CHAPTER 8
PAR’CHIN
326–328 AR
THE ROCK DEMON ROARED, smashing its taloned foot down. Jardir skidded on his knees underneath the blow, bracing his warded shield with his shoulder as he lifted it over them.
The blow rattled his teeth and jolted his spine. He felt his shoulder pop free of its socket, and his shield arm went limp.
But the magic flared and the great alagai was knocked backward, losing its balance. It struck one of the walls and the wards there flared, throwing the demon into the opposite wall, which flared as well. It shrieked in fury, knocked about like a child’s ball.
The greenlander was quick to rise, grabbing Jardir’s uninjured shoulder and hauling him to his feet. The Pit Warders had completed their work by then, and while the demon thrashed, they stumbled from the alcove.
A moment later the rock demon found its footing and threw itself at them, but the greenlander’s wards lit the night, and it was thrown back. The Northerner shouted something at the beast and made a gesture that Jardir assumed was as obscene in the North as it was in Krasia. He laughed again.
“What news from the Watchers?” Jardir asked Shanjat.
“Half the Maze is overrun,” Shanjat replied. “A few warriors succor behind the wards in ambush pockets, but most have gone to Everam’s embrace. The Majah are holding at the sixth; the alagai have not been able to penetrate the wards there.”
“How many warriors did we lose?” Jardir asked, dreading the answer.
Shanjat shrugged. “No way to know until dawn, when the men in hiding emerge and the kai’Sharum can make a full count.”
“Guess,” Jardir said.
Shanjat frowned. “No less than a third. Perhaps half.”
Jardir scowled. There had not been such losses in a single night since the Return. The Andrah would have his head on a block.
“If the inner Maze is clear, begin taking the injured into the dama’ting pavilion,” he said.
“You should be among them, First Warrior,” Shanjat said. “Your shoulder…”
Jardir glanced down at his arm, hanging limp at his side. He had embraced the pain and forgotten it. With this reminder, it screamed at him until he suppressed it again.
He shook his head. “The arm can wait. Have the Watchers bring their reports to me here. The sun will be rising soon, and I wish to see this alagai burn.”
Shanjat nodded and left, shouting orders. Jardir turned to regard the rock demon, clawing at the wards and roaring its fury as it tried to get to the greenlander. The greenlander stood calmly before it, and the two—human and alagai— had the same hatred in their eyes as they stared at each other.
“What happened between you?” Jardir asked, knowing the greenlander could not understand.
But surprisingly, the man turned to him, guessing at his tone perhaps, and made the same chopping motion with his hand that he had before. He held out his right arm, and chopped at it with the other hand, striking just below the elbow.
Jardir’s eyes widened as he caught the greenlander’s meaning.
“You cut its arm off?!” Others looked up at the words. When the greenlander nodded, Jardir heard the buzz of rumor that would spread like blowing sand throughout the city.
“I underestimated you, my friend,” he said. “I am honored to be your ajin’pal.”
The greenlander shrugged and smiled, not understanding his words.
Soon after, there was the deepening of color in the night sky that signaled the coming dawn. The rock demon sensed it, too, and straightened, as if concentrating. Jardir had seen this play out a thousand times, and never tired of it. In a moment the demon would discover that the cut stone beneath the sand of the Maze floor prevented it from finding a path to Nie’s abyss at the center of Ala. It would shriek and thrash and claw the wards, and then the sun’s rays would catch it, and Everam’s light would burn it to ashes.
The alagai did shriek, but then it did something Jardir had never seen before. It tore at the dirt and sand of the Maze floor, finding the great stone blocks that had been laid centuries before. With its one clawed hand, the demon smashed through the stone, tearing huge pieces free.
“No!” Jardir cried. The greenlander shouted in protest as well, but it made no difference. Long before the sun rose high enough to threaten it, the creature slipped back into the abyss.
Inevera was waiting when they limped back to the training grounds. Seeing his arm hanging lifelessly, she turned to Hasik.
“Bring him to the palace,” she said. “Drag him, if he resists.”
Hasik bowed his head. “As the dama’ting commands.”
Jardir turned to Shanjat as Hasik pulled at him. “Locate Abban and have him brought here. When he arrives, escort him and the greenlander to my audience hall.”
Shanjat nodded and sent a runner. Jardir and Hasik headed for the palace, but they had not reached the steps before the training ground was swarming with dama’ting tending to the wounded, and women wailing for husbands and sons who could not be found.
These were followed by dama, who quickly broke their tribesmen away from the mass of Sharum returning from the Maze. In moments the force that had stood unified in the night splintered as it did each day.
Jardir had not ascended half the steps to his palace when the palanquins arrived. All twelve Damaji and the Andrah himself, riding the backs of nie’dama and flanked by their most loyal clerics.
Jardir stopped where he was, knowing no injury could take precedence over his giving a full report of this cursed night. But what to say? He had lost at least a third of Krasia’s warriors, and what did he have to show for it?
“What happened?” the Andrah demanded, storming up to him. Inevera was at Jardir’s side in an instant, but in the light of day, with the Damaji at his back and such failure at Jardir’s feet, the Andrah was uncowed even by her.
Even after years, the sight of the fat man filled Jardir with hatred and disgust. But the day Inevera had foretold, when he could feed the man his spear and cut his manhood off, seemed impossible now. Jardir would be lucky if he did not end this day as khaffit.
“The outer gate was breached last night,” Jardir said, “letting the enemy into the Maze.”
“You lost the gate?” the Andrah demanded.
Jardir nodded.
“Still counting,” Jardir said. “Hundreds, at the least. Possibly thousands.”
The Damaji burst into whispered conversation. All through the training grounds, the scene was being watched closely by Sharum and dama alike.
“I will have your head on a pike above the new gate!” the Andrah promised.
Before Jardir could respond, Hasik stepped in front of him, prostrating himself before the Andrah and pressing his head to the steps.
“What are you doing, fool?” Jardir demanded, but Hasik ignored him.
“Your pardon, my Andrah,” he said, “but this is not the fault of the First Warrior. Without Ahmann Jardir, we would have all been lost in the night!”
There were murmurs of accord from the gathered warriors. “He pulled me from a demon pit!” one cried. “The First Warrior led the charge that saved my unit!” another called.
“That doesn’t explain how he lost the gate in the first place!” the Andrah barked.
“Alagai Ka attacked the wall last night,” Hasik said. “It caught a sling stone and hurled it back, breaking the outer gate. It was only by the First Warrior’s quick response that we were not completely overrun.”
“It is the Waning, but Alagai Ka has not been seen in Krasia in more than three thousand years,” Damaji Amadeveram said.
“It was not Alagai Ka,” Jardir said. “Just a rock demon from the mountains.”
“Even that is unheard of,” Amadeveram said. “What could have brought one so far from its mountain home?”
Hasik looked up, scanning the crowd. Jardir hissed, but again his lieutenant ignored him.
“Him,” he said, pointing to the greenlander.
All eyes turned to the greenlander, who took a step back, realizing he had become the focus of everyone’s attention.
“A chin?” the Andrah asked. “What is a chin doing among the Sharum of Krasia? He should be in the market slums with the other khaffit.”
A dama whispered in Amadeveram’s ear. “I am told he came to the First Warrior last night and begged to fight,” the Damaji said.
“And you gave him permission?” the Andrah asked Jardir, incredulous.
Inevera tensed, but Jardir stilled her with a hand. She might have power in small chambers, but if a woman, even a dama’ting, defended him before the assembled warriors and dama, she would only make matters worse.
“I did,” he said.
“So this ruin brought upon us is wholly your fault!” the Andrah cried. “Your chin’s head shall share the gate spike with you, and let buzzards eat your eyes!”
He turned to go, but Jardir was not done. He had sacrificed too much for the greenlander to let him be executed now. Inevera had said their fates were tied, so let it be so.
His arm screamed still, and he was tired and bruised from fighting the night through. His head spun with pain and exhaustion, but he embraced it all and pushed it aside. There would be time to rest in Everam’s embrace, and he was not there yet.
“So I should have turned him away?” he asked loudly, so all could hear. “He comes to us with alagai as his enemy, and we should show him our backs? Are we men or khaffit?”
The Andrah stopped short, and turned back to face Jardir. His face was a stormcloud.
“He brought a rock demon with him!” the Andrah cried.
“I don’t care if his enemy really was Alagai Ka!” Jardir shouted back. “Woe betide Krasia when we fear the alagai enough to turn on a man in the night—even a chin!”
He beckoned to the greenlander, who ascended the steps halfway, so all could see him. He held his spear tightly, as if expecting the crowd to turn on him in an instant. His hard eyes made it clear he would not fall easily.
He is fearless, Jardir thought. Could there be a better man to tie my fate to?
“This is no cowardly Northerner, tilling soil like a woman,” Jardir said. “This is a par’chin, a brave outsider who stands like a dal’Sharum! Let Alagai Ka come! If he wishes this greenlander’s blood, then that is reason enough for any man who would stand tall before Everam to deny him!”
Shanjat gave a shout of support, echoed quickly by Jardir’s hundred. In an instant every dal’Sharum had raised his spear to add his voice to the cacophony.
“We stood fast against Nie, this night, and denied her great servant,” Jardir said. “Even now, he crawls back to the abyss in failure and defeat, quailing in fear of the dal’Sharum of the Desert Spear!”
The Andrah sputtered, foundering for a response, but anything he could have said was drowned away as even the dama in the crowd took up the cry.
The Andrah scowled, but in the face of such overwhelming support for Jardir, there was nothing he could do. He turned on his heel, sitting heavily in his palanquin. The nie’Sharum groaned under his bulk as they hoisted the carrying bars to their shoulders.
“You play a dangerous game,” Amadeveram warned as they carried the Andrah out of earshot.
“Sharak is no game to me, Damaji,” Jardir said.
“That was well done,” Inevera said as she laid him on her operating table. “You sent that fat pig running with his curled tail between his legs!” She laughed as she began to cut the robes from him. His shoulder and much of his arm had gone black.
“I have rare moments of competence,” Jardir said.
Inevera grunted, taking his arm and popping it back into its socket with a sharp twist. Jardir was ready for the pain, and it washed over him like a warm breeze.
“Do you need a root for the pain?” she asked.
Jardir snorted.
“So strong,” she purred, running her hands over his body, searching for further injuries. Jardir was a mass of bruises and scrapes, but there was nothing that could not wait, it seemed, for Inevera’s robes fell to the floor, and she climbed onto the table, straddling him.
Nothing aroused her more than victory.
“My champion,” she breathed, kissing his hard chest. “My Shar’Dama Ka.”
Jardir sat on the Spear Throne, regarding his kai’Sharum as they gave their reports. His left arm was in a sling, and though the pain was only a faint buzz to his focused mind, the loss of use in the limb angered him. His wives would try to keep him from alagai’sharak in the coming night, but he would be damned first.
Before him stood Evakh, kai’Sharum of the Sharach tribe.
“With but four dal’Sharum remaining, I regret to inform the Sharum Ka that the Sharach no longer have enough warriors to form our own unit,” Evakh said, his head bowed in shame. “It will be many years before we recover.” He left unsaid what they were all thinking: that the Sharach would likely never recover, dying out or being absorbed into another tribe.
Jardir shook his head. “Many units were shattered last night. I will call for dal’Sharum to stand up and honor their Sharach brothers with their spears. You will have warriors under your command this very night.”
The kai’Sharum’s eyes goggled. “That is too generous, First Warrior.”
“Nonsense,” Jardir said. “I could do no less in conscience. In addition, I will purchase wives from my own coffer to aid in your recovery.” He smiled. “If your men bring as much energy for that task as they do to alagai’sharak, the Sharach should recover swiftly.”
“The Sharach are in your eternal debt, First Warrior,” the man said, prostrating himself and touching his forehead to the floor.
Jardir descended from his dais and put his good hand on the warrior’s soldier.
“I am Sharach,” he said, “as are my three sons and two daughters by Qasha. I will not let our tribe fade into the night.” The warrior kissed his sandaled feet, and Jardir felt the tears that fell from his eyes.
“The Kaji and the Majah will not sell wives to another tribe,” Ashan advised when Evakh departed, “but the Mehnding have an abundance of daughters, and are loyal to the Sharum Ka. Their losses were few last night.”
Jardir nodded. “Offer to buy as many as they will allow. Money is no object. Other tribes will need fresh blood to survive this event, as well.”
Ashan bowed. “It will be done. But is rebuilding the tribes not the duty of the Damaji?”
Jardir looked at him knowingly. “Come, my friend, you know as well as I that those old men will not lift a finger to help one another, even now. The Sharum must look to their own.”
Ashan bowed again.
There were more reports, many just as bad. Jardir sat through them wearily, giving aid to all, and wondering at the state of the army that would assemble when dusk came that night.
Finally, the last of his commanders departed, and he sighed deeply.
“Bring in the Par’chin and the khaffit,” he said.
Ashan signaled the guards, and they were escorted in. The dal’Sharum shoved Abban roughly to the floor before the dais.
“You will translate for the Sharum Ka, khaffit,” Ashan said.
“Yes, my dama,” Abban said, touching his head to the floor.
The greenlander said something to Abban, who mumbled a reply through gritted teeth.
“What did he say?” Jardir asked.
Abban swallowed hard, hesitating.
The guard behind Abban hit him across the back with his spear. “The Sharum Ka asked you a question, son of camel’s piss!”
Abban cried out in pain, and the greenlander gave a shout, shoving the warrior back and interposing himself between them. He and the warrior glared at each other for a moment, but the warrior’s eyes flicked to Jardir uncertainly.
Jardir ignored them. “I will not ask twice,” he told Abban.
Abban wiped the sweat from his brow. “He said, ‘It is not right that you should have to grovel so,’ ” he translated, ducking his head and closing his eyes, as if expecting another blow.
Jardir nodded. “Tell him that you have shamed yourself and your family in the Maze, and are no longer fit to stand among men.”
Abban nodded, translating quickly. The greenlander replied, and Abban translated. “He says that should not matter. No man should crawl like a dog.”
Ashan shook his head. “The ways of the savages are strange.”
“Indeed,” Jardir said, “but we are not here to discuss the treatment of khaffit. Abban, you may take your hands from the floor.”
“Thank you, First Warrior,” Abban said, straightening. The greenlander seemed to relax at this, and he and the guard backed away from each other.
“You fought well in the night, Par’chin,” Jardir said. Abban translated quickly.
The greenlander bowed, meeting Jardir’s eyes as he replied in his guttural tongue. “I was honored to stand among men of such courage,” Abban translated.
“Do other men of the North fight as we do?” Jardir asked.
The greenlander shook his head. “My people fight only when they must, to save their own lives or sometimes that of another,” Abban said. The greenlander scowled and added something, spitting on the floor. “Sometimes not even then,” Abban said.
“They are a race of cowards, as the Evejah says,” Ashan said. Abban opened his mouth, and the dama threw a goblet at him, soaking his fine silks in dark nectar. “Do not translate that, fool!” The greenlander clenched a fist, but kept his eyes on Jardir.
“What makes you different?” Jardir asked. Abban translated, but the greenlander only shrugged and did not reply. “You cut the arm from the rock demon?”
The greenlander nodded. “When I was a boy,” Abban translated, “I ran away from my home. I made a circle of wards when the sun set, and I was surrounded by corelings…”
Jardir held up a hand. “Corelings?”
Abban bowed. “It is the greenland word for alagai, First Warrior,” he said. “It means ‘those who dwell in the center.’ They believe Nie’s abyss lies at the core of Ala, as we do.”
Jardir nodded, signaling the man to continue.
“The rock demon came for me that night,” Abban translated, “and in my foolishness, I made mock of it, jeering and cavorting about. But I slipped and scuffed a ward. The coreling struck, clawing my back, but I managed to repair the ward before it could cross the circle fully. When the circle reactivated, its arm was severed.”
Ashan snorted. “Impossible. The chin is obviously lying, Sharum Ka. No one could survive a blow from such a beast.”
The greenlander looked to Abban, but when the khaffit did not translate, he turned to Jardir. He said something, and pointed to Ashan.
“What did the Holy Man say?” Abban supplied.
Jardir glanced at Ashan, then back to the greenlander. “He said you are a liar.”
The greenlander nodded, as if he had expected as much. He laid down his spear and lifted his shirt, turning his back to them.
“Nie’s black heart,” Abban said, turning pale at the sight of the thick scars running across the man’s back. They were faded with years, but there was no doubt they were made by claws far larger than any sand demon’s.
The greenlander turned back, staring hard at Ashan. “Do you still think me a liar?” Abban translated.
“Apologize,” Jardir murmured.
Ashan bowed deeply. “My apologies, Par’chin.” The greenlander nodded as Abban translated.
“The demon has stalked you ever since?” Jardir asked.
The greenlander nodded. “Almost seven years now,” Abban translated, “but one day, I will show it the sun.”
Jardir nodded. “Why did you not tell us such a great enemy pursued you? You put my city at risk.”
The greenlander replied, and Abban’s eyes widened. He said something in response, but the greenlander shook his head and spoke again.
“You are not here to hold your own conversations, khaffit!” Jardir shouted, rising from his seat. The dal’Sharum at the door lowered their spears and advanced.
“Apologies, First Warrior!” Abban cried, pressing his forehead back to the floor. “I sought only to clarify his meaning!”
“I will decide what needs clarifying,” Jardir said. “The next time you speak out of turn, I will cut off your thumbs. Now translate everything that was spoken.”
Abban nodded eagerly. “The greenlander said, ‘It was only a rock demon. They are common in the North, and I did not think it worth mentioning that one bore me personal enmity,’ to which I replied, ‘Surely you exaggerate, my friend! There cannot be two alagai so great,’ and he said, ‘No, in the mountains of the North, there are many such.’ ”
Jardir nodded. “What are the weaknesses of the rock demons?”
“So far as I know,” the greenlander said through Abban, “they have none. And I have looked hard.”
“We will find one, Par’chin,” Jardir said. “Together.”
“This level of communication is unacceptable,” Jardir said when the greenlander had been escorted out.
“The Par’chin is a quick study,” Abban said, “and has committed himself to learning our tongue. He will speak it soon, I promise.”
“Not good enough,” Jardir said. “There will be other greenlanders, and I would speak to them, as well. Since none of our learned men,” he looked at Ashan with disdain, “has seen fit to study the tongue of the savages, it will fall to you to instruct us, beginning with me.”
Abban paled. “Me?” he squeaked. “Instruct you?”
Jardir felt a wave of disgust. “Stop your sniveling. Yes, you! Are there any others who speak it?”
Abban shrugged. “It is a valuable skill in the marketplace. My wives and daughters speak a few words, so they might listen in secret as the Messengers talk. Many other women in the bazaar do the same.”
“You expect the Sharum Ka to learn from a woman?” Ashan demanded, and Jardir swallowed the irony. If not for Inevera, he would still be an illiterate dal’Sharum.
“Another merchant then,” Abban said. “I am not the only one who trades with the North.”
“But you trade the most,” Jardir said. “It is obvious from your womanish silks, and the fact that a sniveling fat khaffit like you has more wives than most warriors. More than that, the Par’chin knows and trusts you. Unless there is a true man who speaks the greenland tongue, it shall be you.”
“But…” Abban said, his eyes pleading. Jardir held up a hand, and he fell silent.
“You said once you owed me your life,” Jardir said. “The time has come for you to begin repaying that debt.”
Abban bowed deeply, touching his forehead to the floor.
The city gates were patched by nightfall, and though the giant rock demon continued to attack the walls, the sling teams gave it no more ammunition with which to breach the wards. The Par’chin joined in alagai’sharak again that night, and every night for a week to come. By day, he drilled hard with the dal’Sharum.
“I cannot speak for other greenland Messengers,” Drillmaster Kaval said, spitting in the dust, “but the Par’chin has been trained well. His spearwork is excellent, and he has taken to sharusahk like he was born to it. I started him training with the nie’Sharum, but his form has already surpassed even those ready for the wall.”
Jardir nodded. He had expected no less.
As if he had known they spoke of him, the Par’chin approached them, Abban trailing dutifully behind. He bowed and spoke.
“I will be returning to the North tomorrow, First Warrior,” Abban translated.
Keep him close. Inevera’s words echoed in Jardir’s head.
“So soon?” he asked. “You have only just arrived, Par’chin!”
“I feel that way as well,” the Par’chin said, “but I have commitments to deliver goods and messages that must be kept.”
“Commitments to chin!” Jardir snapped, knowing he had made a mistake the moment the words left his mouth. It was a deep insult. He wondered if the greenlander would attack him.
But the Par’chin only raised an eyebrow. “Should that matter?” he asked through Abban.
“No, of course not,” Jardir said, bowing deeply to everyone’s surprise. “I apologize. I am simply disappointed to see you go.”
“I will return soon,” the Par’chin promised. He held up a sheaf of papers bound in leather. “Abban has been most helpful; I have a long list of words to memorize. When next we meet, I hope to be more adept at your tongue.”
“No doubt,” Jardir said. He embraced the Par’chin, kissing his hairless cheeks. “You will always be welcome in Krasia, my brother, but you will draw less attention if you grow a proper man’s beard.”
The Par’chin smiled. “I will,” he promised.
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 green-lander, 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.”
Jardir gave a dismissive wave. “We will speak on it no more, my friend.”
The greenlander nodded and turned to go.
“Do all men in the North believe as you do?” Jardir asked. “That Heaven is not truth?”
The Par’chin shook his head. “The Tenders in the North tell of a Creator who lives in Heaven and gathers the spirits of his faithful there, much as your dama do. Most people believe their words.”
“But you do not,” Jardir said.
“The Tenders also say the corelings are a Plague,” the Par’chin said. “That the sins of man were so great that the Creator sent the demons to punish us.” He shook his head. “I will never believe that. And if the Tenders are wrong about that, what faith should I put in the rest of their words?”
“Then why do you fight, if not for the glory of the Creator?” Jardir asked.
“I don’t need Holy Men to tell me corelings are an evil to be destroyed,” the Par’chin said. “They killed my mother and broke my father. They’ve murdered my friends and neighbors and family. And somewhere out there,” he swept a hand over the horizon, “is a way to destroy them. I will seek until I find it.”
“You are right to doubt these Tenders of yours,” Jardir said. “The alagai are no plague, they are a test.”
“A test?”
“Yes. A test of our loyalty to Everam. A test of our courage and will to fight Nie’s darkness. But you are mistaken, too. The way to their destruction is not out there,” he waved his hand at the horizon dismissively, “it is in here.” He touched a finger to the Par’chin’s heart. “And on the day all men find their hearts and stand united, Nie will not be able to stand against us.”
The Par’chin was silent a long time. “I dream of that day,” he said at last.
“As do I, my friend,” Jardir said. “As do I.”
More than two years after his first visit, Par’chin returned once again. Jardir looked up from chalked slates of battle plans, seeing the man cross the training ground, and felt as if his own brother had returned from a long journey.
“Par’chin!” he called, spreading his arms to embrace him. “Welcome back to the Desert Spear!” He spoke the greenlander’s language fluidly now, though the words still felt ugly on his tongue. “I did not know you had returned. The alagai will quail in fear tonight!”
It was then Jardir noticed the Par’chin came with Abban in tow, though neither he nor Jardir needed the fat khaffit to communicate any longer.
Jardir looked at Abban in disgust. He had grown even fatter since Jardir saw him last, and still draped himself in silk like a Damaji’s favored wife. It was said he dominated trade in the bazaar, due in no small part to his extensive contacts in the North. He was a leech, putting profit above Everam, above honor, and above Krasia.
“What are you doing here among men, khaffit?” he demanded. “I have not summoned you.”
“He’s with me,” the Par’chin said.
“He was with you,” Jardir said pointedly. Abban bowed and scurried off.
“I don’t know why you waste your time with that khaffit, Par’chin,” Jardir spat.
“Where I come from, a man’s worth does not end with lifting the spear,” the Par’chin said.
Jardir laughed. “Where you come from, Par’chin, they do not lift the spear at all!”
“Your Thesan is much improved,” the Par’chin noted.
Jardir grunted. “Your chin tongue is not easy, and twice as hard for needing a khaffit to practice it while you are away.” He scowled at Abban’s back. “Look at that one. He dresses like a woman.”
“I’ve never seen a woman dressed like that,” the Par’chin said.
“Only because you won’t let me find you a wife whose veils you can lift,” Jardir said. He had tried many times to find a bride for the Par’chin, to tie him to Krasia and keep him close, as Inevera commanded.
One day, you will have to kill him, Inevera’s voice echoed in his head, but he did not wish to believe it. If Jardir could find him a wife, the greenlander would cease to be a chin and be reborn as dal’Sharum. Perhaps that “death” would fulfill the prophecy.
“I doubt the dama would allow one of your women to marry a tribeless chin,” the Par’chin said.
Jardir waved his hand. “Nonsense,” he said. “We have shed blood together in the Maze, my brother. If I take you into my tribe, not even the Andrah himself would dare protest!”
“I don’t think I’m ready for a wife just yet,” the Par’chin said.
Jardir scowled. As close as they were, the greenlander continued to baffle him. Among his people, a warrior’s lusts were as great off the battlefield as on. He had seen no evidence that the Par’chin preferred the company of men, but he seemed more interested in battle than the spoils that rightly came to those who lived to see the dawn.
“Well don’t wait too long, or men will think you push’ting,” he said, using the word for “false woman.” It was not a sin before Everam to lie with another man, but push’ting shunned women entirely, denying their tribe future generations—something his people could ill afford.
“How long have you been in the city, my friend?” Jardir asked.
“Only a few hours,” the Par’chin said. “I just delivered my messages to the palace.”
“And already you come to offer your spear!” Jardir cried loudly for all to hear. “By Everam, the Par’chin must have Krasian blood in him!” The men laughed.
“Walk with me,” Jardir said, putting his arm around the Par’chin as he mentally reviewed the night’s battle plan, seeking a place of honor for his brave friend.
“The Bajin lost a Pit Warder last night,” he said. “You could fill in there.”
“Push Guard, I would prefer,” the Par’chin replied.
Jardir shook his head, but he was smiling. “Always the most dangerous duty for you,” he chided. “If you are killed, who will carry our letters?”
“Not so dangerous, this night,” the Par’chin said. He produced a rolled cloth, uncovering a spear.
But not just any spear. Its length was of a bright, silvery metal, and wards etched along the head and haft glittered in the sunlight. Jardir’s trained eye ran along its length, and he felt his heart thump loudly in his chest. Many of the wards were unfamiliar, but he could sense their power.
The Par’chin stood proudly, waiting for him to react. Jardir swallowed his wonder and blinked the covetous gleam from his eyes, hoping his friend had not seen it.
“A kingly weapon,” he agreed, “but it is the warrior that wins through in the night, Par’chin, not the spear.” He put his hand on the Par’chin’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Do not put too much faith in your weapon. I have seen warriors more seasoned than you paint their spears and come to a bitter end.”
“I did not make it,” the Par’chin said. “I found it in the ruins of Anoch Sun.”
Jardir’s thumping heart came to a stop. Could it be true? He forced himself to laugh.
“The birthplace of the Deliverer?” he asked. “The Spear of Kaji is a myth, Par’chin, and the lost city has been reclaimed by the sands.”
The Par’chin shook his head. “I’ve been there. I can take you there.”
Jardir hesitated. The Par’chin was no liar, and there was no jest in his voice. He meant his words. For a moment, an image flashed in his mind: he and the Par’chin out on the sands together, uncovering the combat wards of old. It was only with great effort he recalled his responsibilities and shook the image away.
“I am Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear, Par’chin,” he replied. “I cannot just pack a camel and ride off into the sand looking for a city that exists only in ancient texts.”
“I think I will convince you when night falls,” the Par’chin said.
Jardir bent his mouth into a smile. “Promise me that you will not try anything foolish. Painted spear or no, you are not the Deliverer. It would be sad to bury you.”
“Tonight is the night,” Inevera said. “Long have I foreseen this. Kill him and take the spear. At dawn, you will declare yourself Shar’Dama Ka, and a month from now you will rule all Krasia.”
“No,” Jardir said.
For a moment, Inevera did not hear him. “…and the Sharach will declare for you immediately,” she was saying, “but the Kaji and Majah will take a hard line against…Eh?” She turned back to him, her eyebrow disappearing into her headwrap.
“The prophecy…” she began.
“The prophecy be damned,” Jardir said. “I will not murder my friend, no matter what the demon bones tell you. I will not rob him. I am the Sharum Ka, not a thief in the night.”
She slapped him, the retort echoing off the stone walls. “A fool is what you are!” she snapped. “Now is the moment of divergence, when what might be becomes what will. By dawn, one of you will be declared Deliverer. It is up to you to decide if it will be the Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear, or a grave-robbing chin from the North.”
“I tire of your prophecies and divergences,” Jardir said, “you and all the dama’ting! All just guesses meant to manipulate men to your will. But I will not betray my friend for you, no matter what you pretend to see in those warded lumps of alagai shit!”
Inevera shrieked and raised her hand to strike him again, but Jardir caught her wrist and lifted it high. She struggled for a moment, but she might as well have struggled with a stone wall.
“Do not force me to hurt you,” Jardir warned.
Inevera’s eyes narrowed, and she twisted suddenly, driving the stiffened index and middle fingers of her free hand into his shoulder. Immediately the arm holding her wrist went numb, and she twisted out of his grasp, slipping back a step and straightening her robes.
“You keep thinking the dama’ting defenseless, my husband,” she said as he goggled at her, “though you of all people should know better.”
Jardir looked down at his arm in horror. It hung limply, refusing his commands to move.
Inevera moved over to him, taking his numb hand in hers, and pressing her free hand to his shoulder. She twisted his arm and pressed hard, and suddenly the numbness was replaced with a sharp tingle of pins.
“You are no thief,” she agreed, her voice calm once more, “if you are only reclaiming what is already yours by right.”
“Mine?” Jardir asked, staring at his hand as its fingers began to flex once more.
“Who is the thief?” Inevera asked. “The chin who robs the grave of Kaji, or you, his blood kin, who takes back what was stolen?”
“We do not know it is the Spear of Kaji he holds,” Jardir said.
Inevera crossed her arms. “You know. You knew the moment you laid eyes on it, just as you’ve known all along that this day would come. I never hid this fate from you.”
Jardir said nothing.
Inevera touched his arm gently. “If you prefer, I can put a potion in his tea. His passing will be quick.”
“No!” Jardir shouted, tearing his arm away. “Always the path of least honor with you! The Par’chin is no khaffit, to be put down like a dog! He deserves a warrior’s death.”
“Then give him one,” Inevera urged. “Now, before alagai’sharak begins and the power of the spear is known.”
Jardir shook his head. “If it is to be done, I will do it in the Maze.”
But as he walked away from her, he was not sure it was to be done at all. How could he stand tall as Shar’Dama Ka if it was atop the body of a friend?
“Par’chin! Par’chin!”
The cries echoed throughout the Maze. Jardir watched from the walltop as the greenlander led the dal’Sharum to victory after victory. No alagai could resist the Spear of Kaji.
He is the brave outsider tonight, Jardir thought. Shar’Dama Ka tomorrow.
But perhaps this was Everam’s will? When He formed the world from Nie’s void, had He not created the greenlanders, as well? Must He not have a plan for them?
“But the Par’chin does not believe in Everam,” he said aloud.
“How can a man who does not bow to the Creator be the Deliverer?” Hasik asked.
Jardir drew a deep breath. “He cannot. Gather Shanjat and our most loyal men. For the sake of all the world, it must be someone else.”
Jardir found the Par’chin at the head of a host of Sharum chanting his name as they thundered through the Maze. He was covered in black demon ichor, but his eyes were alive with fierce joy. He thrust his spear high in salute, and Jardir’s heart wrenched for what he must do to his ajin’pal— worse by far than Hasik had done to him.
“Sharum Ka!” the Par’chin cried. “No demon will escape your Maze alive tonight!”
War is deception, Jardir reminded himself, and forced himself to laugh and raise his spear to return the Par’chin’s salute. He came and embraced the man for the last time.
“I underestimated you, Par’chin,” he said. “I won’t do so again.”
The Par’chin smiled. “You say that every time.” He was surrounded by warriors, glorying in their victory. Already they could not be trusted to do what must be done.
“Dal’Sharum!” he called to the warriors, gesturing to the slaughtered alagai on the streets of the Maze. “Gather up these filthy things and haul them atop the outer wall! Our sling teams need target practice! Let the alagai beyond the walls see the folly of attacking the Desert Spear!”
A cheer rose from the men, and they hastened to his bidding. As they did, Jardir turned to Arlen. “The Watchers report there is still battle in one of the eastern ambush points. Have you any fight left in you, Par’chin?”
The Par’chin showed Jardir his teeth. “Lead the way.”
Leaving the Sharum behind, they sprinted through the Maze, down a route already cleared of witnesses. Like a Baiter, Jardir led the Par’chin to his doom. At last, they came to the ambush point. “Oot!” Jardir called, and with that, Hasik stuck out a leg, tripping the Par’chin.
The greenlander rolled with the impact as he hit the ground, coming right back to his feet, but by then Jardir’s most trusted men had cut off his escape.
“What is this?” the Par’chin demanded.
Jardir’s heart ached at the look of betrayal on his friend’s face. He deserved no better, but now that the trap was sprung, he was committed to its course. “The Spear of Kaji belongs in the hands of the Shar’Dama Ka,” he said. “You are not he.”
“I don’t want to fight you,” the Par’chin said.
“Then don’t, my friend,” Jardir begged. “Give me the weapon, take your horse, and go with the dawn, never to return.” Inevera would call him a fool for the offer. Even his lieutenants murmured in surprise, but he did not care. He prayed his friend would accept, though he knew in his heart that he would not. The son of Jeph was no coward. Behind him in the demon pit, there was a growl. A warrior’s death awaited him.
He fought hard as the dal’Sharum fell upon him, breaking bones but refusing, even now, to kill men. Jardir stayed out of the fray, consumed by his shame.
Finally, it was done, the Par’chin held tight by Hasik and Shanjat as Jardir bent to pick up the spear. Immediately he felt its power and a sense of belonging as his fingers tightened about the haft. Indeed, it was the weapon of Kaji, whose seventh son had been the first Jardir.
“I am truly sorry, my friend,” he said. “I wish there could be another way.”
The Par’chin spat in his face. “Everam is watching your betrayal!”
Jardir felt a flash of anger. The Par’chin did not believe in Heaven, but he was willing to use the Creator’s name when it suited his purpose. He had no wives or children, no ties to family or tribe, but he thought he knew what was best for all. His arrogance knew no bounds.
“Do not speak of Everam, chin,” Jardir said. “I am his Sharum Ka, not you. Without me, Krasia falls.”
They rode out of the city secretly in the predawn light. Most of the alagai had already returned to the abyss, but a sand demon must have heard their approach and waited, because it leapt out at them from the shadow of a dune mere minutes before dawn.
Jardir was ready, and the defensive wards on the shaft of the spear flared as he parried the attack. The alagai was thrown to the ground and glanced at the brightening sky, but before it could dematerialize, Jardir leapt from the back of his horse and skewered it.
There was a pulse of light as the warded spearhead punched through the gritty armor of the demon, and Jardir felt the spear come to life in his hand. A shock ran through him like Inevera’s lightning stone, but where that was agony, this was ecstasy. Immediately he felt stronger, faster. Old aches from injuries long forgotten, pains he had become so accustomed to he no longer noticed them, suddenly vanished, revealing themselves by their absence. He felt immortal. Invincible. He swung his arms effortlessly, hurling the demon’s corpse thirty feet to await the rising sun.
The sense of power faded quickly after the kill, but the healing remained. Jardir was over thirty, but he suddenly remembered what it had felt like when his body was twenty, and wondered how he had ever forgotten.
All this from a single sand demon, he mused. What must the Par’chin have felt when he used it on dozens of alagai in the Maze?
But he would never know the answer, for they left the unconscious Par’chin facedown on the dunes moments before sunrise, miles from the city and more than a day’s walk from the nearest village.
Jardir looked down at him, and the greenlander’s words flashed in his mind. Everam is watching your betrayal! he had shouted.
“Why could you not have left when I begged it of you, my friend?” Jardir asked—one more question the Par’chin could never answer for him.
Jardir regarded his friend sadly as Hasik and Shanjat climbed back into their saddles. He took the skin of cool water from his saddle horn, throwing it to land with a thump in the sand beside the greenlander’s prone form.
“What are you doing?” Ashan asked. “We should kill him now, not help him.”
“I will not stab an unconscious warrior,” Jardir said. “The skin will not fly him across the sands to succor, but he will wake, and drink, and when the alagai come, he will die on his feet like a man, and find his way to paradise.”
“What if he returns to the city?” Shanjat asked.
“Post Mehnding on the walls through the day to shoot him if he tries,” Jardir said.
He looked back. But you won’t, will you, Par’chin? he thought. You have a Sharum’s spirit, and will die fighting alagai with your bare hands.
“He is a chin,” Ashan said. “An unbeliever. What makes you think Everam will welcome him in Heaven?”
Jardir raised the spear, catching the light from the rising sun. “Because I am Shar’Dama Ka, and I say it is so.”
The others goggled, but no one disputed the claim.
Inevera’s words from just hours ago came to him again.
At dawn, you will declare yourself Shar’Dama Ka.
He looked back to the body of the Par’chin.
Die well, he prayed, and when we meet in Heaven, if I have not fulfilled both our dreams, we shall have a reckoning.
He turned his horse, riding back to the city.
His city.