The Desert Spear
Page 47
Jardir slapped him on the back. “Come, my friend. Night is falling. We will kill alagai once more before you cross the hot sands.”
In the months following the Par’chin’s departure, Jardir began observing the other Messengers from the North more closely. Abban’s contacts in the bazaar were extensive, and word came quickly when a Northerner arrived.
Jardir invited each to his palace in turn—an honor unheard of in the past. The men came eagerly after centuries of being treated as filth beneath even khaffit.
“I welcome the chance to practice the Northland tongue,” he told the Messengers as they sat at his table, served by his own wives. He spoke to each at length, indeed honing his speech, but seeking something more.
And when the meals were finished, he always made the same request.
“You carry a spear in the night like a man,” he said. “Come stand with us in the Maze tonight as a brother.”
The men looked at him, and he could see in their eyes that they had no idea of the enormity of the honor he was offering them.
And to a one, they refused him.
In the meantime, the Par’chin kept his word, visiting at least twice every year. Sometimes his visits would last mere days, and other times he would spend months in the Desert Spear and the surrounding villages. Again and again, he arrived at the training grounds, begging leave to join in alagai’sharak.
Is the Par’chin the only true man in the North? Jardir wondered.
The Pit Warder, falling in a spray of blood, had not hit the ground before the Par’chin was there. He hooked the sand demon’s legs with his own and dropped to the ground, twisting for leverage in a flawless sharusahk move. The demon’s knees buckled, and it dropped into the pit.
As if it had all been one smooth motion, the Par’chin produced a stick of charcoal, repairing the damaged ward and resealing the circle before another demon could escape. He was at the Warder’s side in an instant, cutting at his robes and tossing aside the steel plates pocketed in the fabric to ward off alagai claws. The metal was a special protection granted to the Pit Warders, but it was still poor compensation for a shield and spear. Pit Warders needed their hands free.
The Par’chin’s hands and arms grew slick with blood, but he paid it no mind, digging in his battle bag for herbs and implements. Jardir shook his head in amazement. This was not the first time the greenlander had treated an injured warrior on the Maze floor. Were the Northerners all Warders and dama’ting combined?
The Warder struggled weakly, but the Par’chin straddled him, pinning him with his knees as he continued to clean the wound.
“Help me!” the Par’chin called in Krasian, but the dal’Sharum only watched in confusion. Jardir felt it, too. These were no simple wounds. Could he not see the man was doomed to life as a cripple if he should survive?
Jardir walked over to the pair. The Par’chin was trying to thread a hooked needle while keeping pressure on the bandages with his elbow. The warrior continued to struggle, making the task impossible.
“Hold him still!” the Par’chin cried, seeing his approach. Jardir ignored him, looking in the warrior’s eyes. The dal’Sharum gave a slight shake of his head.
Jardir plunged his spear into the man’s heart.
The Par’chin shrieked, dropping his needle and launching himself at Jardir. He grabbed Jardir’s robes and shoved him back hard, slamming him against the Maze wall.
“What are you about?” the Par’chin demanded.
All around the ambush point, warriors raised their spears and approached. No man was allowed to lay hands on the First Warrior.
Jardir raised a hand to forestall them, keeping his eyes on the greenlander, who had no idea how close he was to death.
Upon seeing the Par’chin’s eyes, Jardir revised that assessment. Perhaps he did know, and simply didn’t care. Killing the Warder had offended the greenlander beyond reason.
“I am about letting men die with honor, son of Jeph,” Jardir said. “He did not want your help. He did not need it. He had done his duty, and now he is in Heaven.”
“There is no Heaven,” the Par’chin growled. “All you did was murder a man.”
Jardir flexed, breaking the Par’chin’s hold easily. The man had learned sharusahk quickly over the last two years, but he was not yet a match for most dal’Sharum, much less one trained in Sharik Hora. He punched the Par’chin in the jaw, easily ducking his return swing. He twisted the man’s arm behind him and slammed him to the ground.
“Just this once,” he whispered in the Par’chin’s ear, “I will pretend I did not hear you say that. Speak your Northern blasphemies again in Krasia, and your life will be forfeit.”
Keep him close, Inevera had said, but he had failed.
Jardir stood alone atop the wall, watching as the alagai fled the coming sun. The great rock demon, which his men had taken to calling Alagai Ka, paced before the restored gates, but the wards were strong. Soon he, too, would sink back down to Nie’s abyss for another day.
Jardir kept remembering the desperation in the Par’chin’s eyes, the need to save the Warder’s life. Jardir knew he had been right to end it and ensure the man glory over a life as a cripple, but he knew, too, that he had deliberately antagonized the Par’chin in the process.
Among his people, such abject lessons were common, and no man would try to assault his betters for the life of a cripple. But as Jardir had learned again and again, the greenlanders were not like his people, not even the Par’chin. They did not embrace death as part of life. They fought it as hard as any dal’Sharum fought alagai.
There was honor in that, of a sort. The dama were wrong to call the greenlanders savages. Inevera’s command notwithstanding, Jardir liked the Par’chin. The rift between them gnawed at him, and he wondered at how to repair it.
“Thought I’d find you here,” a voice behind him said. Jardir chuckled. The greenlander had a way of appearing when Jardir’s thoughts were turned his way.
The Par’chin stood atop the wall, looking down. He hawked loudly and spit, his phlegm striking the head of the rock demon, twenty feet below. The demon roared at him, and they laughed together as it sank beneath the dunes.
“One day he will lie dead at your feet,” Jardir said, “and Everam’s light will burn his body away.”
“One day,” the Par’chin agreed.
The two men stood quietly for a time, lost in their own thoughts. The greenlander had grown a beard as Jardir had suggested, but the yellow hair on his pale face only made him seem more of an outsider than his bare cheeks had.
“Came to apologize,” the Par’chin said at last. “It’s not my right to judge your ways.”
Jardir nodded. “Nor I yours. You acted in loyalty, and I was wrong to spit upon that. I know you have grown quite close to the Warders since you learned our tongue. They have learned much from you.”
“And I from them,” the Par’chin said. “I meant no insult.”
“It seems our cultures are a natural insult to each other, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “We must resist the urge to take offense, if we are to continue to learn from each other.”
“Thank you,” the Par’chin said. “That means a great deal to me.”
In the months following the Par’chin’s departure, Jardir began observing the other Messengers from the North more closely. Abban’s contacts in the bazaar were extensive, and word came quickly when a Northerner arrived.
Jardir invited each to his palace in turn—an honor unheard of in the past. The men came eagerly after centuries of being treated as filth beneath even khaffit.
“I welcome the chance to practice the Northland tongue,” he told the Messengers as they sat at his table, served by his own wives. He spoke to each at length, indeed honing his speech, but seeking something more.
And when the meals were finished, he always made the same request.
“You carry a spear in the night like a man,” he said. “Come stand with us in the Maze tonight as a brother.”
The men looked at him, and he could see in their eyes that they had no idea of the enormity of the honor he was offering them.
And to a one, they refused him.
In the meantime, the Par’chin kept his word, visiting at least twice every year. Sometimes his visits would last mere days, and other times he would spend months in the Desert Spear and the surrounding villages. Again and again, he arrived at the training grounds, begging leave to join in alagai’sharak.
Is the Par’chin the only true man in the North? Jardir wondered.
The Pit Warder, falling in a spray of blood, had not hit the ground before the Par’chin was there. He hooked the sand demon’s legs with his own and dropped to the ground, twisting for leverage in a flawless sharusahk move. The demon’s knees buckled, and it dropped into the pit.
As if it had all been one smooth motion, the Par’chin produced a stick of charcoal, repairing the damaged ward and resealing the circle before another demon could escape. He was at the Warder’s side in an instant, cutting at his robes and tossing aside the steel plates pocketed in the fabric to ward off alagai claws. The metal was a special protection granted to the Pit Warders, but it was still poor compensation for a shield and spear. Pit Warders needed their hands free.
The Par’chin’s hands and arms grew slick with blood, but he paid it no mind, digging in his battle bag for herbs and implements. Jardir shook his head in amazement. This was not the first time the greenlander had treated an injured warrior on the Maze floor. Were the Northerners all Warders and dama’ting combined?
The Warder struggled weakly, but the Par’chin straddled him, pinning him with his knees as he continued to clean the wound.
“Help me!” the Par’chin called in Krasian, but the dal’Sharum only watched in confusion. Jardir felt it, too. These were no simple wounds. Could he not see the man was doomed to life as a cripple if he should survive?
Jardir walked over to the pair. The Par’chin was trying to thread a hooked needle while keeping pressure on the bandages with his elbow. The warrior continued to struggle, making the task impossible.
“Hold him still!” the Par’chin cried, seeing his approach. Jardir ignored him, looking in the warrior’s eyes. The dal’Sharum gave a slight shake of his head.
Jardir plunged his spear into the man’s heart.
The Par’chin shrieked, dropping his needle and launching himself at Jardir. He grabbed Jardir’s robes and shoved him back hard, slamming him against the Maze wall.
“What are you about?” the Par’chin demanded.
All around the ambush point, warriors raised their spears and approached. No man was allowed to lay hands on the First Warrior.
Jardir raised a hand to forestall them, keeping his eyes on the greenlander, who had no idea how close he was to death.
Upon seeing the Par’chin’s eyes, Jardir revised that assessment. Perhaps he did know, and simply didn’t care. Killing the Warder had offended the greenlander beyond reason.
“I am about letting men die with honor, son of Jeph,” Jardir said. “He did not want your help. He did not need it. He had done his duty, and now he is in Heaven.”
“There is no Heaven,” the Par’chin growled. “All you did was murder a man.”
Jardir flexed, breaking the Par’chin’s hold easily. The man had learned sharusahk quickly over the last two years, but he was not yet a match for most dal’Sharum, much less one trained in Sharik Hora. He punched the Par’chin in the jaw, easily ducking his return swing. He twisted the man’s arm behind him and slammed him to the ground.
“Just this once,” he whispered in the Par’chin’s ear, “I will pretend I did not hear you say that. Speak your Northern blasphemies again in Krasia, and your life will be forfeit.”
Keep him close, Inevera had said, but he had failed.
Jardir stood alone atop the wall, watching as the alagai fled the coming sun. The great rock demon, which his men had taken to calling Alagai Ka, paced before the restored gates, but the wards were strong. Soon he, too, would sink back down to Nie’s abyss for another day.
Jardir kept remembering the desperation in the Par’chin’s eyes, the need to save the Warder’s life. Jardir knew he had been right to end it and ensure the man glory over a life as a cripple, but he knew, too, that he had deliberately antagonized the Par’chin in the process.
Among his people, such abject lessons were common, and no man would try to assault his betters for the life of a cripple. But as Jardir had learned again and again, the greenlanders were not like his people, not even the Par’chin. They did not embrace death as part of life. They fought it as hard as any dal’Sharum fought alagai.
There was honor in that, of a sort. The dama were wrong to call the greenlanders savages. Inevera’s command notwithstanding, Jardir liked the Par’chin. The rift between them gnawed at him, and he wondered at how to repair it.
“Thought I’d find you here,” a voice behind him said. Jardir chuckled. The greenlander had a way of appearing when Jardir’s thoughts were turned his way.
The Par’chin stood atop the wall, looking down. He hawked loudly and spit, his phlegm striking the head of the rock demon, twenty feet below. The demon roared at him, and they laughed together as it sank beneath the dunes.
“One day he will lie dead at your feet,” Jardir said, “and Everam’s light will burn his body away.”
“One day,” the Par’chin agreed.
The two men stood quietly for a time, lost in their own thoughts. The greenlander had grown a beard as Jardir had suggested, but the yellow hair on his pale face only made him seem more of an outsider than his bare cheeks had.
“Came to apologize,” the Par’chin said at last. “It’s not my right to judge your ways.”
Jardir nodded. “Nor I yours. You acted in loyalty, and I was wrong to spit upon that. I know you have grown quite close to the Warders since you learned our tongue. They have learned much from you.”
“And I from them,” the Par’chin said. “I meant no insult.”
“It seems our cultures are a natural insult to each other, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “We must resist the urge to take offense, if we are to continue to learn from each other.”
“Thank you,” the Par’chin said. “That means a great deal to me.”
