The Daylight War (48 page)

The young men followed Jurim, but there was no greeting for Abban, not so much as the slightest acknowledgement in their eyes. Indeed, they looked at the ground, each other, off into the distance – anywhere save at their father. In a culture where the name of a man’s father was more important than one’s own, there could be no greater insult.

‘Your sons have made fine warriors,’ Jurim congratulated. ‘They were soft at first – as expected for blood of
khaffit
,’ Fahki spat in the dust at that, ‘but I have taken them under my shield, and found the steel in them.’ He smirked. ‘They must get it from their mother.’

All three warriors laughed at that, and Abban gripped the ivory haft of his crutch so tightly his hand ached. Its hidden blade was poisoned, and he could put it into Jurim’s foot before he ever saw the blow coming. But while it might earn him a moment’s respect in the eyes of his sons, it would be short-lived. Poison was a coward’s weapon after all, and it was death for a
khaffit
to strike a
Sharum
for any reason. Had he been anyone but the favourite advisor of the Deliverer, even speaking disrespectfully could earn him a spear in the chest.

Fahki and Shusten glared at him with barely hidden disgust. If he struck, they would turn him in to the nearest
dama
without hesitation, and his sentence would be carried out before Ahmann ever heard of it.

Abban kept his face blank and forced himself to bow, holding up the scroll with the Deliverer’s seal. Jurim, like many warriors, could not read, but he knew the crown and spear well. ‘I am here on the business of Shar’Dama Ka.’

Jurim scowled. ‘And what business is so important that you must sully the ground of warriors?’

Abban straightened. ‘That is not for you to know. Take me to Drillmaster Qeran, and be quick about it.’

Shusten snarled. ‘Do not take that tone with your betters,
khaffit
!’

Abban snapped a cold glare at him. ‘You may have inherited your mother’s steel, boy, but obviously not her brains if you would hinder the will of Shar’Dama Ka. Go find something useful to do or the next time I speak with him, I will mention to the Deliverer how his
Sharum
waste their days playing Sharak and drinking couzi when they should be training.’

The boys blanched at that, glancing at each other before hurrying off. Abban felt a cold satisfaction, but it did nothing to stem the blood from the knife twisting in his heart. That other men sneered at him for his crippled leg and coward’s heart, Abban had learned to live with. But a man that did not have the respect of his own sons was no man at all.

Soon
, he promised himself.
Soon
.

Many of the
Sharum
flouted the restrictions of the Evejah, drinking couzi to give them courage in the night, and to forget the nights in the day. Few, though, were fool enough to get so drunk they could not stand at attention should a
dama
pass them by.

Qeran was that drunk and more. The drillmaster sat on a stained pillow with his back supported by the tent’s central pole, his black robes wet and stinking of vomit. Next to him lay his fine warded spear, a special crossbar added to allow him to use the weapon as a crutch. His left leg ended just below the knee, the leg of his pantaloons pinned back. Strapped to the stump was a simple wooden peg.

He glared at Abban as the
khaffit
entered, small eyes hard with hatred. ‘Come to gloat,
khaffit
? I’m nearly as useless as you now, but at least my place in Heaven is secure.’

Abban let the tent flap fall closed, leaving the two men alone. Then he spat at Qeran’s feet.

‘I am not useless, Drillmaster. I serve our master every day, and never once have I whined like a woman over my fate, much less drunk myself into a piss pool. Everam blessed you with a strong body, but I see without it, your heart is weak.’

Qeran’s face twisted with rage and he grabbed for his spear, meaning to leap to his feet and thrust it through Abban’s heart. But he was new to his wooden leg, and unsteady from the couzi. He stumbled, and it was all the time Abban needed to strike the peg hard with his crutch, knocking it clean off the drillmaster’s leg. As Qeran fell, he struck again, knocking away the spear.

The drillmaster hit the ground hard, and there was a click as Abban’s hidden blade snapped open, pointing right between his eyes.

‘You have killed many demons in your day, Drillmaster,’ Abban said, ‘but will even your place in Heaven remain secure if you are killed in your own filth by the crippled
khaffit
you cast from
sharaj
in shame?’

Qeran remained still a long time, his hard eyes nearly crossed as they watched the blade hovering at the bridge of his nose. ‘What do you want?’ he said at last.

Abban smiled, stepping back and retracting his blade so he could lean on his crutch as he bowed. From within his brightly coloured vest he produced the scroll marked with the Deliverer’s seal. ‘Why, to make you great again.’

Abban and Qeran drew many stares as they limped through the training ground toward the Kaji
khaffit’sharaj
. The drillmaster had been stripped by one of the
jiwah’Sharum
, doused in clean water, and dressed in fresh blacks. Abban knew without doubt that his head was pounding from the couzi as he squinted in the bright light of day, but the drillmaster had recovered something of himself and showed nothing of his discomfort. His back was straight as he walked, head high. As was the custom, Abban walked a step behind him, though he could easily have outpaced the slow gait Qeran required to walk with dignity.

They came to a section of grounds where tan-robed
kha’Sharum
trained – thousands in the Kaji tribe alone. Most practised the simple spear and shield forms Abban remembered from what seemed a lifetime ago, turning in unison, shields overlapping as they thrust their spears as one. A smaller group practised more advanced techniques.

Qeran spat. ‘Most of these men should still be in bidos, or better yet carrying water and polishing shields.’

A handful of young
Sharum
walked the ranks. They wore black, but the veils hanging loose around their necks were tan, marking them as
khaffit
drillmasters.

‘Pups,’ Qeran sneered, ‘sharpening their teeth on
khaffit
in hope of earning the red.’

One of the young drillmasters caught sight of them and approached, eyeing them with wary disdain until his eyes lighted on Qeran’s red veil. His eyes flicked up and lit with recognition as he met the drillmaster’s face. Qeran had been among the Spears of the Deliverer, and his reputation was well known. He and Drillmaster Kaval had trained the Shar’Dama Ka himself.

The young drillmaster bowed, ignoring Abban completely. ‘I am Hamash asu Gimas am’Tesan am’Kaji.’

Qeran returned his bow with a slight nod. ‘I trained your father. Gimas was a fierce warrior. He died well in the Maze.’

Hamash bowed again, more deeply this time. ‘What brings you to the
khaffit’sharaj
, honoured Drillmaster?’

Abban limped forward, holding out his writ. Drillmasters, like
kai’Sharum
, were given special training that included letters and warding, but from the way Hamash’s brow furrowed as he stared at the writ, he had obviously fallen short in his lessons.

Abban let the failing pass. It was to his advantage. ‘The Deliverer requires ten of your best
kha’Sharum
. I am to select them.’

‘You, a
khaffit
, mean to select warriors?’ Hamash said, eyes flicking to Qeran.

Abban smiled. ‘Who better? They are
khaffit
warriors, after all.’

‘Warriors, still,’ the young drillmaster growled.

‘Drillmaster Qeran will ensure they are fit to fight,’ Abban said. ‘I am to ensure they have brains in their heads.’

‘Only ten?’ Qeran asked quietly, too low for Hamash to hear. ‘You told me the Shar’Dama Ka commanded a hundred.’

‘The Deliverer has no tribe, Drillmaster,’ Abban said. ‘We will select ten from each.’

‘That is more than a hundred,’ Qeran said. There were twelve tribes of Krasia.

Smart
for
a
Sharum, Abban mused. ‘I remember your training methods well, Drillmaster. There will be those who will not survive its rigours, and others who will not be fit for battle when you are finished.’ He tapped his own leg pointedly with his crutch. ‘We will start with one hundred and twenty, that you may kill or cast out those who fail you.’

Qeran grunted, and Hamash, who had been watching the exchange, met his eyes. His lip curled slightly in disgust. ‘Even a crippled drillmaster should not allow a
khaffit
to speak so boldly to him.’

Qeran’s calm eyes revealed nothing of his intentions as his spear haft snapped upward, taking Hamash between the legs. The young drillmaster bent forward, and Qeran spun the weapon, cracking it hard against the side of his head, knocking him to the ground.

Hamash was quick to roll aside, but Qeran anticipated the move, slamming the metal butt of his spear down just as he rolled into the blow. Hamash’s cheek tore open as several of his teeth shattered. He coughed blood and shards, trying vainly to regain his feet, but the beating did not stop there. Qeran had firm footing, and struck again and again. Most of the blows were painful but not meant for lasting damage, but when the young drillmaster continued to resist, there was a sharp crack as Qeran’s spear butt broke his right arm at the elbow. He roared with pain.

‘Embrace the pain and be silent, fool!’ Qeran hissed. ‘Your men are watching!’ Indeed, drillmasters and
kha’Sharum
alike had stopped their training, watching with mouths hanging open.

Qeran turned to look at the other drillmasters. ‘Strip the men to their bidos and form squads for inspection!’ he roared, and they scrambled as if the command had come from the Deliverer himself. In moments their spears and shields were neatly stacked, robes folded, and the men stood at attention in nothing but their tan loincloths.

Qeran jabbed the butt of his spear into Hamash, still writhing on the ground. ‘On your feet and heel me. I will already have your tan veil. Fall behind or disrespect me again and I’ll have your blacks as well.’

Abban resisted the urge to smile as Hamash struggled to his feet, his face pale and bloody. He had chosen his drillmaster well.

Looking pale and dazed, blood running down his face, Hamash stumbled after as they limped over to the first squad. Another tan-veiled drillmaster stood at attention before them. His bow to Qeran was so low, his beard nearly touched the ground.

They walked the line, Qeran calling each man forth, treating them no differently than slaves on the auction block.

‘Flabby,’ Qeran noted of the first, pinching at his arm, ‘but a few months of gruel and carrying stones as he runs around the city walls would cure him of that. Perform the first
sharukin
.’ The man began to sweat, but he complied, moving slowly through the series of movements.

Qeran spat in the dust. ‘Pathetic, even for a
khaffit
.’

‘What was your profession before you answered the Deliverer’s call to
sharak
?’ Abban asked the man, taking out his ledger and pen.

‘I was a lamp maker,’ the man said.

Abban grunted. ‘Were you master or apprentice?’

‘Master,’ the man said. ‘My father owned our business, but left me to train my sons.’

‘What difference does this make?’ Qeran demanded, but Abban ignored him, asking several more questions before moving to the next in line. He was so thin his bones showed through his skin as he stood in his bido. His eyes squinted as they came to stand before him.

Abban held up three fingers. ‘How many?’

The man squinted harder. ‘Two.’ There was doubt in his voice.

Abban took several steps back, and the squinting stopped. ‘Three,’ the man said more decisively.

Qeran gave the spindly man a shove and he fell onto his back in the dirt.

‘On your feet, dog!’ one of the tan-veiled drillmasters shouted, whacking at him with a spear butt, and the man quickly got back in line.