The Desert Spear

The boys scurried to comply as Jardir stood. To his surprise, Inevera rose as well. “I will walk with my husband.”

Ashan bowed. “Of course, dama’ting.”

Jardir looked at her sharply. What did she know? What had the cursed bones told her about this night?

Leaving the children behind, the three of them were soon on their way, descending the great stone stairs of the palace of the Sharum Ka, which faced the Sharum training grounds. At the far end was Sharik Hora, and on the long sides between were the pavilions of the tribes.

Near the base of his steps, well inside the palace walls, a group of Sharum and dama surrounded a pair of khaffit. Jardir grew angry at the sight. It was an insult to have the feet of khaffit sully the grounds of the Sharum Ka’s keep. He opened his mouth to say just that when one of the khaffit caught his eye.

Abban.

Jardir had not thought of his old friend in years, as if the boy had indeed died the night he broke his oaths. More than fifteen years had passed since then, and if Jardir had changed from the small, skinny boy in a bido he had been, the change in Abban was even more pronounced.

The former nie’Sharum had grown enormously fat, almost as grotesque as the Andrah. He still wore the tan vest and cap of khaffit, but under the vest were a bright shirt and pantaloons of multicolored silk, and he had wrapped the tan conical cap in a turban of red silk with a gem set at the center. His belt and slippers were of snakeskin. He leaned on an ivory crutch, carved in the likeness of a camel, with his armpit resting between its humps.

“What makes you think you are worthy to stand here among men?” Jardir demanded.

“Apologies, great one,” Abban said, dropping to his hands and knees in the dirt and pressing his forehead down. Shanjat, now a kai’Sharum, laughed and kicked his backside.

“Look at you,” Jardir snarled. “You dress like a woman and flaunt your tainted wealth as if it is not an insult to everything we believe. I should have let you fall.”

“Please, great master,” Abban said. “I mean no insult. I am only here to translate.”

“Translate?” Jardir glanced up at the other khaffit who had come with Abban.

But the other man was not khaffit at all. It was instantly apparent from his light skin and hair, his clothes, and even more so from the well-worn spear the man carried. He was a chin. An outsider from the green lands to the north.

“A chin?” Jardir asked, turning to his dama. “You called me here to speak to a chin?”

“Listen to his words,” Ashan urged. “You will see.”

Jardir looked at the greenlander, having never seen a chin up close before. He knew Northern Messengers sometimes came to the Great Bazaar, but that was not a place for men, and his memories of it from childhood were vague things, tainted by hunger and shame.

This chin was different than Jardir had imagined. He was young—no older than Jardir had been when he first donned his blacks—and not a particularly large man, but he had a hard air about him. He stood and moved like a warrior, meeting Jardir’s eyes boldly, as a man should.

Jardir knew that the Northern men had given up alagai’sharak, cowering behind their wards like women, but the sands of Krasia went on for hundreds of miles with no succor. A man who passed through that must have stared alagai in the face night after night. He might not be Sharum, but he was no coward.

Jardir looked down at Abban’s sniveling form and bit back his disgust. “Speak, and be quick about it. Your presence offends me.”

Abban nodded and turned to the Northerner, speaking a few words in a harsh, guttural tongue. The Northerner replied sternly, stamping his spear for emphasis.

“This is Arlen asu Jeph am’Bales am’Brook,” Abban said, turning back to Jardir but keeping his eyes on the ground. “Late out of Fort Rizon to the north, he brings you greetings, and begs to fight alongside the men of Krasia tonight in alagai’sharak.”

Jardir was stunned. A Northerner who wished to fight? It was unheard of.

“He is a chin, First Warrior,” Hasik growled. “Come from a race of cowards. He is not worthy to fight!”

“If he was a coward, he would not be here,” Ashan advised. “Many Messengers have come to Krasia, but only this one has come to your palace. It would be an insult to Everam not to let the man fight, if he wishes it.”

“I’ll not put my back to a greenlander in battle,” Hasik said, spitting at the Messenger’s feet. Many of the Sharum nodded and grunted their agreement despite the dama’s words. It seemed there was a limit to the clerics’ powers, after all.

Jardir considered carefully. He saw now why Ashan had wanted to defer the decision to him. Either choice could have grave repercussions.

He looked at the greenlander again, curious to see his mettle in battle. Inevera had foretold he might conquer the green lands one day, and the Evejah taught men to know their enemy before battle was joined.

“Husband,” Inevera said quietly, touching his arm. “If the chin wishes to stand in the Maze like a Sharum, then he must have a foretelling.”

No wonder she had come. She knew there was something special about this man, and needed his blood for a true divination. Jardir narrowed his eyes, wondering what she was not telling, but she had offered him an escape from a difficult situation and he would be a fool not to take it. He turned back to Abban, still hunched in the dirt.

“Tell the chin that the dama’ting will cast the bones for him. If they are favorable, he may fight.”

Abban nodded, turning back to the greenlander and speaking his harsh Northern tongue. A flash of irritation crossed the chin’s face—a feeling Jardir knew well, having been a slave to the bones for more than half his life. They exchanged words for some time before the chin gritted his teeth and nodded in acceptance.

“I will take him back to the palace for the foretelling,” Inevera said.

Jardir nodded. “I will accompany you through the ritual, for your own protection.”

“That will not be necessary,” Inevera said. “No man would dare harm a dama’ting.”

“No Krasian man,” Jardir corrected. “There is no telling what these Northern barbarians are capable of.” He smirked. “I will not risk having your impeccable virtue sullied by leaving you alone with one.”

Jardir knew she was snarling under her veil, but he did not care. Whatever went on between her and the greenlander, he was determined to see it. He signaled Hasik and Ashan to follow them back so she could not expel him from her presence at the palace without witnesses. Abban was dragged along with them, though his presence sullied the palace floors. They would need to be washed with blood to remove the taint.

Soon Jardir, Inevera, and the chin were alone in a darkened room. Jardir looked to the greenlander. “Hold out your arm, Arlen, son of Jeph.”

The chin only looked at him curiously.

Jardir held out his own arm, miming a shallow cut, and holding it over the alagai hora.

The chin frowned, but he did not hesitate to roll up his sleeve and step forward, holding out his arm.

Braver than I was the first time, Jardir thought.

Inevera made the cut, and soon the dice were glowing fiercely in her hands. The chin’s eyes widened at this, and he watched intently. She threw, and Jardir quickly scanned the results. He did not have a dama’ting’s training, but his lessons in Sharik Hora had taught him many of the symbols on the dice. Each demon bone had only one ward, a ward of foretelling. The other symbols were simply words. The words and their pattern told a tale of what would be…or at least what might.

Jardir caught the symbols for “Sharum,” “dama,” and “one” among the clutter before Inevera snatched them back up. Shar’Dama Ka. What could that mean? Surely a chin could not be the Deliverer. Was he tied to Jardir in some way?

To Jardir’s surprise, Inevera shook the dice and threw them again, as he had not seen her or any dama’ting do since that first night in the Maze. There was nothing but dama’ting calm about her, but the very fact of a second throw was telling.

As was the third.

Whatever she sees, Jardir thought, she wants to be sure of it.

He looked to the greenlander, but though he watched the proceedings closely, it was clear he saw this only as some primitive ritual required for access to the Maze.

Ah, son of Jeph, if only it were that simple.

“He can fight,” Inevera said, removing a clay jar from her robes and smearing the chin’s wound with a foul paste before wrapping it in clean cloth.

Jardir nodded, not having expected more than a yes or no. He escorted the chin out of the room.

“Khaffit,” he called to Abban. “Tell the son of Jeph he may start on the wall. When he nets an alagai, he may set foot in the Maze.”

“Surely not!” Hasik said.

“Everam has spoken, Hasik,” Jardir said sharply, and the warrior calmed.

Abban quickly translated, and the chin snorted, as if netting a wind demon were no great feat. Jardir smiled. He could come to like this man.

“Return to whatever hole you crawled out of,” he told Abban. “The son of Jeph may be worthy to stand atop the wall, but you have lost that right. He will have to speak the language of the spear.”

Abban bowed and turned to the greenlander, explaining. The chin looked up at Jardir and nodded his understanding. His face was grim, but Jardir recognized the eagerness in his eyes. He had the look of a dal’Sharum at dusk.

Jardir moved to head down to the training ground with the others, but Inevera held his arm. Ashan and Hasik turned, hesitating.

“Go on and see if you might teach the chin some of our hand signals,” Jardir said. “I will join you shortly.”

“The chin will be instrumental in your rise to Shar’Dama Ka,” Inevera said bluntly as soon as they were alone. “Embrace him as a brother, but keep him within reach of your spear. One day you must kill him, if you are to be hailed as Deliverer.”

Jardir stared hard at his inscrutable wife’s eyes. What aren’t you telling me? he wondered.

The greenlander showed no hint of fear or trepidation as the sun set that night. He stood tall atop the walls, looking out at the sands eagerly, waiting for the first signs of the enemy rising.

Truly, he was nothing like Jardir had imagined from his lessons about the weak half-men of the North. How long since a Krasian had gone to the green lands and seen its people for himself? A hundred years? Two? Had anyone left the Desert Spear since the Return?

Two warriors snickered at his back. They were Mehnding tribe, the most powerful after the Majah. The Mehnding were devoted wholly to the art of ranged weapons. They built the rock slingers and scorpions, quarried stones for hurling, and made the giant scorpion stingers—great spears that could punch through a sand demon’s armor at a thousand feet. Though they were less proficient with the spear than other tribes, their honor knew no bounds, for the Mehnding killed more alagai than the Kaji and the Majah combined.

“I wonder how long he will last before an alagai kills him,” one of the Mehnding said.

“More likely he will soil himself and run in fear the moment they rise,” the other laughed.

The greenlander glanced at them. His expression made it clear he knew he was being mocked, but he paid the warriors no mind, returning his focus on the shifting sands.

He embraces pain when his goal is in sight, Jardir thought, remembering the mockery he had endured on his first night in the Maze.

Jardir moved to the two warriors. “The sun sets, and you have nothing better to do than mock your spear-brother?” he demanded loudly. Everyone on the wall turned to look.

“But Sharum Ka,” one of the men protested, “he is only a savage.”

“A savage who looks to the enemy while you snicker at his back like a khaffit!” Jardir growled. “Mock him again, and you will have weeks in the dama’ting pavilion to learn to keep a civil tongue.” He spoke the words calmly, but the dal’Sharum recoiled as if struck.

A shout from the greenlander caught Jardir’s attention. The man stomped his spear on the wall, bellowing something in his guttural tongue. He pointed to the sands, and Jardir suddenly understood.

The alagai were rising.

“To your places!” he ordered, and the Mehnding turned back to their scorpions.

Oil fires were lit and reflected with mirrors onto the battlefield, giving the Mehnding light for their deadly art.

The greenlander watched the scorpion teams carefully. One man wound the springs while another set the stinger in place. A third aimed and fired. The Mehnding could complete the whole process in seconds.

When the first stinger speared a sand demon, the greenlander gave a whoop, punching his fist into the air much as Jardir had done the first time he witnessed it as a nie’Sharum.

They have no scorpions in the North, he surmised, filing the information away.

For a time, the stingers hummed and the sling teams hauled great stones into place, cutting the ropes to free the counterweights and hurl the missiles into the growing ranks of alagai, killing them one by one or in groups.

But as always, it was like taking grains off a dune. There were dozens of flame and wind demons, but the sand demons were an endless storm that could wear down a mountain.

The Mehnding focused in a wide arc around the great gate to the Maze, preparing for the invitation. When the alagai were positioned correctly, Jardir signaled a nie’Sharum, who blew a long, clear note on the Horn of Sharak. Almost instantly the gates opened. The oldest warriors in the tribes stood within, beating their shields and jeering at the demons, daring them to give chase.

Their glory was endless. Even the greenlander breathed a word that rang of awe.

The alagai shrieked and charged into the Maze. The Baiters whooped and ran, leading the demons deeper through twists and turns to where their respective tribesmen hid in wait.

After several minutes, Jardir signaled for the gates to be closed again. The scorpions cleared the way, and the gates closed with a thunderous boom.

“Fetch the nets,” Jardir told the nie’Sharum. “We shall head deeper into the Maze and put the greenlander to his test.”

But the boy did not move. Jardir glanced at him in irritation and saw open terror on his face. He turned along the boy’s line of sight, and saw many of his warriors standing similarly dumbfounded.

“What are you…” he began to shout, but then, in the light of the oil fires, he saw an alagai bounding over the dunes toward the city.

But this was no ordinary demon. Even at a distance, Jardir could tell it was enormous. Sand demons were bigger than their flame and wind cousins, not counting wingspan, but even the sand demons were no larger than a man, and they ran on all fours like dogs, standing perhaps three feet at the shoulder.

The demon that approached stood erect on hind legs jointed with sharp bone, and stood more than twice the height of a tall man. Even its spiked tail seemed longer than a man was tall. Its horns were like spears, its talons like butchering knives, and its black carapace was thick and hard. One of its arms ended at the elbow—a club that could crush a warrior’s skull.

Jardir had never imagined a demon so big. His men stood frozen—in fear or surprise he could not tell. Only the greenlander seemed unsurprised, staring hard at the giant with undisguised hatred.

But why? It seemed too great a coincidence that such a creature should arrive on the same night a chin appeared on his palace steps, begging to fight. What was his connection to the demon?

Jardir cursed his inability to speak the greenlander’s barbaric tongue.

“What are you waiting for?” he roared to the scorpion teams. “Alagai are alagai! Kill it!”

His words broke the spell, and the men leapt to obey. The greenlander clenched his fist as they took aim and let fly their stingers, massive spears with heavy heads of iron. They shot high in the sky to arc the missiles down with crushing impact.

The giant demon was struck full on by almost a dozen stingers, but all splintered against its armor, leaving the creature unfazed. It shrieked its fury and came on again.

Suddenly the city seemed vulnerable. Jardir had learned warding in Sharik Hora, and knew that each ward only found its full power against a single breed of demon. The wards carved into Krasia’s walls were ancient and had never been breached, but had they ever been tested against one such as this?

He grabbed the greenlander by the shoulders, turning him about to face him. “What do you know?” he demanded. “What do we face, damn you?!”

The greenlander nodded, seeming to understand, and looked about. He moved to a rock slinger and touched the stone in the sling. Then he pointed to the demon. “Alagai,” he said.

Jardir nodded, moving to the Mehnding in command of the engine.

“Can you hit it?” Jardir asked.

The dal’Sharum snorted. “An alagai that big? I can take just its other arm, if you wish.”

Jardir slapped his back. “Take its head, and we’ll tar it as a trophy.”

“Start boiling the tar,” the warrior said, adjusting the tension and angle of the weapon.

The greenlander rushed over to Jardir, speaking rapidly in his ugly tongue. He waved his arms, seeming increasingly frantic that he could not make his meaning clear. Again and again he pointed to the sling, shouting what seemed the only Krasian word he knew, “Alagai!”

“He brays like a camel,” Hasik said.

“Be silent,” Jardir snapped. He narrowed his eyes, but then the slinger called, “Ready!”

“Fire!” Jardir said. The greenlander leapt for the warrior who went to cut the rope, but Hasik grabbed him, hurling him roughly away.

“I knew we could not trust a chin, First Warrior,” he growled. “He protects the demon!”

Jardir wasn’t so sure, staring hard at the man, who struggled wildly in Hasik’s grip. He pointed again, this time down at the wall, shouting, “Alagai!”

Lessons long dismissed as legend returned to Jardir in a rush—tales of the great demons that had assaulted Krasia’s walls in the time of the first Deliverer, and everything came into sharp focus. The greenlander hadn’t been pointing to the sling; he was pointing to the stone.

Rock demon, Jardir realized in dawning horror.

“Rock demon!” he shouted, but it was too late. He heard the report as the sling arm released its cargo, and turned helplessly to watch. Behind him, the greenlander wailed.

The stone soared through the air, and it seemed as if man and alagai alike held their breath. The one-armed rock demon looked up at the stone—a boulder that had taken three warriors to lift into place.

And then, impossibly, the demon caught the stone in the crook of its good arm and hurled it back with terrible force.

The boulder struck the great gate, smashing a hole and sending cracks spiderwebbing from the point of impact. The rock demon charged, striking that same spot again and again. Magic sparked and flared, but the warding was too damaged to have any real effect. The gate shook with each blow, and one side tore from its hinges, smashing to the ground inside.

The rock demon leapt through, roaring as it ran into the Maze. Behind it, demons poured through the breach.

Jardir’s face flared hot, then went suddenly cold. The great gates of Krasia had not been breached in living memory. The dal’Sharum trapped in the Maze would be hunted like animals, and it was his own fault for not listening to the greenlander.

I have brought my people to ruin, he thought, and for a moment, all he could do was watch dumbly as the alagai invaded the Maze.

Embrace the fear, you fool! he shouted to himself. The night may yet be saved!

“Scorpions!” he cried. “Shift positions and lay down cover fire while we close off the breach! Sling teams! I want stones falling to crush any alagai getting in and to block the way for the rest!”

“We can’t fire so close,” one slinger said. Others nodded, and Jardir could see the same terror on their faces that he had felt a moment before. They needed a more immediate terror to snap them from their stupor.

He punched the slinger in the face, laying him flat on the walltop. “I don’t care if you have to drop the stones by hand! Do as I command!”

The man’s night veil grew wet with blood and his response was unintelligible, but he punched a fist to his chest and staggered to his feet, moving to obey. The other Mehnding did the same, their fear lost in a flurry of activity.

He looked at the nie’Sharum. “Sound the breach.” As the boy raised the horn to his lips, he felt a wave of failure and shame that such a command be given on his watch.

But the feeling was quickly shaken. There was too much to do. He turned to Hasik. “Gather as many men and Warders as you can and meet us at the gate. We go to seal the breach.”

Hasik gave a whoop and charged off, seeming thrilled at the prospect of leaping into a sandstorm of alagai. Jardir ran the walltops toward the spot where his personal unit fought under Shanjat. He needed his own men behind him for this. The other Kaji might still resent Jardir for betraying their tribe, but the men who had fought with him nightly for years were still his utterly.

The greenlander kept pace with him, and Jardir wished he had the words to send him away, or the time to make him understand. Even if he wanted to help, an untrained warrior would only get in the way of Jardir’s tight, cohesive unit.

There was a shriek in the sky, and the greenlander shouted, “Alagai!”

The man crashed into Jardir, bearing them both down to the wall. Jardir felt the wind as leathern wings passed just above them.

Jardir cursed as they rolled apart, casting about for a net, but of course there was none to be found. The greenlander was quicker to his feet, standing crouched with his spear at the ready as the wind demon banked and came back.

He is brave, if a fool, Jardir thought. What does he hope to do without a net?

But as the demon came in, the greenlander dropped suddenly to one knee, stabbing hard with his long spear. The barbed head broke through the thin membrane of the alagai’s wing right at the shoulder joint, and with a twist he used the spear as a lever to turn the demon’s own momentum against it and flip it over onto its back on the wall.

The demon was not seriously harmed, but the greenlander moved quickly, grabbing the straps of the shield that hung loosely on his arm and pressing its warded surface against the demon’s chest.

Magic flared at the contact, jolting the creature so that it thrashed and shrieked madly. Jardir wasted no time in planting his spear deep in the stunned creature’s eye. It kicked and screamed, and Jardir pulled his weapon free and drove it into its other eye, twisting until the creature lay still.

The greenlander looked up at him, his eyes alive with excitement, and said something in his Northern tongue.

Jardir laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “You surprise me, Arlen, son of Jeph!”

Together, they ran the walltops to Jardir’s men.