The Desert Spear

by Peter V. Brett

  “Then Dama Khevat did not know your father as I did,” Kajivah said. “He spoke only truth, and never raised a hand to me in anger, though I bore him three daughters in succession. He kept me with child and put meat in our bellies.” She looked Jardir in the eyes. “There is honor in those things, as much as there is in killing alagai. Repeat that under the sun and remember it.”

  Jardir nodded. “I will.”

  “You wear the bido now,” Kajivah said. “That means you are no longer a boy, and cannot go below with us. You must wait at the door.”

  Jardir nodded. “I am not afraid.”

  “Perhaps you should be,” Kajivah said. “The Evejah tells us that on the Waning, Alagai Ka, father of demons, stalks the surface of Ala.”

  “Not even he could get past the warriors of the Desert Spear,” Jardir said.

  Kajivah stood, lifting Hoshkamin’s spear from the wall. “Perhaps not,” she said, thrusting the weapon into his good left hand, “but if he does, it will fall to you to keep him from our door.”

  Shocked, Jardir took the weapon, and Kajivah nodded once before following his sisters below. Jardir immediately moved to the door, his back straight as he stood throughout the night, and the two that followed.

  “I’ll need a target,” Jardir said, “for when the dama’ting remove my cast, and I need to get back in the food line.”

  “We can do it together,” Abban said, “like we did before.”

  Jardir shook his head. “If I need your help, they’ll think I’m weak. I’ve got to show them I’ve healed stronger than before, or I’ll be a target for everyone.”

  Abban nodded, considering the problem. “You’ll have to strike higher in the line than the place you left, but not so high as to provoke Hasik and his cronies.”

  “You think like a merchant,” Jardir said.

  Abban smiled. “I grew up in the bazaar.”

  They watched the line carefully over the next few days, their eyes settling just past the center, where Jardir had waited before his injury. The boys there were a few years his senior and larger than him by far. They marked potential targets and began to observe those boys carefully during training.

  Training was much as it had been before. The hard cast kept Jardir’s arm in place as he ran the obstacles, and the drillmasters made him throw left-handed during spear and net practice. He was given no special treatment, nor would he have wished it. The strap found his back no less often than before, and Jardir welcomed it, embracing the pain and knowing every blow proved to the other boys that he was not weak, despite his injury.

  Weeks passed, and Jardir worked hard, practicing the sharukin whenever he had the chance, and repeating them in his mind as he drifted off to sleep each night. Surprisingly, he found he could throw and punch as well with his left hand as he had with the right. He even took to bludgeoning opponents with the cast, embracing the rush of pain as it swept over him like a hot desert wind. He knew that when the dama’ting finally cut the cast from him, he would be better for the injury.

  “Jurim, I think,” Abban said at last, the evening before Jardir’s cast was removed. “He’s tall and strong, but he forgets his lessons and simply tries to overpower his opponents.”

  Jardir nodded. “Perhaps. He’s slow, and no one would challenge me if I took him down, but I was thinking of Shanjat.” He nodded to a slender boy just ahead of Jurim in the line.

  Abban shook his head. “Don’t be fooled by his size. There’s reason why Shanjat stands ahead of Jurim. His arms and legs crack like whips.”

  “But he’s not precise,” Jardir said. “And he overbalances when his blows miss.”

  “Which is rare,” Abban warned. “You have a better chance of defeating Jurim. Don’t haggle so much you spoil the sale.”

  It was midmorning the next day when Jardir returned from the dama’ting pavilion, and the boys were already assembled in the gruel line. Jardir sucked in a breath, flexed his right arm, and strode in, heading right for the center of the line. Abban had already taken his place, farther back, and would not help him, as they had agreed.

  It is the weakest camel that draws the wolves, he heard his father say, and the simple advice steeled him against his fear.

  “To the back with you, cripple!” Shanjat barked, seeing him approach.

  Jardir ignored him and forced himself to smile widely. “Everam shine upon you for holding my place,” he said.

  The look in Shanjat’s eyes was incredulous; he was three years Jardir’s senior, and considerably larger. He hesitated in that moment, and Jardir took the opportunity to shove him hard, knocking him from the line.

  Shanjat stumbled, but he was quick and kept his feet, kicking up a cloud of dust as he regained his balance. Jardir could have kicked his hands or feet from under him and struck while he was off balance, but he needed more than mere victory if he was to ward off any rumors that his injury had left him weak.

  There were hoots of delight, and the gruel line curved in on itself, surrounding the two boys. The shocked look vanished from Shanjat’s face as it twisted in rage, and he came back in hard.

  Jardir flowed like a dancer to avoid Shanjat’s initial blows, which were just as fast as Abban had warned. Finally, as expected, Shanjat launched a wild swing that put him off balance when it failed to connect. Jardir stepped to the left, ducking the arm and driving his right elbow into Shanjat’s kidney like a spear. Shanjat screamed in pain as he stumbled past.

  Jardir whipped around and followed through with another elbow strike to Shanjat’s back, driving him to the ground. His arm was thin and pale from weeks in the cast, but the bones did feel stronger now, just as the dama’ting had said.

  But Shanjat caught Jardir’s ankle, yanking him from his feet and falling on him. They wrestled in the dust, where Shanjat’s weight and greater reach were to his advantage. He caught Jardir in a headlock, pulling his right fist into Jardir’s windpipe with his left hand.

  As the world began to blacken, Jardir began to fear he had taken on too much, but he embraced the feeling as he did pain, refusing to give up. He kicked hard behind him, a crushing blow between the legs that made Shanjat loosen his choke hold with a howl. Jardir twisted free and got in close to Shanjat’s joints, where his blows held little force when they could reach Jardir at all. Slowly, laboriously, he worked his way behind Shanjat, striking hard at any vulnerable spots—eyes, throat, gut—as he went.

  Finally in position, Jardir caught Shanjat’s right arm and twisted it behind him, driving his full weight into the older boy’s back with both knees. When he felt the elbow lock, he braced it on his own shoulder and heaved the arm upward.

  “Aaahhh!” Shanjat cried, and Jardir knew it would be a simple thing now to break the boy’s arm, as Hasik had done to him.

  “You were saving my place, were you not?” Jardir asked loudly.

  “I will kill you, rat!” Shanjat screamed, beating the dust with his free hand as he twisted and thrashed, but he could not dislodge Jardir.

  “Say it!” Jardir demanded, lifting Shanjat’s arm higher. He felt the strain in that limb, and knew it could not withstand much more.

  “I would sooner go to Nie’s abyss!” Shanjat cried.

  Jardir shrugged. “Bones become stronger after being broken. Enjoy your stay with the dama’ting.” With a heave, he felt bone snap and muscle tear. Shanjat screamed in agony.

  Jardir stood slowly, scanning the gathered boys for signs that another meant to challenge him, but while there were many wide-eyed stares, none seemed ready to avenge Shanjat, who lay howling in the dust.

  “Make way!” Drillmaster Kaval barked, pushing through the crowd. He looked to Shanjat, then to Jardir. “Hope for you yet, boy,” he grunted. “Back in line, all of you,” he shouted, “or we’ll empty the gruel pot in the waste pits!” The boys quickly flowed back to their places, but Jardir beckoned to Abban amid the confusion, gesturing for his friend to take the place behind him in line.

  “Hey!” cried Jurim,
the next boy in line, but Jardir glared at him and he backed off, making room for Abban.

  Kaval kicked at Shanjat. “On your feet, rat!” he shouted. “Your legs aren’t broken, so don’t expect to be carried to the dama’ting after being bested by a boy half your size!” He grabbed Shanjat’s good arm and hauled the boy to his feet, dragging him off toward the healing pavilion. The boys still in line hooted and catcalled at his back.

  “I don’t understand,” Abban said. “Why didn’t he just yield?”

  “Because he’s a warrior,” Jardir said. “Will you yield when the alagai come for you?”

  Abban shuddered at the thought. “That’s different.”

  Jardir shook his head. “No, it isn’t.”

  Hasik and some of the other older boys began training on the Maze walls not long after Jardir lost his cast. They lost their bidos in the Maze a year later, and those who survived, Hasik among them, could be seen strutting about the training grounds in their new blacks, visiting the great harem. Like all dal’Sharum, they had as little as possible to do with nie’Sharum after that.

  Time passed quickly for Jardir, days blending together into an endless loop. In the mornings, he listened to dama extolling the glories of Everam and the Kaji tribe. He learned of the other Krasian tribes and why they were inferior, and why the Majah, most of all, were blind to Everam’s truths. The dama spoke, too, of other lands, and the cowardly chin to the north who had forsaken the spear and lived like khaffit, quailing before the alagai.

  Jardir was never satisfied with their place in the gruel line, always focused on moving up to where the bowls became fuller. He targeted the boys ahead of him and sent them to the dama’ting pavilion one by one, always bringing Abban in his wake. By the time Jardir was eleven, they were at the front of the line, ahead of several older boys, all of whom gave them a wide berth.

  Afternoons were spent training or running as practice targets for dal’Sharum netters. At night, Jardir lay on the cold stone of the Kaji’sharaj floor, his ears straining to hear the sounds of alagai’sharak outside, and dreaming of the day he might stand among men.

  As Hannu Pash progressed, some of the boys were selected by the dama for special training, putting them on the path to wear the white. They left the Kaji’sharaj and were never seen again. Jardir was not chosen for this honor, but he did not mind. He had no desire to spend his days poring over ancient scrolls or shouting praise to Everam. He was bred for the spear.

  The dama showed more interest in Abban, who had letters and numbers, but his father was khaffit, something they did not take to, even though the shame did not technically carry to a man’s sons.

  “Better you fight,” the dama told Abban at last, poking his broad chest. Abban had kept much of his bulk, but the constant rigor of training had hardened the fat to muscle. Indeed, he was becoming a formidable warrior, and he blew out a breath of relief when it became clear he would not be called to the white.

  Other boys, too weak or slow, were cast out of the Kaji’sharaj as khaffit— forced to return to the tan clothes of children for the rest of their lives. This was a worse fate by far, shaming their families and denying them hope of paradise. Those with warrior’s hearts often volunteered as Baiters, taunting demons and luring them into traps in the Maze. It was a brief life, but one that brought honor and entrance into Heaven for those otherwise lost.

  In his twelfth year, Jardir was allowed his first look at the Maze. Drillmaster Qeran took the oldest and strongest of the nie’Sharum up the great wardwall—a sheer thirty feet of sandstone looking down on the demon killing ground that had once been an entire district of the city, back in ancient times when Krasia was more populous. It was filled with the remnants of ancient hovels and dozens of smaller sandstone walls. These were twenty feet high, with pitted wards cut into their surfaces. Some ran great distances and turned sharp corners, while others were just a single slab or angle. Together they formed a maze studded with hidden pitfalls, designed to trap and hold the alagai for the morning sun.

  “The wall beneath your feet,” Qeran said, stamping his foot, “shields our women and children, even the khaffit,” he spit over the side of the wall, “from the alagai. The other walls,” he swept his hands out over the endlessly twisting walls of the Maze, “keep the alagai trapped in with us.” He clenched his fist at that, and the obvious pride he felt was shared by all the boys. Jardir imagined himself running through that maze, spear and shield in hand, and his heart soared. Glory awaited him on that blood-soaked sand.

  They walked along the top of the thick wall until they came to a wooden bridge that could be drawn up with a great crank. This led down to one of the Maze walls, all connected by stone arches or close enough to jump. The Maze walls were thinner, less than a foot thick in some places.

  “The walltops are treacherous for older warriors,” Qeran said, “apart from the Watchers.” The Watchers were dal’Sharum of the Krevakh and Nanji tribes. They were laddermen, each man carrying an iron-shod ladder twelve feet in length. The ladders could be joined to one another or used alone, and Watchers were so agile they could stand balanced at the top of an unsupported ladder as they surveyed the battlefield. The Krevakh Watchers were subordinate to the Kaji tribe, the Nanji to the Majah.

  “For the next year, you boys will assist the Krevakh Watchers,” Qeran said, “tracking alagai movements and calling them down to the dal’Sharum in the Maze, as well as running orders back and forth from the kai’Sharum.”

  They spent the rest of the day running the walltops. “You must know every inch of the Maze as well as you know your spears!” Qeran said as they went. Quick and agile, the nie’Sharum shouted in exhilaration as they leapt from wall to wall and darted over the small arched bridges. Jardir and Abban laughed at the joy of it.

  But Abban’s big frame did not lend itself to balance, and on one slender bridge he slipped, falling off the wall. Jardir dove for his hand, but he was not fast enough. “Nie take me!” he cursed as their fingers brushed slightly and the boy dropped away.

  Abban let out a brief wail before striking the ground, and Jardir could see even from twenty feet above that his legs were broken.

  A braying laugh, like a camel’s honk, rang out behind him. Jardir turned to see Jurim slapping his knee.

  “Abban is more camel than cat!” Jurim cried.

  Jardir snarled and clenched a fist, but before he could rise, Drillmaster Qeran appeared. “You think your training is a joke?” he demanded. Before Jurim could gasp a reply, Qeran grabbed him by his bido and hurled him down after Abban. He screamed as he fell the twenty feet and struck hard, then lay unmoving.

  The drillmaster turned to face the other boys. “Alagai’sharak is no joke,” he said. “Better you all die here than shame your brothers in the night.” The boys took a step back, nodding.

  Qeran turned to Jardir. “Run now and inform Drillmaster Kaval. He ’ll send men to bring them to the dama’ting.”

  “It would be faster if we fetched them ourselves,” Jardir dared, knowing Abban’s fate might depend on those precious minutes.

  “Only men are allowed in the Maze, nie’Sharum,” Qeran said. “Be off before the dal’Sharum are forced to fetch three.”

  Jardir edged as close as he dared when the dama’ting came to speak with Drillmaster Qeran after gruel that evening, straining to hear her quiet words.

  “Jurim broke several bones, and there was much bleeding within, but he will recover,” she said, speaking as if she were discussing nothing more significant than the color of sand. Her veils hid all expression. “The other, Abban, had his legs broken in many places. He will walk again, but he may not run.”

  “Will he be able to fight?” Qeran asked.

  “It is too soon to tell,” the dama’ting said.

  “If that is the case, you should kill him now,” Qeran said. “Better dead than khaffit.”

  The dama’ting raised a finger at him, and the drillmaster recoiled. “It is not for you to dictate wha
t goes on in the dama’ting pavilion, dal’Sharum,” she hissed.

  Immediately the drillmaster laced his hands as if in prayer and bowed so deeply that his beard nearly touched the ground.

  “I beg the dama’ting’s forgiveness,” he said. “I meant no disrespect.”

  The dama’ting nodded. “Of course you did not. “You are a dal’Sharum drillmaster, and will add the glory of your charges to your own in the afterlife, sitting among Everam’s most honored.”

  “The dama’ting honors me,” Qeran said.

  “Still,” the dama’ting said, “a reminder of your place will serve you well. Ask Dama Khevat for a penance. Twenty lashes of the alagai tail should do.”

  Jardir gasped. The alagai tail was the most painful of whips—three strips of leather braided with metal barbs all along their four-foot length.

  “The dama’ting is forgiving,” Qeran said, still bent low. Jardir fled before either one could catch sight of him and wonder what he might have heard.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Abban hissed as Jardir ducked under the flap of the dama’ting pavilion. “They will kill you if you’re caught!”

  “I just wanted to see that you were well,” Jardir said. It was true enough, but his eyes scanned the tent carefully, hoping against hope that he might see Inevera again. There had been no sign of the girl since the day Jardir broke his arm, but he had not forgotten her beauty.

  Abban looked to his shattered legs, bound tight in hardening casts. “I don’t know that I will ever be well again, my friend.”

  “Nonsense,” Jardir said. “Bones heal stronger when they are broken. You will be back on the walls in no time.”

  “Maybe,” Abban sighed.

  Jardir bit his lip. “I failed you. I promised to catch you if you should fall. I swore it by Everam’s light.”

  Abban took Jardir’s hand. “And so you would have, I do not doubt. I saw you dive to catch my hand. It is not your fault I struck the ground. I hold your oath fulfilled.”

  Jardir’s eyes filled with tears. “I will not fail you again,” he promised.