The Desert Spear

“I am not afraid.”
    “Perhaps you should be,” Kajivah said. “The Evejah tells us that on the Waning, Alagai Ka, father of demons, stalks the surface of Ala.”
    “Not even he could get past the warriors of the Desert Spear,” Jardir said.
    Kajivah stood, lifting Hoshkamin’s spear from the wall. “Perhaps not,” she said, thrusting the weapon into his good left hand, “but if he does, it will fall to you to keep him from our door.”
    Shocked, Jardir took the weapon, and Kajivah nodded once before following his sisters below. Jardir immediately moved to the door, his back straight as he stood throughout the night, and the two that followed.

    “I’ll need a target,” Jardir said, “for when the
dama’ting
remove my cast, and I need to get back in the food line.”
    “We can do it together,” Abban said, “like we did before.”
    Jardir shook his head. “If I need your help, they’ll think I’m weak. I’ve got to show them I’ve healed stronger than before, or I’ll be a target for everyone.”
    Abban nodded, considering the problem. “You’ll have to strike higher in the line than the place you left, but not so high as to provoke Hasik and his cronies.”
    “You think like a merchant,” Jardir said.
    Abban smiled. “I grew up in the bazaar.”
    They watched the line carefully over the next few days, their eyes settling just past the center, where Jardir had waited before his injury. The boys there were a few years his senior and larger than him by far. They marked potential targets and began to observe those boys carefully during training.
    Training was much as it had been before. The hard cast kept Jardir’s arm in place as he ran the obstacles, and the drillmasters made him throw left-handed during spear and net practice. He was given no special treatment, nor would he have wished it. The strap found his back no less often than before, and Jardir welcomed it, embracing the pain and knowing every blow proved to the other boys that he was not weak, despite his injury.
    Weeks passed, and Jardir worked hard, practicing the
sharukin
whenever he had the chance, and repeating them in his mind as he drifted off to sleep each night. Surprisingly, he found he could throw and punch as well with his left hand as he had with the right. He even took to bludgeoning opponents with the cast, embracing the rush of pain as it swept over him like a hot desert wind. He knew that when the
dama’ting
finally cut the cast from him, he would be better for the injury.
    “Jurim, I think,” Abban said at last, the evening before Jardir’s cast was removed. “He’s tall and strong, but he forgets his lessons and simply tries to overpower his opponents.”
    Jardir nodded. “Perhaps. He’s slow, and no one would challenge me if I took him down, but I was thinking of Shanjat.” He nodded to a slender boy just ahead of Jurim in the line.
    Abban shook his head. “Don’t be fooled by his size. There’s reason why Shanjat stands ahead of Jurim. His arms and legs crack like whips.”
    “But he’s not precise,” Jardir said. “And he overbalances when his blows miss.”
    “Which is rare,” Abban warned. “You have a better chance of defeating Jurim. Don’t haggle so much you spoil the sale.”
    It was midmorning the next day when Jardir returned from the
dama’ting
pavilion, and the boys were already assembled in the gruel line. Jardir sucked in a breath, flexed his right arm, and strode in, heading right for the center of the line. Abban had already taken his place, farther back, and would not help him, as they had agreed.
    It is the weakest camel that draws the wolves,
he heard his father say, and the simple advice steeled him against his fear.
    “To the back with you, cripple!” Shanjat barked, seeing him approach.
    Jardir ignored him and forced himself to smile widely. “Everam shine upon you for holding my place,” he said.
    The look in Shanjat’s eyes was incredulous; he was three years Jardir’s senior, and considerably larger. He hesitated in that moment, and Jardir took the opportunity to shove him hard, knocking him from the line.
    Shanjat stumbled, but he was quick and kept his feet, kicking up a cloud of dust as he regained his balance. Jardir could have kicked his hands or feet from under him and struck while he was off balance, but he needed more than mere victory if he was to ward off any rumors that his injury had left him weak.
    There were hoots of delight, and the gruel