The Desert Spear

by Peter V. Brett

The Andrah sputtered, foundering for a response, but anything he could have said was drowned away as even the dama in the crowd took up the cry.

  The Andrah scowled, but in the face of such overwhelming support for Jardir, there was nothing he could do. He turned on his heel, sitting heavily in his palanquin. The nie’Sharum groaned under his bulk as they hoisted the carrying bars to their shoulders.

  “You play a dangerous game,” Amadeveram warned as they carried the Andrah out of earshot.

  “Sharak is no game to me, Damaji,” Jardir said.

  “That was well done,” Inevera said as she laid him on her operating table. “You sent that fat pig running with his curled tail between his legs!” She laughed as she began to cut the robes from him. His shoulder and much of his arm had gone black.

  “I have rare moments of competence,” Jardir said.

  Inevera grunted, taking his arm and popping it back into its socket with a sharp twist. Jardir was ready for the pain, and it washed over him like a warm breeze.

  “Do you need a root for the pain?” she asked.

  Jardir snorted.

  “So strong,” she purred, running her hands over his body, searching for further injuries. Jardir was a mass of bruises and scrapes, but there was nothing that could not wait, it seemed, for Inevera’s robes fell to the floor, and she climbed onto the table, straddling him.

  Nothing aroused her more than victory.

  “My champion,” she breathed, kissing his hard chest. “My Shar’Dama Ka.”

  Jardir sat on the Spear Throne, regarding his kai’Sharum as they gave their reports. His left arm was in a sling, and though the pain was only a faint buzz to his focused mind, the loss of use in the limb angered him. His wives would try to keep him from alagai’sharak in the coming night, but he would be damned first.

  Before him stood Evakh, kai’Sharum of the Sharach tribe.

  “With but four dal’Sharum remaining, I regret to inform the Sharum Ka that the Sharach no longer have enough warriors to form our own unit,” Evakh said, his head bowed in shame. “It will be many years before we recover.” He left unsaid what they were all thinking: that the Sharach would likely never recover, dying out or being absorbed into another tribe.

  Jardir shook his head. “Many units were shattered last night. I will call for dal’Sharum to stand up and honor their Sharach brothers with their spears. You will have warriors under your command this very night.”

  The kai’Sharum’s eyes goggled. “That is too generous, First Warrior.”

  “Nonsense,” Jardir said. “I could do no less in conscience. In addition, I will purchase wives from my own coffer to aid in your recovery.” He smiled. “If your men bring as much energy for that task as they do to alagai’sharak, the Sharach should recover swiftly.”

  “The Sharach are in your eternal debt, First Warrior,” the man said, prostrating himself and touching his forehead to the floor.

  Jardir descended from his dais and put his good hand on the warrior’s soldier.

  “I am Sharach,” he said, “as are my three sons and two daughters by Qasha. I will not let our tribe fade into the night.” The warrior kissed his sandaled feet, and Jardir felt the tears that fell from his eyes.

  “The Kaji and the Majah will not sell wives to another tribe,” Ashan advised when Evakh departed, “but the Mehnding have an abundance of daughters, and are loyal to the Sharum Ka. Their losses were few last night.”

  Jardir nodded. “Offer to buy as many as they will allow. Money is no object. Other tribes will need fresh blood to survive this event, as well.”

  Ashan bowed. “It will be done. But is rebuilding the tribes not the duty of the Damaji?”

  Jardir looked at him knowingly. “Come, my friend, you know as well as I that those old men will not lift a finger to help one another, even now. The Sharum must look to their own.”

  Ashan bowed again.

  There were more reports, many just as bad. Jardir sat through them wearily, giving aid to all, and wondering at the state of the army that would assemble when dusk came that night.

  Finally, the last of his commanders departed, and he sighed deeply.

  “Bring in the Par’chin and the khaffit,” he said.

  Ashan signaled the guards, and they were escorted in. The dal’Sharum shoved Abban roughly to the floor before the dais.

  “You will translate for the Sharum Ka, khaffit,” Ashan said.

  “Yes, my dama,” Abban said, touching his head to the floor.

  The greenlander said something to Abban, who mumbled a reply through gritted teeth.

  “What did he say?” Jardir asked.

  Abban swallowed hard, hesitating.

  The guard behind Abban hit him across the back with his spear. “The Sharum Ka asked you a question, son of camel’s piss!”

  Abban cried out in pain, and the greenlander gave a shout, shoving the warrior back and interposing himself between them. He and the warrior glared at each other for a moment, but the warrior’s eyes flicked to Jardir uncertainly.

  Jardir ignored them. “I will not ask twice,” he told Abban.

  Abban wiped the sweat from his brow. “He said, ‘It is not right that you should have to grovel so,’ ” he translated, ducking his head and closing his eyes, as if expecting another blow.

  Jardir nodded. “Tell him that you have shamed yourself and your family in the Maze, and are no longer fit to stand among men.”

  Abban nodded, translating quickly. The greenlander replied, and Abban translated. “He says that should not matter. No man should crawl like a dog.”

  Ashan shook his head. “The ways of the savages are strange.”

  “Indeed,” Jardir said, “but we are not here to discuss the treatment of khaffit. Abban, you may take your hands from the floor.”

  “Thank you, First Warrior,” Abban said, straightening. The greenlander seemed to relax at this, and he and the guard backed away from each other.

  “You fought well in the night, Par’chin,” Jardir said. Abban translated quickly.

  The greenlander bowed, meeting Jardir’s eyes as he replied in his guttural tongue. “I was honored to stand among men of such courage,” Abban translated.

  “Do other men of the North fight as we do?” Jardir asked.

  The greenlander shook his head. “My people fight only when they must, to save their own lives or sometimes that of another,” Abban said. The greenlander scowled and added something, spitting on the floor. “Sometimes not even then,” Abban said.

  “They are a race of cowards, as the Evejah says,” Ashan said. Abban opened his mouth, and the dama threw a goblet at him, soaking his fine silks in dark nectar. “Do not translate that, fool!” The greenlander clenched a fist, but kept his eyes on Jardir.

  “What makes you different?” Jardir asked. Abban translated, but the greenlander only shrugged and did not reply. “You cut the arm from the rock demon?”

  The greenlander nodded. “When I was a boy,” Abban translated, “I ran away from my home. I made a circle of wards when the sun set, and I was surrounded by corelings…”

  Jardir held up a hand. “Corelings?”

  Abban bowed. “It is the greenland word for alagai, First Warrior,” he said. “It means ‘those who dwell in the center.’ They believe Nie’s abyss lies at the core of Ala, as we do.”

  Jardir nodded, signaling the man to continue.

  “The rock demon came for me that night,” Abban translated, “and in my foolishness, I made mock of it, jeering and cavorting about. But I slipped and scuffed a ward. The coreling struck, clawing my back, but I managed to repair the ward before it could cross the circle fully. When the circle reactivated, its arm was severed.”

  Ashan snorted. “Impossible. The chin is obviously lying, Sharum Ka. No one could survive a blow from such a beast.”

  The greenlander looked to Abban, but when the khaffit did not translate, he turned to Jardir. He said something, and pointed to Ashan.

  “What
did the Holy Man say?” Abban supplied.

  Jardir glanced at Ashan, then back to the greenlander. “He said you are a liar.”

  The greenlander nodded, as if he had expected as much. He laid down his spear and lifted his shirt, turning his back to them.

  “Nie’s black heart,” Abban said, turning pale at the sight of the thick scars running across the man’s back. They were faded with years, but there was no doubt they were made by claws far larger than any sand demon’s.

  The greenlander turned back, staring hard at Ashan. “Do you still think me a liar?” Abban translated.

  “Apologize,” Jardir murmured.

  Ashan bowed deeply. “My apologies, Par’chin.” The greenlander nodded as Abban translated.

  “The demon has stalked you ever since?” Jardir asked.

  The greenlander nodded. “Almost seven years now,” Abban translated, “but one day, I will show it the sun.”

  Jardir nodded. “Why did you not tell us such a great enemy pursued you? You put my city at risk.”

  The greenlander replied, and Abban’s eyes widened. He said something in response, but the greenlander shook his head and spoke again.

  “You are not here to hold your own conversations, khaffit!” Jardir shouted, rising from his seat. The dal’Sharum at the door lowered their spears and advanced.

  “Apologies, First Warrior!” Abban cried, pressing his forehead back to the floor. “I sought only to clarify his meaning!”

  “I will decide what needs clarifying,” Jardir said. “The next time you speak out of turn, I will cut off your thumbs. Now translate everything that was spoken.”

  Abban nodded eagerly. “The greenlander said, ‘It was only a rock demon. They are common in the North, and I did not think it worth mentioning that one bore me personal enmity,’ to which I replied, ‘Surely you exaggerate, my friend! There cannot be two alagai so great,’ and he said, ‘No, in the mountains of the North, there are many such.’ ”

  Jardir nodded. “What are the weaknesses of the rock demons?”

  “So far as I know,” the greenlander said through Abban, “they have none. And I have looked hard.”

  “We will find one, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “Together.”

  “This level of communication is unacceptable,” Jardir said when the greenlander had been escorted out.

  “The Par’chin is a quick study,” Abban said, “and has committed himself to learning our tongue. He will speak it soon, I promise.”

  “Not good enough,” Jardir said. “There will be other greenlanders, and I would speak to them, as well. Since none of our learned men,” he looked at Ashan with disdain, “has seen fit to study the tongue of the savages, it will fall to you to instruct us, beginning with me.”

  Abban paled. “Me?” he squeaked. “Instruct you?”

  Jardir felt a wave of disgust. “Stop your sniveling. Yes, you! Are there any others who speak it?”

  Abban shrugged. “It is a valuable skill in the marketplace. My wives and daughters speak a few words, so they might listen in secret as the Messengers talk. Many other women in the bazaar do the same.”

  “You expect the Sharum Ka to learn from a woman?” Ashan demanded, and Jardir swallowed the irony. If not for Inevera, he would still be an illiterate dal’Sharum.

  “Another merchant then,” Abban said. “I am not the only one who trades with the North.”

  “But you trade the most,” Jardir said. “It is obvious from your womanish silks, and the fact that a sniveling fat khaffit like you has more wives than most warriors. More than that, the Par’chin knows and trusts you. Unless there is a true man who speaks the greenland tongue, it shall be you.”

  “But…” Abban said, his eyes pleading. Jardir held up a hand, and he fell silent.

  “You said once you owed me your life,” Jardir said. “The time has come for you to begin repaying that debt.”

  Abban bowed deeply, touching his forehead to the floor.

  The city gates were patched by nightfall, and though the giant rock demon continued to attack the walls, the sling teams gave it no more ammunition with which to breach the wards. The Par’chin joined in alagai’sharak again that night, and every night for a week to come. By day, he drilled hard with the dal’Sharum.

  “I cannot speak for other greenland Messengers,” Drillmaster Kaval said, spitting in the dust, “but the Par’chin has been trained well. His spearwork is excellent, and he has taken to sharusahk like he was born to it. I started him training with the nie’Sharum, but his form has already surpassed even those ready for the wall.”

  Jardir nodded. He had expected no less.

  As if he had known they spoke of him, the Par’chin approached them, Abban trailing dutifully behind. He bowed and spoke.

  “I will be returning to the North tomorrow, First Warrior,” Abban translated.

  Keep him close. Inevera’s words echoed in Jardir’s head.

  “So soon?” he asked. “You have only just arrived, Par’chin!”

  “I feel that way as well,” the Par’chin said, “but I have commitments to deliver goods and messages that must be kept.”

  “Commitments to chin!” Jardir snapped, knowing he had made a mistake the moment the words left his mouth. It was a deep insult. He wondered if the greenlander would attack him.

  But the Par’chin only raised an eyebrow. “Should that matter?” he asked through Abban.

  “No, of course not,” Jardir said, bowing deeply to everyone’s surprise. “I apologize. I am simply disappointed to see you go.”

  “I will return soon,” the Par’chin promised. He held up a sheaf of papers bound in leather. “Abban has been most helpful; I have a long list of words to memorize. When next we meet, I hope to be more adept at your tongue.”

  “No doubt,” Jardir said. He embraced the Par’chin, kissing his hairless cheeks. “You will always be welcome in Krasia, my brother, but you will draw less attention if you grow a proper man’s beard.”

  The Par’chin smiled. “I will,” he promised.

  Jardir slapped him on the back. “Come, my friend. Night is falling. We will kill alagai once more before you cross the hot sands.”

  In the months following the Par’chin’s departure, Jardir began observing the other Messengers from the North more closely. Abban’s contacts in the bazaar were extensive, and word came quickly when a Northerner arrived.

  Jardir invited each to his palace in turn—an honor unheard of in the past. The men came eagerly after centuries of being treated as filth beneath even khaffit.

  “I welcome the chance to practice the Northland tongue,” he told the Messengers as they sat at his table, served by his own wives. He spoke to each at length, indeed honing his speech, but seeking something more.

  And when the meals were finished, he always made the same request.

  “You carry a spear in the night like a man,” he said. “Come stand with us in the Maze tonight as a brother.”

  The men looked at him, and he could see in their eyes that they had no idea of the enormity of the honor he was offering them.

  And to a one, they refused him.

  In the meantime, the Par’chin kept his word, visiting at least twice every year. Sometimes his visits would last mere days, and other times he would spend months in the Desert Spear and the surrounding villages. Again and again, he arrived at the training grounds, begging leave to join in alagai’sharak.

  Is the Par’chin the only true man in the North? Jardir wondered.

  The Pit Warder, falling in a spray of blood, had not hit the ground before the Par’chin was there. He hooked the sand demon’s legs with his own and dropped to the ground, twisting for leverage in a flawless sharusahk move. The demon’s knees buckled, and it dropped into the pit.

  As if it had all been one smooth motion, the Par’chin produced a stick of charcoal, repairing the damaged ward and resealing the circle before another demon could escape. He was at the Warder’s side in an instant, cutt
ing at his robes and tossing aside the steel plates pocketed in the fabric to ward off alagai claws. The metal was a special protection granted to the Pit Warders, but it was still poor compensation for a shield and spear. Pit Warders needed their hands free.

  The Par’chin’s hands and arms grew slick with blood, but he paid it no mind, digging in his battle bag for herbs and implements. Jardir shook his head in amazement. This was not the first time the greenlander had treated an injured warrior on the Maze floor. Were the Northerners all Warders and dama’ting combined?

  The Warder struggled weakly, but the Par’chin straddled him, pinning him with his knees as he continued to clean the wound.

  “Help me!” the Par’chin called in Krasian, but the dal’Sharum only watched in confusion. Jardir felt it, too. These were no simple wounds. Could he not see the man was doomed to life as a cripple if he should survive?

  Jardir walked over to the pair. The Par’chin was trying to thread a hooked needle while keeping pressure on the bandages with his elbow. The warrior continued to struggle, making the task impossible.

  “Hold him still!” the Par’chin cried, seeing his approach. Jardir ignored him, looking in the warrior’s eyes. The dal’Sharum gave a slight shake of his head.

  Jardir plunged his spear into the man’s heart.

  The Par’chin shrieked, dropping his needle and launching himself at Jardir. He grabbed Jardir’s robes and shoved him back hard, slamming him against the Maze wall.

  “What are you about?” the Par’chin demanded.

  All around the ambush point, warriors raised their spears and approached. No man was allowed to lay hands on the First Warrior.

  Jardir raised a hand to forestall them, keeping his eyes on the green-lander, who had no idea how close he was to death.

  Upon seeing the Par’chin’s eyes, Jardir revised that assessment. Perhaps he did know, and simply didn’t care. Killing the Warder had offended the greenlander beyond reason.

  “I am about letting men die with honor, son of Jeph,” Jardir said. “He did not want your help. He did not need it. He had done his duty, and now he is in Heaven.”

  “There is no Heaven,” the Par’chin growled. “All you did was murder a man.”