The Desert Spear

now,” the Painted Man said. “But those were no simple raids; Fort Rizon and its hamlets, the grain belt of all Thesa, are now under Krasian control. They will dig in for a year at least, levying troops from the Rizonans and training them. Then they will move on to swallow Lakton and its hamlets. It may be years before they turn north and head for your city, but I assure you, they will, and you will need allies if you hope to stand against them.”
    “Fort Angiers isn’t afraid of a handful of desert rats, even if your tampweed tales were true!” Thamos barked.
    “Highness, please!” Janson squeaked. When the prince fell silent again, Janson looked back to the Painted Man. “May I ask how is it you know so much of the Krasians’ plans, Mr. Flinn?”
    “Do you have a copy of the Krasian holy book in your archives, minister?” the Painted Man asked.
    Janson’s eyes flicked away for a moment, as if checking an invisible list. “The Evejah, yes.”
    “I suggest you read it,” the Painted Man said. “The Krasians believe their leader is the reincarnation of Kaji, the Deliverer. They are fighting the Daylight War.”
    “The Daylight War?” Janson asked.
    The Painted Man nodded. “The Evejah details how Kaji conquered the known world before turning its collective spears on the corelings. Jardir will seek to do the same. His advancements may be followed by consolidation periods, where the conquered people are broken to Evejan law,” he fixed Janson and the prince with a hard look, “but don’t let that fool you for a moment into thinking that they’ve ceased their advance.”
    The prince glared defiantly, but the color slowly drained from Janson’s face. Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead, even in the cool spring morning. “You know much about the Krasian people for a Cutter, Mr. Flinn,” he noted.
    “I spent some time in Fort Krasia,” the Painted Man said simply. Janson made another mark in his strange shorthand.
    “You see why we must speak with His Grace, minister,” Leesha said. “The Krasians can afford to take their time. With their grain silos, Rizon has resources to support an army indefinitely, even as they cut off the flow of food to the north.”
    Janson did not seem to notice she had spoken. “There are some who say you are the Deliverer, yourself,” he said to the Painted Man.
    Thamos snorted. “And I’m a friendly coreling,” he muttered.
    The Painted Man didn’t look at him, keeping eye contact with the minister. “I make no such claim, Lord Janson.”
    Janson nodded, writing. “His Grace will be relieved to hear that. But on the matter of the fighting wards…”
    “They—” Leesha began.
    “They will be shared with all who want them, free of cost,” the Painted Man cut her off, drawing looks of shock from everyone.
    “The corelings are the enemies of all humanity, minister,” the Painted Man said. “In this, the Krasians and I agree. I will deny no man the wards to combat them.”
    “If they even work,” Thamos muttered.
    The Painted Man turned to face Thamos fully, and even a prince could not long weather his glare. Thamos dropped his eyes, and the Painted Man nodded.
    “Wonda,” he said without turning to the young woman, who started at the sound of her name, “give me an arrow from your quiver.” Wonda took an arrow and placed it in the waiting hand he threw over his shoulder. The Painted Man laid the missile flat across his hands and presented it to the prince, but he did not bow, standing as an equal.
    “Test them, Your Highness,” he said. “Stand atop the wall tonight and have a marksman fire this at the largest demon you can find. Decide for yourself if they work.”
    Thamos drew back slightly, and then straightened quickly, as if trying not to appear intimidated. He nodded and took the arrow. “I will.”
    The first minister pushed back from his seat, and Pawl darted forward to blot the wet pages and shuffle them back into the leather paper case. He collected the writing implements and wiped down the table as Janson got to his feet and went over to Prince Thamos.
    “I believe that should be all for now,” Janson said. “His Grace will receive you in his keep tomorrow, an hour past dawn. I will send a coach here for you in the morning, to avoid any…unpleasantness, should you,” his eyes flicked to the Painted Man, “be seen on the street.”
    The Painted Man bowed. “That will do well, minister, thank you,” he said.