She raised her hora wand high, again manipulating the wards etched in the electrum, this time to produce a harmless flare of light. “If there are any here who would challenge my command that Ashan take the throne, let them step forward. The rest will be forgiven your insolence if you touch your foreheads to the floor.”
All around the room, men dropped to their knees, wisely pressing their foreheads to the floor. No doubt they were still scheming, grating at the indignity of kneeling before a woman, but none, even Jayan, were fool enough to challenge her after such a display.
None save ancient Aleverak. As the others fell to the floor, the ancient Damaji strode to the center of the room, his back straight. Inevera sighed inwardly, though she gave no outward sign. She had no wish to kill the Damaji, but Ahmann should have killed him years ago. Perhaps it was time to correct that mistake and end the threat to Belina’s eldest son, Maji.
The submission of the other tribes had been total. Only Aleverak had fought Ahmann and lived to tell the tale. The old man had earned so much honor in the battle that Ahmann had foolishly granted him a concession denied the others.
Upon the hour of his death, Aleverak’s heir had the right to challenge Ahmann’s Majah son to single combat for control of the Majah tribe.
Ahmann no doubt thought Maji would grow into a great warrior and win out, but the boy was only fifteen. Any of Aleverak’s sons could kill him with ease.
Aleverak bowed so deeply his beard came within an inch of the floor. Such grace for a man in his eighties was impressive. It was said he had been Ahmann’s greatest challenge as he battled to the steps of the Skull Throne. Ahmann had torn the Damaji’s arm off, but it had done nothing to strike fear into his heart. It was not surprising her blast of magic similarly failed to deter him.
“Holy Damajah,” Aleverak began, “please accept my apologies for doubting your words, and those of Damaji Ashan, who has led the Kaji people, and the council of Damaji, with honor and distinction.” He glanced to Ashan, still standing at the base of the dais, who nodded.
“But no Andrah has been appointed since the position was first created,” Aleverak went on. “It runs counter to all our sacred texts and traditions. Those who wish to wear the jeweled turban must face the challenges of the other Damaji, all of whom have a claim to the throne. I knew well the son of Hoshkamin, and I do not believe he would have forgotten this.”
Ashan bowed in return. “The honored Damaji is correct. The Shar’Dama Ka instructed me to announce my claim without hesitation, and kill any who stand in my path to the throne before any of the Damaji dare murder his dama sons.”
Aleverak nodded, turning to look Inevera in the eye. Even he had lost a moment’s composure at her show of power, but his control was back, his aura flat and even. “I do not challenge your words, Damajah, or the Deliverer’s command, but our traditions must be respected if the tribes are to accept a new Andrah.”
Inevera opened her mouth to speak, but Ashan spoke first. “Of course, Damaji.” He bowed, turning to the other Damaji. Tradition dictated that they could each challenge him in turn, starting with the leader of the smallest tribe.
Inevera wanted to stop it. Wanted to force her will on the men and make them see she could not be denied. But the pride of men could only be pushed so far. Ashan was the youngest Damaji by a score of years, and a sharusahk master in his own right. She would have to trust in him to make good his claim, as Ahmann had.
She cared nothing for the Damaji—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 jeweled 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 jeweled 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 toward 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 honor 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 centered, channeled 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.