The Desert Spear

twisted the weapon savagely. The demon gave a final wrack and lay still. Jardir gave a whoop and thrust his fist into the air.
    His delight was short-lived, though, as Hasik let go the spear, leaving it jutting from the dead
alagai,
and stormed over to him.
    “You think yourself a Baiter,
nie’Sharum
?” he demanded. “You could have gotten men killed, taking it upon yourself to drive
alagai
into a trap that had not been reset.”
    “I meant no—” Jardir began, but Hasik punched him hard in the stomach, and the response was blown from his lips.
    “I gave you no leave to speak, boy!” Hasik shouted. Jardir saw his rage and wisely held his tongue. “Your orders were to stay in your alcove, not lead
alagai
to the backs of unprepared warriors!”
    “Better he brought it here with some warning than left it loose on the terrace, Hasik,” Jesan said. Hasik glared at him, but held his tongue. Jesan was an older warrior, perhaps even forty winters, and the others in the group deferred to him in the absence of Kaval or the
kai’Sharum.
He was bleeding freely from where the demon had clawed his face, but he showed no sign of pain.
    “You would not have been injured—” Hasik began, but Jesan cut him off.
    “These will not be my first demon scars, Whistler,” he said, “and every one is a glory to be cherished. Now get back to your post. There are demons yet to kill this night.”
    Hasik scowled, but he bowed. “As you say, the night is young,” he agreed. His eyes shot spears at Jardir as he left for his alcove.
    “You get back to your post, too, boy,” Jesan said, clapping Jardir on the shoulder.

    Dawn came at last, and all the company gathered at the demon pits to watch the
alagai
burn. Baha kad’Everam faced east, and the rising sun quickly flooded the valley. The demons howled in the pits as light filled the sky and their flesh began to smolder.
    The insides of the
dal’Sharum
shields were polished to a mirror finish, and as Dama Khevat spoke a prayer for the souls of the Bahavans, one by one the warriors turned them to catch the light, angling rays down into the pits to strike the demons directly.
    Wherever the light touched the demons, they burst into flame. Soon all the
alagai
were ablaze, and the
nie’Sharum
cheered. Seeing warriors doing likewise, some even lowered their bidos to piss on the demons as Everam’s light burned them from the world. Jardir had never felt so alive as he did in that moment, and he turned to Abban to share his joy.
    But Abban was nowhere to be seen.
    Thinking his friend still distressed over his fall the night before, Jardir went looking for him. Abban was injured, that was all. It was not the same as being weak. They would bide their time and ignore the sniggers of the other
nie’Sharum
until Abban had regained his strength, and then they would deal with the sniggerers directly and end the mocking once and for all.
    He searched through the camp and almost missed Abban, at last spotting his friend crawling out from under one of the provision carts.
    “What are you doing?” Jardir asked.
    “Oh!” Abban said, turning in surprise. “I was just…”
    Jardir ignored him, pushing past Abban and looking under the cart. Abban had strung a net there, filling it with the Dravazi pottery they had used as tools, cleverly packed with cloth to keep the pieces from clattering or breaking on the journey back.
    Abban spread his hands as Jardir turned to him, smiling. “My friend—”
    Jardir cut him off. “Put them back.”
    “Ahmann,” Abban started.
    “Put them back or I will break your other leg,” Jardir growled.
    Abban sighed, but it was more in exasperation than submission. “Again I ask you to be practical, my friend. We both know that with this leg, I have more chance of helping my family through profit than honor. And if I somehow still manage to become
dal’Sharum,
how long will I last? Even the strong veterans who came here to Baha will not all go home alive. For myself, I will be lucky to last through my first night. And what of my family then, if I leave this world with no glory? I don’t want my mother to end up selling my sisters as
jiwah’Sharum
because they have no dowry save my spilled blood.”
    “
Jiwah’Sharum
are sold?” Jardir asked, thinking of his own sisters, poorer than Abban’s by far.
Jiwah’Sharum
were group wives, kept in the great harem for all
dal’Sharum
to use.
    “Did you think girls volunteered?” Abban asked.