“Well don’t wait too long, or men will think you push’ting,” Jardir said, laughing and punching Arlen’s shoulder. Arlen wasn’t sure what the word meant, but he nodded anyway.
“How long have you been in the city, my friend?” Jardir asked.
“Only a few hours,” Arlen said. “I just delivered my messages to the palace.”
“And already you come to offer your spear! By Everam,” Jardir cried to his fellows, “the Par’chin must have Krasian blood in him!” His men joined in his laughter.
“Walk with me,” Jardir said, putting his arm on Arlen’s shoulder and moving away from the others. Arlen knew Jardir was already trying to decide where he would best fit in the night’s battle. “The Bajin lost a Pit Warder last night,” he said. “You could fill in there.”
Pit Warders were among the most important of the Krasian soldiers, warding the demon pits used to trap corelings, and assuring that the wards activated after the demons fell in. It was risky work, for if the tarps used to disguise the pits didn’t fall in and reveal the wards fully, there was little to prevent a sand demon from climbing out and killing the Warder as he tried to uncover them. There was only one position with a higher mortality rate.
“Push Guard, I would prefer,” Arlen replied.
Jardir shook his head, but he was smiling. “Always the most dangerous duty for you,” he chided. “If you are killed, who will carry our letters?”
Arlen understood the sarcasm, even through Jardir’s thick accent. Letters meant little to him. Few dal’Sharum could even read.
“Not so dangerous, this night,” Arlen said. Unable to contain his excitement, he unrolled his new spear, holding it up to the First Warrior proudly.
“A kingly weapon,” Jardir agreed, “but it is the warrior that wins through in the night, Par’chin, not the spear.” He put his hand on Arlen’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Do not put too much faith in your weapon. I have seen warriors more seasoned than you paint their spears and come to a bitter end.”
“I did not make it,” Arlen said. “I found it in the ruins of Anoch Sun.”
“The birthplace of the Deliverer?” Jardir laughed. “The Spear of Kaji is a myth, Par’chin, and the lost city has been reclaimed by the sands.”
Arlen shook his head. “I’ve been there,” he said. “I can take you there.”
“I am Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear, Par’chin,” Jardir replied. “I cannot just pack a camel and ride off into the sand looking for a city that exists only in ancient texts.”
“I think I will convince you when night falls,” Arlen said.
Jardir smiled patiently. “Promise me that you will not try anything foolish,” he said. “Warded spear or no, you are not the Deliverer. It would be sad to bury you.”
“I promise,” Arlen said.
“Good, then!” Jardir clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, my friend, the hour grows late. You shall sup in my palace tonight, before we muster outside Sharik Hora!”
They supped on spiced meats, ground peas, and the paper-thin layers of bread the Krasian women made by spreading wet meal on hot, polished rocks. Arlen had a place of honor next to Jardir, surrounded by kai’Sharum and served by Jardir’s own wives. Arlen never understood why Jardir paid him so much respect, but after his treatment at the Andrah’s palace, it was most welcome.
The men begged stories of him, calling for the tale of One Arm’s crippling, though they had heard it many times. Always it was tales of One Arm, or Alagai Ka, as they called him. Rock demons were rare in Krasia, and as Arlen complied, his audience sat entranced by the tale.
“We built a new scorpion after your last visit, Par’chin,” one of the kai’Sharum told him as they sipped their nectar after the meal. “It can punch a spear through a sandstone wall. We will find a way to pierce Alagai Ka’s hide yet.”
Arlen chuckled and shook his head. “I’m afraid you will not see One Arm tonight,” he said, “or ever again. He has seen the sun.”
The eyes of the kai’Sharum bulged. “Alagai Ka is dead?” one asked. “How did you manage this?”
Arlen smiled. “I will tell you the tale after tonight’s victory,” he said. He stroked the spear next to him gently as he did, a gesture the First Warrior did not miss.
CHAPTER 20
ALAGAI’SHARAK
328 AR
“GREAT KAJI, SPEAR OF EVERAM, grant strength to your warriors’ arms and courage to their hearts this night, as they go forth to your holy work.”
Arlen shifted uneasily as the Damaji bestowed the blessings of Kaji, the first Deliverer, on the dal’Sharum. In the North, claiming the Deliverer was just a mortal man might get you in a fist-fight, but it was no crime. In Krasia, such heresy was punishable by death. Kaji was Everam’s Messenger, come to unite all mankind against the alagai. They called him Shar’Dama Ka, First Warrior-Priest, and said he would return to unite man again one day, when they were worthy of Sharak Ka, the First War. Any who suggested otherwise came to a quick and brutal end.
Arlen was not such a fool as to voice his doubts about Kaji’s divinity, but the Holy Men still unnerved him. They always seemed to be looking for an excuse to take offense at him, the outsider, and giving offense in Krasia usually meant death for the offender.
But whatever discomfort Arlen might feel around the Damaji, he always swelled at the sight of Sharik Hora, the enormous domed temple to Everam. Literally meaning “Heroes’ Bones,” Sharik Hora was a reminder of what humanity was capable of, a building dwarfing any structure Arlen had ever seen. The Duke’s Library in Miln was tiny by comparison.
But Sharik Hora was impressive for more than its size. It was a symbol of courage beyond death, for it had been decorated with the bleached bones of every warrior who had died in alagai’sharak. They ran up the support beams and framed the windows. The great altar was made entirely of skulls, the pews out of leg bones. The chalice that worshippers drank water from was a hollowed skull resting in two skeletal hands, its stem the forearms, and its base a pair of feet. Each gigantic chandelier was made from dozens of skulls and hundreds of ribs, and the great domed ceiling, two hundred feet above, was covered in the skulls of the Krasians’ warrior ancestors, looking down and judging, demanding honor.
Arlen once tried to calculate how many warriors decorated the hall, but the task defeated him. All the cities and hamlets in Thesa, perhaps two hundred fifty thousand souls, could not have decorated a fraction of Sharik Hora. The Krasians were numberless, once.
Now all of Krasia’s warriors, perhaps four thousand in all, fit into Sharik Hora with room to spare. They gathered there twice each day, once at dawn and once at dusk, to honor Everam; to thank Him for corelings killed the previous night, and to beg His strength in killing them in the night to come. Most of all, though, they prayed for the Shar’Dama Ka to come again and begin Sharak Ka. To a one, they would follow him down into the Core itself.
Screams borne on the desert wind reached Arlen in the ambush pocket where he waited anxiously for the corelings to come. The warriors around him shifted their feet, offering prayers to Everam. Elsewhere in the Maze, alagai’sharak had begun.
They heard the reports as the Mehnding tribe positioned on the city walls cranked and fired their weapons, launching heavy stones and giant spears into the demon ranks. Some of these struck sand demons, killing or injuring them enough for their fellows to turn upon them, but the true purpose of the attack was to anger the corelings, stirring them into a frenzy. Demons were easily enraged, and once so, could be herded like sheep at the sight of prey.
When the corelings were boiling, the outer gates of the city opened, disabling the outer wardnet. Sand and flame demons charged through, wind demons gliding above them. Several dozen were usually allowed entrance before the gates closed and the net was reestablished.
Inside the gates stood a group of warriors, banging spear against shield. These men, known as Baiters, were mostly old and weak, expendable, but their honor knew no bound
s. With shouts and whoops, they scattered at the demons’ charge, splitting up in a prearranged fashion to divide the demons and lead them deeper into the Maze.
Watchers atop the Maze walls took down wind demons with bolas and weighted nets. As they crashed to the ground, Stakers emerged from tiny, warded alcoves to pin them before they could free themselves, shackling their limbs to warded stakes that were hammered into the ground, preventing them from returning to the Core to flee the dawn.
Meanwhile, the Baiters ran on, leading the sand and occasional flame demons to their end. The demons could run faster, but they could not negotiate the sharp turns of the Maze as easily as men who knew every twist. When a demon got too close, the Watchers attempted to slow it with nets. Many of these attempts were successful. Many were not.
Arlen and the others in the Push Guard tensed, hearing the shouts as their Baiters approached. “Ware!” a Watcher called from above. “I count nine!”
Nine sand demons were far more than the usual two or three that reached an ambush point. Baiters attempted to whittle their numbers as they split up, so that an ambush seldom faced more than five. Arlen tightened his grip on the warded spear as the eyes of the dal’Sharum went wild with excitement. To die in alagai’sharak was to win entry into paradise.
“Lights!” came the call from above. As the Baiters led the demons into the ambush point, the Watchers lit blazing oil fires before angled mirrors, flooding the area with light.
Caught unawares, the corelings shrieked and recoiled. The light could not harm them, but it gave the exhausted Baiters time to escape. Prepared for the light, they flowed with practiced precision around the demon pits, dropping into shallow, warded trenches.
The sand demons recovered quickly and resumed their charge, oblivious to the path the Baiters had taken. Three of them ran right onto the sand-colored tarps that covered the two wide demon pits, shrieking as they fell into the twenty-foot holes.
The traps sprung, the Push Guard shouted and charged from their ambush pockets, spears leveled between circular, warded shields to drive the remaining corelings into the pits.
Arlen roared past his fears as he charged with the others, caught up in the beautiful madness of Krasia. This was how he imagined the warriors of old, shouting down the instinct to run and hide as they leapt into battle. For a moment, he forgot who and where he was.
But then his spear struck a sand demon and the wards flared to life, streaking silver lightning into the creature. It shrieked in agony, but was swept away by the longer spears to either side of Arlen. Dazzled by the flare of defensive wards, none of the other men even noticed.
Arlen’s group drove the two remaining demons they faced into the open pit on their side of the ambush point. The pit’s wards were a one-way kind known only in Krasia. Corelings could enter the ring, but not escape. Under the packed dirt of the pit floor lay quarried stone, cutting off their path to the Core and trapping them in the pits until dawn took them.
Looking up, Arlen saw the opposite side was not doing nearly so well. The tarp had snagged as it fell into their pit, leaving some of the wards covered. Before the Pit Warder could clear the block, the two corelings that had fallen in climbed through the gap, killing him.
The Push Guard on the far side of the ambush point had erupted into chaos, faced with five sand demons and lacking a working demon pit to drive them into. There were only ten men in that unit, and the demons were in their midst, slashing and biting.
“Retreat to the pocket!” the kai’Sharum on Arlen’s side ordered.
“The Core I will!” Arlen cried, charging across to aid the other group. Seeing an outsider display such courage, the dal’Sharum followed, the commander shouting at their backs.
Arlen paused only long enough to kick the tarp away from the demon pit and activate the circle. Barely missing a beat, he leapt into the melee, the warded spear alive in his hand.
He stabbed the first demon in the side, and this time the other men could not miss the flash of magic as the weapon struck home. The sand demon fell to the ground, mortally wounded, and Arlen felt a rush of wild energy flow through him.
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and pivoted, his spear in line to block the razor teeth of another sand demon. The defensive wards along the spear’s length activated before the coreling could bite down, locking its mouth open. Arlen gave the spear a sharp twist and the magic flared, snapping the creature’s jaw.
A third demon charged, but Arlen’s limbs surged with power. He whipped the butt of his spear across, and the wards on its end sheared off half the coreling’s face. As it fell, he dropped his shield and twirled the spear in his hands, bringing it down hard to pierce the demon’s heart.
Arlen roared and looked about for another demon to fight, but the others had been driven into the pit. All about, men were staring at him in awe.
“What are we waiting for?” he cried, charging into the Maze. “We’ve alagai to hunt!”
The dal’Sharum, chanting, “Par’chin! Par’chin!” followed.
Their first encounter was a wind demon that swooped in, tearing the throat from one of Arlen’s followers. Before the creature could climb skyward again, Arlen threw his spear, blasting through the coreling’s head with a shower of sparks and dropping it to the ground.
Arlen retrieved his weapon and ran on, the wild magic of the spear sweeping him along like a berserker out of legend. As his band scoured the Maze, their numbers grew, and as Arlen slew demon after demon, more and more took up the chant of “Par’chin! Par’chin!”
Forgotten were the warded ambush pockets and escape pits. Gone was the fear and respect of the night. With his metal spear, Arlen seemed invulnerable, and the confidence he exuded was like a drug to the Krasians.
Flushed with the thrill of victory, Arlen felt as if he had broken from a chrysalis, made anew by the ancient weapon. He felt no fatigue, though he had been running and fighting for hours. He felt no pain, though he bore many scrapes and cuts. His thoughts were focused only on the next encounter, the next demon to kill. Each time he felt the surge of magic punch through a coreling’s armor, the same thought rang in his head. Every man must have one.
Jardir appeared before him, and Arlen, covered in demon ichor, thrust the spear high to salute the First Warrior. “Sharum Ka!” he cried. “No demon will escape your Maze alive tonight!”
Jardir laughed, thrusting his own spear into the air in response. He came and embraced Arlen like a brother.
“I underestimated you, Par’chin,” he said. “I won’t do so again.”
Arlen smiled. “You say that every time,” he replied.
Jardir nodded to the two sand demons Arlen had just slain. “This time, for sure,” he promised, returning the grin. Then he turned to the men following Arlen.
“Dal’Sharum!” he called, gesturing to the dead corelings. “Gather up these filthy things and haul them atop the outer wall! Our sling teams need target practice! Let the corelings beyond the walls see the folly of attacking Fort Krasia!”
A cheer rose from the men, and they hastened to his bidding. As they did, Jardir turned to Arlen. “The Watchers report there is still battle in one of the eastern ambush points,” he said. “Have you any fight left in you, Par’chin?”
Arlen’s smile was feral. “Lead the way,” he replied, and the two men ran off, leaving the others to their work.
They sprinted for some time, out to one of the farthest edges of the Maze. “Just ahead,” Jardir called, as they banked around a sharp corner into an ambush point. Arlen gave no thought to the quiet, his head filled with the stomp of his feet and the pounding of his blood.
But as he turned the corner, a leg shot out from the side, hooking his foot and sending him sprawling to the ground. He rolled as he struck, keeping a grip on his precious weapon, but by the time he regained his feet, men had blocked the point’s only exit.
Arlen looked around in confusion, seeing no sign of demons or fighting. He had found
an ambush, but it was not for the corelings.
CHAPTER 21
ONLY A CHIN
328 AR
SHARUM MOVED IN TO SURROUND ARLEN: Jardir’s elite. Arlen knew them all, men he had supped and laughed with that very evening, and fought beside many times before.
“What is this?” Arlen asked, though in his heart he knew full well.
“The Spear of Kaji belongs in the hands of the Shar’Dama Ka,” Jardir replied as he approached. “You are not he.”
Arlen clutched the spear as if afraid it might fly from his hands. The men that closed on him were the same warriors he had eaten with a few hours before, but there was no friendship in their eyes now. Jardir had done well in separating him from his supporters.
“It need not be this way,” Arlen said, backing away until the demon pit at the point’s center was at his heels. Distantly, he noted the hiss of a sand demon trapped within.
“I can make more of these,” he went on. “One for every dal’Sharum. That’s why I came.”
“We’re capable of doing that ourselves.” Jardir smiled, a cold split to his bearded face. His teeth flashed in the moonlight. “You cannot be our savior. You are only a chin.”
“I don’t want to fight you,” Arlen said.
“Then don’t, my friend,” Jardir said softly. “Give me the weapon, take your horse, and go with the dawn, never to return.”
Arlen hesitated. He had no doubt Krasia’s Warders could replicate the spear as well as he. In no time at all, the Krasians could turn the tide of their Holy War. Thousands of lives saved, thousands of demons killed. Did it matter who took the credit?
But there was more at stake than just credit. The spear was a gift not for Krasia, but for all men. Would the Krasians share their knowledge with others? If this scene was anything to go by, Arlen thought not.
“No,” he said. “I think I’ll have to keep it a little longer. Let me make one for you, and I’ll go. You’ll never see me again, and you’ll have what you want.”
The Warded Man Page 35
