The Desert Spear

“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 (#ulink_6ba9327d-61de-51f4-9e93-12812866e49f)

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.