briar would bring back help, but hadn’t expected royalty.”

  “Or so many Wooden Soldiers,” one of the other men said. He was midsized, with a fine coat. He stood with his feet spread like one more used to the rolling of a ship’s deck than dry land. “And cavalry, no less! It seems the Creator answers prayers, after all.”

  “Dockmaster Isan,” Shepherd Alin advised, gesturing to the man, “and his brother, Captain Marlan.”

  Thamos put his hands out in the way Laktonian captains favored, and they gripped arms just beneath the elbow. “Please accept my condolences, and those of the ivy throne, over the loss of your mother.”

  Marlan spit, ignoring the irritated look Alin threw his way. “She wasn’t lost. She was murdered.”

  “Of course.” Thamos turned to Sament. “May I introduce Lord Sament of Miln, who has brought fifty Mountain Spears.”

  “It is good that you’ve come,” Alin said. “What happens here concerns all the Free Cities.”

  “You don’t need to convince me of that,” Sament said. “Euchor may be another matter.”

  “What he needs is a victory,” a new voice added. Briar looked up and smiled widely as Captain Dehlia entered the room with another richly dressed man in tow.

  “Captain Dehlia of Sharum’s Lament,” Heath said. “She’s been a thorn in the Krasians’ side since they first came to Docktown.”

  “Thanks to Briar,” Dehlia said, running her fingers through Briar’s tangled hair. “Boy’s been sneaking into town for us, spying on the enemy and telling us where to hit.”

  She put an arm around him, hugging him close, heedless of the sticky hogroot stains on his clothes. Briar didn’t like to be touched, but when it was Captain Dehlia, he found he didn’t mind so much.

  Shepherd Alin gestured to the new arrival. “Egar—”

  “—third son of Duke Edon of Rizon,” Thamos finished, as the men embraced each other. “We feared you dead, my friend.”

  Egar shook his head. “After the Krasians struck the capital, I gathered as many fighting men as I could and fled onto the plains. We strike where we can and melt away before the desert rats can catch us.”

  “How many men do you have?” Thamos asked.

  “I can call five thousand spears, given enough time,” Egar said.

  Thamos squinted at him. “Why are you here, and not in Rizon with your men?”

  “Because,” Isan cut in, “it’s time we retook Docktown.”

  “It was Briar who made it all possible,” Shepherd Alin said. They were descending what seemed an endless spiral of stairs, past the foundations of the monastery and into the natural caverns of the bluff.

  “He discovered the enemy force scouting the lakeshore,” Isan said, “giving us time to prepare an ambush. We captured or killed over two hundred men that day. Our greatest victory to date.”

  They came to a great cavern, cold and damp, the air rank. Briar looked in horror at dozens of Krasian warriors chained to the walls, faces and limbs emaci
ated.

  “Creator,” Thamos said. “Don’t you feed these men?”

  Marlan spit. “When we feed them, they try to escape. And why should they eat when so many above go hungry?”

  Briar felt sick. The men, looking so much like his own father and brothers, lay listless and skeletal, soiled with their own filth. He had led the Laktonians to them knowing many of the invaders would be killed, but this …

  “The ones who talk are fed,” Alin said. “My Tenders and Children all speak Krasian, but the lesser fighters knew little of use.”

  He signaled the guards at the far end of the cavern, and they unlocked a heavy door.

  Inside, a Krasian man was strapped tightly to a chair. His black turban and white veil were gone, but still Briar recognized the leader of the Krasian scouts. A narrow table in front of him, his hands were splayed out, each finger held tight in a tiny screw vise bolted to the wood. He was breathing evenly, but he was flushed and bathed in sweat. An old bespectacled man, still in the robes of an acolyte, tended the screws.

  “This is Prince Icha,” Alin said. “He claims to be the third son of the demon of the desert himself, Krasian Duke Ahmann Jardir.”

  “And when my father hears of this,” Icha growled in guttural but understandable Thesan, “he will visit these tortures one thousandfold on every man, woman, and child in the resistance.”

  At a nod from Alin, the acolyte adjusted the screws until Icha began to howl. Another nod and he dialed them back until the Icha fell silent again, panting.

  “Your father is dead,” Thamos said bluntly. “I watched Arlen Bales pitch him off a cliff.”

  “My father is the Deliverer,” Icha said. “No fall can kill him. The Damajah has foreseen his return. Until then, my brother will be the instrument of his divine wrath.”

  “How many men does your brother have in Lakton?” Thamos asked.

  “More than there are fish in your lake,” Icha said. “More than there are stars in the sky. More—”

  Alin flicked a finger, and the acolyte dialed him back into screams. The old man hunched over the screws with no more expression than Briar’s father mending a broken piece of furniture. Briar wanted to hit the man, or to run away and try to forget the scene. But he could not. He drew closer, and when the pain was at last dialed back, Icha looked up and met his eyes.

  “The chin will be judged, Briar Damaj, but none so much as you,” Icha gasped. “Everam sends ginjaz to the depths of Nie’s abyss in the afterlife.”

  “Not a traitor,” Briar said. “This is my home. You’re the chin.”

  But even as he said the words, he wasn’t sure he believed them. He had thought the Shepherd a good man, but what he was doing to the Krasian prisoners was abhorrent.

  Perhaps it was time to go back to the bog. Life was easier alone with the cories.

  Captain Dehlia put an arm around him. “Come along, Briar. Don’t listen to this animal. You know what they’ve done.”

  Briar nodded, allowing himself to be led away, back through the freezing cavern full of starving Sharum.

  “This hill,” Thamos said, pointing to the map. “Do you know it, Briar?”

  Briar started. Lost in thoughts of the caverns below, he hadn’t been paying attention. He looked at the squiggled lines and blotches of color on the paper, but he could not make out what was meant to be a hill.

  “Colan’s Rise,” Dehlia supplied.

  Briar nodded. “Know it.”

  “If we can position longbows there,” Thamos said, “they can cover the bulk of the port.”

  “Lots of Sharum there,” Briar said. “Scorpions. Difficult to take.”

  “Not for my cavalry,” Thamos said. “We can trample through and take the scorpions for our own, then continue down the road under covering fire to attack the town proper.”

  Shepherd Alin nodded, sliding a finger down the map. “Drawn to the sounds of battle, they will not see your forces, Egar, coming from the south.”

  Egar shook his head. “We don’t know how many warriors they have, but it is doubtless more than our two forces combined.”

  “Unless the entire fleet moves to retake the docks and beach,” Isan said. “We can land thousands of fighting men and women.”

  “That will be bloody,” Egar said.

  Isan nodded. “But in six weeks, the lake will freeze, and we will be trapped without supply. The dockmasters are all agreed. We stand to lose far more if we do nothing.”

  “When are you planning the attack?” Thamos asked.

  Shepherd Alin put down a map with various markings. “These are the typical Krasian troop positions.” He put down a second map, significantly different. “And these are their positions during new moon.”

  “Waning,” Thamos murmured.

  “The sand rats spend the day in prayer, and then move to defend against demon attack,” Captain Marlan said. “They will not be ready to face our combined forces instead.”

  People at prayer, people standing against the cories, and these men were planning to slaughter them. It was no different from what the Krasians had done, unprovoked, but still the thought sickened Briar.

  Egar nodded. “That should be enough time to march, but not if there are enemy troops in the land between. We have to know the way is clear, or I cannot commit my men.”

  Alin nodded. “We will need to interrogate Prince Icha more … vigorously.”

  Briar flexed his hands, thinking of the screws crushing Icha’s fingers, and suddenly he couldn’t breathe. He coughed, trying to force air into his lungs.

  “Are you all right, boy?” Shepherd Alin asked.

  “What if he don’t know?” Briar asked. “What if things changed?”

  “He’s right,” Egar said. “I won’t commit my men to months-old information. We need to know how many warriors they have in the hamlets now.”

  “I can go,” Briar said. Anything to keep that horrible old man from adjusting the screws, playing screams like an instrument. “Know where leaders meet.” He pointed to the maps on the table. “Steal maps.”

  Captain Dehlia put a hand on his shoulder. “Briar, that’s too dangerous. We can’t ask you to …”

  “Didn’t ask,” Briar said. “I’ll go.”

  CHAPTER 25

  THE SPY

  334 AR WINTER

  “They just sit there, watching us.” Jayan paced before the great dockfront window of his command center, previously the lavish office of Dockmaster Isadore. “I wish the cowards would just attack and have done.”

  A dozen Laktonian warships stood at anchor halfway between Docktown—now called Everam’s Reservoir—and Lakton, still visible in the light of the setting sun. They might once have been fishing and trade vessels, but all had rock slingers on deck now, with archers stationed on the aft and forecastles.

  Worst were the newly built scorpions, based on the Krasian design. With the greenland secrets of fire still largely a mystery, it grated on Abban that the Laktonians had so easily stolen the design.

  The ships had held the line for months, guarding an invisible border the Krasians had never approached. But for all their armament, the ships were swift, gliding on the lake winds the way a bird might soar overhead. If they decided to attack, it would be swift. Ships switched out of the formation often, and there was no telling if they were crewed lightly to intimidate, or packed with warriors ready to take the docks and beach by storm.

  Other ships came and went from the city on the lake, evacuating the dozens of local fishing villages along the lakeshore and desperately foraging for supplies to replace the lost tithe. Jayan sent his half brothers north and south, slogging through the wetlands with their strange demons to crush the hamlets, but most were deserted by the time Icha and Sharu arrived with their forces.

  To the south, Sharu had come to a river too wide and deep to cross, and had sent word that he was returning to Everam’s Reservoir. To the north, no one had heard from Icha and his men in weeks, and even the dama’ting could
not divine their fate with assurance.

  “They were not cowards when there were ships to reclaim,” Abban reminded. “The chin fear you, Sharum Ka, and well they should. The least of your Sharum could slay a dozen fish men …”

  “A score,” Jayan said, “without breathing hard.”

  Abban nodded. “It is as you say, Sharum Ka. But do not underestimate the foe. It is not cowardice that stays them.”

  “Then what is it?” Jayan demanded.

  “There is no profit in attack,” Abban said.

  “Pfagh!” Jayan spat. “This is Sharak Sun, not khaffit merchanting.”

  “You have said many times the greenlanders are more khaffit than Sharum,” Abban said. “There is no gain in taking back the town when we have so many warriors to defend it, and more within a few days’ march.” He shivered, signaling Earless to put another log on the fire. “Better to let the snow and cold weaken us.”

  Jayan grunted. All the Krasians were cold and irritable, remembering the last Northern winter. In Krasia winter temperatures would often dip to freezing at night, but the sun in the desert kept the days hot. In the North it was cold and wet for months with no relief. Winter had only just begun farther inland, but this close to the lake the snows came early, slowing their patrols and playing havoc with the scorpions. If the locals were to be believed, much of the lake would freeze in the coldest months, locking the ports until spring.

  “So we are left to sit on our spears in this worthless chin hamlet?” Jayan demanded.

  “The Evejah tells of many winters Holy Kaji was forced to wait out in captured lands, ere the winning of Sharak Sun. Conquest is ever thus, Sharum Ka. Months of moving men and supplies, waiting for the perfect moment to strike,” Abban clapped his hands for emphasis, “crushing your enemies.”

  Jayan seemed mollified at that. “I will crush them. I will take their eyes and eat them. The fish men will whisper my name in terror for generations.”

  “Of that, there is no doubt,” Abban agreed, keeping his eyes down, lest he stare at the milky orb of Jayan’s right eye. He had commissioned a patch of beautifully warded gold, but Jayan refused to wear it. The young Sharum Ka knew his eye unnerved men, and gloried in their discomfort.