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
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
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