The Desert Spear

them was a match for any two
dal’Sharum
in the art of the empty hand.
    But combat was something Jardir understood. He threw himself into the training, losing his shame in the endlessly flowing forms. Even after the lamps were extinguished each night, Jardir practiced the
sharukin
for hours in the darkness of his tiny cell.
    After the tanners had taken Moshkama’s skin, Jardir and Ashan took the body and boiled it in oil, fishing out the bones and bleaching them in the sun atop the bone minarets that climbed into the desert sky. The
jiwah’Sharum
had filled three tear bottles over his body, and these were mixed with the lacquer they used to paint the bones before laying them out for the artisans. Moshkama’s bones and the tears of his mourners would add to the glory of Sharik Hora, and Jardir dreamed of the day he, too, would become one with the holy temple.
    There were other tasks, less satisfying, less honorable. He spent hours each day learning to speak on paper, using a stick to copy the words of the Evejah into a box of sand as he recited them aloud. It seemed a useless art, unfit for a warrior, but Jardir heeded the
dama’ting
‘s words and worked hard, mastering the letters quickly. From there he learned mathematics, history, philosophy, and finally warding. This, he devoured hungrily. Anything that might hurt or hinder the
alagai
received his utter devotion.
    Drillmaster Qeran came several times a week, spending hours honing Jardir’s spearwork, while the
dama
loremasters taught him tactics and the history of war dating back to the time of the Deliverer.
    “War is more than prowess on the field,” Dama Khevat said. “The Evejah tells us that war is, at its crux, deception.”
    “Deception?” Jardir asked.
    Khevat nodded. “As you might feint with your spear, so too must the wise leader misdirect his foe before battle is ever joined. When strong, he must appear weak. When weak, he must seem ready to fight. When near enough to strike, he must seem too far to threaten. When regrouping, he must make his enemies believe attack is imminent. It is thus he makes the enemy waste their strength while husbanding his own.”
    Jardir cocked his head. “Is it not more honorable to meet the enemy head-on?”
    “We did not build the Great Maze so that we could sally forth and meet the
alagai
head-on,” Khevat said. “There is no greater honor than victory, and to achieve victory, you must seize every advantage, great and small. This is the essence of war, and war is the essence of all things, from the lowest
khaffit
haggling in the bazaar to the Andrah hearing petitions in his palace.”
    “I understand,” Jardir said.
    “Deceit depends on secrecy,” Khevat went on. “If spies can learn of your deceptions, they take away all your strength. A great leader must hold his deceit so close that even his inner circle and sometimes even he himself does not think on it until the time to strike.”
    “But why make war at all, Dama?” Jardir dared to ask.
    “Eh?” Khevat replied.
    “We are all Everam’s children,” Jardir said. “The enemy is the
alagai.
We need every man to stand against him, yet we kill one another under the sun every day.” Khevat looked at him, and Jardir was not sure if the
dama
was annoyed or pleased with the question.
    “Unity,” the
dama
replied at last. “In war men stand together, and it is that collective power that makes them strong. In the words of Kaji himself during his conquest of the green lands,
Unity is worth any price of blood. Against the night and Nie’s untold legions, better a hundred thousand men standing together than a hundred million cowering by themselves.
Remember that always, Ahmann.”
    Jardir bowed. “I will, Dama.”

CHAPTER 5
JIWAH KA
    p.
313-316 AR

    THREE NIE’DAMAAPPROACHED HIM from all sides, and though he could not see her, Jardir sensed that the
dama’ting
was watching. She was always watching.
    He embraced the moment as he did pain, letting all worldly concern fall away. After more than five years in Sharik Hora, the peace came effortlessly when he called it now. There was no him. There was no them. There was no her. There was only the dance.
    Ashan came at him first, but Jardir feinted a block, then pivoted and leapt aside to punch Halvan in the chest, Ashan’s kick meeting only air. He caught Halvan’s arm and twisted him to the ground easily. He could have torn the arm from its socket, but it was a greater test of skill to leave his