Peter Brett - The Daylight War

‘Docktown is weakly fortified, and will not be expecting an attack without warning so late in the season. But your army will be quick atop their mustang. An elite group could capture the entire harvest, the majority of Lakton’s docks, and half its fleet. Send your blunt instrument in behind to crush the hamlets once the surprise is done. Focus first on those along the lakeshore, denying safe harbour, and the Laktonians will be trapped on their island all winter without proper provision. Come spring, they may surrender without a fight, and if not, you will have ships of your own to fill with Sharum to take the city.’

Ahmann stared at the map a long time, frowning. ‘I will think on this.’

You will consult Inevera’s dice, you mean , Abban thought, but he was wise enough to keep silent about it. It would be well enough to consult the hora before such a risky undertaking.

With Ahmann’s writ in hand, Abban limped into the training grounds, headed for the Kaji’sharaj.

He was spotted immediately by Jurim, who had trained with him when they were both boys. Jurim had laughed when Abban fell from the Maze wall — shattering his leg — and had himself been cast down by Drillmaster Qeran as punishment. But while Abban remained forever crippled, Jurim had recovered fully. And he had not forgotten.

The warrior was taking his ease with others by the Kaji pavilion, enjoying cups of couzi and playing Sharak. It was a game Abban had been surprised to learn the greenlanders played as well, though they called it Succour and had different rules. One Sharum clattered the dice in a cup and threw, roaring with victory to the scowls of the others.

‘What are you doing here among men, khaffit ?’ Jurim cried. The other warriors looked up at that. Abban’s heart sank at the sight of two of them, Fahki and Shusten.

His own sons.

Jurim rose to his feet, showing no sign that his back had been whipped raw barely a week past. He had always been a quick healer, even before he began absorbing demon magic at night.

The warrior approached, looming. Abban was by no means short, but Jurim was taller still and blade-thin, while fat Abban was stooped by weight and forced to lean on his crutch.

Jurim did not dare touch Abban — even with Ahmann nowhere in sight — but like Hasik, he missed no opportunity to hurt and humiliate his former classmate. While Hasik took his hatred out on Abban’s women, Jurim and Shanjat cut as deeply through his sons. The older men were Spears of the Deliverer after all, the most famed — and deadly — of the Shar’Dama Ka’s warriors, seasoned by battle and kept young and strong by the magic they absorbed on a nightly basis. Fahki and Shusten worshipped them.

The young men followed Jurim, but there was no greeting for Abban, not so much as the slightest acknowledgement in their eyes. Indeed, they looked at the ground, each other, off into the distance — anywhere save at their father. In a culture where the name of a man’s father was more important than one’s own, there could be no greater insult.

‘Your sons have made fine warriors,’ Jurim congratulated. ‘They were soft at first — as expected for blood of khaffit ,’ Fahki spat in the dust at that, ‘but I have taken them under my shield, and found the steel in them.’ He smirked. ‘They must get it from their mother.’

All three warriors laughed at that, and Abban gripped the ivory haft of his crutch so tightly his hand ached. Its hidden blade was poisoned, and he could put it into Jurim’s foot before he ever saw the blow coming. But while it might earn him a moment’s respect in the eyes of his sons, it would be short-lived. Poison was a coward’s weapon after all, and it was death for a khaffit to strike a Sharum for any reason. Had he been anyone but the favourite advisor of the Deliverer, even speaking disrespectfully could earn him a spear in the chest.

Fahki and Shusten glared at him with barely hidden disgust. If he struck, they would turn him in to the nearest dama without hesitation, and his sentence would be carried out before Ahmann ever heard of it.

Abban kept his face blank and forced himself to bow, holding up the scroll with the Deliverer’s seal. Jurim, like many warriors, could not read, but he knew the crown and spear well. ‘I am here on the business of Shar’Dama Ka.’

Jurim scowled. ‘And what business is so important that you must sully the ground of warriors?’

Abban straightened. ‘That is not for you to know. Take me to Drillmaster Qeran, and be quick about it.’

Shusten snarled. ‘Do not take that tone with your betters, khaffit !’

Abban snapped a cold glare at him. ‘You may have inherited your mother’s steel, boy, but obviously not her brains if you would hinder the will of Shar’Dama Ka. Go find something useful to do or the next time I speak with him, I will mention to the Deliverer how his Sharum waste their days playing Sharak and drinking couzi when they should be training.’

The boys blanched at that, glancing at each other before hurrying off. Abban felt a cold satisfaction, but it did nothing to stem the blood from the knife twisting in his heart. That other men sneered at him for his crippled leg and coward’s heart, Abban had learned to live with. But a man that did not have the respect of his own sons was no man at all.

Soon , he promised himself. Soon .

Many of the Sharum flouted the restrictions of the Evejah, drinking couzi to give them courage in the night, and to forget the nights in the day. Few, though, were fool enough to get so drunk they could not stand at attention should a dama pass them by.

Qeran was that drunk and more. The drillmaster sat on a stained pillow with his back supported by the tent’s central pole, his black robes wet and stinking of vomit. Next to him lay his fine warded spear, a special crossbar added to allow him to use the weapon as a crutch. His left leg ended just below the knee, the leg of his pantaloons pinned back. Strapped to the stump was a simple wooden peg.

He glared at Abban as the khaffit entered, small eyes hard with hatred. ‘Come to gloat, khaffit ? I’m nearly as useless as you now, but at least my place in Heaven is secure.’

Abban let the tent flap fall closed, leaving the two men alone. Then he spat at Qeran’s feet.

‘I am not useless, Drillmaster. I serve our master every day, and never once have I whined like a woman over my fate, much less drunk myself into a piss pool. Everam blessed you with a strong body, but I see without it, your heart is weak.’

Qeran’s face twisted with rage and he grabbed for his spear, meaning to leap to his feet and thrust it through Abban’s heart. But he was new to his wooden leg, and unsteady from the couzi. He stumbled, and it was all the time Abban needed to strike the peg hard with his crutch, knocking it clean off the drillmaster’s leg. As Qeran fell, he struck again, knocking away the spear.

The drillmaster hit the ground hard, and there was a click as Abban’s hidden blade snapped open, pointing right between his eyes.

‘You have killed many demons in your day, Drillmaster,’ Abban said, ‘but will even your place in Heaven remain secure if you are killed in your own filth by the crippled khaffit you cast from sharaj in shame?’

Qeran remained still a long time, his hard eyes nearly crossed as they watched the blade hovering at the bridge of his nose. ‘What do you want?’ he said at last.

Abban smiled, stepping back and retracting his blade so he could lean on his crutch as he bowed. From within his brightly coloured vest he produced the scroll marked with the Deliverer’s seal. ‘Why, to make you great again.’