Free The Skull Throne by Peter V. Brett Page A

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 center!” 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 leveled 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 center 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.