The Desert Spear (demon)

by Peter V. Brett

  “I am truly sorry, my friend,” he said. “I wish there could be another way.”

  The Par’chin spat in his face. “Everam is watching your betrayal!”

  Jardir felt a flash of anger. The Par’chin did not believe in Heaven, but he was willing to use the Creator’s name when it suited his purpose. He had no wives or children, no ties to family or tribe, but he thought he knew what was best for all. His arrogance knew no bounds.

  “Do not speak of Everam, chin,” Jardir said. “I am his Sharum Ka, not you. Without me, Krasia falls.”

  They rode out of the city secretly in the predawn light. Most of the alagai had already returned to the abyss, but a sand demon must have heard their approach and waited, because it leapt out at them from the shadow of a dune mere minutes before dawn.

  Jardir was ready, and the defensive wards on the shaft of the spear flared as he parried the attack. The alagai was thrown to the ground and glanced at the brightening sky, but before it could dematerialize, Jardir leapt from the back of his horse and skewered it.

  There was a pulse of light as the warded spearhead punched through the gritty armor of the demon, and Jardir felt the spear come to life in his hand. A shock ran through him like Inevera’s lightning stone, but where that was agony, this was ecstasy. Immediately he felt stronger, faster. Old aches from injuries long forgotten, pains he had become so accustomed to he no longer noticed them, suddenly vanished, revealing themselves by their absence. He felt immortal. Invincible. He swung his arms effortlessly, hurling the demon’s corpse thirty feet to await the rising sun.

  The sense of power faded quickly after the kill, but the healing remained. Jardir was over thirty, but he suddenly remembered what it had felt like when his body was twenty, and wondered how he had ever forgotten.

  All this from a single sand demon, he mused. What must the Par’chin have felt when he used it on dozens of alagai in the Maze?

  But he would never know the answer, for they left the unconscious Par’chin facedown on the dunes moments before sunrise, miles from the city and more than a day’s walk from the nearest village.

  Jardir looked down at him, and the greenlander’s words flashed in his mind. Everam is watching your betrayal! he had shouted.

  “Why could you not have left when I begged it of you, my friend?” Jardir asked—one more question the Par’chin could never answer for him.

  Jardir regarded his friend sadly as Hasik and Shanjat climbed back into their saddles. He took the skin of cool water from his saddle horn, throwing it to land with a thump in the sand beside the greenlander’s prone form.

  “What are you doing?” Ashan asked. “We should kill him now, not help him.”

  “I will not stab an unconscious warrior,” Jardir said. “The skin will not fly him across the sands to succor, but he will wake, and drink, and when the alagai come, he will die on his feet like a man, and find his way to paradise.”

  “What if he returns to the city?” Shanjat asked.

  “Post Mehnding on the walls through the day to shoot him if he tries,” Jardir said.

  He looked back. But you won’t, will you, Par’chin? he thought. You have a Sharum’s spirit, and will die fighting alagai with your bare hands.

  “He is a chin,” Ashan said. “An unbeliever. What makes you think Everam will welcome him in Heaven?”

  Jardir raised the spear, catching the light from the rising sun. “Because I am Shar’Dama Ka, and I say it is so.”

  The others goggled, but no one disputed the claim.

  Inevera’s words from just hours ago came to him again.

  At dawn, you will declare yourself Shar’Dama Ka.

  He looked back to the body of the Par’chin.

  Die well, he prayed, and when we meet in Heaven, if I have not fulfilled both our dreams, we shall have a reckoning.

  He turned his horse, riding back to the city.

  His city.

  CHAPTER 9

  SHAR’DAMA KA

  329 AR

  “GO NO FARTHER, TRAITOR, ” Dama Everal said, moving to block the entrance to the Andrah’s throne room. He was the oldest of the Andrah’s sons, almost certain to become Damaji on the death of Amadeveram, and likely Andrah after that. At fifty, he was still robust and black-haired, a sharusahk master said to have no equal.

  He was also the last of the Andrah’s sons Jardir would have to kill before he could gut the fat old man.

  It was not yet a month since, covered in demon gore, Jardir had announced himself the Deliverer in the Maze. Three-quarters of the Sharum had declared for him on the spot. Half the dama as well, with more converting daily. The remainder rallied to their Damaji, who attempted to defend their own palaces at first, but finally, as Jardir’s power grew, fled through the Undercity and barricaded themselves behind the walls of the Andrah’s palace.

  His conquest might have lasted days rather than the weeks it had taken, but each nightfall, Jardir blew the Horn of Sharak, calling his warriors to the Maze. The meanest soldier had a battle-warded spear now, and the alagai greeted the sun in droves.

  Free to regroup at night, the Andrah and Damaji had thought this a great advantage, but they had not reckoned with the shame this caused their remaining Sharum, denied alagai’sharak by their leaders while Jardir’s men saw endless glory. Warriors deserted nightly, and were welcomed in the Maze without question. At last, there were not enough to hold even the Andrah’s walls. Jardir’s men had taken the gates shortly after dawn, and breached the palace doors soon after. Now there was only one man between Jardir and his vengeance.

  “Your forgiveness, Dama,” Jardir said, bowing to Everal, “but I cannot offer you surrender as I have other men, for who could trust a man not willing to die for his own father? Better that you die with honor.”

  “Pretender!” Everal spat. “You are no Deliverer, just a murderer with a stolen spear. You would be nothing without it!”

  Jardir stopped short, holding up a hand to halt the warriors behind him.

  “Think you truly so?” Jardir asked.

  Everal spat at his feet. “Put the weapon down and face me without its tainted magic, if it is not so.”

  “Acha!” Jardir said, and tossed the spear to Everal. The dama caught the weapon reflexively, his eyes widening as he realized what he now held.

  Something changed in Everal then, a subtle shift in his stance and disposition. The others might not have noticed, but it was as clear to Jardir as if the dama had spoken. Before, he had thought himself a doomed man, determined only to inflict some damage before he died. Now Dama Everal had a glimmer of hope in his eyes, a belief that he might kill Jardir and end the rebellion that had pierced the heart of Krasia.

  Jardir nodded. “Now your soul is prepared to meet Everam with honor,” he said, and launched himself at the dama.

  Everal was a sharusahk master, but the Evejah forbade clerics the spear, and in all Jardir’s years in Sharik Hora he had never seen that law broken. He expected the dama’s spearwork to be poor and easily defeated.

  Seek every advantage, Khevat taught.

  But Everal surprised him, spinning the spear about like a whip staff. It moved invisibly fast as the dama came at him, and for a few moments it was all Jardir could do to keep from its path. Everal’s moves were fast and precise, one attack flowing smoothly into the next as one would expect from a man who had spent four decades in Sharik Hora. Everal brought the point into play at last, scoring a line on Jardir’s cheek, and another cut in his arm.

  At last, Jardir saw the rhythm behind the dama’s attacks and came in quick to hook his arm around the spear’s shaft and pivot, throwing the dama across the hall where he struck a column and landed heavily.

  Jardir waited for Everal to roll to his feet, then laid the spear on the floor. The dama’s eyes widened.

  “You are a fool to give up your advantage,” Everal said, but Jardir only smiled, having taken the cleric’s measure. He came in with his arms spread, and Everal met him, more
than willing to grapple.

  To the untrained eyes of the Sharum, what followed must have appeared a simple struggle that strength would tell, but in truth the hundreds of subtle shifts and twists were sharukin, designed to turn an opponent’s own energy against him.

  Little by little, Jardir worked his way toward a death hold. It was in evitable, and he could see in the dama’s eyes that Everal knew it, too.

  “Impossible,” Everal gasped as Jardir’s hand came around his throat.

  “There is a difference, dama,” Jardir said, “between strength gained fighting air, and strength gained fighting alagai.” He pulled hard, and Everal’s neck snapped with a sound that echoed in the hall.

  The Damaji were clustered at the foot of the dais to the Andrah’s throne. They looked up as one when Jardir’s men smashed in the doors. The Andrah cowered and cringed on the Skull Throne, gripping the arms so tightly his knuckles showed white.

  Jardir looked at the cluster of old men with a predatory eye. Evejan law gave each of them the right to challenge him to single combat on his way to the dais. Jardir did not fear the Damaji, but he had no wish to kill them.

  “Kill them if you must,” Inevera had said, “but your conquest will be more complete if you break their will for the fight.” She had even told him what to offer.

  “Damaji,” he said. “All of you are loyal servants of Everam, and I wish no quarrel with you. I ask only that you step aside.”

  “And what will become of us, after you sit the Skull Throne?” Kevera of the Sharach asked. As Damaji to Krasia’s smallest tribe, it was his place to offer the first challenge.

  Jardir smiled. “Nothing, my friend. You Damaji fear for your palaces? Keep them, and minister to your tribes as you always have. I ask only a symbolic gesture of support.”

  Kevera’s eyes narrowed. “And that is?”

  “My second son by Qasha is nie’dama,” Jardir noted.

  Kevera nodded. “A promising one.”

  Jardir smiled. “I would ask that you keep him ever at your side, that he may learn at your sandals.”

  “And one day succeed me,” Kevera stated more than asked.

  Jardir shrugged. “If that is inevera.”

  Jardir eyed the other Damaji as they digested the offer, and again marveled at the completeness of Inevera’s planning. His dama’ting wives had been fertile, and the dice never failed to predict the right moments to conceive. Each bride had presented Jardir with two sons and a daughter by their fourth year of marriage, and their bellies had continued to swell afterward. He had a nie’dama son in every tribe now, to take the black turban when the current Damaji died, even as his own wives would do on the passing of their tribe’s Damaji’ting. Inevera had laid the groundwork for him to assume power more than a decade ago. It was…unsettling.

  The Damaji continued to consider. Their titles were not hereditary, but to a man they had sons and grandsons among their tribes’ dama, and it was not uncommon for the black turban to be passed along bloodlines. Still, retaining their own power would take some of the sting from his ascension, and if it grated on the Damaji to give up aspiration for their sons, it remained preferable to seeing them put to the spear, as Kaji had done to the sons of his defeated enemies. Jardir could easily do that as well, and they knew it. There was no need for him to offer his own sons as hostages, save in a sincere gesture of unity.

  For the lesser tribes, this was enough.

  “Shar’Dama Ka,” Kevera of the Sharach said, bowing and stepping aside.

  The others followed suit, parting before him like ala before the plow: The Bajin, Anjha, Jama, Khanjin, Halvas, and Shunjin all let him pass without challenge. Jardir tensed as he approached the Krevakh and Nanji Damaji. The Watcher tribes were intensely loyal, and practiced their own schools of sharusahk, said to be the deadliest in all the Desert Spear. Jardir felt Everam’s will thrumming in him, and did not fear any man, but he kept on guard, respecting their skills.

  He needn’t have worried. The Watcher Damaji were much as their Sharum, preferring to observe and advise, not lead. They stepped aside, leaving only the three most powerful Damaji standing between him and the Skull Throne: Enkaji of the Mehnding, Aleverak of the Majah, and Amadeveram of the Kaji. These men ruled thousands and lived in lavish excess. Their tribes had dozens of dama, including their own sons and grandsons. They would not surrender so easily.

  Enkaji of the Mehnding was a powerfully built man, still robust at fifty-five. He was known as a man of great cleverness as well, leader of a tribe filled with battle engineers. His tribe may have been smaller, but Enkaji was wealthier than the Majah and Kaji Damaji combined, and it was no secret the Damaji had long meant to pass that wealth to his eldest son.

  Their eyes met, and Jardir thought for a moment the man might actually challenge him. He was readying for the fight when the Damaji laughed ruefully and spread his hands in an exaggerated bow as he cleared the path to the dais.

  Aleverak of the Majah was next. The ancient Damaji was nearly eighty, but nonetheless he bowed and assumed a sharusahk stance. Jardir nodded, and the Sharum and Damaji at his back spread wide to give the men room to fight.

  Jardir bowed deeply. “You honor me, Damaji,” he said, assuming a stance of his own. He was impressed the old man was still alive, much less still possessed of his warrior’s spirit. He deserved an honorable death.

  “Begin!” Amadeveram shouted, and Jardir shot forward, meaning to grapple and end the battle swiftly and bloodlessly. He might yet force a submission from the Damaji’s living lips.

  But Aleverak surprised him, twisting sharply and much more quickly than Jardir would have believed possible. He caught hold of Jardir’s arm and used his own momentum against him.

  Feeling his joints scream, Jardir had no choice but to go limp and follow the Damaji’s throw. He landed on his back, and the gathered crowd gasped in amazement. Aleverak advanced quickly, driving a bony heel down at Jardir’s throat, but Jardir caught the foot in both hands, twisting in opposite directions as he got his feet under him.

  Aleverak accepted the twist, leaping into it and again using Jardir’s own strength against him as he kicked Jardir in the mouth with his free foot. Again Jardir found himself hitting the marble floor, with Aleverak still on his feet.

  Everyone watched the battle with great interest now. A moment ago the fight had been about giving an old man an honorable death—a footnote in the tale of Jardir’s ascension. But suddenly everything Jardir had built was in jeopardy. His sons were still too young to properly defend themselves if his enemies bared knives at them without Jardir’s protection. The Andrah leaned forward on this throne, watching intently.

  Aleverak charged again, but Jardir managed to get his feet back under him in time and met him head-on. This time, he kept his feet firmly planted, giving the old man no energy to turn back on him. Aleverak’s blows were amazingly quick, but Jardir still blocked the first two. The third he let go through, accepting the punch in exchange for the opportunity to lock on to the Damaji’s arm.

  Aleverak offered Jardir no energy for a throw of his own, but whereas the ancient Damaji was little more than tough skin over sharp bone, Jardir was thick with muscle, a warrior in his prime. He did not need to steal energy to throw a man who weighed little more than his age.

  Jardir flexed and pivoted sharply, hurling Aleverak away from him. The Damaji twisted with the move, never losing his balance even as he was thrown, and Jardir knew he would land on his feet and come right back in.

  Jardir kept hold of Aleverak’s arm, ducking under it to aid his twist and putting a foot into the old man’s back as he hit the floor. He pulled hard, and the snap of Aleverak’s shoulder echoed up to the great domed ceiling above. Bone tore through the Damaji’s white robes, which quickly ran red.

  Jardir moved to finish him quickly before pain could unman him, but Aleverak never screamed, never offered submission. Jardir met the ancient Damaji’s eyes and saw a focus that denied all pain as Aleverak
struggled back to his feet. His honor was boundless as he took a new stance, his left arm leading as his right hung twisted, limp, and bloody.

  “You cannot prevent my ascending to the Skull Throne, Damaji,” Jardir said as they slowly circled. “And most of your tribe has already sworn to me. See reason, I beg. Is a grave for you and your sons so preferable to being advisor to the Shar’Dama Ka?”

  “My sons will no more turn our tribe over to you without a fight than I will,” Aleverak said. Jardir knew it was true, but he was loath to kill Aleverak all the same. Too many honorable men had died already, and with Sharak Ka coming, Ala had none to spare. His thoughts flashed back to the Par’chin, lying facedown in the sand, and shame brought mercy to his lips.

  “I will let your sons offer one challenge to mine, on your death,” Jardir offered at last. “Let them decide among themselves who it will be.”

  There was a buzz of angry chatter among the surrendered Damaji at that, but Jardir glared at them. “Silence!” he roared, and they all fell still. He turned back to Aleverak.

  “Will you be at my side, Damaji, as Krasia rises back to glory?” he asked. The Damaji was growing paler by the second from blood loss. If he did not acquiesce, Jardir would kill him quickly, that he might die on his feet.

  But Aleverak bowed, glancing to his bleeding shoulder. “I accept your offer, though that challenge may come sooner than you think.”

  It was true. Jardir’s Majah son, Maji, was only eleven, and would prove no match to one of Aleverak’s sons should the Damaji die from his wound. “Hasik, escort Damaji Aleverak to the dama’ting for healing,” Jardir ordered.

  Hasik moved to the old man’s side, but Aleverak held up a hand. “I will see this through, and Everam decide if I live or die this day.” The steel in his voice held Hasik at bay, and Jardir nodded, turning to Amadeveram, the last Damaji between him and the cowering Andrah.

  Amadeveram was younger than Aleverak, but still a man in his seventies. Jardir knew better than to underestimate him, though, especially after the fine showing of the older cleric.