The Desert Spear

  There was a dissonant moan, and the seven-foot deaf giant pushed to the front of the crowd, kneeling at Jardir’s feet. Others quickly followed, and there was a frantic press to kneel before Jardir. As Jardir touched each in turn, Abban seized an opportunity to speak.

  “Fear not, those of you who cannot carry a spear from age or infirmity!” he cried. “Fear not, you women, you children! The Deliverer needs more than just Sharum! He needs weavers to make nets and smiths for spearheads. Canvas for the kha’Sharum pavilion, and food for its warriors. Come to my pavilion on the morrow, if you wish to put aid to Krasia’s glory and bring honor to your families!”

  Jardir frowned, knowing Abban acted as much to profit from cheap labor as to aid in the war, but he did not contradict him. The labor would be needed if they were to march in a year.

  The crowd began to chant his name as Jardir continued to touch men with the Spear of Kaji and name them kha’Sharum. Soon it thundered from the bazaar, echoing throughout the city.

  “Jardir! Jardir! Jardir!”

  “Masterfully done,” Abban said in his ear when he had touched the last khaffit. “You’ve bought ten thousand warriors and twice as many slaves for naught but a taste of self-respect.”

  “Is that all you see with your merchant’s heart?” Jardir asked, looking at him. “A business transaction?”

  Abban at least had the decency to look ashamed, though Jardir doubted it was sincere.

  The next day, two thousand men presented themselves at the training grounds, as the tribes were still erecting khaffit’sharaj. A week later, the number had tripled. A week after that, a steady stream flowed in from the outer villages as men who had been khaffit for ten generations came to break their caste, bringing their families with them to share in the war effort. In less than a month, Jardir tripled the size of his army, and the city swelled with people as it hadn’t in decades.

  “Next summer,” Jardir said again as Abban finished his morning tallies.

  “The greenlanders will still outnumber us greatly,” Abban said.

  Jardir nodded. “Perhaps, but the best of the Northern weaklings will not be able to stand up to even a kha’Sharum by then.”

  “How many will you leave here, to secure the Desert Spear?” Ashan asked.

  “None,” Jardir said, drawing looks of surprise from all in the room, even Inevera.

  “You will take every warrior?” Aleverak asked. “Who will defend the city?”

  “Not just every warrior, Damaji,” Jardir said. “Every one. We must leave the Sunlit Land behind. All of us. Even the old. Even the crippled and sick. Every man, woman, and child, city dwellers and villagers alike. We will empty the Desert Spear and lock its gates behind us, letting its impregnable walls stand in defiance of the alagai until we choose to reclaim it.”

  Aleverak’s eyes lit up with a fanatical gleam.

  “This is a dangerous plan, Deliverer,” Ashan warned. “Our army will move at a crawl when it must be swift.”

  “At first perhaps,” Jardir said. “But we will need to hold the green lands we conquer, without leaving troops behind. Everam set the khaffit in the Land of Sun the same as us. In the green lands, a khaffit who follows the Evejah will still rank above the chin. Let them settle in our wake, holding the land for Everam as the Sharum march on.”

  Jardir saw Inevera fingering her alagai hora pouch absently. She would excuse herself to throw the dice as soon as the audience was over, but Jardir had no doubt they would confirm his course. The rightness of it sang within him, and even Abban nodded his approval.

  “When will you tell the other Damaji?” Ashan asked.

  “Not until we’re ready to leave,” Jardir said, “giving Enkaji and the others no time to oppose the decision. I want the great gate at everyone’s back before they have their bearings.”

  “And from there?” Abban asked. “Fort Rizon?”

  Jardir shook his head. “First, Anoch Sun. Then the green lands.”

  “You have found the lost city?” Abban asked.

  Jardir gestured to a table covered in maps. “It was never truly lost. There were detailed maps in Sharik Hora all along. We simply stopped going there after the Return.”

  “Unbelievable,” Abban said.

  Jardir looked at him. “What I don’t understand is how the Par’chin found it. Searching the desert would take a lifetime. He must have had help. Who would he have gone to in search of that?”

  Abban shrugged. “There are a hundred merchants in the bazaar claiming to sell maps to Anoch Sun.”

  “Forgeries,” Jardir said.

  “Not all, apparently,” Abban said.

  Jardir knew the khaffit could dance between truth and lie as easily as a man might breathe in and out. “Inevera,” he said at last, holding up the Spear of Kaji. “No thing happens, but that Everam wills it.”

  CHAPTER 11

  ANOCH SUN

  332 AR

  THE OASIS OF DAWN was a place of great beauty, a series of warded sandstone monoliths protecting a wide grassy area, several clusters of fruit trees, and a broad pool of fresh, clean water, fed by the same underground river that supplied the Desert Spear. There was a stair cut into the ala beneath one monolith, leading to a torchlit underground chamber where a man could cast nets into the river and easily catch a feast.

  It was a small oasis, meant as a way station for merchant caravans but more often used by lone Messengers. It was, of course, never meant to supply the greatest army the world had seen in centuries.

  Jardir’s host fell upon it like locusts, surrounding the monoliths with thousands of tents and pavilions. Before most of the Krasians had even arrived, the trees were stripped of fruit and cut for firewood, the grasses mown clean by grazing livestock and trampled flat. Thousands of men wading into the pool to wash their feet and fill their skins left only a fetid, muddy puddle in their wake. They cast nets in the underground fishing chamber, but what would have been a rich catch to a caravan was not even a morsel to the Krasian horde.

  “Deliverer,” Abban said, approaching Jardir as he surveyed the camp. “There is something I think you should see.”

  Jardir nodded, and Abban led him to a large block of sandstone covered in carvings. Some were the barest etchings, faded over many years, and others sharp and fresh. Some were crude scratches, and others great designs worked in artful script. They were all in the Northern style of writing, an ugly form with which Jardir was only passingly familiar.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  “Messenger markings, Deliverer,” Abban said. “They are all over the oasis, naming every man who has succored here on his way to the Desert Spear.”

  Jardir shrugged. “What of it?”

  Abban pointed to a large portion of the stone carved in flowing calligraphy. Jardir could not read the letters, but even he could appreciate their beauty.

  “This,” Abban said, “reads ‘Arlen Bales of Tibbet’s Brook.’ ”

  “The Par’chin,” Jardir said. Abban nodded.

  “What else does it say?” Jardir asked.

  “It says, ‘Student of Messenger Cob of Miln, Messenger to dukes, known as Par’chin in Krasia, and true friend of Ahmann Jardir, Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear.’ ”

  Abban paused, letting the words sink in, and Jardir grimaced. “Read on,” he growled.

  “I have been to the five living forts,” Abban read, pointing to the names of the cities marked with an upward-pointing spear, “and nearly every known hamlet in Thesa.” Abban pointed to another, longer list, this one showing dozens of names.

  “These names, marked with the downward spear, are ruins he has visited,” Abban noted, pointing to another long list. “The Par’chin was busy in the time he spent away from the Desert Spear. There are even Krasian ruins listed here.”

  “Oh?” Jardir asked.

  “The Par’chin was always hunting the bazaar for maps and histories,” Abban said.

  Jardir looked back at the list. “Is Baha kad’E
veram on the list?” When Abban did not immediately reply, he turned to the khaffit. “Do not make me ask twice. If I ask one of our chin prisoners to translate the wall and learn you lied…”

  “It’s there,” Abban said.

  Jardir nodded. “So Abban finally claimed the rest of his Dravazi pottery,” he said more than asked. Abban did not reply, but he did not need to.

  “What’s this last one?” Jardir asked, pointing to the large carving at the end of the list, though he could well guess.

  “The last place the Par’chin went before coming to the Desert Spear,” Abban said.

  “Anoch Sun,” Jardir said. Abban nodded.

  “Can any of the other merchants read this tongue?” Jardir asked.

  Abban shrugged. “A few, perhaps.”

  Jardir grunted. “Have men with mauls smash this stone back into sand.”

  “So none may learn the Shar’Dama Ka is chasing a dead chin’s footsteps?” Abban asked.

  Jardir hit him, knocking Abban to the ground. The fat khaffit wiped blood from his mouth, but without his usual simpering and piteous cries. Their eyes met, and immediately the rage left Jardir and he was filled with shame. He turned away, looking out at the great swath his people had cut through the sand, and wondered if any of them had trodden unknowingly upon the buried bones of his friend.

  “You are troubled,” Inevera said when Jardir retired to his pavilion. It was not a question.

  “I wonder if the true Deliverer was troubled at every turn,” Jardir said, “or if he sensed Everam guiding his actions, and simply followed the path before him.”

  “You are the true Deliverer,” Inevera said, “so I imagine it was much the same for Kaji as it is for you.”

  “Am I?” Jardir asked.

  “You think it a coincidence that the Spear of Kaji was delivered into your hands right at the time you were in position to seize control of all Krasia?” Inevera asked.

  “Coincidence?” Jardir asked. “No. But you have been ‘positioning’ me for more than twenty years. There’s more of demon dice in my rise than deservedness.”

  “Was it demon dice that claimed the hearts of the khaffit and unified our people?” Inevera asked. “Was it demon dice that saw you to victory again and again in the Maze, before you ever laid eyes on Kaji’s Spear? Is it for the dice that you march now?”

  Jardir shook his head. “No, of course not.”

  “This is about the Par’chin’s sandstone carving,” Inevera said.

  “How do you know of that?” Jardir asked.

  Inevera dismissed the question with a wave. “The Par’chin was a grave robber, nothing more. A brave one,” she allowed, putting a finger to Jardir’s lips to forestall his protest, “cunning and bold, but a thief all the same.”

  “And what am I, but the one who robbed him in turn?” Jardir asked.

  “You are what you choose to be,” Inevera said. “You can choose to be the savior of all men, or you can sulk over past deeds and let pass the opportunity before you.”

  She leaned in, kissing him. It was deep and warm, a kiss that gave without asking, one that reminded Jardir that even now, he still loved her. “I have faith in you, even if you do not. The dice speak Everam’s will, and neither they nor I would have aided in your rise if we did not believe that you, you and no other, could shoulder this burden. Killing the Par’chin was a necessary evil, like killing Amadeveram. You would have spared them, if you could.”

  She slid into his arms, and as he embraced her, he felt something of his strength return. Necessary evil. The Evejah spoke of it, as Kaji accounted his own subjugation of the northern chin. Every alagai killed helped to balance those scales, and Jardir meant to kill them all before he went to the Creator to have his life’s deeds weighed and judged.

  The scout rode his camel up to Jardir on his white horse, stopping at a respectful distance and punching a fist to his chest.

  “Shar’Dama Ka,” he greeted him. “We have found the lost city. It is half buried in the sand, but much of it seems intact. There are several wells that we believe can be restored to service, but little in the way of food or grazing.”

  Jardir nodded. “Everam has preserved the holy city for us. Send an advance group to map the city and prepare the wells. We will slaughter the livestock and preserve the meat to save our grain stores.”

  “Dangerous,” Abban said. “Slaughtering all the animals gives no way to replenish stock.”

  “We must trust in the green lands to provide,” Jardir said. “For now, we need as much time as possible to explore the sacred city.”

  The bulk of his people moved slowly, and it was days before they caught up to the scouts, who by then had mapped the sprawling city in some detail, though it was larger by far than the Desert Spear, and there might yet be parts undiscovered. There were discrepancies between the maps of the scouts and the ancient scrolls taken from Sharik Hora.

  “We will divide the city by tribe, and set each Damaji to oversee excavation of his section, advised by his most learned dama and Warders. Every relic uncovered is to be catalogued and presented to me each day.”

  Ashan nodded. “It shall be made so, Deliverer,” he said, and he moved off to instruct the other Damaji.

  Over the next week, the tribes ransacked the ancient city, breaking through walls, looting tombs, and removing whole sections of warded walls and pillars. There had been little sign of the Par’chin’s passing when they arrived, but the Krasians took no such care to leave the city intact. Rubble piled everywhere, and whole sections of street and buildings collapsed as the tunnels beneath them were compromised.

  Each afternoon, the Damaji came before Jardir and piled high their findings. Hundreds of new wards, many of them designed to harm demons or to create other magical effects. Painted weapons and armor, mosaics, and paintings of ancient battles, some even of Kaji himself.

  Each night, they fought. Demons still came thick to the city, and as the sun set Jardir’s men put aside their work and took up spear and shield. With powerful wards on even the weakest kha’Sharum’s spear, the alagai died by the thousands, and soon there were none left to haunt the sacred sands. Sharum continued to patrol, but it seemed the city was scoured clean, like a sign from Everam of the rightness of their path.

  “Deliverer,” Ashan said, entering the tent with Asome and Asukaji. “We’ve found it.”

  Jardir had no need to ask what “it” was, putting down his maps of the green lands and throwing on his white robe. He had not yet made it to the tent flap when Inevera appeared at the head of his dama’ting wives, their very presence confirming Ashan’s claim. The women fell silently in behind as he walked through the city.

  “Which tribe had the honor?” Jardir asked.

  “The Mehnding, Father,” Asome said. He was sixteen now, a man in his own right, and moved with the grace one expected of a sharusahk master. His soft voice seemed all the more dangerous coming from the tall, lean frame in its white robe, like a spear wrapped in silk.

  “Of course,” Jardir muttered. How fitting that his least loyal Damaji should find the tomb of Kaji.

  Enkaji was waiting with Jardir’s Mehnding son Savas, still in his nie’dama bido, when they arrived.

  “Shar’Dama Ka!” the Damaji cried, prostrating himself on the dusty floor of the burial chamber. “It is my honor to present Kaji’s tomb to you.”

  Jardir nodded. “Is it intact?”

  Enkaji stood, sweeping his arm out toward the great sarcophagus, the stone lid of which had been removed.

  “The Par’chin did his looting well, I’m afraid,” Enkaji said. “The spear is missing, of course, but you have reclaimed that.” He gestured to the dusty rags worn by the skeleton within. “If ever these scraps were the sacred Cloak of Kaji, I cannot say.”

  “And the crown?” Jardir asked as if the item were of no import, though all knew it was.

  Enkaji shrugged. “Taken. The Par’chin—”

  “Didn’t have it with him w
hen he came to the Desert Spear,” Jardir cut him off.

  “He must have hidden it somewhere,” Enkaji said.

  “He’s lying,” Abban whispered in Jardir’s ear.

  “How do you know?” Jardir asked.

  “Trust a liar to know,” Abban said.

  Jardir turned to Hasik. “Seal the tomb,” he commanded. Hasik signaled the Sharum in the hall, and they heaved the great stone back into place.

  “What is this?” Enkaji asked as the torchlight from the hall winked out. Only a few guttering torches ensconced in the tomb still gave flickering light.

  “Put them out,” Jardir ordered. “The Damajah will cast the bones to learn who has stolen Kaji’s crown.”

  Enkaji paled, and Jardir knew then that Abban had spoken truth. He advanced on the Damaji, backing him up until his back struck the tomb wall.

  “For every minute that the crown is not in my hands,” he promised, “I will castrate one of your sons and grandsons, starting with the eldest.”

  Moments later Jardir held the Crown of Kaji, found in the burial chamber of one of Kaji’s great-grandsons.

  It was a thin circlet of gold and jewels, worked into a pattern of unknown wards that formed a net around the wearer’s head. It seemed delicate, but all Jardir’s strength couldn’t make the slightest bend in the gold.

  Inevera bowed and took the crown, slipping it over his turban. Though light as a feather, Jardir nevertheless felt a great weight lay upon him as it settled at his brow.

  “Now, we can invade the green lands,” he said.

  SECTION 2

  OUTSIDE FORCES

  CHAPTER 12

  WITCHES

  333 AR WINTER

  LEESHA’S PARENTS’ HOME CAME into sight. It was a modest house, considering her father’s means, but it served her family well enough, built against the back wall of her father’s paper shop. The path leading to the front door was warded.

  Not that Rojer was paying much attention. He walked slightly behind Leesha, so he could gaze at her without her noticing. Her pale skin was a sharp contrast to her night-black hair, and her eyes were the color of sky on a clear day. His eyes drifted over her curves.