The Desert Spear

by Peter V. Brett

  Just then a dama’ting entered their partition, floating in silently from deeper within the pavilion. She looked their way, and she met Jardir’s eyes. His heart thudded to a stop in his chest, and his face went cold. It seemed they stared at each other forever. The dama’ting’s expression was unreadable beneath her opaque white veils.

  At last, she tilted her head toward the exit flap. Jardir nodded, hardly believing his luck. He squeezed Abban’s hand one last time and darted out of the tent.

  “You will encounter wind demons upon the walls, but you are not to engage,” Qeran said, pacing before the nie’Sharum. “That duty will be for the dal’Sharum you serve. Still, it is important you understand your foes.”

  Jardir listened closely, sitting in his usual spot at the front of the group, but he was keenly aware of Abban’s absence at his side. Jardir had grown up with three younger sisters, and then found Abban the day he came to the Kaji’sharaj. Loneliness was a strange feeling.

  “The dama tell us the wind demon resides on the fourth layer of Nie’s abyss,” Qeran told the boys, gesturing with his spear at a winged image chalked on the sandstone wall.

  “Some, like the fools of the Majah tribe, underestimate the wind demon because it lacks the heavy armor of the sand demon,” he said, “but do not be fooled. The wind demon is farther from Everam’s sight, and a fouler creature by far. Its hide will still turn the point of a man’s spear, and the speed of its flight makes it difficult to hit. Its long talons,” he outlined the wicked weapons with the point of his spear, “can take a man’s head off before he realizes it’s there, and its beaklike jaws can tear off a man’s face in a single bite.”

  He turned to the boys. “So. What are its weaknesses?”

  Jardir’s hand immediately shot up. The drillmaster nodded at him.

  “The wings,” Jardir said.

  “Correct,” Qeran said. “Though made of the same tough membrane as its skin, the wings of a wind demon are stretched thin across cartilage and bone. A strong man can puncture them with his spear, or saw them off if his blade is sharp and the creature is prone. What else?”

  Again, Jardir’s hand was the first to rise. The drillmaster’s eyes flicked to the other boys, but none of them raised their hands. Jardir was the youngest of the group by more than two years, but the other boys deferred to him here as they did in the gruel line.

  “They are clumsy and slow on the ground,” Jardir said when Qeran nodded to him.

  “Correct,” Qeran said. “If forced to land, wind demons need a running start or something to climb and leap from to take to the air again. The close quarters of the Maze are designed to deny them this. The dal’Sharum atop the walls will seek to net them or tangle them with weighted bolas. It will be your duty to report their location to the warriors on the ground.”

  He eyed the children. “Who can tell me the signal for ‘wind demon down’?”

  Jardir’s hand shot up.

  It was three months before Abban and Jurim rejoined the nie’Sharum. Abban walked back to the training grounds with a pronounced limp, and Jardir frowned to see it.

  “Do your legs still pain you?” he asked.

  Abban nodded. “My bones may have healed stronger,” he said, “but not straighter.”

  “It’s early yet,” Jardir said. “They will heal in time.”

  “Inevera,” Abban said. “Who can say what Everam wills?”

  “Are you ready to fight in the gruel line?” Jardir asked, nodding to the drillmaster coming out with the pot.

  Abban paled. “Not yet, I beg,” he said. “If my legs give way, I will be marked forever.”

  Jardir frowned, but he nodded. “Just don’t take too long,” he said, “lest your inaction mark you as plainly.” As he spoke, they walked to the front of the line, and the other boys gave way to Jardir like mice before a cat, allowing them to have the first bowls. A few glared at Abban resentfully, but none dared give challenge.

  Jurim had no such luxury, and Jardir watched him coldly, still remembering the older boy’s honking laugh as Abban fell. Jurim walked a bit stiffly, but there was nothing of the limp that marred Abban’s once straight stride. The boys in the gruel line glared at him, but Jurim strode right up to his usual spot behind Shanjat.

  “This place is taken, cripple,” Esam, another of the nie’Sharum under Jardir’s command, said. “To the back of the line with you!” Esam was a fine fighter, and Jardir watched the confrontation with some interest.

  Jurim smiled and spread his hands as if in supplication, but Jardir saw the way he positioned his feet and was not fooled. Jurim leapt forward, grappling Esam and bearing him to the ground. It was over in a moment, and Jurim back in his rightful place. Jardir nodded. Jurim had a warrior’s heart. He glanced at Abban, who had already finished his bowl of gruel, having missed the fight entirely, and shook his head sadly.

  “Gather ’round, rats,” Kaval called after the bowls were stacked. Jardir immediately went to the drillmasters, and the other boys followed.

  “What do you suppose this is about?” Abban asked.

  Jardir shrugged. “They will tell us soon enough.”

  “A test of manhood is upon you all,” Qeran said. “You will pass through the night, and we will learn which of you has a warrior’s heart and which does not.” Abban inhaled sharply in fear, but Jardir felt a burst of excitement. Every test brought him that much closer to the coveted black robe.

  “There has been no word from the village of Baha kad’Everam in some months, and we fear the alagai may have breached their wards,” Qeran went on. “The Bahavans are khaffit, true, but they are descended from the Kaji, and the Damaji has decreed that we cannot abandon them.”

  “Cannot abandon the valuable pottery they sell us, he means,” Abban murmured. “Baha is home to Dravazi the master potter, whose work graces every palace in Krasia.”

  “Is money all you think of?” Jardir snapped. “If they were the lowliest dogs on Ala, they are still infinitely above the alagai, and should be protected.”

  “Ahmann!” Kaval barked. “Do you have something to add?”

  Jardir snapped back to attention. “No, Drillmaster!”

  “Then hold your tongue,” Kaval said, “or I will cut it out.”

  Jardir nodded, and Qeran went on. “Fifty warriors, volunteers all, will take the weeklong trek to Baha, led by Dama Khevat. You will go to assist them, carrying their equipment, feeding the camels, cooking their meals, and sharpening their spears.” He looked to Jardir. “You will be Nie Ka for this journey, son of Hoshkamin.”

  Jardir’s eyes widened. Nie Ka, meaning “first of none,” meant Jardir was first of the nie’Sharum— not just in the gruel line, but in the eyes of the drillmasters, as well—and could command and discipline the other boys at will. There had not been a Nie Ka in years, since Hasik earned his blacks. It was a tremendous honor, and one not given, or accepted, lightly. For with the power it conveyed, there was also responsibility. He would be held accountable by Qeran and Kaval for the failings of the other boys, and punished accordingly.

  Jardir bowed deeply. “You honor me, Drillmaster. I pray to Everam that I do not disappoint.”

  “You’d better not, if you wish to keep your hide intact,” Kaval said as Qeran took a strip of knotted leather and tied it around Jardir’s bicep as a symbol of rank.

  Jardir’s heart thudded in his chest. It was only a strip of leather, but at the moment, it felt like the Crown of Kaji, itself. Jardir thought of how the dama would tell his mother of this when she went for her weekly stipend, and swelled with pride. Already he began to bring back honor to the women of his family.

  And not only that, but a true test of manhood, as well. Weeks of travel in the open night. He would see the alagai up close and come to know his enemy as more than chalk on slate, or something glimpsed at a distance while running the walltop. Truly, it was a day of new beginnings.

  Abban turned to Jardir after the nie’Sharum were dismissed to their tas
ks. He smiled, punching Jardir’s bicep and the knotted strip of leather around it. “Nie Ka,” he said. “You deserve it, my friend. You’ll be kai’Sharum soon enough, commanding true warriors in battle.”

  Jardir shrugged. “Inevera,” he said. “Let tomorrow bring what it will. For today, this honor is enough.”

  “You were right before, of course,” Abban said. “My heart is sometimes bitter when I see how khaffit are treated, and I gave voice to that bitterness before. The Bahavans deserve our protection, and more.”

  Jardir nodded. “I knew it was so,” he said. “I, too, spoke out of turn, my friend. I know there is more to your heart than a merchant’s greed.”

  He squeezed Abban’s shoulder, and the boys ran to their tasks preparing for the expedition.

  They left at midday, fifty Kaji warriors, including Hasik, along with Dama Khevat, Drillmaster Kaval, a pair of Krevakh Watchers, and Jardir’s squad of elite nie’Sharum. A few of the warriors, the eldest, took turns driving provision carts pulled by camels, but the rest marched on foot, leading the procession through the Maze to the great gate of the city. Jardir and the other boys rode the provision carts through the Maze so as not to sully the sacred ground.

  “Only dama and dal’Sharum may put their feet down on the blood of their brothers and ancestors,” Kaval had warned. “Do so at your peril.”

  Once they were out of the city, the drillmaster smacked his spear against the carts. “Everyone off!” Kaval barked. “We march to Baha!”

  Abban looked at Jardir incredulously. “It is a week’s travel through the desert, with only our bidos to protect us from the sun!”

  Jardir jumped down from the cart. “It is the same sun that beats upon us in the training ground.” He pointed to the dal’Sharum marching ahead of the supply carts. “Be thankful you have only your bido,” he said. “They wear the black, absorbing the heat, and still, each man carries shield and spear, and his armor beneath. If they can march, so can we.”

  “Come, don’t you wish to stretch your legs, after all those weeks we spent in cast?” Jurim asked, slapping Abban’s shoulder with a smirk and hopping down.

  The rest of the nie’Sharum followed, marching as Jardir called the steps to keep pace with the carts and warriors. Kaval trailed behind, keeping watch, but he left command to Jardir. He felt a surge of pride at the drillmaster’s trust.

  The desert road was a string of ancient signposts along a path of packed sand and hard clay. The ever-present wind whipped hot sand over them; it collected on the road, making footing poor. The sun heated the sand to the point that it burned even through their sandals. But for all that, the nie’Sharum, hard from years of training, marched without complaint. Jardir looked at them and was proud.

  It quickly became clear, however, that Abban could not keep the pace. Lathered in sweat, his limp grew increasingly pronounced on the uneven footing, and he stumbled frequently. Once, he staggered into Esam, who shoved him violently into Shanjat. Shanjat shoved him back, and Abban hit the ground hard. The other boys laughed as Abban spat sand from his mouth.

  “Keep moving, rats!” Kaval called, thumping his spear against his shield.

  Jardir wanted to help his friend to his feet, but he knew it would only make matters worse. “Get up!” he barked instead. Abban looked at him with pleading eyes, but Jardir only shook his head, giving Abban a kick for his own good. “Embrace the pain and get up, fool,” he said in a low, harsh voice, “or you’ll end up khaffit like your father!”

  The hurt in Abban’s eyes cut at him, but Jardir spoke the truth. Abban knew it, too. He sucked in a breath and got to his feet, stumbling after the others. He kept up for some time, but again began to drift to the back of the line, frequently bumping into other boys and being shoved about. Kaval, ever watching, took note and moved up to walk next to Jardir.

  “If he slows our march, boy,” he said, “it is you I will take the strap to, for all to see.”

  Jardir nodded. “As you should, Drillmaster. I am Nie Ka.” Kaval grunted and left it at that.

  Jardir went to the others. “Jurim, Abban, get on the carts,” he ordered. “You’re fresh from the dama’ting pavilion, and not ready for a full day’s march.”

  “Camel’s piss!” Jurim snarled, pointing a finger in Jardir’s face. “I’m not riding the cart like a woman just because the pig-eater’s son can’t keep up!”

  The words were barely out of Jurim’s mouth before Jardir struck. He grabbed Jurim’s wrist and twisted around to push hard against Jurim’s shoulder. The boy had no choice but to go limp lest Jardir break his arm, and the throw landed him heavily on his back. Jardir kept hold of the arm, pulling hard as he put his foot on Jurim’s throat.

  “You’re riding on the cart because your Nie Ka commands it,” he said loudly as Jurim’s face reddened. “Forget that again at your peril.”

  Jurim’s face was turning purple by the time he managed to nod, and he gasped air desperately when Jardir released the hold. “The dama’ting commanded that you walk farther each day until you are at full strength,” Jardir lied. “Tomorrow you march an hour longer.” He looked at Abban coldly. “Both of you.”

  Abban nodded eagerly, and the two boys headed for the carts. Jardir watched them go, praying for Abban’s swift recovery. He could not save face for him forever.

  He looked to the other nie’Sharum, staring at him, and snarled. “Did I call a halt?” he demanded, and the boys quickly resumed their march. Jardir called the steps at double time until they caught back up.

  Night came, and Jardir had his nie’Sharum prepare the meals and lay bedrolls as the dama and Pit Warders prepared the warding circle. When the circle was ready, the warriors stood at its perimeter, facing outward with shields locked and spears at the ready as the sun set and the demons rose.

  This near to the city, sand demons rose in force, hissing at the dal’Sharum and flinging themselves at the warriors. It was the first time he had seen them up close, and Jardir watched the alagai with a cold eye, memorizing their movements as they leapt to the attack.

  The Pit Warders had done their work well, and magic flared to keep the demons at bay. As they struck the wards, the dal’Sharum gave a shout and thrust their spears. Most blows were turned by the sand demons’ armor, but a few precise blows to eyes or down open throats scored a kill. It seemed a game to the warriors, attempting to deliver such a pinpoint blow in the momentary flash of the magic’s light, and they laughed and congratulated the handful of warriors who managed it. Those who had went to their meal, while those who had not kept trying as the demons began to gather. Hasik was one of the first to fill his bowl, Jardir noted.

  He looked to Drillmaster Kaval, coming out of the circle after killing a demon of his own. His red night veil was raised, the first time Jardir had ever seen it so. He caught the drillmaster’s eye, and when the man nodded Jardir approached, bowing deeply.

  “Drillmaster,” he said, “this is not alagai’sharak as we were taught it.”

  Kaval laughed. “This is not alagai’sharak at all, boy, just a game to keep our spears sharp. The Evejah commands that alagai’sharak only be fought on prepared ground. There are no demon pits here, no maze walls or ambush pockets. We would be fools to leave our circle, but that is no reason why we cannot show a few alagai the sun.”

  Jardir bowed again. “Thank you, Drillmaster. I understand now.”

  The game went on for hours more, until the remaining demons decided there was no gap in the wards and began to circle the camp or sat back on their haunches out of spear’s reach, watching. The warriors with full stomachs then went to take watch, hooting and catcalling at those who had failed to make a kill as they went to their meal.

  After all had eaten, half the warriors went to their bedrolls, and the other half stood like statues in a ring around the camp. After a few hours’ sleep, the warriors relieved their brothers.

  The next day, they passed through a khaffit village. Jardir had never seen one before, though th
ere were many small oases in the desert, mostly to the south and east of the city, where a trickle of water sprouted from the ground and filled a small pool. Khaffit who had fled the city would often cluster at these, but so long as they fed themselves and did not beg at the city wall or prey on passing merchants, the dama were content to ignore them.

  There were larger oases, as well, where a large pool meant a hundred or more khaffit might gather, often with women and children in tow. These the dama did pay some mind to, with the warrior tribes claiming individual oases as they did the wells of the city, taxing the khaffit in labor and goods for the right to live there. Dama would occasionally travel to the villages closest to the city, taking any young boys to Hannu Pash and the most beautiful girls as jiwah’Sharum for the great harems.

  The village they passed through had no wall, just a series of sandstone monoliths around its perimeter with ancient wards cut deep into the stone. “What is this place?” Jardir wondered aloud as they marched.

  “They call the village Sandstone,” Abban said. “Over three hundred khaffit live here. They are known as pit dogs.”

  “Pit dogs?” Jardir asked.

  Abban pointed to a giant pit in the ground, one of several in the village, where men and women toiled together, harvesting sandstone with shovel, pick, and saw. The folk were broad of shoulder and packed with muscle, quite unlike the khaffit Jardir knew from the city. Children worked alongside them, loading carts and leading the camels that hauled the stone up out of the pits. All wore tan clothes—man and boy alike in vest and cap, and the women and girls in tan dresses that left little to the imagination, their faces, arms, and even legs mostly uncovered.

  “These are strong people,” Jardir said. “By what rule are these men khaffit? Are they all cowards? What about the girls and boys? Why are they not called to marriage or Hannu Pash?”

  “Their ancestors were khaffit by their own failing, perhaps, my friend,” Abban said, “but these people are khaffit by birth.”