The Desert Spear

mesmerized.
    “I’d rather they were attacking,” Wonda said. She had her great bow strung and a warded arrow nocked and ready.
    “Ent natural,” Gared agreed.
    They made it to Leesha’s cottage on the outskirts of the Hollow by midnight, and paused only long enough for Leesha to store the most precious of their cargo before they pressed on through the darkness to the village proper.
    If things had seemed cramped before, they were many times worse now. The refugees from Lakton came better equipped, with tents and warding circles and covered wagons laden with supply, but they spilled over the edges of the forbidding on almost every side, weakening the greatward.
    Leesha turned to Gared and Wonda. “Find the other Cutters and make a sweep of the forbidding. Any tent or carriage within ten feet of the greatward needs to be moved, or we could have corelings in the streets.” The two nodded and moved off.
    She turned to Rojer. “Find Smitt and Jona. I want a council meeting tonight; I don’t care who’s in bed.”
    Rojer nodded. “I don’t have to ask where you’ll be, I suppose.” He hopped from the cart and pulled up the hood of his warded cloak as she turned the cart for the hospit.

    Jardir looked up as Abban limped into the throne room. “You seem almost spry today,
khaffit.
”
    Abban bowed. “The spring air gives me strength, Shar’Dama Ka.”
    Ashan snorted at Jardir’s side. Jayan and Asome kept their distance, having learned not to antagonize Abban in their father’s presence.
    “What do you know of the place called Deliverer’s Hollow?” Jardir asked, ignoring them.
    “You seek the Painted Man?” Abban asked.
    Ashan lunged at Abban, taking him by the throat. “Where did you hear that name,
khaffit
?!” he demanded. “If you’ve been bribing the
nie’dama
for information again, I’ll—”
    “Ashan, enough!” Jardir shouted as Abban gasped and struggled weakly. When the
Damaji
did not comply fast enough, Jardir did not ask again, kicking him hard in the side. Ashan was knocked away and hit the polished stone floor hard.
    “You would strike me, your loyal
Damaji,
over a pig-eating
khaffit
?” Ashan asked, incredulous, when he had found his breath again.
    “I struck you for not attending my command,” Jardir corrected, and swept his gaze over the rest of those in the room. Aleverak and Maji, Jayan and Asome, Ashan, Hasik, even the door guards. Only Inevera, stretched out in her diaphanous robes on a bed of bright silk pillows beside his throne, escaped his gaze. “I tire of this game, so I say now for all to hear, I will kill the next person to strike someone in my presence when I have not given them leave to do so.”
    Abban began to smirk, but Jardir whirled on him, glaring. “And you,
khaffit,
” he growled. “The next time you answer a question with a question, I will tear out your right eye and make you eat it.”
    Abban paled as Jardir strode angrily to his throne, sitting down hard. “How did you learn of the one they call the Painted Man? The
dama
required intensive interrogation to pull his name from the
chin
Holy Men’s lips.”
    Abban shook his head. “It’s all the
chin
talk about, Deliverer. I doubt the interrogations discovered anything a few crumbs of bread or words of kindness couldn’t have gathered freely on the street.”
    Jardir scowled. “And the stories agree he is in the village called Deliverer’s Hollow?” Abban nodded. “What do you know of it?”
    “Until a year ago, it was called Cutter’s Hollow,” Abban said, “a small village of men beholden to the duke of Angiers who felled trees for lumber and fuel. Wood is impractical to ship through the desert, so I had little business with them, though I do have one contact who might remain. A seller of fine paper.”
    “What good is that?” Ashan demanded.
    Abban shrugged. “I do not know that it is, Damaji.”
    “And what have you heard of the place since its name changed?” Jardir demanded.
    “That the Painted Man came to them last year when the village was rife with flux and the wards failing,” Abban said. “That he killed hundreds of
alagai
with his bare hands alone, and taught the villagers to fight
alagai’sharak.
”
    “Impossible,” Jayan said. “The
chin
are too weak and cowardly to stand up in the night.”
    “Perhaps not all,” Abban said. “Remember the Par’chin.”
    Jardir glared at him. “No one remembers the Par’chin,
khaffit,
” he growled. “You would