The Desert Spear

The server glared at him, and Jardir quickly ushered him away. The corners of the room had already been taken by the older boys, so they retreated to one of the walls.
    “I’ll starve on this,” Abban said, swirling the watery gruel in his bowl.
    “We’re still better off than some,” Jardir said, pointing to a pair of bruised boys with nothing to eat at all. “You can have some of mine,” he added when Abban did not brighten. “I never got much more than this at home.”

    They slept on the sandstone floor of the barrack, thin blankets their only shield against the cold. Used to sharing the warmth of his mother and sisters, Jardir nestled against Abban’s warm bulk. In the distance, he heard the Horn of Sharak, and knew battle was being joined. It took a long time for him to drift off, dreaming of glory.
    He woke with a start when another of the thin blankets was thrown over his face. He struggled hard, but the cloth was twisted behind his head and held tight. He heard Abban’s muffled scream next to him.
    Blows began to rain down on him from all sides, kicks and punches blasting the breath from his body and rattling his brains. Jardir flailed his limbs wildly, but though he felt several of his blows connect, it did nothing to lessen the onslaught. Before long, he was hanging limply, supported wholly by the suffocating blanket.
    When he thought he could endure no more and must surely die, never having gained paradise or glory, a familiar voice said, “Welcome to the Kaji’sharaj, rats,” the
s
at the end whistling through Hasik’s missing tooth. The blankets were released, dropping them to the floor.
    The other boys laughed and went back to their blankets as Jardir and Abban curled tight and wept in the darkness.

    “Stand up straight,” Jardir hissed as they awaited morning inspection.
    “I can’t,” Abban whined. “Not a bit of sleep, and I ache to my bones.”
    “Don’t let it show,” Jardir said. “My father said the weakest camel draws the wolves.”
    “Mine told me to hide until the wolves go away,” Abban replied.
    “No talking!” Kaval barked. “The
dama
is coming to inspect you pathetic wretches.”
    He and Qeran took no notice of their cuts and bruises as they walked past. Jardir’s left eye was swollen nearly shut, but the only thing the drillmasters noticed was Abban’s slump. “Stand straight!” Qeran said, and Kaval punctuated the command with a crack of his leather strap across Abban’s legs. Abban screamed in pain and nearly fell, but Jardir steadied him in time.
    There was a snicker, and Jardir snarled at Hasik, who only smirked in response.
    In truth, Jardir felt little steadier than Abban, but he refused to show it. Though his head spun and his limbs ached, Jardir arched his back and kept his good eye attentive as Dama Khevat approached. The drillmasters stepped aside for the cleric, bowing in submission.
    “It is a sad day that the warriors of Kaji, the bloodline of Shar’Dama Ka, the Deliverer himself, should be reduced to such a sorry lot,” the
dama
sneered, spitting in the dust. “Your mothers must have mixed camel’s piss with the seeds of men.”
    “That’s a lie!” Jardir shouted before he could help himself. Abban looked at him incredulously, but it had been an insult past his ability to bear. As Qeran sprang at him with frightening speed, Jardir knew he’d made a grave mistake. The drillmaster’s strap laid a line of fire where it struck his bare skin, knocking him to the ground.
    But the
dal’Sharum
did not stop there. “If the
dama
tells you that you are the son of piss, then it is so!” he shouted, whipping Jardir repeatedly. Clad only in his bido, Jardir could do nothing to ward off the blows. Whenever he twisted or turned to protect a wounded area, Qeran found a fresh patch of skin to strip. He screamed, but it only encouraged the assault.
    “Enough,” Khevat said. The blows stopped instantly.
    “Are you the son of piss?” Qeran asked.
    Jardir’s limbs felt like wet bread as he forced himself to his feet. He kept his eyes on the strap, raised and ready to strike again. He knew if he continued his insolence, the drillmaster would kill him. He would die with no glory, and his spirit would spend millennia outside the gates of paradise with the
khaffit,
looking in at those in Everam’s embrace and waiting for reincarnation. The thought terrified him, but his father’s name was the only thing he owned in the world, and he would not