Many of the Sharum flouted the restrictions of the Evejah, drinking couzi to give them courage in the night, and to forget the nights in the day. Few, though, were fool enough to get so drunk they could not stand at attention should a dama pass them by.
Qeran was that drunk and more. The drillmaster sat on a stained pillow with his back supported by the tent’s central pole, his black robes wet and stinking of vomit. Next to him lay his fine warded spear, a special crossbar added to allow him to use the weapon as a crutch. His left leg ended just below the knee, the leg of his pantaloons pinned back. Strapped to the stump was a simple wooden peg.
He glared at Abban as the khaffit entered, small eyes hard with hatred. ‘Come to gloat, khaffit? I’m nearly as useless as you now, but at least my place in Heaven is secure.’
Abban let the tent flap fall closed, leaving the two men alone. Then he spat at Qeran’s feet.
‘I am not useless, Drillmaster. I serve our master every day, and never once have I whined like a woman over my fate, much less drunk myself into a piss pool. Everam blessed you with a strong body, but I see without it, your heart is weak.’
Qeran’s face twisted with rage and he grabbed for his spear, meaning to leap to his feet and thrust it through Abban’s heart. But he was new to his wooden leg, and unsteady from the couzi. He stumbled, and it was all the time Abban needed to strike the peg hard with his crutch, knocking it clean off the drillmaster’s leg. As Qeran fell, he struck again, knocking away the spear.
The drillmaster hit the ground hard, and there was a click as Abban’s hidden blade snapped open, pointing right between his eyes.
‘You have killed many demons in your day, Drillmaster,’ Abban said, ‘but will even your place in Heaven remain secure if you are killed in your own filth by the crippled khaffit you cast from sharaj in shame?’
Qeran remained still a long time, his hard eyes nearly crossed as they watched the blade hovering at the bridge of his nose. ‘What do you want?’ he said at last.
Abban smiled, stepping back and retracting his blade so he could lean on his crutch as he bowed. From within his brightly coloured vest he produced the scroll marked with the Deliverer’s seal. ‘Why, to make you great again.’
Abban and Qeran drew many stares as they limped through the training ground toward the Kaji khaffit’sharaj. The drillmaster had been stripped by one of the jiwah’Sharum, doused in clean water, and dressed in fresh blacks. Abban knew without doubt that his head was pounding from the couzi as he squinted in the bright light of day, but the drillmaster had recovered something of himself and showed nothing of his discomfort. His back was straight as he walked, head high. As was the custom, Abban walked a step behind him, though he could easily have outpaced the slow gait Qeran required to walk with dignity.
They came to a section of grounds where tan-robed kha’Sharum trained – thousands in the Kaji tribe alone. Most practised the simple spear and shield forms Abban remembered from what seemed a lifetime ago, turning in unison, shields overlapping as they thrust their spears as one. A smaller group practised more advanced techniques.
Qeran spat. ‘Most of these men should still be in bidos, or better yet carrying water and polishing shields.’
A handful of young Sharum walked the ranks. They wore black, but the veils hanging loose around their necks were tan, marking them as khaffit drillmasters.
‘Pups,’ Qeran sneered, ‘sharpening their teeth on khaffit in hope of earning the red.’
One of the young drillmasters caught sight of them and approached, eyeing them with wary disdain until his eyes lighted on Qeran’s red veil. His eyes flicked up and lit with recognition as he met the drillmaster’s face. Qeran had been among the Spears of the Deliverer, and his reputation was well known. He and Drillmaster Kaval had trained the Shar’Dama Ka himself.
The young drillmaster bowed, ignoring Abban completely. ‘I am Hamash asu Gimas am’Tesan am’Kaji.’
Qeran returned his bow with a slight nod. ‘I trained your father. Gimas was a fierce warrior. He died well in the Maze.’
Hamash bowed again, more deeply this time. ‘What brings you to the khaffit’sharaj, honoured Drillmaster?’
Abban limped forward, holding out his writ. Drillmasters, like kai’Sharum, were given special training that included letters and warding, but from the way Hamash’s brow furrowed as he stared at the writ, he had obviously fallen short in his lessons.
Abban let the failing pass. It was to his advantage. ‘The Deliverer requires ten of your best kha’Sharum. I am to select them.’
‘You, a khaffit, mean to select warriors?’ Hamash said, eyes flicking to Qeran.
Abban smiled. ‘Who better? They are khaffit warriors, after all.’
‘Warriors, still,’ the young drillmaster growled.
‘Drillmaster Qeran will ensure they are fit to fight,’ Abban said. ‘I am to ensure they have brains in their heads.’
‘Only ten?’ Qeran asked quietly, too low for Hamash to hear. ‘You told me the Shar’Dama Ka commanded a hundred.’
‘The Deliverer has no tribe, Drillmaster,’ Abban said. ‘We will select ten from each.’
‘That is more than a hundred,’ Qeran said. There were twelve tribes of Krasia.
Smart for a Sharum, Abban mused. ‘I remember your training methods well, Drillmaster. There will be those who will not survive its rigours, and others who will not be fit for battle when you are finished.’ He tapped his own leg pointedly with his crutch. ‘We will start with one hundred and twenty, that you may kill or cast out those who fail you.’
Qeran grunted, and Hamash, who had been watching the exchange, met his eyes. His lip curled slightly in disgust. ‘Even a crippled drillmaster should not allow a khaffit to speak so boldly to him.’
Qeran’s calm eyes revealed nothing of his intentions as his spear haft snapped upward, taking Hamash between the legs. The young drillmaster bent forward, and Qeran spun the weapon, cracking it hard against the side of his head, knocking him to the ground.
Hamash was quick to roll aside, but Qeran anticipated the move, slamming the metal butt of his spear down just as he rolled into the blow. Hamash’s cheek tore open as several of his teeth shattered. He coughed blood and shards, trying vainly to regain his feet, but the beating did not stop there. Qeran had firm footing, and struck again and again. Most of the blows were painful but not meant for lasting damage, but when the young drillmaster continued to resist, there was a sharp crack as Qeran’s spear butt broke his right arm at the elbow. He roared with pain.
‘Embrace the pain and be silent, fool!’ Qeran hissed. ‘Your men are watching!’ Indeed, drillmasters and kha’Sharum alike had stopped their training, watching with mouths hanging open.
Qeran turned to look at the other drillmasters. ‘Strip the men to their bidos and form squads for inspection!’ he roared, and they scrambled as if the command had come from the Deliverer himself. In moments their spears and shields were neatly stacked, robes folded, and the men stood at attention in nothing but their tan loincloths.
Qeran jabbed the butt of his spear into Hamash, still writhing on the ground. ‘On your feet and heel me. I will already have your tan veil. Fall behind or disrespect me again and I’ll have your blacks as well.’