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A demon leapt at her, but she bashed it aside with her shield, sending it sprawling near one of the other dal’Sharum, who speared it viciously. It was a killing stroke, but the man tore free his spear and stabbed again and again, roaring in incoherent fury.
Another demon leapt for his back, and Ashia had to shove the warrior aside to stab at it. She struck a glancing blow, but the angle was poor, and the force of the alagai’s leap knocked the weapon from her grasp.
Ashia gave ground for two steps, batting aside flashing paws with her shield. The demon tried to snap at her, and she shoved the edge of the shield into its jaws, lifting to bare its vulnerable underbelly. A kick put it onto its back, and before it could recover its feet she fell on it, pinning its limbs as she stuck her knife into its throat.
She was getting to her feet when something struck her across the back of the head. She rolled with the blow, coming up to face the Sharum she had just rescued. His eyes were wild, and there was no mistaking the aggression in his stance.
‘You dare lay hands on me, woman?’ he demanded.
Ashia cast her eyes about the battlefield. The last of the demons was down, her Sharum’ting unscathed and standing in a tight unit. They watched the Sharum with cold eyes. The injured one was still on the ground, but the others were moving to surround her.
Do nothing, Ashia’s fingers told them. I will handle this.
‘Find your centre!’ she shouted to the man as he advanced on her again. ‘You owe me your life!’
The Sharum spat. ‘I would have killed that alagai as easily as I did the other.’
‘The other I knocked senseless at your feet?’ Ashia asked. ‘As my sisters slew the reap that would have killed you all?’
The man’s answer was a swing of his spear, meant to knock her across the face. Ashia caught the spear shaft and twisted until she felt the warrior’s wrist break.
The others were coming in hard now, the magic thrumming in them multiplying their natural aggression and misogyny. To fail in battle and need to be saved was shame enough. To be saved by women …
Ashia spun behind the warrior, rolling across his back to kick the next man in the face. He fell away as she charged the third, slapping his spearpoint aside and striking her open palm against his forehead. Stunned, he stumbled until Ashia caught him in a throw that sent him tumbling into the other two, struggling back to their feet.
When the men recovered, they found themselves surrounded by Sharum’ting, spearpoints levelled at them.
‘Pathetic.’ Ashia lifted her veil to spit at the men’s feet. ‘Your sharusahk is as weak as your control, allowing yourself to become drunk on alagai magic. Pick up your fellow and return to your unit before I lose all patience with you.’
She did not wait for a reply, whisking off into the night with her spear sisters in tow.
Our spear brothers would as soon strike us as accept our aid, Jarvah signed as they ran.
For now, Ashia signed. They will learn to respect the Sharum’ting. We are blood of the Deliverer, who will remake this rabble before Sharak Ka.
And if my holy father does not return? Jarvah signed. What state will the Armies of Everam be in without him?
He will, Ashia signed. He is the Deliverer. In his absence, we must set an example to all. Come. We have killed not half the alagai needed to ease our master’s passage into Heaven.
They ranged farther, but most Sharum respected the night – and their own limitations – and they found nothing else needing attention. Deeper they went, leaving the dal’Sharum patrols behind as they passed from the Maze into what Northerners called the naked night.
Ashia found the tracks of a large passing reap, and the others followed silently as she tracked them. They fell upon nearly thirty alagai unawares, cutting into the centre of the reap and forming a ring of shields. Ashia trusted her sisters to either side to keep her safe, and they she. Free from fear of counterattack, they began to stab at the demons with calm efficiency, like snuffing candles, one by one. Each kill sent a jolt of magic through the group, making them stronger. The power pushed against their control, but it was only a gentle breeze to the centred women.
Half the reap was dead before the demons got it in their heads to flee. By then Ashia and her sisters had coaxed them into a narrow ravine with steep sides not suited for their loping strides. At a signal from Ashia, her sisters broke into smaller formations, each cornering several demons.
Ashia let a group of alagai cut her off from her sisters, baiting them to surround her and draw close. She could see the lines of power that ran through their limbs, and closed her eyes, breathing deeply.
In your honour, master. Her spear and shield fell from limp fingers as she opened her eyes, dropping into a sharusahk stance.
The demons shrieked and launched themselves at her, but Ashia could see the strikes before they came, written clearly in the lines of their auras. Stolen magic gave her speed as she bent and turned a half circle, slapping the jaw of the quickest to redirect the full force of its attack into the path of two others. She sidestepped the jumble, stabbing stiffened fingers into one demon’s belly to knock it aside.
The wards on her fingernails flared with power, and the magical feedback that came from direct contact was a hundred times stronger than that which filtered through the wood of her spear. The field demon was thrown back, rib cage scorched and flattened, and struggled to rise. Ashia kicked the strength from another demon’s leg just as it was about to spring, sending it sprawling. The next she chopped to the temple, blinding it.
How dare that man strike her from behind? She should have killed him as an example to the others.
The alagai slashed wildly at her, but two simple blocks diverted sharp talons, walking her to her next strike. Inside the creature’s guard, she stabbed her fingers into its throat. The skin stretched and tore, as much from the strength of the blow as the searing magic that accompanied it.
Ashia shoved her entire forearm into the demon’s chest. Inside, the creatures were as vulnerable as any surface animal. She caught a grip where she could and yanked free a fistful of gore. The magic was thunder in her soul now.
The Deliverer gone. The Damajah living on a knife’s edge. Enkido dead. And her own spear brothers would as soon kill her for emasculating them as accept her aid. It was too much to bear.
She grew more aggressive, leaving her neutral stance to pursue retreating demons instead of lulling them in. She had scolded the dal’Sharum for this very thing, but she was blood of the Deliverer. She was in control.
She caught the next demon to leap at her by the head, turning a circle to use its own strength to break its neck.
Ashia took another pass, kicking, punching, and positioning herself for deadly strikes of her fingernails to the alagai lines of power.
Her vision grew red around the edges, and all she could see was the next demon. She did not even look at their bodies, only their true forms, the lines of power in their auras. It was these alone she saw, these alone she struck.
Suddenly her vision went dark, and she stumbled in her next strike. Another target appeared and she struck hard, but it rebounded off a shield of warded glass.
‘Sister!’ Micha cried. ‘Find your centre!’
Ashia came to her senses. She was covered in ichor, and all around her lay dead alagai. Seven of them. The ravine was cleared, and Micha, Jarvah, and the others were staring at her.
Micha caught her elbow. ‘What was that?’
‘What?’ Ashia said. ‘I was honouring our master with sharusahk.’
Micha’s brows tightened as she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper the others could not hear. ‘You know what, sister. You lost control. You seek to honour our master, but Enkido would be ashamed of you for such a display, especially in front of our little sisters. You are lucky the Sharum did not see as well.’
Ashia had been struck many times over the years, but no blow had ever hit as hard as those words. Ashia wanted to deny them, but as her full senses returned she saw the truth.
‘Everam forgive me,’ she whispered.
Micha gave her elbow a comforting squeeze. ‘I understand, sister. I feel it too, when the magic is high. But it has always been you we look to for example. With our master dead, there is only you.’
Ashia took Micha’s hands in hers, squeezing tightly. ‘No, beloved sister. There is only us. With Shanvah gone, the Sharum’ting will look to you and Jarvah as well. You must be strong for them as you have been for me, this night.’
Ashia’s robes were still wet with demon gore as she made her way back to the palace chambers she shared with Asome and their infant son, Kaji.
Normally she would change from her Sharum robes to proper women’s blacks before returning, that she might not further the rift with her husband. Asome had never approved of her taking the spear, but it was not his decision to make. Both had petitioned the Deliverer to divorce them when he named her Sharum’ting, but her uncle had refused the request, his wisdom a mystery.
Ashia was tired of hiding, though, tired of pretending to be a helpless jiwah in her chambers even as she broke men and bled alagai in the night. All to protect the honour of a man who cared nothing for her.
Enkido would be ashamed of you. Micha’s words echoed in her mind. What was her husband’s displeasure compared to that?
She was silent as a spirit, but there was no sign of Asome – her husband likely sleeping in Asukaji’s embrace in the new Damaji’s palace. The only one present was Ashia’s grandmother Kajivah, asleep on a divan outside the nursery. Her first great-grandchild, the Holy Mother doted on the boy, refusing a proper nurse.
‘Who could love the boy better than his own grandmother?’ she would always say. Implicit in that statement, of course, was her belief that Ashia herself was unsuitable, now that she had taken up the spear.
Ashia slipped by without disturbing her, closing the nursery door behind her as she looked down upon her sleeping son.
She had not wanted the child. She had feared what bearing would do to her warrior’s body, and there was no love lost between her and Asome. Her brother’s need to have his own sister bear his lover’s child had seemed an abomination.
But Kaji, that perfect, beautiful child, was no abomination. Having spent months with him suckling at her breast, sleeping in her arms, reaching his tiny hands up to touch her face, Ashia could not bring herself to wish any change upon her life that might undo him. His existence was inevera.
Enkido would be ashamed of you.
There was a creak, and the edge of the crib broke off in her hands with a loud crack. Kaji opened his eyes and let out a shriek.
Ashia tossed the broken wood aside, reaching for the boy. Always his mother’s touch could calm him, but this time Kaji thrashed in her arms, struggling wildly. She tried to still him, but he screamed louder at her clutch, and she saw his skin bruising at her touch.
The night strength was still upon her.
Quickly, Ashia laid her son back in his pillows, seeing in horror his soft, smooth skin bruised and stained with the demon ichor that still clung to her. The stink of it was thick in the air.
The door slammed open, and Kajivah stormed into the room. ‘What are you doing, disturbing the child at this hour?!’
Then she saw the child, bruised and covered in ichor, and let out a wail. She turned to Ashia, enraged. ‘Get out! Get out! You should be ashamed of yourself!’
She shoved hard, and Ashia, fearing her own strength, allowed herself to be driven from the room. Kajivah took the child in her arms, kicking the door shut behind her.
For the second time that night, Ashia lost her centre. Her legs turned to water as she stumbled to her room, slamming the door and slumping to the floor in darkness.
Perhaps the abomination is me.
For the first time in years, Ashia put her hand to her face and wept. She wanted nothing more than the comforting presence of her master.
But Enkido was on the lonely path, and like her grandmother, he would be ashamed of her.
4 (#ulink_500921dd-8ad3-5a6a-8daf-8cb855ad0445)
Sharum Blood (#ulink_500921dd-8ad3-5a6a-8daf-8cb855ad0445)
327–332 AR
‘Sit up straight,’ Kajivah snapped. ‘You’re a princess of the Kaji, not some kha’ting wretch! I despair of ever finding you a husband worthy of your blood who will take you.’
‘Yes, Tikka.’ Ashia shivered, though the palace baths were warm and steamy. She was but thirteen, and in no rush to marry, but Kajivah had seen the reddened wadding and seized upon it. Nevertheless, she straightened as her mother, Imisandre, scrubbed her back.
‘Nonsense, Mother,’ Imisandre said. ‘Thirteen and beautiful, eldest daughter of the Damaji of Krasia’s greatest tribe, and niece to the Deliverer himself? Ashia is the most desirable bride in all the world.’
Ashia shivered again. Her mother had meant the words to calm her, but they did the opposite.
Kajivah was apt to be vexed when her daughters disagreed with her, but she only smiled patiently, signalling her daughter-in-law Thalaja to add more hot stones to the water. She always held court thus, from the nursery to the kitchen to the baths.
Her subjects were her five dal’ting daughters – Imisandre, Hoshvah, Hanya, Thalaja, and Everalia – and granddaughters Ashia, Shanvah, Sikvah, Micha, and Jarvah.
‘It appears Dama Baden agrees,’ Kajivah said.
Every head turned sharply to look at her. ‘His grandson Raji?’ Imisandre asked.
A wide grin broke across Kajivah’s face now that the secret was out. ‘They say no man has ever offered such wealth for a single bride.’
Ashia couldn’t breathe. A moment ago she would have put this moment off for years, but … Prince Raji? The boy was handsome and strong, heir to the white and a fortune that dwarfed even the Andrah’s. What more could she want?
‘He is not worthy of you, sister.’
All eyes turned to Ashia’s brother Asukaji, standing in the doorway with his back to the women. It was not an uncommon sight. No man would have been allowed entry to the women’s bath, but Asukaji was but twelve and still in his bido. More, he was push’ting, and all the women knew it, more interested in the gossip in a woman’s head than what was under her robes.
All the women of the family adored Asukaji. Even Kajivah did not mind that he preferred men, so long as he did his duty and took wives to provide her with grandchildren.
‘Beloved nephew,’ Kajivah said. ‘What brings you here?’
‘My last visit to the women’s bath, I am afraid,’ the boy said, to a chorus of disappointment. ‘I was called to Hannu Pash this morning. I will be taking the white.’
Kajivah led the cheers. ‘That’s wonderful! Of course we all knew it would be so. You are the Deliverer’s nephew.’
Asukaji gave a shrug. ‘Are you not the Deliverer’s mother? His wives and sisters, his nieces? Why is it none of you is in white, yet I should be?’
‘You are a man,’ Kajivah said, as if it were obvious.
‘What does that matter?’ Asukaji said. ‘You ask whom Ashia should be worthy of, but the true question is what man is worthy of her?’
‘Who in the Kaji is higher than Dama Baden’s heir?’ Ashia asked. ‘Father wouldn’t marry me into another tribe … would he?’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Kajivah snapped. ‘The very notion is absurd.’
But there was doubt on her face as she looked to her grandson. ‘Who is worthy, then?’
‘Asome, of course,’ Asukaji said. The two boys were nearly inseparable.
‘He is our cousin!’ Ashia said, shocked.
Asukaji shrugged. ‘What of it? The Evejah speaks of many such unions in the time of Kaji. Asome is the son of the Shar’Dama Ka, beautiful, rich, and powerful. More, he can cement the ties between my father and the house of Jardir.’
‘I am of house Jardir,’ Kajivah said, her voice strengthening. ‘Your father is his brother-in-law, and I, his mother. What further tie is required?’
‘A direct one,’ Asukaji said. ‘From the Deliverer and father to a single son.’ He dared to look into the room for a moment, meeting Ashia’s eyes. ‘Your son.’
‘You have a direct one,’ Kajivah said. ‘I am the Holy Mother. You are all blood of the Deliverer.’
Asukaji turned back away and bowed. ‘I mean no disrespect, Tikka. Holy Mother is a fine title, but it has not turned your black robes white. Nor my blessed sister’s.’
Kajivah fell silent at that, and Ashia began to consider. Marrying a first cousin was not unheard of in powerful families, and Asome was beautiful, as Asukaji said. He had taken after his mother in appearance, and the Damajah’s beauty was without equal. Asome had her face and slender build, and he wore them well.
‘Why not Jayan?’ she asked.
