The Desert Spear

“The bazaar,” Jardir said. “I haven’t been there since the day Kaval and Qeran took us from our homes.” He stood up, drawing a white outer robe over the Sharum blacks he still wore. “Show it to me now.”

“Me?” Abban asked. “You wish to walk the street next to a khaffit?”

“Is there anyone better suited?” Jardir asked. Everyone else in the room turned to stare at Jardir in horror.

“Deliverer,” Ashan protested, “the bazaar is a place for women and khaffit…”

Aleverak nodded. “That ground is not worthy of the Shar’Dama Ka’s feet.”

“I will decide that,” Jardir said. “Perhaps there is yet some worthiness to be found there.”

Ashan frowned, but he bowed. “Of course, Deliverer. I will prepare your bodyguard. A hundred loyal Sharum—”

“No bodyguard is necessary,” Jardir cut in. “I can protect myself from women and khaffit.”

Inevera stood, helping Jardir arrange his robes. “At least let me throw the dice first,” she whispered. “You will draw assassins like a dung cart draws flies.”

Jardir shook his head. “Not this time, jiwah. I feel Everam’s hand today without that crutch.”

Inevera did not seem convinced, but she stepped aside.

A weight lifted off Jardir as he strode from the palace. He could not remember the last time he had left its walls in daylight. He had loved the feel of the sun, once. His back straightened as he walked, and something in Jardir…hummed. He felt a rightness to his actions, as if Everam Himself guided them.

Time seemed to stop as Jardir and Abban walked through the Great Bazaar, merchants and customers alike freezing in place as they passed. Some stared in wonder at the Deliverer, and others stared in greater shock at the khaffit by his side. Whispers grew in their wake, and many began to drift after them.

The bazaar ran along the lee side of the city’s inner wall for miles to either side of the great gate. Seemingly endless tents and carts, great pavilions and tiny kiosks were arrayed, not to mention countless roving food and trinket vendors, porters to carry purchases, and great crowds of shoppers, haggling for bargains.

“It’s bigger than I remember,” Jardir said in surprise. “So many twists and turns. The Maze seems less daunting.”

“It is said no man may walk so far as to pass every vendor in a single day,” Abban said, “and more than one fool has been left trying to find their way clear of it when the dama sound the curfew from the minarets of Sharik Hora.”

“So many khaffit,” Jardir said in wonder, looking out at a sea of shaved faces and tan vests. “Even though I hear them in the tallies every morning, the number never truly struck me. You outnumber everyone else in Krasia.”

“There are benefits to being denied the Maze,” Abban said. “Long life is one of them.”

Jardir nodded. Another thing he had never considered before. “Does your heart ever miss it? Beneath the cowardice, do you ever wish you had seen the inside of the Maze?”

Abban limped quietly for a long time. “What does it matter?” he asked at last. “It was not meant to be.”

They walked a bit farther, when Jardir stopped suddenly, staring. Across the street stood a giant khaffit, easily seven feet tall and rippling with muscle under his tan vest and cap. He had a huge barrel of water slung under each long arm, seeming no more strained than if he were holding a pair of sandals.

“You there!” Jardir called, but the giant did not reply. Jardir strode across the street to him, grabbing him by the arm. The khaffit turned suddenly, startled, and nearly dropped the water barrels before he caught himself. “I called to you, khaffit,” Jardir growled.

Abban put a hand on Jardir’s arm. “He did not hear you, Deliverer. The man was born without hearing.” Indeed, the giant was moaning and pointing frantically toward his ears. Abban made a few quick gestures with his hands that calmed him.

“Deaf?” Jardir asked. “Did that cause him to fail at Hannu Pash?”

Abban laughed. “Children with such faults are never called to Hannu Pash in the first place, Deliverer. This man was khaffit the moment he was born.”

Another khaffit, a fit-looking man of some thirty-five years, came out of a booth, stopping short in shock at the sight of them.

“Hold,” Jardir commanded as the man tried to escape. Immediately the khaffit fell to his knees, pressing his face into the dirt.

“O great Shar’Dama Ka,” the man said, groveling. “I am unworthy of your notice.”

“Have no fear, my brother,” Jardir said, laying a gentle hand on the terrified man’s shoulder. “I have no tribe. No caste. I stand for all Krasia, dama, Sharum, and khaffit alike.”

The tension in the man seemed to ease at Jardir’s words. “Tell me, why do you wear the tan, brother?”

“I am a coward, Deliverer,” the man said, his voice tightening with shame. “My will broke on my first night in the Maze. I cut my tether, and I…ran from my ajin’pal.” He began to weep, and Jardir let it run its course. Then he squeezed the man’s shoulder, making him look up.

“You may walk behind me on my tour of the bazaar,” he said, and the man gasped in shock. “The earless one, as well,” Jardir told Abban, who made more signs to the giant. The two men fell obediently in behind Abban and Jardir, followed by all who had witnessed the event, man and woman. Even the vendors left their wares unattended to walk behind the Deliverer.

Everywhere he looked, Jardir saw more and more fit men in the tan, each with his own reasons for being denied the black. None dared lie to him when pressed as to why.

“I was sickly as a child,” one said.

“I cannot see colors,” another said.

“My father bribed the dama to overlook me,” a third dared admit.

“I need lenses for my eyes,” many told him, and others had been thrown from the sharaj simply for being left-handed.

Jardir squeezed the shoulder of each one, and gave them permission to follow him. Before long, a huge crowd trailed him, sweeping everyone it passed up in its wake. Finally, Jardir looked back at them all, a throng of thousands, and nodded. He leapt atop a vendor’s cart to stand above the crowd, looking over the women and khaffit.

“I am Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir asu Kaji!” he cried, holding up the Spear of Kaji. “I am Shar’Dama Ka!” The crowd roared in response, startling Jardir with a strength and power he had never dreamed existed.

“Everam has charged me with destroying the alagai,” Jardir shouted, “but to do that I need Sharum!” He swept his hand out over the crowd. “I see among you fit men who were denied the spear as children, forcing you to live in shame and poverty as your brothers and cousins walked in Everam’s glory. Putting shame upon your parents and children, as well.”

The men Jardir had asked to follow him were nodding and agreeing with his words. “We have the magic to destroy the alagai now,” he said. “Our spears skewer them by the hundreds, but we have more spears than men to carry them. And so I offer you all this second chance! Any able-bodied khaffit who wishes to join in alagai’sharak may present himself to the training grounds tomorrow, where every tribe shall raise a khaffit’sharaj to train you. Those who complete the training shall be named kha’Sharum, and given warded weapons to buy your way back to glory and Heaven for yourselves and your families!”