One of the punches knocked Hasik’s head to the side, and he bit hard into the wrist of the hand Earless used to hold him prone. The giant could not speak, but his toneless roar of pain was all the more terrible for it, an animal cry bereft of humanity.
The moment the grip weakened, Hasik had his hand free, cutting off the mute’s cry with a punch to the throat. He surged, reversing the pin, and saw Abban drawing near the tent flap.
“Not this time, khaffit!” Hasik cried, throwing the knife.
Abban threw his arms up, but the blade was not aimed for his head or chest. It sank into the thigh of his good leg, and Abban fell again with a scream.
“Father!” Fahki cried, rushing to him.
“Flee now,” Abban told him. “Find warriors and tell them Hasik has killed the Sharum Ka.”
“I won’t leave you,” Fahki said, squatting to try and haul Abban to his feet. Hot blood ran down his leg but Abban grit his teeth and planted his foot, leaning heavily on his camel crutch. He cried for help, but in the chaos outside, no one heard him through the heavy canvas walls.
Hasik and Earless were on their feet now, trading blows meant to cripple and kill. Earless was holding his own—barely. Both men’s faces were bloodied and beginning to swell. One of Earless’ eyes was filling with blood, and Hasik’s nose was flat against his cheek, broken.
But he was smiling. Their army was destroyed, Jayan dead, and Hasik fighting for his life, but the brutal eunuch was smiling like Abban had never seen.
Abban tried to take a step, but even with Fahki to support him, the pain was unbearable.
Hasik managed to get inside Earless’ guard, catching him by the ears. He pulled hard as he drove the crown of his helmet into Earless’ face. His helmet spike tore a jagged hole in the mute’s forehead.
The giant shoved Hasik back hard, then gave a cry, clutching at his head.
“Looking for this?” Hasik laughed, holding up the ear he had torn free. “Now you truly are earless!”
The giant came back in, angry for the first time. His punches would have knocked out a camel, but Hasik batted them aside easily, getting in close and heel-kicking him in the stomach. Earless was knocked back into the central pole of the tent, cracking it in half and bringing the canvas roof down.
Abban grit his teeth and moved for the exit with all his strength. One step. Two. But it was not enough as Hasik appeared from the tangle of canvas.
“Behind me,” Abban said, gripping Fahki’s arm and pulling him out of Hasik’s path. “It’s me he wants.”
“I won’t let him—” Fahki began, moving to stand before his father.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Abban cut him off. “You are no match for him.”
“You should listen to your father.” Hasik was still smiling. “Run and leave your father to inevera.” His eyes flicked to Fahki’s spear. “Or I will fuck you with your own spear.”
“As Shar’Dama Ka did to you?” Abban asked.
The smile fell from Hasik’s face, and Abban thrust his camel crutch out, pressing the release that sprang a six-inch electrum from its tip. The blade was poisoned with tunnel asp venom, the deadliest poison known.
But Hasik moved faster than he thought possible, grabbing the camel foot at the base of the crutch and turning the blade aside. He yanked it from Abban’s hands, sending the khaffit sprawling, and broke the crutch over his knee.
Fahki gave a cry and charged, thrusting with his spear. His spearwork was fine, but he was only a boy, and Hasik one of the deadliest killers alive. He knocked the tip aside with the bladed half of the crutch, stomping hard on the side of Fahki’s knee. The boy screamed and dropped to one knee, using his spear for support.
Hasik kicked the spear from under him, guiding Fahki’s fall with kicks and whips of the crutch shaft to put the boy on his back.
Then Hasik thrust the electrum blade of the crutch up Fahki’s ass. The poison worked fast. Fahki began to convulse wildly, his mouth white with foam.
“You took my cock, but I still fuck in my way,” Hasik said to Abban as he stalked in. He was smiling again.
There was a rustle of canvas and a toneless cry as Earless freed himself from the tangle and tackled Hasik about the legs.
It was a momentary advantage only. Hasik had both arms free, and even as they fell he was driving extended knuckles into the mute’s eyes and neck. He landed heavier blows as they hit the floor, and at last the mute lay still.
“There will be no coming back from this,” Abban warned as Hasik rose for the final time. “The Damajah will find you. Your life is over.”
Hasik laughed. “Life? What life? I have nothing, khaffit. You have seen to that. Nothing but daily humiliation.”
He smiled. “Humiliation, and my revenge.”
“Then kill me, and have done,” Abban said.
Hasik laughed, drawing back a fist. “Kill you? Oh, khaffit. I’m not going to kill you.”
CHAPTER 32
THE NIGHT OF HORA
334 AR WINTER
“The attack is done,” Melan told the clerics. “It was a slaughter.”
Ashia watched as the men wrung their hands and shifted their feet. News had come a day ago that Jayan had taken the bulk of his forces north to attack Angiers, greatly exceeding his authority as Sharum Ka. The clerics had been begging dama’ting for foretellings ever since. If Jayan succeeded—as he likely would—he would almost certainly move for the Skull Throne.
The Damajah had grown tired of their dramatics, retreating to her own chambers to divine in private, leaving Melan to divine in her stead.
The black-veiled dama’ting added dramatics of her own, casting the glowing dice from the twisted ruin of her right hand. It was whispered in the Dama’ting Palace that she had been forced to hold her first, imperfect set of dice up to the sun, burning her down to the bone. Melan had grown the nails long, and with the rough melted scars the hand looked like nothing so much as an alagai talon.
The dama’ting’s dice had been drained throughout the morning by the incessant questions of the clerics, with no news to show. They had been forced to wait for sunset to try again.
Ashia was the only other woman in the room, but none dared protest her presence. Her husband wanted her presence more and more, of late. Asome was under tremendous strain, and had come to rely on her support in recent days. He was push’ting still, but since they had lain as man and wife, Ashia dared hope they might find a way to keep their union on Ala without making life Nie’s abyss.
“He did it?” Ashan had an edge to his voice. “Jayan has taken Fort Angiers?” It was a closed court, with only the highest-ranking clerics in attendance. Ashan sat the Skull Throne, with the Damaji and the dama sons of the Deliverer at the base of the dais, lining Melan on two sides as she knelt upon her casting cloth.
“It is no surprise,” Damaji Ichach sneered. “The chin are weak.”
Melan leaned in closer, tilting her head as she continued to study the pattern. “No. The dal’Sharum were broken. They are in full retreat. The Deliverer’s firstborn is dead.”
There was a stunned silence. To a one, the Damaji had not wanted impulsive young Jayan to take another great victory so soon. But the alternative was too horrible to bear. The dal’Sharum broken? The Deliverer’s son slain? By chin?