The Desert Spear

Jardir sighed, but he nodded and they retreated to a chamber off the throne room that Inevera had claimed as her own. As always, the room was filled with bright pillows and cloying incense. Jardir felt his pulse quicken, his body conditioned to associate the smell with Inevera’s sex. The Jiwah Ka was more than happy to share him when she was sated, but she was almost a man in her hunger, and the side chamber was used frequently for that purpose, often while the Damaji and Jardir’s councilors waited in the throne room without.

Inevera moved to pull the curtains, and he watched her body through the translucent veils that were all she ever wore anymore. Even at more than forty years of age—she never said for certain—she was the most beautiful of his wives by far, her curves still round and firm, her skin smooth. He was tempted to take her right there, but Inevera was single-minded when the dice were concerned, and he knew she would only rebuff him until they were thrown.

They knelt on the silk pillows, allowing a broad space for the dice to fall. As always, Inevera needed his blood for the spell, releasing it with a quick slash of her warded knife. She licked the blade clean and returned it to her belt sheath, pressing her palm to the wound, and then emptying the dice into it. They glowed fiercely in the dark as she shook her hands and threw.

The demon bones scattered on the floor, and Inevera scanned them quickly. Jardir had learned that the pattern of the fall was as important as the symbols that showed, but his understanding of the dice ended there. He had seen his wives argue many times over the meaning of a throw, though none ever dared question Inevera’s interpretations.

The Damajah hissed angrily at the pattern before her, looking up sharply at Jardir.

“You cannot go,” she said.

Jardir scowled, moving to the window and grabbing the curtain angrily. “Cannot?” he demanded, pulling the heavy drapes aside and flooding the room with bright sunlight. Inevera barely got her dice back in the pouch in time.

“I am Shar’Dama Ka,” he said. “There is nothing I cannot do.”

There was a flash of rage on Inevera’s face, but it was gone in an instant. “The dice promise disaster if you go,” she warned.

“I tire of following your dice,” Jardir said. “Especially since they always seem to tell you more than you deem me worthy to know. I will go.”

“Then I am going with you,” Inevera said.

Jardir shook his head. “You will do no such thing. You will stay here and keep your sons from killing one another until I return.”

He strode up to her and took her shoulder in a firm grip. “I would have one last taste of my wife, though, before the trek north.”

Inevera twisted, seeming only to tap his arm, but his grip lost strength for an instant, and she stepped away. “If you go alone, you can wait,” she said, a cruel smile on her face. “More reason to come back alive.”

Jardir scowled, but he knew better than to try to force the issue, Shar’Dama Ka and husband or no.

Wonda opened the door to Leesha’s cottage, letting Rojer and Gared in. Once the girl heard the Painted Man had commanded Gared to guard Rojer, she had insisted on doing the same for Leesha, sleeping at the cottage every night. Leesha had begun assigning her chores to try to dissuade the girl’s smothering, but Wonda did the work gladly, and Leesha had to admit she had grown accustomed to her looming presence.

“The Cutters finished felling trees to clear space for the next greatward,” Rojer said as they sat at her table and took tea. “It’s a mile square, just like you asked.”

“That’s good,” Leesha said. “We can start laying stones to mark the edges of the ward immediately.”

“Land’s thick with woodies,” Gared said. “Hundreds of ’em. The cuttin’ drew ’em like flies to a dungpile. Oughta gather the town and wipe ’em out ’fore we build.”

Leesha looked at Gared closely. The giant Cutter was always recommending battle, as the notched and dented gauntlets at his belt showed. But Leesha was never certain if it was for love of carnage and the jolt of magic that he acted, or for the good of the town.

“He’s right” Rojer added when Leesha remained silent. “The demons will be pushed to its edges when the ward activates, making them thicker still, ready to kill anyone who stumbles off the forbidding. We should just annihilate them in the open rather than try to hunt them through the trees later.”

“S’what the Painted Man’d do,” Gared said.

“The Painted Man would do half the killing himself,” Leesha said, “but he’s not here.”

Gared nodded. “That’s why we need yur help. Gonna need thundersticks and liquid demonfire. Lots of it.”

“I see,” Leesha said.

“Know yur busy,” Gared said. “Got folk to do the mixing, if yu’ll give ’em the recipe.”

“You want me to give you the secrets of fire?” Leesha barked a laugh. “I would sooner let the knowledge pass from the world!”

“What’s the difference ’tween that and my warded axe?” Gared asked. “Yu’ll trust folk with one and not the other?”

“The difference is that your axe doesn’t explode and destroy everything within fifty feet if you drop it or leave it out in the sun,” Leesha said. “My own apprentices will be lucky if I teach them the secrets of fire one day.”

“So we should build the refugee town on demon-infested land?” Gared asked.

“It’s going to be an extension of the Hollow, not a refugee town,” Leesha corrected, “and of course not. Draw up a plan, and if it’s sound, I’ll make what’s needed. But,” she added, “I’ll be on hand to make sure no wood-brained idiot sets himself or the ripping woods on fire.”

Gared shook his head. “Ent safe. Need you at the hospit, case anyone’s hurt.”

Leesha folded her arms. “Then you’ll be fighting without the flamework.”

Wonda crossed her arms as well. “Ent no demon going to lay a claw on Mistress Leesha while I’m around, Gared Cutter, and I don’t mean to wait at the hospit, either.”

“We’ll scour in a week,” Leesha said. “Plenty of time to prepare the land and mix the chemics. Let Benn know, as well. Might as well let the demons charge some glass before we show them the sun.”

Neither Gared nor Rojer seemed pleased, but Leesha knew they had no choice but to nod and agree. Perhaps not as subtle as Duchess Araine, who would have had the men convinced it was their own idea to have her at the scene, but not bad. She wondered if Bruna had secretly been the same, ruling the Hollow from her tiny hut without anyone even realizing.

They galloped across the land on black desert chargers, fifty warriors following Jardir and Ashan on their white stallions. Trailing behind but keeping them in sight, if barely, came Abban on his long-legged camel. They were forced to stop several times to allow him to catch up, usually by a stream where they could water the horses. Such things were almost commonplace in the green lands, something that never ceased to amaze the desert warriors.

“Everam’s beard, these roads are stony,” Abban whined when he finally reached one stream. He practically fell from his seat and groaned as he rubbed at his prodigious backside.