Peter Brett - The Daylight War

Abban and Qeran drew many stares as they limped through the training ground toward the Kaji khaffit’sharaj . The drillmaster had been stripped by one of the jiwah’Sharum , doused in clean water, and dressed in fresh blacks. Abban knew without doubt that his head was pounding from the couzi as he squinted in the bright light of day, but the drillmaster had recovered something of himself and showed nothing of his discomfort. His back was straight as he walked, head high. As was the custom, Abban walked a step behind him, though he could easily have outpaced the slow gait Qeran required to walk with dignity.

They came to a section of grounds where tan-robed kha’Sharum trained — thousands in the Kaji tribe alone. Most practised the simple spear and shield forms Abban remembered from what seemed a lifetime ago, turning in unison, shields overlapping as they thrust their spears as one. A smaller group practised more advanced techniques.

Qeran spat. ‘Most of these men should still be in bidos, or better yet carrying water and polishing shields.’

A handful of young Sharum walked the ranks. They wore black, but the veils hanging loose around their necks were tan, marking them as khaffit drillmasters.

‘Pups,’ Qeran sneered, ‘sharpening their teeth on khaffit in hope of earning the red.’

One of the young drillmasters caught sight of them and approached, eyeing them with wary disdain until his eyes lighted on Qeran’s red veil. His eyes flicked up and lit with recognition as he met the drillmaster’s face. Qeran had been among the Spears of the Deliverer, and his reputation was well known. He and Drillmaster Kaval had trained the Shar’Dama Ka himself.

The young drillmaster bowed, ignoring Abban completely. ‘I am Hamash asu Gimas am’Tesan am’Kaji.’

Qeran returned his bow with a slight nod. ‘I trained your father. Gimas was a fierce warrior. He died well in the Maze.’

Hamash bowed again, more deeply this time. ‘What brings you to the khaffit’sharaj , honoured Drillmaster?’

Abban limped forward, holding out his writ. Drillmasters, like kai’Sharum , were given special training that included letters and warding, but from the way Hamash’s brow furrowed as he stared at the writ, he had obviously fallen short in his lessons.

Abban let the failing pass. It was to his advantage. ‘The Deliverer requires ten of your best kha’Sharum . I am to select them.’

‘You, a khaffit , mean to select warriors?’ Hamash said, eyes flicking to Qeran.

Abban smiled. ‘Who better? They are khaffit warriors, after all.’

‘Warriors, still,’ the young drillmaster growled.

‘Drillmaster Qeran will ensure they are fit to fight,’ Abban said. ‘I am to ensure they have brains in their heads.’

‘Only ten?’ Qeran asked quietly, too low for Hamash to hear. ‘You told me the Shar’Dama Ka commanded a hundred.’

‘The Deliverer has no tribe, Drillmaster,’ Abban said. ‘We will select ten from each.’

‘That is more than a hundred,’ Qeran said. There were twelve tribes of Krasia.

Smart for a Sharum, Abban mused. ‘I remember your training methods well, Drillmaster. There will be those who will not survive its rigours, and others who will not be fit for battle when you are finished.’ He tapped his own leg pointedly with his crutch. ‘We will start with one hundred and twenty, that you may kill or cast out those who fail you.’

Qeran grunted, and Hamash, who had been watching the exchange, met his eyes. His lip curled slightly in disgust. ‘Even a crippled drillmaster should not allow a khaffit to speak so boldly to him.’

Qeran’s calm eyes revealed nothing of his intentions as his spear haft snapped upward, taking Hamash between the legs. The young drillmaster bent forward, and Qeran spun the weapon, cracking it hard against the side of his head, knocking him to the ground.

Hamash was quick to roll aside, but Qeran anticipated the move, slamming the metal butt of his spear down just as he rolled into the blow. Hamash’s cheek tore open as several of his teeth shattered. He coughed blood and shards, trying vainly to regain his feet, but the beating did not stop there. Qeran had firm footing, and struck again and again. Most of the blows were painful but not meant for lasting damage, but when the young drillmaster continued to resist, there was a sharp crack as Qeran’s spear butt broke his right arm at the elbow. He roared with pain.

‘Embrace the pain and be silent, fool!’ Qeran hissed. ‘Your men are watching!’ Indeed, drillmasters and kha’Sharum alike had stopped their training, watching with mouths hanging open.

Qeran turned to look at the other drillmasters. ‘Strip the men to their bidos and form squads for inspection!’ he roared, and they scrambled as if the command had come from the Deliverer himself. In moments their spears and shields were neatly stacked, robes folded, and the men stood at attention in nothing but their tan loincloths.

Qeran jabbed the butt of his spear into Hamash, still writhing on the ground. ‘On your feet and heel me. I will already have your tan veil. Fall behind or disrespect me again and I’ll have your blacks as well.’

Abban resisted the urge to smile as Hamash struggled to his feet, his face pale and bloody. He had chosen his drillmaster well.

Looking pale and dazed, blood running down his face, Hamash stumbled after as they limped over to the first squad. Another tan-veiled drillmaster stood at attention before them. His bow to Qeran was so low, his beard nearly touched the ground.

They walked the line, Qeran calling each man forth, treating them no differently than slaves on the auction block.

‘Flabby,’ Qeran noted of the first, pinching at his arm, ‘but a few months of gruel and carrying stones as he runs around the city walls would cure him of that. Perform the first sharukin .’ The man began to sweat, but he complied, moving slowly through the series of movements.

Qeran spat in the dust. ‘Pathetic, even for a khaffit .’

‘What was your profession before you answered the Deliverer’s call to sharak ?’ Abban asked the man, taking out his ledger and pen.

‘I was a lamp maker,’ the man said.

Abban grunted. ‘Were you master or apprentice?’

‘Master,’ the man said. ‘My father owned our business, but left me to train my sons.’

‘What difference does this make?’ Qeran demanded, but Abban ignored him, asking several more questions before moving to the next in line. He was so thin his bones showed through his skin as he stood in his bido. His eyes squinted as they came to stand before him.

Abban held up three fingers. ‘How many?’

The man squinted harder. ‘Two.’ There was doubt in his voice.

Abban took several steps back, and the squinting stopped. ‘Three,’ the man said more decisively.

Qeran gave the spindly man a shove and he fell onto his back in the dirt.

‘On your feet, dog!’ one of the tan-veiled drillmasters shouted, whacking at him with a spear butt, and the man quickly got back in line.

‘This one does not even belong here, much less among the Deliverer’s elite,’ Qeran said.

Again Abban ignored him, still facing the man. ‘Can you read? Do sums on a bead lattice?’

The man nodded. ‘I can, when I have my lenses.’

They continued on thusly, Qeran pinching and prodding the men as Abban interrogated them. Some few were ordered to stand apart from the others, a group of potentials for Abban and Qeran to choose from.

They approached one who stood a head and more higher than all the others, his chest broad and his arms thick with muscle. Abban smiled.