The Desert Spear

the language of the spear.”
    Abban bowed and turned to the greenlander, explaining. The
chin
looked up at Jardir and nodded his understanding. His face was grim, but Jardir recognized the eagerness in his eyes. He had the look of a
dal’Sharum
at dusk.
    Jardir moved to head down to the training ground with the others, but Inevera held his arm. Ashan and Hasik turned, hesitating.
    “Go on and see if you might teach the
chin
some of our hand signals,” Jardir said. “I will join you shortly.”
    “The
chin
will be instrumental in your rise to Shar’Dama Ka,” Inevera said bluntly as soon as they were alone. “Embrace him as a brother, but keep him within reach of your spear. One day you must kill him, if you are to be hailed as Deliverer.”
    Jardir stared hard at his inscrutable wife’s eyes.
What aren’t you telling me?
he wondered.

    The greenlander showed no hint of fear or trepidation as the sun set that night. He stood tall atop the walls, looking out at the sands eagerly, waiting for the first signs of the enemy rising.
    Truly, he was nothing like Jardir had imagined from his lessons about the weak half-men of the North. How long since a Krasian had gone to the green lands and seen its people for himself? A hundred years? Two? Had anyone left the Desert Spear since the Return?
    Two warriors snickered at his back. They were Mehnding tribe, the most powerful after the Majah. The Mehnding were devoted wholly to the art of ranged weapons. They built the rock slingers and scorpions, quarried stones for hurling, and made the giant scorpion stingers—great spears that could punch through a sand demon’s armor at a thousand feet. Though they were less proficient with the spear than other tribes, their honor knew no bounds, for the Mehnding killed more
alagai
than the Kaji and the Majah combined.
    “I wonder how long he will last before an
alagai
kills him,” one of the Mehnding said.
    “More likely he will soil himself and run in fear the moment they rise,” the other laughed.
    The greenlander glanced at them. His expression made it clear he knew he was being mocked, but he paid the warriors no mind, returning his focus on the shifting sands.
    He embraces pain when his goal is in sight,
Jardir thought, remembering the mockery he had endured on his first night in the Maze.
    Jardir moved to the two warriors. “The sun sets, and you have nothing better to do than mock your spear-brother?” he demanded loudly. Everyone on the wall turned to look.
    “But Sharum Ka,” one of the men protested, “he is only a savage.”
    “A savage who looks to the enemy while you snicker at his back like a
khaffit
!” Jardir growled. “Mock him again, and you will have weeks in the
dama’ting
pavilion to learn to keep a civil tongue.” He spoke the words calmly, but the
dal’Sharum
recoiled as if struck.
    A shout from the greenlander caught Jardir’s attention. The man stomped his spear on the wall, bellowing something in his guttural tongue. He pointed to the sands, and Jardir suddenly understood.
    The
alagai
were rising.
    “To your places!” he ordered, and the Mehnding turned back to their scorpions.
    Oil fires were lit and reflected with mirrors onto the battlefield, giving the Mehnding light for their deadly art.
    The greenlander watched the scorpion teams carefully. One man wound the springs while another set the stinger in place. A third aimed and fired. The Mehnding could complete the whole process in seconds.
    When the first stinger speared a sand demon, the greenlander gave a whoop, punching his fist into the air much as Jardir had done the first time he witnessed it as a
nie’Sharum.
    They have no scorpions in the North,
he surmised, filing the information away.
    For a time, the stingers hummed and the sling teams hauled great stones into place, cutting the ropes to free the counterweights and hurl the missiles into the growing ranks of
alagai,
killing them one by one or in groups.
    But as always, it was like taking grains off a dune. There were dozens of flame and wind demons, but the sand demons were an endless storm that could wear down a mountain.
    The Mehnding focused in a wide arc around the great gate to the Maze, preparing for the invitation. When the
alagai
were positioned correctly, Jardir signaled a
nie’Sharum,
who blew a long, clear note on the Horn of Sharak. Almost instantly the gates opened. The oldest warriors in the tribes stood within, beating their shields and jeering at the