“Shar’Dama Ka, there is news you must hear,” Ashan said.
Jardir nodded. “Your counsel is always welcome, my friend. Speak.”
Ashan shook his head. “Best you hear the words directly from their source, Deliverer.”
Jardir raised an eyebrow at this, but he nodded, following Ashan out of the manse and onto the frozen city streets. Not far from Jardir’s palace lay one of the chin houses of worship. It was mean and unadorned compared with the great Sharik Hora, but it was an impressive structure by Northland standards—three stories of thick stone, and powerfully warded.
Ashan led the way inside, and Jardir saw that the dama had done more than simply claim the Holy House. Already they were decorating it with the bleached and lacquered bones of the dal’Sharum who had died in battle since leaving the Desert Spear. With the spirits of the honored dead to guard it, no building in the North would be more secure.
Down they went, stone steps leading into a maze of cold catacombs below the structure.
“The chin interred their honored dead here,” Ashan explained as Jardir studied the empty nooks in the walls. “We have since cleaned it of such unworthy filth and turned these tunnels to better purpose.”
As if on cue, a man screamed, his cries of agony echoing through the sunken halls. Ashan paid the sound no mind, leading Jardir through the tunnels to a particular room. Within, several of the Northern clerics—Tenders, as they were called—hung by their wrists, suspended from a ceiling beam in the middle of the room. The tops of their robes were torn away, and their flesh was streaked with the deep cuts of the alagai tail—a whip that could break the will of even the strongest men.
Ashan waved away the dal’Sharum torturers, striding up to one of the prisoners.
“You,” he said, pointing, “repeat what you told me to the Shar’Dama Ka, if you dare.”
The Tender raised his head weakly. One of his eyes was puffed shut, and tears ran freely from the other, streaking the blood and filth on his face.
“Go t’ th’ Core,” he slurred, and attempted to spit at Ashan. It was a weak effort, and the bloody spittle only ran down his lower lip.
In response, the torturer came forward, a pliers in his hands. He gripped the Tender’s face firmly, forcing his mouth open and clamping the pliers on one of his front teeth. The man’s screams filled the room.
“Enough,” Jardir said after a moment. The torturer stopped immediately, bowing and receding to the wall. The Tender hung limply from the shackles at his wrists. Jardir went up to him, looking at him sadly. “I am the Shar’Dama Ka, sent by Everam, who is infinitely merciful. Speak and speak truly, and I will put an end to your suffering.”
The Tender looked up at him, and seemed to regain something of himself. “I know you,” he croaked. “You claim to be the Deliverer, but you are not him.”
“And how do you know that?” Jardir asked.
“Because the Deliverer has already come,” the Tender said. “The Painted Man walks in darkness, and the corelings flee from his sight. He saved Deliverer’s Hollow from the brink of destruction, and he will deal with you in your turn.”
Jardir looked to Ashan in surprise.
“This is not just one man’s word, Shar’Dama Ka,” the Damaji said. “Other chin speak of this warded infidel. You will need to destroy this false prophet, and quickly, if you are to secure your rightful place.”
Jardir shook his head. “You sound like my wife, old friend.”
CHAPTER 7
GREENLANDER
326 AR
“ONE DAY, I WILL be Sharum Ka!” Jayan shouted, thrusting his spear at the rag-stuffed dummy Jardir had made for him. It swung lazily from a rope tied to a ceiling beam.
Jardir laughed, delighting in his son’s energy. Jayan was twelve now, already in his bido, and never hungry in the food line. Jardir had begun teaching his sons the sharukin the day they took their first steps.
“I want to be Sharum Ka,” Asome, eleven, lamented. “I don’t want to be a stupid dama.” He plucked at the white cloth he wore over one shoulder.
“Ah, but you will be the Sharum Ka’s connection to Everam,” Jardir said. “And perhaps one day, Damaji to all the Kaji. Even Andrah.” He smiled, but inwardly, he agreed with the boy. He wanted warriors for sons, not clerics. Sharak Ka was coming.
Inevera had originally wanted Jayan to wear the white, but Jardir had categorically refused. It was one of his few victories over her, but he wondered just how much of a victory it was. It was as likely she had wanted Asome to wear the white all along.
The other boys clustered about, watching their older brothers with awe. Most of Jardir’s other sons were too young for Hannu Pash, and had to wait to find their path. The second sons would be dama, the others, Sharum. It was the first night of Waning, when the forces of Nie were said to be their strongest and Alagai Ka stalked the night. Nothing gave a warrior strength in the night like seeing his sons.
And daughters, he thought, turning to Inevera. “It would please me if my daughters could return home for Waning each month, as well.”
Inevera shook her head. “Their training must not be disturbed, husband. The Hannu Pash of the nie’dama’ting is…rigorous.” Indeed, the girls were taken much younger than his sons. He had not seen his eldest daughters in years.
“Surely they cannot all become dama’ting,” Jardir said. “I must have daughters to marry to my loyal men.”
“And so you shall,” Inevera replied. “Daughters no man dare harm, who are loyal to you over even their husbands.”
“And to Everam, over even their father,” Jardir muttered.
“Of course,” Inevera said, and he could sense his wife’s smile behind her veil. He was about to retort when Ashan came into the room. His son Asukaji, the same age as Asome, trailed behind him in his nie’dama bido. Ashan bowed to Jardir.
“Sharum Ka, there is a matter the kai’Sharum wish you to settle.”
“I am with my sons, Ashan,” Jardir said. “Can it not wait?”
“Apologies, First Warrior, but I do not think it can.”
“Very well,” Jardir sighed. “What is it?”
Ashan bowed again. “I think it best the Sharum Ka see the problem for himself,” he said.
Jardir raised an eyebrow. Ashan had never been reluctant to give his assessment of anything before, even when he knew Jardir would disagree.
“Jayan!” he called. “Fetch my spear and shield! Asome! My robes!”
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 armpi
t 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.
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