The Desert Spear
Page 57
There was a shocked silence as his words sank in. Men who had spent their lives under the heel of the Sharum, bent and toiling under the weight of their caste, began to straighten their backs. Jardir could see into their minds, it seemed, as they imagined the glory that might await them, the chance for a better life.
“Sharak Ka is coming!” Jardir shouted. “There is honor enough for all in the Great War. Who among you will swear to fight it alongside me?”
The first man Jardir had asked to follow him, the one who had run from his ajin’pal in the Maze, pushed to the front of the crowd, kneeling.
“Deliverer,” he said, “my heart has been heavy since my failure in the Maze. I beg you for a second chance.” Jardir reached down with the Spear of Kaji, touching his shoulder.
“Rise, kha’Sharum,” Jardir said.
The man did as he was bade, but before he had risen fully, a spear struck him in the back. Jardir caught him before he could fall, looking deep into his eyes as he coughed a gout of blood.
“You are saved,” Jardir told him. “The gates of Heaven will be open to you, brother.”
The man smiled as the light left his eyes, and Jardir set him down, looking at the spear jutting from his back. It was one of the short, close-quarter weapons favored by Nanji Watchers.
Jardir looked up and saw three Nanji approaching, holding short spears in one hand and weighted lines in the other. Though it was day, their night veils were drawn, hiding their faces.
“You go too far, Sharum Ka, offering spears to khaffit,” one of the warriors called.
“We must end your life,” another agreed.
They began to advance, but several khaffit broke from the crowd, moving to stand protectively in front of Jardir.
The Nanji laughed. “It was foolish of you to leave your palace without a bodyguard,” one said. “These khaffit cannot protect you.”
It wasn’t surprising that the warriors thought the women and khaffit no threat, but Jardir, having felt the crowd’s power just a moment before, wasn’t so sure. Even so, he would ask no one to die needlessly for his sake.
Project invincibility, Inevera said, and even the bravest assassin may reconsider his course.
“Clear their path!” Jardir shouted as he leapt down from the cart. The startled men stepped aside immediately.
“You think three warriors can kill me?” Jardir laughed. “If a hundred Nanji skulk in the shadows, I would need no more bodyguard than now.” He rested the point of the Spear of Kaji down in the dirt and threw out his chest, inviting attack. “I am Shar’Dama Ka!” he cried, feeling the rightness of the words. “Strike at me if you dare!”
The Nanji approached, but Jardir could see hesitation in them now. His very presence unnerved them. Their spears shook in their hands, and they glanced to one another uncertainly as if to decide which should lead the attack.
“Strike or kneel!” Jardir roared. He brought up the Spear of Kaji, and the bright metal caught the sunlight and seemed to flare with power.
One of the Nanji warriors dropped his spear and fell to his knees. “Traitor!” the one next to him cried, turning to stab at him, but the third was quicker, darting in and putting his spear through the aggressor’s chest.
There was a creak behind Jardir. A whisper of sandal on canvas. Knowing Nanji tactics, he turned around, looking up at the true assassin, crouched hidden atop the pavilion behind him. This Watcher should have struck while Jardir was distracted by the others, ensuring a kill.
Their eyes met, but Jardir said nothing, waiting. After a moment, the man threw down his spear and somersaulted down after it, kneeling at Jardir’s feet.
Jardir went to the fallen man, pulling the spear free of his back and holding it up for all to see. “This is not khaffit blood!” he cried. “This is the blood of a warrior, the first kha’Sharum, and I will lacquer his skull and add it to my throne to remember him always.” He looked out at the khaffit. “Will any step forth to take his place?”
There was a dissonant moan, and the seven-foot deaf giant pushed to the front of the crowd, kneeling at Jardir’s feet. Others quickly followed, and there was a frantic press to kneel before Jardir. As Jardir touched each in turn, Abban seized an opportunity to speak.
“Fear not, those of you who cannot carry a spear from age or infirmity!” he cried. “Fear not, you women, you children! The Deliverer needs more than just Sharum! He needs weavers to make nets and smiths for spearheads. Canvas for the kha’Sharum pavilion, and food for its warriors. Come to my pavilion on the morrow, if you wish to put aid to Krasia’s glory and bring honor to your families!”
Jardir frowned, knowing Abban acted as much to profit from cheap labor as to aid in the war, but he did not contradict him. The labor would be needed if they were to march in a year.
The crowd began to chant his name as Jardir continued to touch men with the Spear of Kaji and name them kha’Sharum. Soon it thundered from the bazaar, echoing throughout the city.
“Jardir! Jardir! Jardir!”
“Masterfully done,” Abban said in his ear when he had touched the last khaffit. “You’ve bought ten thousand warriors and twice as many slaves for naught but a taste of self-respect.”
“Is that all you see with your merchant’s heart?” Jardir asked, looking at him. “A business transaction?”
Abban at least had the decency to look ashamed, though Jardir doubted it was sincere.
The next day, two thousand men presented themselves at the training grounds, as the tribes were still erecting khaffit’sharaj. A week later, the number had tripled. A week after that, a steady stream flowed in from the outer villages as men who had been khaffit for ten generations came to break their caste, bringing their families with them to share in the war effort. In less than a month, Jardir tripled the size of his army, and the city swelled with people as it hadn’t in decades.
“Next summer,” Jardir said again as Abban finished his morning tallies.
“The greenlanders will still outnumber us greatly,” Abban said.
Jardir nodded. “Perhaps, but the best of the Northern weaklings will not be able to stand up to even a kha’Sharum by then.”
“How many will you leave here, to secure the Desert Spear?” Ashan asked.
“None,” Jardir said, drawing looks of surprise from all in the room, even Inevera.
“You will take every warrior?” Aleverak asked. “Who will defend the city?”
“Not just every warrior, Damaji,” Jardir said. “Every one. We must leave the Sunlit Land behind. All of us. Even the old. Even the crippled and sick. Every man, woman, and child, city dwellers and villagers alike. We will empty the Desert Spear and lock its gates behind us, letting its impregnable walls stand in defiance of the alagai until we choose to reclaim it.”
Aleverak’s eyes lit up with a fanatical gleam.
“This is a dangerous plan, Deliverer,” Ashan warned. “Our army will move at a crawl when it must be swift.”
“At first perhaps,” Jardir said. “But we will need to hold the green lands we conquer, without leaving troops behind. Everam set the khaffit in the Land of Sun the same as us. In the green lands, a khaffit who follows the Evejah will still rank above the chin. Let them settle in our wake, holding the land for Everam as the Sharum march on.”
“Sharak Ka is coming!” Jardir shouted. “There is honor enough for all in the Great War. Who among you will swear to fight it alongside me?”
The first man Jardir had asked to follow him, the one who had run from his ajin’pal in the Maze, pushed to the front of the crowd, kneeling.
“Deliverer,” he said, “my heart has been heavy since my failure in the Maze. I beg you for a second chance.” Jardir reached down with the Spear of Kaji, touching his shoulder.
“Rise, kha’Sharum,” Jardir said.
The man did as he was bade, but before he had risen fully, a spear struck him in the back. Jardir caught him before he could fall, looking deep into his eyes as he coughed a gout of blood.
“You are saved,” Jardir told him. “The gates of Heaven will be open to you, brother.”
The man smiled as the light left his eyes, and Jardir set him down, looking at the spear jutting from his back. It was one of the short, close-quarter weapons favored by Nanji Watchers.
Jardir looked up and saw three Nanji approaching, holding short spears in one hand and weighted lines in the other. Though it was day, their night veils were drawn, hiding their faces.
“You go too far, Sharum Ka, offering spears to khaffit,” one of the warriors called.
“We must end your life,” another agreed.
They began to advance, but several khaffit broke from the crowd, moving to stand protectively in front of Jardir.
The Nanji laughed. “It was foolish of you to leave your palace without a bodyguard,” one said. “These khaffit cannot protect you.”
It wasn’t surprising that the warriors thought the women and khaffit no threat, but Jardir, having felt the crowd’s power just a moment before, wasn’t so sure. Even so, he would ask no one to die needlessly for his sake.
Project invincibility, Inevera said, and even the bravest assassin may reconsider his course.
“Clear their path!” Jardir shouted as he leapt down from the cart. The startled men stepped aside immediately.
“You think three warriors can kill me?” Jardir laughed. “If a hundred Nanji skulk in the shadows, I would need no more bodyguard than now.” He rested the point of the Spear of Kaji down in the dirt and threw out his chest, inviting attack. “I am Shar’Dama Ka!” he cried, feeling the rightness of the words. “Strike at me if you dare!”
The Nanji approached, but Jardir could see hesitation in them now. His very presence unnerved them. Their spears shook in their hands, and they glanced to one another uncertainly as if to decide which should lead the attack.
“Strike or kneel!” Jardir roared. He brought up the Spear of Kaji, and the bright metal caught the sunlight and seemed to flare with power.
One of the Nanji warriors dropped his spear and fell to his knees. “Traitor!” the one next to him cried, turning to stab at him, but the third was quicker, darting in and putting his spear through the aggressor’s chest.
There was a creak behind Jardir. A whisper of sandal on canvas. Knowing Nanji tactics, he turned around, looking up at the true assassin, crouched hidden atop the pavilion behind him. This Watcher should have struck while Jardir was distracted by the others, ensuring a kill.
Their eyes met, but Jardir said nothing, waiting. After a moment, the man threw down his spear and somersaulted down after it, kneeling at Jardir’s feet.
Jardir went to the fallen man, pulling the spear free of his back and holding it up for all to see. “This is not khaffit blood!” he cried. “This is the blood of a warrior, the first kha’Sharum, and I will lacquer his skull and add it to my throne to remember him always.” He looked out at the khaffit. “Will any step forth to take his place?”
There was a dissonant moan, and the seven-foot deaf giant pushed to the front of the crowd, kneeling at Jardir’s feet. Others quickly followed, and there was a frantic press to kneel before Jardir. As Jardir touched each in turn, Abban seized an opportunity to speak.
“Fear not, those of you who cannot carry a spear from age or infirmity!” he cried. “Fear not, you women, you children! The Deliverer needs more than just Sharum! He needs weavers to make nets and smiths for spearheads. Canvas for the kha’Sharum pavilion, and food for its warriors. Come to my pavilion on the morrow, if you wish to put aid to Krasia’s glory and bring honor to your families!”
Jardir frowned, knowing Abban acted as much to profit from cheap labor as to aid in the war, but he did not contradict him. The labor would be needed if they were to march in a year.
The crowd began to chant his name as Jardir continued to touch men with the Spear of Kaji and name them kha’Sharum. Soon it thundered from the bazaar, echoing throughout the city.
“Jardir! Jardir! Jardir!”
“Masterfully done,” Abban said in his ear when he had touched the last khaffit. “You’ve bought ten thousand warriors and twice as many slaves for naught but a taste of self-respect.”
“Is that all you see with your merchant’s heart?” Jardir asked, looking at him. “A business transaction?”
Abban at least had the decency to look ashamed, though Jardir doubted it was sincere.
The next day, two thousand men presented themselves at the training grounds, as the tribes were still erecting khaffit’sharaj. A week later, the number had tripled. A week after that, a steady stream flowed in from the outer villages as men who had been khaffit for ten generations came to break their caste, bringing their families with them to share in the war effort. In less than a month, Jardir tripled the size of his army, and the city swelled with people as it hadn’t in decades.
“Next summer,” Jardir said again as Abban finished his morning tallies.
“The greenlanders will still outnumber us greatly,” Abban said.
Jardir nodded. “Perhaps, but the best of the Northern weaklings will not be able to stand up to even a kha’Sharum by then.”
“How many will you leave here, to secure the Desert Spear?” Ashan asked.
“None,” Jardir said, drawing looks of surprise from all in the room, even Inevera.
“You will take every warrior?” Aleverak asked. “Who will defend the city?”
“Not just every warrior, Damaji,” Jardir said. “Every one. We must leave the Sunlit Land behind. All of us. Even the old. Even the crippled and sick. Every man, woman, and child, city dwellers and villagers alike. We will empty the Desert Spear and lock its gates behind us, letting its impregnable walls stand in defiance of the alagai until we choose to reclaim it.”
Aleverak’s eyes lit up with a fanatical gleam.
“This is a dangerous plan, Deliverer,” Ashan warned. “Our army will move at a crawl when it must be swift.”
“At first perhaps,” Jardir said. “But we will need to hold the green lands we conquer, without leaving troops behind. Everam set the khaffit in the Land of Sun the same as us. In the green lands, a khaffit who follows the Evejah will still rank above the chin. Let them settle in our wake, holding the land for Everam as the Sharum march on.”
