The Desert Spear

by Peter V. Brett

  Qeran snorted. “They don’t tell you, boy. The future is for the dama’ting alone to know. But if a coward’s death is in your future, or greatness, they will know before you ever lose the bido.”

  “I will not die a coward’s death,” Jardir said.

  “No,” Qeran agreed, “I don’t think you will. But you may still die a fool’s death, if you don’t listen to your ajin’pal, or are not careful.”

  “I will listen well,” Jardir promised.

  “Hasik has volunteered to be your ajin’pal,” Qeran said, gesturing to the warrior.

  Hasik had grown much in the two years since he had lost his bido. Seventeen years old and fleshed out with hard muscle by the rich food of the dal’Sharum, he was easily a foot taller than Jardir and twice his weight.

  “Never fear.” Hasik smiled. “The son of piss will be safe with me.”

  “The son of piss took down his first alagai a full three years sooner than you, Whistler,” Qeran reminded him. Hasik kept his smile in place, but his lip twitched.

  “He will honor the Kaji tribe,” Hasik agreed. “If he survives.”

  Jardir remembered the sound of his arm breaking, and Hasik’s promise afterward. He knew that Hasik would be looking for any sign of insubordination, any excuse to kill him before he lost his bido and became an equal.

  So Jardir embraced the insult as he did pain, letting it pass through him harmlessly. He would not be provoked into failure right when a chance for glory was in his grasp. If he made it through this night, he would be dal’Sharum, the youngest in memory, and Hasik be damned.

  Their unit waited in the second layer, hiding in an ambush pocket. A hidden pit stood at the center of a small clearing, soon to be filled with alagai awaiting the killing rays of the sun. Jardir tightened his grip on his spear and adjusted his shield to ease his shoulder. But for all their weight, the tether was heaviest of all. Four feet of leather connected his ankle to Hasik’s waist. He shifted his foot uncomfortably.

  “If you do not keep up with me, I will spear you and cut the tether,” Hasik said. “I will not have my glory cut short because of you.”

  “I will be as your shadow,” Jardir promised, and Hasik grunted. He slipped a small flask from his robes and removed the stopper, taking a long swig. He handed the flask to Jardir.

  “Drink this, for courage,” he said.

  “What is it?” Jardir asked, taking the flask and sniffing at the neck. He smelled cinnamon, but the scent stung his nostrils.

  “Couzi,” Hasik said. “Fermented grain and cinnamon.”

  Jardir’s eyes widened. “Dama Khevat says to drink of fermented grain or fruit is forbidden by the Evejah.”

  Hasik laughed. “Nothing is forbidden to dal’Sharum in the Maze! Drink! The night is almost upon us!”

  Jardir looked at him doubtfully, but throughout the ambush pocket, he saw other warriors swigging from similar flasks. He shrugged, putting the bottle to his lips and drinking deeply.

  The couzi burned his throat, and he coughed, spitting some back up. He could feel the strong drink burning his insides and roiling in his stomach like a snake. Hasik laughed and slapped his back. “Now you are ready to face the alagai, rat!”

  The couzi worked quickly, and Jardir looked up through glazed eyes. The Maze was filled with shadows as the sun dipped. Jardir watched the sky turn red, and then purple, finally becoming full dark. He could sense the alagai rising outside the city walls, and shuddered.

  Great Kaji, Spear of Everam, he prayed, if it is true that across the centuries I come of your line, grant me courage to honor you and my ancestors.

  Before long he heard the Horn of Sharak, followed by the retort of rock slingers on the outer wall. The cries of alagai began to echo through the Maze. “Ware!” a call came from above, and Jardir thought he recognized Shanjat’s voice. “Baiters approach! Four sand and one flame!”

  Jardir swallowed hard. Glory was upon him.

  With a cry of “Oot!” the Baiters ran full-tilt through the ambush point, veering only slightly to avoid the pits. Above, the Watchers lit oil fires in front of polished metal mirrors, and light flooded the area.

  The sand demons ran in a pack, long tongues slavering over rows of razor-sharp teeth. They were the size of a man, but seemed smaller hunched down on all fours. Their long talons tore at the sand and stone of the Maze floor, and their spiked tails whipped back and forth through the air. Their gritty armor plates had few weaknesses.

  The flame demon was smaller, the size of a small boy, with wicked talons and terrifying speed. Its tiny, diamond-hard iridescent scales overlapped seamlessly. Its eyes and mouth glowed with orange light, and Jardir recalled his lessons about the creature’s deadly firespit. Across the ambush point was a pool in which the warriors would attempt to drown it.

  Once again, the sight of the alagai filled Jardir with utter loathing. The creatures were a plague upon the Ala, Nie’s taint come to infect the surface. And tonight, he would help send them screaming back into the abyss.

  “Hold,” Hasik warned, feeling him tense. Jardir nodded, forcing himself to relax. The couzi continued to work its way through him, warming him from the night’s chill.

  The alagai passed them by, intent on the Baiters. Two of them ran right out onto the tarp covering the demon pit, falling in with a shriek. The other sand demons pulled up short, but the flame dodged around, leaping onto the back of the slower Baiter. It dug its claws into the man’s back and bit hard into his shoulder. The warrior was knocked down, but he did not scream.

  “Now!” the kai’Sharum cried, and led the charge from the ambush pocket.

  Jardir let the warrior’s roar explode from his chest, thrumming in unison with his brothers in the night and carrying him forward with the others. They smashed into the two sand demons from behind, knocking them into the pit.

  The kai’Sharum pivoted, launching his spear and knocking the flame demon from the Baiter’s back. The other Baiter dragged him to the safety of the wards, doing his best to stem the flow of blood.

  There was a cry, and Jardir turned to see that the first sand demon to fall into the pit had caught its edge, the concealing tarp protecting its talons from the wards. It swung up out of the pit easily, biting off the nearest warrior’s leg at the knee. The warrior screamed as he was knocked into his fellows, opening a gap in the shield wall. The demon shrieked and dove into the opening, talons raking.

  “Shield up!” Hasik called, and Jardir complied just in time to catch the full weight of the demon. He was knocked down, but not before the wards flared, throwing the alagai back. The demon landed in a coil and sprang at him again, but Jardir thrust his spear from his prone position, catching the demon between its breastplates. He braced the butt of the spear against the ground to create a fulcrum, and used the demon’s own momentum to hurl it away.

  Still in midair, bolas from half a dozen warriors struck the demon, and it hit the ground bound tight. It began tearing at the ropes with its teeth, and Jardir could hear the bindings snap under pressure from its corded muscles. It would be free in moments.

  The kai’Sharum signaled, and a pair of warriors broke off to harry the flame demon while the rest encircled the sand demon with a wall of interlocked shields. Whenever the demon struck at a warrior, those behind it stabbed with their spears. The weapons could not pierce its armor, but they stung nonetheless. When it turned to face its attackers, their shields snapped into place and those behind struck.

  The Pit Warder had cleared the tarp from the wards, preventing the other alagai from escaping the pit, as the warriors began to force the demon toward it by advancing the shield wall. Eventually, the creature backed up to the pit’s edge, and the warriors there melted away.

  Jardir was among those who thrust their spears to drive the demon past the one-way wards. “Everam’s light burn you!” he screamed as he stabbed. The demon backpedaled, and then fell into the pit.

  It was the greatest moment of his life.

  J
ardir looked around the ambush point. Two dal’Sharum had the flame demon pinned underwater with their spears in a shallow drowning pool. The water steamed and boiled as the demon thrashed, but the warriors held it steady until the last twitch.

  The wounded Baiter seemed well enough, but Moshkama, the warrior with the severed leg, lay in a pool of blood, gasping and pale. He caught Jardir’s eye and beckoned to him and Hasik, who went to him.

  “Finish it,” he breathed. “I have no wish to live as a cripple.”

  Jardir glanced at Hasik.

  “Do it,” Hasik ordered. “It is not right to let him suffer.”

  Jardir’s thoughts flashed to Abban. How much suffering had he condemned his friend to by not granting him a warrior’s death?

  A dal’Sharum’s duty is to support his brothers in death, as well as life, Qeran had said.

  “My spirit is ready,” Moshkama croaked. With weak, shaking fingers, he pulled open his robe, moving aside the fired-clay armor plates sewn into the cloth and baring his chest. Jardir looked in his eyes and saw honor and courage. Things Abban had been severely lacking.

  He thrust his spear with pride.

  “You did well, rat,” Hasik said when the horns had blown, signaling that there were no alagai left alive and untrapped in the Maze. “I expected you to soak your bido, but you stood like a man.” He took another pull from the couzi flask and handed it to Jardir.

  “Thank you,” Jardir said, drinking deeply, and pretending the harsh liquid did not burn his throat. Hasik still intimidated him, but it was true what the drillmasters said: Shedding blood together in the Maze had changed things. They were brothers now.

  Hasik paced back and forth. “My blood is always on fire after alagai’sharak,” he said. “Nie damn the Damaji who decreed the great harem be sealed till dawn.” Several warriors grunted assent.

  Jardir thought of the warrior carrying a jiwah’Sharum through the curtains that morning, and his face flushed.

  Hasik caught the look. “That excites you, rat?” he laughed. “The son of piss is eager to take his first woman?”

  Jardir said nothing.

  “Bido or no, I think this one will still be a boy tomorrow!” another warrior, Manik, laughed. “He’s too young to know what the pillow dancers are truly for!”

  Jardir opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. They were provoking him on purpose. Whatever had happened in the Maze, he was still nie’Sharum until the dama’ting foresaw his death. Any of the warriors could still kill him for the slightest insolence.

  Surprisingly, Hasik came to his defense.

  “Leave the rat alone,” he said. “He’s my ajin’pal. You mock him, you mock me.”

  Manik puffed up at the challenge, but Hasik was young and strong. They eyed each other for a moment before Manik spat in the dust.

  “Bah,” he said. “It’s not worth the trouble of gutting you just to mock a boy.” He turned and strode off.

  “Thank you,” Jardir said.

  “It’s nothing,” Hasik replied, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It is the duty of ajin’pal to look out for each other, and you would not be the first boy to fear the pillow dancers more than the alagai. The dama’ting teach sexcraft to the jiwah’Sharum, but the drillmasters give no such lessons in the sharaji.”

  Jardir felt his face flush, wondering what lay in store for him in the pillows behind the curtains when the veils were lifted.

  “Do not fear,” Hasik said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I will teach you how to make a woman howl.”

  They finished off the flask, and a wicked smile crossed Hasik’s face. “Come on, rat. I know of some fun we can find in the meantime.”

  “Where are we going?” Jardir asked, stumbling as Hasik led him through the Maze. The couzi made his head spin, and his limbs watery. The walls seemed to move of their own accord.

  Hasik turned, his smile wide. The gap in his teeth where Qeran had hit him on Jardir’s first night in the Kaji’sharaj was a black hole in the moonlight.

  “Going?” Hasik asked. “We’re here.”

  Jardir looked around in confusion, and in that moment, colored light exploded before his eyes as Hasik hit him hard in the face.

  Before he could react, Hasik was upon him, pinning him facedown in the dust. “I promised to teach you to make a woman howl,” he said. “For this lesson, you will be the woman.”

  “No!” Jardir cried, thrashing, but Hasik smashed his face into the ground, making his ears ring. Twisting one of Jardir’s arms behind his back, the heavy warrior held him down with one hand as he pulled down Jardir’s bido with the other.

  “Looks like you get to lose the bido twice in one night, rat!” he laughed.

  Jardir tasted blood and dirt in his mouth. He tried to open himself to the pain, but for once, the power was beyond him, and his cries echoed through the Maze.

  He was still weeping when the dama’ting found him.

  She glided like a ghost, her white robes softly stirring the dust with her passage. Jardir stopped his sobbing and stared. Then reality suddenly focused, and he scrambled to pull up his bido. Shame filled him, and he hid his face.

  The dama’ting clicked her tongue. “On your feet, boy!” she snapped. “You stand your ground against alagai, but weep like a woman over this? Everam needs dal’Sharum, not khaffit!”

  Jardir wished the walls of the Maze would fall and crush him, but one did not refuse the orders of a dama’ting. He got to his feet, palming away his tears and wiping his nose.

  “That’s better,” the dama’ting said, “if late. I would hate to have come all the way out here to foretell the life of a coward.”

  The words stung Jardir. He was no coward. “How did you find me?”

  She psshed, waving a hand at him. “I knew to find you here years ago.”

  Jardir stared at her, unbelieving, but it was clear from her stance that his belief mattered not at all to her. “Come here, boy, that I may have a better look at you,” she commanded.

  Jardir did as he was told, and the dama’ting grabbed his face, turning it this way and that to catch the moonlight. “Young and strong,” she said. “But so are all who get this far. You’re younger than most, but that’s seldom a good thing.”

  “Are you here to foretell my death?”

  “Bold, too,” she muttered. “There may be hope for you yet. Kneel, boy.”

  He did, and the dama’ting knelt with him, spreading a white cloth to protect her pristine robes from the dust of the Maze.

  “What do I care for your death?” she asked. “I am here to foretell your life. Death is between you and Everam.”

  She reached into her robes, pulling forth a small pouch made from thick black felt. She loosened the drawstrings, pouring its contents into her free hand with a clatter. Jardir saw over a dozen objects, black and smooth like obsidian, carved with wards that glowed redly in the dark.

  “The alagai hora,” she said, lifting the objects toward him. Jardir gasped and recoiled at the name. She held the polished bones of demons, cut into many-sided dice. Even without touching them, Jardir could feel the dull throb of their evil magic.

  “Back to cowardice?” the dama’ting asked mildly. “What is the purpose of wards, if not to turn alagai magic to our own ends?”

  Jardir steeled himself, leaning back in.

  “Hold out your arm,” she commanded, placing the felt bag in her lap and laying the dice on it. She reached into her robes, drawing forth a sharp curved blade etched with wards.

  Jardir held out his arm, willing it not to shake. The cut was quick, and the dama’ting squeezed the wound, smearing her hand with blood. She took up the alagai hora in both hands, shaking them.

  “Everam, giver of light and life, I beseech you, give this lowly servant knowledge of what is to come. Tell me of Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin, last scion of the line of Jardir, the seventh son of Kaji.”

  As she shook the dice, their glow increased, flaring through her fingers until it see
med she held hot coals. She cast them down, scattering the bones on the ground before them.

  She put her hands on her knees and hunched forward, studying the glowing markings. Her eyes widened and she hissed. Suddenly oblivious to the dirt that marred her pure white robes, the dama’ting crawled about intently, reading the pattern as the pulsing glow of the wards slowly faded. “These bones must have been exposed to light,” she muttered, gathering them up.

  Again she cut him and made the incantation, shaking vigorously, and again the dice flared. She threw them down.

  “This cannot be!” she cried, snatching up the dice and throwing a third time. Even Jardir could tell that the pattern remained unchanged.

  “What is it?” he dared to ask. “What do you see?”

  The dama’ting looked up at him, and her eyes narrowed. “The future is not yours to know, boy,” she said. Jardir recoiled at the anger in her tone, unsure if it was due to his impertinence or what she had seen.

  Or both. What had the dice told her? His mind flashed back to the pottery he had allowed Abban to steal from Baha kad’Everam, and wondered if she could see that sin, as well.

  The dama’ting collected the bones and returned them to the pouch before rising. She tucked the pouch away and shook the dust from her robes.

  “Return to the Kaji pavilion and spend the remainder of the night in prayer,” she ordered, vanishing in the shadows so quickly Jardir wondered if she had truly been there at all.

  Qeran kicked him awake while the warriors still slept all around him. “Up, rat,” the drillmaster said. “The dama has called for you.”

  “Am I to lose my bido?” Jardir asked.

  “The men say you fought well in the night,” Qeran said, “but that’s not for me to decide. Only dama may give a nie’Sharum his blacks.”

  The drillmaster escorted him to the inner chambers of Sharik Hora. The cool stone floor felt hallowed under Jardir’s bare feet.

  “Drillmaster, may I ask a question?” Jardir said.

  “This may be the last you ask of me as your instructor,” Qeran said, “so make it good.”