The Desert Spear
Peter V. Brett

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

HarperVoyager

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2010

Copyright © Peter V. Brett 2010

Peter V. Brett asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007276165

Ebook Edition © APRIL 2010 ISBN: 9780007301904

Version: 2018-08-13

Dedication

For Dani and Cassie

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Prologue Mind Demons

SECTION 1 VICTORY WITHOUT HONOR

CHAPTER 1 FORT RIZON

CHAPTER 2 ABBAN

CHAPTER 3 CHIN

CHAPTER 4 LOSING THE BIDO

CHAPTER 5 JIWAH KA

CHAPTER 6 FALSE PROPHET

CHAPTER 7 GREENLANDER

CHAPTER 8 PAR’CHIN

CHAPTER 9 SHAR’DAMA KA

CHAPTER 10 KHA’SHARUM

CHAPTER 11 ANOCH SUN

SECTION 2 OUTSIDE FORCES

CHAPTER 12 WITCHES

CHAPTER 13 RENNA

CHAPTER 14 A TRIP TO THE OUTHOUSE

CHAPTER 15 MARICK’S TALE

CHAPTER 16 ONE CUP AND ONE PLATE

CHAPTER 17 KEEPING UP WITH THE DANCE

CHAPTER 18 GUILDMASTER CHOLLS

SECTION 3 JUDGMENTS

CHAPTER 19 THE KNIFE

CHAPTER 20 RADDOCK LAWRY

CHAPTER 21 TOWN COUNCIL

CHAPTER 22 THE ROADS NOT TAKEN

CHAPTER 23 EUCHOR’S COURT

CHAPTER 24 BROTHERS IN THE NIGHT

CHAPTER 25 ANY PRICE

SECTION 4 THE CALL OF THE CORE

CHAPTER 26 RETURN TO TIBBET’S BROOK

CHAPTER 27 RUNNIN’ TO

CHAPTER 28 THE PALACE OF MIRRORS

CHAPTER 29 A PINCH OF BLACKLEAF

CHAPTER 30 FERAL

CHAPTER 31 JOYOUS BATTLE

CHAPTER 32 DEMON’S CHOICE

CHAPTER 33 A PROMISE KEPT

Keep Reading

Acknowledgments

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Map

Prologue Mind Demons
333 AR WINTER

IT WAS THE NIGHT before new moon, during the darkest hours when even that bare sliver had set. In a small patch of true darkness beneath the thick boughs of a cluster of trees, an evil essence seeped up from the Core.

The dark mist coalesced slowly into a pair of giant demons, their rough brown skin knobbed and gnarled like tree bark. Standing nine feet at the shoulder, their hooked claws dug at the frozen scrub and pine of the forest floor as they sniffed at the air. A low rumble sounded in their throats as black eyes scanned their surroundings.

Satisfied, they moved apart and squatted on their haunches, coiled and ready to spring. Behind them, the patch of true darkness deepened, corruption blackening the forest bed as another pair of ethereal shapes materialized.

These were slender, barely five feet tall, with soft charcoal flesh quite unlike the gnarled armor of their larger brethren. On the ends of delicate fingers and toes, their claws seemed fragile—thin and straight like a woman’s manicured nail. Their sharp teeth were short, only a single row set in a snoutless mouth.

Their heads were bloated, with huge, lidless eyes and high, conical craniums. The flesh over their skulls was knobbed and textured, pulsing around the vestigial nubs of horns.

For long moments, the two newcomers stared at each other, foreheads throbbing, as a vibration passed in the air between them.

One of the larger demons caught movement in the brush and reached out with frightening quickness to snatch a rat from its cover. The coreling brought the rodent up close, studying it curiously. As it did, the demon’s snout became ratlike, nose and whiskers twitching as it grew a pair of long incisors. The coreling’s tongue slithered out to test their sharpness.

One of the slender demons turned to regard it, forehead pulsing. With a flick of its claw, the mimic demon eviscerated the rat and cast it aside. At the command of the coreling princes, the two mimics changed shape, becoming enormous wind demons.

The mind demons hissed as they left the patch of true darkness and starlight struck them. Their breath fogged with the cold, but they gave no sign of discomfort, leaving clawed footprints in the snow. The mimics bent low, and the coreling princes walked up their wings to take perch on their backs as they leapt into the sky.

They passed over many drones as they winged north. Big and small, these all cowered until the coreling princes passed, only to follow the call left vibrating in their wake.

The mimics landed on a high rise, and the mind demons slid down to the ground, taking in the sight below. A vast army spread out on the plain, white tents dotting the land where the snow had been trampled to mud and frozen solid. Great humped beasts of burden stood hobbled in circles of power, covered in blankets against the cold. The wards around the camp were strong, and sentries, their faces wrapped in black cloth, patrolled its perimeter. Even from this distance, the mind demons could sense the power of their warded weapons.

Beyond the camp’s wards, the bodies of dozens of drones littered the field, waiting for the day star to burn them away.

Flame drones were the first to reach the rise where the princes waited. Keeping a respectful distance, they began to dance in worship, shrieking their devotion.

Another throb, and the drones quieted. The night grew deathly silent even as a great demon host gathered, drawn to the call of the coreling princes. Wood and flame drones stood side by side, their racial hatred forgotten, as wind drones circled in the sky above.

Ignoring the congregation, the mind demons kept their eyes on the plain below, their craniums pulsing. After a moment, one glanced to its mimic, imparting its desires, and the creature’s flesh melted and swelled, taking the form of a massive rock demon. Silently, the gathered drones followed it down the hill.

On the rise, the two princes and the remaining mimic waited. And watched.

When they were close to the camp, still under the cover of darkness, the mimic slowed and waved the flame drones ahead.

The smallest and weakest of corelings, flame drones glowed about the eyes and mouth from the fires within them. The sentries spotted them immediately but the drones were quick, and before the sentries could raise an alarm they were upon the wards, spitting fire.

The fire-spit fizzled where it struck the wards, but at the mind demons’ bidding, the drones focused instead on the piled snow outside the perimeter, their breath instantly turning it to scalding steam. Safe behind the wards, the sentries were unharmed, but a hot, thick fog arose, stinging their eyes and tainting the air even through their veils.

One of the sentries ran off through the camp, ringing a loud bell. As he did, the others darted fearlessly beyond the wards to skewer the nearest flame demons on their warded spears. Magic sparked as the weapons punched through their sharp, overlapping scales.

Other drones attacked from the sides, but the sentries worked in unison, their warded shields covering one another as they fought. Shouts could be heard inside the camp as other warriors rushed to join in the battle.

But under cover of fog and dark, the mimic’s host advanced. One moment the sentries’ cries were of victory, and the next they were of shock as the demons emerged from the haze.

The mimic took the first human it encountered easily, sweeping the man’s feet away with its heavy tail and snatching a flailing leg as he fell. The hapless warrior was lifted aloft by the limb, his spine cracked like a whip. Those unlucky warriors who faced the mimic next were beaten down by the body of their fallen comrade.

The other drones followed suit, with mixed success. The few sentries were quickly overwhelmed, but many drones were slow to take advantage, wasting precious time rending the dead bodies rather than preparing for the next wave of warriors.

More and more of the veiled men flowed out of the camp, falling quickly into ranks and killing with smooth, brutal efficiency. The wards on their weapons and shields flared repeatedly in the darkness.

Up on the rise, the mind demons watched the battle impassively, showing no concern for the drones falling to the enemy spears. There was a throb in the cranium of one as it sent a command to its mimic on the field.

Immediately, the mimic hurled the corpse into one of the wardposts around the camp, smashing it and creating a breach. Up on the rise, there was another throb, and the other corelings broke off from engaging the warriors and poured through the gap into the enemy camp.

Left off balance, the warriors turned back to see tents blazing as flame drones scurried about, and hear the screams of their women and children as the larger corelings broke through charred and scorched inner wards.

The warriors cried out and rushed to their loved ones, all semblance of order lost. In moments the tight, invincible units had fragmented into thousands of separate creatures, little more than prey.

It seemed as if the camp would be overrun and burned to the ground, but then a figure appeared from the central pavilion. He was clad in black, like the warriors, but his outer robe, headwrap, and veil were the purest white. At his brow was a circlet of gold, and in his hands was a great spear of shining metal. The coreling princes hissed at the sight.

There were cries at the man’s approach. The mind demons sneered at the primitive grunts and yelps that passed for communication among men, but the meaning was clear. The others were drones. This one was their mind.

Under the domination of the newcomer, the warriors remembered their castes and returned to their previous cohesion. A unit broke off to seal the outer breach. Another two fought fire. One more ushered the defenseless to safety.

Thus freed, the remainder scoured the camp, and the drones could not long stand against them. In minutes the camp was as littered with coreling bodies as the field outside. The mimic, still disguised as a rock demon, was soon the only coreling left, too quick to be taken by spear but unable to break through the wall of shields without revealing its true self.

There was a throb from the rise, and the mimic vanished into a shadow, dematerializing and seeping out of the camp through a tiny gap in the wards. The enemy was still searching for it when the mimic returned to its place by its master’s side.

The two slender corelings stood atop the rise for several minutes, silent vibrations passing between them. Then, as one, the coreling princes turned their eyes to the north, where the other human mind was said to be.

One of the mind demons turned to its mimic, kneeling back in the form of a gigantic wind demon, and walked up its extended wing. As it vanished into the night, the remaining mind demon turned back to regard the smoldering enemy camp.

SECTION 1 VICTORY WITHOUT HONOR

CHAPTER 1 FORT RIZON
333 AR WINTER

FORT RIZON’S WALL WAS A JOKE.

Barely ten feet high and only one thick, the entire city’s defenses were less than the meanest of a Damaji’s dozen palaces. The Watchers didn’t even need their steel-shod ladders; most simply leapt to catch the lip of the tiny wall and pulled themselves up and over.

“People so weak and negligent deserve to be conquered,” Hasik said. Jardir grunted but said nothing.

The advance guard of Jardir’s elite warriors had come under cover of darkness, thousands of sandaled feet crunching the fallow, snow-covered fields surrounding the city proper. As the greenlanders cowered behind their wards, the Krasians had braved the demon-infested night to advance. Even corelings gave berth to so many Holy Warriors on the move.

They gathered before the city, but the veiled warriors did not attack immediately. Men did not attack other men in the night. When dawn’s light began to fill the sky, they lowered their veils, that their enemies might see their faces.

There were a few brief grunts as the Watchers subdued the guards in the gatehouse, and then a creak as the city gates opened wide to admit Jardir’s host. With a roar, six thousand dal’Sharum warriors poured into the city.

Before the Rizonans even knew what was happening, the Krasians were upon them, kicking in doors and dragging the men out of their beds, hurling them naked into the snow.

With its seemingly endless arable land, Fort Rizon was more populous by far than Krasia, but Rizonan men were not warriors, and they fell before Jardir’s trained ranks like grass before the scythe. Those who struggled suffered torn muscle and broken bone. Those who fought, died.

Jardir looked at all of these in sorrow. Every man crippled or killed was one who could not find glory in Sharak Ka, the Great War, but it was a necessary evil. He could not forge the men of the North into a weapon against demonkind without first tempering them as the smith’s hammer did the speartip.

Women screamed as Jardir’s men tempered them in another fashion. Another necessary evil. Sharak Ka was nigh, and the coming generation of warriors had to spring from the seeds of men, not cowards.

After some time, Jardir’s son Jayan dropped to one knee in the snow before him, his speartip red with blood. “The inner city is ours, Father,” Jayan said.

Jardir nodded. “If we control the inner city, we control the plain.”

Jayan had done well on his first command. Had this been a battle against demons, Jardir would have led the charge himself, but he would not stain the Spear of Kaji with human blood. Jayan was young to wear the white veil of captain, but he was Jardir’s firstborn, Blood of the Deliverer himself. He was strong, impervious to pain, and warrior and cleric alike stepped with reverence around him.

“Many have fled,” Asome added, appearing at his brother’s back. “They will warn the hamlets, who will flee also, escaping the cleansing of Evejan law.”

Jardir looked at him. Asome was a year younger than his brother, smaller and more slender. He was clad in a dama’s white robes without armor or weapon, but Jardir was not fooled. His second son was easily the more ambitious and dangerous of the two, and they more so than any of their dozens of younger brothers.

“They escape for now,” Jardir said, “but they leave their food stores behind and flee into the soft ice that covers the green lands in winter. The weak will die, sparing us the trouble of killing them, and my yoke will find the strong in due time. You have done well, my sons. Jayan, assign men to find buildings suitable to hold the captives before they die from cold. Separate the boys for Hannu Pash. If we can beat the Northern weakness out of them, perhaps some can rise above their fathers. The strong men we will use as fodder in battle, and the weak will be slaves. Any women of fertile age may be bred.”

Jayan struck a fist to his chest and nodded.

“Asome, signal the other dama to begin,” Jardir said, and Asome bowed.

Jardir watched his white-clad son as he strode off to obey. The clerics would spread the word of Everam to the chin, and those who did not accept it into their hearts would have it thrust down their throats.

Necessary evil.

That afternoon, Jardir paced the thick-carpeted floors of the manse he had taken as his Rizonan palace. It was a pitiful place compared with his palaces in Krasia, but after months of sleeping in tents since leaving the Desert Spear, it was a welcome touch of civilization.

In his right hand, Jardir clutched the Spear of Kaji, using it as one might a walking stick. He needed no support, of course, but the ancient weapon had brought about his rise to power, and it was never far from his grasp. The butt thumped against the carpet with each step.

“Abban is late,” Jardir said. “Even traveling with the women after dawn, he should have been here by now.”

“I will never understand why you tolerate that khaffit in your presence, Father,” Asome said. “The pig-eater should be put to death for even having raised his eyes to look upon you, and yet you take his counsel as if he were an equal in your court.”

“Kaji himself bent khaffit to the tasks that suited them,” Jardir said. “Abban knows more about the green lands than anyone, and that is knowledge a wise leader must use.”

“What is there to know?” Jayan asked. “The greenlanders are all cowards and weaklings, no better than khaffit themselves. They are not even worthy to fight as slaves and fodder.”

“Do not be so quick to claim you know all there is,” Jardir said. “Only Everam knows all things. The Evejah tells us to know our enemies, and we know very little of the North. If I am to bring them into the Great War, I must do more than just kill them, more than just dominate. I must understand them. And if all the men of the green lands are no better than khaffit, who better than a khaffit to explain their hearts to me?”

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and Abban came limping into the room. As always, the fat merchant was dressed in rich, womanly silks and fur—a garish display that he seemed to wear intentionally for the offense it gave to the austere dama and dal’Sharum.

The guards mocked and shoved him as he passed, but they knew better than to deny Abban entry. Whatever their personal feelings, hindering Abban risked Jardir’s wrath, something no man wanted.

The crippled khaffit leaned heavily on his cane as he approached Jardir’s throne, sweat pearling on his reddened, doughy face despite the cold. Jardir looked at him in disgust. It was clear he brought important news, but Abban stood panting, attempting to catch his breath, instead of sharing it.

“What is it?” Jardir snapped when his patience grew thin.

“You must do something!” Abban gasped. “They are burning the granaries!”

“What?!” Jardir demanded, leaping to his feet and grabbing Abban’s arm, squeezing so hard the khaffit cried out in pain. “Where?”

“The north ward of the city,” Abban said. “You can see the smoke from your door.”

Jardir rushed out onto the front steps, immediately spotting the rising column. He turned to Jayan. “Go,” he said. “I want the fires out, and those responsible brought before me.”

Jayan nodded and vanished into the streets, trained warriors flowing in behind him like birds in formation. Jardir turned back to Abban.

“You need that grain if you are to feed the people through the winter,” Abban said. “Every seed. Every crumb. I warned you.”

Asome shot forward, snatching Abban’s wrist and twisting his arm hard behind him. Abban screamed. “You will not address the Shar’Dama Ka in such a tone!” Asome growled.

“Enough,” Jardir said.

Abban fell to his knees the moment Asome released him, placing both hands on the steps and pressing his forehead between them. “Ten thousand pardons, Deliverer,” he said.

“I heard your coward’s counsel against advancing into the Northern cold,” Jardir said as Abban whimpered on the ground. “But I will not delay Everam’s work because of this…” he kicked at the snow on the steps, “sandstorm of ice. If we need food, we will take it from the chin in the surrounding land, who live in plenty.”

“Of course, Shar’Dama Ka,” Abban said into the floor.

“You took far too long to arrive, khaffit,” Jardir said. “I need you to find your merchant contacts among the captives.”

“If they are still alive,” Abban said. “Hundreds lie dead in the streets.”

Jardir shrugged. “Your fault for being so slow. Go, question your fellow traders and find me the leaders of these men.”

“The dama will have me killed the moment I issue a command, even if it be in your name, great Shar’Dama Ka,” Abban said.

It was true enough. Under Evejan law, any khaffit daring to command his betters was put to death on the spot, and there were many who envied Abban’s place on Jardir’s council and would be glad to see his end.

“I will send Asome with you,” Jardir said. “Not even the most fanatical cleric will challenge you then.”

Abban blanched as Asome came forward, but he nodded. “As the Shar’-Dama Ka commands.”

CHAPTER 2 ABBAN
305–308 AR

JARDIR WAS NINE WHEN the dal’Sharum took him from his mother. It was young, even in Krasia, but the Kaji tribe had lost many warriors that year and needed to bolster their ranks lest one of the other tribes attempt to encroach on their domain.

Jardir, his three younger sisters, and their mother, Kajivah, shared a single room in the Kaji adobe slum by the dry well. His father, Hoshkamin, had died in battle two years before, slain in a well raid by the Majah tribe. It was customary for one of a fallen warrior’s companions to take his widows as wives and provide for his children, but Kajivah had given birth to three daughters in a row, an ill omen that no man would bring into his household. They lived on a small stipend of food from the local dama, and if they had nothing else, they had each other.

“Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji,” Drillmaster Qeran said, “you will come with us to the Kaji’sharaj to find your Hannu Pash, the path Everam wills for you.” He stood in the doorway with Drillmaster Kaval, the two warriors tall and forbidding in their black robes with the red drillmaster veils. They looked on impassively as Jardir’s mother wept and embraced him.

“You must be man for our family now, Ahmann,” Kajivah told him, “for me and your sisters. We have no one else.”

“I will, Mother,” Jardir promised. “I’ll become a great warrior and build you a palace.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Kajivah said. “They say I was cursed, to bear three girls after you, but I say Everam blessed our family with a son so great, he needed no brothers.” She hugged him tightly, her tears wet on his cheek.

“Enough weeping,” Drillmaster Kaval said, taking Jardir’s arm and pulling him away. Jardir’s young sisters stared as they led him from the tiny apartment.

“It is always this way,” Qeran said. “Mothers can never let go.”

“She has no man to care for her,” Jardir replied.

“You were not told to speak, boy,” Kaval barked, cuffing him hard on the back of the head. Jardir bit back a cry of pain as his knee struck the sandstone street. His heart screamed at him to strike back, but he checked himself. However much the Kaji might need warriors, the dal’Sharum would kill him for such an affront with no more thought than a man might give to squashing a scorpion under his sandal.

“Every man in Krasia cares for her,” Qeran said, jerking his head back toward the door, “spilling blood in the night to keep her safe as she weeps over her sorry excuse for a son.”

They turned down the street, heading toward the Great Bazaar. Jardir knew the way well, for he went to the market often, though he had no money. The scents of spice and perfume were a heady mix, and he liked to gaze at the spears and wicked curved blades in the armorers’ kiosks. Sometimes he fought with other boys, readying himself for the day he would be a warrior.

It was rare for dal’Sharum to enter the bazaar; such places were beneath them. Women, children, and khaffit scurried out of the drillmasters’ path. Jardir watched the warriors carefully, doing his best to imitate their carriage.

Someday, he thought, it will be my path that others scramble to clear.

Kaval checked a chalked slate and looked up at a large tent, streaming with colored banners. “This is the place,” he said, and Qeran grunted. Jardir followed as they lifted the flap and strode inside without bothering to announce themselves.

The inside of the tent smelled of incense smoke, and it was richly carpeted, filled with piles of silk pillows, racks of hanging carpets, painted pottery, and other treasures. Jardir ran a finger along a bolt of silk, shivering at its smoothness.

My mother and sisters should be clad in such cloth, he thought. He looked at his own tan pantaloons and vest, grimy and torn, and longed for the day he could don a warrior’s blacks.

A woman at the counter gave a shriek as she caught sight of the drillmasters, and Jardir looked up at her just as she pulled her veil over her face.

“Omara vah’Haman vah’Kaji?” Qeran asked. The woman nodded, eyes wide with fear.

“We have come for your son, Abban,” Qeran said.

“He’s not here,” Omara said, but her eyes and hands, the only parts of her visible beneath the thick black cloth, trembled. “I sent him out this morning, delivering goods.”

“Search the back,” Qeran told Kaval. The drillmaster nodded and headed for the dividing flap behind the counter.

“No, please!” Omara cried, stepping in his path. Kaval ignored her, shoving her aside and disappearing into the back. There were more shrieks, and a moment later the drillmaster reemerged clutching the arm of a young boy in a tan vest, cap, and pantaloons—though of much finer cloth than Jardir’s. He was perhaps a year or two older than Jardir, stocky and well fed. A number of older girls followed him out, two in tans and three more in the black, open-faced headwraps of unmarried women.

“Abban am’Haman am’Kaji,” Qeran said, “you will come with us to the Kaji’sharaj to find your Hannu Pash, the path Everam wills for you.” The boy trembled at the words.

Omara wailed, grabbing at her son, trying to pull him back. “Please! He is too young! Another year, I beg!”

“Silence, woman,” Kaval said, shoving her to the floor. “The boy is old and fat enough as it is. If he is left to you another day, he will end up khaffit like his father.”

“Be proud, woman,” Qeran told her. “Your son is being given the chance to rise above his father and serve Everam and the Kaji.”

Omara clenched her fists, but she stayed where she had landed, head down, and wept quietly. No woman would dare defy a dal’Sharum. Abban’s sisters clutched at her, sharing in her grief. Abban reached for them, but Kaval jerked him away. The boy cried and wailed as they dragged him out of the tent. Jardir could hear the women crying even after the heavy flap fell closed and the clamor of the market surrounded them.

The warriors all but ignored the boys as they led the way to the training grounds, letting them trail after. Abban continued to weep and shake as they went.

“Why are you crying?” Jardir asked him. “The road ahead is bright with glory.”

“I don’t want to be a warrior,” Abban said. “I don’t want to die.”

Jardir shrugged. “Maybe you’ll be called to be dama.”

Abban shuddered. “That would be worse. A dama killed my father.”

“Why?” Jardir asked.

“My father accidentally spilled ink on his robe,” Abban said.

“The dama killed him just for that?” Jardir asked.

Abban nodded, fresh tears welling in his eyes. “He broke my father’s neck right then. It happened so fast…he reached out, there was a snap, and my father was falling.” He swallowed hard. “Now I’m the only man left to look out for my mother and sisters.”

Jardir took his hand. “My father’s dead, too, and they say my mother’s cursed for having three daughters in a row. But we are men of Kaji. We can surpass our fathers and bring honor back to our women.”

“But I’m scared,” Abban sniffed.

“I am, too, a little,” Jardir admitted, looking down as he said it. A moment later, he brightened. “Let’s make a pact.”

Abban, raised in the cutthroat business of the bazaar, looked at him suspiciously. “What kind of pact?”

“We’ll help each other through Hannu Pash,” Jardir said. “If you stumble, I will catch you, and if I fall, you,” he smirked and slapped Abban’s round belly, “will cushion it.”

Abban yelped and rubbed his belly, but he did not complain, looking at Jardir in wonder. “You mean that?” he asked, drying his eyes with the back of his hand.

Jardir nodded. They were walking in the shade of the bazaar’s awnings, but he grabbed Abban’s arm and pulled him into the sunlight. “I swear it by Everam’s light.”

Abban smiled widely. “And I swear it by the jeweled Crown of Kaji.”

“Keep up!” Kaval barked, and they chased after, but Abban moved with confidence now.

The drillmasters drew wards in the air as they passed the great temple Sharik Hora, mumbling prayers to Everam, the Creator. Beyond Sharik Hora lay the training grounds, and Jardir and Abban tried to look everywhere at once, taking in the warriors at their practice. Some worked with shield and spear or net, while others marched or ran in lockstep. Watchers stood upon the top rungs of ladders braced against nothing, honing their balance. Still more dal’Sharum hammered spearheads and warded shields, or practiced sharusahk—the art of empty-handed battle.

There were twelve sharaji, or schools, surrounding the training grounds, one for each tribe. Jardir and Abban were Kaji tribe, and thus were taken to the Kaji’sharaj. Here they would begin the Hannu Pash and emerge as dama, dal’Sharum, or khaffit.

“The Kaji’sharaj is so much larger than the others,” Abban said, looking up at the huge pavilion tent. “Only the Majah’sharaj is even close.”

“Of course it is,” Kaval said. “Did you think it coincidence that our tribe is named Kaji, after Shar’Dama Ka, the Deliverer? We are the get of his thousand wives, blood of his blood. The Majah,” he spat, “are only the blood of the weakling who ruled after the Shar’Dama Ka left this world. The other tribes are inferior to us in every way. Never forget that.”

They were taken into the pavilion and given bidos—simple white loincloths—and their tans were taken to be burned. They were nie’Sharum now; not warriors, but not boys, either.

“A month of gruel and hard training will burn the fat from you, boy,” Kaval said as Abban removed his shirt. The drillmaster punched Abban’s round belly in disgust. Abban doubled over from the blow, but Jardir caught him before he fell, steadying him until he caught his breath. When they were finished changing, the drillmasters took them to the barrack.

“New blood!” Qeran shouted as they were shoved into a large, unfurnished room filled with other nie’Sharum. “Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’-Jardir am’Kaji, and Abban am’Haman am’Kaji! They are your brothers now.”

Abban colored, and Jardir knew immediately why, as did every other boy present. By leaving out his father’s name, Qeran had as much as announced that Abban’s father was khaffit—the lowest and most despised caste in Krasian society. Khaffit were cowards and weaklings, men who could not hold to the warrior way.

“Ha! You bring us a fat pig-eater’s son and a scrawny rat!” the largest of the nie’Sharum cried. “Throw them back!” The other boys all laughed.

Drillmaster Qeran growled and punched the boy in the face. He hit the stone floor hard, spitting up a gob of blood. All laughing ceased.

“Make mock when you have lost your bido, Hasik,” Qeran said. “Until then, you are all scrawny, pig-eating khaffit rats.” With that, he and Kaval turned on their heels and strode out.

“You’ll pay for that, rats,” Hasik said, the last word ending in a strange whistle. He tore the loose tooth from his mouth and threw it at Abban, who flinched when it struck. Jardir stepped in front of him and snarled, but Hasik and his cohorts had already turned away.

Soon after they arrived, they were given bowls, and the gruel pot was set out. Famished, Jardir went right for the pot, and Abban hurried even faster, but one of the older boys blocked their path. “You think you eat before me?” he demanded. He shoved Jardir into Abban, and they both fell to the floor.

“Get up, if you mean to eat,” said the drillmaster who had brought the gruel. “The boys at the end of the line go hungry.”

Abban shrieked, and they scrambled to their feet. Already most of the boys had lined up, roughly in order of size and strength, with Hasik at the very front. At the back of the line, the smallest boys fought fiercely to avoid the spots at the end.

“What are we going to do?” Abban asked.

“We’re going to get on that line,” Jardir said, grabbing Abban’s arm and dragging him toward the center, where the boys were still outweighed by well-fed Abban. “My father said that weakness shown is worse than weakness felt.”

“But I don’t know how to fight!” Abban protested, shaking.

“You’re about to learn,” Jardir said. “When I knock someone down, fall on him with all your weight.”

“I can do that,” Abban agreed. Jardir guided them right up to a boy who snarled in challenge. He puffed out his chest and faced up against Abban, the larger of the two boys.

“Get to the back of the line, new rats!” he growled.

Jardir said nothing, punching the boy in the stomach and kicking at his knees. When he fell, Abban took his cue, falling on the boy like a sandstone pillar. By the time Abban got up, Jardir had already taken the boy’s place in line. He glared at those behind, and they made room for Abban, as well.

A single ladle of gruel slopped into their bowls was their reward. “That’s it?” Abban asked in shock. The server glared at him, and Jardir quickly ushered him away. The corners of the room had already been taken by the older boys, so they retreated to one of the walls.

“I’ll starve on this,” Abban said, swirling the watery gruel in his bowl.

“We’re still better off than some,” Jardir said, pointing to a pair of bruised boys with nothing to eat at all. “You can have some of mine,” he added when Abban did not brighten. “I never got much more than this at home.”

They slept on the sandstone floor of the barrack, thin blankets their only shield against the cold. Used to sharing the warmth of his mother and sisters, Jardir nestled against Abban’s warm bulk. In the distance, he heard the Horn of Sharak, and knew battle was being joined. It took a long time for him to drift off, dreaming of glory.

He woke with a start when another of the thin blankets was thrown over his face. He struggled hard, but the cloth was twisted behind his head and held tight. He heard Abban’s muffled scream next to him.

Blows began to rain down on him from all sides, kicks and punches blasting the breath from his body and rattling his brains. Jardir flailed his limbs wildly, but though he felt several of his blows connect, it did nothing to lessen the onslaught. Before long, he was hanging limply, supported wholly by the suffocating blanket.

When he thought he could endure no more and must surely die, never having gained paradise or glory, a familiar voice said, “Welcome to the Kaji’sharaj, rats,” the s at the end whistling through Hasik’s missing tooth. The blankets were released, dropping them to the floor.

The other boys laughed and went back to their blankets as Jardir and Abban curled tight and wept in the darkness.

“Stand up straight,” Jardir hissed as they awaited morning inspection.

“I can’t,” Abban whined. “Not a bit of sleep, and I ache to my bones.”

“Don’t let it show,” Jardir said. “My father said the weakest camel draws the wolves.”

“Mine told me to hide until the wolves go away,” Abban replied.

“No talking!” Kaval barked. “The dama is coming to inspect you pathetic wretches.”

He and Qeran took no notice of their cuts and bruises as they walked past. Jardir’s left eye was swollen nearly shut, but the only thing the drillmasters noticed was Abban’s slump. “Stand straight!” Qeran said, and Kaval punctuated the command with a crack of his leather strap across Abban’s legs. Abban screamed in pain and nearly fell, but Jardir steadied him in time.

There was a snicker, and Jardir snarled at Hasik, who only smirked in response.

In truth, Jardir felt little steadier than Abban, but he refused to show it. Though his head spun and his limbs ached, Jardir arched his back and kept his good eye attentive as Dama Khevat approached. The drillmasters stepped aside for the cleric, bowing in submission.

“It is a sad day that the warriors of Kaji, the bloodline of Shar’Dama Ka, the Deliverer himself, should be reduced to such a sorry lot,” the dama sneered, spitting in the dust. “Your mothers must have mixed camel’s piss with the seeds of men.”

“That’s a lie!” Jardir shouted before he could help himself. Abban looked at him incredulously, but it had been an insult past his ability to bear. As Qeran sprang at him with frightening speed, Jardir knew he’d made a grave mistake. The drillmaster’s strap laid a line of fire where it struck his bare skin, knocking him to the ground.

But the dal’Sharum did not stop there. “If the dama tells you that you are the son of piss, then it is so!” he shouted, whipping Jardir repeatedly. Clad only in his bido, Jardir could do nothing to ward off the blows. Whenever he twisted or turned to protect a wounded area, Qeran found a fresh patch of skin to strip. He screamed, but it only encouraged the assault.

“Enough,” Khevat said. The blows stopped instantly.

“Are you the son of piss?” Qeran asked.

Jardir’s limbs felt like wet bread as he forced himself to his feet. He kept his eyes on the strap, raised and ready to strike again. He knew if he continued his insolence, the drillmaster would kill him. He would die with no glory, and his spirit would spend millennia outside the gates of paradise with the khaffit, looking in at those in Everam’s embrace and waiting for reincarnation. The thought terrified him, but his father’s name was the only thing he owned in the world, and he would not forsake it.

“I am Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin, of the line of Jardir,” he said as evenly as he could manage. He heard the other boys gasp, and steeled himself for the attack to come.

Qeran’s face contorted in rage, and he raised the strap, but a slight gesture from the dama checked him.

“I knew your father, boy,” Khevat said. “He stood among men, but he won no great glory in his short life.”

“Then I’ll win glory for both of us,” Jardir promised.

The dama grunted. “Perhaps you will at that. But not today. Today you are less than khaffit.” He turned to Qeran. “Throw him in the waste pits, for true men to shit and piss upon.”

The drillmaster smiled, punching Jardir in the stomach. When he doubled over, Qeran grabbed him by his hair and dragged him toward the pits. As he went, Jardir glanced at Hasik, expecting another smirk, but the older boy’s face, like all the assembled nie’Sharum, was a mix of disbelief and ashen fear.

“Everam saw the cold blackness of Nie, and felt no satisfaction there. He created the sun to give light and warmth, staving off the void. He created Ala, the world, and set it spinning around the sun. He created man, and the beasts to serve him, and watched as His sun gave them life and love.

“But for half its time, Ala faced the dark of Nie, and Everam’s creatures were fearful. So He made the moon and stars to reflect the sun’s light, a reminder in the night that they had not been forgotten.

“Everam did this, and He was satisfied.

“But Nie, too, had a will. She looked upon creation, marring Her perfect blackness, and was vexed. She reached out to crush Ala, but Everam stood fast, and Her hand was stayed.

“But Everam had not been quick enough to stave off Nie’s touch completely. The barest brush of Her dark fingers grew on His perfect world like a plague. The inky blackness of Her evil seeped across the rocks and sand, blew on the winds, and was an oily stain on Ala’s pure water. It swept across the woods, and the molten fire that bubbled up from beneath the world.

“And in those places, alagai took root and grew. Creatures of the blackness, their only purpose to uncreate; killing Everam’s creatures their only joy.

“But lo, the world turned, and the sun shone light and warmth across Nie’s creatures of cold dark, and they were undone. The life-giver burned away their unlife, and the alagai screamed.

“Desperate to escape, they fled to the shadows, oozing deep into the world, infecting its very core.

“There, in the dark abyss at the heart of creation, grew Alagai’ting Ka, the Mother of Demons. Handmaiden of Nie Herself, she waited only for the world to turn that she might send her children forth again to ravage creation.

“Everam saw this, and reached out His hand to purge the evil from His world, but Nie stood fast, and His hand was stayed.

“But He, too, touched the world one last time, giving men the means to turn alagai magic against itself. Giving them wards.

“Locked then in a struggle for the sake of all He had made, Everam had no choice but to turn His back on the world and throw Himself fully upon Nie, struggling endlessly against Her cold strength.

“And as above, so below.”

Every day of Jardir’s first month in sharaj was the same. At dawn, the drillmasters brought the nie’Sharum out into the hot sun to stand for hours as the dama spoke of the glory of Everam. Their bellies were empty and their knees weak from exertion and lack of sleep, but the boys did not protest. The sight of Jardir, returned reeking and bloody from his punishment, had taught them all to obey without question.

Drillmaster Qeran struck Jardir hard with his strap. “Why do you suffer?” he demanded.

“Alagai!” Jardir shouted.

Qeran turned and whipped Abban. “Why is the Hannu Pash necessary?”

“Alagai!” Abban screamed.

“Without the alagai, all the world would be the paradise of Heaven, suffused in Everam’s embrace,” Dama Khevat said.

The drillmaster’s strap cracked on Jardir’s back again. Since his insolence the first day, he had taken two lashes for every one suffered by another boy.

“What is your purpose in this life?” Qeran cried.

“To kill alagai!” Jardir screamed.

His hand shot out, clutching Jardir around the throat and pulling him close. “And how will you die?” he asked quietly.

“On alagai talons,” Jardir choked. The drillmaster released him, and he gasped in a breath, standing back to attention before Qeran could find further reason to beat him.

“On alagai talons!” Khevat cried. “Dal’Sharum do not die old in their beds! They do not fall prey to sickness or hunger! Dal’Sharum die in battle, and win into paradise. Basking in Everam’s glory, they bathe and drink from rivers of sweet cool milk, and have virgins beyond count devoted to them.”

“Death to alagai!” the boys all screamed at once, pumping their fists. “Glory to Everam!”

After these sessions, they were given their bowls, and the gruel pot was set out. There was never enough for all, and more than one boy each day went hungry. The older and larger boys, led by Hasik, had established their pecking order and filled their bowls first, but even they took but one ladle each. To take more, or to spill gruel in a scuffle at the pot, was to invite the wrath of the ever-present drillmasters.

As the older boys ate, the youngest and weakest of nie’Sharum fought hard among themselves for a place in line. After his first night’s beating and the day in the pits, Jardir was in no shape to fight for days, but Abban had taken well to using his weight as a weapon, and always secured them a place, even if it was close to the back.

When the bowls were emptied, the training began.

There were obstacle courses to build endurance, and long sessions practicing the sharukin—groups of movements that made up the forms of sharusahk. They learned to march and move in step even at speed. With nothing in their bellies but the thin gruel, the boys became like speartips, thin and hard as the weapons they drilled with.

Sometimes the drillmasters sent groups of boys to ambush nie’Sharum in neighboring sharaji, beating them severely. Nowhere was safe, not even when sitting at the waste pits. Sometimes the older boys like Hasik and his friends would mount the defeated boys from other tribes from behind, thrusting into them as if they were women. It was a grave dishonor, and Jardir had been forced to kick more than one attacker between the legs to avoid such a fate for himself. A Majah boy managed to pull down Abban’s bido once, but Jardir kicked him in the face so hard blood spurted from his nose.

“At any moment, the Majah could attack to take a well,” Kaval told Jardir when they came to him after the assault, “or the Nanji come to carry off our women. We must be ready at every moment of every day to kill or be killed.”

“I hate this place,” Abban whined, close to tears, when the drillmaster left. “I cannot wait for the Waning, when I can go home to my mother and sisters, if only for the new moon.”

Jardir shook his head. “He’s right. Letting your guard down, even for a moment, invites death.” He clenched his fist. “That may have happened to my father, but it won’t happen to me.”

After the drillmasters completed their lessons each day, the older boys supervised repetition, and they were no less quick to punish than the dal’Sharum.

“Keep your knees bent as you pivot, rat,” Hasik growled as Jardir performed a complicated sharukin. He punctuated his advice by kicking behind Jardir’s knees, driving him into the dust.

“The son of piss cannot perform a simple pivot!” Hasik cried to the other boys, laughing. His s’s still came out with a whistle through the gap where Qeran had knocked out one of his teeth.

Jardir growled and launched himself at the older boy. He might have to obey the dama and dal’Sharum, but Hasik was only nie’Sharum, and he would accept no insult to his father from the likes of him.

But Hasik was also five years his senior, and soon to lose his bido. He was larger than Jardir by far, and had years of experience at the deadly art of the empty hand. He caught Jardir’s wrist, twisting and pulling the arm straight, then pivoted to bring his elbow down hard on the locked limb.

Jardir heard the snap and saw the bone jut free of his skin, but there was a long moment of dawning horror before the blast of pain hit him.

And he screamed.

Hasik’s hand snapped over Jardir’s mouth, cutting off his howls and pulling him close.

“The next time you come for me, son of piss, I will kill you,” he promised.

Abban ducked under Jardir’s good arm and half carried him to the dama’ting pavilion at the far end of the training grounds. The tent opened as they approached, as if they had been expected. A tall woman clad in white from head to toe held the flap open, only her hands and eyes visible. She gestured to a table inside, and Abban hurried to place Jardir there, beside a girl who was clad all in white like a dama’ting. But her face, young and beautiful, was uncovered.

Dama’ting did not speak to nie’Sharum.

Abban bowed deeply when Jardir was in place. The dama’ting nodded toward the flaps, and he practically fell over himself in his haste to exit. It was said the dama’ting could see the future, and knew a man’s death just by looking at him.

The woman glided over to Jardir, a blur of white to his pain-clouded eyes. He could not tell if she was young or old, beautiful or ugly, stern or kind. She seemed above such petty things, her devotion to Everam transcending all mortal concern.

The girl lifted a small stick wrapped many times in white cloth and placed it in Jardir’s mouth, gently pushing his jaw closed. Jardir understood, and bit down.

“Dal’Sharum embrace their pain,” the girl whispered as the dama’ting moved to a table to gather instruments.

There was a sharp sting as the dama’ting cleansed the wound, and a flare of agony as she wrenched his arm to set the bone. Jardir bit hard into the stick, and tried to do as the girl said, opening himself to the pain, though he did not fully understand. For a moment the pain seemed more than he could endure, but then, as if he were passing through a doorway, it became a distant thing, a suffering he was aware of but not part of. His jaw unclenched, and the stick fell away unneeded.

As Jardir relaxed into the pain, he turned to watch the dama’ting. She worked with calm efficiency, murmuring prayers to Everam as she stitched muscle and skin. She ground herbs into a paste she slathered on the wound, wrapping it in clean cloth soaked in a thick white mixture.

With surprising strength, she lifted him from the table and set him on a hard cot. She put a flask to his lips and Jardir drank, immediately feeling warm and woozy.

The dama’ting turned away, but the girl lingered a moment. “Bones become stronger after being broken,” she whispered, giving comfort as Jardir drifted off to sleep.

He woke to find the girl sitting beside his cot. She pressed a damp cloth to his forehead. It was the coolness that had woken him. His eyes danced over her uncovered face. He had once thought his mother beautiful, but it was nothing compared with this girl.

“The young warrior awakens,” she said, smiling at him.

“You speak,” Jardir said through parched lips. His arm seemed encased in white stone; the dama’ting’s wrappings had hardened while he slept.

“Am I a beast, that I should not?” the girl asked.

“To me, I mean,” Jardir said. “I am only nie’Sharum.” And not yet worthy of you by half, he added silently.

The girl nodded. “And I am nie’dama’ting. I will earn my veil soon, but I do not wear it yet, and thus may speak to whomever I wish.”

She set the cloth aside, lifting a steaming bowl of porridge to his lips. “I expect they are starving you in the Kaji’sharaj. Eat. It will help the dama’ting’s spells to heal you.”

Jardir swallowed the hot food quickly. “What is your name?” he asked when done.

The girl smiled as she wiped his mouth with a soft cloth. “Bold, for a boy barely old enough for his bido.”

“I’m sorry,” Jardir said.

She laughed. “Boldness is no cause for sorrow. Everam has no love for the timid. My name is Inevera.”

“As Everam wills,” Jardir translated. It was a common saying in Krasia. Inevera nodded.

“Ahmann,” Jardir introduced himself, “son of Hoshkamin.”

The girl nodded as if this were grave news, but there was amusement in her eyes.

“He is strong and may return to training,” the dama’ting told Qeran the next day, “but he must eat regularly, and if further harm comes to the arm before I remove the wrappings, I will hold you to account.”

The drillmaster bowed. “It will be as the dama’ting commands.” Jardir was given his bowl and allowed to go to the front of the line. None of the other boys, even Hasik, dared question this, but Jardir could feel their looks of resentment at his back. He would have preferred fighting for his meals, even with his arm in a cast, rather than weather those stares, but the dama’ting had given an order. If he did not eat willingly, the drillmasters would not hesitate to force the gruel down his throat.

“Will you be all right?” Abban asked as they ate in their customary spot.

Jardir nodded. “Bones heal stronger after being broken.”

“I’d rather not test that,” Abban said. Jardir shrugged. “At least the Waning begins tomorrow,” Abban added. “You can have a few days at home.”

Jardir looked at the cast and felt profound shame. There would be no hiding this from his mother and sisters. Barely in sharaj a cycle, and he was already a disgrace to them.

The Waning was the three-day cycle of the new moon, when Nie’s power was said to be strongest. Boys in Hannu Pash spent this period at home with their families, so that fathers could look upon their sons and remember what they fought for in the night.

But Jardir’s father was gone, and Jardir doubted he would fill the man’s heart with pride in any event. His mother, Kajivah, made no mention of his injury when he returned home, but Jardir’s younger sisters lacked her discretion.

Among the other nie’Sharum, Jardir had gotten used to living in only his bido and sandals. Among his sisters, all covered head-to-toe in tan robes revealing only their hands and faces, he felt naked, and there was no way to disguise his cast.

“What happened to your arm?” his youngest sister Hanya asked the moment he arrived.

“I broke it in my training,” Jardir said.

“How?” Imisandre, the eldest of his sisters and the one Jardir was closest to, asked. She put her hand on his other arm.

Her sympathetic touch, once a balm to Jardir, now multiplied his shame tenfold. He pulled his arm away. “It was broken in sharusahk practice. It is nothing.”

“How many boys did it take?” Hanya said, and Jardir remembered the time he had beaten two older boys in the bazaar after one of them had mocked her. “At least ten, I bet.”

Jardir scowled. “One,” he snapped.

Hoshvah, his middle sister, shook her head. “He must have been ten feet tall.” Jardir wanted to scream.

“Enough pestering your brother!” Kajivah said. “Prepare a place for him at the table and leave him in peace.”

Hanya took Jardir’s sandals while Imisandre pulled out the bench at the head of the table. There were no pillows, but she laid a clean cloth on the wood for him to sit upon. After a month sitting on the floor of the sharaj, even that seemed a luxury. Hoshvah hurried with the chipped clay bowls Kajivah filled from the steaming pot.

Most nights, Jardir’s family ate only plain couscous, but Kajivah saved her stipend, and on Waning there were always vegetables and seasoning mixed in. On this, his first Waning home from Hannu Pash, there were even a few hard bits of unidentifiable meat mixed into Jardir’s bowl. It was more food than Jardir had seen in quite some time and it smelled of a mother’s love, but Jardir found he had little appetite, especially when he noted that the bowls of his mother and sisters lacked the bits of meat. He forced the food down so as not to insult his mother, but the fact that he ate with his left hand only made his shame worse.

After the meal, they prayed as a family until the call came from the minarets of Sharik Hora, signaling dusk. Evejan law dictated that when the call sounded from the minarets of Sharik Hora, all women and children were to go below.

Even Kajivah’s mean adobe hovel had a barred and warded basement with a connection to the Undercity, a vast network of caverns that connected all of the Desert Spear in the event of a breach.

“Go below,” Kajivah told his sisters. “I will speak privately with your brother.” The girls followed her command, and Kajivah beckoned Jardir to the corner where his father’s spear and shield hung.

As always, the arms seemed to look down on him in judgment. Jardir felt the weight of his cast keenly, but there was something that had been weighing on him even more. He looked to his mother.

“Dama Khevat said father took no honor with him when he died,” Jardir said.

“Then Dama Khevat did not know your father as I did,” Kajivah said. “He spoke only truth, and never raised a hand to me in anger, though I bore him three daughters in succession. He kept me with child and put meat in our bellies.” She looked Jardir in the eyes. “There is honor in those things, as much as there is in killing alagai. Repeat that under the sun and remember it.”

Jardir nodded. “I will.”

“You wear the bido now,” Kajivah said. “That means you are no longer a boy, and cannot go below with us. You must wait at the door.”

Jardir nodded. “I am not afraid.”

“Perhaps you should be,” Kajivah said. “The Evejah tells us that on the Waning, Alagai Ka, father of demons, stalks the surface of Ala.”

“Not even he could get past the warriors of the Desert Spear,” Jardir said.

Kajivah stood, lifting Hoshkamin’s spear from the wall. “Perhaps not,” she said, thrusting the weapon into his good left hand, “but if he does, it will fall to you to keep him from our door.”

Shocked, Jardir took the weapon, and Kajivah nodded once before following his sisters below. Jardir immediately moved to the door, his back straight as he stood throughout the night, and the two that followed.

“I’ll need a target,” Jardir said, “for when the dama’ting remove my cast, and I need to get back in the food line.”

“We can do it together,” Abban said, “like we did before.”

Jardir shook his head. “If I need your help, they’ll think I’m weak. I’ve got to show them I’ve healed stronger than before, or I’ll be a target for everyone.”

Abban nodded, considering the problem. “You’ll have to strike higher in the line than the place you left, but not so high as to provoke Hasik and his cronies.”

“You think like a merchant,” Jardir said.

Abban smiled. “I grew up in the bazaar.”

They watched the line carefully over the next few days, their eyes settling just past the center, where Jardir had waited before his injury. The boys there were a few years his senior and larger than him by far. They marked potential targets and began to observe those boys carefully during training.

Training was much as it had been before. The hard cast kept Jardir’s arm in place as he ran the obstacles, and the drillmasters made him throw left-handed during spear and net practice. He was given no special treatment, nor would he have wished it. The strap found his back no less often than before, and Jardir welcomed it, embracing the pain and knowing every blow proved to the other boys that he was not weak, despite his injury.

Weeks passed, and Jardir worked hard, practicing the sharukin whenever he had the chance, and repeating them in his mind as he drifted off to sleep each night. Surprisingly, he found he could throw and punch as well with his left hand as he had with the right. He even took to bludgeoning opponents with the cast, embracing the rush of pain as it swept over him like a hot desert wind. He knew that when the dama’ting finally cut the cast from him, he would be better for the injury.

“Jurim, I think,” Abban said at last, the evening before Jardir’s cast was removed. “He’s tall and strong, but he forgets his lessons and simply tries to overpower his opponents.”

Jardir nodded. “Perhaps. He’s slow, and no one would challenge me if I took him down, but I was thinking of Shanjat.” He nodded to a slender boy just ahead of Jurim in the line.

Abban shook his head. “Don’t be fooled by his size. There’s reason why Shanjat stands ahead of Jurim. His arms and legs crack like whips.”

“But he’s not precise,” Jardir said. “And he overbalances when his blows miss.”

“Which is rare,” Abban warned. “You have a better chance of defeating Jurim. Don’t haggle so much you spoil the sale.”

It was midmorning the next day when Jardir returned from the dama’ting pavilion, and the boys were already assembled in the gruel line. Jardir sucked in a breath, flexed his right arm, and strode in, heading right for the center of the line. Abban had already taken his place, farther back, and would not help him, as they had agreed.

It is the weakest camel that draws the wolves, he heard his father say, and the simple advice steeled him against his fear.

“To the back with you, cripple!” Shanjat barked, seeing him approach.

Jardir ignored him and forced himself to smile widely. “Everam shine upon you for holding my place,” he said.

The look in Shanjat’s eyes was incredulous; he was three years Jardir’s senior, and considerably larger. He hesitated in that moment, and Jardir took the opportunity to shove him hard, knocking him from the line.

Shanjat stumbled, but he was quick and kept his feet, kicking up a cloud of dust as he regained his balance. Jardir could have kicked his hands or feet from under him and struck while he was off balance, but he needed more than mere victory if he was to ward off any rumors that his injury had left him weak.

There were hoots of delight, and the gruel line curved in on itself, surrounding the two boys. The shocked look vanished from Shanjat’s face as it twisted in rage, and he came back in hard.

Jardir flowed like a dancer to avoid Shanjat’s initial blows, which were just as fast as Abban had warned. Finally, as expected, Shanjat launched a wild swing that put him off balance when it failed to connect. Jardir stepped to the left, ducking the arm and driving his right elbow into Shanjat’s kidney like a spear. Shanjat screamed in pain as he stumbled past.

Jardir whipped around and followed through with another elbow strike to Shanjat’s back, driving him to the ground. His arm was thin and pale from weeks in the cast, but the bones did feel stronger now, just as the dama’ting had said.

But Shanjat caught Jardir’s ankle, yanking him from his feet and falling on him. They wrestled in the dust, where Shanjat’s weight and greater reach were to his advantage. He caught Jardir in a headlock, pulling his right fist into Jardir’s windpipe with his left hand.

As the world began to blacken, Jardir began to fear he had taken on too much, but he embraced the feeling as he did pain, refusing to give up. He kicked hard behind him, a crushing blow between the legs that made Shanjat loosen his choke hold with a howl. Jardir twisted free and got in close to Shanjat’s joints, where his blows held little force when they could reach Jardir at all. Slowly, laboriously, he worked his way behind Shanjat, striking hard at any vulnerable spots—eyes, throat, gut—as he went.

Finally in position, Jardir caught Shanjat’s right arm and twisted it behind him, driving his full weight into the older boy’s back with both knees. When he felt the elbow lock, he braced it on his own shoulder and heaved the arm upward.

“Aaahhh!” Shanjat cried, and Jardir knew it would be a simple thing now to break the boy’s arm, as Hasik had done to him.

“You were saving my place, were you not?” Jardir asked loudly.

“I will kill you, rat!” Shanjat screamed, beating the dust with his free hand as he twisted and thrashed, but he could not dislodge Jardir.

“Say it!” Jardir demanded, lifting Shanjat’s arm higher. He felt the strain in that limb, and knew it could not withstand much more.

“I would sooner go to Nie’s abyss!” Shanjat cried.

Jardir shrugged. “Bones become stronger after being broken. Enjoy your stay with the dama’ting.” With a heave, he felt bone snap and muscle tear. Shanjat screamed in agony.

Jardir stood slowly, scanning the gathered boys for signs that another meant to challenge him, but while there were many wide-eyed stares, none seemed ready to avenge Shanjat, who lay howling in the dust.

“Make way!” Drillmaster Kaval barked, pushing through the crowd. He looked to Shanjat, then to Jardir. “Hope for you yet, boy,” he grunted. “Back in line, all of you,” he shouted, “or we’ll empty the gruel pot in the waste pits!” The boys quickly flowed back to their places, but Jardir beckoned to Abban amid the confusion, gesturing for his friend to take the place behind him in line.

“Hey!” cried Jurim, the next boy in line, but Jardir glared at him and he backed off, making room for Abban.

Kaval kicked at Shanjat. “On your feet, rat!” he shouted. “Your legs aren’t broken, so don’t expect to be carried to the dama’ting after being bested by a boy half your size!” He grabbed Shanjat’s good arm and hauled the boy to his feet, dragging him off toward the healing pavilion. The boys still in line hooted and catcalled at his back.

“I don’t understand,” Abban said. “Why didn’t he just yield?”

“Because he’s a warrior,” Jardir said. “Will you yield when the alagai come for you?”

Abban shuddered at the thought. “That’s different.”

Jardir shook his head. “No, it isn’t.”

Hasik and some of the other older boys began training on the Maze walls not long after Jardir lost his cast. They lost their bidos in the Maze a year later, and those who survived, Hasik among them, could be seen strutting about the training grounds in their new blacks, visiting the great harem. Like all dal’Sharum, they had as little as possible to do with nie’Sharum after that.

Time passed quickly for Jardir, days blending together into an endless loop. In the mornings, he listened to dama extolling the glories of Everam and the Kaji tribe. He learned of the other Krasian tribes and why they were inferior, and why the Majah, most of all, were blind to Everam’s truths. The dama spoke, too, of other lands, and the cowardly chin to the north who had forsaken the spear and lived like khaffit, quailing before the alagai.

Jardir was never satisfied with their place in the gruel line, always focused on moving up to where the bowls became fuller. He targeted the boys ahead of him and sent them to the dama’ting pavilion one by one, always bringing Abban in his wake. By the time Jardir was eleven, they were at the front of the line, ahead of several older boys, all of whom gave them a wide berth.

Afternoons were spent training or running as practice targets for dal’Sharum netters. At night, Jardir lay on the cold stone of the Kaji’sharaj floor, his ears straining to hear the sounds of alagai’sharak outside, and dreaming of the day he might stand among men.

As Hannu Pash progressed, some of the boys were selected by the dama for special training, putting them on the path to wear the white. They left the Kaji’sharaj and were never seen again. Jardir was not chosen for this honor, but he did not mind. He had no desire to spend his days poring over ancient scrolls or shouting praise to Everam. He was bred for the spear.

The dama showed more interest in Abban, who had letters and numbers, but his father was khaffit, something they did not take to, even though the shame did not technically carry to a man’s sons.

“Better you fight,” the dama told Abban at last, poking his broad chest. Abban had kept much of his bulk, but the constant rigor of training had hardened the fat to muscle. Indeed, he was becoming a formidable warrior, and he blew out a breath of relief when it became clear he would not be called to the white.

Other boys, too weak or slow, were cast out of the Kaji’sharaj as khaffit— forced to return to the tan clothes of children for the rest of their lives. This was a worse fate by far, shaming their families and denying them hope of paradise. Those with warrior’s hearts often volunteered as Baiters, taunting demons and luring them into traps in the Maze. It was a brief life, but one that brought honor and entrance into Heaven for those otherwise lost.

In his twelfth year, Jardir was allowed his first look at the Maze. Drillmaster Qeran took the oldest and strongest of the nie’Sharum up the great wardwall—a sheer thirty feet of sandstone looking down on the demon killing ground that had once been an entire district of the city, back in ancient times when Krasia was more populous. It was filled with the remnants of ancient hovels and dozens of smaller sandstone walls. These were twenty feet high, with pitted wards cut into their surfaces. Some ran great distances and turned sharp corners, while others were just a single slab or angle. Together they formed a maze studded with hidden pitfalls, designed to trap and hold the alagai for the morning sun.

“The wall beneath your feet,” Qeran said, stamping his foot, “shields our women and children, even the khaffit,” he spit over the side of the wall, “from the alagai. The other walls,” he swept his hands out over the endlessly twisting walls of the Maze, “keep the alagai trapped in with us.” He clenched his fist at that, and the obvious pride he felt was shared by all the boys. Jardir imagined himself running through that maze, spear and shield in hand, and his heart soared. Glory awaited him on that blood-soaked sand.

They walked along the top of the thick wall until they came to a wooden bridge that could be drawn up with a great crank. This led down to one of the Maze walls, all connected by stone arches or close enough to jump. The Maze walls were thinner, less than a foot thick in some places.

“The walltops are treacherous for older warriors,” Qeran said, “apart from the Watchers.” The Watchers were dal’Sharum of the Krevakh and Nanji tribes. They were laddermen, each man carrying an iron-shod ladder twelve feet in length. The ladders could be joined to one another or used alone, and Watchers were so agile they could stand balanced at the top of an unsupported ladder as they surveyed the battlefield. The Krevakh Watchers were subordinate to the Kaji tribe, the Nanji to the Majah.

“For the next year, you boys will assist the Krevakh Watchers,” Qeran said, “tracking alagai movements and calling them down to the dal’Sharum in the Maze, as well as running orders back and forth from the kai’Sharum.”

They spent the rest of the day running the walltops. “You must know every inch of the Maze as well as you know your spears!” Qeran said as they went. Quick and agile, the nie’Sharum shouted in exhilaration as they leapt from wall to wall and darted over the small arched bridges. Jardir and Abban laughed at the joy of it.

But Abban’s big frame did not lend itself to balance, and on one slender bridge he slipped, falling off the wall. Jardir dove for his hand, but he was not fast enough. “Nie take me!” he cursed as their fingers brushed slightly and the boy dropped away.

Abban let out a brief wail before striking the ground, and Jardir could see even from twenty feet above that his legs were broken.

A braying laugh, like a camel’s honk, rang out behind him. Jardir turned to see Jurim slapping his knee.

“Abban is more camel than cat!” Jurim cried.

Jardir snarled and clenched a fist, but before he could rise, Drillmaster Qeran appeared. “You think your training is a joke?” he demanded. Before Jurim could gasp a reply, Qeran grabbed him by his bido and hurled him down after Abban. He screamed as he fell the twenty feet and struck hard, then lay unmoving.

The drillmaster turned to face the other boys. “Alagai’sharak is no joke,” he said. “Better you all die here than shame your brothers in the night.” The boys took a step back, nodding.

Qeran turned to Jardir. “Run now and inform Drillmaster Kaval. He’ll send men to bring them to the dama’ting.”

“It would be faster if we fetched them ourselves,” Jardir dared, knowing Abban’s fate might depend on those precious minutes.

“Only men are allowed in the Maze, nie’Sharum,” Qeran said. “Be off before the dal’Sharum are forced to fetch three.”

Jardir edged as close as he dared when the dama’ting came to speak with Drillmaster Qeran after gruel that evening, straining to hear her quiet words.

“Jurim broke several bones, and there was much bleeding within, but he will recover,” she said, speaking as if she were discussing nothing more significant than the color of sand. Her veils hid all expression. “The other, Abban, had his legs broken in many places. He will walk again, but he may not run.”

“Will he be able to fight?” Qeran asked.

“It is too soon to tell,” the dama’ting said.

“If that is the case, you should kill him now,” Qeran said. “Better dead than khaffit.”

The dama’ting raised a finger at him, and the drillmaster recoiled. “It is not for you to dictate what goes on in the dama’ting pavilion, dal’Sharum,” she hissed.

Immediately the drillmaster laced his hands as if in prayer and bowed so deeply that his beard nearly touched the ground.

“I beg the dama’ting’s forgiveness,” he said. “I meant no disrespect.”

The dama’ting nodded. “Of course you did not. “You are a dal’Sharum drillmaster, and will add the glory of your charges to your own in the afterlife, sitting among Everam’s most honored.”

“The dama’ting honors me,” Qeran said.

“Still,” the dama’ting said, “a reminder of your place will serve you well. Ask Dama Khevat for a penance. Twenty lashes of the alagai tail should do.”

Jardir gasped. The alagai tail was the most painful of whips—three strips of leather braided with metal barbs all along their four-foot length.

“The dama’ting is forgiving,” Qeran said, still bent low. Jardir fled before either one could catch sight of him and wonder what he might have heard.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Abban hissed as Jardir ducked under the flap of the dama’ting pavilion. “They will kill you if you’re caught!”

“I just wanted to see that you were well,” Jardir said. It was true enough, but his eyes scanned the tent carefully, hoping against hope that he might see Inevera again. There had been no sign of the girl since the day Jardir broke his arm, but he had not forgotten her beauty.

Abban looked to his shattered legs, bound tight in hardening casts. “I don’t know that I will ever be well again, my friend.”

“Nonsense,” Jardir said. “Bones heal stronger when they are broken. You will be back on the walls in no time.”

“Maybe,” Abban sighed.

Jardir bit his lip. “I failed you. I promised to catch you if you should fall. I swore it by Everam’s light.”

Abban took Jardir’s hand. “And so you would have, I do not doubt. I saw you dive to catch my hand. It is not your fault I struck the ground. I hold your oath fulfilled.”

Jardir’s eyes filled with tears. “I will not fail you again,” he promised.

Just then a dama’ting entered their partition, floating in silently from deeper within the pavilion. She looked their way, and she met Jardir’s eyes. His heart thudded to a stop in his chest, and his face went cold. It seemed they stared at each other forever. The dama’ting’s expression was unreadable beneath her opaque white veils.

At last, she tilted her head toward the exit flap. Jardir nodded, hardly believing his luck. He squeezed Abban’s hand one last time and darted out of the tent.

“You will encounter wind demons upon the walls, but you are not to engage,” Qeran said, pacing before the nie’Sharum. “That duty will be for the dal’Sharum you serve. Still, it is important you understand your foes.”

Jardir listened closely, sitting in his usual spot at the front of the group, but he was keenly aware of Abban’s absence at his side. Jardir had grown up with three younger sisters, and then found Abban the day he came to the Kaji’sharaj. Loneliness was a strange feeling.

“The dama tell us the wind demon resides on the fourth layer of Nie’s abyss,” Qeran told the boys, gesturing with his spear at a winged image chalked on the sandstone wall.

“Some, like the fools of the Majah tribe, underestimate the wind demon because it lacks the heavy armor of the sand demon,” he said, “but do not be fooled. The wind demon is farther from Everam’s sight, and a fouler creature by far. Its hide will still turn the point of a man’s spear, and the speed of its flight makes it difficult to hit. Its long talons,” he outlined the wicked weapons with the point of his spear, “can take a man’s head off before he realizes it’s there, and its beaklike jaws can tear off a man’s face in a single bite.”

He turned to the boys. “So. What are its weaknesses?”

Jardir’s hand immediately shot up. The drillmaster nodded at him.

“The wings,” Jardir said.

“Correct,” Qeran said. “Though made of the same tough membrane as its skin, the wings of a wind demon are stretched thin across cartilage and bone. A strong man can puncture them with his spear, or saw them off if his blade is sharp and the creature is prone. What else?”

Again, Jardir’s hand was the first to rise. The drillmaster’s eyes flicked to the other boys, but none of them raised their hands. Jardir was the youngest of the group by more than two years, but the other boys deferred to him here as they did in the gruel line.

“They are clumsy and slow on the ground,” Jardir said when Qeran nodded to him.

“Correct,” Qeran said. “If forced to land, wind demons need a running start or something to climb and leap from to take to the air again. The close quarters of the Maze are designed to deny them this. The dal’Sharum atop the walls will seek to net them or tangle them with weighted bolas. It will be your duty to report their location to the warriors on the ground.”

He eyed the children. “Who can tell me the signal for ‘wind demon down’?”

Jardir’s hand shot up.

It was three months before Abban and Jurim rejoined the nie’Sharum. Abban walked back to the training grounds with a pronounced limp, and Jardir frowned to see it.

“Do your legs still pain you?” he asked.

Abban nodded. “My bones may have healed stronger,” he said, “but not straighter.”

“It’s early yet,” Jardir said. “They will heal in time.”

“Inevera,” Abban said. “Who can say what Everam wills?”

“Are you ready to fight in the gruel line?” Jardir asked, nodding to the drillmaster coming out with the pot.

Abban paled. “Not yet, I beg,” he said. “If my legs give way, I will be marked forever.”

Jardir frowned, but he nodded. “Just don’t take too long,” he said, “lest your inaction mark you as plainly.” As he spoke, they walked to the front of the line, and the other boys gave way to Jardir like mice before a cat, allowing them to have the first bowls. A few glared at Abban resentfully, but none dared give challenge.

Jurim had no such luxury, and Jardir watched him coldly, still remembering the older boy’s honking laugh as Abban fell. Jurim walked a bit stiffly, but there was nothing of the limp that marred Abban’s once straight stride. The boys in the gruel line glared at him, but Jurim strode right up to his usual spot behind Shanjat.

“This place is taken, cripple,” Esam, another of the nie’Sharum under Jardir’s command, said. “To the back of the line with you!” Esam was a fine fighter, and Jardir watched the confrontation with some interest.

Jurim smiled and spread his hands as if in supplication, but Jardir saw the way he positioned his feet and was not fooled. Jurim leapt forward, grappling Esam and bearing him to the ground. It was over in a moment, and Jurim back in his rightful place. Jardir nodded. Jurim had a warrior’s heart. He glanced at Abban, who had already finished his bowl of gruel, having missed the fight entirely, and shook his head sadly.

“Gather’round, rats,” Kaval called after the bowls were stacked. Jardir immediately went to the drillmasters, and the other boys followed.

“What do you suppose this is about?” Abban asked.

Jardir shrugged. “They will tell us soon enough.”

“A test of manhood is upon you all,” Qeran said. “You will pass through the night, and we will learn which of you has a warrior’s heart and which does not.” Abban inhaled sharply in fear, but Jardir felt a burst of excitement. Every test brought him that much closer to the coveted black robe.

“There has been no word from the village of Baha kad’Everam in some months, and we fear the alagai may have breached their wards,” Qeran went on. “The Bahavans are khaffit, true, but they are descended from the Kaji, and the Damaji has decreed that we cannot abandon them.”

“Cannot abandon the valuable pottery they sell us, he means,” Abban murmured. “Baha is home to Dravazi the master potter, whose work graces every palace in Krasia.”

“Is money all you think of?” Jardir snapped. “If they were the lowliest dogs on Ala, they are still infinitely above the alagai, and should be protected.”

“Ahmann!” Kaval barked. “Do you have something to add?”

Jardir snapped back to attention. “No, Drillmaster!”

“Then hold your tongue,” Kaval said, “or I will cut it out.”

Jardir nodded, and Qeran went on. “Fifty warriors, volunteers all, will take the weeklong trek to Baha, led by Dama Khevat. You will go to assist them, carrying their equipment, feeding the camels, cooking their meals, and sharpening their spears.” He looked to Jardir. “You will be Nie Ka for this journey, son of Hoshkamin.”

Jardir’s eyes widened. Nie Ka, meaning “first of none,” meant Jardir was first of the nie’Sharum— not just in the gruel line, but in the eyes of the drillmasters, as well—and could command and discipline the other boys at will. There had not been a Nie Ka in years, since Hasik earned his blacks. It was a tremendous honor, and one not given, or accepted, lightly. For with the power it conveyed, there was also responsibility. He would be held accountable by Qeran and Kaval for the failings of the other boys, and punished accordingly.

Jardir bowed deeply. “You honor me, Drillmaster. I pray to Everam that I do not disappoint.”

“You’d better not, if you wish to keep your hide intact,” Kaval said as Qeran took a strip of knotted leather and tied it around Jardir’s bicep as a symbol of rank.

Jardir’s heart thudded in his chest. It was only a strip of leather, but at the moment, it felt like the Crown of Kaji, itself. Jardir thought of how the dama would tell his mother of this when she went for her weekly stipend, and swelled with pride. Already he began to bring back honor to the women of his family.

And not only that, but a true test of manhood, as well. Weeks of travel in the open night. He would see the alagai up close and come to know his enemy as more than chalk on slate, or something glimpsed at a distance while running the walltop. Truly, it was a day of new beginnings.

Abban turned to Jardir after the nie’Sharum were dismissed to their tasks. He smiled, punching Jardir’s bicep and the knotted strip of leather around it. “Nie Ka,” he said. “You deserve it, my friend. You’ll be kai’Sharum soon enough, commanding true warriors in battle.”

Jardir shrugged. “Inevera,” he said. “Let tomorrow bring what it will. For today, this honor is enough.”

“You were right before, of course,” Abban said. “My heart is sometimes bitter when I see how khaffit are treated, and I gave voice to that bitterness before. The Bahavans deserve our protection, and more.”

Jardir nodded. “I knew it was so,” he said. “I, too, spoke out of turn, my friend. I know there is more to your heart than a merchant’s greed.”

He squeezed Abban’s shoulder, and the boys ran to their tasks preparing for the expedition.

They left at midday, fifty Kaji warriors, including Hasik, along with Dama Khevat, Drillmaster Kaval, a pair of Krevakh Watchers, and Jardir’s squad of elite nie’Sharum. A few of the warriors, the eldest, took turns driving provision carts pulled by camels, but the rest marched on foot, leading the procession through the Maze to the great gate of the city. Jardir and the other boys rode the provision carts through the Maze so as not to sully the sacred ground.

“Only dama and dal’Sharum may put their feet down on the blood of their brothers and ancestors,” Kaval had warned. “Do so at your peril.”

Once they were out of the city, the drillmaster smacked his spear against the carts. “Everyone off!” Kaval barked. “We march to Baha!”

Abban looked at Jardir incredulously. “It is a week’s travel through the desert, with only our bidos to protect us from the sun!”

Jardir jumped down from the cart. “It is the same sun that beats upon us in the training ground.” He pointed to the dal’Sharum marching ahead of the supply carts. “Be thankful you have only your bido,” he said. “They wear the black, absorbing the heat, and still, each man carries shield and spear, and his armor beneath. If they can march, so can we.”

“Come, don’t you wish to stretch your legs, after all those weeks we spent in cast?” Jurim asked, slapping Abban’s shoulder with a smirk and hopping down.

The rest of the nie’Sharum followed, marching as Jardir called the steps to keep pace with the carts and warriors. Kaval trailed behind, keeping watch, but he left command to Jardir. He felt a surge of pride at the drillmaster’s trust.

The desert road was a string of ancient signposts along a path of packed sand and hard clay. The ever-present wind whipped hot sand over them; it collected on the road, making footing poor. The sun heated the sand to the point that it burned even through their sandals. But for all that, the nie’Sharum, hard from years of training, marched without complaint. Jardir looked at them and was proud.

It quickly became clear, however, that Abban could not keep the pace. Lathered in sweat, his limp grew increasingly pronounced on the uneven footing, and he stumbled frequently. Once, he staggered into Esam, who shoved him violently into Shanjat. Shanjat shoved him back, and Abban hit the ground hard. The other boys laughed as Abban spat sand from his mouth.

“Keep moving, rats!” Kaval called, thumping his spear against his shield.

Jardir wanted to help his friend to his feet, but he knew it would only make matters worse. “Get up!” he barked instead. Abban looked at him with pleading eyes, but Jardir only shook his head, giving Abban a kick for his own good. “Embrace the pain and get up, fool,” he said in a low, harsh voice, “or you’ll end up khaffit like your father!”

The hurt in Abban’s eyes cut at him, but Jardir spoke the truth. Abban knew it, too. He sucked in a breath and got to his feet, stumbling after the others. He kept up for some time, but again began to drift to the back of the line, frequently bumping into other boys and being shoved about. Kaval, ever watching, took note and moved up to walk next to Jardir.

“If he slows our march, boy,” he said, “it is you I will take the strap to, for all to see.”

Jardir nodded. “As you should, Drillmaster. I am Nie Ka.” Kaval grunted and left it at that.

Jardir went to the others. “Jurim, Abban, get on the carts,” he ordered. “You’re fresh from the dama’ting pavilion, and not ready for a full day’s march.”

“Camel’s piss!” Jurim snarled, pointing a finger in Jardir’s face. “I’m not riding the cart like a woman just because the pig-eater’s son can’t keep up!”

The words were barely out of Jurim’s mouth before Jardir struck. He grabbed Jurim’s wrist and twisted around to push hard against Jurim’s shoulder. The boy had no choice but to go limp lest Jardir break his arm, and the throw landed him heavily on his back. Jardir kept hold of the arm, pulling hard as he put his foot on Jurim’s throat.

“You’re riding on the cart because your Nie Ka commands it,” he said loudly as Jurim’s face reddened. “Forget that again at your peril.”

Jurim’s face was turning purple by the time he managed to nod, and he gasped air desperately when Jardir released the hold. “The dama’ting commanded that you walk farther each day until you are at full strength,” Jardir lied. “Tomorrow you march an hour longer.” He looked at Abban coldly. “Both of you.”

Abban nodded eagerly, and the two boys headed for the carts. Jardir watched them go, praying for Abban’s swift recovery. He could not save face for him forever.

He looked to the other nie’Sharum, staring at him, and snarled. “Did I call a halt?” he demanded, and the boys quickly resumed their march. Jardir called the steps at double time until they caught back up.

Night came, and Jardir had his nie’Sharum prepare the meals and lay bedrolls as the dama and Pit Warders prepared the warding circle. When the circle was ready, the warriors stood at its perimeter, facing outward with shields locked and spears at the ready as the sun set and the demons rose.

This near to the city, sand demons rose in force, hissing at the dal’Sharum and flinging themselves at the warriors. It was the first time he had seen them up close, and Jardir watched the alagai with a cold eye, memorizing their movements as they leapt to the attack.

The Pit Warders had done their work well, and magic flared to keep the demons at bay. As they struck the wards, the dal’Sharum gave a shout and thrust their spears. Most blows were turned by the sand demons’ armor, but a few precise blows to eyes or down open throats scored a kill. It seemed a game to the warriors, attempting to deliver such a pinpoint blow in the momentary flash of the magic’s light, and they laughed and congratulated the handful of warriors who managed it. Those who had went to their meal, while those who had not kept trying as the demons began to gather. Hasik was one of the first to fill his bowl, Jardir noted.

He looked to Drillmaster Kaval, coming out of the circle after killing a demon of his own. His red night veil was raised, the first time Jardir had ever seen it so. He caught the drillmaster’s eye, and when the man nodded Jardir approached, bowing deeply.

“Drillmaster,” he said, “this is not alagai’sharak as we were taught it.”

Kaval laughed. “This is not alagai’sharak at all, boy, just a game to keep our spears sharp. The Evejah commands that alagai’sharak only be fought on prepared ground. There are no demon pits here, no maze walls or ambush pockets. We would be fools to leave our circle, but that is no reason why we cannot show a few alagai the sun.”

Jardir bowed again. “Thank you, Drillmaster. I understand now.”

The game went on for hours more, until the remaining demons decided there was no gap in the wards and began to circle the camp or sat back on their haunches out of spear’s reach, watching. The warriors with full stomachs then went to take watch, hooting and catcalling at those who had failed to make a kill as they went to their meal.

After all had eaten, half the warriors went to their bedrolls, and the other half stood like statues in a ring around the camp. After a few hours’ sleep, the warriors relieved their brothers.

The next day, they passed through a khaffit village. Jardir had never seen one before, though there were many small oases in the desert, mostly to the south and east of the city, where a trickle of water sprouted from the ground and filled a small pool. Khaffit who had fled the city would often cluster at these, but so long as they fed themselves and did not beg at the city wall or prey on passing merchants, the dama were content to ignore them.

There were larger oases, as well, where a large pool meant a hundred or more khaffit might gather, often with women and children in tow. These the dama did pay some mind to, with the warrior tribes claiming individual oases as they did the wells of the city, taxing the khaffit in labor and goods for the right to live there. Dama would occasionally travel to the villages closest to the city, taking any young boys to Hannu Pash and the most beautiful girls as jiwah’Sharum for the great harems.

The village they passed through had no wall, just a series of sandstone monoliths around its perimeter with ancient wards cut deep into the stone. “What is this place?” Jardir wondered aloud as they marched.

“They call the village Sandstone,” Abban said. “Over three hundred khaffit live here. They are known as pit dogs.”

“Pit dogs?” Jardir asked.

Abban pointed to a giant pit in the ground, one of several in the village, where men and women toiled together, harvesting sandstone with shovel, pick, and saw. The folk were broad of shoulder and packed with muscle, quite unlike the khaffit Jardir knew from the city. Children worked alongside them, loading carts and leading the camels that hauled the stone up out of the pits. All wore tan clothes—man and boy alike in vest and cap, and the women and girls in tan dresses that left little to the imagination, their faces, arms, and even legs mostly uncovered.

“These are strong people,” Jardir said. “By what rule are these men khaffit? Are they all cowards? What about the girls and boys? Why are they not called to marriage or Hannu Pash?”

“Their ancestors were khaffit by their own failing, perhaps, my friend,” Abban said, “but these people are khaffit by birth.”

“I don’t understand,” Jardir said. “There are no khaffit by birth.”

Abban sighed. “You say all I think of is merchanting, but perhaps it is you who does not think of it enough. The Damaji want the stone these people harvest, and a healthy stock to do the work. In exchange, they instruct the dama not to come for the khaffit’s children.”

“Condemning the children to spending their lives as khaffit, as well,” Jardir said. “Why would their parents want that?”

“Parents can behave strangely when men come to take their children,” Abban said.

Jardir remembered his mother’s tears, and the shrieks of Abban’s mother, and could not disagree. “Still, these men would make fine warriors, and their women fine wives who breed strong sons. It is a waste to see them squandered so.”

Abban shrugged. “At least when one of them is injured, his brothers don’t turn on him like a pack of wolves.”

It was another six days of travel before they reached the cliff face overlooking the river that fed the village of Baha kad’Everam. They encountered no more khaffit villages along the way. Abban, whose family traded with many of the villages, said it was because an underground river fed many oases near the city, but it did not stretch so far east. Most of the villages were south of the city, between the Desert Spear and the distant southern mountains, along the path of that river. Jardir had never heard of a river underground, but he trusted his friend.

The river before them was not precisely underground, but it had eroded a deep valley over time, cutting through countless layers of sandstone and clay. They could see its bed far below, though the water seemed only a trickle from such a height.

They marched south along the cliff until the path leading down to the village came into sight, invisible until they were almost on top of it. The dal’Sharum blew horns of greeting, but there was no response as they made their way down the steep, narrow road to the village square. Even there in the center of town, there were no inhabitants to be found.

The village of Baha kad’Everam was built in tiers cut into the cliff face. A wide, uneven stair led up in zigzag, forming a terrace for the adobe buildings on each level. There were no signs of life in the village, and cloth door flaps drifted lazily in the breeze. It reminded Jardir of some of the older parts of the Desert Spear; large parts of the city were abandoned as the population dwindled. The ancient buildings were a testament to when Krasians were numberless.

“What happened here?” Jardir wondered aloud.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Abban asked. Jardir looked at him curiously.

“Stop staring at the village and take a wider look,” Abban said. Jardir turned and saw that the river had not appeared to be a trickle merely because of a trick of height. The waters hardly reached a third of the way up the deep bed.

“Not enough rain,” Abban said, “or a diversion of the water’s path upriver. The change likely robbed the Bahavans of the fish they depended on to survive.”

“That wouldn’t explain the death of a whole village,” Jardir said.

Abban shrugged. “Perhaps the water turned sour as it shallowed, picking up silt from the riverbed. Either way, by sickness or hunger, the Bahavans must not have been able to maintain their wards.” He gestured to the deep claw marks in the adobe walls of some of the buildings.

Kaval turned to Jardir. “Search the village for signs of survivors,” he said. Jardir bowed and turned to his nie’Sharum, breaking them into groups of two and sending each to a different level. The boys darted up the uneven stairs as easily as they ran the walltops of the Maze.

It quickly became apparent that Abban had been right. There were signs of demons in almost every building, claw marks on walls and furniture and signs of struggle everywhere.

“No bodies, though,” Abban noted.

“Eaten,” Jardir said, pointing to what appeared to be black stone with a few bits of white sticking from it, sitting on the floor.

“What’s that?” Abban asked.

“Demon dung,” Jardir said. “Alagai eat their victims whole and shit out the bones.” Abban slapped a hand to his mouth, but it was not enough. He ran to the side of the room to retch.

They reported their findings to Drillmaster Kaval, who nodded as if this were no surprise. “Walk at my back, Nie Ka,” he said, and Jardir followed him as the drillmaster walked over to where Dama Khevat stood with the kai’Sharum.

“The nie’Sharum confirm there are no survivors, Dama,” Kaval said. The kai’Sharum outranked him, but Kaval was a drillmaster and had likely trained every warrior on the expedition, including the kai’Sharum. As it was said, The words of the red veil carry more weight than the white.

Dama Khevat nodded. “The alagai cursed the ground when they broke through the wards, trapping the spirits of the dead khaffit in this world. I can feel their screams in the air.” He looked up at Kaval. “A Waning is upon us. We will spend the first two days and nights preparing the village and praying.”

“And on the third night of Waning?” Kaval asked.

“On the third night, we will dance alagai’sharak,” Khevat said, “to hallow the ground and set their spirits free, that they might be reincarnated in hope of a better caste.”

Kaval bowed. “Of course, Dama.” He looked up at the stairs and buildings built into the cliff face, and the wide courtyard beneath leading down to the riverbank. “It will be mostly clay demons here,” he guessed, “though likely a few wind and sand as well.” He turned to the kai’Sharum. “With your permission, I will have the dal’Sharum dig warded demon pits in the courtyard, and set ambush points on the stairs to drive the alagai off the cliff and into the pits to await the sun.”

The kai’Sharum nodded, and the drillmaster turned to Jardir. “Set the nie’Sharum to clearing the buildings of any debris we can make into barricades.” Jardir nodded and turned to go, but Kaval caught his arm. “See that they loot nothing,” he warned. “All must go as sacrifice to alagai’sharak.”

“You and I will clear the first level,” Jardir told Abban.

“Seven is a luckier number,” Abban said. “Let Jurim and Shanjat clear the first.”

Jardir looked at Abban’s leg skeptically. Abban had managed to keep up with the march, but his limp had not gone away, and Jardir often saw him massaging the limb when he thought no one was watching.

“I thought the first would be an easier ascent, with your leg not fully healed,” Jardir said.

Abban put his hands on his hips. “My friend, you wound me!” he said. “I am fit as the finest camel in the bazaar. You were right to push me to exceed myself each day, and a climb to the seventh level will only help.”

Jardir shrugged. “As you wish,” he said, and they set off climbing the steps after he had given instructions to the other nie’Sharum.

The irregular stone steps of Baha were cut into the cliff face, shored at key points with sandstone and clay. They were sometimes as narrow as a man’s foot, and other times required many paces to the next step. Worn stone showed the passage of many laden wagons pulled by beasts of burden. The steps changed direction with each tier, branching off a path to the buildings of that level.

They had not gone far before Abban’s breath labored, his round face beading with sweat. His limp grew worse, and by the fifth level he was hissing in pain with every step.

“Perhaps we’ve gone far enough for one day,” Jardir ventured.

“Nonsense, my friend,” Abban said. “I am…” he groaned and blew out a breath, “…strong as a camel.”

Jardir smiled and slapped him on the back. “We’ll make a warrior of you yet.”

They reached the seventh level at last, and Jardir turned to look out over the low wall. Far below, the dal’Sharum bent their backs, digging wide demon pits with short spades. The pits were set right at the edge of the first tier, so that a demon hurled from the very wall Jardir looked over would land within. Jardir felt a flash of excitement for the battle to come, even though he and the other nie’Sharum would not be allowed to fight.

He turned to Abban, but his friend had moved on down the terrace, ignoring the view.

“We should start clearing the buildings,” Jardir said, but Abban seemed not to hear, limping purposefully away. Jardir caught up just as Abban stopped in front of a great archway, breaking into a wide smile as he looked up at the symbols carved into the arch.

“Level seven, I knew it!” Abban said. “The same as the number of pillars between Heaven and Ala.”

“I’ve never seen wards like those,” Jardir said, looking at the symbols.

“Those aren’t wards, they are drawn words,” Abban said.

Jardir looked at him curiously. “Like those written in the Evejah?”

Abban nodded. “They read: ‘Here, seven tiers from Ala to honor He who is Everything, is the humble workshop of Master Dravazi.’ ”

“The potter you spoke of,” Jardir growled. Abban nodded, moving to push back the bright curtain that hung in the doorway, but Jardir grabbed his arm, pulling Abban to face him.

“So you can embrace pain when it comes to profit, but not to honor?” he demanded.

Abban smiled. “I am merely practical, my friend. You cannot spend honor.”

“You can in Heaven,” Jardir said.

Abban snorted. “We cannot clothe our mothers and sisters from Heaven.” He pulled his arm free and entered the shop. Jardir had no choice but to follow, walking right into Abban, who had stopped short just within the doorway, his mouth hanging open.

“The shipment is intact,” Abban whispered, his eyes taking on a covetous gleam. Jardir followed his gaze, and his own eyes widened as well. There, stacked neatly upon great pallets, was the most exquisite pottery he had ever seen. It filled the room—pots and vases and chalices, lamps and plates and bowls. All of it painted in bright color and gold leaf, fire-glazed to a pristine shine.

Abban rubbed his hands together with excitement. “Do you have any idea what this is worth, my friend?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jardir said. “It isn’t ours.”

Abban looked at him as if he were a fool. “It isn’t stealing if the owners are dead, Ahmann.”

“It is worse than stealing, to loot from the dead,” Jardir said. “It is desecration.”

“Desecration would be casting a master artisan’s life’s work into a rubbish pile,” Abban said. “There is plenty of other debris to use in the barricades.”

Jardir considered the pottery. “Very well,” he said at last. “We will leave it here. Let it tell the story of the craft of this greatest of khaffit, that Everam may look down upon his works and reincarnate his spirit to a higher caste.”

“What need to tell tales to Everam, if He is all-knowing?” Abban asked.

Jardir balled a fist, and Abban took a step back. “I will not hear Everam blasphemed,” he growled. “Not even from you.”

Abban held his hands up in supplication. “No blasphemy intended. I merely meant Everam could see the pottery as well in a Damaji’s palace as in this forgotten workshop.”

“That may be,” Jardir conceded, “but Kaval said everything must be sacrificed to alagai’sharak, and that means this, too.”

Abban’s eyes flicked to Jardir’s fist, still tightly closed, and he nodded. “Of course, my friend,” he agreed. “But if we are truly to honor this great khaffit and recommend him to Heaven, let us use his fine pots to carry dirt for the dal’Sharum digging the demon pits. It will put the pottery to work in fighting alagai’sharak, and show Dravazi’s worth to Everam.”

Jardir relaxed, his fist falling into five loose fingers once more. He smiled at Abban and nodded. “That is a fine idea.” They selected the pieces most suited to the task and carried them back to the camp. The rest they left neatly stacked, just as they had found them.

Jardir and the others fell into their work, and the two full days and nights passed quickly as the battlefield for alagai’sharak began to form. Each night they took shelter behind their circles, studying the demons and laying their plans. The terraced tiers of the village became a maze of debris piles hiding warded alcoves the dal’Sharum would use as ambush points, leaping out to drive the alagai over the sides into the demon pits, or to net them long enough to trap them in portable circles. Supply depots were warded on every level; there the nie’Sharum would wait, ready to run fresh spears or nets to the warriors.

“Stay behind the wards until you are called for,” Kaval instructed the novices, “and when you must cross them, do so quickly, heading directly from one warded area to the next until you reach your destination. Keep ducked low behind the wall, using every bit of cover.” He made the boys memorize the makeshift maze until they could find the warded alcoves with their eyes closed, if need be. The warriors would set bonfires to see and fight by, driving off the cold of the desert night, but there would still be great pockets of shadow where the demons, which could see in the dark, would hold every advantage.

Before long Jardir and Abban were waiting in a supply depot on the third level as the sun set. The cliff wall faced east, so they watched as its shadow reached out to envelop the river valley, creeping up the far cliff wall like an inky stain. And in the shadow of the valley, the alagai began to rise.

The mist seeped from the clay and sandstone, coalescing into demonic form. Jardir and Abban watched in fascination as the demons rose in the courtyard thirty feet below, illuminated by the great bonfires as the dal’Sharum put everything flammable in Baha to the torch.

For the first time, Jardir truly understood what the dama had been telling them all these years. The alagai were abominations, hidden from Everam’s light. All of Ala would be the Creator’s paradise if not for their foul taint. He was filled with loathing to the core of his being, and knew he would give his life gladly for their destruction. He gripped one of the spare spears in the alcove, imagining the day he might hunt them with his dal’Sharum brothers.

Abban gripped Jardir’s arm, and he turned to see his friend point a shaking hand at the terrace wall just a few feet away. All along the terrace, the mists were rising, and there on the wall a wind demon was forming. It crouched, wings folded, as it solidified. Neither boy had ever been so close to a demon, and while the sight filled Abban with obvious terror, Jardir felt only rage. He gripped the spear tighter and wondered if he could charge the creature, knocking it from the wall before it was fully formed and dropping it into one of the demon pits below.

Abban squeezed Jardir’s arm so tightly it became painful. Jardir looked at his friend and saw Abban looking right into his eyes.

“Don’t be a fool,” Abban said.

Jardir looked back to the demon, but the choice was taken from him in that moment as the alagai loosed its talons from their grip on the sandstone wall and dropped away into the darkness. There was a sudden snapping sound, and the wind demon soared back upward, its huge wings blocking out the stars as it swooped by.

Not far off, an orange clay demon formed, barely distinguishable from the adobe wall it clung to. The demon was small and snub, no larger than a small dog, but a compact killer of bunched muscle, talon, and thick, overlapping armor plates. It lifted its blunt head, sniffing the air. Kaval had taught that the head of a clay demon could smash through almost anything, shattering stone and denting fine steel. They witnessed its power firsthand as the demon charged them, smashing headfirst into the wards around their alcove. Silver magic spiderwebbed from the point of impact, and the clay demon was thrown back. It moved back up to the wards immediately, though, digging its talons into the cliff face as its head shot forward repeatedly, hammering at the wards and sending magic rippling through the air.

Jardir took his spear and thrust it at the demon’s maw, as he had seen the dal’Sharum do on the trek across the desert. But the demon was too fast, and caught the point in its jaws. The metal speartip twisted like clay as the demon shook its head, tearing the weapon from Jardir’s grasp and nearly pulling him out of the safety of the alcove. The demon whipped its head aside, sending the spear spinning over the wall and into the darkness.

Hasik saw the exchange from his alcove farther down the terrace. He was stationed as a Baiter, and would soon emerge to lead the demons to their doom.

“Waste another spear, rat,” he cried, his s’s still whistling after all these years, “and I’ll throw you over the wall after it!” Jardir felt a burst of shame and bowed, withdrawing farther into the alcove to wait for commands.

The Krevakh Watchers, balanced atop their ladders, could move from one level to the next in seconds. They surveyed the battlefield from above and gave signal to the kai’Sharum, who blew the Horn of Sharak, beginning the dance.

Hasik immediately stepped from his alcove, yelling and cavorting about to draw the attention of the demons nearby. Jardir watched in fascination. Whatever his feelings about Hasik, the man’s honor knew no bounds.

Several clay demons shrieked as they caught sight of him, leaping to give chase. Their short, powerful legs pumped with terrifying speed, but Hasik stood unafraid, letting them commit to the chase before taking off himself, running for the ambush point up ahead, past the first barriers. The clay demon on the wall by Jardir’s alcove leapt at him as he went by, but Hasik twisted and brought up his shield, not only deflecting the attack but also angling the shield so that the magic sent the demon hurling over the wall and shrieking all the way down into the pits—the first kill of the night.

Hasik sprinted into the maze of debris, dodging around the barriers with a speed and agility that belied his heavy frame. He moved out of Jardir and Abban’s sight, but they heard him cry “Oot!” as he approached the ambush pocket. The call was a traditional one for Baiters, signaling to the dal’Sharum at an ambush point that alagai approached.

There were shouts and flashes of magic as the hidden warriors fell upon the unsuspecting demons. Alagai shrieks filled the night, and the sound sent a chill down Jardir’s spine. He longed to make demons shriek their suffering, as well. One day…

As he mused, a Watcher, Aday, popped up over the wall right in front of them. Their twelve-foot ladders were just enough to make it up the wall from one level to the next.

Aday pulled on the stout leathern thong attached to his wrist, drawing the ladder up after him. He moved to set it to scale the next level, but a growl above halted him. He glanced up just as a clay demon leapt at him.

Jardir tensed, but he need not have worried. Quick as a snake, the Watcher had his ladder turned crosswise to catch the demon at arm’s length before it struck. Aday kicked cleanly through the rungs, knocking the alagai down to the terrace floor.

In the time it took the clay demon to recover, Aday skittered back several feet, extending the full twelve feet of the ladder between them. The demon leapt again, but Aday caught it between the side poles and lifted the ladder with a twist, easily hurling the small demon over the wall. In seconds he was back to setting his ladder.

“Bring extra spears to the Push Guard in the courtyard,” he called to them as he sprinted up to the next level, his hands never even touching the rungs.

Jardir grabbed a pair of spears, and Abban did likewise, but Jardir could see the fear in his eyes. “Stay close to me, and do as I do,” he told his friend. “This is no different from the drills we did all day.”

“Except that this is night,” Abban said. But he followed as Jardir glanced both ways and darted for Hasik’s alcove, keeping crouched low behind the wall to avoid the notice of the wind demons circling high above the village.

They made it to the alcove, and from there down the steps to the courtyard. Clay demons fell like rain from above as the dal’Sharum drove them over the terrace walls. The ambush points were precisely placed, and the majority of the alagai fell directly into the makeshift demon pits. As for the rest, and the sand demons that had formed in the courtyard, the Push Guard harried them into the pits with spear and shield. One-way wards were staked around the mouth and floor of each pit; alagai could enter, but not escape. The spears of the warriors could not pierce alagai armor, but they could sting and shove and harry, sending the demons stumbling back over the edge.

“Boy! Spear!” Kaval called, and Jardir saw that the drillmaster’s own spear was snapped in half as he faced a sand demon. Seemingly unhindered, Kaval spun the broken shaft so quickly it blurred, driving it into the demon’s shoulder and hip joints, preventing it from finding balance or any footing save in the direction the drillmaster wanted it to go. All along, Kaval continued to advance, pivoting smoothly to add force to thrusts and to bring his shield into play as he forced the demon ever closer to the pit’s edge.

But while the drillmaster seemed to be in no danger from the demon before him, more were falling from the terraces at every moment, and the inferior weapon was slowing him at a time he needed to finish the demon quickly.

“Acha!” Jardir called, throwing a fresh spear. At the call, Kaval shoved the broken shaft down the demon’s throat and caught the new one in a smooth turn that brought him right back in to attack with the new weapon. In moments the sand demon fell shrieking into the pit.

“Don’t just stand there!” Kaval barked. “Finish and get back to your post!” Jardir nodded and scurried off, he and Abban similarly supplying other warriors.

When they were out of spears, they turned to head back up the steps. They had not gone far when a thump behind them turned their heads. Jardir looked back to see an angry clay demon roll back to its feet and shake its head. It was far from the Push Guard, and spotted easier prey in Abban and Jardir.

“The ambush pocket!” Jardir shouted, pointing to the small warded alcove where the Push Guard had hidden until the demons began to fall from above. As the clay demon charged after them, the two boys broke for it. Abban, in his fear, even managed to take the lead.

But just shy of the pocket’s safety, Abban gave a cry as his leg collapsed under him. He hit the ground hard, and it was clear he would not be able to rise in time.

Jardir picked up speed, leaping to tackle Abban as he struggled to rise. He took the brunt of the impact himself, rolling them both over and turning the momentum into a perfect sharusahk throw that sent Abban’s bulky frame tumbling the last few feet to safety.

Jardir fell flat and remained prone when the move was completed. The demon, predictably, followed the motion and leapt at Abban, only to strike the wards of the pocket.

Jardir got quickly to his feet as the clay demon shook off the shock of the wards, but the demon spotted him immediately, and worse, it stood between him and the safety of the wards.

Jardir had no weapon or net, and knew the demon could outrun him on open ground. He felt a moment of panic until he remembered the words of Drillmaster Qeran.

Alagai have no guile, his teacher had taught. They may be stronger and faster than you, but their brains are those of a slow-witted dog. They reveal their intent in their bearing, and the humblest feint will confuse them. Never forget your wits, and you will always see the dawn.

Jardir made as if to run toward the nearest demon pit, then turned sharply and ran instead for the steps. He dodged around the rubble and barricades on sheer memory, wasting no time in confirming with eyes what his head knew. The demon shrieked and gave chase, but Jardir gave it no more thought, focusing only on his path ahead.

“Oot!” he cried as Hasik’s alcove came into sight, signaling the demon behind him. He could shelter there, and Hasik could lead the demon into ambush.

But Hasik’s alcove was empty. The warrior must have just sprung another trap, and was at the ambush point fighting.

Jardir knew he could shelter in the alcove, but then what of this demon? At best, it might escape the killing field, and at worst, it could catch some warrior or nie’Sharum unawares and be on him before he understood what was happening.

He put his head down and ran on.

He managed to put some ground between himself and the clay demon in the makeshift maze, but it was still close behind when the ambush point came in sight.

“Oot!” Jardir called. “Oot! Oot!” He put on a last burst of speed, hoping the warriors within heard his call and would be ready.

He darted around the last barrier, and a pair of quick hands grabbed him and yanked him off to the side. “You think this is a game, rat?” Hasik demanded.

Jardir had no reply, and thankfully needed none as the demon came charging into the ambush point. A dal’Sharum threw a net over it, tripping it up.

The demon thrashed, snapping the thick strands of the woven horsehair net like thread, and seemed about to tear itself free when several warriors tackled it and pinned it to the ground. One dal’Sharum took a rake of claws to the face and fell away screaming, but another took his place, grabbing two of the demon’s overlapping armor plates and pulling them apart with his hands, revealing the vulnerable flesh beneath.

Hasik flung Jardir aside, running in and driving his spear into the opening. The demon shrieked and writhed about in agony, but Hasik twisted the weapon savagely. The demon gave a final wrack and lay still. Jardir gave a whoop and thrust his fist into the air.

His delight was short-lived, though, as Hasik let go the spear, leaving it jutting from the dead alagai, and stormed over to him.

“You think yourself a Baiter, nie’Sharum?” he demanded. “You could have gotten men killed, taking it upon yourself to drive alagai into a trap that had not been reset.”

“I meant no—” Jardir began, but Hasik punched him hard in the stomach, and the response was blown from his lips.

“I gave you no leave to speak, boy!” Hasik shouted. Jardir saw his rage and wisely held his tongue. “Your orders were to stay in your alcove, not lead alagai to the backs of unprepared warriors!”

“Better he brought it here with some warning than left it loose on the terrace, Hasik,” Jesan said. Hasik glared at him, but held his tongue. Jesan was an older warrior, perhaps even forty winters, and the others in the group deferred to him in the absence of Kaval or the kai’Sharum. He was bleeding freely from where the demon had clawed his face, but he showed no sign of pain.

“You would not have been injured—” Hasik began, but Jesan cut him off.

“These will not be my first demon scars, Whistler,” he said, “and every one is a glory to be cherished. Now get back to your post. There are demons yet to kill this night.”

Hasik scowled, but he bowed. “As you say, the night is young,” he agreed. His eyes shot spears at Jardir as he left for his alcove.

“You get back to your post, too, boy,” Jesan said, clapping Jardir on the shoulder.

Dawn came at last, and all the company gathered at the demon pits to watch the alagai burn. Baha kad’Everam faced east, and the rising sun quickly flooded the valley. The demons howled in the pits as light filled the sky and their flesh began to smolder.

The insides of the dal’Sharum shields were polished to a mirror finish, and as Dama Khevat spoke a prayer for the souls of the Bahavans, one by one the warriors turned them to catch the light, angling rays down into the pits to strike the demons directly.

Wherever the light touched the demons, they burst into flame. Soon all the alagai were ablaze, and the nie’Sharum cheered. Seeing warriors doing likewise, some even lowered their bidos to piss on the demons as Everam’s light burned them from the world. Jardir had never felt so alive as he did in that moment, and he turned to Abban to share his joy.

But Abban was nowhere to be seen.

Thinking his friend still distressed over his fall the night before, Jardir went looking for him. Abban was injured, that was all. It was not the same as being weak. They would bide their time and ignore the sniggers of the other nie’Sharum until Abban had regained his strength, and then they would deal with the sniggerers directly and end the mocking once and for all.

He searched through the camp and almost missed Abban, at last spotting his friend crawling out from under one of the provision carts.

“What are you doing?” Jardir asked.

“Oh!” Abban said, turning in surprise. “I was just…”

Jardir ignored him, pushing past Abban and looking under the cart. Abban had strung a net there, filling it with the Dravazi pottery they had used as tools, cleverly packed with cloth to keep the pieces from clattering or breaking on the journey back.

Abban spread his hands as Jardir turned to him, smiling. “My friend—”

Jardir cut him off. “Put them back.”

“Ahmann,” Abban started.

“Put them back or I will break your other leg,” Jardir growled.

Abban sighed, but it was more in exasperation than submission. “Again I ask you to be practical, my friend. We both know that with this leg, I have more chance of helping my family through profit than honor. And if I somehow still manage to become dal’Sharum, how long will I last? Even the strong veterans who came here to Baha will not all go home alive. For myself, I will be lucky to last through my first night. And what of my family then, if I leave this world with no glory? I don’t want my mother to end up selling my sisters as jiwah’Sharum because they have no dowry save my spilled blood.”

“Jiwah’Sharum are sold?” Jardir asked, thinking of his own sisters, poorer than Abban’s by far. Jiwah’Sharum were group wives, kept in the great harem for all dal’Sharum to use.

“Did you think girls volunteered?” Abban asked. “Being jiwah’Sharum may appear glorious for the young and beautiful, but they seldom even know whose children grow in their bellies, and their honor fades once their wombs grow barren and their features less fair. Better by far a proper husband, even a khaffit, than that.”

Jardir said nothing, digesting the information, and Abban moved closer, leaning in as if to speak in confidence, though they were quite alone.

“We could split the profits, my friend,” he said. “Half to my mother, and half to yours. When was the last time she or your sisters had meat? Or more than rags to wear? Honor may help them years from this day, but a quick profit can help them now.”

Jardir looked at him skeptically. “How will a handful of pots make any difference?”

“These are not just any pots, Ahmann,” Abban said. “Think of it! These last works of master Dravazi, used by the dal’Sharum to help avenge his death and set free the khaffit souls of Baha. They will be priceless! The Damaji themselves would buy and display them. We need not even clean them! The dirt of Baha will be better than any glaze of gold.”

“Kaval said all must be sacrificed, to hallow the ground of Baha,” Jardir said.

“And so everything has,” Abban said. “These are just tools, Ahmann, no different from the spades the dal’Sharum used to dig the pits. It is not looting to keep our tools.”

“Then why hide them under the cart like a thief?”

Abban smiled. “Do you think Hasik and his cronies would let us keep the profits if they knew?”

“I suppose not,” Jardir conceded.

“It’s settled then,” Abban said, clapping Jardir on the shoulder. Quickly they packed the rest of the pottery in the secret sling.

They were almost finished when Abban took a delicate cup and deliberately started rolling it in the dirt.

“What are you doing?” Jardir asked.

Abban shrugged. “This cup was too small to be of use in the work,” he said, holding up the cup and admiring the dust upon it. “But the dust of Baha will increase its value tenfold.”

“But it’s a lie,” Jardir said.

Abban winked. “The buyer will never know that, my friend.”

“I will know!” Jardir shouted, taking the cup and hurling it to the ground. It struck the ground and shattered.

Abban shrieked. “You idiot, do you have any idea what that was worth?” But at Jardir’s seething glare, he wisely put up his hands and took a step back.

“Of course, my friend, you are right,” he agreed. As if to drive the point home, he lifted another similarly clean piece and smashed that on the ground as well.

Jardir eyed the broken shards and sighed. “Send nothing to my family,” he said. “I want no profit to come to the line of Jardir from this…low deed. I would rather see my sisters chew hard grain than eat tainted meat.”

Abban looked at him with incredulity, but at last he simply shrugged. “As you wish, my friend. But if your mind ever changes…”

“If that day comes, and you are my true friend, you will refuse me,” Jardir said. “And if I ever catch you at something like this again, I will bring you before the dama myself.”

Abban looked at him a moment longer, and nodded.

It was nighttime on the Krasian wall, and all about him Jardir could feel the thrum of battle. It made him proud that he would one day die as a Kaji warrior in the Maze.

“Alagai down!” Watcher Aday called. “Northeast quad! Second layer!”

Jardir nodded, turning to the other boys. “Jurim, inform the Majah in layer three that glory is near. Shanjat, let the Anjha know the Majah will be moving away from their position.”

“I can go,” Abban volunteered. Jardir glanced at him doubtfully. He knew it dishonored his friend to hold him back, but Abban’s limp had not subsided in the weeks since they had returned from Baha, and alagai’sharak was no game.

“Stay with me for now,” he said. The other boys smirked and ran off.

Drillmaster Qeran noticed the exchange, and his lip curled in disgust as he looked at Abban. “Make yourself useful, boy, and untangle the nets.”

Jardir pretended not to notice Abban’s limp as he complied. He returned to Qeran’s side.

“You can’t spare him forever,” the drillmaster said quietly, raising his far-seeing glass to search the skies. “Better he die a man in the Maze than return from the walls in shame.”

Jardir wondered at the words. What was the true path? If he sent Abban, there was a risk he would fail in his duty, putting fighting men at risk. But if he did not, then Qeran would eventually declare the boy khaffit—a fate far worse than death. Abban’s spirit would sit outside the gates of Heaven, never knowing Everam’s embrace as he waited, perhaps millennia, for reincarnation.

Ever since Qeran had made him Nie Ka, responsibility had weighed upon Jardir heavily. He wondered if Hasik, who had once held the same honor, had felt the same pressure. It was doubtful. Hasik would have killed Abban or driven him out of the pack long since.

He sighed, resolving to send Abban on the next run. “Better dead than khaffit,” he murmured, the words bitter on his tongue.

“Ware!” Qeran cried as a wind demon dove at them. He and Jardir got down in time, but Aday was not as quick. His head thumped along the wall toward Jardir as his body fell into the Maze. Abban screamed.

“It’s banking for another pass!” Qeran warned.

“Abban! Net!” Jardir called.

Abban was quick to comply, favoring his good leg as he dragged the heavily weighted net to Qeran. He had folded it properly for throwing, Jardir noted. That was something, at least.

Qeran snatched the net, never taking his eyes from the returning wind demon. Jardir saw with his warrior’s eye, and knew the drillmaster was calculating its speed and trajectory. He was taut as a bowstring, and Jardir knew he would not miss.

As the alagai came in range, Qeran uncoiled like a cobra and threw with a smooth snap. But the net opened too soon, and Jardir immediately saw why: Abban had accidentally tangled his foot in one of the weight ropes. He was thrown from his feet by the force of Qeran’s throw.

The wind demon pulled up short of the opening net, buffeting both the net and Qeran with its wings. The alagai dropped from sight, and the drillmaster went down, hopelessly tangled in the net.

“Nie take you, boy!” Qeran cried, kicking out from the tangle to knock Abban’s legs from under him. With a shriek, Abban fell from the wall a second time, this time into a maze alive with alagai.

Before Jardir had time to react, there was a shriek, and he realized the alagai was righting itself to come at them again. With Qeran tangled, there were no dal’Sharum to stop it.

“Flee while you can!” Qeran shouted.

Jardir ignored him, racing for the nets Abban had folded. He lifted one, grunting at its weight. He and the other boys trained with lighter versions.

The wind demon shot past in a flap of leathern wings, banking hard in the sky for another dive. For a moment it blocked the moon, vanishing in the sky, but Jardir was not fooled, and tracked its approach calmly. If he was to die, he would do so with honor, and take this alagai with him to pay his way into Heaven.

When the demon was close enough that Jardir could see its teeth, he threw. The horsehair net spun as the weights pulled it open, and the wind demon hit the web head-on. Yanking the cord to tighten the net, Jardir pivoted smoothly out of the way and watched the creature plummet into the Maze.

“Alagai down!” he cried. “Northeast quadrant! Layer seven!” A moment later there was an answering cry.

He was about to turn back and free Qeran when movement in the darkness caught his eye. Abban hung from the top of the wall, his fingernails bleeding as they scraped and strained against the stone.

“Don’t let me fall!” Abban cried.

“If you fall, you will die a man, and Heaven await you!” Jardir said. He left unsaid the fact that Abban would never see Heaven any other way. Qeran would see that he ended his Hannu Pash as khaffit, and paradise would be denied him. It tore at Jardir’s heart, but he began to turn away.

“No! Please!” Abban begged, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks. “You swore! You swore by Everam’s light to catch me. I don’t want to die!”

“Better dead than khaffit!” Jardir growled.

“I don’t care if I’m khaffit!” Abban said. “Don’t let me fall! Please!”

Jardir snarled, disgusted, but he bent despite himself, lying flat on the wall and pulling hard on Abban’s arm. Abban kicked and strained, finally managing to crawl up Jardir’s back and onto the wall. He threw himself on Jardir, sobbing.

“Everam bless you,” Abban wept. “I owe my life to you.”

Jardir shoved him away. “You disgust me, coward,” he said. “Begone from my sight before I change my mind and throw you back.”

Abban’s eyes widened in shock, but he bowed and scurried away as fast as his lame leg would allow.

As Jardir watched him go, a fist connected hard with his kidney, sending him sprawling. Agony fired over him, but he opened himself to it, and the pain washed away as he turned to face his assaulter.

“You should have let him fall,” Qeran said. “You did him no favors this night. A dal’Sharum’s duty is to support his brothers in death as well as life.” His spittle splattered on Jardir’s shoulder. “No gruel for three days,” he said. “Now fetch my far-seer. Alagai’sharak does not wait for cowards and fools.”

CHAPTER 3 CHIN
333 AR

ABBAN RETURNED WITH JAYAN and Asome some time later. They dragged with them a number of Northern chin and a single dama.

“This is Dama Rajin, of the Mehnding,” Jayan said, ushering the cleric forward. “It is he who ordered the silos burned.” He shoved the dama hard, and the man fell to his knees.

“How many?” Jardir asked.

“Three, before he could be stopped,” Jayan said, “but he would have kept on burning.”

“Losses?” Jardir looked to Abban.

“It will be some time before I know for sure, Shar’Dama Ka,” Abban said, “but it could be close to two hundred tons. Grain enough to feed thousands through the winter months.”

Jardir looked to the dama. “And what have you to say?”

“It is written in the Evejah’s treatise on war to burn the enemy’s stores, so they cannot make further war,” Dama Rajin said. “There remains grain enough to feed our people many times over.”

“Fool!” Jardir shouted, backhanding the man. There were gasps around the room. “I need to levy the Northerners, not starve and kill them! The true enemies are the alagai— something you have forgotten!”

He reached out and took hold of the dama’s white robe, tearing it from his body. “You are dama no more. You will burn your whites and wear tan in shame for the rest of your days.”

The man screamed as he was dragged out of the manse and cast into the snow. He would likely take his own life, if the other dama didn’t kill him first.

Jardir looked to Abban once more. “I want the losses and remainder totaled.”

“There may not be enough to feed everyone,” Abban warned.

Jardir nodded. “If there isn’t grain enough, have the chin too old to work or fight put to the spear until there is.”

The color left Abban’s face. “I will…find a way to make it stretch.”

Jardir smiled without humor. “I thought you might. Now, what of these chin you bring before me? I wanted leaders, but these men look like khaffit merchants.”

“Merchants rule the North, Deliverer,” Abban said.

“Disgusting,” Asome said.

“Nevertheless, it is so,” Abban said. “These are men who can help ease your conquest.”

“My father needs no…,” Jayan began, but Jardir silenced him with a wave. He gestured to the guards to bring the chin forward.

“Which of you leads the others?” Jardir asked, switching to the savage tongue of the North. The prisoners’ eyes widened, and the men looked at one another. Finally, one stepped forward, arching his back and holding his head high as he met Jardir’s eyes. He was bald, with a gray-shot beard, and was dressed in a soiled and torn silk robe. His face was blotched where he had been beaten, and his left arm was in a crude sling. He stood almost a foot shorter than Jardir, but still he had the look of a man who was accustomed to his words carrying weight.

“I am Edon the Seventh, duke of Fort Rizon and lord of its peoples,” the man said.

“Fort Rizon no longer exists,” Jardir said. “This land is known as Everam’s Bounty now, and it belongs to me.”

“The Core it does!” the duke growled.

“Do you know who I am, Duke Edon?” Jardir asked softly.

“The duke of Fort Krasia,” Duke Edon said. “Abban claims you are the Deliverer.”

“But you do not believe it is so,” Jardir said.

“The Deliverer will not bring murder, rape, and pillage with him,” Edon spat.

The warriors in the room tensed, expecting an outburst, but Jardir only nodded. “It comes as no surprise that the weak men of the North hold to a weak Deliverer,” he said. “But it is no matter. I do not ask for your belief, only your allegiance.”

The duke looked at him incredulously.

“If you prostrate before me and swear an oath to submit to Everam in all things, your life, and those of your councilors, will be spared,” Jardir said. “Your sons will be taken and trained as dal’Sharum, and they will be honored above all other Northern chin. Your wealth and property will be returned to you, minus a tithe of fealty. All this I offer to you in exchange for helping me to dominate the green lands.”

“And if I refuse?” the duke asked.

“Then all you possessed belongs to me,” Jardir said. “You will watch as your sons are put to the spear and my men impregnate your wives and daughters, and you will spend the rest of your days in rags, eating shit and drinking piss until someone pities you enough to kill you.”

And so Edon VII, duke of Fort Rizon and lord of its peoples, became the first Northern duke to kneel and put his head to the floor before Ahmann Jardir.

Jardir sat on his throne as Abban again brought a group of chin before him. It was a bitter irony that the fat khaffit should be the most indispensable member of his court, but so few of Jardir’s men spoke the Northern tongue. Some of the other khaffit merchants spoke a smattering, but only Abban and Jardir’s inner council were truly fluent. And of those, only Abban would rather talk to the chin than kill them.

Like all the prisoners Abban found, these were starved and beaten, clad in filthy rags against the cold. “More khaffit merchant lords?” Jardir asked.

Abban shook his head. “No, Deliverer. These men are Warders.”

Jardir’s eyes widened, and he sat up quickly in his seat. “Why have they been so ill treated?” he demanded.

“Because in the North, warding is considered a craft, like milling or carpentry,” Abban said. “The dal’Sharum who sacked the city could not tell them from the rest of the chin, and many were killed, or fled with the tools of their profession.”

Jardir cursed softly. In Krasia, Warders were considered the elite of the warrior caste, and it was written in the Evejah that they be accorded all honor. Even Northern ones had value, if Sharak Ka was to be won.

He turned to the men, shifting smoothly to their tongue and bowing. “You have my apologies for your treatment. You will be fed and clad in fine robes, your lands and women returned to you. Had we known you were Warders, you would have been honored as your station deserves.”

“You killed my son,” one of the men choked. “Raped my wife and daughter; burned my house. And now you apologize?” He spat at Jardir, striking him on the cheek.

The guards at the door gave a shout and lowered their spears, but Jardir waved them off, wiping the spittle from his cheek calmly.

“I will pay a death price for your son,” he said, “and recompense you others for your losses as well.” He strode up to the anguished man, towering over him. “But I warn you, do not test my mercy further.” He signaled the guards, and the men were escorted out.

“It is regrettable,” he said, as he sat heavily on his throne, “that our first conquest in the North should bring such waste.”

“We could have treated with them, Ahmann,” Abban said softly. He tensed, ready to fall to his knees if his words were not well received, but Jardir only shook his head.

“The greenlanders are too numerous,” he said. “The Rizonan men outnumbered us eight to one. If they had been given time to muster, not even our superior fighting skills could have taken the city without losses we could ill afford. Now that the duke has embraced Everam, it should go easier on the hamlets until we move on to conquer the chin city built on the oasis.”

“Lakton,” Abban supplied. “But I warn you, this greenland ‘lake’ is, by all accounts, far bigger than any oasis. Messengers have told me it is a body of water so great that you cannot see the far side, even on a clear day, and the city itself is so far out on the water that even a scorpion could not shoot so far.”

“They exaggerate, surely,” Jardir said. “If these…fish men fight anything like the men of Rizon, they will fall easily enough when the time comes.”

Just then a dal’Sharum entered, thumping his spear on the floor.

“Forgive the intrusion, Shar’Dama Ka,” the warrior said, going down to both knees and laying his spear next to him before placing his hands flat on the floor. “You asked to be informed when your wives arrived.”

Jardir scowled.

CHAPTER 4 LOSING THE BIDO
308 AR

JARDIR WAS WHIPPED WITH the alagai tail for letting Abban live, the barbs tearing the flesh off his back, and the days without food were hard, but he embraced the penance as he did all pain. It did not matter.

He had netted an alagai.

Other warriors had cut the wings from the wind demon, staking it down in a warded circle to await the sun, but it was Jardir who brought it down, and everyone knew it. He could see it in the awed eyes of the other nie’Sharum, and the grudging respect of the dal’Sharum. Even the dama eyed him when they thought no one was looking.

On the fourth day, Jardir was weak with hunger as he made his way to the gruel line. He doubted he had the strength to fight even the weakest of the boys, but he strode to his usual place at the front of the line with a straight back. The others backed away, eyes respectfully down.

He was reaching out his bowl when Qeran caught his arm.

“No gruel for you today,” the drillmaster said. “Come with me.”

Jardir felt like a sand demon was trying to claw its way from his stomach, but he gave no complaint, handing his bowl to another boy and following the drillmaster across the camp.

Toward the Kaji pavilion.

Jardir’s face went cold. It could not be.

“No boy your age has entered the warrior’s pavilion in three hundred years,” Qeran said, as if reading his thoughts. “I think you are too young, and this may prove the end of you and a terrible waste for the Kaji, but the law is the law. When a boy nets his first demon on the wall, he is called to alagai’sharak.”

They entered the tent, and dozens of black-clad figures turned to eye him before returning to their food. Women served them, but not women like Jardir had seen before, covered from head to toe in thick black cloth. The veils of these women were gossamer and brightly colored, diaphanous clothes pulled tight against soft curves. Their arms and bellies were bare, save for jeweled adornments, and long slits in the sides of their pantaloons bared their smooth legs.

Jardir felt his face heat up at the sight, but no one else seemed to find it amiss. One warrior eyed the woman serving him for a moment, then dropped his kebab and grabbed her, slinging her over his shoulder. She laughed as he carried her to a curtained room filled with bright pillows.

“That will be your right, too, should you survive the coming night,” Qeran advised. “The Kaji need more warriors. It is the duty of men to provide them. If you acquit yourself well, you may earn yourself a wife to keep your home, but all dal’Sharum are expected to keep the jiwah’Sharum of their tribe with child.”

The sight of so many women in revealing clothes was overwhelming to Jardir, and he scanned their young faces, half expecting to see his sisters among them. He was speechless as the drillmaster led him to a pillow at the great table.

There was more food than he had ever seen in his life. Dates and raisins and rice and spiced lamb on skewers. Couscous and grape leaves wrapping steaming meats. His stomach churned, caught between hunger and lust.

“Eat well, and rest,” Qeran advised. “Tonight you will stand among men.” He slapped Jardir’s back and left the tent.

Jardir reached tentatively for a skewer of meat, but a hand quickly snatched it away. He looked to the offender, only to find Hasik staring back at him.

“You got lucky the other night, rat,” Hasik said. “Pray to Everam this day, for it will take more than luck to survive a night in the Maze.”

Jardir went with the other warriors to Sharik Hora to receive the blessings of the Damaji before the night’s battle. He had never been inside the temple of heroes’ bones before, and the sight dwarfed anything he might have imagined.

Everything inside Sharik Hora was built from the bleached and lacquered bones of dal’Sharum who had fallen in alagai’sharak. The twelve chairs of the Damaji on the great altar stood on calf bones and rested on warriors’ feet. The arms had once held spear and shield against demonkind. The seats were polished rib that had housed heroes’ hearts. The backs were made from spines that had stood tall in the night. The headrests were made from the skulls of men who sat at Everam’s side in Heaven. The twelve seats ringed the throne of the Andrah, built from the skulls of kai’Sharum, the captains of alagai’sharak.

Hundreds of skulls and spines made each of the dozens of huge chandeliers. Bones made up hundreds of benches where worshippers prayed. The altar. The chalices. The walls. The great domed ceiling. Warriors beyond count had protected this temple with their flesh, and built it with their bones.

The massive nave was circular, and its walls were pocked with a hundred small alcoves, housing whole skeletons on bone pedestals. These were Sharum Ka, First Warriors of the city.

Under the eyes of the dama, the kai’Sharum commanded the warriors of their respective tribes, but when the sun set, the Sharum Ka, appointed by the Andrah, commanded the kai’Sharum. The current Sharum Ka was Kaji like Jardir—a fact that filled him with great pride.

Jardir’s hands shook as he took it all in. The entire temple thrummed with honor and glory. His father, killed in a Majah raid and not alagai’sharak, was not remembered here, but Jardir dreamed that one day he might add his own bones to this hallowed place, bringing honor to his father, his sacrifice remembered long after he was gone. There was no greater honor than to become one, in this world and the next, with those who had given their lives before him, and those unborn, perhaps centuries hence, whose lives were yet to be given.

The Sharum stood at attention as the Damaji begged the blessings of Everam for the coming battle, and those of Kaji, the first Deliverer.

“Kaji,” they called, “Spear of Everam, Shar’Dama Ka, who unified the world and delivered us from the alagai in the first age, look down upon these brave warriors who go out into the night to carry on the eternal struggle, battling gai on Ala even as Everam battles Nie in Heaven. Bless them with courage and strength, that they might stand tall in the night, and see through to the dawn.”

The warded shield and heavy spear were the smallest and lightest Qeran could find, but Jardir still felt dwarfed by them. He was twelve, and the youngest of the assembled warriors was five years his senior. He pretended nothing was amiss as he headed to stand with them, but even the smallest towered over him.

“Nie’Sharum are tethered to another warrior their first night in the Maze,” Qeran said, “to ensure their will does not break when the alagai first come at them. It is a moment that tests the hearts of even the bravest warriors. The warrior assigned to you will be your ajin’pal, your blood brother. You will obey his every command and be bonded until death.”

Jardir nodded.

“If you survive the night, the dama’ting will come for you at dawn,” Qeran went on.

Jardir’s gaze snapped to his mentor. “The dama’ting?” he asked. He was not afraid to face alagai, but dama’ting still filled him with fear.

Qeran nodded. “One of them will come to predict your death,” he said, suppressing a shudder. “Only with her blessing will you be dal’Sharum.”

“They tell you when you’ll die?” Jardir asked, aghast. “I don’t wish to know.”

Qeran snorted. “They don’t tell you, boy. The future is for the dama’ting alone to know. But if a coward’s death is in your future, or greatness, they will know before you ever lose the bido.”

“I will not die a coward’s death,” Jardir said.

“No,” Qeran agreed, “I don’t think you will. But you may still die a fool’s death, if you don’t listen to your ajin’pal, or are not careful.”

“I will listen well,” Jardir promised.

“Hasik has volunteered to be your ajin’pal,” Qeran said, gesturing to the warrior.

Hasik had grown much in the two years since he had lost his bido. Seventeen years old and fleshed out with hard muscle by the rich food of the dal’Sharum, he was easily a foot taller than Jardir and twice his weight.

“Never fear.” Hasik smiled. “The son of piss will be safe with me.”

“The son of piss took down his first alagai a full three years sooner than you, Whistler,” Qeran reminded him. Hasik kept his smile in place, but his lip twitched.

“He will honor the Kaji tribe,” Hasik agreed. “If he survives.”

Jardir remembered the sound of his arm breaking, and Hasik’s promise afterward. He knew that Hasik would be looking for any sign of insubordination, any excuse to kill him before he lost his bido and became an equal.

So Jardir embraced the insult as he did pain, letting it pass through him harmlessly. He would not be provoked into failure right when a chance for glory was in his grasp. If he made it through this night, he would be dal’Sharum, the youngest in memory, and Hasik be damned.

Their unit waited in the second layer, hiding in an ambush pocket. A hidden pit stood at the center of a small clearing, soon to be filled with alagai awaiting the killing rays of the sun. Jardir tightened his grip on his spear and adjusted his shield to ease his shoulder. But for all their weight, the tether was heaviest of all. Four feet of leather connected his ankle to Hasik’s waist. He shifted his foot uncomfortably.

“If you do not keep up with me, I will spear you and cut the tether,” Hasik said. “I will not have my glory cut short because of you.”

“I will be as your shadow,” Jardir promised, and Hasik grunted. He slipped a small flask from his robes and removed the stopper, taking a long swig. He handed the flask to Jardir.

“Drink this, for courage,” he said.

“What is it?” Jardir asked, taking the flask and sniffing at the neck. He smelled cinnamon, but the scent stung his nostrils.

“Couzi,” Hasik said. “Fermented grain and cinnamon.”

Jardir’s eyes widened. “Dama Khevat says to drink of fermented grain or fruit is forbidden by the Evejah.”

Hasik laughed. “Nothing is forbidden to dal’Sharum in the Maze! Drink! The night is almost upon us!”

Jardir looked at him doubtfully, but throughout the ambush pocket, he saw other warriors swigging from similar flasks. He shrugged, putting the bottle to his lips and drinking deeply.

The couzi burned his throat, and he coughed, spitting some back up. He could feel the strong drink burning his insides and roiling in his stomach like a snake. Hasik laughed and slapped his back. “Now you are ready to face the alagai, rat!”

The couzi worked quickly, and Jardir looked up through glazed eyes. The Maze was filled with shadows as the sun dipped. Jardir watched the sky turn red, and then purple, finally becoming full dark. He could sense the alagai rising outside the city walls, and shuddered.

Great Kaji, Spear of Everam, he prayed, if it is true that across the centuries I come of your line, grant me courage to honor you and my ancestors.

Before long he heard the Horn of Sharak, followed by the retort of rock slingers on the outer wall. The cries of alagai began to echo through the Maze. “Ware!” a call came from above, and Jardir thought he recognized Shanjat’s voice. “Baiters approach! Four sand and one flame!”

Jardir swallowed hard. Glory was upon him.

With a cry of “Oot!” the Baiters ran full-tilt through the ambush point, veering only slightly to avoid the pits. Above, the Watchers lit oil fires in front of polished metal mirrors, and light flooded the area.

The sand demons ran in a pack, long tongues slavering over rows of razor-sharp teeth. They were the size of a man, but seemed smaller hunched down on all fours. Their long talons tore at the sand and stone of the Maze floor, and their spiked tails whipped back and forth through the air. Their gritty armor plates had few weaknesses.

The flame demon was smaller, the size of a small boy, with wicked talons and terrifying speed. Its tiny, diamond-hard iridescent scales overlapped seamlessly. Its eyes and mouth glowed with orange light, and Jardir recalled his lessons about the creature’s deadly firespit. Across the ambush point was a pool in which the warriors would attempt to drown it.

Once again, the sight of the alagai filled Jardir with utter loathing. The creatures were a plague upon the Ala, Nie’s taint come to infect the surface. And tonight, he would help send them screaming back into the abyss.

“Hold,” Hasik warned, feeling him tense. Jardir nodded, forcing himself to relax. The couzi continued to work its way through him, warming him from the night’s chill.

The alagai passed them by, intent on the Baiters. Two of them ran right out onto the tarp covering the demon pit, falling in with a shriek. The other sand demons pulled up short, but the flame dodged around, leaping onto the back of the slower Baiter. It dug its claws into the man’s back and bit hard into his shoulder. The warrior was knocked down, but he did not scream.

“Now!” the kai’Sharum cried, and led the charge from the ambush pocket.

Jardir let the warrior’s roar explode from his chest, thrumming in unison with his brothers in the night and carrying him forward with the others. They smashed into the two sand demons from behind, knocking them into the pit.

The kai’Sharum pivoted, launching his spear and knocking the flame demon from the Baiter’s back. The other Baiter dragged him to the safety of the wards, doing his best to stem the flow of blood.

There was a cry, and Jardir turned to see that the first sand demon to fall into the pit had caught its edge, the concealing tarp protecting its talons from the wards. It swung up out of the pit easily, biting off the nearest warrior’s leg at the knee. The warrior screamed as he was knocked into his fellows, opening a gap in the shield wall. The demon shrieked and dove into the opening, talons raking.

“Shield up!” Hasik called, and Jardir complied just in time to catch the full weight of the demon. He was knocked down, but not before the wards flared, throwing the alagai back. The demon landed in a coil and sprang at him again, but Jardir thrust his spear from his prone position, catching the demon between its breastplates. He braced the butt of the spear against the ground to create a fulcrum, and used the demon’s own momentum to hurl it away.

Still in midair, bolas from half a dozen warriors struck the demon, and it hit the ground bound tight. It began tearing at the ropes with its teeth, and Jardir could hear the bindings snap under pressure from its corded muscles. It would be free in moments.

The kai’Sharum signaled, and a pair of warriors broke off to harry the flame demon while the rest encircled the sand demon with a wall of interlocked shields. Whenever the demon struck at a warrior, those behind it stabbed with their spears. The weapons could not pierce its armor, but they stung nonetheless. When it turned to face its attackers, their shields snapped into place and those behind struck.

The Pit Warder had cleared the tarp from the wards, preventing the other alagai from escaping the pit, as the warriors began to force the demon toward it by advancing the shield wall. Eventually, the creature backed up to the pit’s edge, and the warriors there melted away.

Jardir was among those who thrust their spears to drive the demon past the one-way wards. “Everam’s light burn you!” he screamed as he stabbed. The demon backpedaled, and then fell into the pit.

It was the greatest moment of his life.

Jardir looked around the ambush point. Two dal’Sharum had the flame demon pinned underwater with their spears in a shallow drowning pool. The water steamed and boiled as the demon thrashed, but the warriors held it steady until the last twitch.

The wounded Baiter seemed well enough, but Moshkama, the warrior with the severed leg, lay in a pool of blood, gasping and pale. He caught Jardir’s eye and beckoned to him and Hasik, who went to him.

“Finish it,” he breathed. “I have no wish to live as a cripple.”

Jardir glanced at Hasik.

“Do it,” Hasik ordered. “It is not right to let him suffer.”

Jardir’s thoughts flashed to Abban. How much suffering had he condemned his friend to by not granting him a warrior’s death?

A dal’Sharum’s duty is to support his brothers in death, as well as life, Qeran had said.

“My spirit is ready,” Moshkama croaked. With weak, shaking fingers, he pulled open his robe, moving aside the fired-clay armor plates sewn into the cloth and baring his chest. Jardir looked in his eyes and saw honor and courage. Things Abban had been severely lacking.

He thrust his spear with pride.

“You did well, rat,” Hasik said when the horns had blown, signaling that there were no alagai left alive and untrapped in the Maze. “I expected you to soak your bido, but you stood like a man.” He took another pull from the couzi flask and handed it to Jardir.

“Thank you,” Jardir said, drinking deeply, and pretending the harsh liquid did not burn his throat. Hasik still intimidated him, but it was true what the drillmasters said: Shedding blood together in the Maze had changed things. They were brothers now.

Hasik paced back and forth. “My blood is always on fire after alagai’sharak,” he said. “Nie damn the Damaji who decreed the great harem be sealed till dawn.” Several warriors grunted assent.

Jardir thought of the warrior carrying a jiwah’Sharum through the curtains that morning, and his face flushed.

Hasik caught the look. “That excites you, rat?” he laughed. “The son of piss is eager to take his first woman?”

Jardir said nothing.

“Bido or no, I think this one will still be a boy tomorrow!” another warrior, Manik, laughed. “He’s too young to know what the pillow dancers are truly for!”

Jardir opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. They were provoking him on purpose. Whatever had happened in the Maze, he was still nie’Sharum until the dama’ting foresaw his death. Any of the warriors could still kill him for the slightest insolence.

Surprisingly, Hasik came to his defense.

“Leave the rat alone,” he said. “He’s my ajin’pal. You mock him, you mock me.”

Manik puffed up at the challenge, but Hasik was young and strong. They eyed each other for a moment before Manik spat in the dust.

“Bah,” he said. “It’s not worth the trouble of gutting you just to mock a boy.” He turned and strode off.

“Thank you,” Jardir said.

“It’s nothing,” Hasik replied, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It is the duty of ajin’pal to look out for each other, and you would not be the first boy to fear the pillow dancers more than the alagai. The dama’ting teach sexcraft to the jiwah’Sharum, but the drillmasters give no such lessons in the sharaji.”

Jardir felt his face flush, wondering what lay in store for him in the pillows behind the curtains when the veils were lifted.

“Do not fear,” Hasik said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I will teach you how to make a woman howl.”

They finished off the flask, and a wicked smile crossed Hasik’s face. “Come on, rat. I know of some fun we can find in the meantime.”

“Where are we going?” Jardir asked, stumbling as Hasik led him through the Maze. The couzi made his head spin, and his limbs watery. The walls seemed to move of their own accord.

Hasik turned, his smile wide. The gap in his teeth where Qeran had hit him on Jardir’s first night in the Kaji’sharaj was a black hole in the moonlight.

“Going?” Hasik asked. “We’re here.”

Jardir looked around in confusion, and in that moment, colored light exploded before his eyes as Hasik hit him hard in the face.

Before he could react, Hasik was upon him, pinning him facedown in the dust. “I promised to teach you to make a woman howl,” he said. “For this lesson, you will be the woman.”

“No!” Jardir cried, thrashing, but Hasik smashed his face into the ground, making his ears ring. Twisting one of Jardir’s arms behind his back, the heavy warrior held him down with one hand as he pulled down Jardir’s bido with the other.

“Looks like you get to lose the bido twice in one night, rat!” he laughed.

Jardir tasted blood and dirt in his mouth. He tried to open himself to the pain, but for once, the power was beyond him, and his cries echoed through the Maze.

He was still weeping when the dama’ting found him.

She glided like a ghost, her white robes softly stirring the dust with her passage. Jardir stopped his sobbing and stared. Then reality suddenly focused, and he scrambled to pull up his bido. Shame filled him, and he hid his face.

The dama’ting clicked her tongue. “On your feet, boy!” she snapped. “You stand your ground against alagai, but weep like a woman over this? Everam needs dal’Sharum, not khaffit!”

Jardir wished the walls of the Maze would fall and crush him, but one did not refuse the orders of a dama’ting. He got to his feet, palming away his tears and wiping his nose.

“That’s better,” the dama’ting said, “if late. I would hate to have come all the way out here to foretell the life of a coward.”

The words stung Jardir. He was no coward. “How did you find me?”

She psshed, waving a hand at him. “I knew to find you here years ago.”

Jardir stared at her, unbelieving, but it was clear from her stance that his belief mattered not at all to her. “Come here, boy, that I may have a better look at you,” she commanded.

Jardir did as he was told, and the dama’ting grabbed his face, turning it this way and that to catch the moonlight. “Young and strong,” she said. “But so are all who get this far. You’re younger than most, but that’s seldom a good thing.”

“Are you here to foretell my death?”

“Bold, too,” she muttered. “There may be hope for you yet. Kneel, boy.”

He did, and the dama’ting knelt with him, spreading a white cloth to protect her pristine robes from the dust of the Maze.

“What do I care for your death?” she asked. “I am here to foretell your life. Death is between you and Everam.”

She reached into her robes, pulling forth a small pouch made from thick black felt. She loosened the drawstrings, pouring its contents into her free hand with a clatter. Jardir saw over a dozen objects, black and smooth like obsidian, carved with wards that glowed redly in the dark.

“The alagai hora,” she said, lifting the objects toward him. Jardir gasped and recoiled at the name. She held the polished bones of demons, cut into many-sided dice. Even without touching them, Jardir could feel the dull throb of their evil magic.

“Back to cowardice?” the dama’ting asked mildly. “What is the purpose of wards, if not to turn alagai magic to our own ends?”

Jardir steeled himself, leaning back in.

“Hold out your arm,” she commanded, placing the felt bag in her lap and laying the dice on it. She reached into her robes, drawing forth a sharp curved blade etched with wards.

Jardir held out his arm, willing it not to shake. The cut was quick, and the dama’ting squeezed the wound, smearing her hand with blood. She took up the alagai hora in both hands, shaking them.

“Everam, giver of light and life, I beseech you, give this lowly servant knowledge of what is to come. Tell me of Ahmann, son of Hoshkamin, last scion of the line of Jardir, the seventh son of Kaji.”

As she shook the dice, their glow increased, flaring through her fingers until it seemed she held hot coals. She cast them down, scattering the bones on the ground before them.

She put her hands on her knees and hunched forward, studying the glowing markings. Her eyes widened and she hissed. Suddenly oblivious to the dirt that marred her pure white robes, the dama’ting crawled about intently, reading the pattern as the pulsing glow of the wards slowly faded. “These bones must have been exposed to light,” she muttered, gathering them up.

Again she cut him and made the incantation, shaking vigorously, and again the dice flared. She threw them down.

“This cannot be!” she cried, snatching up the dice and throwing a third time. Even Jardir could tell that the pattern remained unchanged.

“What is it?” he dared to ask. “What do you see?”

The dama’ting looked up at him, and her eyes narrowed. “The future is not yours to know, boy,” she said. Jardir recoiled at the anger in her tone, unsure if it was due to his impertinence or what she had seen.

Or both. What had the dice told her? His mind flashed back to the pottery he had allowed Abban to steal from Baha kad’Everam, and wondered if she could see that sin, as well.

The dama’ting collected the bones and returned them to the pouch before rising. She tucked the pouch away and shook the dust from her robes.

“Return to the Kaji pavilion and spend the remainder of the night in prayer,” she ordered, vanishing in the shadows so quickly Jardir wondered if she had truly been there at all.

Qeran kicked him awake while the warriors still slept all around him. “Up, rat,” the drillmaster said. “The dama has called for you.”

“Am I to lose my bido?” Jardir asked.

“The men say you fought well in the night,” Qeran said, “but that’s not for me to decide. Only dama may give a nie’Sharum his blacks.”

The drillmaster escorted him to the inner chambers of Sharik Hora. The cool stone floor felt hallowed under Jardir’s bare feet.

“Drillmaster, may I ask a question?” Jardir said.

“This may be the last you ask of me as your instructor,” Qeran said, “so make it good.”

“When the dama’ting came for you, how many times did she throw the dice?”

The drillmaster glanced at him. “Once. They only ever throw once. The dice never lie.”

Jardir wanted to say more, but they turned a corner and Dama Khevat was waiting for him. Khevat was the harshest of Jardir’s instructors, the one who had called him the son of camel’s piss and thrown him into the waste pits for his insolence.

The drillmaster put a hand on Jardir’s shoulder. “Mind your tongue if you would keep it, boy,” he muttered.

“Everam be with you,” Khevat greeted them. The drillmaster bowed, and Jardir did the same. A nod from the dama, and Qeran turned on his heel and vanished.

Khevat ushered Jardir into a small, windowless room filled with sheaves of paper and smelling of ink and lamp oil. It seemed a place more suited to a khaffit or a woman, but even here the bones of men filled the room. They formed the seat Jardir was directed to, and the desk Khevat sat behind. Even the sheaves of paper were held down by skulls.

“You continue to surprise me, son of Hoshkamin,” Khevat said. “I did not believe you when you said you would win glory enough for you and your father both, but you seem determined to prove me wrong.”

Jardir shrugged. “I have only done as any warrior would do.”

Khevat chuckled. “The warriors I have known are not so modest. A kill wholly your own and five assists, at what? Thirteen?”

“Twelve,” Jardir said.

“Twelve,” Khevat repeated. “And you helped Moshkama die last night. Few nie’Sharum would have the heart for that.”

“It was his time,” Jardir said.

“Indeed,” Khevat said. “Moshkama had no sons. As his brother in death, it will fall to you to bleach his bones for Sharik Hora.”

Jardir bowed. “I am honored.”

“Your dama’ting came to me last night,” Khevat said.

Jardir looked up eagerly. “I am to lose my bido?”

Khevat shook his head. “You are too young, she says. Returning you to alagai’sharak without further training and time to grow will only cost the Kaji a warrior.”

“I am not afraid to die,” Jardir said, “if that is inevera.”

“Spoken like a true Sharum,” Khevat said, “but it is not that simple. You are denied the Maze by her decree until you are older.”

Jardir scowled. “So I must return to the Kaji’sharaj in shame after standing among men?”

The dama shook his head. “The law is clear on that. No boy who sees the Sharum pavilion is permitted to return to the sharaj.”

“But if I cannot go there, and I cannot stand with the men…,” Jardir began, and suddenly the depth of his predicament became clear.

“I…will become khaffit?” he asked, stark terror overcoming him for the first time in his life. His fear of the dama’ting was nothing compared to this. He felt the blood leave his face as he remembered the sight of Abban begging for his life.

I will die first, he thought. I will attack the first dal’Sharum I see, and give him no choice but to kill me. Better dead than khaffit.

“No,” the dama said, and Jardir felt his heart begin to beat again. “Perhaps such things do not matter to the dama’ting, since even the lowliest khaffit is above a woman, but I will see no warrior fall so low when his every challenge has been met. Since the time of Shar’Dama Ka, no boy who has shed alagai blood in the Maze has been refused the black. The dama’ting dishonors us all with her decree, and handmaiden of Everam or not, she is only a woman, and cannot understand what that would do to the hearts of all Sharum.”

“Then what will become of me?” Jardir asked.

“You will be taken into Sharik Hora,” Khevat said. “I have already spoken to Damaji Amadeveram. With his blessing, not even the dama’ting can deny you that.”

“I am to become a cleric?” Jardir asked. He tried to mask his displeasure, but his voice cracked, and he knew he had failed.

Khevat chuckled. “No, boy, your destiny is still the Maze, but you will train here with us until you are ready. Study hard, and you may make kai’Sharum while others your age still wear bidos.”

“This will be your cell,” Khevat said, leading Jardir to a chamber deep in the bowels of Sharik Hora. The room was a ten-by-ten square cut into the sandstone with a hard cot in one corner. There was a heavy wooden door, but it had no latch or bar. The only light came from a lamp in the corridor, filtering through the barred window in the door. Compared to the communal space and stone floor of the Kaji’sharaj, even this would have seemed luxury, if not for the shame that brought him here, and the pleasures of the Kaji pavilion that he was denied.

“You will fast here and excise the demons from your mind,” Khevat said. “Your training begins on the morrow.” He left, his footsteps receding in the hall until all was silent.

Jardir fell upon the cot, crossing his arms in front of him to support his head. But lying on his stomach made him think of Hasik, and rage and shame flared in him until it became unbearable. He leapt to his feet and grasped the cot, shouting as he smashed it against the wall. He threw it down, kicking the wood and tearing the cloth until he stood panting and hoarse amid a pile of splinters and thread.

Suddenly realizing what he had done, Jardir straightened, but there was no response to his commotion. He swept the wreckage into a corner and began a sharukin. The practiced series of sharusahk movements centered him as no prayer ever could.

The events of the last week swirled around him. Abban was khaffit now. Jardir felt shame at that, but he embraced the feeling, and saw the truth beneath. Abban had been khaffit all along, and Hannu Pash had shown it. Jardir had delayed Everam’s will, but he had not stopped it. No man could.

Inevera, he thought, and embraced the loss.

He thought of the glory and elation at killing demons in the Maze, and accepted that it might be many years before he could feel such joy again. The dice had spoken.

Inevera.

He thought again of Hasik, but it was not inevera. There, he had failed. He had been a fool to drink couzi in the Maze. A fool to trust Hasik. A fool to lower his guard.

The pain of his body and the passing of blood he had already embraced. Even the humiliation. He had seen other boys in sharaj mounted, and could embrace the feeling. What he could not embrace was the fact that even now Hasik strutted among the dal’Sharum thinking he had won, that Jardir was broken.

Jardir scowled. Perhaps I am broken, he conceded silently, but broken bones heal stronger, and I will have my day in the sun.

Night came, signaled only by the extinguishing of the lamp in the hall, leaving his cell in utter blackness. Jardir didn’t mind the dark. No wards in the world could match those of Sharik Hora, and even without them, the spirits of warriors without number guarded the temple. Any alagai setting foot in this hallowed place would be burned away as if it had seen the sun.

Jardir could not have slept even if he had wanted to, so he continued his sharukin, repeating the movements over and over until they were a part of him, as natural as breathing.

When the door of his cell creaked open, Jardir was instantly aware. Recalling his first night in the Kaji’sharaj, he slipped silently to the side of the door in the darkness and assumed a fighting stance. If the nie’dama sought to give him a similar welcome, it would be to their regret.

“If I wished you harm, I would not have sent you here for training,” said a familiar woman’s voice. A red light sprang to life, illuminating the dama’ting he had met the night before. She held a small flame demon skull, carved with wards that glowed fiercely in the darkness. The light found her already staring right into his eyes, as if she had known where he stood all along.

“You didn’t send me here,” Jardir dared to say. “You told Dama Khevat to send me back to the Kaji’sharaj in shame!”

“As I knew he would never do,” the dama’ting said, ignoring his accusatory tone. “Nor would he have made you khaffit. The only path left to him was to send you here.”

“Without honor,” Jardir said, clenching his fists.

“In safety!” the dama’ting hissed, raising the alagai skull. The wards flared brighter, and a gout of flame coughed from its maw. Jardir felt the flash of heat on his face and recoiled.

“Do not presume to judge me, nie’Sharum,” the dama’ting said. “I will act as I think best, and you will do as you are bidden.”

Jardir felt his back strike the wall, and realized he could retreat no farther. He nodded.

“Learn everything you can in your time here,” she commanded as she left. “Sharak Ka is coming.”

The words struck Jardir like a physical blow. Sharak Ka. The final battle was coming, and he would fight in it. All his worldly concerns vanished in that instant, as she closed the door and left him in darkness once more.

The lamp in the hall flickered back to life after some time, and there was a light tap at the door. Jardir opened it to Khevat’s youngest son, Ashan. He was a slender boy, clad in a bido that extended upward to wrap over one shoulder, marking him as nie’dama, a cleric in training. He wore a white veil over his mouth, and Jardir knew that meant he was in his first year of training, when nie’dama were not allowed to speak.

The boy nodded in greeting, then took in the wreckage of the cot in the corner. He winked and gave a slight bow, as if Jardir had somehow passed a secret test. Ashan jerked his head down the hall, then headed that way himself. Jardir took his meaning and followed.

They came to a wide chamber with a floor of polished marble. Dozens of dama and nie’dama, perhaps every one in the tribe, stood there, feet planted, practicing the sharukin. The boy waved a hand for Jardir to follow, and the two took their places in the nie lines, joining in the slow dance, bodies flowing from pose to pose, the entire room breathing in unison.

There were many forms Jardir was unfamiliar with, and the experience was quite unlike the brutal lessons to which he was accustomed, where Qeran and Kaval shouted curses at the boys, whipping any whose form was not perfect, and demanding that they flow faster and faster still. The dama practiced in silence, their only instruction watching the lead dama and one another. Jardir thought the clerics pampered and weak.

After an hour, the session ended. Immediately a buzz of conversation started as the dama broke into clusters and left the room. Jardir’s companion signaled him to remain, and they clustered with the other nie’dama.

“You have a new brother,” Dama Khevat told the boys, gesturing to Jardir. “With only twelve years under his bido, Jardir, son of Hoshkamin, has alagai blood on his hands. He will stay and learn the ways of the dama until the dama’ting deem him old enough to don his blacks.”

The other boys nodded silently, bowing to Jardir.

“Ashan,” the dama called. “Jardir will need help with his sharusahk. You will teach him.” Ashan nodded.

Jardir snorted. A nie’dama? Teach him? Ashan was no older than he was, and Jardir waited ahead of boys years his senior in the nie’Sharum gruel line.

“You feel you need no instruction?” Khevat asked.

“No, of course not, honored dama,” Jardir said quickly, bowing to the cleric.

“But you feel Ashan is not worthy to instruct you?” Khevat pressed. “After all, he is only nie’dama, a novice not yet old enough to speak, and you have stood with men in alagai’sharak.”

Jardir shrugged helplessly, feeling that very thing, but fearing a trap.

“Very well,” Khevat said. “You will spar with Ashan. When you defeat him, I will assign you a more worthy instructor.”

The other novices backed away, forming a ring on the polished marble floor. Ashan stood in its center and bowed to Jardir.

Jardir cast one last glance at Dama Khevat, then bowed in return. “Apologies, Ashan,” he said as they closed, “but I must defeat you.”

Ashan said nothing, assuming a sharusahk battle stance. Jardir did likewise, and Khevat clapped his hands.

“Begin!” the dama called.

Jardir shot forward, his stiffened fingers going for Ashan’s throat. The move would put the boy out of the fight quickly, yet do no permanent harm.

But Ashan surprised him, pivoting smoothly from Jardir’s path and delivering a kick to his side that sent him sprawling.

Jardir rolled quickly to his feet, cursing himself for underestimating the boy. He came in again, his defenses set, and feinted a punch to Ashan’s jaw. When the boy moved to block, Jardir spun, feinting an elbow jab to his opposite kidney. Again Ashan shifted, positioning himself correctly, and Jardir spun back again, delivering the real blow—a leg sweep that he would complement with an elbow to the chest, putting the nie’dama flat on his back.

But the leg Jardir meant to sweep was not where it was supposed to be, and his kick met only air. Ashan caught his leg, using Jardir’s own strength against him as he followed through with the exact move Jardir had planned. As Jardir fell, Ashan drove an elbow into his chest that blasted the breath from him. He hit the marble floor hard, banging his head, but was moving to rise before he felt the pain. He would not allow himself to be defeated!

Before he had set his hands and feet, though, they were kicked out from under him. He hit the floor again and felt a foot pin the small of his back. His flailing left leg was caught, as was his right arm, and Ashan pulled hard, threatening to twist the limbs from their sockets.

Jardir screamed, his eyes blurring in pain. He embraced the feeling, and when his vision cleared, he caught a glimpse of a dama’ting, watching him from the shadowed arch to the hall.

She shook her veiled head and walked away.

Deep in the bowels of Sharik Hora, Jardir could not tell night from day. He slept when the dama told him to sleep, ate when they gave him food, and followed their commands in between. There were a handful of dal’Sharum in the temple as well, training to be kai’Sharum, but no nie’Sharum save him. He was the least of the least, and when he thought of how those who had once leapt to his commands, Shanjat and Jurim and the others, might be losing their bidos even now, the shame threatened to overwhelm him.

For the first year, he was Ashan’s shadow. Without uttering a sound, the nie’dama taught Jardir what he needed to survive among the clerics. When to pray, when to kneel, how to bow, and how to fight.

Jardir had severely underestimated the fighting skills of the dama. They might be denied the spear, but the least of them was a match for any two dal’Sharum in the art of the empty hand.

But combat was something Jardir understood. He threw himself into the training, losing his shame in the endlessly flowing forms. Even after the lamps were extinguished each night, Jardir practiced the sharukin for hours in the darkness of his tiny cell.

After the tanners had taken Moshkama’s skin, Jardir and Ashan took the body and boiled it in oil, fishing out the bones and bleaching them in the sun atop the bone minarets that climbed into the desert sky. The jiwah’Sharum had filled three tear bottles over his body, and these were mixed with the lacquer they used to paint the bones before laying them out for the artisans. Moshkama’s bones and the tears of his mourners would add to the glory of Sharik Hora, and Jardir dreamed of the day he, too, would become one with the holy temple.

There were other tasks, less satisfying, less honorable. He spent hours each day learning to speak on paper, using a stick to copy the words of the Evejah into a box of sand as he recited them aloud. It seemed a useless art, unfit for a warrior, but Jardir heeded the dama’ting’s words and worked hard, mastering the letters quickly. From there he learned mathematics, history, philosophy, and finally warding. This, he devoured hungrily. Anything that might hurt or hinder the alagai received his utter devotion.

Drillmaster Qeran came several times a week, spending hours honing Jardir’s spearwork, while the dama loremasters taught him tactics and the history of war dating back to the time of the Deliverer.

“War is more than prowess on the field,” Dama Khevat said. “The Evejah tells us that war is, at its crux, deception.”

“Deception?” Jardir asked.

Khevat nodded. “As you might feint with your spear, so too must the wise leader misdirect his foe before battle is ever joined. When strong, he must appear weak. When weak, he must seem ready to fight. When near enough to strike, he must seem too far to threaten. When regrouping, he must make his enemies believe attack is imminent. It is thus he makes the enemy waste their strength while husbanding his own.”

Jardir cocked his head. “Is it not more honorable to meet the enemy head-on?”

“We did not build the Great Maze so that we could sally forth and meet the alagai head-on,” Khevat said. “There is no greater honor than victory, and to achieve victory, you must seize every advantage, great and small. This is the essence of war, and war is the essence of all things, from the lowest khaffit haggling in the bazaar to the Andrah hearing petitions in his palace.”

“I understand,” Jardir said.

“Deceit depends on secrecy,” Khevat went on. “If spies can learn of your deceptions, they take away all your strength. A great leader must hold his deceit so close that even his inner circle and sometimes even he himself does not think on it until the time to strike.”

“But why make war at all, Dama?” Jardir dared to ask.

“Eh?” Khevat replied.

“We are all Everam’s children,” Jardir said. “The enemy is the alagai. We need every man to stand against him, yet we kill one another under the sun every day.” Khevat looked at him, and Jardir was not sure if the dama was annoyed or pleased with the question.

“Unity,” the dama replied at last. “In war men stand together, and it is that collective power that makes them strong. In the words of Kaji himself during his conquest of the green lands, Unity is worth any price of blood. Against the night and Nie’s untold legions, better a hundred thousand men standing together than a hundred million cowering by themselves. Remember that always, Ahmann.”

Jardir bowed. “I will, Dama.”

CHAPTER 5 JIWAH KA
313–316 AR

THREE NIE’DAMA APPROACHED HIM from all sides, and though he could not see her, Jardir sensed that the dama’ting was watching. She was always watching.

He embraced the moment as he did pain, letting all worldly concern fall away. After more than five years in Sharik Hora, the peace came effortlessly when he called it now. There was no him. There was no them. There was no her. There was only the dance.

Ashan came at him first, but Jardir feinted a block, then pivoted and leapt aside to punch Halvan in the chest, Ashan’s kick meeting only air. He caught Halvan’s arm and twisted him to the ground easily. He could have torn the arm from its socket, but it was a greater test of skill to leave his opponents unharmed.

Shevali waited for Ashan to recover before coming at him, the two attacking with a unity that would do any dal’Sharum unit proud.

It mattered little. Jardir’s arms and thighs were a blur, their blocked blows a drumbeat as he followed the rhythm to its inevitable conclusion. On his fifth blow, Shevali left his throat exposed for an instant, and then, as it always was in the end, Jardir and Ashan faced off.

Knowing Jardir’s speed, Ashan attempted to grapple, but the years had put meat on Jardir’s bones. At seventeen, he was taller than most men, and constant training had turned his wiry sinews into lean, packed muscle. No sooner had they closed than Ashan was pinned.

Ashan laughed, his year of silence long past. “One day we will have you, nie’Sharum!”

Jardir gave him a hand up. “You will never find that day.”

“That is true,” Dama Khevat said. Jardir turned as the ring of boys and instructors broke and the cleric strode in, the dama’ting at his side. Jardir felt his face grow cold.

The dama’ting carried black robes.

The dama’ting led him to a private chamber and with her own hands unwrapped his bido, pulling it away. Jardir tried to embrace the feeling of her hands on his bare skin, but she was the only woman who had ever touched him so intimately, and for the first time in years, he could not find peace. His body responded to her touch, and he feared she might kill him for his disrespect.

But the dama’ting made no mention of his arousal as she wrapped a black loincloth in place of his bido, then dressed him in the loose pantaloons, heavy sandals, and robe of a dal’Sharum.

After eight years in a bido, Jardir expected any clothing to feel odd, but he was unprepared for the weight of a dal’Sharum’s armored blacks. Plates and strips of fired clay were held tight in sewn pockets throughout the garb. The plates could absorb a great blow, Jardir knew, but they shattered on impact, and needed to be replaced after every hit.

So distracted was he that he did not notice at first that the veil she tied about his throat was white. When he did, he gasped aloud.

“Did you think your time among the dama meaningless, son of Hoshkamin?” the dama’ting asked. “You will rejoin your dal’Sharum brothers as their master, a kai’Sharum.”

“I am but seventeen!” Jardir said.

The dama’ting nodded. “The youngest kai’Sharum in centuries. Just as you were the youngest to bring down a wind demon, and the youngest to survive alagai’sharak. Who can say what else you may accomplish?”

“You can,” Jardir said. “The dice told you.”

The dama’ting shook her head. “I have seen the fate your spirit reaches for, but it is a path fraught with peril, and you may still fail to reach it.” She drew the white veil about his face. Her touch seemed almost a caress. “You have many tests before you. Bring your focus to the now. When you return to the Kaji pavilion today, one of the Sharum will challenge you. You must—”

Jardir held up a hand, cutting her off. The dama’ting’s eyes flared at his audacity.

“With respect,” Jardir said, recalling the gruel lines of the Kaji’sharaj, “the world of Sharum, I understand. I will break the challenger publicly before any dare follow his example.”

The dama’ting regarded him a moment, then shrugged, a smile in her eyes.

Jardir strode with pride into the Kaji training grounds, followed by Dama Khevat and the dama’ting. The dal’Sharum paused in their training at the sight, and there were murmurs of recognition as they saw Jardir’s face. One of them barked a laugh.

“Look! The rat returns!” Hasik cried, his s’s still whistling after all these years. The big warrior planted his spear with a thump. “It only took him five years to change out of his bido!” Several other warriors laughed at that.

Jardir smiled. It was natural for Sharum to test the mettle of a new kai, and it was inevera that it should be Hasik. The powerful warrior was still larger than Jardir, but he felt no fear as he strode forward.

Hasik stared him down coldly, unafraid. “You may have a white veil loose about your throat, but you are still the son of piss,” he sneered, too low for the others to hear.

“Ah, Hasik, my ajin’pal!” Jardir called loudly. “Do they still call you Whistler? I would be happy to remove a few more teeth and cure your affliction, if you wish.”

All around, Sharum laughed. Jardir looked among them and saw many who had served under him when he was Nie Ka.

Hasik growled and lunged, but Jardir sidestepped, spinning into a kick that knocked the big warrior onto his backside in the dust. He stood patiently as Hasik scowled and scrambled back to his feet unharmed.

“I will kill you for that,” Hasik promised.

Jardir smiled, reading Hasik’s every movement like writing in the sand. Hasik charged in, thrusting hard with his spear, but Jardir pivoted, slapping the point to one side, and Hasik stumbled past, overbalanced. He turned and swung the spear like a staff, but Jardir bent backward like a palm tree in the wind, avoiding the blow without moving his feet an inch. Before Hasik could recover, he whipped upright and grabbed the weapon with both hands, kicking up between his hands and breaking through the thick shaft of wood. He followed through on the kick, taking Hasik in the face.

There was a satisfying crack as Hasik’s jaw shattered, but Jardir did not stop there. He dropped the speartip but held on to the butt, advancing as Hasik struggled back to his feet.

Hasik punched at him, and Jardir marveled that he had once found those punches too fast to follow. After years among the dama, the fist seemed to move at a crawl. He caught Hasik’s wrist and twisted hard, feeling his shoulder pop from its socket. Hasik screamed as Jardir swung the spear butt, shattering the warrior’s knee. Hasik collapsed, and Jardir kicked him over onto his stomach. He was well within his rights to kill Hasik, and those gathered likely expected him to, but Jardir had not forgotten what Hasik had done to him in the Maze.

“Now, Hasik,” he said, as all the dal’Sharum of the Kaji tribe looked on, “I will teach you to be a woman.” He held up the spear butt. “And this will be the man.”

“Watch to ensure he does not fall on his spear in shame,” Jardir told Shanjat as Hasik was hauled off to the dama’ting pavilion, howling in pain and humiliation. “I would not see any permanent harm befall my ajin’pal.”

“As my kai’Sharum wills,” Shanjat said, “though they will have to remove the spear before he can fall on it.” He smirked as he bowed to Jardir and hurried after the injured warrior. Jardir followed Shanjat with his eyes, marveling at how quickly they fell back into old patterns, despite Shanjat having earned the black years ago, and him just this day.

Jardir had planned his revenge on Hasik for years, while he danced sharusahk in his tiny cell in Sharik Hora. It wasn’t enough for the man to suffer defeat; Jardir’s revenge had to be an abject lesson to any who would ever seek to challenge him again. If Hasik had not challenged him, he would have sought the man out and initiated the challenge himself.

By Everam’s infinite justice, every step played out exactly as he had imagined it, but now that his triumph was complete, he found no more satisfaction in it than when he fought Shanjat for his place in the nie’Sharum food line.

“You seem to have things well in hand,” Dama Khevat said, slapping Jardir on the back. “Go to the Kaji pavilion and take a woman before tonight’s battle.” He laughed. “Take two! The jiwah’Sharum will be eager to bed the youngest kai’Sharum in a thousand years.”

Jardir forced himself to laugh and nod, though he felt a clench in his stomach. He had never known a woman. Except for a few glimpses of the jiwah’Sharum that one night in the Kaji pavilion, he had never even seen one without her robes. Kai’Sharum or no, he had one last test of manhood in front of him, and unlike the crushing of Hasik or the killing of alagai, this was one none of his training had prepared him for.

Khevat left him, and Jardir took a deep breath, looking toward the Kaji pavilion.

They are only women, he told himself, taking a tentative step forward. They are there to please you, not the other way around. His second step came with more confidence.

“A word,” the dama’ting whispered, grabbing his attention. Relief and fear clutched him at once. How had he forgotten her?

“In private,” she said, and Jardir nodded, walking to the edge of the training grounds with her, out of earshot from the dal’Sharum in the yard.

He was much taller than her now, but she still intimidated him. He remembered the blast of fire from her flame demon skull, and tried to convince himself that her alagai magics would not work in the day, with Everam’s light shining down upon them.

“I cast the alagai hora before bringing you the blacks,” she said. “If you sleep among the jiwah’Sharum, one of them will kill you.”

Jardir’s eyes widened. Such a thing was unheard of. “Why?” he asked.

“The bones give us no ‘why,’ son of Hoshkamin,” the dama’ting said. “They tell what is, and what may be. Perhaps a lover of Hasik will seek revenge, or some woman with a blood feud with your family.” She shrugged. “But sleep among the jiwah’Sharum at your peril.”

“So I am never to know a woman?” Jardir asked. “What kind of life is that for a man?”

“Don’t exaggerate,” the dama’ting said. “You may still take wives. I will cast the bones to find ones suitable for you.”

“Why would you do this?” Jardir asked.

“My reasons are my own,” the dama’ting said.

“And the price?” Jardir asked. The tales in the Evejah always spoke of a hidden price for those who would use hora magic for more than sharak.

“Ah,” the dama’ting said. “No longer so innocent as you seem. That is good. The price is that you take me to wife.”

Jardir froze. His face went cold. Take her as his wife? Unthinkable. She terrified him.

“I did not know dama’ting could marry,” he said, fumbling for time as his mind reeled.

“We can, when we wish it,” she said. “The first dama’ting were the Deliverer’s wives.”

Jardir looked at her again, the thick white robes hiding every contour and curve of her body. Her headwrap covered every hair, and the opaque veil was drawn high over her nose, muffling even her voice. Only her eyes could be seen, bright and full of zeal. There was something familiar about them, but he could not even guess at her age, much less her beauty. Was she a virgin? Of good family? There was no way to know. Dama’ting were taken from their mothers early and raised in secret.

“It is a man’s right to see a woman’s face before he agrees to marry her,” he said.

“Not this time,” the dama’ting said. “It matters not if my beauty moves you, or if my womb is fertile. Your future swirls with hidden knives. I will be your Jiwah Ka, or you will spend your days looking for them without my foretellings to aid you.”

Jiwah Ka. She didn’t just want to marry him, she wanted to be first among his wives. A Jiwah Ka had the right to vet and refuse any Jiwah Sen, subsequent wives, all of whom would be subservient to her. She would have absolute control of his household and children, second only to him, and Jardir was not fool enough to think she didn’t intend to control him as well.

But could he afford to refuse? He feared no challenger face-to-face, but war was deception, as Khevat had taught him, and not all men fought their enemies with spear and fist. A poisoned drink, or blade in the back, and he could still go to Everam with little glory to buy his way into Heaven, and none to spare his mother and sisters.

And Sharak Ka was coming.

“You ask that I give everything to you,” he said thickly, his mouth gone dry.

The dama’ting shook her head. “I leave you sharak,” she said. “That is all a Sharum need concern himself with.”

Jardir stared at her for a long time. Finally, he nodded his assent.

The dama’ting wasted no time once the agreement was made. Before a week was through, Jardir found himself before Dama Khevat, watching as she made her vows.

Jardir looked into the dama’ting’s eyes. Who was she? Was she older than his mother? Young enough to give him sons? What would he find when they retired to the marriage bed?

“I offer you myself in marriage in accordance with the instructions of the Evejah,” she said, “as set down by Kaji, Spear of Everam, who sits at the foot of Everam’s table until he is reborn in the time of Sharak Ka. I pledge, with honesty and in sincerity, to be for you an obedient and faithful wife.”

Does she mean those words, Jardir wondered, or is this just a new way to control my life, now that I wear the black?

Khevat turned to him. Jardir started, fumbling for his vow. “I swear before Everam,” he said, forcing the words out, “Creator of all that is, and before Kaji, the Shar’Dama Ka, to take you into my home, and to be a fair and tolerant husband.”

“Do you accept this dama’ting as your Jiwah Ka?” Khevat asked, and something in his tone reminded Jardir of the dama’s words when Jardir first asked him to perform the ceremony.

Are you sure you wish to do this? Khevat had asked. A dama’ting is no ordinary wife you can order about, or beat when she is disobedient.

Jardir swallowed. Was he sure?

“I do,” he said thickly, and the assembled dal’Sharum gave a great shout, clattering their spears against their shields. His mother, Kajivah, clutched at his young sisters, all of them weeping in pride.

Jardir could feel his heart pounding, and part of him wished he was in the Maze, dancing alagai’sharak, rather than the dimly lit, pillowed chamber they retired to.

“Do not fear, alagai’sharak shall still be there tomorrow!” Shanjat had laughed. “You fight a different kind of battle tonight!”

“You seem ill at ease,” the dama’ting said as she drew the heavy curtains behind them.

“Should I be another way?” Jardir asked bitterly. “You are my Jiwah Ka, and I do not even know your name.”

The dama’ting laughed, the first time he had ever heard her do such. It was a beautiful, tinkling sound. “Do you not?” she asked, slipping off her veil and headwrap. His eyes widened, but it was not at the youth and beauty he saw.

He did indeed know her.

“Inevera,” he breathed, remembering the nie’dama’ting who had spoken to him in the pavilion so many years ago.

She nodded, smiling at him, more beautiful than he had ever dared to dream.

“The night we met,” Inevera said, “I finished carving my first alagai hora. It was fate; Everam’s will, like my name. The demon bones are carved in utter darkness, by feel alone. It can take weeks to carve a single die; years to complete a set. And only then, when the set is complete, can they be tested. If they fail, they are exposed to light, and the carving must begin anew. If they succeed, then nie’dama’ting becomes dama’ting, and we don our veil.

“On that night, I finished my set and needed a question to ask. A test to see if the dice held the power of fate. But what question? Then I remembered the boy I had met that day, with the bold eyes and brash manner, and as I shook the demon dice, I asked, ‘Will I ever see Ahmann Jardir again?’

“And from that night on,” she said, “I knew I would find you in the Maze after your first alagai’sharak, and more, that I would marry you and bear you many children.”

With that, she shrugged her shoulders, and her white robes fell away. Jardir had feared this moment, but as the flickering light caught her naked form, his body began to respond, and he knew that he would pass this last test of manhood as he had all the others before it.

“Jardir, you will take your men to the tenth layer,” the Sharum Ka said.

It was a fool’s decision. Three years after he had donned the white veil, every kai’Sharum assembled knew that Jardir’s unit was the fiercest and best trained in all of Krasia. Jardir pressed his men hard, but the dal’Sharum gloried in it, their kill counts exceeding any three other units combined. They were wasted in the tenth layer. It was unheard of for the alagai to penetrate the Maze so deeply.

The Sharum Ka sneered at Jardir, daring dissent, but Jardir embraced the dishonor and let it pass through him. “As the Sharum Ka commands,” he said, bowing low from his pillow to touch his forehead to the thick carpet of the First Warrior’s audience room. As he sat back up, his face was serene despite his disgust at the man before him. The Sharum Ka was supposed to be the strongest warrior in the city. This man was anything but. His hair was streaked with gray, his face deeply wrinkled like a Damaji’s. It had been long years since he had stood in the Maze, and it showed in a belly gone to fat. The First Warrior was supposed to lead the charge in alagai’sharak and inspire the men to glory, not conduct the war from behind his palace walls.

But for all that, so long as he wore the white turban, his will in the night was inviolate.

Dama Ashan, his unit’s cleric, and his lieutenants, Hasik and Shanjat, were waiting outside the Sharum Ka’s palace to escort Jardir back to the Kaji pavilion. He was only a kai’Sharum, but there had already been attempts on his life from jealous rivals, even within his own tribe. The Sharum Ka would not live forever, and with the Andrah having come from the Kaji tribe, it was all but certain one of the Kaji kai’Sharum would be appointed to take his place. Jardir stood in the way of many older kai’Sharum’s hopes of ascension.

The three men were never far from his side ever since Inevera had arranged marriages between them and Jardir’s sisters. Imisandre, Hoshvah, and Hanya had been in rags when Jardir left Sharik Hora three years ago, but now they were Jiwah Ka to his most trusted lieutenants, and had borne nephews and nieces to strengthen those loyalties.

“Our orders?” Shanjat asked.

“Tenth layer,” Jardir said.

Hasik spat in the dust. “The Sharum Ka insults you!”

“Calm yourself, Hasik,” Jardir said softly, and the big warrior immediately quieted. “Embrace the insult and it will pass through you, allowing you to see Everam’s path.”

Hasik nodded, falling in behind Jardir as he strode away from the palace. Hasik had returned from the dama’ting pavilion a changed man three years ago. He was still one of the Kaji’s fiercest warriors, but like a wolf brought to heel, he had given his loyalty fully to Jardir—the only way to preserve his honor after the humiliating defeat.

“The Sharum Ka fears you,” Ashan advised. “As he should. If you continue to gather all the glory, the Andrah may tire of having a weak old man commanding his forces and allow you to challenge him to single combat.”

“And seconds after he shouts ‘begin,’ we will have a new First Warrior,” Shanjat said.

“That isn’t going to happen,” Jardir said. “The Andrah and Sharum Ka are friends from of old. The Andrah will not betray his loyal servant even if the Damaji themselves demand it.”

“So what do we do?” Hasik asked.

“You go home to my sister and thank her for the meal she has no doubt prepared you,” Jardir said. “And when night falls, we go to the tenth layer and pray that Everam sends us alagai to show the sun.”

As always, Inevera was waiting for him when he reached his quarters in the Kaji palace. Her robe was lowered to uncover the breast where his daughter Anjha suckled. Jardir’s sons, Jayan and Asome, clung to her robes, young and strong.

Jardir knelt and spread his arms, and the boys fell into them, laughing as he lifted them high. He set them back down, and they ran back to their mother. The sight of his sons pricked at his serenity for a moment before he could embrace the feeling. It wasn’t just his reputation the Sharum Ka sullied. It was theirs, as well.

“Something troubles you, my husband?” Inevera asked.

“It is nothing,” Jardir said, but Inevera clicked her tongue at him.

“I am your Jiwah Ka,” she said. “You need not embrace your feelings with me.”

Jardir looked at her and let the tight lashes of his control ease.

“The Sharum Ka sends me to the tenth layer tonight,” he spat. “How many warriors will he lose while his best unit guards an empty layer?”

“It is a good sign, husband,” Inevera said. “It means the Sharum Ka fears you and your ambitions.”

“What good is that,” Jardir said, “if he robs me of every future glory?”

“He cannot be allowed to do that,” Inevera agreed. “You must find glory in the Maze now more than ever. The bones tell me the First Warrior is not long for this world. Your glory must outshine all others when he goes to Everam, if you are to take his place.”

“How am I to do that waving my spear at empty air?” Jardir growled.

Inevera shrugged. “Sharak is yours. You must find a way.”

Jardir grunted, nodding. She was right, of course. There were some things even a dama’ting could not advise upon.

“The sun will not set for hours,” Inevera advised. “A bout of lovemaking and a short sleep will clear your head.”

Jardir smiled and went to her. “I will call my mother to take the children.”

But Inevera shook her head, stepping away from his reaching arms. “Not me. The bones say Everalia is ripe. If you take her from behind with great force, she will bear you a strong son.”

Jardir scowled. Everalia was his third wife. Inevera hadn’t even bothered to show her to him before they were betrothed, saying the Jiwah Sen was selected for her breeder’s hips and the fortune the alagai hora cast, not her beauty.

“Always the bones!” Jardir snapped. “For once I would bed the wife I choose!”

Inevera shrugged. “Take Thalaja if you prefer,” she said, referring to his more beautiful second wife. “She is ripe as well. I simply thought you would prefer a son to another daughter.”

Jardir gritted his teeth. She was the one he wanted, but as Khevat had warned, wife or no, Inevera was dama’ting, and he could not simply take her the way he would another woman. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again.

Did she really cast the bones for everything? Sometimes it seemed Inevera just used claims of their foretellings to get him to act as she wished, but she had not been wrong yet, and it was true he needed more sons if he was to restore the line of Jardir to its former glory. Did it really matter which wife he took? Everalia was comely enough from behind.

He headed for the bedchamber, pulling off his robes.

They waited.

As cries of battle rang through the outer layers, and wind demons shrieked in the sky, they waited.

As other men went to Everam in glory, they waited.

“No alagai sighted,” Shanjat relayed, signaling back to the nie’Sharum on the wall.

“None will be sighted!” Hasik growled, and there was a rumble of assent from Jardir’s men. Fifty of the best warriors of the Kaji crouched with them in the ambush pocket. Wasted.

“There is still time to find glory, if we join other units,” Jurim said.

Jardir knew he must kill the idea before it could take root in the minds of the others. He thrust his spear butt between Jurim’s eyes, knocking him to the ground.

“I will personally spear anyone who leaves their post without my orders,” he said loudly. The others nodded as Jurim struggled to his feet, clutching his bloodied face.

Jardir looked upon the men, the finest dal’Sharum the Desert Spear had to offer, and felt profound shame. The Sharum Ka’s jealousy was directed at him, but it was the men who suffered. Men bred and born to kill alagai, denied their destiny by an old man afraid of losing power. Not for the first time, Jardir envisioned killing the First Warrior, fair challenge or no, but such a crime would be without honor, and would likely cost his life as well as his legacy.

Just then a horn sounded, and Jardir snapped back to attention. The pattern told him it was a cry for assistance.

“Watchers!” he called, and the two Watchers from his unit, Amkaji and Coliv, sprang forward. They attached the ends of their twelve-foot, iron-shod ladders in an instant, running to the wall. No sooner had Amkaji set the ladder than Coliv was running up it, taking the rungs three at a time, his weight never seeming to fully come down on a foot before he was lifting it again. He reached the walltop in an instant, scanning the terrain. A moment later he signaled that it was safe for Jardir’s ascent.

Jardir had been wary of the Watchers when he first took command of his unit, for they were of another tribe, the Krevakh. But he had come to know their hearts, and Amkaji and Coliv were as loyal to him and as devoted to alagai’sharak as any of his own tribesmen. The Krevakh were wholly devoted to serving the Kaji, as their nemesis tribe, the Nanji, served the Majah.

By law, the two Watchers were embedded with Jardir’s unit day and night, for the Watchers had specialized training in exotic weapons and fighting styles, and had skills essential to any kai’Sharum. Acrobatics. Information gathering. Hit-and-run combat.

Assassination.

As Amkaji held the ladder, Jardir and Shanjat ran up the wall. Coliv held his far-seeing glass out to Jardir.

“Sharach tribe, fourth layer,” he supplied, pointing.

“Learn more,” Jardir ordered, taking the glass, and Coliv ran off, his balance perfect across the narrow wall. Watchers carried neither spear nor shield to weigh them, and Coliv was fast gone from sight.

“The Sharach are a small tribe,” Shanjat said. “They bring barely two dozen warriors to alagai’sharak. Only a fool would put such a small unit in the fourth layer.”

“A fool like the Sharum Ka,” Jardir replied.

Coliv returned a moment later. “A cluster of alagai reached them, and avoided the pit. They have many warriors down, and no reinforcements close enough who are not engaged themselves. They will be overrun in minutes.”

Jardir gritted his teeth. “No, they will not. Ready the men.”

Shanjat laid a hand on his arm. “The Sharum Ka ordered us to guard the tenth,” he reminded him, but when Jardir nodded and did not say more, he broke into a wide smile.

“We will never get to the fourth layer in time, kai’Sharum,” Coliv said, scanning the Maze with his sharp eyes. “Many battles rage in between. The way is not clear.”

“Then lower ropes,” Jardir ordered. “I want every man on the wall now.”

They ran the walltops like nie’Sharum; fifty adult warriors in full battle dress. Treacherous enough for barefoot and agile boys in nothing but their bidos, it was far more so for men in sandals and heavy armored robes, carrying spear and shield.

But these were Kaji dal’Sharum, Jardir’s elite. They ran fearlessly, whooping with delight as they leapt from wall to wall, feeling like boys as the night wind whipped their faces, ready to die like men.

Jardir, running in the lead, felt it more than anyone. The Sharum Ka would be furious with him, but Nie take him before he let an entire tribe die out to appease the First Warrior’s pride.

A trip that would have taken many times as long in the Maze was accomplished in minutes atop the walls, and the Sharach unit quickly came into view. There were more than a dozen alagai in the ambush pocket, cutting off all avenues of escape. At least half the Sharach were down, and those who remained stood on the defensive, back-to-back and shield-to-shield as demons came at them from all sides.

They stood as men before an overwhelming force of alagai, and the sight enraged Jardir’s Krasian heart. He would let no more dal’Sharum die this night.

“Take heart, Sharach!” he cried. “The Kaji come to your aid!” He was the first to set his hook and throw a rope down into the pocket, rappelling the twenty feet in two quick hops. He didn’t even wait for his men, charging in with his warded shield leading, taking a sand demon in the back. The wards flared, and the demon was thrown away from the failing Sharach circle.

Jardir paid the stunned creature no further mind, moving on to the next demon with a thrust of his spear, driving it back with a series of precise strikes to the weakest parts of its armor. Behind him, he heard the roar of his fifty as they poured down the wall, and knew his back was secure.

“Everam watched your stand with pride, brother!” Jardir cried to the Sharach kai’Sharum, whose white veil was red with blood. “See to your wounded now! We will finish your glorious start and see that the Sharach fight another day!”

The third demon Jardir charged turned to face him and caught his spear in its jaws, splintering the wood. The impact threw Jardir off balance, and the creature hooked the edge of his shield on its talon. It flexed its corded arm, and the shield straps snapped. Jardir hit the ground hard, dodging aside as the creature came at him. For a moment, the demon had the advantage, but the Sharach kai’Sharum slammed into it from the side, knocking it away from him.

“The Sharach will fight to the last, my brother!” the kai’Sharum cried, but the sand demon struck back, its tail whipping under the warrior’s guard to knock him down. It tensed to spring for the kill.

Jardir glanced about. His warriors were all engaged, and there was no weapon in reach.

I was born to die on alagai talons, he reminded himself, and growled as he leapt to his feet, intercepting the sand demon in midair as it launched itself at the Sharach kai’Sharum.

The demon was stronger than him by far, but it fought on instinct, knowing nothing of the brutal art of sharusahk. Jardir caught its arm and pivoted, diverting the force of its attack and throwing it fifteen feet into the demon pit at the center of the ambush pocket. The alagai fell away with a howl, trapped until the sun rose to burn it from the world forever.

Another sand demon came at him, but Jardir punched it hard in the throat and kicked at the backs of its knees, grappling the creature and bearing it to the ground, twisting to avoid its teeth and claws while turning the thrashing alagai’s own force against it.

The demon’s gritty armor plates cut through his robes, slicing his skin, and his muscles screamed as they were stretched to their limits, but inch by inch, Jardir twisted farther behind the demon until he reached the desired hold and rose to his feet. He was taller than the creature, and with his arms locked under its pits and behind its head, he easily lifted it off the ground. It kicked and shrieked, but Jardir whipped it about, keeping its hind legs far from his body as he stumbled toward the demon pit.

With a shout, he threw the second demon into the pit, gratified to see that his warriors had already driven most of the other alagai into it as well. The pit floor was a seethe of scale and talon, the wards cut into the walls sparking angrily as they tried to climb out.

“I will watch as the sun takes you all!” Jardir shouted.

He turned back to the battle, flush with victory and ready to fight on, but only a few warriors still fought, and they had their alagai well in hand.

The rest of the men simply stared at him, eyes wide.

Jardir and the Sharach kai’Sharum stood watch over the pit for the rest of the night. Their men stood clustered about them, and there was a great cheer when the sunlight reached the pit. The demons shrieked and smoked before finally bursting into flame, and the men were proud to bear witness as Everam’s light burned them back into the nothingness from which they came.

Jardir and the other Sharum lowered their veils, as was proper in the sun. By day, the Sharach, beholden to the Majah, were blood enemies of the Kaji. Jardir eyed the kai’Sharum warily. It would dishonor them both to turn on each other in the neutral ground of the Maze, but such things were not unheard of.

Instead, the Sharach captain bowed. “My people owe you a blood debt.”

Jardir shook his head. “We did nothing that Everam did not command. No dal’Sharum would ever abandon a brother, and all men are brothers in the night.”

“I was there when the Sharum Ka sent you to the tenth, where we should have been,” the Sharach said. “You came far and dared much for us.”

Other warriors, their own pits burning, came across them as they left the Maze. Two blood enemies, standing together. A crowd began to form, and Jardir heard the buzz of their conversation. Again and again, he heard his men and the Sharach tell of how he had fought the alagai unarmed. The tale grew with each telling, and before long men were saying he had killed five demons with his bare hands. Jardir had seen warriors exaggerating deeds before. By nightfall, it would be a dozen he sent into the pit, and a month from now, fifty.

A Majah kai’Sharum approached them. “On behalf of the Majah,” he said, “I thank you for protecting the Sharach. The Sharum Ka was…unwise to put them in such danger.”

The man’s words were near treason, but Jardir only nodded. “The Sharach stood tall,” he said. “It was inevera that they live to fight again.”

“Inevera,” the Majah agreed, bowing lower than one kai’Sharum need bow to another. “Did you truly wrestle six demons into the pit yourself?”

Jardir shook his head and opened his mouth to reply, but he was cut off by a shout as the elite guard of the Sharum Ka stormed into view, clearing the way for the First Warrior.

“You disobeyed orders and left your post!” the Sharum Ka shouted, pointing at Jardir.

“The Sharach called for aid and we were unengaged,” Jardir said. “The Evejah tells us to protect our brothers in the night above all things.”

“Do not quote the sacred text to me,” the Sharum Ka snapped. “I was teaching it to my sons when your father was in his bido, and I know its truths far better than you! There is nothing that tells you to have your men scale the Maze walls and leave your layer unguarded while you protect one half the Maze away.”

“Unguarded!” Jardir goggled. “There were no demons in the eighth, much less the tenth!”

“It is not your place to disregard orders and seek glory that is not yours, kai’Sharum!” the Sharum Ka shouted.

Jardir’s temper flared. “Perhaps my orders would have been less foolish if the one giving them did not hide in his palace until dawn,” he said, knowing even as he did that he might as well have pulled his spear. Such an insult to the First Warrior could not be allowed to pass. If he were any kind of man, he would grab a spear and attack Jardir now, killing him before all the assembled men.

But the Sharum Ka was old, and men whispered of how Jardir had killed half a dozen demons with sharusahk alone. Jardir could not attack the First Warrior himself, but if the Sharum Ka attacked him, Jardir would be free to kill him and open a succession that might well put him in the Sharum Ka’s palace. He wondered if this was the fate Inevera’s bones had foretold so many years before.

They locked stares, and Jardir knew the Sharum Ka was thinking the same things he was, and did not have the courage to attack. He sneered.

“Arrest him!” the Sharum Ka commanded. Immediately his guards moved to comply.

Jardir’s hands were bound, a grave dishonor, but though he bared his teeth at the guards, he did not resist. There was a rumble of discontent from the assembled warriors, even the Majah. They gripped spears and lifted shields, greatly outnumbering the First Warrior’s guards.

“What are you doing?” the Sharum Ka demanded of the crowd. “Stand down!”

But the rumbling only grew, and men moved to block the exits from the Maze. The Sharum Ka took a tentative step back. Jardir met his eyes, and smiled.

“Do nothing,” Jardir said loudly, without taking his eyes from the Sharum Ka. “The Sharum Ka has given a command, and all Sharum are bound to comply. Everam will decide my fate.”

The grumbling quieted immediately, men clearing the path, and the Sharum Ka’s rage seemed doubled at Jardir’s control of the men. Jardir sneered at him again, daring him to attack.

“Take him away!” the Sharum Ka cried. Jardir kept his back straight and walked proudly as the guards gripped his arms and escorted him from the Maze.

Inevera was waiting in the palace of the Andrah when Jardir arrived.

Did she know of this day years ago, as well? he wondered.

His guards tightened their grip on his arms as she approached, but it was not in fear of anything Jardir might do. It was Inevera that terrified them.

“Leave us,” Inevera ordered. “Tell your master that my husband will meet him in the Andrah’s audience hall one hour hence.”

The guards immediately dropped Jardir’s arms and bowed. “As the dama’ting commands,” one stuttered, and they scurried away. Inevera snorted, pulling her warded blade to cut his bonds.

“You did well this night,” she whispered as they walked. “Stand tall in the coming hours. When the audience with the Andrah comes, you must provoke the Sharum Ka with words while standing in submission. Enrage him, but give him no excuse to attack you.”

“I will do no such thing,” Jardir said.

“You did it in the Maze,” Inevera snapped. “It is trebly important now.”

“You see all,” Jardir acknowledged, “but you understand little, if you think I will lower my eyes to this man. I was daring him to attack me then.”

Inevera shrugged. “Do it that way if you wish, but keep your feet planted and your hands still. He will never dare attack you himself, but if you pose a threat, his men will cut you down.”

“Do you think me a fool?” Jardir asked.

Inevera snorted. “Just enrage him. The rest is inevera.”

“As the dama’ting commands,” Jardir sighed.

Inevera nodded. They reached a pillowed waiting room. “Wait here,” she commanded. “I go now to meet with the Andrah privately before your trial.”

“Trial?” Jardir asked, but she had already slipped from the room.

Jardir had never before been close enough to the Andrah to see the man’s face. It was old and lined, his beard a stark white. He was a round man, clearly given to rich foods. His corpulence was disgusting, and Jardir had to remind himself that this man was once the greatest sharusahk master of his day, having defeated the most skilled Damaji in single combat in order to achieve the Skull Throne. In his days beneath Sharik Hora, Jardir had seen the Kaji Damaji, Amadeveram, a man of some sixty years, leave half a dozen young and skilled dama on their backs in the sharusahk circle.

He looked closer, seeking a sign of that training in the Andrah’s movements, but it seemed his ever-present bodyguards and servants had made the man lax. Even here, he picked at a plate of sugar dates during the proceedings.

Jardir’s eyes flicked to the sides of the Andrah’s throne. At his right hand stood the twelve Damaji, leaders of all the tribes of Krasia. Dressed in white robes and black turbans, they muttered among themselves about being pulled from their business and dragged to the palace when the sun had barely topped the horizon. At the Andrah’s left, two steps back from the throne, stood the Damaji’ting. Like the Damaji, they wore headwraps and veils of black, falling in sharp contrast over their white robes. Unlike the Damaji, they were utterly silent, watching with eyes that seemed to penetrate everything.

Do they too know my fate? Jardir wondered, then glanced at his Jiwah Ka, standing beside him. Or do they only know what Inevera tells them?

“Son of Hoshkamin,” Damaji Amadeveram greeted Jardir, “please tell us your version of last night’s events.” He was Kaji and the Andrah’s First Minister, perhaps the most powerful cleric in all of Krasia save the Andrah himself. The Andrah was said to represent all tribes, but it was he who appointed the Sharum Ka and First Minister, and Jardir knew from his lessons that it had been centuries since an Andrah had filled either position with someone from another tribe. It was considered a sign of weakness.

The Sharum Ka scowled, clearly expecting to have been invited to relate his version first. He stormed over to the tea service laid for him and took a cup. Jardir could tell from the erratic way the steam rose that his old hands were shaking.

“At the kai’Sharum supper this evening, the Sharum Ka gave orders, as he always does,” Jardir began. “My men have found much success in the night and were eager to send more alagai back to Nie as ashes.”

The Damaji nodded. “Your successes have not gone without note,” he said. “And your teachers in Sharik Hora speak highly of you. Go on.”

“We were dismayed to learn we would be sent to the tenth layer,” Jardir said. “Not so long ago, we stood in the first, showing a hundred alagai the sun for every man we lost. Then, recently, we were moved to the second, followed soon after by the third. We took it with pride; there is glory enough for all in the lower levels. But instead of moving us to the fourth, as expected, the Sharum Ka sent the Sharach there, giving us their traditional place in the tenth.”

Jardir saw Damaji Kevera of the Sharach tense, but he was not sure if it was at the dishonor of having his tribe’s “traditional place” be one so lacking glory, or at the sudden change.

He glanced at the Damaji’ting, but they were faceless, and he did not know which of them was Sharach. It mattered little; none of them showed the slightest reaction to his words.

“The men of Sharach are brave warriors,” he said. “They accepted this assignment with pride. But the Sharach do not bring many warriors to alagai’sharak. Even if every man fought as two,” he glanced at Kevera, “and they do, they do not have enough warriors to fully man an ambush point in the fourth.”

The Sharach Damaji nodded, and Jardir felt a surge of relief.

“So what did you do?” Amadeveram asked.

Jardir shrugged. “The Sharum Ka gave an order, and we followed it.”

“Liar!” the Sharum Ka shouted. “You left your post, you son of a camel’s piss!”

The insult, one no man had dared utter since he had broken Hasik, struck Jardir hard. For a split second he considered leaping across the room and killing the man outright, even though it would likely earn him a quick death at the hands of the Andrah’s guards. Instead he embraced the insult and it passed through him, leaving in its wake a cold, calm anger.

“We spent half the night in the tenth,” Jardir said, not even turning his head to acknowledge that the man had spoken. “The Watchers saw no alagai in our layer, or the ninth, or the eighth. Still we waited.”

“Liar!” the Sharum Ka shouted again.

This time Jardir did turn to him. “Were you there, First Warrior, to deny the truth of my words? Were you even in the Maze at all?” The Sharum Ka’s eyes widened, then a look of rage came over him. The truth of the words struck harder than any blow could.

The Sharum Ka opened his mouth to retort, but there was a hiss from the Andrah. All eyes turned to the man.

“Peace, my friend,” the Andrah told the Sharum Ka. “Let him tell his tale. You will have the last word.”

It struck Jardir then just how close these men were. Both had held their respective palaces for nearly four decades. Jardir had held some hope that the Andrah might still desire a strong Sharum Ka, but seeing his bloated form gave him grave doubts. If the Andrah himself had forgotten the warrior way, could he condemn his loyal Sharum Ka for the same offense?

“There was a horn call for aid,” Jardir said. “Since we were unengaged, I scaled the wall to see if we could answer it. But the call came from the fourth layer, and many battles raged in between them and our position. I was about to descend back into the Maze when the Watcher I sent returned with news that the Sharach were being overrun, and would soon pass from this world.”

He paused. “All dal’Sharum expect to die in the Maze. A dozen warriors, two dozen, even a hundred in a night, what does it matter when we do Everam’s work?

“Yet there is a difference between losing men and losing a tribe. What honor would I have if I stood idly by?”

“You said yourself the way was blocked,” Amadeveram noted.

Jardir nodded. “But my Watcher made it there, and I remember running the walltops with my men as nie’Sharum. I asked myself, Is there anything a boy can do that a man cannot? So we ran the walls, praying to Everam that we would be in time.”

“And what did you find when you arrived?” Amadeveram asked.

“Half the Sharach were down,” Jardir said. “Perhaps a dozen remained, none without injury himself. They faced a like number of alagai, and with their pit revealed, the demons knew to avoid it.”

Again, Jardir looked to the Sharach Damaji. “The remaining men stood tall in the night. The blood of Sharach, who stood with the Shar’Dama Ka himself, runs strong in their veins.”

“And then?” the Damaji pressed.

“My men joined our Sharach brothers, and we routed the alagai, throwing them in the pit and showing them the sun.”

“It is said you slew several yourself,” Amadeveram said, pride evident in his voice, “using sharusahk alone.”

“It was only two I sent to the pit that way,” Jardir said. He knew his wife was scowling behind her veil, but he did not care. He would not lie to his Damaji, or claim glory that was not rightfully his.

“Still, no small feat,” Amadeveram said. “Sand demons have many times a man’s strength.”

“My years in Sharik Hora taught me strength is relative,” Jardir replied, bowing.

“This makes him no less a traitor!” the Sharum Ka snarled.

“How did I betray?” Jardir asked.

“I gave an order!” the Sharum Ka cried.

“You gave a fool’s order,” Jardir replied. “You gave an order that wasted your best warriors while condemning the Sharach to destruction. And still I complied!”

The Majah Damaji, Aleverak, stepped forward. He was an ancient man, older even than Amadeveram. He was like a spear, stick-thin but tall and straight despite close to seventy years.

“The only traitor I see is you,” Aleverak snapped at the Sharum Ka. “You are supposed to stand for all the Sharum in Krasia, but you would sacrifice the Sharach just to quell a rival!”

The Sharum Ka took a step toward the Damaji, but Aleverak did not back off, striding forward and assuming a sharusahk stance. Unlike Jardir, a mere kai’Sharum, a Damaji could challenge and kill a Sharum Ka, opening a succession.

“Enough!” the Andrah cried. “Back to your places!” Both men complied, dropping their eyes in submission.

“I won’t have you fighting in my throne room like…like…”

“Men?” Inevera supplied.

Jardir almost choked at her audacity, but the Andrah merely scowled and did not reprimand her.

The Andrah sighed, looking very tired, and Jardir could see the weight of years upon him. Everam grant I die young, he prayed silently.

“I see no crime here,” the Andrah said at last. He looked pointedly at the Majah. “On either side. The Sharum Ka gave orders as he should, and the kai’Sharum made a decision in the heat of battle.”

“He insulted me before my men!” the Sharum Ka cried. “For that alone, I am within my rights to have him killed.”

“Your pardon, Sharum Ka, but that is not so,” Amadeveram said. “His insult gives you the right to kill him yourself, not to have him killed by other men. If you had done so, the matter would be closed. May I ask why you did not?”

There was a pause as the Sharum Ka groped for a response. Inevera nudged him gently.

Jardir glanced at her. Have we not won? his eyes asked, but hers were hard in response.

“Because he is a coward,” Jardir announced. “Not strong enough to defend the white turban, he hides in his palace and sends others to fight on his behalf, waiting for death to find him like a khaffit instead of seeking it in the Maze like a Sharum.”

The Sharum Ka’s eyes bulged, and veins stood sharply on his face and neck as he gnashed his teeth. Jardir tensed, expecting the man to leap upon him. In his mind’s eye, he imagined all the ways he might kill the old man.

But there was no need, for the Sharum Ka gripped his chest and fell to the floor, twitching and foaming at the mouth before lying still.

“You knew that would happen,” Jardir accused when they were alone. “You knew if I enraged him enough, his heart would give way.”

Inevera shrugged. “What if I did?”

“Fool woman!” Jardir shouted. “There is no honor in killing a man in such a way!”

“Ware your tongue,” Inevera warned, raising a finger. “You are not Sharum Ka yet, and never will be without me.”

Jardir scowled, wondering at the truth of her words. Was it his fate to be Sharum Ka? And if so, could fate be changed? “I will be lucky to even remain a kai’Sharum after this,” he said. “I killed the Andrah’s friend.”

“Nonsense,” Inevera said, smiling wickedly. “The Andrah is…pliable. The post is empty now, and you have won glory that even the Majah acknowledge. I will convince him that he can only gain face by appointing you.”

“How?” Jardir asked.

“Leave it to me,” Inevera said. “You have other concerns. When the Andrah places the white turban on your head, your first announcement will be an offer to take a fertile wife from each tribe as a symbol of unity.”

Jardir was scandalized. “Mix the blood of Kaji, the first Deliverer, with lesser tribes?”

Inevera poked him hard in the chest. “You will be Sharum Ka, if you stop acting the fool and do as you’re told. If you can produce heirs with ties to each tribe…”

“Krasia will unite as never before,” Jardir caught on. “I could invite the Damaji to select my brides,” he mused. “That should gain me favor.”

“No,” Inevera said. “Leave that to me. The Damaji will choose for politics. The alagai hora will choose for Everam.”

“Always the bones,” Jardir muttered. “Was Kaji himself bound to them?”

“It was Kaji who first gave us the wards of prophecy,” Inevera said.

The next day, Jardir found himself in the Andrah’s throne room once more. The Damaji murmured to one another as he entered, and Damaji’ting watched him, inscrutable as ever.

The Andrah sat on his throne, toying with the white turban of the Sharum Ka. The steel under the cloth rang with a clear note as the Andrah flicked it with a long, painted nail.

“The Sharum Ka was a great warrior,” the Andrah said as if reading his mind. He rose from his throne, and Jardir immediately sank to his knees, spreading his arms in supplication.

“Yes, Holiness,” he said.

The Andrah waved a dismissive hand at him. “You do not remember him as such, of course. By the time you were in your bido, he already had more years than most Sharum ever see, and could no longer stand toe-to-toe with the alagai as a young man.”

Jardir bowed his head.

“It is a failing of the young to think a man’s worth lies only in the strength of his arm,” the Andrah said. “Would you judge me so?”

“Your pardon, Holiness,” Jardir said, “but you are not Sharum. The Sharum are your arm in the night, and that arm must be strong.”

The Andrah grunted. “Bold,” he said. “Though I guess any man who took a dama’ting to wife would have to be.”

Jardir said nothing.

“You sought to provoke him into attacking you,” the Andrah said. “No doubt you thought such was the way a brave man should die.”

Again, Jardir said nothing.

“But if he had attacked you, it would have only shown that he was a fool,” the Andrah said. “And Everam has little patience for fools.”

“Yes, Holiness,” Jardir said.

“And now he is dead,” the Andrah said. “My friend, a man who showed countless alagai the sun, dead on the floor in disgrace because you could not show him the respect he was owed!”

Jardir swallowed hard. The Andrah looked ready to strike him. This was not going as Inevera had promised, and she was conspicuously absent from the audience. He scanned the room for support, but the eyes of the Damaji were downcast as the Andrah spoke, and the Damaji’ting simply watched him as if he were a bug.

The Andrah sighed and seemed to deflate, waddling back to his throne and sitting heavily. “It pains me to see a man who achieved such glory in life die in shame. My heart cries for vengeance, but the fact remains the Sharum Ka is dead, and I would be a fool to ignore the fact that for the first time in centuries, the Damaji are in agreement over who should succeed him.”

Jardir glanced at the Damaji again. He might have imagined it, but it seemed as if Amadeveram nodded slightly to him.

“You will be Sharum Ka,” the Andrah said curtly. “The night will belong to you.”

Jardir spread his hands and leaned forward on his knees, pressing his forehead into the thick woven carpet before the throne. “I will be your strong arm in the night,” he swore.

“I will make the announcement at Sharik Hora tonight,” the Andrah said. “You may go.”

Jardir touched his forehead to the floor again, remembering Inevera’s instructions. Already the Damaji were beginning to murmur. If he was going to speak, it must be now.

“Holiness,” he began, watching the Andrah’s eyes return to him with irritation, “I ask your blessing, and that of the Damaji, to take a fertile wife from each tribe, as a show of unity among the Sharum.”

The Andrah goggled at him, as did the Damaji. Even the Damaji’ting stirred, betraying their sudden interest.

“That is an unusual request,” the Andrah said at last.

“Unusual?” Amadeveram demanded. “It is unheard of! You are Kaji! I will not bless your wedding to some—”

“You need not,” Aleverak cut in, smiling openly. “I am more than willing to perform the ceremony, should the Sharum Ka wish a Majah wife.”

“You would be happy to dilute the pure blood of Kaji, I have no doubt,” Amadeveram growled, but Aleverak did not rise to the bait, simply grinning.

“I will bless a wedding to a daughter of Sharach, as well,” Damaji Kevera of the Sharach said. Within moments the remaining Damaji followed suit, all of them eager to have a permanent voice in the First Warrior’s court.

“Surely you cannot agree to this!” Amadeveram said, turning to the Andrah.

“I am Andrah, not you, Amadeveram,” the Andrah said. “If the Sharum Ka wishes unity and the Damaji agree, I see no reason to refuse. Like me, the First Warrior relinquishes tribe when he dons his turban.”

He turned to regard the Damaji’ting for the first time Jardir had seen. “This matter lies more in the realm of women than who carries the first spear,” he said, addressing none of the women in particular. “What do the Damaji’ting say to this proposal?”

The women turned their backs on the men and clustered together in a buzz of muffled whispers, impossible to understand. In moments, they finished and turned back to the Andrah.

“The Damaji’ting have no objection,” one of them said.

Amadeveram scowled, and Jardir knew he had angered the man, perhaps irrevocably, but there was nothing to be done for it now. He had three Kaji wives already, including his Jiwah Ka. That would have to be enough.

“It’s settled then,” Aleverak said. “My own granddaughter is just fourteen, Sharum Ka, beautiful and unknown to man. She will bear you strong sons.”

Jardir bowed deeply. “My apologies, Damaji, but the duty of choosing my brides must fall to my Jiwah Ka. She will cast the alagai hora to ensure the blessings of Everam for each union.”

There was another buzz among the Damaji’ting, and Aleverak’s wide smile vanished in an instant, as did those of many other Damaji. But it was too late for them to take back their support. Amadeveram’s scowl became a look of smug satisfaction.

“Enough talk of brides!” the Andrah barked. “You have your boon, Sharum Ka. Go now before you disturb my court further!”

Jardir bowed and left.

“Are you a fool?” Amadeveram demanded. Jardir had not made it out of the Andrah’s palace before the old Damaji had caught up to him, dragging him into a private room.

“Of course not, my Damaji,” Jardir said.

“Only ‘yours’ for a few hours more, it seems,” Amadeveram said.

Jardir shrugged. “I will still be ruled by the council of Damaji, who speak with your voice. But as Sharum Ka, I must represent warriors of all tribes.”

“The Sharum Ka does not represent warriors, he rules them!” Amadeveram shouted. “That you are Kaji is proof that Everam wishes the Kaji to rule! You cannot go through with this mad plan.”

“For the good of all Krasia, I can and will,” Jardir said. “I will not be a weak figurehead for you, like the last Sharum Ka. The warriors need unity if they are to be strong. Becoming one with all of them is the only way to win their devotion.”

“You are turning your back on your tribe!” Amadeveram shouted.

“No, I am turning to face the others,” Jardir said. “I implore you, turn with me.”

“Face our blood enemies?” Amadeveram said, aghast. “I would sooner die in shame!”

“There was only one tribe in the time of Kaji,” Jardir reminded him. “Our blood enemies are also our blood.”

“You are no blood of Kaji,” Amadeveram said, spitting at Jardir’s feet. “The blood of the Shar’Dama Ka has turned to camel’s piss in your veins.”

Jardir’s face grew dark and, for a moment, he considered attacking him. Amadeveram was a sharusahk grand master, but Jardir was younger and stronger and faster. He could kill the old man.

But he was not Sharum Ka yet. Killing Amadeveram would only unravel Inevera’s plans and cost him the Spear Throne.

Am I doomed to always have success without pride? he asked himself.

“The Sharum Ka is dead!” the Andrah cried to the assembled warriors in Sharik Hora. The Sharum filling the rows of the great temple howled at the news, banging spear against shield in a great cacophony meant to announce the First Warrior’s coming to Everam.

“But we will not cede the night like those to the north!” the Andrah cried when the noise died down. “We are Krasian! Blood of Shar’Dama Ka himself! And we will fight till the Deliverer returns, or the spear falls from the hands of the last nie’Sharum and Krasia is buried in the sand!”

The warriors hooted at that, thrusting spears in the air.

“And thus, I have chosen a new Sharum Ka to lead alagai’sharak,” the Andrah said. “When he was nie’Sharum, he was made Nie Ka and stood on the walls at twelve, the youngest in a hundred years! He was not there six months before he netted a wind demon that had killed his Watcher and knocked his drillmaster prone. For this, he was brought to the Kaji pavilion, the youngest to come since the Return. He fought so well on his first night of alagai’sharak that he was sent to Sharik Hora, studying five years with the dama to first don his blacks as kai’Sharum, the youngest such since the time of the Deliverer himself!”

There was a murmur at this among the Kaji, who knew Jardir’s accomplishments well. The Andrah paused a moment to let the sense of excitement travel, then continued. “Two nights ago, he led his warriors in a daring rescue of the Sharach, who stood on the brink of destruction, killing alagai with his bare hands while his men still readied their spears!”

The murmuring grew to a buzz. There was not a man, woman, or child in all Krasia who had not heard that tale by now.

“Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji, stand before the Skull Throne!” the Andrah commanded, and the warriors cheered and banged spear and shield as Jardir appeared, dressed in his Sharum blacks, his head bare.

Inevera walked silently at his side as he went to the Skull Throne and prostrated himself, kneeling quickly to lay the Andrah’s Evejah under his forehead as he pressed it to the rug. The holy book was inked with dal’Sharum blood on vellum made from kai’Sharum skin, bound in leather from a Sharum Ka. It would sear his skull if he should utter a lie while touching it.

“Do you serve Everam in all things?” the Andrah asked.

“I do, Holiness,” Jardir swore.

“Will you be His strong arm in the night, giving all honor to the thrones of Sharik Hora?”

“I will, Holiness.”

“Are you prepared to hold the reins of alagai’sharak until the Shar’Dama Ka comes again, or you be dead?” the Andrah asked.

“I am, Holiness.”

“Then rise,” the Andrah said, lifting the white turban of the Sharum Ka high for all to see. “The night awaits its Sharum Ka.”

Jardir rose, and the Andrah turned to Inevera. He handed her the turban, and she placed it on Jardir’s head.

The Sharum roared and stamped their feet, but Jardir barely noticed. Why did the Andrah not put the turban on his head himself, as was the custom? Why give the honor to Inevera?

“Stop basking in your glory and speak your words,” Inevera whispered, breaking him from his musing. Jardir started, then turned to face the assembled Sharum—nearly six thousand spears. It had been ten thousand not long ago, but the previous Sharum Ka had wasted lives. Jardir promised himself he would not do the same.

“My brothers in the night,” Jardir said. “This is a glorious time to be Sharum! Alone, the tribes of Krasia make the alagai quail with fear, but when we stand together, there is nothing we cannot do!”

The warriors roared, and Jardir waited until it died. “But when I look out at you, I see division!” he cried. “The Majah sit across the aisle from the Kaji! The Jama avoid the Khanjin! There is not one tribe who does not see enemies in this room! We are supposed to be brothers in the night, but who among you has volunteered to stand with the Sharach, whose numbers have been decimated?”

There was silence now, the warriors unsure how to respond. They knew the truth of his words, but tribal hatreds ran deep and were not easily let go even if one wished it—and few did.

“The Sharum Ka is said to be of no tribe,” Jardir continued, “but to me, that is worse! What loyalty might a tribeless man have? The Evejah tells us that the only true loyalty is that of blood. And so,” he swept a hand back toward the Andrah and the Damaji on their thrones, “I have beseeched our leaders to join my blood to all of you.

“With the Andrah’s blessing,” Jardir said, “the Damaji have each agreed to wed me to one fertile daughter of their tribe, to bear me a Sharum son to whom I will be forever loyal.”

There was a shocked silence, then the room erupted in a roar of approval from every tribe save the Kaji. Clearly, they had believed Jardir would retain his loyalty to their tribe, as all previous Sharum Ka had done, no matter what the Evejah said.

Let them sulk, Jardir thought. I will win them back in the Maze.

“And so,” he intoned, quieting the temple once more, “once my Jiwah Ka selects my brides, the Damaji will perform the wedding rites.”

But then Inevera stepped forward unrehearsed, surprising Jardir no less than the Sharum or assembled leaders. Did she mean to speak? Any woman, dama’ting or no, speaking in Sharik Hora was unheard of.

But it seemed everything Inevera did was unheard of.

“There need be no delay,” she said loudly. “Let the brides of the Sharum Ka step forth!”

Jardir’s jaw dropped. She had chosen his brides already? Impossible!

But eleven women strode out onto the great altar of Sharik Hora, kneeling before the flabbergasted Damaji of their tribes. Jardir saw them, and his heart sank.

They were all dama’ting.

The palace of the Sharum Ka was smaller than the Kaji palace, but where that housed dozens of kai’Sharum, dama, and their families, this palace was Jardir’s alone. He remembered his years spent sleeping on a filthy cloth on the crowded stone floor of the Kaji’sharaj, and gazed in wonder at the splendor of it all. Everywhere he stepped was plush carpet, velvet, and silk. He dined off porcelain plates so delicate he feared to touch them, and drank from golden goblets studded with gems. And the fountains! There was nothing in Krasia more valuable than water, yet even his mother’s bedroom tinkled with fresh flowing water.

He threw Qasha down onto a pile of pillows, delighting in the sway of her soft breasts, clearly visible through her diaphanous top. Her legs were clad in the same gossamer material, leaving her sex bare, shaved and perfumed. Lust filled him as he fell on her, and he mused that being wed to twelve dama’ting was not the chore he had feared.

Qasha of the Sharach was by far Jardir’s favorite of his new wives. Almost as beautiful as Inevera, she was far more obedient, dropping her robes at a moment’s notice. Her belly was still flat, but already, six weeks wed, she carried a son—the first that would come from his new brides. He knew he should be taking another now, filling the palace with swollen bellies to tie him to the tribes, but Qasha’s condition only aroused Jardir’s lust for her further. Inevera didn’t seem to care. Far less strict with her dama’ting Jiwah Sen, she let Jardir bed them as he pleased. He liked to keep Qasha close by, for she served him as a proper wife should.

Laughing, Qasha pushed him onto his back, mounting him wantonly.

“Everam’s bones, woman!” Jardir cried, gasping as she lowered herself down upon him.

“Should I seem demure when I am in the pillows with the Sharum Ka?” Qasha asked, rising up and slapping down hard. “Just last night, the Andrah himself spoke of the glory you’ve won in the Maze since ascending. It is an honor to sheathe your spear.” She leaned in close, moving rhythmically.

“A woman may bear two children in the same womb,” Qasha whispered between perfumed kisses. “Perhaps you can plant yet another son within me.” Jardir started to reply, but she giggled and muffled his words by giving him a full breast to suckle. For long minutes, they sweated and struggled in the only battle to rival alagai’sharak.

When they were finished, Qasha rolled off him, raising her legs to hold his seed.

“You were in the palace last night when I left at dusk,” Jardir said after a moment.

Qasha looked at him, and for an instant fear washed over her lovely face before being replaced with the cold dama’ting mask he had come to expect from his wives whenever he spoke of things other than lovemaking and children.

“I was,” she agreed.

“Then when did you see the Andrah?” Jardir asked. “Women with child, even dama’ting, are forbidden to leave the palace at night.”

“I misspoke,” Qasha said. “It was another night.”

“Which night?” Jardir pressed. “Which night did you take my unborn son from the safety of my palace without permission?”

Qasha drew herself up. “I am dama’ting, and owe you no—”

“You are my jiwah!” Jardir roared, and she quailed in the face of it. “The Evejah grants no exceptions to dama’ting when it commands wives to obedience!” It was bad enough that Inevera flaunted that sacred law as she pleased, but Jardir would be damned if he gave all his wives the same power. He was Sharum Ka!

“I did not leave the wards!” Qasha cried, holding out her hands. “I swear it!”

“Did you lie about the Andrah’s words?” Jardir asked, clenching a fist.

“No!” Qasha cried.

“Then the Andrah was here, in my palace?” Jardir asked.

“Please, I am forbidden to speak of it,” Qasha said, casting her eyes down in submission.

Jardir grabbed her roughly, forcing her to look him in the eye. “No one may forbid you anything over me!”

Qasha thrashed and pulled from his grasp, losing her balance and falling to the floor. She burst into tears, shaking as she covered her face in her hands. She looked so frail and afraid that all the anger fell from him. He knelt and put his hands gently on her shoulders.

“Of all my wives,” he said, “you are the most favored. I ask only your loyalty. You will not be punished for your answer, I swear.”

She looked up at him with round, wet eyes, and he pushed back her hair, brushing away tears with his thumb. She pulled back, looking to the floor. When she spoke, it was so low he could barely make out her words.

“All is not always still in the palace of the Sharum Ka at night,” she said, “when the master is at alagai’sharak.”

Jardir choked down a blast of anger. “And when will the palace next be stirred?”

Qasha shook her head. “I do not know,” she whimpered.

“Then cast the bones and find out,” Jardir ordered.

She looked up at him, scandalized. “I could never!”

Jardir growled, his anger flaring again, as he silently cursed the day he had married dama’ting. Even if she were not carrying his child, Jardir could not strike Qasha, and she knew it. There was a layer of Nie’s abyss reserved for any man who harmed a dama’ting.

But Jardir refused to be dominated by every one of his wives because he could not discipline as the Evejah taught. There were other ways to frighten her.

“I tire of your disobedience, jiwah,” he said. “Cast them, or I will send the Sharach to the first layer, and your tribe will be consumed by the night. The boys will be cast from Hannu Pash as khaffit, and the women left to whore for lesser tribes.” He would do no such thing, of course, but she need not know that.

“You would not dare!” Qasha said.

“Why should I allow your tribe honor, when you deny me mine?” Jardir demanded.

She was crying openly now, but Qasha nevertheless reached for the thick bag of black felt every dama’ting carried at all times. Hers was secured to her bare waist with a strand of colored beads.

Used to the practice by now, Jardir moved to draw the heavy velvet curtains, blocking any hint of sunlight that might break the magic and render the dice useless.

Qasha lit a candle. She looked at him, fear in her eyes. “Swear to me,” she begged. “Swear that you will never tell the Jiwah Ka that I did this for you.”

Inevera. Of course Jardir expected his First Wife to be at the center of any intrigue in his palace, but it cut him to hear it. He was Sharum Ka now, and still not fit to know her plans.

“I swear by Everam and the blood of my sons,” Jardir said.

Qasha nodded and cast the bones. Jardir watched their evil light and wondered for the first time if perhaps they were not Everam’s voice on Ala.

“Tonight,” Qasha whispered.

Jardir nodded. “Put the bones away. We will speak no more of this.”

“And the Sharach?” Qasha asked.

“I would never have vented my rage upon my son’s tribe,” Jardir said, laying a hand on her belly. Qasha sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, deflating as the tension left her.

As the sun came to the end of its arc, Jardir left Qasha sleeping on the bed of pillows and donned his blacks and white turban. He chose his favorite spear and shield, and went down to meet his kai’Sharum at dinner.

They feasted on spiced meat and cool water, served by Jardir’s mother, dal’ting wives, and sisters. His dama’ting wives were no doubt lurking in the shadows, listening in, but they would never deign to serve at his table, jiwah or no. Ashan, his spiritual advisor, sat at the foot of the table, facing him. Shanjat, who had succeeded Jardir as kai’Sharum of his personal unit, sat at Jardir’s right hand, and Hasik, his personal bodyguard, at his left.

“What were our losses last night?” Jardir asked as they had their tea.

“We lost four last night, First Warrior,” Ashan said.

Jardir looked at him in surprise. “The Kaji lost four?”

Ashan smiled. “No, my friend. Krasia lost four. Two Baiters and two Watchers. All dal’Sharum past their primes and gone to glory.”

Jardir returned the smile. Since he’d become Sharum Ka, nightly losses had dwindled as demon kills had increased.

“And alagai?” he asked. “How many saw the sun?”

“More than five hundred,” Ashan said.

Jardir laughed. He doubted the true number was half that, with every tribe habitually exaggerating their kills, but it was still a fine night’s work, far more that the previous Sharum Ka had achieved.

“The tribes in the eighth layer still saw no glory,” Ashan said. “We were considering leaving the Maze gates open longer tonight to ensure there are enough alagai for all to kill.”

Jardir nodded. “An extra ten minutes. If that is not enough, add another ten tomorrow. I will be on the walls tonight, inspecting the new scorpions and rock slingers.”

Ashan bowed. “As the Sharum Ka commands.”

After the meal, they left for Sharik Hora, where the Damaji praised their successes and blessed the coming night’s battle. As the warriors left for the Maze, Jardir held his two lieutenants back.

“You will wear the white turban tonight, Hasik,” Jardir said.

A wild light came to Hasik’s eyes. “As the Sharum Ka commands.” He bowed.

“You cannot be serious!” Ashan said. “To have a dal’Sharum impersonate the Sharum Ka is a violation of our sacred oaths!”

“Nonsense,” Jardir said. “There are tales in the Evejah of Kaji playing such games frequently, when he did not wish his movements known.”

“Forgive me, First Warrior,” Ashan said, “but you are not the Deliverer.”

Jardir smiled. “Perhaps. But what is the Evejah, if not something the Shar’Dama Ka left for us to learn from?”

Ashan frowned. “What if Hasik is discovered?”

“He won’t be,” Jardir said. “With his night veil, the sling teams will not recognize him, for they have seldom seen me save at a distance. Hasik, however, will be seen on the walltops by all, and there will be no question among the Sharum that I was in the Maze tonight.”

“If you are wrong, he will be put to death,” Ashan warned.

Jardir shrugged. “Hasik has killed hundreds of alagai. If that is his fate, he will wake in paradise.”

“I am not afraid, Sharum Ka,” Hasik said.

Ashan snorted. “Fools seldom are,” he muttered. “But where will you go,” he asked Jardir, “while others think you on the wall?”

“Ah,” Jardir said, taking Hasik’s black turban and tying the veil, “that is for me to know.”

The streets of Fort Krasia were quiet at night, the true men all gone to battle, and the common khaffit, women, and children locked in the Undercity. Like all the city’s palaces, the palace of the Sharum Ka had its own walls and wards, its lower levels connected to the Undercity in several places. The palace was as safe from alagai as any in the world, and that was if a demon could even get past Krasia’s outer walls, which, as far as Jardir knew, had never happened.

Jardir kept to the shadows, his dal’Sharum blacks making him invisible in the darkness. Even if someone had been there to see, none would have marked his passing.

The gates of his palace were closed, but his years as a nie’Sharum had taught him to scale walls with ease. In a twinkling he was dropping into the darkness on the lee side.

Nothing seemed amiss as he crossed the compound to the palace. The windows were dark, and the keep was silent. Still, Qasha’s words nagged at him. All is not always still in the palace of the Sharum Ka at night.

Jardir moved about dark and silent in the halls of his own home like a thief, using all the skills he had learned stalking alagai in the Maze. He did not leave so much as a curtain stirring in his wake as, one by one, he checked the audience halls and receiving rooms—anywhere that might be fitting for a gathering of those bold enough to defy curfew—but he found no one.

As it should be, he mused. They are all in lower levels, barred from within, as is the law. You were a fool to come. Ashan was right. You play games with your duty in order to satisfy your own curiosity. Men are dying in the night while you skulk about your own home.

He was about to leave, heading back to the Maze, when he caught a sound coming from his bedchambers. The noise grew louder as he padded closer. He peeked around a curtain and saw two kai’Sharum bearing the white sash of the Andrah’s personal guard standing before the door to his bedroom. The sounds became clearer, and he realized what they were.

Inevera’s cries.

Rage flared in him, hotter than he had ever imagined possible. Before he even realized he was moving, his fist was shattering the spine of one of the kai’Sharum. The man grunted, but it was quickly silenced as he struck the floor and Jardir crushed his throat with a stomp of his heel.

The other warrior spun deftly, moving with the grace one would expect from a Sharum trained in Sharik Hora, but Jardir’s rage knew no bounds. The warrior tried to grapple, but Jardir ducked his outstretched arms and came up behind him, gripping the man’s chin with one hand and the back of his head with another. A sharp twist, and the man was falling to the carpet, dead.

Jardir spun, kicking hard against the door. It was barred from within, but he only gritted his teeth and kicked again, this time knocking out the braces and sending the door slamming inward.

He pulled up short at the scene before him, feeling as if he had taken a spear in the chest. He had expected to find the Andrah holding Inevera down, forcing himself upon her, but just the opposite, his wife, nude, rode the fat man as wantonly as Qasha had ridden him that morning. The Andrah looked up at him fearfully, but he was pinned by Inevera’s soft weight. She turned to him, and in his rage he wasn’t sure if he imagined it, or if a bit of a smirk touched the corners of her mouth as she took the last bit of honor from him.

If his anger was a furnace before, it was the fifth layer of Nie’s abyss now. He strode to the rack on the wall, selecting a short, stabbing spear. When he turned back, the Andrah had struggled out from under Inevera. He stood naked in Jardir’s bedchamber, his flaccid member all but hidden in the shadows of his massive belly. The sight filled Jardir with disgust.

“Stop! I command you!” the Andrah cried as Jardir charged, but Jardir ignored him, striking the man across the jaw with the butt of the spear.

“Not even you can deny a husband his rights in this!” Jardir cried as the Andrah hit the floor. “I do Krasia a favor this night!” He raised the spear to impale the man.

Inevera grabbed his arm. “Fool!” she cried. “You will ruin everything!”

Jardir pivoted to backhand Inevera across the face, knocking her away. “Have no fear, faithless jiwah,” he said, turning back to the Andrah. “My spear will find you soon enough.”

He raised the spear again and the Andrah screamed, but then everything turned orange and red, and Jardir was struck by an incredible force, knocking him away from his victim. The plates of fired clay sewn within his heavy warrior’s garb took the brunt of the blast, but when he recovered from striking the wall, he found his robes in flames. With a shout, he tore them off.

He looked to Inevera, holding the fire demon skull she had brought to their first meeting in Sharik Hora. She stood naked before two men with no shame, knowing that even now, her beauty had no equal. Hatred and arousal swirled in him, warring for dominance.

“Stop this foolishness!” she snapped.

“I take no more orders from you,” Jardir said. “Burn down this whole palace if you wish, I will still kill that fat pig and take you on his corpse!” The Andrah whimpered, but Jardir snarled, silencing him.

Inevera did not even flinch, producing a small object in her other hand. It looked like a lump of coal until the ward carved upon it flared, and Jardir realized that it, too, was alagai hora. The blackened piece of bone crackled, and silver magic leapt from it, like a bolt of lightning, to strike Jardir.

Jardir was lifted from his feet and thrown back into the wall, his body racked with agony beyond anything he could imagine. He tried to open himself to it, but the pain ended as quickly as it had begun, leaving only a stark terror in its wake. He turned back to Inevera, but she raised the stone again, and the lightning struck a second time, and again after that when he still managed to put his feet under him. He struggled to rise a third time, but his limbs did not respond to his commands, muscles spasming uncontrollably.

“Finally, we understand each other,” Inevera said. “I am Everam’s will, and you had best put aside thoughts of resisting me. If bedding a fat pig gets you the white turban, then you should be thanking me for my sacrifice, not trying to ruin things.”

“Fat pig?!” the Andrah demanded, rising to his feet at last. “I am—!”

“—alive because I wish it,” Inevera said, raising the demon skull. Flames licked from its jaws, and the Andrah blanched.

“I needed your support of Jardir until he won over the Sharum and Damaji of the other tribes,” she said, “but now that Qasha is with child, the Sharum will see that he is brother to all of them in day as well as night. You can never depose him now.”

“I am the Andrah!” the man shouted. “I can raze this palace with a wave of my hand!”

Inevera laughed. “Then you will have civil war. And even if you did kill Ahmann, what of his dama’ting wives? Will you rape and slaughter them, as is the custom? The Evejah is clear about the fate of any who would dare harm a dama’ting.”

The Andrah scowled, having no reply.

“The gates of Heaven are closed,” she said, slinging silk across her shoulders to cover her nakedness. “Perhaps they will open again the next time I need a proclamation from you, or perhaps I will send Ahmann to write it in your blood. But until then, take your withered old spear back to your palace.”

Not even bothering to dress, the Andrah gathered his clothes in his arms and scurried from the room.

Inevera approached Jardir, kneeling beside him. The lump of demon bone she had used to throw lightning disintegrated, and she brushed the ash from her hand bemusedly. “You are strong,” she said. “Few men could rise after one strike, much less three. I’ll have to use a larger bone when I carve a new one tonight.”

She reached out to him, gentling his hair and caressing his face. “Ah, my love,” she said sadly. “How I wish you had not seen this.”

Jardir fought with his tongue, which felt as if it had swollen to fill his entire mouth. “Why?” he finally managed to croak.

Inevera sighed. “The Andrah was going to have you executed for killing his friend with such dishonor. I did what was needed to save your life and gain you power. But fear not. The day is fast approaching when you will take his throne, and on that day, you may cut the manhood from him yourself.”

“Did…” Jardir began, unable to manage more. He swallowed hard, trying to lubricate his tongue, but even that seemed beyond him.

Inevera rose and brought him water, running it over his lips and massaging his throat to help him swallow. She used her silk wrap to dry his mouth, revealing one of her breasts. He wondered how, even now, he could desire her, but it was undeniable.

“Did you know it would come to this,” he asked, “when you had me kill the Sharum Ka?” Again he called upon his limbs to move, and again they failed to respond.

Inevera sighed again. “You have lived but twenty winters, my love, and even you can recall a time when Krasia had ten thousand dal’Sharum. The eldest Damaji can recall when it was ten times that, and the ancient scrolls show our numbers in the millions before the Return. Our people are dying, Ahmann, because they lack a leader. They need more than a strong Sharum Ka, more than a powerful Andrah. They need Shar’Dama Ka, before Nie scatters the last of us to the sands.”

Inevera paused, breaking eye contact, and it seemed she considered her next words carefully. “I didn’t ask the dice if I would ever see you again, that first night,” she admitted. “I asked if there was a man in all Krasia who could pull us from attrition and lead us back to glory, and they pointed to a boy I would find weeping in the Maze, years hence.”

“I am the Deliverer?” Jardir asked, his voice hoarse and disbelieving.

Inevera shrugged. “The dice never lie, but neither do they give absolutes. There are futures where men believe you so, and unite behind you, and others where they unite behind another, or not at all.”

“Then what good are they?” Jardir asked. “If that is inevera, fate will decide it.”

“There is no fate as you understand it,” Inevera said, “save that Sharak Ka, the final battle, is coming, and soon. We dare not let the future go unguided. I have watched you since you first took the bido, my sweet. You are Krasia’s best hope of salvation, and I will seize for you every advantage, even at the cost of my body’s honor, or your own.”

Jardir looked at her with wide eyes. Words failed him as surely as his limbs continued to do. Inevera bent and kissed his forehead, her lips soft and cool. She rose to her feet, looking down sadly as he continued to twitch helplessly on the floor.

“Everything I do, I do for you, and for Sharak Ka,” she said, and left the room.

CHAPTER 6 FALSE PROPHET
333 AR WINTER

“THE CHIN ARE PROVING ideal slaves,” Jayan said. “Even the least of them put such high value on their own lives that they will never muster the courage to resist. Truly it is a great conquest, Father. Your glory knows no bounds.”

Jardir shook his head. “To shift a few grains of sand is no more a sign of great strength than to see the sun a sign of great sight. There is no glory in dominating the weak.”

“Still, it is a great boon to us,” Jayan pressed. “Our victory is complete, and at no cost to ourselves.”

Across the room, Abban snorted at his tiny writing desk.

“You have something to add, khaffit?” Jayan demanded.

“Nothing, my prince,” Abban said quickly, looking up from his ledgers. He stood and braced himself on his camel-headed crutch, bowing deeply. “It was but a cough.”

“No, please,” Jayan said. “Tell us what amused you so.”

Abban’s eyes flicked to Jardir, who nodded.

“There may have been no loss of dal’Sharum, my prince, but there has definitely been cost,” Abban said. “Food, clothing, shelter, transportation. Keeping such a vast army as ours on the move is costly beyond measure. Your father may control the riches of all twelve tribes, and Everam’s Bounty besides, but even his wealth has an end.”

Asome nodded. “The Evejah tells us: When a man’s purse is empty, his rivals grow bolder.”

Jayan laughed. “Who would dare oppose Father? Besides, why should the Shar’Dama Ka pay for anything? We have conquered this land. We can take whatever we wish.”

Abban nodded. “That is so, but a robbed merchant has no capital to replenish his stock. You can take all the chandler’s candles, but if you do not pay at least their cost, you will find yourself sitting in the dark when the last one burns out.”

Jayan snorted. “Candles are for weak khaffit scroll worshippers. They make no difference to warriors in the night.”

“Wood and steel for spears, then,” Abban said patiently, as if speaking to a child. “Cloth for uniforms and fired clay for armor. Leather and oil for saddle harness. These things do not appear from thin air, and if we steal every seed and goat now, there will be nothing to fill our bellies a year hence.”

“I do not care for your tone, pig-eater,” Jayan growled.

“Be silent and attend his words,” Jardir snapped. “The khaffit is offering you wisdom, my son, and you would be wise to take it.”

Jayan looked at his father in shock, but quickly bowed. “Of course, Father.” His eyes shot daggers at Abban.

Jardir looked to Asome, who had stood quietly through all this. “And you, my son? What say you to the khaffit’s words?”

“The unworthy one makes a fair point,” Asome conceded. “There are still those among the Damaji who resent your rise, and they would use any privation of their tribesmen as excuse to sow discord.”

Jardir nodded. “And what would you do to attend this problem?”

Asome shrugged. “Kill and replace the disloyal Damaji before they grow bold.”

“That would sow discord of its own,” Jardir noted. He looked to Abban.

“It’s too costly to keep our army together in the city,” Abban said. “And so they must be dispersed into the hamlets.” Jardir’s sons looked at the fat merchant incredulously.

“Disband our army? What foolishness is this?” Jayan demanded. “Father, this khaffit is a coward and a fool! I beg you, let me kill him!”

“Idiot boy!” Jardir snapped. “Do you think the khaffit speaks words unknown to me?”

Jayan looked at him in shock.

“One day, my sons,” Jardir said, looking from Jayan to Asome and back, “I will die. If you have any wish to survive the days that follow, you must listen for wisdom from every side.”

Jayan turned to Abban and bowed. It was a minuscule thing, barely a nod, and his eyes shot death at the fat merchant for shaming him. “Please, khaffit, do share your wisdom.”

Abban bowed in return, though even with his crutch he could have gone lower. “With the lost granaries, the central city cannot support all of Krasia’s peoples without privation, my prince. But there are hundreds of small villages, arranged around this city like the spokes of a wheel. We will have the greenland duke provide lists, and divide them among the tribes.”

“That is a vast territory to hold,” Asome noted.

Abban shrugged. “Hold from whom? No army threatens us, and as my prince says, the chin are ideal slaves. Better to let the Shar’Dama Ka’s armies disperse until needed, saving him the need to provide for them. Instead, they each take a territory to forage on and tax, hunting its alagai at night. They can form greenland sharaji to train the boys in their territories, and leave the women and elderly to plant another crop in the spring. A year from now, the tribes will be richer than they have ever been, with thousands of greenland nie’Sharum. Give the tribes wealth instead of privations, and by the time the novices come of age, the Shar’Dama Ka will control the largest army the world has ever known, fanatically loyal, and, best of all, paying for itself.”

Jardir looked at his sons. “Do you see now the use of khaffit?”

“Yes, Father,” the boys answered, dipping identical bows.

Damaji Ashan entered the throne room, sweeping smoothly onto his hands and knees, touching his forehead to the floor. His white robes were flecked with blood, and there was a grim set to his eyes beneath his black turban.

“Rise, my friend,” Jardir said. Ashan had always been his most loyal counselor, even before his rise to power. Now he spoke for the whole of the Kaji, the most powerful tribe in Krasia, and he had named as his successor his eldest son, Asukaji, Jardir’s nephew by his sister Imisandre. After Jardir himself, there was no man in all the world as powerful.

“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 armpit 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.

Jardir moved to the two warriors. “The sun sets, and you have nothing better to do than mock your spear-brother?” he demanded loudly. Everyone on the wall turned to look.

“But Sharum Ka,” one of the men protested, “he is only a savage.”

“A savage who looks to the enemy while you snicker at his back like a khaffit!” Jardir growled. “Mock him again, and you will have weeks in the dama’ting pavilion to learn to keep a civil tongue.” He spoke the words calmly, but the dal’Sharum recoiled as if struck.

A shout from the greenlander caught Jardir’s attention. The man stomped his spear on the wall, bellowing something in his guttural tongue. He pointed to the sands, and Jardir suddenly understood.

The alagai were rising.

“To your places!” he ordered, and the Mehnding turned back to their scorpions.

Oil fires were lit and reflected with mirrors onto the battlefield, giving the Mehnding light for their deadly art.

The greenlander watched the scorpion teams carefully. One man wound the springs while another set the stinger in place. A third aimed and fired. The Mehnding could complete the whole process in seconds.

When the first stinger speared a sand demon, the greenlander gave a whoop, punching his fist into the air much as Jardir had done the first time he witnessed it as a nie’Sharum.

They have no scorpions in the North, he surmised, filing the information away.

For a time, the stingers hummed and the sling teams hauled great stones into place, cutting the ropes to free the counterweights and hurl the missiles into the growing ranks of alagai, killing them one by one or in groups.

But as always, it was like taking grains off a dune. There were dozens of flame and wind demons, but the sand demons were an endless storm that could wear down a mountain.

The Mehnding focused in a wide arc around the great gate to the Maze, preparing for the invitation. When the alagai were positioned correctly, Jardir signaled a nie’Sharum, who blew a long, clear note on the Horn of Sharak. Almost instantly the gates opened. The oldest warriors in the tribes stood within, beating their shields and jeering at the demons, daring them to give chase.

Their glory was endless. Even the greenlander breathed a word that rang of awe.

The alagai shrieked and charged into the Maze. The Baiters whooped and ran, leading the demons deeper through twists and turns to where their respective tribesmen hid in wait.

After several minutes, Jardir signaled for the gates to be closed again. The scorpions cleared the way, and the gates closed with a thunderous boom.

“Fetch the nets,” Jardir told the nie’Sharum. “We shall head deeper into the Maze and put the greenlander to his test.”

But the boy did not move. Jardir glanced at him in irritation and saw open terror on his face. He turned along the boy’s line of sight, and saw many of his warriors standing similarly dumbfounded.

“What are you…” he began to shout, but then, in the light of the oil fires, he saw an alagai bounding over the dunes toward the city.

But this was no ordinary demon. Even at a distance, Jardir could tell it was enormous. Sand demons were bigger than their flame and wind cousins, not counting wingspan, but even the sand demons were no larger than a man, and they ran on all fours like dogs, standing perhaps three feet at the shoulder.

The demon that approached stood erect on hind legs jointed with sharp bone, and stood more than twice the height of a tall man. Even its spiked tail seemed longer than a man was tall. Its horns were like spears, its talons like butchering knives, and its black carapace was thick and hard. One of its arms ended at the elbow—a club that could crush a warrior’s skull.

Jardir had never imagined a demon so big. His men stood frozen—in fear or surprise he could not tell. Only the greenlander seemed unsurprised, staring hard at the giant with undisguised hatred.

But why? It seemed too great a coincidence that such a creature should arrive on the same night a chin appeared on his palace steps, begging to fight. What was his connection to the demon?

Jardir cursed his inability to speak the greenlander’s barbaric tongue.

“What are you waiting for?” he roared to the scorpion teams. “Alagai are alagai! Kill it!”

His words broke the spell, and the men leapt to obey. The greenlander clenched his fist as they took aim and let fly their stingers, massive spears with heavy heads of iron. They shot high in the sky to arc the missiles down with crushing impact.

The giant demon was struck full on by almost a dozen stingers, but all splintered against its armor, leaving the creature unfazed. It shrieked its fury and came on again.

Suddenly the city seemed vulnerable. Jardir had learned warding in Sharik Hora, and knew that each ward only found its full power against a single breed of demon. The wards carved into Krasia’s walls were ancient and had never been breached, but had they ever been tested against one such as this?

He grabbed the greenlander by the shoulders, turning him about to face him. “What do you know?” he demanded. “What do we face, damn you?!”

The greenlander nodded, seeming to understand, and looked about. He moved to a rock slinger and touched the stone in the sling. Then he pointed to the demon. “Alagai,” he said.

Jardir nodded, moving to the Mehnding in command of the engine.

“Can you hit it?” Jardir asked.

The dal’Sharum snorted. “An alagai that big? I can take just its other arm, if you wish.”

Jardir slapped his back. “Take its head, and we’ll tar it as a trophy.”

“Start boiling the tar,” the warrior said, adjusting the tension and angle of the weapon.

The greenlander rushed over to Jardir, speaking rapidly in his ugly tongue. He waved his arms, seeming increasingly frantic that he could not make his meaning clear. Again and again he pointed to the sling, shouting what seemed the only Krasian word he knew, “Alagai!”

“He brays like a camel,” Hasik said.

“Be silent,” Jardir snapped. He narrowed his eyes, but then the slinger called, “Ready!”

“Fire!” Jardir said. The greenlander leapt for the warrior who went to cut the rope, but Hasik grabbed him, hurling him roughly away.

“I knew we could not trust a chin, First Warrior,” he growled. “He protects the demon!”

Jardir wasn’t so sure, staring hard at the man, who struggled wildly in Hasik’s grip. He pointed again, this time down at the wall, shouting, “Alagai!”

Lessons long dismissed as legend returned to Jardir in a rush—tales of the great demons that had assaulted Krasia’s walls in the time of the first Deliverer, and everything came into sharp focus. The greenlander hadn’t been pointing to the sling; he was pointing to the stone.

Rock demon, Jardir realized in dawning horror.

“Rock demon!” he shouted, but it was too late. He heard the report as the sling arm released its cargo, and turned helplessly to watch. Behind him, the greenlander wailed.

The stone soared through the air, and it seemed as if man and alagai alike held their breath. The one-armed rock demon looked up at the stone—a boulder that had taken three warriors to lift into place.

And then, impossibly, the demon caught the stone in the crook of its good arm and hurled it back with terrible force.

The boulder struck the great gate, smashing a hole and sending cracks spiderwebbing from the point of impact. The rock demon charged, striking that same spot again and again. Magic sparked and flared, but the warding was too damaged to have any real effect. The gate shook with each blow, and one side tore from its hinges, smashing to the ground inside.

The rock demon leapt through, roaring as it ran into the Maze. Behind it, demons poured through the breach.

Jardir’s face flared hot, then went suddenly cold. The great gates of Krasia had not been breached in living memory. The dal’Sharum trapped in the Maze would be hunted like animals, and it was his own fault for not listening to the greenlander.

I have brought my people to ruin, he thought, and for a moment, all he could do was watch dumbly as the alagai invaded the Maze.

Embrace the fear, you fool! he shouted to himself. The night may yet be saved!

“Scorpions!” he cried. “Shift positions and lay down cover fire while we close off the breach! Sling teams! I want stones falling to crush any alagai getting in and to block the way for the rest!”

“We can’t fire so close,” one slinger said. Others nodded, and Jardir could see the same terror on their faces that he had felt a moment before. They needed a more immediate terror to snap them from their stupor.

He punched the slinger in the face, laying him flat on the walltop. “I don’t care if you have to drop the stones by hand! Do as I command!”

The man’s night veil grew wet with blood and his response was unintelligible, but he punched a fist to his chest and staggered to his feet, moving to obey. The other Mehnding did the same, their fear lost in a flurry of activity.

He looked at the nie’Sharum. “Sound the breach.” As the boy raised the horn to his lips, he felt a wave of failure and shame that such a command be given on his watch.

But the feeling was quickly shaken. There was too much to do. He turned to Hasik. “Gather as many men and Warders as you can and meet us at the gate. We go to seal the breach.”

Hasik gave a whoop and charged off, seeming thrilled at the prospect of leaping into a sandstorm of alagai. Jardir ran the walltops toward the spot where his personal unit fought under Shanjat. He needed his own men behind him for this. The other Kaji might still resent Jardir for betraying their tribe, but the men who had fought with him nightly for years were still his utterly.

The greenlander kept pace with him, and Jardir wished he had the words to send him away, or the time to make him understand. Even if he wanted to help, an untrained warrior would only get in the way of Jardir’s tight, cohesive unit.

There was a shriek in the sky, and the greenlander shouted, “Alagai!”

The man crashed into Jardir, bearing them both down to the wall. Jardir felt the wind as leathern wings passed just above them.

Jardir cursed as they rolled apart, casting about for a net, but of course there was none to be found. The greenlander was quicker to his feet, standing crouched with his spear at the ready as the wind demon banked and came back.

He is brave, if a fool, Jardir thought. What does he hope to do without a net?

But as the demon came in, the greenlander dropped suddenly to one knee, stabbing hard with his long spear. The barbed head broke through the thin membrane of the alagai’s wing right at the shoulder joint, and with a twist he used the spear as a lever to turn the demon’s own momentum against it and flip it over onto its back on the wall.

The demon was not seriously harmed, but the greenlander moved quickly, grabbing the straps of the shield that hung loosely on his arm and pressing its warded surface against the demon’s chest.

Magic flared at the contact, jolting the creature so that it thrashed and shrieked madly. Jardir wasted no time in planting his spear deep in the stunned creature’s eye. It kicked and screamed, and Jardir pulled his weapon free and drove it into its other eye, twisting until the creature lay still.

The greenlander looked up at him, his eyes alive with excitement, and said something in his Northern tongue.

Jardir laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “You surprise me, Arlen, son of Jeph!”

Together, they ran the walltops to Jardir’s men.

Everywhere, there were warriors fighting for their lives in the Maze, but Jardir could not pause to save them. If the breach was not sealed, the sun would rise to find every Sharum in the Maze torn to shreds.

“Sell your lives dearly!” he shouted as his men thundered past. “Everam is watching!”

A roar and accompanying screams echoed through the Maze, seeming to shake the very walls. Somewhere behind them, the giant rock demon was laying waste to his men.

Leap the hurdles before you, he told himself. Nothing else matters if the breach cannot be sealed.

They found the courtyard before the great gate in ruin. Alagai and dal’Sharum alike lay dead and dying, speared by scorpion bolts or torn from tooth and claw. The Mehnding had managed to pile some rubble before the broken door, but the nimble alagai scrambled over it effortlessly.

“Fall off!” Jardir cried, and the few ragged dal’Sharum still fighting in the courtyard broke off and quickly got out of the way.

Shields locked, Jardir’s warriors ran at full speed for the breach, ten wide and ten deep. Beside him in the first rank, the greenlander ran, matching their pace as if he had been drilling with the dal’Sharum all his life. A chin he might be, but the man was no stranger to spear and shield.

The warriors on the edges picked up speed as they went, forming the ranks into a shallow V as they scooped up entering sand demons and drove them back toward the gate.

There was a sharp impact as they hit the incoming tide of alagai, but the wards on their shields flared, and the alagai were thrown back. The warriors roared at the resistance, those behind adding force to the press, keeping a bright flare of magic between them and the demons. Slowly, Jardir’s hundred began to force their way to the gate.

“Back ranks!” Jardir shouted, and the ranks farthest back spun about with a snap, locking shields and advancing, opening up a wide area between the forward and backward ranks where the Pit Warders could work. The elite dal’Sharum dropped their spears and slung their shields over their backs, producing lacquered ceramic plates from their battle bags. Two Warders laid the plates out in order across the yard before the breach. The other two took up their spears and used them as straightsticks, lining up the plates one by one.

Jardir put his spear into a sand demon’s eye—one of the only vulnerable spots on the alagai. Next to him, the greenlander found the other, driving his spearhead down the throat of a roaring demon. Swiping claws came at them through gaps in the shields between flares of magic, and they all had to twist this way and that to avoid being gored.

As they moved closer to the gate, Jardir’s eyes widened at the host gathered outside. It seemed the dunes were covered with sand demons, all pressing to enter the stronghold of their enemies. Stingers and boulders fell upon the alagai, but they were like pebbles dropped in a pool of water, quickly swallowed.

Then the Warders gave the call, and Jardir and his men began to withdraw. “Another night,” Jardir promised the demons that came up short at the flare of magic from the ceramic wards. “Krasia will fight again tomorrow.”

He turned to find the courtyard otherwise clear of battle. The remaining demons had escaped into the Maze.

“Watcher!” Jardir called as he stepped away from his men, and in seconds Coliv dropped a ladder from the wall and ran down it to report.

“Tidings are grim, First Warrior,” the Watcher said. “The Majah have gathered in the sixth to hold off the majority of sand demons, but there are scattered tribes fighting throughout the Maze, and few battles go well. The giant roams even deeper, cutting apart whole units as it claws its way toward the main gate. It was just spotted in the eighth.”

“Surely it cannot navigate all the turns of the Maze,” Jardir said.

“It seems to be following a trail of sorts, First Warrior,” Coliv said. “It pauses to sniff the air, and has yet to miss a turn. A handful of sand and flame demons dance at its feet, but it pays them no mind.”

Jardir lifted his veil to spit the dust from his mouth. “Get back on the wall and set Watchers to plot me a path to gather the scattered units as we drive toward the Majah.”

Coliv punched a fist to his chest and ran to his ladder, scrambling back up the wall. Jardir turned to gather his men and noticed the greenlander attempting to communicate with one of the Pit Warders, waving his hands wildly while the warrior looked at him in confusion.

“Nie is strong this Waning,” Jardir shouted, drawing everyone’s attention, “but Everam is stronger! We must trust in Him to see us through to the sun, or all of Ala be consumed with Nie’s black! Show the alagai what it means to face warriors of the Desert Spear, and know that Heaven awaits you!”

He punched his spear into the air, and the Sharum did the same, giving a great shout as Jardir led them off into the Maze.

Throughout the night, Jardir’s men charged into demon hordes, driving them into warded pits and linking with the survivors of scattered units. He had more than a thousand warriors at his back when they joined the Majah, holding the narrow corridor that gave entrance to the sixth level.

Jardir’s men drove hard into the alagai ranks from behind, using their warded shields to force a wedge and push through. The Majah made an opening in their shield wall, and Jardir’s men flowed through as smoothly as if they were drilling in Sharaj.

“Report,” Jardir told one of the Majah kai’Sharum.

“We’re holding, First Warrior,” the captain said, “but we have no way to force the alagai into pits.”

“Then don’t,” Jardir said. “Have the Warders seal off this level. Leave a hundred of your best men to keep watch, and then head to the east seventh to assist the Bajin.”

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