The Desert Spear. Peter Brett V.

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СКАЧАТЬ in the alcove, but then what of this demon? At best, it might escape the killing field, and at worst, it could catch some warrior or nie’Sharum unawares and be on him before he understood what was happening.

      He put his head down and ran on.

      He managed to put some ground between himself and the clay demon in the makeshift maze, but it was still close behind when the ambush point came in sight.

      “Oot!” Jardir called. “Oot! Oot!” He put on a last burst of speed, hoping the warriors within heard his call and would be ready.

      He darted around the last barrier, and a pair of quick hands grabbed him and yanked him off to the side. “You think this is a game, rat?” Hasik demanded.

      Jardir had no reply, and thankfully needed none as the demon came charging into the ambush point. A dal’Sharum threw a net over it, tripping it up.

      The demon thrashed, snapping the thick strands of the woven horsehair net like thread, and seemed about to tear itself free when several warriors tackled it and pinned it to the ground. One dal’Sharum took a rake of claws to the face and fell away screaming, but another took his place, grabbing two of the demon’s overlapping armor plates and pulling them apart with his hands, revealing the vulnerable flesh beneath.

      Hasik flung Jardir aside, running in and driving his spear into the opening. The demon shrieked and writhed about in agony, but Hasik twisted the weapon savagely. The demon gave a final wrack and lay still. Jardir gave a whoop and thrust his fist into the air.

      His delight was short-lived, though, as Hasik let go the spear, leaving it jutting from the dead alagai, and stormed over to him.

      “You think yourself a Baiter, nie’Sharum?” he demanded. “You could have gotten men killed, taking it upon yourself to drive alagai into a trap that had not been reset.”

      “I meant no—” Jardir began, but Hasik punched him hard in the stomach, and the response was blown from his lips.

      “I gave you no leave to speak, boy!” Hasik shouted. Jardir saw his rage and wisely held his tongue. “Your orders were to stay in your alcove, not lead alagai to the backs of unprepared warriors!”

      “Better he brought it here with some warning than left it loose on the terrace, Hasik,” Jesan said. Hasik glared at him, but held his tongue. Jesan was an older warrior, perhaps even forty winters, and the others in the group deferred to him in the absence of Kaval or the kai’Sharum. He was bleeding freely from where the demon had clawed his face, but he showed no sign of pain.

      “You would not have been injured—” Hasik began, but Jesan cut him off.

      “These will not be my first demon scars, Whistler,” he said, “and every one is a glory to be cherished. Now get back to your post. There are demons yet to kill this night.”

      Hasik scowled, but he bowed. “As you say, the night is young,” he agreed. His eyes shot spears at Jardir as he left for his alcove.

      “You get back to your post, too, boy,” Jesan said, clapping Jardir on the shoulder.

      Dawn came at last, and all the company gathered at the demon pits to watch the alagai burn. Baha kad’Everam faced east, and the rising sun quickly flooded the valley. The demons howled in the pits as light filled the sky and their flesh began to smolder.

      The insides of the dal’Sharum shields were polished to a mirror finish, and as Dama Khevat spoke a prayer for the souls of the Bahavans, one by one the warriors turned them to catch the light, angling rays down into the pits to strike the demons directly.

      Wherever the light touched the demons, they burst into flame. Soon all the alagai were ablaze, and the nie’Sharum cheered. Seeing warriors doing likewise, some even lowered their bidos to piss on the demons as Everam’s light burned them from the world. Jardir had never felt so alive as he did in that moment, and he turned to Abban to share his joy.

      But Abban was nowhere to be seen.

      Thinking his friend still distressed over his fall the night before, Jardir went looking for him. Abban was injured, that was all. It was not the same as being weak. They would bide their time and ignore the sniggers of the other nie’Sharum until Abban had regained his strength, and then they would deal with the sniggerers directly and end the mocking once and for all.

      He searched through the camp and almost missed Abban, at last spotting his friend crawling out from under one of the provision carts.

      “What are you doing?” Jardir asked.

      “Oh!” Abban said, turning in surprise. “I was just…”

      Jardir ignored him, pushing past Abban and looking under the cart. Abban had strung a net there, filling it with the Dravazi pottery they had used as tools, cleverly packed with cloth to keep the pieces from clattering or breaking on the journey back.

      Abban spread his hands as Jardir turned to him, smiling. “My friend—”

      Jardir cut him off. “Put them back.”

      “Ahmann,” Abban started.

      “Put them back or I will break your other leg,” Jardir growled.

      Abban sighed, but it was more in exasperation than submission. “Again I ask you to be practical, my friend. We both know that with this leg, I have more chance of helping my family through profit than honor. And if I somehow still manage to become dal’Sharum, how long will I last? Even the strong veterans who came here to Baha will not all go home alive. For myself, I will be lucky to last through my first night. And what of my family then, if I leave this world with no glory? I don’t want my mother to end up selling my sisters as jiwah’Sharum because they have no dowry save my spilled blood.”

      “Jiwah’Sharum are sold?” Jardir asked, thinking of his own sisters, poorer than Abban’s by far. Jiwah’Sharum were group wives, kept in the great harem for all dal’Sharum to use.

      “Did you think girls volunteered?” Abban asked. “Being jiwah’Sharum may appear glorious for the young and beautiful, but they seldom even know whose children grow in their bellies, and their honor fades once their wombs grow barren and their features less fair. Better by far a proper husband, even a khaffit, than that.”

      Jardir said nothing, digesting the information, and Abban moved closer, leaning in as if to speak in confidence, though they were quite alone.

      “We could split the profits, my friend,” he said. “Half to my mother, and half to yours. When was the last time she or your sisters had meat? Or more than rags to wear? Honor may help them years from this day, but a quick profit can help them now.”

      Jardir looked at him skeptically. “How will a handful of pots make any difference?”

      “These are not just any pots, Ahmann,” Abban said. “Think of it! These last works of master Dravazi, used by the dal’Sharum to help avenge his death and set free the khaffit souls of Baha. They will be priceless! The Damaji themselves would buy and display them. We need not even clean them! The dirt of Baha will be better than any glaze of gold.”

      “Kaval said all must be sacrificed, СКАЧАТЬ