Peter Brett - The Warded Man

His skin was a deep copper color, his eyes dark as his black hair, oiled back and hanging down his neck. His black beard was forked and impeccably trimmed, but there was nothing soft about the man. He moved like a raptor, swift and sure, and his wide sleeves were rolled back to reveal hard, muscular arms, crisscrossed with scars. He was not much past thirty.

One of the pavilion guards caught sight of Arlen and Abban as they approached, and bent to whisper in Jardir’s ear. The First Warrior turned from the chalked slate he was studying.

“Par’chin!” he called, spreading his arms with a smile and rising to meet them. “Welcome back to the Desert Spear!” He spoke in Thesan, his vocabulary and accent much improved since Arlen’s last visit. He caught Arlen in a firm embrace and kissed his cheeks. “I did not know you had returned. The alagai will quail in fear tonight!”

Upon his first visit to Krasia, the First Warrior had taken an interest in Arlen as an oddity, if nothing more, but they had bled for one another in the Maze, and in Krasia, that meant everything.

Jardir turned to Abban. “What are you doing here among men, khaffit?” he asked disgustedly. “I have not summoned you.”

“He’s with me,” Arlen said.

“He was with you,” Jardir said pointedly. Abban bowed deeply and scurried off as quickly as his lame leg would allow.

“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,” Arlen said.

Jardir laughed. “Where you come from, Par’chin, they do not lift the spear at all!”

“Your Thesan is much improved,” Arlen noted.

Jardir grunted. “Your chin tongue is not easy, and twice as hard for needing a khaffit to practice it when you are away.” He watched Abban limp away, sneering at his bright silks. “Look at that one. He dresses like a woman.”

Arlen glanced across the yard at a black-swathed woman carrying water. “I’ve never seen a woman dressed like that,” he said.

“Only because you won’t let me find you a wife whose veils you can lift.” Jardir grinned.

“I doubt the dama would allow one of your women to marry a tribeless chin,” Arlen 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!”

Arlen wasn’t so sure about that, but he knew better than to argue. Krasians had a way of becoming violent if you challenged their boasts, and it might even be so. Jardir seemed equal to a Damaji, at least. Warriors obeyed him without question, even over their dama.

But Arlen had no desire to join Jardir’s tribe or any other. He made the Krasians uncomfortable; a chin who practiced alagai’sharak and yet kept company with khaffit. Joining a tribe would ease that discomfort, but the moment he did, he would be subject to the tribe’s Damaji, embroiled in their every blood feud, and never allowed to leave the city again.

“I don’t think I’m ready for a wife just yet,” he said.

“Well don’t wait too long, or men will think you push’ting,” Jardir said, laughing and punching Arlen’s shoulder. Arlen wasn’t sure what the word meant, but he nodded anyway.

“How long have you been in the city, my friend?” Jardir asked.

“Only a few hours,” Arlen said. “I just delivered my messages to the palace.”

“And already you come to offer your spear! By Everam,” Jardir cried to his fellows, “the Par’chin must have Krasian blood in him!” His men joined in his laughter.

“Walk with me,” Jardir said, putting his arm on Arlen’s shoulder and moving away from the others. Arlen knew Jardir was already trying to decide where he would best fit in the night’s battle. “The Bajin lost a Pit Warder last night,” he said. “You could fill in there.”

Pit Warders were among the most important of the Krasian soldiers, warding the demon pits used to trap corelings, and assuring that the wards activated after the demons fell in. It was risky work, for if the tarps used to disguise the pits didn’t fall in and reveal the wards fully, there was little to prevent a sand demon from climbing out and killing the Warder as he tried to uncover them. There was only one position with a higher mortality rate.

“Push Guard, I would prefer,” Arlen 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?”

Arlen understood the sarcasm, even through Jardir’s thick accent. Letters meant little to him. Few dal’Sharum could even read.

“Not so dangerous, this night,” Arlen said. Unable to contain his excitement, he unrolled his new spear, holding it up to the First Warrior proudly.

“A kingly weapon,” Jardir agreed, “but it is the warrior that wins through in the night, Par’chin, not the spear.” He put his hand on Arlen’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,” Arlen said. “I found it in the ruins of Anoch Sun.”

“The birthplace of the Deliverer?” Jardir laughed. “The Spear of Kaji is a myth, Par’chin, and the lost city has been reclaimed by the sands.”

Arlen shook his head. “I’ve been there,” he said. “I can take you there.”

“I am Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear, Par’chin,” Jardir 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,” Arlen said.

Jardir smiled patiently. “Promise me that you will not try anything foolish,” he said. “Warded spear or no, you are not the Deliverer. It would be sad to bury you.”

“I promise,” Arlen said.

“Good, then!” Jardir clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, my friend, the hour grows late. You shall sup in my palace tonight, before we muster outside Sharik Hora!”

They supped on spiced meats, ground peas, and the paper-thin layers of bread the Krasian women made by spreading wet meal on hot, polished rocks. Arlen had a place of honor next to Jardir, surrounded by kai’Sharum and served by Jardir’s own wives. Arlen never understood why Jardir paid him so much respect, but after his treatment at the Andrah’s palace, it was most welcome.

The men begged stories of him, calling for the tale of One Arm’s crippling, though they had heard it many times. Always it was tales of One Arm, or Alagai Ka, as they called him. Rock demons were rare in Krasia, and as Arlen complied, his audience sat entranced by the tale.

“We built a new scorpion after your last visit, Par’chin,” one of the kai’Sharum told him as they sipped their nectar after the meal. “It can punch a spear through a sandstone wall. We will find a way to pierce Alagai Ka’s hide yet.”

Arlen chuckled and shook his head. “I’m afraid you will not see One Arm tonight,” he said, “or ever again. He has seen the sun.”

The eyes of the kai’Sharum bulged. “Alagai Ka is dead?” one asked. “How did you manage this?”

Arlen smiled. “I will tell you the tale after tonight’s victory,” he said. He stroked the spear next to him gently as he did, a gesture the First Warrior did not miss.

“Great Kaji, Spear of Everam, grant strength to your warriors’ arms and courage to their hearts this night, as they go forth to your holy work.”

Arlen shifted uneasily as the Damaji bestowed the blessings of Kaji, the first Deliverer, on the dal’Sharum. In the North, claiming the Deliverer was just a mortal man might get you in a fist-fight, but it was no crime. In Krasia, such heresy was punishable by death. Kaji was Everam’s Messenger, come to unite all mankind against the alagai. They called him Shar’Dama Ka, First Warrior-Priest, and said he would return to unite man again one day, when they were worthy of Sharak Ka, the First War. Any who suggested otherwise came to a quick and brutal end.