The Desert Spear

that one carry?” Ashan asked.
    “We must find out,” Jardir agreed.
    “Allow me to kill the giant and bring the boy to you, Deliverer,” Hasik begged, his eyes taking on the mad light they always did before battle.
    “Do nothing,” Jardir said. “We are here to learn, not fight.” He could tell his warriors did not like that answer, but he did not care, because two other figures had caught his eye. One was clearly a woman, carrying no weapon, only a small basket. The other was much larger, and dressed like a man, but carried a bow like the northern women. Her face was demon-scarred.
    Both were clad in fine cloaks embroidered with hundreds of wards, and they wandered through the carnage unmolested by
alagai
and given a respectful berth by the other Northerners.
    “They are unseen to the
alagai
as if they wear the Cloak of Kaji,” Ashan said.
    A demon clawed through the chest of a man, and he cried out and went down, dropping his axe. The cloaked women hurried to the man, the taller one putting an arrow in the demon as the slender one knelt by the man’s side. She pulled back her hood, and Jardir saw her face.
    She was even more beautiful than Inevera, her skin white like cream, a sharp contrast with her hair, black like the armor of a rock demon.
    The woman tore the man’s shirt, tending his wound while her female bodyguard stood watch over her, shooting any
alagai
that dared draw close.
    “Some sort of Northern
dama’ting
?” Jardir mused aloud.
    “A heathen parody of one, perhaps,” Ashan said.
    After a moment, the beautiful woman gave a command to her bodyguard, who slung her bow across her shoulders and lifted the wounded man in her arms. The way back out was blocked by a group of
alagai,
but the Northern
dama’ting
reached into her pouch and removed an object. Fire appeared in her hand, setting spark to it, and she drew back her arm and threw. An explosion blasted the
alagai
from her path, leaving them littering the ground, unmoving.
    “Heathen, perhaps,” Jardir said, “but these Northerners are not without power.”
    “The men must be cowards worse than
khaffit,
to depend on women for their rescue,” Shanjat said. “I would rather die on the field.”
    “No,” Jardir said, “the cowards are us, hiding here in the shadows while
chin
fight
alagai’sharak.
”
    “They are our enemies,” Ashan said.
    Jardir looked at him and shook his head. “Perhaps by day, but all men are brothers in the night.” He put up his night veil and lifted his spear, giving a war cry as he charged into the fight.
    There was a surprised hesitation in his men, and then they, too, roared and followed.

    “Krasians!” Merrem the butcher’s wife screamed, and Rojer looked up in surprise, seeing that she was right. Dozens of black-clad Krasian warriors were charging into the clearing, brandishing spears and whooping. His blood went cold, and the bow slipped from his fiddle.
    A demon almost killed him in that moment, but Gared cut the arm that swiped at him clean off with his machete.
    “Eyes on the demons!” Gared bellowed for all the Cutters to hear. “Krasians ent gonna get a fight if we let the corelings do their work for ’em!”
    But it quickly became apparent that the Krasians had no intention of attacking the Hollowers. Led by a man with a white turban and a warded spear that looked as if it was made entirely of polished silver, they fell upon the wood demons like a pack of wolves breaking into a chicken coop, killing with practiced efficiency.
    The leader waded out alone into clusters of wood demons, but his fearlessness seemed justified, for he laid waste to them as easily as the Painted Man could have, his spear a blur and his limbs moving inhumanly fast.
    The other warriors linked shields in fighting wedges, mowing demons like summer barley. One group was led by a man in a pristine white robe, a stark contrast with the black-clad warriors. The man in white held no weapons, but he strode through the battlefield confidently. A wood demon leapt at him and he stepped to the side, tripping it and shoving as it passed him by, driving it onto the spear of one of his warriors.
    Another demon attacked him, but the man in white swung his torso left, then right, his feet never moving as he smoothly dodged the demon’s clawed swipes. On its third swing, he caught its wrist and twisted, turning its own attack against it and flipping it over onto its back where a warrior casually skewered it.
    Rojer and