The Desert Spear

The insides of the dal’Sharum shields were polished to a mirror finish, and as Dama Khevat spoke a prayer for the souls of the Bahavans, one by one the warriors turned them to catch the light, angling rays down into the pits to strike the demons directly.

Wherever the light touched the demons, they burst into flame. Soon all the alagai were ablaze, and the nie’Sharum cheered. Seeing warriors doing likewise, some even lowered their bidos to piss on the demons as Everam’s light burned them from the world. Jardir had never felt so alive as he did in that moment, and he turned to Abban to share his joy.

But Abban was nowhere to be seen.

Thinking his friend still distressed over his fall the night before, Jardir went looking for him. Abban was injured, that was all. It was not the same as being weak. They would bide their time and ignore the sniggers of the other nie’Sharum until Abban had regained his strength, and then they would deal with the sniggerers directly and end the mocking once and for all.

He searched through the camp and almost missed Abban, at last spotting his friend crawling out from under one of the provision carts.

“What are you doing?” Jardir asked.

“Oh!” Abban said, turning in surprise. “I was just…”

Jardir ignored him, pushing past Abban and looking under the cart. Abban had strung a net there, filling it with the Dravazi pottery they had used as tools, cleverly packed with cloth to keep the pieces from clattering or breaking on the journey back.

Abban spread his hands as Jardir turned to him, smiling. “My friend—”

Jardir cut him off. “Put them back.”

“Ahmann,” Abban started.

“Put them back or I will break your other leg,” Jardir growled.

Abban sighed, but it was more in exasperation than submission. “Again I ask you to be practical, my friend. We both know that with this leg, I have more chance of helping my family through profit than honor. And if I somehow still manage to become dal’Sharum, how long will I last? Even the strong veterans who came here to Baha will not all go home alive. For myself, I will be lucky to last through my first night. And what of my family then, if I leave this world with no glory? I don’t want my mother to end up selling my sisters as jiwah’Sharum because they have no dowry save my spilled blood.”

“Jiwah’Sharum are sold?” Jardir asked, thinking of his own sisters, poorer than Abban’s by far. Jiwah’Sharum were group wives, kept in the great harem for all dal’Sharum to use.

“Did you think girls volunteered?” Abban asked. “Being jiwah’Sharum may appear glorious for the young and beautiful, but they seldom even know whose children grow in their bellies, and their honor fades once their wombs grow barren and their features less fair. Better by far a proper husband, even a khaffit, than that.”

Jardir said nothing, digesting the information, and Abban moved closer, leaning in as if to speak in confidence, though they were quite alone.

“We could split the profits, my friend,” he said. “Half to my mother, and half to yours. When was the last time she or your sisters had meat? Or more than rags to wear? Honor may help them years from this day, but a quick profit can help them now.”

Jardir looked at him skeptically. “How will a handful of pots make any difference?”

“These are not just any pots, Ahmann,” Abban said. “Think of it! These last works of master Dravazi, used by the dal’Sharum to help avenge his death and set free the khaffit souls of Baha. They will be priceless! The Damaji themselves would buy and display them. We need not even clean them! The dirt of Baha will be better than any glaze of gold.”

“Kaval said all must be sacrificed, to hallow the ground of Baha,” Jardir said.

“And so everything has,” Abban said. “These are just tools, Ahmann, no different from the spades the dal’Sharum used to dig the pits. It is not looting to keep our tools.”

“Then why hide them under the cart like a thief?”

Abban smiled. “Do you think Hasik and his cronies would let us keep the profits if they knew?”

“I suppose not,” Jardir conceded.

“It’s settled then,” Abban said, clapping Jardir on the shoulder. Quickly they packed the rest of the pottery in the secret sling.

They were almost finished when Abban took a delicate cup and deliberately started rolling it in the dirt.

“What are you doing?” Jardir asked.

Abban shrugged. “This cup was too small to be of use in the work,” he said, holding up the cup and admiring the dust upon it. “But the dust of Baha will increase its value tenfold.”

“But it’s a lie,” Jardir said.

Abban winked. “The buyer will never know that, my friend.”

“I will know!” Jardir shouted, taking the cup and hurling it to the ground. It struck the ground and shattered.

Abban shrieked. “You idiot, do you have any idea what that was worth?” But at Jardir’s seething glare, he wisely put up his hands and took a step back.

“Of course, my friend, you are right,” he agreed. As if to drive the point home, he lifted another similarly clean piece and smashed that on the ground as well.

Jardir eyed the broken shards and sighed. “Send nothing to my family,” he said. “I want no profit to come to the line of Jardir from this…low deed. I would rather see my sisters chew hard grain than eat tainted meat.”

Abban looked at him with incredulity, but at last he simply shrugged. “As you wish, my friend. But if your mind ever changes…”

“If that day comes, and you are my true friend, you will refuse me,” Jardir said. “And if I ever catch you at something like this again, I will bring you before the dama myself.”

Abban looked at him a moment longer, and nodded.

It was nighttime on the Krasian wall, and all about him Jardir could feel the thrum of battle. It made him proud that he would one day die as a Kaji warrior in the Maze.

“Alagai down!” Watcher Aday called. “Northeast quad! Second layer!”

Jardir nodded, turning to the other boys. “Jurim, inform the Majah in layer three that glory is near. Shanjat, let the Anjha know the Majah will be moving away from their position.”

“I can go,” Abban volunteered. Jardir glanced at him doubtfully. He knew it dishonored his friend to hold him back, but Abban’s limp had not subsided in the weeks since they had returned from Baha, and alagai’sharak was no game.

“Stay with me for now,” he said. The other boys smirked and ran off.

Drillmaster Qeran noticed the exchange, and his lip curled in disgust as he looked at Abban. “Make yourself useful, boy, and untangle the nets.”

Jardir pretended not to notice Abban’s limp as he complied. He returned to Qeran’s side.

“You can’t spare him forever,” the drillmaster said quietly, raising his far-seeing glass to search the skies. “Better he die a man in the Maze than return from the walls in shame.”

Jardir wondered at the words. What was the true path? If he sent Abban, there was a risk he would fail in his duty, putting fighting men at risk. But if he did not, then Qeran would eventually declare the boy khaffit—a fate far worse than death. Abban’s spirit would sit outside the gates of Heaven, never knowing Everam’s embrace as he waited, perhaps millennia, for reincarnation.

Ever since Qeran had made him Nie Ka, responsibility had weighed upon Jardir heavily. He wondered if Hasik, who had once held the same honor, had felt the same pressure. It was doubtful. Hasik would have killed Abban or driven him out of the pack long since.

He sighed, resolving to send Abban on the next run. “Better dead than khaffit,” he murmured, the words bitter on his tongue.

“Ware!” Qeran cried as a wind demon dove at them. He and Jardir got down in time, but Aday was not as quick. His head thumped along the wall toward Jardir as his body fell into the Maze. Abban screamed.

“It’s banking for another pass!” Qeran warned.