The Desert Spear

or practiced
sharusahk—
the art of empty-handed battle.
    There were twelve
sharaji,
or schools, surrounding the training grounds, one for each tribe. Jardir and Abban were Kaji tribe, and thus were taken to the Kaji’sharaj. Here they would begin the
Hannu Pash
and emerge as
dama, dal’Sharum,
or
khaffit.
    “The Kaji’sharaj is so much larger than the others,” Abban said, looking up at the huge pavilion tent. “Only the Majah’sharaj is even close.”
    “Of course it is,” Kaval said. “Did you think it coincidence that our tribe is named Kaji, after Shar’Dama Ka, the Deliverer? We are the get of his thousand wives, blood of his blood. The Majah,” he spat, “are only the blood of the weakling who ruled after the Shar’Dama Ka left this world. The other tribes are inferior to us in every way. Never forget that.”
    They were taken into the pavilion and given bidos—simple white loincloths—and their tans were taken to be burned. They were
nie’Sharum
now; not warriors, but not boys, either.
    “A month of gruel and hard training will burn the fat from you, boy,” Kaval said as Abban removed his shirt. The drillmaster punched Abban’s round belly in disgust. Abban doubled over from the blow, but Jardir caught him before he fell, steadying him until he caught his breath. When they were finished changing, the drillmasters took them to the barrack.
    “New blood!” Qeran shouted as they were shoved into a large, unfurnished room filled with other
nie’Sharum.
“Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’-Jardir am’Kaji, and Abban am’Haman am’Kaji! They are your brothers now.”
    Abban colored, and Jardir knew immediately why, as did every other boy present. By leaving out his father’s name, Qeran had as much as announced that Abban’s father was
khaffit—
the lowest and most despised caste in Krasian society.
Khaffit
were cowards and weaklings, men who could not hold to the warrior way.
    “Ha! You bring us a fat pig-eater’s son and a scrawny rat!” the largest of the
nie’Sharum
cried. “Throw them back!” The other boys all laughed.
    Drillmaster Qeran growled and punched the boy in the face. He hit the stone floor hard, spitting up a gob of blood. All laughing ceased.
    “Make mock when you have lost your bido, Hasik,” Qeran said. “Until then, you are
all
scrawny, pig-eating
khaffit
rats.” With that, he and Kaval turned on their heels and strode out.
    “You’ll pay for that, rats,” Hasik said, the last word ending in a strange whistle. He tore the loose tooth from his mouth and threw it at Abban, who flinched when it struck. Jardir stepped in front of him and snarled, but Hasik and his cohorts had already turned away.

    Soon after they arrived, they were given bowls, and the gruel pot was set out. Famished, Jardir went right for the pot, and Abban hurried even faster, but one of the older boys blocked their path. “You think you eat before me?” he demanded. He shoved Jardir into Abban, and they both fell to the floor.
    “Get up, if you mean to eat,” said the drillmaster who had brought the gruel. “The boys at the end of the line go hungry.”
    Abban shrieked, and they scrambled to their feet. Already most of the boys had lined up, roughly in order of size and strength, with Hasik at the very front. At the back of the line, the smallest boys fought fiercely to avoid the spots at the end.
    “What are we going to do?” Abban asked.
    “We’re going to get on that line,” Jardir said, grabbing Abban’s arm and dragging him toward the center, where the boys were still outweighed by well-fed Abban. “My father said that weakness shown is worse than weakness felt.”
    “But I don’t know how to fight!” Abban protested, shaking.
    “You’re about to learn,” Jardir said. “When I knock someone down, fall on him with all your weight.”
    “I can do that,” Abban agreed. Jardir guided them right up to a boy who snarled in challenge. He puffed out his chest and faced up against Abban, the larger of the two boys.
    “Get to the back of the line, new rats!” he growled.
    Jardir said nothing, punching the boy in the stomach and kicking at his knees. When he fell, Abban took his cue, falling on the boy like a sandstone pillar. By the time Abban got up, Jardir had already taken the boy’s place in line. He glared at those behind, and they made room for Abban, as well.
    A single ladle of gruel slopped into their bowls was their reward. “That’s it?” Abban asked in shock.