Arlen shook his head. ‘I’ve been there,’ he said. ‘I can take you there.’
‘I am Sharum Ka of the Desert Spear, Par’chin,’ Jardir replied. ‘I cannot just pack a camel and ride off into the sand looking for a city that exists only in ancient texts.’
‘I think I will convince you when night falls,’ Arlen said.
Jardir smiled patiently. ‘Promise me that you will not try anything foolish,’ he said. ‘Warded spear or no, you are not the Deliverer. It would be sad to bury you.’
‘I promise,’ Arlen said.
‘Good, then!’ Jardir clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come, my friend, the hour grows late. You shall sup in my palace tonight, before we muster outside Sharik Hora!’
They supped on spiced meats, ground peas, and the paper-thin layers of bread the Krasian women made by spreading wet meal on hot, polished rocks. Arlen had a place of honour next to Jardir, surrounded by kai’Sharum and served by Jardir’s own wives. Arlen never understood why Jardir paid him so much respect, but after his treatment at the Andrah’s palace, it was most welcome.
The men begged stories of him, calling for the tale of One Arm’s crippling, though they had heard it many times. Always it was tales of One Arm, or Alagai Ka, as they called him. Rock demons were rare in Krasia, and as Arlen complied, his audience sat entranced by the tale.
‘We built a new scorpion after your last visit, Par’chin,’ one of the kai’Sharum told him as they sipped their nectar after the meal. ‘It can punch a spear through a sandstone wall. We will find a way to pierce Alagai Ka’s hide yet.’
Arlen chuckled and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid you will not see One Arm tonight,’ he said, ‘or ever again. He has seen the sun.’
The eyes of the kai’Sharum bulged. ‘Alagai Ka is dead?’ one asked. ‘How did you manage this?’
Arlen smiled. ‘I will tell you the tale after tonight’s victory,’ he said. He stroked the spear next to him gently as he did, a gesture the First Warrior did not miss.
328 AR
‘Great Kaji, Spear of Everam, grant strength to your warriors’ arms and courage to their hearts this night, as they go forth to your holy work.’
Arlen shifted uneasily as the Damaji bestowed the blessings of Kaji, the first Deliverer, on the dal’Sharum. In the North, claiming the Deliverer was just a mortal man might get you in a fistfight, but it was no crime. In Krasia, such heresy was punishable by death. Kaji was Everam’s Messenger, come to unite all mankind against the alagai. They called him Shar’Dama Ka, First Warrior-Priest, and said he would return to unite man again one day, when they were worthy of Sharak Ka, the First War. Any who suggested otherwise came to a quick and brutal end.
Arlen was not such a fool as to voice his doubts about Kaji’s divinity, but the Holy Men still unnerved him. They always seemed to be looking for an excuse to take offence at him, the outsider, and giving offence in Krasia usually meant death for the offender.
But whatever discomfort Arlen might feel around the Damaji, he always swelled at the sight of Sharik Hora, the enormous domed temple to Everam. Literally meaning ‘Heroes’ Bones’, Sharik Hora was a reminder of what humanity was capable of; a building dwarfing any structure Arlen had ever seen. The Duke’s library in Miln was tiny by comparison.
But Sharik Hora was impressive for more than its size. It was a symbol of courage beyond death, for it had been decorated with the bleached bones of every warrior who had died in alagai’sharak. They ran up the support beams and framed the windows. The great altar was made entirely of skulls, the pews out of leg bones. The chalice that worshippers sipped water from was a hollowed skull resting in two skeletal hands, its stem the forearms, and its base a pair of feet. Each gigantic chandelier was made from dozens of skulls and hundreds of ribs, and the great domed ceiling, two hundred feet above, was covered in the skulls of the Krasians’ warrior ancestors, looking down and judging, demanding honour.
Arlen once tried to calculate how many warriors decorated the hall, but the task defeated him. All the cities and hamlets in Thesa, perhaps two hundred and fifty thousand souls, could not have decorated a fraction of Sharik Hora. The Krasians were numberless, once.
Now, all of Krasia’s warriors, perhaps four thousand in all, fitted into Sharik Hora with room to spare. They gathered there twice each day, once at dawn and once at dusk, to honour Everam; to thank Him for corelings killed the previous night, and to beg His strength in killing them in the night to come. Most of all, though, they prayed for the Shar’Dama Ka to come again and begin Sharak Ka. To a one, they would follow him down into the Core itself.
Screams borne on the desert wind reached Arlen in the ambush pocket where he waited anxiously for the corelings to come. The warriors around him shifted their feet, offering prayers to Everam. Elsewhere in the Maze, alagai’sharak had begun.
They heard the reports as the Mehnding tribe positioned on the city walls cranked and fired their weapons, launching heavy stones and giant spears into the demon ranks. Some of them struck sand demons, killing or injuring them enough for their fellows to turn upon them, but the true purpose of the attack was to anger the corelings, stirring them into a frenzy. Demons were easily enraged, and once so, could be herded like sheep at the sight of prey.
When the corelings were boiling, the outer gates of the city opened, disabling the outer wardnet. Sand and flame demons charged through, wind demons gliding above them. Several dozen were usually allowed entrance before the gates closed and the net was re-established.
Inside the gates stood a group of warriors, banging spear against shield. These men, known as Baiters, were mostly old and weak, expendable, but their honour knew no bounds. With shouts and whoops, they scattered at the demons’ charge, splitting up in a prearranged fashion to divide the demons and lead them deeper into the Maze.
Watchers on top of the Maze walls took down wind demons with bolas and weighted nets. As they crashed to the ground, Stakers emerged from tiny, warded alcoves to pin them before they could free themselves, shackling their limbs to warded stakes that were hammered into the ground, preventing them from returning to the Core to flee the dawn.
Meanwhile, the Baiters ran on, leading the sand and occasional flame demons to their end. The demons could run faster, but they could not negotiate the sharp turns of the Maze as easily as men who knew every twist. When a demon got too close, the Watchers attempted to slow it with nets. Many of these attempts were successful. Many were not.
Arlen and the others in the Push Guard tensed, hearing the shouts as their Baiters approached. ‘Ware!’ a Watcher called from above. ‘I count nine!’
Nine sand demons were far more than the usual two or three that reached an ambush point. Baiters attempted to whittle their numbers as they split up, so that an ambush seldom faced more than five. Arlen tightened his grip on the warded spear as the eyes of the dal’Sharum went wild with excitement. To die in alagai’sharak was to win into paradise.
‘Lights!’ came the call from above. As the Baiters led the demons into the ambush point,