The Desert Prince

by Brett, Peter V.

  We nie’Sharum have wards of sight painted around our eyes, powered by the ambient magic in the air. Instead of light, we see the world illuminated by the spectrum of magic—the ambient power all around us, the wards that gather it, and the auras of living things. It is more powerful than normal vision, but the extra input takes time to grow accustomed to.

  A woman rushing with a babe in her arms shoulders past a gray-bearded man, knocking him to the paving stones. She runs on, oblivious, but Chadan points. “Thivan. Help him. The rest of you, make sure these buildings are empty and lead the people to the undercity entrance!”

  As Chikga warned, several of the undercity entrances are no longer usable, rusted or collapsed after twenty years of neglect. The nearest working one is a mile away. Not far for a swift-footed nie’Sharum, but for folk fumbling in dim lamplight through the dark, slowed by children, old, and infirm, it is a considerable distance.

  Here and there, chi’Sharum deserters escort their families. The wards on the helms under their dark green turbans allow them to see in wardsight, and they search the darkness, looking for threats. They eye us warily, knowing there will be a heavy price if they live to see the dawn and we report them for breaking ranks. But they are armed and armored and we are not. If Chadan were to challenge them now, it would not end well for us.

  To his credit, Chadan is more focused on getting folk to safety. A young boy rides his back like a camel as he guides a woman and her elderly mother through the darkness, calling commands all the while.

  A scrabbling sound is the only warning as a sand demon drops on a woman carrying two children. Her sharp cry is quickly silenced by its talons and razor teeth. Her aura, bright a moment ago, snuffs like a candle before my eyes.

  I spare a glance upward, and terror grips me. “They’re on the rooftops!”

  The buildings are crawling with sand and clay demons, climbing the façades like spiders and running along the roofs. Unable to get past the warriors locking shields across the streets, they went up the walls instead. Here and there, defensive wards flash, but even these are old and poorly maintained. There hasn’t been a demon in the city in centuries.

  A clay demon drops onto Chadan, but he is ready, raising his shield over both himself and the boy on his back. The wards flash as the demon scrabbles for purchase. Chadan sets the boy down lightly, then puts his shoulder into a shield rush that drives the coreling into a warded doorway. Caught between two wardnets, power shocks through the creature and it drops to the ground, stunned.

  “Take who you can and run!” Chadan cries as the coreling shakes itself off, struggling to regain its feet.

  It’s a practical decision. The kind of command Prince Chadan was trained for—the kind that decides lives. For, of course, “who you can” means those with a chance of outrunning the demons.

  The two children the slaughtered woman was carrying shriek and dart after the crowd, but the sand demon, jaws still wet with the mother’s blood, tamps down to go after them. It is met instead with a pair of chi’Sharum. The warriors come at it from two sides, batting its swiping paws aside with shields as they stab with their long spears.

  The demon is quickly dispatched, but while their attention is fixed on it, more drop from above. One sinks its teeth into a warrior’s neck and hot blood, bright with his lifelight, spurts like a fountain from the wound.

  Unable to bring his spear to bear, the warrior drops it, fumbling for the knife on his belt even as his life bleeds away. I can see his aura dimming like a lamp being turned down. The blade is still half in its sheath as he drops to his knees. The demon kicks its hind legs, shredding the warrior’s robe until his armor plates fall away and it reaches the vulnerable flesh beneath.

  The other warrior gets his shield up in time to deflect an attack from above, but the demon lands on its paws a few feet away. It is joined by another as they come at him from opposite sides, hunting in concert.

  More demons are landing in the street, and I know it’s only a matter of time before they spot me. I should run, but I stand transfixed by the scene.

  A cry catches my attention, and I see the fruit seller from earlier in the day, her robes lifted above bare legs as she runs from a clay demon. Surprisingly quick on its stubby legs, the coreling can see in the darkness, while she is half blind. It gains rapidly.

  31

  ALAGAI’SHARAK

  I’m moving before I realize what I’m doing, reflex taking the conscious decision from me. The fallen warrior is still thrashing under the sand demon’s teeth and claws as I scoop up his dropped spear and throw. The piercing wards on its tip punch through the clay demon’s armor, and it collapses, the weapon deeply embedded in its carapace. The fruit seller runs on, oblivious to what happened behind her.

  The sand demon looks up from the chi’Sharum’s bloody body, but I rush it with my shield, pinning it as I draw my hanzhar. Again and again I stab, the cutting wards on the blade sucking at the demon’s magic to power the attack. A bit of that energy runs tingling up my arms, and I feel a rush of strength and vitality. My forearm is a blur spraying hot ichor across my chest as I cut new wounds faster than the demon can heal.

  The other warrior is fighting for his life as I pounce on one of the sand demons circling him. Gone are the careful forms we learned in sharaj. With magic pumping hot in my veins, my attack is pure animal fury. I yank on one of its horns with my shield hand, the curved hanzhar a talon I rake across the coreling’s exposed throat.

  I keep pulling as ichor pours from the wound and the creature thrashes, choking on it. The hesitation costs me as demons drop from the walls all around me, circling in with low growls. They swarm the warrior I tried to save, pulling him down like a pack of dogs.

  If there was any doubt left about the demons’ purpose, it is gone, now. They’ve stopped feeding, stopped chasing the fleeing civilians. They are fixated on one thing, and one thing only.

  Me.

  I’m dead. The thought breaks me out of the berserk rage that had overcome me. Perhaps I deserve it. The warriors dead in the Maze last night, everyone slaughtered tonight, all of it is my fault. Just as with my friends on the borough tour. Whatever Fort Krasia is facing, they’re facing because of me.

  But with the guilt comes anger. Anger at the demons. Anger at being born different, at having enemies before I emerged from between my mother’s legs. I bang the hilt of the knife on my shield like a Baiter in the Maze. “Come on, then! If I’m going to die, I’m taking some of you with me!”

  The demons shriek in response, and one launches itself at me, racing with blinding speed. I set my feet, ready to catch it with my shield and put my knife between its eyes.

  I never get the chance. A spear punches into the demon’s side, dropping it hard to the cobblestone street. I look up and see Chadan rushing in after it, plowing through the demons with the forbidding of his shield.

  He is point in an inverted V of screaming nie’Sharum, charging in formation with shields locked. Faseek and Gorvan, Thivan and Konin, Montidahr, Rekaj, Menin, and dozens I don’t even recognize. Students of all bloods and classes, violating the drillmasters’ orders to come to my aid. Some carry knives and spears scavenged from fallen warriors, but many have only their shields and their courage.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and pin the fallen sand demon with one sandal as I tear the spear from its body. Chadan takes the spear from the remains of the warrior behind me, and Gorvan takes his knife. Faseek takes the knife the dying chi’Sharum never managed to finish drawing. We form a circle, eyes outward as the demon horde continues to grow.

  “Everam is watching!” Chadan shouts. “Make Him proud, warriors of Majah!”

  * * *

  —

  The corelings charge, but we lock shields, bracing as they slam into the forbiddance, then shoving forward to reflect the attack at them, throwing the demons back. Those with
weapons strike during the press, sending a number of the demons stumbling away shrieking and dripping ichor.

  The wounds begin to close as soon as our weapons pull free of their flesh, but some of my brothers get their first taste of demon feedback magic. I see it crackle through their auras like lightning.

  “Find weapons!” I shout as the demons regroup. Most of us lock shields again, but a few of the boys scatter, searching the terrain and the bodies of the fallen for anything they can use.

  Menin finds a wheelbarrow, smashing the edge of his shield through the thick wooden handles to produce a pair of clubs. One of the greenblood nie’Sharum finds a rusty awl and takes the clubs, cutting crude bludgeoning wards onto the jagged ends.

  “Will that work?” Parkot asks, taking a club.

  “We’ll know soon enough.” Menin swings the other back and forth, trying to get a feel for its balance.

  Again the demons charge, jaws slavering as they lunge at me. They are not so far gone that they ignore the other enemies, but the press is tightest around me.

  “Courage, brother.” Chadan stands shoulder-to-shoulder with me, and we move together like dancers, lifting the foe with our shields and stabbing underneath with our spears. Sand demon armor is weakest about the abdomen, and our spearheads punch through their hearts in almost identical blows, casting them back into the press thrashing in their death throes.

  Menin swings his club, and the wards cut into it flare, bashing a clay demon’s head down onto the cobbles. The blow isn’t enough to do more than stun the heavily armored creature, but Parkot hits it next and the impact wards on his club send the creature tumbling head over heels away from them.

  Armed with only a knife, Faseek doesn’t have the reach of a spear or club, but each time his blade drinks of a demon’s magic, the small, swift boy grows faster—fiercer. He severs a sand demon’s paw, then blinds a clay demon with a quick slash across its eyes. The coreling falls back, shrieking, and Gorvan, who has lashed his knife to the end of a sturdy awning pole, impales it with the makeshift spear.

  Not all my brothers fare so well. Rekaj managed to secure a fallen warrior’s spear, but his conservative way of fighting—leaning heavily on defense while he awaits the perfect opening to attack—costs him when a sand demon stands on its hind legs, swatting at his shield instead of charging fully. He catches the first two blows, but is hesitant to retaliate. A lash of the demon’s tail sweeps his legs, and before he can recover, it tears out his throat.

  Konin, who warmed me at night and mumbled prayers in his sleep, gets his shield in place to stop the head-slam of a clay demon, but he isn’t strong enough to absorb the impact, and is knocked onto his back. He kicks at the demon’s armored snout—the last thing he should have done. He does more damage to his heel than the coreling, and it responds by biting off his foot.

  Faseek gives a cry and tackles the demon away from his friend, stabbing it repeatedly as they tumble across the cobbles. I can already see it will be too late for Konin, whose aura is dimming rapidly as he screams and clutches the spurting stump of his leg.

  I want to help, but there is little I can do. Chadan and I fight back-to-back now against three demons, barely holding our own.

  Armed with only a shield, Thivan charges in, knocking one of the demons into another. Chadan takes the opportunity to stab into the tangle, and one of the sand demons does not rise.

  The other springs at Thivan, catching the edge of his shield with a hooked talon and pulling it aside. I throw my spear, taking the demon down before it can kill my brother, but it leaves me with only the hanzhar on my belt as the third sand demon comes at me.

  Like the one that attacked Rekaj, the demon is smart enough not to throw itself at my shield. It stands and bats with its powerful paws instead. The blows are almost too fast to follow, and I block as much on instinct as intent. I’m ready for the swipe of its tail, hopping back, but I lose my footing, slipping on the bloody cobbles.

  My shield is out of alignment as the demon leaps, but as I land on my back I curl a leg and kick out, holding the demon at bay for a moment as it scrabbles at the edge of my shield. I fumble blindly, hand at last closing about the hilt of the hanzhar strapped to my healing satchel. I pull it free and slash along the demon’s belly, opening it up like dissecting a frog in Gatherers’ University. It thrashes for a moment before Chadan and Thivan skewer it with their spears.

  There is a moment to draw breath, and I glance around. A dozen nie’Sharum lie still and cold in the street, but so do as many demons. Those of us that remain have auras bright with strength and seething with anger. Blood and ichor spatters all of our skin, and almost everyone has a weapon of some kind, dripping ichor.

  I walk to Konin’s body, dropping to one knee as I reach out a shaking hand to close his wide, staring eyes. I draw a ward in the air above him. “Everam guide you on the lonely path, brother.”

  I stand, looking down at him. If I hadn’t interceded, if I hadn’t broken the rules of sharaj, he and Faseek would have been cast from the training grounds weeks ago. They would be khaffit, but Konin would be alive. All the fallen would be alive, if not for me.

  Did the Majah read the prophecy wrong? What if I am not their savior, but their doom?

  Chadan steps close, laying a hand on my shoulder. “It isn’t your fault, brother. This was the alagai’s doing, not yours. Konin died with glory on alagai talons because of you. His bones will be taken to Sharik Hora, interred with honor among our ancestors.”

  The words are more comforting than I expect, but I know Konin and Rekaj are only the beginning. “This isn’t over.”

  “No,” Chadan agrees, setting his feet and putting up his shield. “Nie’Sharum, to me!”

  My brothers and I form around the Nie Ka and begin a steady advance down the street, picking up stragglers and growing in strength as we go. We follow the shrieks of demons that have gone in search of easier prey and find alagai and greenbloods both. The chin come out of hiding as we drive back the demons, falling behind our line as we continue the press for the entrance to the undercity.

  There are dozens of them cowering behind us as we make it to the gate and find a scowling Drillmaster Chikga waiting.

  32

  TWO PRINCES

  We hold a collective breath as Drillmaster Chikga eyes us. In taking arms and engaging in alagai’sharak, we violated his orders, and a direct order from the Sharum Ka. Worse, we did it to defend greenbloods, whom the drillmaster considers less than human.

  But it was me who started it. Me who turned to fight when Chadan told us to run. Me who pulled my brothers back into the fight to save my life.

  It’s my fault that Konin and Rekaj have gone down the lonely path to Everam’s judgment, along with others whose names I never even knew.

  My fault the storm came at all.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and lift my foot. I will step forward and take the blame for my brothers. Let them cast me out of sharaj. They would be better off without me. All of Desert Spear would be better off if I were far from this place.

  But before I take that step, Chikga bangs his spear on his shield, making all of us jump. “I see you, warriors of Majah! Everam sees you!”

  I don’t know how to respond. My heart is pounding, blood rushing with a heady mix of magic and adrenaline. Ready to run or fight, I’m unprepared for praise.

  “Nie Ka!” Chikga shouts.

  Chadan steps forward. Chikga lifts his spear vertically and punches the fist holding it to his chest. “You have done honor to your tribe and sharaj by blooding your brothers this night.” We gape as he drops to one knee. “You may not take the black until the dama’ting foretells your death, but in my eyes, it is already done, my prince. You are ajin’pel, blooded to many. It is my honor to serve.”

  Chadan blinks, then gives his head a tiny shake, stepping forward to lay his ichor-cove
red spear on the drillmaster’s shoulder with the same royal grace and poise Mother and Minister Arther spent so many hours drilling into me. “Rise, Chikga asu Rabban am’Darid am’Majah. The blood on our spears belongs as much to you as any. Every drillmaster is ajin’pel. Our honor is yours.”

  Chikga rises, and I am stunned to see moisture in his eyes. I did not think him capable of such emotion.

  “The Sharum Ka has the breach contained,” Chikga says, “but there are alagai still inside the city walls. He has sent warriors to hunt them, but will take no more chances with your lives. His orders are for you and your brothers to go into the undercity with the chin to rest and tend your wounds in safety until sunrise.”

  * * *

  —

  The undercity of Fort Krasia is nearly as ancient as the city above, and even more impressive. There is nothing to compare in Thesa, putting even the great Cathedral of the Deliverer in Hollow to shame. Its beauty and the grandeur of the long-dead artisans of ancient Krasia take my breath away.

  Low tunnels connect soaring caverns containing everything a people could need. There are homes and wellhouses. Houses of worship, markets, sharaj, smithies, and pens for livestock.

  Wardpillars—great obelisks cut deeply with defensive wards—line the streets and anchor the squares. Demons cannot rise through cut stone, so the streets are cobbled, the colors of the stones and mortar creating great mosaic circles of protection. Wards are chiseled into the tunnel walls. Even if by some catastrophe demons broke in, they would have to fight the wards for every inch.

  The undercity was meant as a last retreat if Desert Spear ever fell to the corelings. For centuries, before Darin’s father found the lost fighting wards, the women, children, and khaffit of old Krasia would hide in the undercity each night while the Sharum fought alagai’sharak with nothing more than plain spears.