Shanjat gave a shout of support, echoed quickly by Jardir’s hundred. In an instant every dal’Sharum had raised his spear to add his voice to the cacophony.

“We stood fast against Nie, this night, and denied her great servant,” Jardir said. “Even now, he crawls back to the abyss in failure and defeat, quailing in fear of the dal’Sharum of the Desert Spear!”

The Andrah sputtered, foundering for a response, but anything he could have said was drowned away as even the dama in the crowd took up the cry.

The Andrah scowled, but in the face of such overwhelming support for Jardir, there was nothing he could do. He turned on his heel, sitting heavily in his palanquin. The nie’Sharum groaned under his bulk as they hoisted the carrying bars to their shoulders.

“You play a dangerous game,” Amadeveram warned as they carried the Andrah out of earshot.

“Sharak is no game to me, Damaji,” Jardir said.

“That was well done,” Inevera said as she laid him on her operating table. “You sent that fat pig running with his curled tail between his legs!” She laughed as she began to cut the robes from him. His shoulder and much of his arm had gone black.

“I have rare moments of competence,” Jardir said.

Inevera grunted, taking his arm and popping it back into its socket with a sharp twist. Jardir was ready for the pain, and it washed over him like a warm breeze.

“Do you need a root for the pain?” she asked.

Jardir snorted.

“So strong,” she purred, running her hands over his body, searching for further injuries. Jardir was a mass of bruises and scrapes, but there was nothing that could not wait, it seemed, for Inevera’s robes fell to the floor, and she climbed onto the table, straddling him.

Nothing aroused her more than victory.

“My champion,” she breathed, kissing his hard chest. “My Shar’Dama Ka.”

Jardir sat on the Spear Throne, regarding his kai’Sharum as they gave their reports. His left arm was in a sling, and though the pain was only a faint buzz to his focused mind, the loss of use in the limb angered him. His wives would try to keep him from alagai’sharak in the coming night, but he would be damned first.

Before him stood Evakh, kai’Sharum of the Sharach tribe.

“With but four dal’Sharum remaining, I regret to inform the Sharum Ka that the Sharach no longer have enough warriors to form our own unit,” Evakh said, his head bowed in shame. “It will be many years before we recover.” He left unsaid what they were all thinking: that the Sharach would likely never recover, dying out or being absorbed into another tribe.

Jardir shook his head. “Many units were shattered last night. I will call for dal’Sharum to stand up and honor their Sharach brothers with their spears. You will have warriors under your command this very night.”

The kai’Sharum’s eyes goggled. “That is too generous, First Warrior.”

“Nonsense,” Jardir said. “I could do no less in conscience. In addition, I will purchase wives from my own coffer to aid in your recovery.” He smiled. “If your men bring as much energy for that task as they do to alagai’sharak, the Sharach should recover swiftly.”

“The Sharach are in your eternal debt, First Warrior,” the man said, prostrating himself and touching his forehead to the floor.

Jardir descended from his dais and put his good hand on the warrior’s soldier.

“I am Sharach,” he said, “as are my three sons and two daughters by Qasha. I will not let our tribe fade into the night.” The warrior kissed his sandaled feet, and Jardir felt the tears that fell from his eyes.

“The Kaji and the Majah will not sell wives to another tribe,” Ashan advised when Evakh departed, “but the Mehnding have an abundance of daughters, and are loyal to the Sharum Ka. Their losses were few last night.”

Jardir nodded. “Offer to buy as many as they will allow. Money is no object. Other tribes will need fresh blood to survive this event, as well.”

Ashan bowed. “It will be done. But is rebuilding the tribes not the duty of the Damaji?”

Jardir looked at him knowingly. “Come, my friend, you know as well as I that those old men will not lift a finger to help one another, even now. The Sharum must look to their own.”

Ashan bowed again.

There were more reports, many just as bad. Jardir sat through them wearily, giving aid to all, and wondering at the state of the army that would assemble when dusk came that night.

Finally, the last of his commanders departed, and he sighed deeply.

“Bring in the Par’chin and the khaffit,” he said.

Ashan signaled the guards, and they were escorted in. The dal’Sharum shoved Abban roughly to the floor before the dais.

“You will translate for the Sharum Ka, khaffit,” Ashan said.

“Yes, my dama,” Abban said, touching his head to the floor.

The greenlander said something to Abban, who mumbled a reply through gritted teeth.

“What did he say?” Jardir asked.

Abban swallowed hard, hesitating.

The guard behind Abban hit him across the back with his spear. “The Sharum Ka asked you a question, son of camel’s piss!”

Abban cried out in pain, and the greenlander gave a shout, shoving the warrior back and interposing himself between them. He and the warrior glared at each other for a moment, but the warrior’s eyes flicked to Jardir uncertainly.

Jardir ignored them. “I will not ask twice,” he told Abban.

Abban wiped the sweat from his brow. “He said, ‘It is not right that you should have to grovel so,’ ” he translated, ducking his head and closing his eyes, as if expecting another blow.

Jardir nodded. “Tell him that you have shamed yourself and your family in the Maze, and are no longer fit to stand among men.”

Abban nodded, translating quickly. The greenlander replied, and Abban translated. “He says that should not matter. No man should crawl like a dog.”

Ashan shook his head. “The ways of the savages are strange.”

“Indeed,” Jardir said, “but we are not here to discuss the treatment of khaffit. Abban, you may take your hands from the floor.”

“Thank you, First Warrior,” Abban said, straightening. The greenlander seemed to relax at this, and he and the guard backed away from each other.

“You fought well in the night, Par’chin,” Jardir said. Abban translated quickly.

The greenlander bowed, meeting Jardir’s eyes as he replied in his guttural tongue. “I was honored to stand among men of such courage,” Abban translated.

“Do other men of the North fight as we do?” Jardir asked.

The greenlander shook his head. “My people fight only when they must, to save their own lives or sometimes that of another,” Abban said. The greenlander scowled and added something, spitting on the floor. “Sometimes not even then,” Abban said.

“They are a race of cowards, as the Evejah says,” Ashan said. Abban opened his mouth, and the dama threw a goblet at him, soaking his fine silks in dark nectar. “Do not translate that, fool!” The greenlander clenched a fist, but kept his eyes on Jardir.

“What makes you different?” Jardir asked. Abban translated, but the greenlander only shrugged and did not reply. “You cut the arm from the rock demon?”