The Desert Spear

  Jardir flexed, breaking the Par’chin’s hold easily. The man had learned sharusahk quickly over the last two years, but he was not yet a match for most dal’Sharum, much less one trained in Sharik Hora. He punched the Par’chin in the jaw, easily ducking his return swing. He twisted the man’s arm behind him and slammed him to the ground.

  “Just this once,” he whispered in the Par’chin’s ear, “I will pretend I did not hear you say that. Speak your Northern blasphemies again in Krasia, and your life will be forfeit.”

  Keep him close, Inevera had said, but he had failed.

  Jardir stood alone atop the wall, watching as the alagai fled the coming sun. The great rock demon, which his men had taken to calling Alagai Ka, paced before the restored gates, but the wards were strong. Soon he, too, would sink back down to Nie’s abyss for another day.

  Jardir kept remembering the desperation in the Par’chin’s eyes, the need to save the Warder’s life. Jardir knew he had been right to end it and ensure the man glory over a life as a cripple, but he knew, too, that he had deliberately antagonized the Par’chin in the process.

  Among his people, such abject lessons were common, and no man would try to assault his betters for the life of a cripple. But as Jardir had learned again and again, the greenlanders were not like his people, not even the Par’chin. They did not embrace death as part of life. They fought it as hard as any dal’Sharum fought alagai.

  There was honor in that, of a sort. The dama were wrong to call the greenlanders savages. Inevera’s command notwithstanding, Jardir liked the Par’chin. The rift between them gnawed at him, and he wondered at how to repair it.

  “Thought I’d find you here,” a voice behind him said. Jardir chuckled. The greenlander had a way of appearing when Jardir’s thoughts were turned his way.

  The Par’chin stood atop the wall, looking down. He hawked loudly and spit, his phlegm striking the head of the rock demon, twenty feet below. The demon roared at him, and they laughed together as it sank beneath the dunes.

  “One day he will lie dead at your feet,” Jardir said, “and Everam’s light will burn his body away.”

  “One day,” the Par’chin agreed.

  The two men stood quietly for a time, lost in their own thoughts. The greenlander had grown a beard as Jardir had suggested, but the yellow hair on his pale face only made him seem more of an outsider than his bare cheeks had.

  “Came to apologize,” the Par’chin said at last. “It’s not my right to judge your ways.”

  Jardir nodded. “Nor I yours. You acted in loyalty, and I was wrong to spit upon that. I know you have grown quite close to the Warders since you learned our tongue. They have learned much from you.”

  “And I from them,” the Par’chin said. “I meant no insult.”

  “It seems our cultures are a natural insult to each other, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “We must resist the urge to take offense, if we are to continue to learn from each other.”

  “Thank you,” the Par’chin said. “That means a great deal to me.”

  Jardir gave a dismissive wave. “We will speak on it no more, my friend.”

  The greenlander nodded and turned to go.

  “Do all men in the North believe as you do?” Jardir asked. “That Heaven is not truth?”

  The Par’chin shook his head. “The Tenders in the North tell of a Creator who lives in Heaven and gathers the spirits of his faithful there, much as your dama do. Most people believe their words.”

  “But you do not,” Jardir said.

  “The Tenders also say the corelings are a Plague,” the Par’chin said. “That the sins of man were so great that the Creator sent the demons to punish us.” He shook his head. “I will never believe that. And if the Tenders are wrong about that, what faith should I put in the rest of their words?”

  “Then why do you fight, if not for the glory of the Creator?” Jardir asked.

  “I don’t need Holy Men to tell me corelings are an evil to be destroyed,” the Par’chin said. “They killed my mother and broke my father. They’ve murdered my friends and neighbors and family. And somewhere out there,” he swept a hand over the horizon, “is a way to destroy them. I will seek until I find it.”

  “You are right to doubt these Tenders of yours,” Jardir said. “The alagai are no plague, they are a test.”

  “A test?”

  “Yes. A test of our loyalty to Everam. A test of our courage and will to fight Nie’s darkness. But you are mistaken, too. The way to their destruction is not out there,” he waved his hand at the horizon dismissively, “it is in here.” He touched a finger to the Par’chin’s heart. “And on the day all men find their hearts and stand united, Nie will not be able to stand against us.”

  The Par’chin was silent a long time. “I dream of that day,” he said at last.

  “As do I, my friend,” Jardir said. “As do I.”

  More than two years after his first visit, Par’chin returned once again. Jardir looked up from chalked slates of battle plans, seeing the man cross the training ground, and felt as if his own brother had returned from a long journey.

  “Par’chin!” he called, spreading his arms to embrace him. “Welcome back to the Desert Spear!” He spoke the greenlander’s language fluidly now, though the words still felt ugly on his tongue. “I did not know you had returned. The alagai will quail in fear tonight!”

  It was then Jardir noticed the Par’chin came with Abban in tow, though neither he nor Jardir needed the fat khaffit to communicate any longer.

  Jardir looked at Abban in disgust. He had grown even fatter since Jardir saw him last, and still draped himself in silk like a Damaji’s favored wife. It was said he dominated trade in the bazaar, due in no small part to his extensive contacts in the North. He was a leech, putting profit above Everam, above honor, and above Krasia.

  “What are you doing here among men, khaffit?” he demanded. “I have not summoned you.”

  “He’s with me,” the Par’chin said.

  “He was with you,” Jardir said pointedly. Abban bowed and scurried off.

  “I don’t know why you waste your time with that khaffit, Par’chin,” Jardir spat.

  “Where I come from, a man’s worth does not end with lifting the spear,” the Par’chin said.

  Jardir laughed. “Where you come from, Par’chin, they do not lift the spear at all!”

  “Your Thesan is much improved,” the Par’chin noted.

  Jardir grunted. “Your chin tongue is not easy, and twice as hard for needing a khaffit to practice it while you are away.” He scowled at Abban’s back. “Look at that one. He dresses like a woman.”

  “I’ve never seen a woman dressed like that,” the Par’chin said.

  “Only because you won’t let me find you a wife whose veils you can lift,” Jardir said. He had tried many times to find a bride for the Par’chin, to tie him to Krasia and keep him close, as Inevera commanded.

  One day, you will have to kill him, Inevera’s voice echoed in his head, but he did not wish to believe it. If Jardir could find him a wife, the greenlander would cease to be a chin and be reborn as dal’Sharum. Perhaps that “death” would fulfill the prophecy.

  “I doubt the dama would allow one of your women to marry a tribeless chin,” the Par’chin said.

  Jardir waved his hand. “Nonsense,” he said. “We have shed blood together in the Maze, my brother. If I take you into my tribe, not even the Andrah himself would dare protest!”

  “I don’t think I’m ready for a wife just yet,” the Par’chin said.

  Jardir scowled. As close as they were, the greenlander continued to baffle him. Among his people, a warrior’s lusts were as great off the battlefield as on. He had seen no evidence that the Par’chin preferred the company of men, but he seemed more interested in battle than the spoils that rightly came to those who lived to see the dawn.

  “Well don’t wait too long, or men will think you push’ting,” he said, using the word for ??
?false woman.” It was not a sin before Everam to lie with another man, but push’ting shunned women entirely, denying their tribe future generations—something his people could ill afford.

  “How long have you been in the city, my friend?” Jardir asked.

  “Only a few hours,” the Par’chin said. “I just delivered my messages to the palace.”

  “And already you come to offer your spear!” Jardir cried loudly for all to hear. “By Everam, the Par’chin must have Krasian blood in him!” The men laughed.

  “Walk with me,” Jardir said, putting his arm around the Par’chin as he mentally reviewed the night’s battle plan, seeking a place of honor for his brave friend.

  “The Bajin lost a Pit Warder last night,” he said. “You could fill in there.”

  “Push Guard, I would prefer,” the Par’chin replied.

  Jardir shook his head, but he was smiling. “Always the most dangerous duty for you,” he chided. “If you are killed, who will carry our letters?”

  “Not so dangerous, this night,” the Par’chin said. He produced a rolled cloth, uncovering a spear.

  But not just any spear. Its length was of a bright, silvery metal, and wards etched along the head and haft glittered in the sunlight. Jardir’s trained eye ran along its length, and he felt his heart thump loudly in his chest. Many of the wards were unfamiliar, but he could sense their power.

  The Par’chin stood proudly, waiting for him to react. Jardir swallowed his wonder and blinked the covetous gleam from his eyes, hoping his friend had not seen it.

  “A kingly weapon,” he agreed, “but it is the warrior that wins through in the night, Par’chin, not the spear.” He put his hand on the Par’chin’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Do not put too much faith in your weapon. I have seen warriors more seasoned than you paint their spears and come to a bitter end.”

  “I did not make it,” the Par’chin said. “I found it in the ruins of Anoch Sun.”

  Jardir’s thumping heart came to a stop. Could it be true? He forced himself to laugh.

  “The birthplace of the Deliverer?” he asked. “The Spear of Kaji is a myth, Par’chin, and the lost city has been reclaimed by the sands.”

  The Par’chin shook his head. “I’ve been there. I can take you there.”

  Jardir hesitated. The Par’chin was no liar, and there was no jest in his voice. He meant his words. For a moment, an image flashed in his mind: he and the Par’chin out on the sands together, uncovering the combat wards of old. It was only with great effort he recalled his responsibilities and shook the image away.

  “I am Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear, Par’chin,” he replied. “I cannot just pack a camel and ride off into the sand looking for a city that exists only in ancient texts.”

  “I think I will convince you when night falls,” the Par’chin said.

  Jardir bent his mouth into a smile. “Promise me that you will not try anything foolish. Painted spear or no, you are not the Deliverer. It would be sad to bury you.”

  “Tonight is the night,” Inevera said. “Long have I foreseen this. Kill him and take the spear. At dawn, you will declare yourself Shar’Dama Ka, and a month from now you will rule all Krasia.”

  “No,” Jardir said.

  For a moment, Inevera did not hear him. “…and the Sharach will declare for you immediately,” she was saying, “but the Kaji and Majah will take a hard line against…Eh?” She turned back to him, her eyebrow disappearing into her headwrap.

  “The prophecy…” she began.

  “The prophecy be damned,” Jardir said. “I will not murder my friend, no matter what the demon bones tell you. I will not rob him. I am the Sharum Ka, not a thief in the night.”

  She slapped him, the retort echoing off the stone walls. “A fool is what you are!” she snapped. “Now is the moment of divergence, when what might be becomes what will. By dawn, one of you will be declared Deliverer. It is up to you to decide if it will be the Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear, or a grave-robbing chin from the North.”

  “I tire of your prophecies and divergences,” Jardir said, “you and all the dama’ting! All just guesses meant to manipulate men to your will. But I will not betray my friend for you, no matter what you pretend to see in those warded lumps of alagai shit!”

  Inevera shrieked and raised her hand to strike him again, but Jardir caught her wrist and lifted it high. She struggled for a moment, but she might as well have struggled with a stone wall.

  “Do not force me to hurt you,” Jardir warned.

  Inevera’s eyes narrowed, and she twisted suddenly, driving the stiffened index and middle fingers of her free hand into his shoulder. Immediately the arm holding her wrist went numb, and she twisted out of his grasp, slipping back a step and straightening her robes.

  “You keep thinking the dama’ting defenseless, my husband,” she said as he goggled at her, “though you of all people should know better.”

  Jardir looked down at his arm in horror. It hung limply, refusing his commands to move.

  Inevera moved over to him, taking his numb hand in hers, and pressing her free hand to his shoulder. She twisted his arm and pressed hard, and suddenly the numbness was replaced with a sharp tingle of pins.

  “You are no thief,” she agreed, her voice calm once more, “if you are only reclaiming what is already yours by right.”

  “Mine?” Jardir asked, staring at his hand as its fingers began to flex once more.

  “Who is the thief?” Inevera asked. “The chin who robs the grave of Kaji, or you, his blood kin, who takes back what was stolen?”

  “We do not know it is the Spear of Kaji he holds,” Jardir said.

  Inevera crossed her arms. “You know. You knew the moment you laid eyes on it, just as you’ve known all along that this day would come. I never hid this fate from you.”

  Jardir said nothing.

  Inevera touched his arm gently. “If you prefer, I can put a potion in his tea. His passing will be quick.”

  “No!” Jardir shouted, tearing his arm away. “Always the path of least honor with you! The Par’chin is no khaffit, to be put down like a dog! He deserves a warrior’s death.”

  “Then give him one,” Inevera urged. “Now, before alagai’sharak begins and the power of the spear is known.”

  Jardir shook his head. “If it is to be done, I will do it in the Maze.”

  But as he walked away from her, he was not sure it was to be done at all. How could he stand tall as Shar’Dama Ka if it was atop the body of a friend?

  “Par’chin! Par’chin!”

  The cries echoed throughout the Maze. Jardir watched from the walltop as the greenlander led the dal’Sharum to victory after victory. No alagai could resist the Spear of Kaji.

  He is the brave outsider tonight, Jardir thought. Shar’Dama Ka tomorrow.

  But perhaps this was Everam’s will? When He formed the world from Nie’s void, had He not created the greenlanders, as well? Must He not have a plan for them?

  “But the Par’chin does not believe in Everam,” he said aloud.

  “How can a man who does not bow to the Creator be the Deliverer?” Hasik asked.

  Jardir drew a deep breath. “He cannot. Gather Shanjat and our most loyal men. For the sake of all the world, it must be someone else.”

  Jardir found the Par’chin at the head of a host of Sharum chanting his name as they thundered through the Maze. He was covered in black demon ichor, but his eyes were alive with fierce joy. He thrust his spear high in salute, and Jardir’s heart wrenched for what he must do to his ajin’pal— worse by far than Hasik had done to him.

  “Sharum Ka!” the Par’chin cried. “No demon will escape your Maze alive tonight!”

  War is deception, Jardir reminded himself, and forced himself to laugh and raise his spear to return the Par’chin’s salute. He came and embraced the man for the last time.

  “I underestimated you, Par’chin,” he said. “I won’t do so again.”

 
The Par’chin smiled. “You say that every time.” He was surrounded by warriors, glorying in their victory. Already they could not be trusted to do what must be done.

  “Dal’Sharum!” he called to the warriors, gesturing to the slaughtered alagai on the streets of the Maze. “Gather up these filthy things and haul them atop the outer wall! Our sling teams need target practice! Let the alagai beyond the walls see the folly of attacking the Desert Spear!”

  A cheer rose from the men, and they hastened to his bidding. As they did, Jardir turned to Arlen. “The Watchers report there is still battle in one of the eastern ambush points. Have you any fight left in you, Par’chin?”

  The Par’chin showed Jardir his teeth. “Lead the way.”

  Leaving the Sharum behind, they sprinted through the Maze, down a route already cleared of witnesses. Like a Baiter, Jardir led the Par’chin to his doom. At last, they came to the ambush point. “Oot!” Jardir called, and with that, Hasik stuck out a leg, tripping the Par’chin.

  The greenlander rolled with the impact as he hit the ground, coming right back to his feet, but by then Jardir’s most trusted men had cut off his escape.

  “What is this?” the Par’chin demanded.

  Jardir’s heart ached at the look of betrayal on his friend’s face. He deserved no better, but now that the trap was sprung, he was committed to its course. “The Spear of Kaji belongs in the hands of the Shar’Dama Ka,” he said. “You are not he.”

  “I don’t want to fight you,” the Par’chin said.

  “Then don’t, my friend,” Jardir begged. “Give me the weapon, take your horse, and go with the dawn, never to return.” Inevera would call him a fool for the offer. Even his lieutenants murmured in surprise, but he did not care. He prayed his friend would accept, though he knew in his heart that he would not. The son of Jeph was no coward. Behind him in the demon pit, there was a growl. A warrior’s death awaited him.

  He fought hard as the dal’Sharum fell upon him, breaking bones but refusing, even now, to kill men. Jardir stayed out of the fray, consumed by his shame.

  Finally, it was done, the Par’chin held tight by Hasik and Shanjat as Jardir bent to pick up the spear. Immediately he felt its power and a sense of belonging as his fingers tightened about the haft. Indeed, it was the weapon of Kaji, whose seventh son had been the first Jardir.