The Desert Spear

could recall.
    When the cacophony was at it highest, Jardir stood upon his bench like a master Jongleur. “Let the
alagai
see our scars, and despair!” he cried, removing his own robe.
    Muscles rippled along his olive skin, but it was not that which drew amazed gasps from every mouth in the room. It was his scars. They were wards. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, cut into his skin like the tattoos of the Painted Man.
    “Night, maybe he
is
the Deliverer,” Rojer muttered.

CHAPTER 25
ANY PRICE
    p.
333 AR SPRING

    “ YOU’D BEST LIMP QUICKER ,” Hasik told Abban with a laugh, “or you will be left behind in the darkness.”
    Abban grimaced in pain, sweat running in rivulets down his thick-jowled face. Ahmann set a brutal pace back to the Krasian camp, and he strode ahead with Ashan, leaving poor Abban stuck between Hasik and Shanjat, two men who had tortured him since childhood and did worse now.
    Just a week earlier, Hasik had raped one of Abban’s daughters when he came to their pavilion to deliver a message. The time before, it was one of his wives. Jurim and Shanjat had made a point of taking Abban’s
nie’Sharum
sons under their wing in the Kaji’sharaj, instilling in them such a disgust of their
khaffit
father that Abban’s heart felt torn. All the Spears of the Deliverer jeered and spat at him, striking him at their pleasure when the Shar’Dama Ka was not about. They all knew Ahmann from of old, and resented that Abban had the Deliverer’s ear as they did not. Abban knew that if he ever fell from Ahmann’s favor, his life would be short indeed.
    But the moment they left the forbidding generated by the giant ward of Deliverer’s Hollow, Abban felt his skin crawling, and he was forced to accept that there was nothing the
Sharum
could do to him that would make him too prideful to beg their protection in the night.
    Such was the fate of
khaffit.
    “I do not understand why you treat these
chin
weaklings as though they were true men,” Ashan said to Ahmann as they walked.
    “These people are strong,” Ahmann replied. “Even their women have
alagai
scars.”
    “Their women are brazen like harlots,” Ashan said, “and should see more of the back of their husbands’ hands. The one who leads them is worst of all! I cannot believe you let her scold you like a…a…”
    “Dama’ting?”
Ahmann asked.
    “More like the Damajah,” Ashan said. “And this woman is neither.”
    Ahmann’s face twitched slightly, a barely noticeable sign of irritation that nevertheless would have sent Abban running for cover if there had been any to run to.
    But Ahmann kept his temper. “Think, Ashan,” he said. “Should I waste warriors conquering these people for Sharak Ka when they fight the
alagai
already?”
    “They do not fight under you, Shar’Dama Ka,” Ashan pointed out. “The Evejah commands that all warriors obey the Deliverer for Sharak Ka to be won.”
    Ahmann nodded. “And so it shall be. But I did not unite the tribes of Krasia by killing men. Unity came from mixing my blood with theirs by marrying their
dama’ting.
I see no reason not to do the same in the North.”
    “You would marry that…that…” Ashan was incredulous.
    “That what?” Ahmann asked. “That beautiful woman who kills
alagai
with a wave of her hand, and wards like a sorceress of old?” He lifted the warded cloak she had given him and held it up to his face, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. “Even the scent of her intoxicates me. I must have her.”
    “She isn’t even Evejan!” Ashan spat. “She is an infidel!”
    “Even infidels are part of Everam’s plan, my friend,” Ahmann said. “Can you not see it? The only tribe in the North that fights
alagai’sharak
is led by a woman, a Northern healer blessed with powers never before seen. By marrying her, I can add their strength to our own without a drop of red blood spilled. It is as if Everam Himself has arranged the match. I can feel His will thrumming in me, and it will not be denied.”
    Ashan looked ready to argue further, but it was clear Ahmann considered the matter closed. He scowled, but he bowed. “As the Deliverer wills,” he said through gritted teeth.
    They reached the camp at last, and Abban breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that Ahmann’s pavilion was raised and waiting. The
dal’Sharum
surrounded it, sleeping in shifts and ever alert for any threat, demon or otherwise.
    “Abban, meet with me,” Ahmann said. “Shanjat and Ashan,