The Desert Spear

breath, standing back to attention before Qeran could find further reason to beat him.
    “On
alagai
talons!” Khevat cried. “
Dal’Sharum
do not die old in their beds! They do not fall prey to sickness or hunger!
Dal’Sharum
die in battle, and win into paradise. Basking in Everam’s glory, they bathe and drink from rivers of sweet cool milk, and have virgins beyond count devoted to them.”
    “Death to
alagai
!” the boys all screamed at once, pumping their fists. “Glory to Everam!”
    After these sessions, they were given their bowls, and the gruel pot was set out. There was never enough for all, and more than one boy each day went hungry. The older and larger boys, led by Hasik, had established their pecking order and filled their bowls first, but even they took but one ladle each. To take more, or to spill gruel in a scuffle at the pot, was to invite the wrath of the ever-present drillmasters.
    As the older boys ate, the youngest and weakest of
nie’Sharum
fought hard among themselves for a place in line. After his first night’s beating and the day in the pits, Jardir was in no shape to fight for days, but Abban had taken well to using his weight as a weapon, and always secured them a place, even if it was close to the back.
    When the bowls were emptied, the training began.
    There were obstacle courses to build endurance, and long sessions practicing the
sharukin—
groups of movements that made up the forms of
sharusahk.
They learned to march and move in step even at speed. With nothing in their bellies but the thin gruel, the boys became like speartips, thin and hard as the weapons they drilled with.
    Sometimes the drillmasters sent groups of boys to ambush
nie’Sharum
in neighboring
sharaji,
beating them severely. Nowhere was safe, not even when sitting at the waste pits. Sometimes the older boys like Hasik and his friends would mount the defeated boys from other tribes from behind, thrusting into them as if they were women. It was a grave dishonor, and Jardir had been forced to kick more than one attacker between the legs to avoid such a fate for himself. A Majah boy managed to pull down Abban’s bido once, but Jardir kicked him in the face so hard blood spurted from his nose.
    “At any moment, the Majah could attack to take a well,” Kaval told Jardir when they came to him after the assault, “or the Nanji come to carry off our women. We must be ready at every moment of every day to kill or be killed.”
    “I hate this place,” Abban whined, close to tears, when the drillmaster left. “I cannot wait for the Waning, when I can go home to my mother and sisters, if only for the new moon.”
    Jardir shook his head. “He’s right. Letting your guard down, even for a moment, invites death.” He clenched his fist. “That may have happened to my father, but it won’t happen to me.”
    After the drillmasters completed their lessons each day, the older boys supervised repetition, and they were no less quick to punish than the
dal’Sharum.
    “Keep your knees bent as you pivot, rat,” Hasik growled as Jardir performed a complicated
sharukin.
He punctuated his advice by kicking behind Jardir’s knees, driving him into the dust.
    “The son of piss cannot perform a simple pivot!” Hasik cried to the other boys, laughing. His
s
‘s still came out with a whistle through the gap where Qeran had knocked out one of his teeth.
    Jardir growled and launched himself at the older boy. He might have to obey the
dama
and
dal’Sharum,
but Hasik was only
nie’Sharum,
and he would accept no insult to his father from the likes of him.
    But Hasik was also five years his senior, and soon to lose his bido. He was larger than Jardir by far, and had years of experience at the deadly art of the empty hand. He caught Jardir’s wrist, twisting and pulling the arm straight, then pivoted to bring his elbow down hard on the locked limb.
    Jardir heard the snap and saw the bone jut free of his skin, but there was a long moment of dawning horror before the blast of pain hit him.
    And he screamed.
    Hasik’s hand snapped over Jardir’s mouth, cutting off his howls and pulling him close.
    “The next time you come for me, son of piss, I will kill you,” he promised.

    Abban ducked under Jardir’s good arm and half carried him to the
dama’ting
pavilion at the far end of the training grounds. The tent opened as they approached, as if they had been expected. A tall woman clad in white from head to toe held the flap