The Daylight War

They had felt their brother’s death, and fled the field.

Jardir bent, slinging the alagai prince’s body over his shoulder. He picked up its conical head with his free hand. With enough electrum, he could double the range of the Skull Throne, or build another to take with him as he conquered the North.

But first, there needed to be an early harvest.

‘I do not see the point of this, Father,’ Jayan said, when Jardir called his court in the hours before dawn and laid out his plan. ‘We should be rebuilding the defences and resting for the coming night, not …’

‘Be silent and listen well,’ Jardir snapped. ‘The alagai cannot defeat us on the field, and your mother has magicked the central city beyond their reach. The mind demons’ plan to build greatwards in the wheat fields has failed, and they will not attempt it again, lest they reveal their locations to me and meet the same fate as their brother.’

‘Then we have won,’ Jayan said.

‘Do not be a fool,’ Asome said. ‘The alagai need not meet our spears or storm our wards to kill us. They have only to burn the fields.’

‘And so we must leave them nothing to burn,’ Ashan agreed. ‘Harvest everything. Even grain not fully fruited.’

‘Work for the women, khaffit, and chin who cowered behind the walls while men stood for them in the night,’ Jayan said.

‘Work for all of us,’ Jardir corrected. ‘Even if every man, woman, and child in Everam’s Bounty, from the proudest dama to the lowliest chin cripple, bends their back from sunup to sunset, we will only be able to harvest …’

‘Twenty-two percent,’ Abban supplied.

‘… twenty-two per cent of the crop before night falls and the fires begin,’ Jardir finished. ‘It is essential that we have every hand, and that those of us considered above such toil be seen in the fields with the rest.’

Aleverak laid a hand on Jayan’s shoulder. ‘You did great honour to the white turban last night, son of Ahmann. Take heart in this. Did not Kaji himself begin life as a simple fruit picker?’

Jayan glanced at the hand, and there was a flare of anger in his aura at the perceived condescension. Aleverak had humbled him before, however, and he was wise enough to swallow the emotion.

There, my son, is the beginning of wisdom, Jardir thought.

‘Be careful, Deliverer,’ Hasik said as they approached a group of chin farmers, ‘they’re armed.’

Jardir studied the huge reaping tools the men held and did not deny they could be effective weapons in the right hands, but he sensed no danger here. The chin seemed terrified of him.

‘You worry too much, Hasik,’ he chided. ‘If a chin can kill me with a farming tool, what hope have I against Alagai Ka?’

He strode up to the men, and as expected they immediately fell to their knees, clumsily pressing their faces to the dirt in a crude imitation of proper obeisance.

‘Rise, brothers,’ Jardir said, bowing in return. ‘We have work to do, and no time for such formality.’ He reached out, taking one of the reaping tools. ‘What is this called?’

‘Ah, that’s a scythe, Y’Grace,’ one of the men said. He was past his prime but still strong.

Jardir nodded. He had heard the name. ‘Show me how to use it?’

‘Yur gonna mow?’ the man asked, incredulous.

The man next to him slapped him on the back. ‘Do as he says, idiot,’ he whispered.

The farmer nodded, taking the tool and demonstrating how to hold it, his muscular arms straight as he twisted to pass the blade close to the ground, mowing a small section of stalks with each pass.

‘A good tool, and an efficient stroke,’ Jardir said. ‘You would have been a great warrior, if you had taken that path.’

The man bowed. ‘Thank you, Y’Grace.’

‘But it is slow,’ Jardir said, taking the tool, ‘and our time is short. Please stand aside.’ He removed his outer robe, stripped to the waist save for the Crown of Kaji at his brow and the Spear strapped to his back. He held the scythe in reverse, blade behind him as he crouched low and called upon the magic in the items, filling himself with the strength and speed of a hundred men.

He leapt forward, moving along the field at a run as he brought the blade into the stalks. His sandalled feet beat a steady rhythm on the soft tilled ala, and in moments he was at the far end, turning for another pass. Cut stalks were still falling as he mowed those beside them.

The sun was still low in the sky when Jardir paused and looked out over the mown field. Inevera had found a basket weaver in the bazaar to deliver a cartload, and she herself led the work of harvesting the wheat, carrying a full basket as she directed women and children like she had been working the fields her entire life.

She was beautiful in the morning light, almost demure in opaque linen pants and a tight vest, maroon trimmed with gold. The khaffit and chin looked at her with worship in their eyes, and bent their backs all the harder at seeing her toil.

He looked out over the fields, seeing dama and Sharum working side by side with the lesser castes. It was an inspiring sight, a taste of the unity Kaji dreamed of, the common cause that would allow mankind to throw back the alagai and win Sharak Ka.

He prayed it would be enough.

‘… complete destruction of the Mehnding apple orchards,’ Abban said, ‘and over two thousand acres of pasture.’

Jardir sat the Skull Throne, stinking of the greasy ash that covered his clothes and smudged his skin. The burns were already healed, but he listened with a heavy heart to Abban’s private morning report after the third night of Waning.

His fears proved true the second night as the alagai princes, their original plan thwarted and unwilling to attempt it again lest they meet him on the field, moved instead to destroy his people through starvation.

The many rivers and streams throughout his fertile lands had proven natural firebreaks, and he had led warriors to destroy the flame demons and fight fires wherever they might appear, but even his powers were not infinite, and the depredations were devastating. Jardir lost count of the tonnage as Abban read list after list.

Abban turned over the next sheet. ‘In the Krevakh lands, there was a loss of …’

Jardir felt as if he might burst out of his skin if he had to sit and listen another moment. He stood abruptly, striding down the steps to pace the court floor. ‘Just tell me, khaffit,’ he growled. ‘How bad is it?’

Abban shrugged. ‘If the loss is done, then your people will survive, Deliverer.’ He met Jardir’s eyes. ‘But if the loss continues, month after month, half the people of Everam’s Bounty will lie dead before the winter snows recede, all without the alagai raising a claw.’

Jardir put his face in one of his hands.

‘You do have two advantages, however,’ Abban said.

Jardir looked up at him. ‘Advantages?’

‘Your people see you as the true son of Everam now,’ Abban said. ‘Even the chin whisper your name with awe, spreading the tales of your efforts to protect them, day and night. Working in the fields alongside them was a masterstroke.’

‘I didn’t do it to win hearts,’ Jardir said.

‘It does not matter why you did it, my friend,’ Abban said. ‘With that gesture, and the body of the alagai prince to parade before the Damaji, they will follow you, Krasian and greenlander alike.’