The Desert Spear. Peter Brett V.

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      Everything inside Sharik Hora was built from the bleached and lacquered bones of dal’Sharum who had fallen in alagai’sharak. The twelve chairs of the Damaji on the great altar stood on calf bones and rested on warriors’ feet. The arms had once held spear and shield against demonkind. The seats were polished rib that had housed heroes’ hearts. The backs were made from spines that had stood tall in the night. The headrests were made from the skulls of men who sat at Everam’s side in Heaven. The twelve seats ringed the throne of the Andrah, built from the skulls of kai’Sharum, the captains of alagai’sharak.

      Hundreds of skulls and spines made each of the dozens of huge chandeliers. Bones made up hundreds of benches where worshippers prayed. The altar. The chalices. The walls. The great domed ceiling. Warriors beyond count had protected this temple with their flesh, and built it with their bones.

      The massive nave was circular, and its walls were pocked with a hundred small alcoves, housing whole skeletons on bone pedestals. These were Sharum Ka, First Warriors of the city.

      Under the eyes of the dama, the kai’Sharum commanded the warriors of their respective tribes, but when the sun set, the Sharum Ka, appointed by the Andrah, commanded the kai’Sharum. The current Sharum Ka was Kaji like Jardir—a fact that filled him with great pride.

      Jardir’s hands shook as he took it all in. The entire temple thrummed with honor and glory. His father, killed in a Majah raid and not alagai’sharak, was not remembered here, but Jardir dreamed that one day he might add his own bones to this hallowed place, bringing honor to his father, his sacrifice remembered long after he was gone. There was no greater honor than to become one, in this world and the next, with those who had given their lives before him, and those unborn, perhaps centuries hence, whose lives were yet to be given.

      The Sharum stood at attention as the Damaji begged the blessings of Everam for the coming battle, and those of Kaji, the first Deliverer.

      “Kaji,” they called, “Spear of Everam, Shar’Dama Ka, who unified the world and delivered us from the alagai in the first age, look down upon these brave warriors who go out into the night to carry on the eternal struggle, battling gai on Ala even as Everam battles Nie in Heaven. Bless them with courage and strength, that they might stand tall in the night, and see through to the dawn.”

      The warded shield and heavy spear were the smallest and lightest Qeran could find, but Jardir still felt dwarfed by them. He was twelve, and the youngest of the assembled warriors was five years his senior. He pretended nothing was amiss as he headed to stand with them, but even the smallest towered over him.

      “Nie’Sharum are tethered to another warrior their first night in the Maze,” Qeran said, “to ensure their will does not break when the alagai first come at them. It is a moment that tests the hearts of even the bravest warriors. The warrior assigned to you will be your ajin’pal, your blood brother. You will obey his every command and be bonded until death.”

      Jardir nodded.

      “If you survive the night, the dama’ting will come for you at dawn,” Qeran went on.

      Jardir’s gaze snapped to his mentor. “The dama’ting?” he asked. He was not afraid to face alagai, but dama’ting still filled him with fear.

      Qeran nodded. “One of them will come to predict your death,” he said, suppressing a shudder. “Only with her blessing will you be dal’Sharum.”

      “They tell you when you’ll die?” Jardir asked, aghast. “I don’t wish to know.”

      Qeran snorted. “They don’t tell you, boy. The future is for the dama’ting alone to know. But if a coward’s death is in your future, or greatness, they will know before you ever lose the bido.”

      “I will not die a coward’s death,” Jardir said.

      “No,” Qeran agreed, “I don’t think you will. But you may still die a fool’s death, if you don’t listen to your ajin’pal, or are not careful.”

      “I will listen well,” Jardir promised.

      “Hasik has volunteered to be your ajin’pal,” Qeran said, gesturing to the warrior.

      Hasik had grown much in the two years since he had lost his bido. Seventeen years old and fleshed out with hard muscle by the rich food of the dal’Sharum, he was easily a foot taller than Jardir and twice his weight.

      “Never fear.” Hasik smiled. “The son of piss will be safe with me.”

      “The son of piss took down his first alagai a full three years sooner than you, Whistler,” Qeran reminded him. Hasik kept his smile in place, but his lip twitched.

      “He will honor the Kaji tribe,” Hasik agreed. “If he survives.”

      Jardir remembered the sound of his arm breaking, and Hasik’s promise afterward. He knew that Hasik would be looking for any sign of insubordination, any excuse to kill him before he lost his bido and became an equal.

      So Jardir embraced the insult as he did pain, letting it pass through him harmlessly. He would not be provoked into failure right when a chance for glory was in his grasp. If he made it through this night, he would be dal’Sharum, the youngest in memory, and Hasik be damned.

      Their unit waited in the second layer, hiding in an ambush pocket. A hidden pit stood at the center of a small clearing, soon to be filled with alagai awaiting the killing rays of the sun. Jardir tightened his grip on his spear and adjusted his shield to ease his shoulder. But for all their weight, the tether was heaviest of all. Four feet of leather connected his ankle to Hasik’s waist. He shifted his foot uncomfortably.

      “If you do not keep up with me, I will spear you and cut the tether,” Hasik said. “I will not have my glory cut short because of you.”

      “I will be as your shadow,” Jardir promised, and Hasik grunted. He slipped a small flask from his robes and removed the stopper, taking a long swig. He handed the flask to Jardir.

      “Drink this, for courage,” he said.

      “What is it?” Jardir asked, taking the flask and sniffing at the neck. He smelled cinnamon, but the scent stung his nostrils.

      “Couzi,” Hasik said. “Fermented grain and cinnamon.”

      Jardir’s eyes widened. “Dama Khevat says to drink of fermented grain or fruit is forbidden by the Evejah.”

      Hasik laughed. “Nothing is forbidden to dal’Sharum in the Maze! Drink! The night is almost upon us!”

      Jardir looked at him doubtfully, but throughout the ambush pocket, he saw other warriors swigging from similar flasks. He shrugged, putting the bottle to his lips and drinking deeply.

      The couzi burned his throat, and he coughed, spitting some back up. He could feel the strong drink burning his insides and roiling in his stomach like a snake. Hasik laughed and slapped his back. “Now you are ready to face the alagai, rat!”

      The couzi worked quickly, and Jardir looked up through glazed eyes. The Maze was filled with shadows as the sun dipped. Jardir watched the sky turn red, and then purple, СКАЧАТЬ