“Say it!” Jardir demanded, lifting Shanjat’s arm higher. He felt the strain in that limb, and knew it could not withstand much more.

“I would sooner go to Nie’s abyss!” Shanjat cried.

Jardir shrugged. “Bones become stronger after being broken. Enjoy your stay with the dama’ting.” With a heave, he felt bone snap and muscle tear. Shanjat screamed in agony.

Jardir stood slowly, scanning the gathered boys for signs that another meant to challenge him, but while there were many wide-eyed stares, none seemed ready to avenge Shanjat, who lay howling in the dust.

“Make way!” Drillmaster Kaval barked, pushing through the crowd. He looked to Shanjat, then to Jardir. “Hope for you yet, boy,” he grunted. “Back in line, all of you,” he shouted, “or we’ll empty the gruel pot in the waste pits!” The boys quickly flowed back to their places, but Jardir beckoned to Abban amid the confusion, gesturing for his friend to take the place behind him in line.

“Hey!” cried Jurim, the next boy in line, but Jardir glared at him and he backed off, making room for Abban.

Kaval kicked at Shanjat. “On your feet, rat!” he shouted. “Your legs aren’t broken, so don’t expect to be carried to the dama’ting after being bested by a boy half your size!” He grabbed Shanjat’s good arm and hauled the boy to his feet, dragging him off toward the healing pavilion. The boys still in line hooted and catcalled at his back.

“I don’t understand,” Abban said. “Why didn’t he just yield?”

“Because he’s a warrior,” Jardir said. “Will you yield when the alagai come for you?”

Abban shuddered at the thought. “That’s different.”

Jardir shook his head. “No, it isn’t.”

Hasik and some of the other older boys began training on the Maze walls not long after Jardir lost his cast. They lost their bidos in the Maze a year later, and those who survived, Hasik among them, could be seen strutting about the training grounds in their new blacks, visiting the great harem. Like all dal’Sharum, they had as little as possible to do with nie’Sharum after that.

Time passed quickly for Jardir, days blending together into an endless loop. In the mornings, he listened to dama extolling the glories of Everam and the Kaji tribe. He learned of the other Krasian tribes and why they were inferior, and why the Majah, most of all, were blind to Everam’s truths. The dama spoke, too, of other lands, and the cowardly chin to the north who had forsaken the spear and lived like khaffit, quailing before the alagai.

Jardir was never satisfied with their place in the gruel line, always focused on moving up to where the bowls became fuller. He targeted the boys ahead of him and sent them to the dama’ting pavilion one by one, always bringing Abban in his wake. By the time Jardir was eleven, they were at the front of the line, ahead of several older boys, all of whom gave them a wide berth.

Afternoons were spent training or running as practice targets for dal’Sharum netters. At night, Jardir lay on the cold stone of the Kaji’sharaj floor, his ears straining to hear the sounds of alagai’sharak outside, and dreaming of the day he might stand among men.

As Hannu Pash progressed, some of the boys were selected by the dama for special training, putting them on the path to wear the white. They left the Kaji’sharaj and were never seen again. Jardir was not chosen for this honor, but he did not mind. He had no desire to spend his days poring over ancient scrolls or shouting praise to Everam. He was bred for the spear.

The dama showed more interest in Abban, who had letters and numbers, but his father was khaffit, something they did not take to, even though the shame did not technically carry to a man’s sons.

“Better you fight,” the dama told Abban at last, poking his broad chest. Abban had kept much of his bulk, but the constant rigor of training had hardened the fat to muscle. Indeed, he was becoming a formidable warrior, and he blew out a breath of relief when it became clear he would not be called to the white.

Other boys, too weak or slow, were cast out of the Kaji’sharaj as khaffit— forced to return to the tan clothes of children for the rest of their lives. This was a worse fate by far, shaming their families and denying them hope of paradise. Those with warrior’s hearts often volunteered as Baiters, taunting demons and luring them into traps in the Maze. It was a brief life, but one that brought honor and entrance into Heaven for those otherwise lost.

In his twelfth year, Jardir was allowed his first look at the Maze. Drillmaster Qeran took the oldest and strongest of the nie’Sharum up the great wardwall—a sheer thirty feet of sandstone looking down on the demon killing ground that had once been an entire district of the city, back in ancient times when Krasia was more populous. It was filled with the remnants of ancient hovels and dozens of smaller sandstone walls. These were twenty feet high, with pitted wards cut into their surfaces. Some ran great distances and turned sharp corners, while others were just a single slab or angle. Together they formed a maze studded with hidden pitfalls, designed to trap and hold the alagai for the morning sun.

“The wall beneath your feet,” Qeran said, stamping his foot, “shields our women and children, even the khaffit,” he spit over the side of the wall, “from the alagai. The other walls,” he swept his hands out over the endlessly twisting walls of the Maze, “keep the alagai trapped in with us.” He clenched his fist at that, and the obvious pride he felt was shared by all the boys. Jardir imagined himself running through that maze, spear and shield in hand, and his heart soared. Glory awaited him on that blood-soaked sand.

They walked along the top of the thick wall until they came to a wooden bridge that could be drawn up with a great crank. This led down to one of the Maze walls, all connected by stone arches or close enough to jump. The Maze walls were thinner, less than a foot thick in some places.

“The walltops are treacherous for older warriors,” Qeran said, “apart from the Watchers.” The Watchers were dal’Sharum of the Krevakh and Nanji tribes. They were laddermen, each man carrying an iron-shod ladder twelve feet in length. The ladders could be joined to one another or used alone, and Watchers were so agile they could stand balanced at the top of an unsupported ladder as they surveyed the battlefield. The Krevakh Watchers were subordinate to the Kaji tribe, the Nanji to the Majah.

“For the next year, you boys will assist the Krevakh Watchers,” Qeran said, “tracking alagai movements and calling them down to the dal’Sharum in the Maze, as well as running orders back and forth from the kai’Sharum.”

They spent the rest of the day running the walltops. “You must know every inch of the Maze as well as you know your spears!” Qeran said as they went. Quick and agile, the nie’Sharum shouted in exhilaration as they leapt from wall to wall and darted over the small arched bridges. Jardir and Abban laughed at the joy of it.

But Abban’s big frame did not lend itself to balance, and on one slender bridge he slipped, falling off the wall. Jardir dove for his hand, but he was not fast enough. “Nie take me!” he cursed as their fingers brushed slightly and the boy dropped away.

Abban let out a brief wail before striking the ground, and Jardir could see even from twenty feet above that his legs were broken.