The Desert Spear by Peter V. Brett Page A

women of his family.
    And not only that, but a true test of manhood, as well. Weeks of travel in the open night. He would see the
alagai
up close and come to know his enemy as more than chalk on slate, or something glimpsed at a distance while running the walltop. Truly, it was a day of new beginnings.
    Abban turned to Jardir after the
nie’Sharum
were dismissed to their tasks. He smiled, punching Jardir’s bicep and the knotted strip of leather around it.
“Nie Ka,”
he said. “You deserve it, my friend. You’ll be
kai’Sharum
soon enough, commanding true warriors in battle.”
    Jardir shrugged.
“Inevera,”
he said. “Let tomorrow bring what it will. For today, this honor is enough.”
    “You were right before, of course,” Abban said. “My heart is sometimes bitter when I see how
khaffit
are treated, and I gave voice to that bitterness before. The Bahavans deserve our protection, and more.”
    Jardir nodded. “I knew it was so,” he said. “I, too, spoke out of turn, my friend. I know there is more to your heart than a merchant’s greed.”
    He squeezed Abban’s shoulder, and the boys ran to their tasks preparing for the expedition.

    They left at midday, fifty Kaji warriors, including Hasik, along with Dama Khevat, Drillmaster Kaval, a pair of Krevakh Watchers, and Jardir’s squad of elite
nie’Sharum.
A few of the warriors, the eldest, took turns driving provision carts pulled by camels, but the rest marched on foot, leading the procession through the Maze to the great gate of the city. Jardir and the other boys rode the provision carts through the Maze so as not to sully the sacred ground.
    “Only
dama
and
dal’Sharum
may put their feet down on the blood of their brothers and ancestors,” Kaval had warned. “Do so at your peril.”
    Once they were out of the city, the drillmaster smacked his spear against the carts. “Everyone off!” Kaval barked. “We march to Baha!”
    Abban looked at Jardir incredulously. “It is a week’s travel through the desert, with only our bidos to protect us from the sun!”
    Jardir jumped down from the cart. “It is the same sun that beats upon us in the training ground.” He pointed to the
dal’Sharum
marching ahead of the supply carts. “Be thankful you have only your bido,” he said. “They wear the black, absorbing the heat, and still, each man carries shield and spear, and his armor beneath. If they can march, so can we.”
    “Come, don’t you wish to stretch your legs, after all those weeks we spent in cast?” Jurim asked, slapping Abban’s shoulder with a smirk and hopping down.
    The rest of the
nie’Sharum
followed, marching as Jardir called the steps to keep pace with the carts and warriors. Kaval trailed behind, keeping watch, but he left command to Jardir. He felt a surge of pride at the drillmaster’s trust.
    The desert road was a string of ancient signposts along a path of packed sand and hard clay. The ever-present wind whipped hot sand over them; it collected on the road, making footing poor. The sun heated the sand to the point that it burned even through their sandals. But for all that, the
nie’Sharum,
hard from years of training, marched without complaint. Jardir looked at them and was proud.
    It quickly became clear, however, that Abban could not keep the pace. Lathered in sweat, his limp grew increasingly pronounced on the uneven footing, and he stumbled frequently. Once, he staggered into Esam, who shoved him violently into Shanjat. Shanjat shoved him back, and Abban hit the ground hard. The other boys laughed as Abban spat sand from his mouth.
    “Keep moving, rats!” Kaval called, thumping his spear against his shield.
    Jardir wanted to help his friend to his feet, but he knew it would only make matters worse. “Get up!” he barked instead. Abban looked at him with pleading eyes, but Jardir only shook his head, giving Abban a kick for his own good. “Embrace the pain and get up, fool,” he said in a low, harsh voice, “or