The Desert Spear

The woman nodded, eyes wide with fear.
    “We have come for your son, Abban,” Qeran said.
    “He’s not here,” Omara said, but her eyes and hands, the only parts of her visible beneath the thick black cloth, trembled. “I sent him out this morning, delivering goods.”
    “Search the back,” Qeran told Kaval. The drillmaster nodded and headed for the dividing flap behind the counter.
    “No, please!” Omara cried, stepping in his path. Kaval ignored her, shoving her aside and disappearing into the back. There were more shrieks, and a moment later the drillmaster reemerged clutching the arm of a young boy in a tan vest, cap, and pantaloons—though of much finer cloth than Jardir’s. He was perhaps a year or two older than Jardir, stocky and well fed. A number of older girls followed him out, two in tans and three more in the black, open-faced headwraps of unmarried women.
    “Abban am’Haman am’Kaji,” Qeran said, “you will come with us to the Kaji’sharaj to find your
Hannu Pash,
the path Everam wills for you.” The boy trembled at the words.
    Omara wailed, grabbing at her son, trying to pull him back. “Please! He is too young! Another year, I beg!”
    “Silence, woman,” Kaval said, shoving her to the floor. “The boy is old and fat enough as it is. If he is left to you another day, he will end up
khaffit
like his father.”
    “Be proud, woman,” Qeran told her. “Your son is being given the chance to rise above his father and serve Everam and the Kaji.”
    Omara clenched her fists, but she stayed where she had landed, head down, and wept quietly. No woman would dare defy a
dal’Sharum.
Abban’s sisters clutched at her, sharing in her grief. Abban reached for them, but Kaval jerked him away. The boy cried and wailed as they dragged him out of the tent. Jardir could hear the women crying even after the heavy flap fell closed and the clamor of the market surrounded them.
    The warriors all but ignored the boys as they led the way to the training grounds, letting them trail after. Abban continued to weep and shake as they went.
    “Why are you crying?” Jardir asked him. “The road ahead is bright with glory.”
    “I don’t want to be a warrior,” Abban said. “I don’t want to die.”
    Jardir shrugged. “Maybe you’ll be called to be
dama.
”
    Abban shuddered. “That would be worse. A
dama
killed my father.”
    “Why?” Jardir asked.
    “My father accidentally spilled ink on his robe,” Abban said.
    “The
dama
killed him just for that?” Jardir asked.
    Abban nodded, fresh tears welling in his eyes. “He broke my father’s neck right then. It happened so fast…he reached out, there was a snap, and my father was falling.” He swallowed hard. “Now I’m the only man left to look out for my mother and sisters.”
    Jardir took his hand. “My father’s dead, too, and they say my mother’s cursed for having three daughters in a row. But we are men of Kaji. We can surpass our fathers and bring honor back to our women.”
    “But I’m scared,” Abban sniffed.
    “I am, too, a little,” Jardir admitted, looking down as he said it. A moment later, he brightened. “Let’s make a pact.”
    Abban, raised in the cutthroat business of the bazaar, looked at him suspiciously. “What kind of pact?”
    “We’ll help each other through
Hannu Pash,
” Jardir said. “If you stumble, I will catch you, and if I fall, you,” he smirked and slapped Abban’s round belly, “will cushion it.”
    Abban yelped and rubbed his belly, but he did not complain, looking at Jardir in wonder. “You mean that?” he asked, drying his eyes with the back of his hand.
    Jardir nodded. They were walking in the shade of the bazaar’s awnings, but he grabbed Abban’s arm and pulled him into the sunlight. “I swear it by Everam’s light.”
    Abban smiled widely. “And I swear it by the jeweled Crown of Kaji.”
    “Keep up!” Kaval barked, and they chased after, but Abban moved with confidence now.
    The drillmasters drew wards in the air as they passed the great temple Sharik Hora, mumbling prayers to Everam, the Creator. Beyond Sharik Hora lay the training grounds, and Jardir and Abban tried to look everywhere at once, taking in the warriors at their practice. Some worked with shield and spear or net, while others marched or ran in lockstep. Watchers stood upon the top rungs of ladders braced against nothing, honing their balance. Still more
dal’Sharum
hammered spearheads and warded shields,