The Warded Man

killing the Warder as he tried to uncover them. There was only one position with a higher mortality rate.
    “Push Guard, I would prefer,” Arlen replied.
    Jardir shook his head, but he was smiling. “Always the most dangerous duty for you,” he chided. “If you are killed, who will carry our letters?”
    Arlen understood the sarcasm, even through Jardir’s thick accent. Letters meant little to him. Few dal’Sharum could even read.
    “Not so dangerous, this night,” Arlen said. Unable to contain his excitement, he unrolled his new spear, holding it up to the First Warrior proudly.
    “A kingly weapon,” Jardir agreed, “but it is the warrior that wins through in the night, Par’chin, not the spear.” He put his hand on Arlen’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Do not put too much faith in your weapon. I have seen warriors more seasoned than you paint their spears and come to a bitter end.”
    “I did not make it,” Arlen said. “I found it in the ruins of Anoch Sun.”
    “The birthplace of the Deliverer?” Jardir laughed. “The Spear of Kaji is a myth, Par’chin, and the lost city has been reclaimed by the sands.”
    Arlen shook his head. “I’ve been there,” he said. “I can take you there.”
    “I am Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear, Par’chin,” Jardir replied. “I cannot just pack a camel and ride off into the sand looking for a city that exists only in ancient texts.”
    “I think I will convince you when night falls,” Arlen said.
    Jardir smiled patiently. “Promise me that you will not try anything foolish,” he said. “Warded spear or no, you are not the Deliverer. It would be sad to bury you.”
    “I promise,” Arlen said.
    “Good, then!” Jardir clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, my friend, the hour grows late. You shall sup in my palace tonight, before we muster outside Sharik Hora!”
    They supped on spiced meats, ground peas, and the paper-thin layers of bread the Krasian women made by spreading wet meal on hot, polished rocks. Arlen had a place of honor next to Jardir, surrounded by kai’Sharum and served by Jardir’s own wives. Arlen never understood why Jardir paid him so much respect, but after his treatment at the Andrah’s palace, it was most welcome.
    The men begged stories of him, calling for the tale of One Arm’s crippling, though they had heard it many times. Always it was tales of One Arm, or Alagai Ka, as they called him. Rock demons were rare in Krasia, and as Arlen complied, his audience sat entranced by the tale.
    “We built a new scorpion after your last visit, Par’chin,” one of the kai’Sharum told him as they sipped their nectar after the meal. “It can punch a spear through a sandstone wall. We will find a way to pierce Alagai Ka’s hide yet.”
    Arlen chuckled and shook his head. “I’m afraid you will not see One Arm tonight,” he said, “or ever again. He has seen the sun.”
    The eyes of the kai’Sharum bulged. “Alagai Ka is dead?” one asked. “How did you manage this?”
    Arlen smiled. “I will tell you the tale after tonight’s victory,” he said. He stroked the spear next to him gently as he did, a gesture the First Warrior did not miss.

CHAPTER 20
ALAGAI’SHARAK
328 AR

    “ GREAT KAJI , SPEAR OF EVERAM , grant strength to your warriors’ arms and courage to their hearts this night, as they go forth to your holy work.”
    Arlen shifted uneasily as the Damaji bestowed the blessings of Kaji, the first Deliverer, on the dal’Sharum . In the North, claiming the Deliverer was just a mortal man might get you in a fist-fight, but it was no crime. In Krasia, such heresy was punishable by death. Kaji was Everam’s Messenger, come to unite all mankind against the alagai . They called him Shar’Dama Ka, First Warrior-Priest, and said he would return to unite man again one day, when they were worthy of Sharak Ka , the First War. Any who suggested otherwise came to a quick and brutal end.
    Arlen was not such a fool as to voice his doubts about Kaji’s divinity, but the Holy Men still unnerved him. They always seemed to be looking for an excuse to take offense at him, the outsider, and giving offense in Krasia usually meant death for the offender.
    But whatever discomfort Arlen might feel around the Damaji , he always swelled at the sight of Sharik Hora, the enormous domed temple to Everam. Literally meaning “Heroes’ Bones,” Sharik Hora was a reminder of what humanity was capable of, a building dwarfing any