The Desert Spear (demon)

by Peter V. Brett

  Ashan bowed. “As the Sharum Ka commands.”

  After the meal, they left for Sharik Hora, where the Damaji praised their successes and blessed the coming night’s battle. As the warriors left for the Maze, Jardir held his two lieutenants back.

  “You will wear the white turban tonight, Hasik,” Jardir said.

  A wild light came to Hasik’s eyes. “As the Sharum Ka commands.” He bowed.

  “You cannot be serious!” Ashan said. “To have a dal’Sharum impersonate the Sharum Ka is a violation of our sacred oaths!”

  “Nonsense,” Jardir said. “There are tales in the Evejah of Kaji playing such games frequently, when he did not wish his movements known.”

  “Forgive me, First Warrior,” Ashan said, “but you are not the Deliverer.”

  Jardir smiled. “Perhaps. But what is the Evejah, if not something the Shar’Dama Ka left for us to learn from?”

  Ashan frowned. “What if Hasik is discovered?”

  “He won’t be,” Jardir said. “With his night veil, the sling teams will not recognize him, for they have seldom seen me save at a distance. Hasik, however, will be seen on the walltops by all, and there will be no question among the Sharum that I was in the Maze tonight.”

  “If you are wrong, he will be put to death,” Ashan warned.

  Jardir shrugged. “Hasik has killed hundreds of alagai. If that is his fate, he will wake in paradise.”

  “I am not afraid, Sharum Ka,” Hasik said.

  Ashan snorted. “Fools seldom are,” he muttered. “But where will you go,” he asked Jardir, “while others think you on the wall?”

  “Ah,” Jardir said, taking Hasik’s black turban and tying the veil, “that is for me to know.”

  The streets of Fort Krasia were quiet at night, the true men all gone to battle, and the common khaffit, women, and children locked in the Undercity. Like all the city’s palaces, the palace of the Sharum Ka had its own walls and wards, its lower levels connected to the Undercity in several places. The palace was as safe from alagai as any in the world, and that was if a demon could even get past Krasia’s outer walls, which, as far as Jardir knew, had never happened.

  Jardir kept to the shadows, his dal’Sharum blacks making him invisible in the darkness. Even if someone had been there to see, none would have marked his passing.

  The gates of his palace were closed, but his years as a nie’Sharum had taught him to scale walls with ease. In a twinkling he was dropping into the darkness on the lee side.

  Nothing seemed amiss as he crossed the compound to the palace. The windows were dark, and the keep was silent. Still, Qasha’s words nagged at him. All is not always still in the palace of the Sharum Ka at night.

  Jardir moved about dark and silent in the halls of his own home like a thief, using all the skills he had learned stalking alagai in the Maze. He did not leave so much as a curtain stirring in his wake as, one by one, he checked the audience halls and receiving rooms—anywhere that might be fitting for a gathering of those bold enough to defy curfew—but he found no one.

  As it should be, he mused. They are all in lower levels, barred from within, as is the law. You were a fool to come. Ashan was right. You play games with your duty in order to satisfy your own curiosity. Men are dying in the night while you skulk about your own home.

  He was about to leave, heading back to the Maze, when he caught a sound coming from his bedchambers. The noise grew louder as he padded closer. He peeked around a curtain and saw two kai’Sharum bearing the white sash of the Andrah’s personal guard standing before the door to his bedroom. The sounds became clearer, and he realized what they were.

  Inevera’s cries.

  Rage flared in him, hotter than he had ever imagined possible. Before he even realized he was moving, his fist was shattering the spine of one of the kai’Sharum. The man grunted, but it was quickly silenced as he struck the floor and Jardir crushed his throat with a stomp of his heel.

  The other warrior spun deftly, moving with the grace one would expect from a Sharum trained in Sharik Hora, but Jardir’s rage knew no bounds. The warrior tried to grapple, but Jardir ducked his outstretched arms and came up behind him, gripping the man’s chin with one hand and the back of his head with another. A sharp twist, and the man was falling to the carpet, dead.

  Jardir spun, kicking hard against the door. It was barred from within, but he only gritted his teeth and kicked again, this time knocking out the braces and sending the door slamming inward.

  He pulled up short at the scene before him, feeling as if he had taken a spear in the chest. He had expected to find the Andrah holding Inevera down, forcing himself upon her, but just the opposite, his wife, nude, rode the fat man as wantonly as Qasha had ridden him that morning. The Andrah looked up at him fearfully, but he was pinned by Inevera’s soft weight. She turned to him, and in his rage he wasn’t sure if he imagined it, or if a bit of a smirk touched the corners of her mouth as she took the last bit of honor from him.

  If his anger was a furnace before, it was the fifth layer of Nie ’s abyss now. He strode to the rack on the wall, selecting a short, stabbing spear. When he turned back, the Andrah had struggled out from under Inevera. He stood naked in Jardir’s bedchamber, his flaccid member all but hidden in the shadows of his massive belly. The sight filled Jardir with disgust.

  “Stop! I command you!” the Andrah cried as Jardir charged, but Jardir ignored him, striking the man across the jaw with the butt of the spear.

  “Not even you can deny a husband his rights in this!” Jardir cried as the Andrah hit the floor. “I do Krasia a favor this night!” He raised the spear to impale the man.

  Inevera grabbed his arm. “Fool!” she cried. “You will ruin everything!”

  Jardir pivoted to backhand Inevera across the face, knocking her away. “Have no fear, faithless jiwah,” he said, turning back to the Andrah. “My spear will find you soon enough.”

  He raised the spear again and the Andrah screamed, but then everything turned orange and red, and Jardir was struck by an incredible force, knocking him away from his victim. The plates of fired clay sewn within his heavy warrior’s garb took the brunt of the blast, but when he recovered from striking the wall, he found his robes in flames. With a shout, he tore them off.

  He looked to Inevera, holding the fire demon skull she had brought to their first meeting in Sharik Hora. She stood naked before two men with no shame, knowing that even now, her beauty had no equal. Hatred and arousal swirled in him, warring for dominance.

  “Stop this foolishness!” she snapped.

  “I take no more orders from you,” Jardir said. “Burn down this whole palace if you wish, I will still kill that fat pig and take you on his corpse!” The Andrah whimpered, but Jardir snarled, silencing him.

  Inevera did not even flinch, producing a small object in her other hand. It looked like a lump of coal until the ward carved upon it flared, and Jardir realized that it, too, was alagai hora. The blackened piece of bone crackled, and silver magic leapt from it, like a bolt of lightning, to strike Jardir.

  Jardir was lifted from his feet and thrown back into the wall, his body racked with agony beyond anything he could imagine. He tried to open himself to it, but the pain ended as quickly as it had begun, leaving only a stark terror in its wake. He turned back to Inevera, but she raised the stone again, and the lightning struck a second time, and again after that when he still managed to put his feet under him. He struggled to rise a third time, but his limbs did not respond to his commands, muscles spasming uncontrollably.

  “Finally, we understand each other,” Inevera said. “I am Everam’s will, and you had best put aside thoughts of resisting me. If bedding a fat pig gets you the white turban, then you should be thanking me for my sacrifice, not trying to ruin things.”

  “Fat pig?!” the Andrah demanded, rising to his feet at last. “I am—!”

  “—alive because I wish it,” Inevera said, raising the demon skull. Flames licked from its j
aws, and the Andrah blanched.

  “I needed your support of Jardir until he won over the Sharum and Damaji of the other tribes,” she said, “but now that Qasha is with child, the Sharum will see that he is brother to all of them in day as well as night. You can never depose him now.”

  “I am the Andrah!” the man shouted. “I can raze this palace with a wave of my hand!”

  Inevera laughed. “Then you will have civil war. And even if you did kill Ahmann, what of his dama’ting wives? Will you rape and slaughter them, as is the custom? The Evejah is clear about the fate of any who would dare harm a dama’ting.”

  The Andrah scowled, having no reply.

  “The gates of Heaven are closed,” she said, slinging silk across her shoulders to cover her nakedness. “Perhaps they will open again the next time I need a proclamation from you, or perhaps I will send Ahmann to write it in your blood. But until then, take your withered old spear back to your palace.”

  Not even bothering to dress, the Andrah gathered his clothes in his arms and scurried from the room.

  Inevera approached Jardir, kneeling beside him. The lump of demon bone she had used to throw lightning disintegrated, and she brushed the ash from her hand bemusedly. “You are strong,” she said. “Few men could rise after one strike, much less three. I’ll have to use a larger bone when I carve a new one tonight.”

  She reached out to him, gentling his hair and caressing his face. “Ah, my love,” she said sadly. “How I wish you had not seen this.”

  Jardir fought with his tongue, which felt as if it had swollen to fill his entire mouth. “Why?” he finally managed to croak.

  Inevera sighed. “The Andrah was going to have you executed for killing his friend with such dishonor. I did what was needed to save your life and gain you power. But fear not. The day is fast approaching when you will take his throne, and on that day, you may cut the manhood from him yourself.”

  “Did…” Jardir began, unable to manage more. He swallowed hard, trying to lubricate his tongue, but even that seemed beyond him.

  Inevera rose and brought him water, running it over his lips and massaging his throat to help him swallow. She used her silk wrap to dry his mouth, revealing one of her breasts. He wondered how, even now, he could desire her, but it was undeniable.

  “Did you know it would come to this,” he asked, “when you had me kill the Sharum Ka?” Again he called upon his limbs to move, and again they failed to respond.

  Inevera sighed again. “You have lived but twenty winters, my love, and even you can recall a time when Krasia had ten thousand dal’Sharum. The eldest Damaji can recall when it was ten times that, and the ancient scrolls show our numbers in the millions before the Return. Our people are dying, Ahmann, because they lack a leader. They need more than a strong Sharum Ka, more than a powerful Andrah. They need Shar’Dama Ka, before Nie scatters the last of us to the sands.”

  Inevera paused, breaking eye contact, and it seemed she considered her next words carefully. “I didn’t ask the dice if I would ever see you again, that first night,” she admitted. “I asked if there was a man in all Krasia who could pull us from attrition and lead us back to glory, and they pointed to a boy I would find weeping in the Maze, years hence.”

  “I am the Deliverer?” Jardir asked, his voice hoarse and disbelieving.

  Inevera shrugged. “The dice never lie, but neither do they give absolutes. There are futures where men believe you so, and unite behind you, and others where they unite behind another, or not at all.”

  “Then what good are they?” Jardir asked. “If that is inevera, fate will decide it.”

  “There is no fate as you understand it,” Inevera said, “save that Sharak Ka, the final battle, is coming, and soon. We dare not let the future go unguided. I have watched you since you first took the bido, my sweet. You are Krasia’s best hope of salvation, and I will seize for you every advantage, even at the cost of my body’s honor, or your own.”

  Jardir looked at her with wide eyes. Words failed him as surely as his limbs continued to do. Inevera bent and kissed his forehead, her lips soft and cool. She rose to her feet, looking down sadly as he continued to twitch helplessly on the floor.

  “Everything I do, I do for you, and for Sharak Ka,” she said, and left the room.

  CHAPTER 6

  FALSE PROPHET

  333 AR WINTER

  “THE CHINARE PROVING ideal slaves,” Jayan said. “Even the least of them put such high value on their own lives that they will never muster the courage to resist. Truly it is a great conquest, Father. Your glory knows no bounds.”

  Jardir shook his head. “To shift a few grains of sand is no more a sign of great strength than to see the sun a sign of great sight. There is no glory in dominating the weak.”

  “Still, it is a great boon to us,” Jayan pressed. “Our victory is complete, and at no cost to ourselves.”

  Across the room, Abban snorted at his tiny writing desk.

  “You have something to add, khaffit?” Jayan demanded.

  “Nothing, my prince,” Abban said quickly, looking up from his ledgers. He stood and braced himself on his camel-headed crutch, bowing deeply. “It was but a cough.”

  “No, please,” Jayan said. “Tell us what amused you so.”

  Abban’s eyes flicked to Jardir, who nodded.

  “There may have been no loss of dal’Sharum, my prince, but there has definitely been cost,” Abban said. “Food, clothing, shelter, transportation. Keeping such a vast army as ours on the move is costly beyond measure. Your father may control the riches of all twelve tribes, and Everam’s Bounty besides, but even his wealth has an end.”

  Asome nodded. “The Evejah tells us: When a man’s purse is empty, his rivals grow bolder.”

  Jayan laughed. “Who would dare oppose Father? Besides, why should the Shar’Dama Ka pay for anything? We have conquered this land. We can take whatever we wish.”

  Abban nodded. “That is so, but a robbed merchant has no capital to replenish his stock. You can take all the chandler’s candles, but if you do not pay at least their cost, you will find yourself sitting in the dark when the last one burns out.”

  Jayan snorted. “Candles are for weak khaffit scroll worshippers. They make no difference to warriors in the night.”

  “Wood and steel for spears, then,” Abban said patiently, as if speaking to a child. “Cloth for uniforms and fired clay for armor. Leather and oil for saddle harness. These things do not appear from thin air, and if we steal every seed and goat now, there will be nothing to fill our bellies a year hence.”

  “I do not care for your tone, pig-eater,” Jayan growled.

  “Be silent and attend his words,” Jardir snapped. “The khaffit is offering you wisdom, my son, and you would be wise to take it.”

  Jayan looked at his father in shock, but quickly bowed. “Of course, Father.” His eyes shot daggers at Abban.

  Jardir looked to Asome, who had stood quietly through all this. “And you, my son? What say you to the khaffit’s words?”

  “The unworthy one makes a fair point,” Asome conceded. “There are still those among the Damaji who resent your rise, and they would use any privation of their tribesmen as excuse to sow discord.”

  Jardir nodded. “And what would you do to attend this problem?”

  Asome shrugged. “Kill and replace the disloyal Damaji before they grow bold.”

  “That would sow discord of its own,” Jardir noted. He looked to Abban.

  “It’s too costly to keep our army together in the city,” Abban said. “And so they must be dispersed into the hamlets.” Jardir’s sons looked at the fat merchant incredulously.

  “Disband our army? What foolishness is this?” Jayan demanded. “Father, this khaffit is a coward and a fool! I beg you, let me kill him!”

  “Idiot boy!” Jardir snapped. “Do you think the khaffit speaks words unknown to me?”

  Jayan looked at him in shock.

  “One day, my
sons,” Jardir said, looking from Jayan to Asome and back, “I will die. If you have any wish to survive the days that follow, you must listen for wisdom from every side.”

  Jayan turned to Abban and bowed. It was a minuscule thing, barely a nod, and his eyes shot death at the fat merchant for shaming him. “Please, khaffit, do share your wisdom.”

  Abban bowed in return, though even with his crutch he could have gone lower. “With the lost granaries, the central city cannot support all of Krasia’s peoples without privation, my prince. But there are hundreds of small villages, arranged around this city like the spokes of a wheel. We will have the greenland duke provide lists, and divide them among the tribes.”

  “That is a vast territory to hold,” Asome noted.

  Abban shrugged. “Hold from whom? No army threatens us, and as my prince says, the chin are ideal slaves. Better to let the Shar’Dama Ka’s armies disperse until needed, saving him the need to provide for them. Instead, they each take a territory to forage on and tax, hunting its alagai at night. They can form greenland sharaji to train the boys in their territories, and leave the women and elderly to plant another crop in the spring. A year from now, the tribes will be richer than they have ever been, with thousands of greenland nie’Sharum. Give the tribes wealth instead of privations, and by the time the novices come of age, the Shar’Dama Ka will control the largest army the world has ever known, fanatically loyal, and, best of all, paying for itself.”

  Jardir looked at his sons. “Do you see now the use of khaffit?”

  “Yes, Father,” the boys answered, dipping identical bows.

  Damaji Ashan entered the throne room, sweeping smoothly onto his hands and knees, touching his forehead to the floor. His white robes were flecked with blood, and there was a grim set to his eyes beneath his black turban.

  “Rise, my friend,” Jardir said. Ashan had always been his most loyal counselor, even before his rise to power. Now he spoke for the whole of the Kaji, the most powerful tribe in Krasia, and he had named as his successor his eldest son, Asukaji, Jardir’s nephew by his sister Imisandre. After Jardir himself, there was no man in all the world as powerful.