The Desert Spear (demon)

by Peter V. Brett

  The first meeting with the Krasian leader had seemed to indicate that was a possibility. He was cultured and intelligent, nothing like the rabid animal the accounts had portrayed, and clearly held true to his beliefs, even if Leesha thought them brutal and cruel at times. She had looked deeply into his eyes, and there was no cruelty there. Like a stern father administering a needed spanking, Ahmann Jardir was doing what he thought best for humanity.

  Leesha paused in her work, realizing that the chopping outside had stopped. She looked up as the door opened and Wonda stood in the threshold.

  “Wash up and set the table,” Leesha said. “Lunch will be another few minutes.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, mistress, but Rojer and Gared are here to see you,” Wonda said.

  “Tell them to come in and set another pair of places at the table,” Leesha said.

  But Wonda just stood there. “They’re not alone.”

  Leesha set her knife on the cutting board and toweled her hands clean as she went to the door. Ahmann Jardir stood on her front porch, standing calmly and ignoring the way Gared glared at him. He wore a fine white robe over his warrior blacks, matching the white turban his crown nestled within. Leesha’s eyes danced across its wards, but she forced herself not to stare. She dropped her gaze to his eyes, but that was worse, for they bored into her with such intensity that she felt as if he could see her very soul.

  Jardir bowed deeply. “Forgive my appearing unannounced, mistress.”

  “Just say the word and I’ll haul him back where he came from, Leesha,” Gared said.

  “Nonsense,” Leesha said. “Welcome,” she told Jardir. “Wonda and I were about to sit down to lunch. Would you care to join us?”

  “I would be honored and delighted,” Jardir said, bowing again. He followed Leesha into the cottage, pausing to remove his sandals and leave them by the door. Leesha noted that even his feet were covered in ward scars. A kick from him would likely do as much to a coreling as one by the Painted Man.

  The meal Mistress Leesha had prepared was a meatless stew served with fresh bread and cheese. Jardir bowed his head as she invoked a blessing over the food, and then everyone began eating at once. He began to lift his bowl to drink when he noticed the greenlanders were leaving theirs on the table, using some sort of tool to bring the food to their lips.

  He glanced at his own setting, and saw a similar utensil there—a wooden strip with a depression at the end. He looked at Leesha and mirrored her actions as he tasted the stew. It was delicious, with heavy vegetables he had never tasted. He began to eat more vigorously, using the thick greenland bread to soak the last drops from his bowl as he saw Gared and Wonda do.

  “Exquisite,” he told the mistress, and felt a thrill run through him as he saw her pleasure at the compliment. “We do not have such food in Krasia.”

  Leesha smiled. “There is much we could learn from each other, if we can find a way to live in peace.”

  “Peace, mistress?” Jardir asked. “There is no such thing on Ala. Not while the alagai hold the night and men cower before them.”

  “So the tales are true?” Leesha asked. “You mean to conquer us and levy our people for Sharak Ka?”

  “Why should I wish to conquer you?” Jardir asked. “Your people are humble before the Creator, stand tall in the night, and shed blood in alagai’sharak alongside my warriors. That makes you Evejan, though you know it not.”

  “It don’t!” the giant growled. “We ent got nothin’ to do with your filthy—”

  “Gared Cutter!” Leesha’s voice snapped like a dama’s whip, silencing him. “You’ll keep a polite tongue at my table or I’ll give it such a dose of pepper you can’t talk for a month!”

  Gared recoiled, and again Jardir was amazed at the power of the woman. She made the dama’ting seem timid.

  Leesha turned to him. “I apologize, Ahmann.” She seemed taken aback when he smiled brightly at her. “What did I say?”

  “My name,” Jardir said simply.

  “I’m sorry,” Leesha said. “Was that improper of me?”

  “On the contrary,” Jardir said. “It sounds beautiful, coming from your lips.”

  With no veil to cover her cheeks, Jardir saw how her pale skin reddened at his words. He had never courted a woman before, but it seemed as if Everam himself guided his words.

  “More than three thousand years ago,” Jardir said, “my ancestor Kaji ruled this land from the Southern Sea to the frozen waste.”

  “So the histories say,” Leesha agreed, “though three thousand years is a long time, and accounts can become…blurred.”

  “Perhaps here in the North,” Jardir said, “but the temple of Sharik Hora in the Desert Spear has stood that long and more, and our records are sharp. Kaji did rule this land, sometimes by the spear, and sometimes by building alliance with its tribes and sealing it with blood.”

  He looked around the table. “Kaji’s blood is still strong here. Even your name, Deliverer’s Hollow, honors him. You are not chin to be conquered, but lost brethren to be welcomed into our fold. I name you Hollow tribe, and accord you all the rights therein.”

  “What rights?” Leesha asked.

  Jardir reached into his robe, producing his personal Evejah. Its cover was of supple leather embossed with wards, and its pages were gilded in gold. A red ribbon hung ready to mark a page. The pages were soft and thin from daily use.

  “These rights,” he said, giving her the volume.

  Leesha took the book as one who knew its value, and he recalled she was a bookbinder’s daughter as she turned it to examine the spine. She pushed her bowl aside and spread the cloth from her lap over the table before laying the book upon it and paging through.

  “It’s beautiful,” she said after a time. “But much as I would love to learn the language, I’m afraid I can’t understand a word.” She closed the book and held it out to him.

  Jardir held up a hand to forestall her. “Keep it. What better book to help you learn? You may find its truths more in line with your own beliefs than you imagine.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t!” Leesha said. “This is too precious!”

  Jardir laughed. “You give me a cloak that rivals Kaji’s own, and you balk at a book of his truths? I can pen another.”

  Leesha looked back down at the book, and then up at him. “You penned this yourself?”

  “In my own blood,” Jardir said, “during the years I studied in Sharik Hora.”

  Leesha’s eyes widened.

  “It is not gold or jewels, I understand,” Jardir said. “I would shower them upon you if I could, but I brought no such trinkets north. This is the most valuable thing I own, apart from my crown, spear, and new cloak. I hope you will accept it while Abban negotiates a proper dower with your mother.”

  “Dower?” Leesha asked in surprise.

  “Of course,” Jardir said. “Your father gave me permission to court you, and your mother will see your price is met. Did they not tell you?”

  “No they corespawned didn’t!” Leesha cried, rising to her feet so fast her chair skidded out behind her. In an instant everyone was on their feet. Jardir felt a sudden flash of fear. He had given offense to her, but without understanding how, he could not even apologize.

  “Son of the Core!” the giant cried, and swung his meaty fist across the table at Jardir.

  Jardir could not remember the last time a man had dared to strike at him. Had they been anywhere but at Mistress Leesha’s table, Jardir would have killed him for the affront, but remembering Leesha’s abhorrence of violence, he acted only in his own defense. He caught Gared’s wrist and pivoted, pulling him clear across the table and flipping him onto his back. He put a single toe into Gared’s throat and held his log of a wrist with only two fingers, but though the giant thrashed, he was held firmly prone and helpless, his face reddening more with every second.

  “Your betters are speaking, Sharum,” he said. “I have tolerated your constant rudeness out of respect to Mist
ress Leesha, but if you try to lay hands on me again, I will tear your arm off.” He gave a slight tug, and Gared roared in pain. Everyone looked to Leesha for how to react.

  Leesha crossed her arms. “Serves you right, Gared Cutter. No one asked you to attack anyone in my home.” She nodded to the door. “Out with you. Rojer and Wonda, too. You can all wait in the yard.”

  “The Core we will!” Rojer cried, Wonda nodding along with him. “If you think we ’re leaving you alone with this—”

  There was a bang and a flash at their feet, and they jumped in shock. Leesha said nothing, but her face was a storm cloud as she pointed at the door. Both were gone in an instant. Jardir released Gared, and he, too, scurried out.

  Jardir turned to Leesha and bowed long and deep. “I apologize, mistress, though I do not understand why I have given distress. I have come to you and your family honorably, yet you act as if I tried to carry you off after stealing a well.”

  Leesha did not respond for a long time, and her anger was terrible to behold, such that Jardir had an urge to shield his eyes as if in a sandstorm. Slowly, she embraced the feeling, and her features grew calm once more.

  “I apologize as well,” she said. “My distress is not directed at you, but at being the last to find out you had come courting.”

  “Abban told your parents I would come immediately,” Jardir said. “I assumed they sent you word.”

  Leesha nodded. “I believe you. My mother has a history of trying to make such arrangements without my knowledge.”

  Jardir bowed. “If you need time to consider, you need not answer now.”

  “Yes…,” Leesha began, “I mean, no. That is, I’m flattered, but I can’t marry you.”

  You will, Jardir thought. You are destined to love me as I already do you.

  “Why not?” he asked her instead. “Your mother says you are unspoken for, and I will meet any dower your family desires. Soon I will control all the Northland, and you with me. What husband could offer you more?”

  Leesha paused for a moment, then shook her head as if to clear it. “It doesn’t matter. I barely know you, dowers mean nothing to me, and frankly, I don’t know that I want you ‘controlling’ anything.”

  “Come with me to Everam’s Bounty,” Jardir said. “Come see my people and what we are building. I will teach you our language as you asked, and you can come to know me and decide what I am…worthy to control.”

  Leesha looked at him a long time, but Jardir waited patiently, knowing her answer was inevera. “All right,” she said at last, “but with proper chaperone, and no decision until I am safely returned to the Hollow.”

  Jardir bowed. “Of course. I swear it by Everam.”

  Rojer paced the yard, staring at Leesha’s cottage. Gared’s clenched fists were like two hams, and even Wonda had fetched and strung her bow. Finally, the door opened, and Leesha followed Jardir out onto the porch. “Wonda, escort Mr. Jardir back to town,” she said. “Gared, you can finish cording the woodpile.”

  Gared grunted and picked up Wonda’s axe as she and Jardir headed down the path. Rojer looked at Leesha, who nodded her head back to the door. She went inside, and he followed as she went right to Bruna’s rocker and put on her shawl. Never a good sign.

  “How did he take your refusal?” Rojer asked, not bothering to sit.

  Leesha sighed. “He didn’t. Told me to take my time and think it through. He’s invited me back to Rizon with him.”

  “You can’t go,” Rojer said.

  Leesha raised an eyebrow at that. “You have no more say over who I marry than my mother, Rojer.”

  “Are you saying you want to marry him?” Rojer asked. “After a single tea and an awkward lunch?”

  “Of course not,” Leesha said. “I have no intention of accepting his proposal.”

  “Then why in the Core would you deliver yourself into his hands?” Rojer asked.

  “There’s an army at our doorstep, Rojer,” Leesha said. “You don’t see value in looking at them with our own eyes? Counting tents and learning how their leader thinks?”

  “Not at the cost of our own leader,” Rojer said. “Duke Rhinebeck doesn’t personally go to Miln to see what Euchor’s up to. He sends spies.”

  “I don’t have any spies,” Leesha said.

  Rojer snorted. “You have over a thousand Rizonans who owe you their lives, many who left family behind. Surely a few could be persuaded to return home and keep their ears open.”

  “I won’t order people to put themselves at risk,” Leesha said.

  “But you’ll put yourself?” Rojer asked.

  “I don’t think Ahmann would harm me,” Leesha said.

  “Two days ago, he was the demon of the desert,” Rojer said. “Now he’s Ahmann? What, do you just shine on any man who thinks he ’s the Deliverer?”

  Leesha scowled. “I don’t want to hear any more of this, Rojer.”

  “I don’t care what you want,” Rojer snapped. “You’ve heard how the Krasians treat women. No matter what that oily snake tells you, the moment you’re out of range of the Hollowers’ bows you’ll be his property, and anyone with you will get a spear in the eye.”

  “So you won’t be coming with me?” Leesha asked.

  “Night, haven’t you heard anything I’ve been saying?” Rojer demanded.

  “Every word,” Leesha said, “but I’m still going. If that’s the kind of man Ahmann is, then war is inevitable and it doesn’t matter what we do. But if there’s even a chance he meant what he said at the table, then there’s a chance we can find a way to coexist without killing each other, and that’s worth more to the world than the fate of Leesha Paper.”

  Rojer sighed, plopping down in a chair. “When do we leave?”

  SECTION 4

  THE CALL OF THE CORE

  CHAPTER 26

  RETURN TO TIBBET’S BROOK

  333 AR SUMMER

  THE PAINTED MAN’S MOOD was black as Fort Miln receded in the distance. Any happiness he had felt upon leaving Ragen and Elissa’s manse was swept away by the meeting with Jaik. The conversation played out over and over in his mind, all the words he should have said presented themselves too late, and did little to dispel a nagging doubt that his friend was right.

  To take his mind away, he read through the book Ronnell had given him, but that brought no comfort. Laid bare were Leesha’s coveted secrets of fire, with metalwork diagrams to turn their force into tools of precision killing. Tools designed for killing not demons, but men.

  Did the corelings drive us to the brink of extinction, he wondered, or did we do it to ourselves?

  He caught sight of a ruined keep off the side of the road as the sun began to set. One of Euchor’s predecessors had kept a garrison there, but the keep had fallen to demons and never been rebuilt. Most Messengers, convinced it was haunted, gave it a wide berth. A rusted gate hung bent and torn from twisted moorings, and great holes had been broken in the outer wall.

  He rode into the keep, staking Twilight Dancer in a warded circle. He stripped to his loincloth, selecting a spear and bow. As darkness fell, the stinking mists began to seep up between the shattered stones of the courtyard. Corelings rose thickly in unwarded ruins, instinct telling them the odds were good prey might one day return. Fifty men had died when the wards of this keep fell, likely killed by the very demons rising now. They deserved vengeance.

  The Painted Man waited until the demons spotted him and charged before lifting his bow. In the lead was a flame demon, but his first arrow blasted the life from it. Next was a rock that took several shots to put down.

  When the rock fell, the other demons paused, some even backpedaling to flee, but wardstones the Painted Man had placed around the gaps in the wall and gate kept them trapped in the keep with him. When he was out of arrows, he charged with spear and shield, eventually abandoning that as well and fighting with bare hands and feet.

  Heonlygrewstrongerasthenightworeonandheabsorbedmoreandmore magic. Lost in the killing frenz
y, he thought of nothing else until at last, covered in demon ichor that sizzled on his wards, he found no more demons to kill. The sky began to lighten soon after, the few remaining corelings in the area fading into mist to flee the sun as it burned their taint away from the surface world.

  But then the light reached him, and it was like fire on his skin. The glare stung his eyes, leaving him dizzy and nauseous, and his throat burned. Standing before it was agony.

  This had happened before. Leesha said it was the sunlight burning the excess magic away from him, but there was another part of him, a primal part, that knew the truth.

  The sun was rejecting him. He was becoming a demon, and no longer belonged on the surface of the world.

  The Core called to him, beckoning with offers of succor. The paths, like vents of magic coming up from the ground, were unmistakable to his warded eyes, and they all sang the same song. No sun would burn him in the Core’s embrace.

  The Painted Man started to dematerialize, slipping a bit of his essence down along a path, tasting it.

  Just once, he told himself. To probe for weakness. To see if the fight can be taken there. It was a noble thought, if not entirely true. More likely, he would be destroyed.

  World’s better off without me, anyway.

  But before he could melt away, there was a pop and a flash of light as one of the smoldering bodies in the yard was caught in a sunbeam and burst into flame. He looked over at it, watching the bodies ignite one after another like festival flamework.

  Even as the corelings burned, his own pain lessened. The sun left him weakened as it always did, but it did not destroy him.

  Yet, he thought. But soon. Best give the Brook its wards while you still can.

  Landmarks began to appear as the Painted Man drew closer to Tibbet’s Brook, bringing his mind, lingering on thoughts of the Core, back to the present. Here was the Messenger cave where he had succored with Ragen and Keerin. There were the ruins where they had found him. Those, at least, were free of demons. A pack of nightwolves had taken up residence there, and the Painted Man wisely gave them a wide berth. Even corelings thought twice before disturbing a pack of nightwolves. Centuries of demons culling the smallest and weakest had left the few remaining predators in the wild formidable indeed. Named after their jet-black fur, adult nightwolves could weigh three hundred pounds, and a pack of them could take down even a wood demon if cornered.