The Desert Spear Page 8

  Jardir ignored him, racing for the nets Abban had folded. He lifted one, grunting at its weight. He and the other boys trained with lighter versions.

  The wind demon shot past in a flap of leathern wings, banking hard in the sky for another dive. For a moment it blocked the moon, vanishing in the sky, but Jardir was not fooled, and tracked its approach calmly. If he was to die, he would do so with honor, and take this alagai with him to pay his way into Heaven.

  When the demon was close enough that Jardir could see its teeth, he threw. The horsehair net spun as the weights pulled it open, and the wind demon hit the web head-on. Yanking the cord to tighten the net, Jardir pivoted smoothly out of the way and watched the creature plummet into the Maze.

  “Alagai down!” he cried. “Northeast quadrant! Layer seven!” A moment later there was an answering cry.

  He was about to turn back and free Qeran when movement in the darkness caught his eye. Abban hung from the top of the wall, his fingernails bleeding as they scraped and strained against the stone.

  “Don’t let me fall!” Abban cried.

  “If you fall, you will die a man, and Heaven await you!” Jardir said. He left unsaid the fact that Abban would never see Heaven any other way. Qeran would see that he ended his Hannu Pash as khaffit, and paradise would be denied him. It tore at Jardir’s heart, but he began to turn away.

  “No! Please!” Abban begged, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks. “You swore! You swore by Everam’s light to catch me. I don’t want to die!”

  “Better dead than khaffit!” Jardir growled.

  “I don’t care if I’m khaffit!” Abban said. “Don’t let me fall! Please!”

  Jardir snarled, disgusted, but he bent despite himself, lying flat on the wall and pulling hard on Abban’s arm. Abban kicked and strained, finally managing to crawl up Jardir’s back and onto the wall. He threw himself on Jardir, sobbing.

  “Everam bless you,” Abban wept. “I owe my life to you.”

  Jardir shoved him away. “You disgust me, coward,” he said. “Begone from my sight before I change my mind and throw you back.”

  Abban’s eyes widened in shock, but he bowed and scurried away as fast as his lame leg would allow.

  As Jardir watched him go, a fist connected hard with his kidney, sending him sprawling. Agony fired over him, but he opened himself to it, and the pain washed away as he turned to face his assaulter.

  “You should have let him fall,” Qeran said. “You did him no favors this night. A dal’Sharum’s duty is to support his brothers in death as well as life.” His spittle splattered on Jardir’s shoulder. “No gruel for three days,” he said. “Now fetch my far-seer. Alagai’sharak does not wait for cowards and fools.”

  CHAPTER 3

  CHIN

  333 AR

  ABBAN RETURNED WITH JAYAN and Asome some time later. They dragged with them a number of Northern chin and a single dama.

  “This is Dama Rajin, of the Mehnding,” Jayan said, ushering the cleric forward. “It is he who ordered the silos burned.” He shoved the dama hard, and the man fell to his knees.

  “How many?” Jardir asked.

  “Three, before he could be stopped,” Jayan said, “but he would have kept on burning.”

  “Losses?” Jardir looked to Abban.

  “It will be some time before I know for sure, Shar’Dama Ka,” Abban said, “but it could be close to two hundred tons. Grain enough to feed thousands through the winter months.”

  Jardir looked to the dama. “And what have you to say?”

  “It is written in the Evejah’s treatise on war to burn the enemy’s stores, so they cannot make further war,” Dama Rajin said. “There remains grain enough to feed our people many times over.”

  “Fool!” Jardir shouted, backhanding the man. There were gasps around the room. “I need to levy the Northerners, not starve and kill them! The true enemies are the alagai— something you have forgotten!”

  He reached out and took hold of the dama’s white robe, tearing it from his body. “You are dama no more. You will burn your whites and wear tan in shame for the rest of your days.”

  The man screamed as he was dragged out of the manse and cast into the snow. He would likely take his own life, if the other dama didn’t kill him first.

  Jardir looked to Abban once more. “I want the losses and remainder totaled.”

  “There may not be enough to feed everyone,” Abban warned.

  Jardir nodded. “If there isn’t grain enough, have the chin too old to work or fight put to the spear until there is.”

  The color left Abban’s face. “I will…find a way to make it stretch.”

  Jardir smiled without humor. “I thought you might. Now, what of these chin you bring before me? I wanted leaders, but these men look like khaffit merchants.”

  “Merchants rule the North, Deliverer,” Abban said.

  “Disgusting,” Asome said.

  “Nevertheless, it is so,” Abban said. “These are men who can help ease your conquest.”

  “My father needs no…,” Jayan began, but Jardir silenced him with a wave. He gestured to the guards to bring the chin forward.

  “Which of you leads the others?” Jardir asked, switching to the savage tongue of the North. The prisoners’ eyes widened, and the men looked at one another. Finally, one stepped forward, arching his back and holding his head high as he met Jardir’s eyes. He was bald, with a gray-shot beard, and was dressed in a soiled and torn silk robe. His face was blotched where he had been beaten, and his left arm was in a crude sling. He stood almost a foot shorter than Jardir, but still he had the look of a man who was accustomed to his words carrying weight.

  “I am Edon the Seventh, duke of Fort Rizon and lord of its peoples,” the man said.

  “Fort Rizon no longer exists,” Jardir said. “This land is known as Everam’s Bounty now, and it belongs to me.”

  “The Core it does!” the duke growled.

  “Do you know who I am, Duke Edon?” Jardir asked softly.

  “The duke of Fort Krasia,” Duke Edon said. “Abban claims you are the Deliverer.”

  “But you do not believe it is so,” Jardir said.

  “The Deliverer will not bring murder, rape, and pillage with him,” Edon spat.

  The warriors in the room tensed, expecting an outburst, but Jardir only nodded. “It comes as no surprise that the weak men of the North hold to a weak Deliverer,” he said. “But it is no matter. I do not ask for your belief, only your allegiance.”

  The duke looked at him incredulously.

  “If you prostrate before me and swear an oath to submit to Everam in all things, your life, and those of your councilors, will be spared,” Jardir said. “Your sons will be taken and trained as dal’Sharum, and they will be honored above all other Northern chin. Your wealth and property will be returned to you, minus a tithe of fealty. All this I offer to you in exchange for helping me to dominate the green lands.”

  “And if I refuse?” the duke asked.

  “Then all you possessed belongs to me,” Jardir said. “You will watch as your sons are put to the spear and my men impregnate your wives and daughters, and you will spend the rest of your days in rags, eating shit and drinking piss until someone pities you enough to kill you.”

  And so Edon VII, duke of Fort Rizon and lord of its peoples, became the first Northern duke to kneel and put his head to the floor before Ahmann Jardir.

  Jardir sat on his throne as Abban again brought a group of chin before him. It was a bitter irony that the fat khaffit should be the most indispensable member of his court, but so few of Jardir’s men spoke the Northern tongue. Some of the other khaffit merchants spoke a smattering, but only Abban and Jardir’s inner council were truly fluent. And of those, only Abban would rather talk to the chin than kill them.

  Like all the prisoners Abban found, these were starved and beaten, clad in filthy rags against the cold. “More khaffit merchant lords?” Jardir asked.

 
Abban shook his head. “No, Deliverer. These men are Warders.”

  Jardir’s eyes widened, and he sat up quickly in his seat. “Why have they been so ill treated?” he demanded.

  “Because in the North, warding is considered a craft, like milling or carpentry,” Abban said. “The dal’Sharum who sacked the city could not tell them from the rest of the chin, and many were killed, or fled with the tools of their profession.”

  Jardir cursed softly. In Krasia, Warders were considered the elite of the warrior caste, and it was written in the Evejah that they be accorded all honor. Even Northern ones had value, if Sharak Ka was to be won.

  He turned to the men, shifting smoothly to their tongue and bowing. “You have my apologies for your treatment. You will be fed and clad in fine robes, your lands and women returned to you. Had we known you were Warders, you would have been honored as your station deserves.”

  “You killed my son,” one of the men choked. “Raped my wife and daughter; burned my house. And now you apologize?” He spat at Jardir, striking him on the cheek.

  The guards at the door gave a shout and lowered their spears, but Jardir waved them off, wiping the spittle from his cheek calmly.

  “I will pay a death price for your son,” he said, “and recompense you others for your losses as well.” He strode up to the anguished man, towering over him. “But I warn you, do not test my mercy further.” He signaled the guards, and the men were escorted out.

  “It is regrettable,” he said, as he sat heavily on his throne, “that our first conquest in the North should bring such waste.”

  “We could have treated with them, Ahmann,” Abban said softly. He tensed, ready to fall to his knees if his words were not well received, but Jardir only shook his head.

  “The greenlanders are too numerous,” he said. “The Rizonan men outnumbered us eight to one. If they had been given time to muster, not even our superior fighting skills could have taken the city without losses we could ill afford. Now that the duke has embraced Everam, it should go easier on the hamlets until we move on to conquer the chin city built on the oasis.”

  “Lakton,” Abban supplied. “But I warn you, this greenland ‘lake’ is, by all accounts, far bigger than any oasis. Messengers have told me it is a body of water so great that you cannot see the far side, even on a clear day, and the city itself is so far out on the water that even a scorpion could not shoot so far.”

  “They exaggerate, surely,” Jardir said. “If these…fish men fight anything like the men of Rizon, they will fall easily enough when the time comes.”

  Just then a dal’Sharum entered, thumping his spear on the floor.

  “Forgive the intrusion, Shar’Dama Ka,” the warrior said, going down to both knees and laying his spear next to him before placing his hands flat on the floor. “You asked to be informed when your wives arrived.”

  Jardir scowled.

  CHAPTER 4

  LOSING THE BIDO

  308 AR

  JARDIR WAS WHIPPED WITH the alagai tail for letting Abban live, the barbs tearing the flesh off his back, and the days without food were hard, but he embraced the penance as he did all pain. It did not matter.

  He had netted an alagai.

  Other warriors had cut the wings from the wind demon, staking it down in a warded circle to await the sun, but it was Jardir who brought it down, and everyone knew it. He could see it in the awed eyes of the other nie’Sharum, and the grudging respect of the dal’Sharum. Even the dama eyed him when they thought no one was looking.

  On the fourth day, Jardir was weak with hunger as he made his way to the gruel line. He doubted he had the strength to fight even the weakest of the boys, but he strode to his usual place at the front of the line with a straight back. The others backed away, eyes respectfully down.

  He was reaching out his bowl when Qeran caught his arm.

  “No gruel for you today,” the drillmaster said. “Come with me.”

  Jardir felt like a sand demon was trying to claw its way from his stomach, but he gave no complaint, handing his bowl to another boy and following the drillmaster across the camp.

  Toward the Kaji pavilion.

  Jardir’s face went cold. It could not be.

  “No boy your age has entered the warrior’s pavilion in three hundred years,” Qeran said, as if reading his thoughts. “I think you are too young, and this may prove the end of you and a terrible waste for the Kaji, but the law is the law. When a boy nets his first demon on the wall, he is called to alagai’sharak.”

  They entered the tent, and dozens of black-clad figures turned to eye him before returning to their food. Women served them, but not women like Jardir had seen before, covered from head to toe in thick black cloth. The veils of these women were gossamer and brightly colored, diaphanous clothes pulled tight against soft curves. Their arms and bellies were bare, save for jeweled adornments, and long slits in the sides of their pantaloons bared their smooth legs.

  Jardir felt his face heat up at the sight, but no one else seemed to find it amiss. One warrior eyed the woman serving him for a moment, then dropped his kebab and grabbed her, slinging her over his shoulder. She laughed as he carried her to a curtained room filled with bright pillows.

  “That will be your right, too, should you survive the coming night,” Qeran advised. “The Kaji need more warriors. It is the duty of men to provide them. If you acquit yourself well, you may earn yourself a wife to keep your home, but all dal’Sharum are expected to keep the jiwah’Sharum of their tribe with child.”

  The sight of so many women in revealing clothes was overwhelming to Jardir, and he scanned their young faces, half expecting to see his sisters among them. He was speechless as the drillmaster led him to a pillow at the great table.

  There was more food than he had ever seen in his life. Dates and raisins and rice and spiced lamb on skewers. Couscous and grape leaves wrapping steaming meats. His stomach churned, caught between hunger and lust.

  “Eat well, and rest,” Qeran advised. “Tonight you will stand among men.” He slapped Jardir’s back and left the tent.

  Jardir reached tentatively for a skewer of meat, but a hand quickly snatched it away. He looked to the offender, only to find Hasik staring back at him.

  “You got lucky the other night, rat,” Hasik said. “Pray to Everam this day, for it will take more than luck to survive a night in the Maze.”

  Jardir went with the other warriors to Sharik Hora to receive the blessings of the Damaji before the night’s battle. He had never been inside the temple of heroes’ bones before, and the sight dwarfed anything he might have imagined.

  Everything inside Sharik Hora was built from the bleached and lacquered bones of dal’Sharum who had fallen in alagai’sharak. The twelve chairs of the Damaji on the great altar stood on calf bones and rested on warriors’ feet. The arms had once held spear and shield against demonkind. The seats were polished rib that had housed heroes’ hearts. The backs were made from spines that had stood tall in the night. The headrests were made from the skulls of men who sat at Everam’s side in Heaven. The twelve seats ringed the throne of the Andrah, built from the skulls of kai’Sharum, the captains of alagai’sharak.

  Hundreds of skulls and spines made each of the dozens of huge chandeliers. Bones made up hundreds of benches where worshippers prayed. The altar. The chalices. The walls. The great domed ceiling. Warriors beyond count had protected this temple with their flesh, and built it with their bones.

  The massive nave was circular, and its walls were pocked with a hundred small alcoves, housing whole skeletons on bone pedestals. These were Sharum Ka, First Warriors of the city.

  Under the eyes of the dama, the kai’Sharum commanded the warriors of their respective tribes, but when the sun set, the Sharum Ka, appointed by the Andrah, commanded the kai’Sharum. The current Sharum Ka was Kaji like Jardir—a fact that filled him with great pride.

  Jardir’s hands shook as he took it all in. The entire temple thrummed with
honor and glory. His father, killed in a Majah raid and not alagai’sharak, was not remembered here, but Jardir dreamed that one day he might add his own bones to this hallowed place, bringing honor to his father, his sacrifice remembered long after he was gone. There was no greater honor than to become one, in this world and the next, with those who had given their lives before him, and those unborn, perhaps centuries hence, whose lives were yet to be given.

  The Sharum stood at attention as the Damaji begged the blessings of Everam for the coming battle, and those of Kaji, the first Deliverer.

  “Kaji,” they called, “Spear of Everam, Shar’Dama Ka, who unified the world and delivered us from the alagai in the first age, look down upon these brave warriors who go out into the night to carry on the eternal struggle, battling gai on Ala even as Everam battles Nie in Heaven. Bless them with courage and strength, that they might stand tall in the night, and see through to the dawn.”

  The warded shield and heavy spear were the smallest and lightest Qeran could find, but Jardir still felt dwarfed by them. He was twelve, and the youngest of the assembled warriors was five years his senior. He pretended nothing was amiss as he headed to stand with them, but even the smallest towered over him.

  “Nie’Sharum are tethered to another warrior their first night in the Maze,” Qeran said, “to ensure their will does not break when the alagai first come at them. It is a moment that tests the hearts of even the bravest warriors. The warrior assigned to you will be your ajin’pal, your blood brother. You will obey his every command and be bonded until death.”

  Jardir nodded.

  “If you survive the night, the dama’ting will come for you at dawn,” Qeran went on.

  Jardir’s gaze snapped to his mentor. “The dama’ting?” he asked. He was not afraid to face alagai, but dama’ting still filled him with fear.

  Qeran nodded. “One of them will come to predict your death,” he said, suppressing a shudder. “Only with her blessing will you be dal’Sharum.”

  “They tell you when you’ll die?” Jardir asked, aghast. “I don’t wish to know.”