Peter Brett - The Daylight War

The drillmaster selected a spear at random from a pile, setting his peg leg firmly and putting it through a series of spins and thrusts. ‘It’s so light.’

Abban nodded. ‘The greenlanders have a tree called the goldwood, and true to its name, it is worth its weight in precious metal. Goldwood is lighter and stronger than the rattan used for Sharum spears in Krasia, and needs less lacquer to harden the wards carved along its length.’

Qeran tested the tip against the meat of his palm, smiling broadly as the point slid in easily with only the barest pressure. ‘What metal is this, to hold such an edge?’

‘No metal,’ Abban said. ‘Glass.’

‘Glass?’ Qeran asked. ‘Impossible. It would shatter on the first blow.’

Abban pointed to a cold anvil in one of the forge stalls, and Qeran did not hesitate, limping over and bringing the spear down on it hard enough to break even a steel blade. But there was only a ringing in the air, and a notch in the anvil.

‘A trick we learned from the Hollow tribe,’ Abban said. ‘Warded glass — lighter and stronger than steel, and hard enough to hold the sharpest edge. We silver the glass to obscure its nature.’

He took Qeran to another stall, handing him a ceramic plate. ‘These plates are what dal’Sharum currently wear in the pockets of their robes.’

‘I am familiar,’ Qeran said drily.

‘Then you know they break on impact, proof against one blow at most, and often making a powerful hit all the worse with shrapnel,’ Abban said.

Qeran shrugged.

Abban gave him a second plate, this one of clear, warded glass that glittered in the light of the forge. ‘Thinner, lighter, and strong enough to break a rock demon’s claw.’

‘The Deliverer’s army will be unstoppable,’ Qeran breathed.

Abban chuckled. ‘No ordinary dal’Sharum could afford such armament, Drillmaster, but nothing is too good for the Spears of the Deliverer.’ He winked. ‘Or my Hundred. Your recruits will be better equipped than all but the Shar’Dama Ka’s elite.’

Abban saw the glitter of greed that shone in the drillmaster’s eyes at that, and smiled. One more gift, and he will be mine.

‘Come,’ he said. ‘No drillmaster in my employ will hobble on a cheap peg.’

Abban watched in satisfaction as Qeran paced before the khaffit and chin he had selected for training. The drillmaster’s peg had been thrown on the fire, replaced by a curved sheet of warded spring steel. It was simple, elegant, and gave him the potential to regain almost all the combat ability he had lost. He still used his spear for balance, but was becoming more sure-footed by the moment.

The men had been stripped down to bidos, their robes and other clothing burned. The khaffit wore tan, the chin a cloth the colour of green olives.

‘I do not care what titles the paltry excuses for drillmasters in sharaj gave you,’ Qeran shouted. ‘You are all nie’Sharum to me, and will be until you have proven yourselves. If you do well, you will be rewarded. A warrior’s robes and veil. Fine weapons and armour. Better food. Women. If you shame me,’ he stopped, looking just over the heads of the crowd, seeming to stare in all their eyes at once, ‘I will kill you.’

The men stood stock-still, backs arched and chests thrown forward, more than a few sweating and pale, even in the cool morning air. Qeran turned to Abban and nodded.

‘Now,’ Abban murmured to his nephew Jamere, but the young dama was already striding forward. He was tall but not thin, having never partaken in the dietary restrictions of the Evejah. Neither was he fat, moving with the fluid grace that marked Evejan clerics. Jamere had lived in Sharik Hora most of his life, and had copied or pilfered the secret sharusahk manuals of almost every tribe, mastering forbidden techniques. Skills he was all too happy to sell his uncle.

‘Kneel before Dama Jamere!’ Kaval barked, and the men fell immediately to their knees, none hesitating to put their palms in the dust.

Jamere held up his hands. In one, he held the writ Ahmann had signed, and in the other, the Evejah. ‘Loyal nie’Sharum ! Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir am’Kaji, Shar’Dama Ka and Everam’s voice on Ala, has given you to his servant Abban. It was Abban who brought the Deliverer’s eyes to you, giving men cast from Everam’s light a chance at redemption, a chance to prove your loyalty.’

He swept his gaze over the assembled men. ‘Are you loyal?’

‘Yes, Dama!’ they shouted as one.

‘Everam is watching!’ Jamere cried, sweeping his hands up to the sun. ‘Those who serve with loyalty and faith will see their rewards both on Ala and in Heaven. Those who break their oaths or fail in their duty will suffer greatly in their final hours before He casts their spirits down into Nie’s abyss.’

Abban suppressed a snicker. The fanatical light in his nephew’s eyes was nothing but a practised act, like that of a Northern Jongleur. The man was utterly faithless, and had been since before he was called by the clerics.

But the fear in the eyes of the men showed that his veil was perfect. Even Qeran seemed cowed as Jamere held out a copy of the Evejah.

‘Your spear hand,’ Jamere commanded, and the drillmaster laid his right hand on the worn leather.

‘Do you swear to serve Abban asu Chabin am’Haman am’Kaji?’ Jamere asked. ‘To protect him and obey him and no other save the Deliverer himself, from now until your death?’

Qeran hesitated. His eyes flicked to Abban, his brows bunching together in outrage. When the three men had met earlier to rehearse the oath-taking, no one had mentioned the drillmaster would be included. It was one thing for Abban to demand oaths from khaffit and chin , but another to expect one from a dal’Sharum drillmaster of Qeran’s stature.

Abban smiled in return. Make your choice, Drillmaster , he thought. Everam is watching, and you cannot take it back. Serve me, or go back to walking on a cheap peg and sleeping in your own vomit.

Qeran knew it, too. Abban had given him a path to glory, but glory had its price. The drillmaster looked to the waiting nie’Sharum , knowing that every second of hesitation would be a doubt he would have to beat from the men.

‘I swear to serve Abban,’ he growled at last, meeting Abban’s eyes, ‘until my death, or the Deliverer relieve me of the oath.’

Abban reached into his vest, producing a flask of couzi. He lifted it in salute to the warrior and drank.

333 AR Summer

28 Dawns Before New Moon

Leesha looked at the darkening sky and had to press a palm to her eye socket, easing a throb of pain. With their late start from Ahmann’s palace, the caravan to Deliverer’s Hollow made little progress that first day — perhaps ten miles. A Messenger might make the trip from Fort Rizon to Deliverer’s Hollow in under two weeks. The Spears of the Deliverer, fearing no demons and travelling at speed even at night, had done it in half that. Even the ride out had been swift as these things go, despite a slow cart to accommodate her parents, unaccustomed to the road.

Leesha’s father had never been robust even when young, and he was far from young now. Erny had back spasms daily on the journey out, and she’d been forced to give him relaxants that made him sleep like the dead. They rode in a far more comfortable carriage for the return, but while he never complained, Leesha saw him rubbing his back when he thought no one was looking, and knew the journey would be hard on him.

‘We should stop soon for the night,’ she told Shamavah, who shared the carriage with Leesha and her parents — at least when she wasn’t out shouting at the other women. Krasian women had their own pecking order, and it did not matter that Shamavah was the wife of a khaffit . All of the women — and the kha’Sharum as well — hopped at her commands, keeping the caravan in proper order.