The Desert Spear

the time he managed to nod, and he gasped air desperately when Jardir released the hold. “The
dama’ting
commanded that you walk farther each day until you are at full strength,” Jardir lied. “Tomorrow you march an hour longer.” He looked at Abban coldly. “Both of you.”
    Abban nodded eagerly, and the two boys headed for the carts. Jardir watched them go, praying for Abban’s swift recovery. He could not save face for him forever.
    He looked to the other
nie’Sharum,
staring at him, and snarled. “Did I call a halt?” he demanded, and the boys quickly resumed their march. Jardir called the steps at double time until they caught back up.

    Night came, and Jardir had his
nie’Sharum
prepare the meals and lay bedrolls as the
dama
and Pit Warders prepared the warding circle. When the circle was ready, the warriors stood at its perimeter, facing outward with shields locked and spears at the ready as the sun set and the demons rose.
    This near to the city, sand demons rose in force, hissing at the
dal’Sharum
and flinging themselves at the warriors. It was the first time he had seen them up close, and Jardir watched the
alagai
with a cold eye, memorizing their movements as they leapt to the attack.
    The Pit Warders had done their work well, and magic flared to keep the demons at bay. As they struck the wards, the
dal’Sharum
gave a shout and thrust their spears. Most blows were turned by the sand demons’ armor, but a few precise blows to eyes or down open throats scored a kill. It seemed a game to the warriors, attempting to deliver such a pinpoint blow in the momentary flash of the magic’s light, and they laughed and congratulated the handful of warriors who managed it. Those who had went to their meal, while those who had not kept trying as the demons began to gather. Hasik was one of the first to fill his bowl, Jardir noted.
    He looked to Drillmaster Kaval, coming out of the circle after killing a demon of his own. His red night veil was raised, the first time Jardir had ever seen it so. He caught the drillmaster’s eye, and when the man nodded Jardir approached, bowing deeply.
    “Drillmaster,” he said, “this is not
alagai’sharak
as we were taught it.”
    Kaval laughed. “This is not
alagai’sharak
at all, boy, just a game to keep our spears sharp. The Evejah commands that
alagai’sharak
only be fought on prepared ground. There are no demon pits here, no maze walls or ambush pockets. We would be fools to leave our circle, but that is no reason why we cannot show a few
alagai
the sun.”
    Jardir bowed again. “Thank you, Drillmaster. I understand now.”
    The game went on for hours more, until the remaining demons decided there was no gap in the wards and began to circle the camp or sat back on their haunches out of spear’s reach, watching. The warriors with full stomachs then went to take watch, hooting and catcalling at those who had failed to make a kill as they went to their meal.
    After all had eaten, half the warriors went to their bedrolls, and the other half stood like statues in a ring around the camp. After a few hours’ sleep, the warriors relieved their brothers.

    The next day, they passed through a
khaffit
village. Jardir had never seen one before, though there were many small oases in the desert, mostly to the south and east of the city, where a trickle of water sprouted from the ground and filled a small pool.
Khaffit
who had fled the city would often cluster at these, but so long as they fed themselves and did not beg at the city wall or prey on passing merchants, the
dama
were content to ignore them.
    There were larger oases, as well, where a large pool meant a hundred or more
khaffit
might gather, often with women and children in tow. These the
dama
did pay some mind to, with the warrior tribes claiming individual oases as they did the wells of the city, taxing the
khaffit
in labor and goods for the right to live there.
Dama
would occasionally travel to the villages closest to the city, taking any young boys to
Hannu Pash
and the most beautiful girls as
jiwah’Sharum
for the great harems.
    The village they passed through had no wall, just a series of sandstone monoliths around its perimeter with ancient wards cut deep into the stone. “What is this place?” Jardir wondered aloud as they marched.
    “They call the village Sandstone,” Abban said. “Over three hundred
khaffit
live here. They are known as pit dogs.”
    “Pit dogs?” Jardir asked.
    Abban pointed