The Desert Spear

But Aleverak surprised him, twisting sharply and much more quickly than Jardir would have believed possible. He caught hold of Jardir’s arm and used his own momentum against him.

Feeling his joints scream, Jardir had no choice but to go limp and follow the Damaji’s throw. He landed on his back, and the gathered crowd gasped in amazement. Aleverak advanced quickly, driving a bony heel down at Jardir’s throat, but Jardir caught the foot in both hands, twisting in opposite directions as he got his feet under him.

Aleverak accepted the twist, leaping into it and again using Jardir’s own strength against him as he kicked Jardir in the mouth with his free foot. Again Jardir found himself hitting the marble floor, with Aleverak still on his feet.

Everyone watched the battle with great interest now. A moment ago the fight had been about giving an old man an honorable death—a footnote in the tale of Jardir’s ascension. But suddenly everything Jardir had built was in jeopardy. His sons were still too young to properly defend themselves if his enemies bared knives at them without Jardir’s protection. The Andrah leaned forward on this throne, watching intently.

Aleverak charged again, but Jardir managed to get his feet back under him in time and met him head-on. This time, he kept his feet firmly planted, giving the old man no energy to turn back on him. Aleverak’s blows were amazingly quick, but Jardir still blocked the first two. The third he let go through, accepting the punch in exchange for the opportunity to lock on to the Damaji’s arm.

Aleverak offered Jardir no energy for a throw of his own, but whereas the ancient Damaji was little more than tough skin over sharp bone, Jardir was thick with muscle, a warrior in his prime. He did not need to steal energy to throw a man who weighed little more than his age.

Jardir flexed and pivoted sharply, hurling Aleverak away from him. The Damaji twisted with the move, never losing his balance even as he was thrown, and Jardir knew he would land on his feet and come right back in.

Jardir kept hold of Aleverak’s arm, ducking under it to aid his twist and putting a foot into the old man’s back as he hit the floor. He pulled hard, and the snap of Aleverak’s shoulder echoed up to the great domed ceiling above. Bone tore through the Damaji’s white robes, which quickly ran red.

Jardir moved to finish him quickly before pain could unman him, but Aleverak never screamed, never offered submission. Jardir met the ancient Damaji’s eyes and saw a focus that denied all pain as Aleverak struggled back to his feet. His honor was boundless as he took a new stance, his left arm leading as his right hung twisted, limp, and bloody.

“You cannot prevent my ascending to the Skull Throne, Damaji,” Jardir said as they slowly circled. “And most of your tribe has already sworn to me. See reason, I beg. Is a grave for you and your sons so preferable to being advisor to the Shar’Dama Ka?”

“My sons will no more turn our tribe over to you without a fight than I will,” Aleverak said. Jardir knew it was true, but he was loath to kill Aleverak all the same. Too many honorable men had died already, and with Sharak Ka coming, Ala had none to spare. His thoughts flashed back to the Par’chin, lying facedown in the sand, and shame brought mercy to his lips.

“I will let your sons offer one challenge to mine, on your death,” Jardir offered at last. “Let them decide among themselves who it will be.”

There was a buzz of angry chatter among the surrendered Damaji at that, but Jardir glared at them. “Silence!” he roared, and they all fell still. He turned back to Aleverak.

“Will you be at my side, Damaji, as Krasia rises back to glory?” he asked. The Damaji was growing paler by the second from blood loss. If he did not acquiesce, Jardir would kill him quickly, that he might die on his feet.

But Aleverak bowed, glancing to his bleeding shoulder. “I accept your offer, though that challenge may come sooner than you think.”

It was true. Jardir’s Majah son, Maji, was only eleven, and would prove no match to one of Aleverak’s sons should the Damaji die from his wound. “Hasik, escort Damaji Aleverak to the dama’ting for healing,” Jardir ordered.

Hasik moved to the old man’s side, but Aleverak held up a hand. “I will see this through, and Everam decide if I live or die this day.” The steel in his voice held Hasik at bay, and Jardir nodded, turning to Amadeveram, the last Damaji between him and the cowering Andrah.

Amadeveram was younger than Aleverak, but still a man in his seventies. Jardir knew better than to underestimate him, though, especially after the fine showing of the older cleric.

“Me, you will have to kill,” Amadeveram said. “I will not be bought with honeyed promises.”

“I am sorry, Damaji,” Jardir said, bowing, “but I will do what I must to unite the tribes.”

“Murder me now, or when your son comes of age,” Amadeveram said, “it is still murder.”

“You will be dead by then anyway, old man!” Jardir snapped. “What does it matter?”

“The sovereignty of the Kaji tribe matters!” Amadeveram shouted. “We have held the Skull Throne for a hundred years, and will hold it a hundred more!”

“No,” Jardir said, “you will not. I bring an end to tribes. Krasia will be one again, as it was in the time of Kaji himself.”

“That remains to be seen,” Amadeveram said, assuming a sharusahk pose.

“Everam will welcome you,” Jardir promised, bowing. “You have a Sharum’s heart.”

Less than a minute later, Jardir looked up at the cowering Andrah atop the dais. “You are an insult to the skulls of the brave Sharum that support your fat backside,” Jardir told him. “Come down and let us end this.”

The Andrah made no effort to rise, instead seeming to shrink farther into the great chair. Jardir scowled, taking the Spear of Kaji and climbing the seven steps to the Skull Throne.

“No!” the Andrah cried, curling into a ball and hiding his face as Jardir raised his spear.

For more than a dozen years, since seeing the fat man with his wife in their marriage bed, Jardir had envisioned killing the Andrah every single day. Inevera’s dice had told him he would one day have his vengeance, and he had clung to that prophecy desperately. Only alagai’sharak offered him distraction, and each sunrise the Andrah still lived was a blow to his honor. How many times had he practiced the speech he would recite to the man at this moment?

But now, disgust welled in Jardir’s throat like bile. The pathetic ball of flesh before him had commanded all of Krasia for Jardir’s lifetime and more, and yet he had not even the courage to look his death in the face. He was less than khaffit. Less even than the filthy pigs khaffit ate. He was not worthy of a speech.

The kill brought none of the satisfaction it had in Jardir’s fantasies. It was more of a mercy to rid the world of such a man.

The Andrah’s white outer robe was stained with blood when Jardir pulled it on over his Sharum blacks. He felt the eyes of all in the throne room lying heavily upon him, but he straightened under the weight and turned to face them.

Aleverak lay on the floor now, with Dama Shevali putting pressure on his wound. Amadeveram lay dead halfway down the steps. Jardir bent to the Damaji and pulled the black turban from his head.

“Dama Ashan of the Kaji, step forth,” he commanded. Ashan came to the foot of the steps and knelt, placing both hands and his forehead on the floor. Jardir lifted away his friend’s white turban, replacing it with the Damaji’s black.