The Desert Spear
Page 40
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!”
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!”
