Ahmann considered a moment longer, then shrugged. 'Pick your hundred.'

Abban bowed as deeply as his crutch allowed. 'I will need a drillmaster to continue their training.'

Ahmann shook his head. 'That, my friend, I cannot spare.'

Abban smiled. 'I was thinking perhaps Master Qeran.' Qeran had been one of Abban and Ahmann's own drillmasters when they were in sharaj. He was harsh, bigoted, and hated khaffit with a passion. He had also had his leg bitten so badly by a field demon that the dama'ting had been forced to amputate it. The drillmaster had healed, but his pride had not.

Ahmann looked at him in surprise. 'Qeran? Who struck me for not dropping you to your death?'

Abban bowed. 'The same. If the Deliverer himself decided to spare me, and has come to see my uses, perhaps the drillmaster will, too. He has been having a difficult time of late it seems. He still teaches in sharaj, but the nie'Sharum do not respect him as they once did.'

Ahmann grunted. 'Nie'Sharum are ever fools until blooded, but there will be blood for all soon enough. If you wish Qeran to work for you, you may ask him, but I will not command it.'

Abban bowed again. 'Will your promises to the mistress of the Hollow tribe alter your plans?'

Ahmann shook his head. 'My promises affect nothing. It is still my duty to unite the people of the Northland for Sharak Ka. We will march on Lakton in the spring.'

Abban pursed his lips at that, but nodded.

'You think it a mistake,' Ahmann said. 'You would have me wait.'

Abban bowed. 'Not at all. I am told you have already begun recalling your forces.'

Ahmann nodded. 'We have angered Alagai Ka by killing the demon princeling. The next Waning will bring the opening salvos of Sharak Ka. I can feel it in my heart. We must be ready.'

'Of course,' Abban agreed. 'The chin are pacified and will offer little resistance even as you remove most of your warriors from their lands. Their women properly scarved, their sons taken for Hannu Pash, and their men enslaved. It will be years, though, before the boys are old enough to test as dal'Sharum, and their fathers, the chi'Sharum, are not progressing well in their training, I hear.'

Ahmann raised a brow at him. 'You hear much from the Sharum pavilions, khaffit.'

Abban only smiled. 'My leg may be crippled, my friend, but my ears are sharp.'

'The boys taken for Hannu Pash have been separated from their families, and are young enough to forget the old ways,' Ahmann said. 'Many of them will be fine dal'Sharum, and a few of them valuable dama we can use to proselytize in the green lands. Their fathers, however, remember too much and learn too little. Most will never open their hearts to the honour we offer them by training them to fight in Sharak Ka.'

'First you ask them to fight Sharak Sun against their greenland brothers,' Abban noted. 'That is a difficult thing for any man.'

'The Daylight War has been foretold,' Ahmann said. 'It cannot be denied if we are to win against the alagai and rid the world of their taint forever.'

'Prophecies are vague things, Ahmann, oft misunderstood until it is too late. All the stories in the Evejah tell us so.' Abban held up his ledger, a heavy book with huge pages, all filled with neat, tiny lines of indecipherable code. 'Profit margins speak clearer truth.'

'So we will make of them a blunt instrument,' Ahmann said. 'Fodder for the slings and arrows of the enemy. They will be the shield of my army, even as the true Sharum are its spear.'

'Your spears will have fine mounts, at least,' Abban said. 'We pride ourselves on our breeding in Krasia, but the herds of wild horses roaming the grasslands of Everam's Bounty put them to shame. Mustang, the chin call them. Enormous, powerful beasts.'

Ahmann grunted. 'They would have to be, to survive the night.'

'The dal'Sharum have proven exceptional at hunting and breaking them,' Abban said. 'Your armies will be quick, and little will stand in the way of their charge.'

Ahmann nodded in satisfaction. 'Spring cannot come soon enough. Every day we wait, our enemies have time to gather their forces.'

'I agree,' Abban said. 'Which is why you should not wait. Attack Lakton on first snow.'

Ahmann looked at him in surprise, but Abban kept his face blank. It pleased him to so shock his friend.

'Since when does Abban the coward ever suggest attack?' Ahmann asked.

Abban held up his ledger. 'When it is profitable.'

Ahmann looked at him a long time, then went and poured himself a goblet of nectar, sitting on his throne. He gestured at Abban to sit. 'Very well. Tell me your prophecy of profit. How am I to know when the first snow will come? Are you now dama'ting, to see the future?'

Abban smiled and took a goblet of his own, sitting at the table and opening his ledger. 'First snow is not an event, but a specific date in the Thesan calendar. Thirty days after autumn equinox. In Lakton, it is significant because it is when the harvest tithe from the hamlets is due to the Laktonian duke.'

'And you want us to steal it,' Ahmann surmised.

'Spears are useless when carried by men with empty stomachs, Ahmann,' Abban said. 'Your army almost starved this past winter, especially after that fool dama set fire to the grain silos. We cannot afford another such blunder.'

'Agreed,' Ahmann said, 'but now we control the largest swathe of farmland in the North. What need have we for more?'

'We do,' Abban agreed, 'but so, too, has your army grown. There are now chi'Sharum in the thousands, and you have a growing nation to hold and feed. More than that, you must deprive Lakton of their winter stores. The city is built on a body of water so great, they say that from its centre one cannot see the shore in any direction.'

'It seems impossible,' Ahmann gestured to the great map on the wall, 'but the greenlanders would appear to agree.'

'No scorpion bolts or arrows will reach the city from the shore,' Abban said. 'If they can take their ships to the city full of provision, it may be a year or more before you can dislodge them.'

Ahmann steepled his fingers. 'What do you propose?'

Abban rose heavily, leaning on his camel crutch as he limped over to the great map on the wall. Ahmann turned to regard the khaffit with interest.

'Like Everam's Bounty, Lakton has an eponymous city proper.' He pointed with the tip of his crutch to the great lake and the city close to its western shore. 'And dozens of hamlets throughout the duchy.' He moved the head of his crutch in a circular motion around a much larger swathe of land. 'These hamlets have land as fertile as Everam's Bounty, with harvests nearly as prodigious, and they are all but unguarded.'

'Then why not simply annex the hamlets and have done?' Ahmann said.

Abban shook his head, waving his crutch over the area again. 'The land is too vast to simply take. You do not have enough men, and would then need to harvest them yourself, if the inhabitants did not burn the fields the moment they saw your army on the horizon. Many would slip through your fingers, reaching the city in time for the dockmasters to pull stores and weigh anchor, locking the city tight.

'Better to wait for first snow, and attack here.' He pointed to a large village on the lake's western shore. 'Docktown. It is here the chin will bring their tithe, to be tallied by the dockmasters, loaded onto ships, and sent to the city on the lake. The dockmasters' entire fleet will be docked or at anchor, waiting to fill their holds.

'Docktown is weakly fortified, and will not be expecting an attack without warning so late in the season. But your army will be quick atop their mustang. An elite group could capture the entire harvest, the majority of Lakton's docks, and half its fleet. Send your blunt instrument in behind to crush the hamlets once the surprise is done. Focus first on those along the lakeshore, denying safe harbour, and the Laktonians will be trapped on their island all winter without proper provision. Come spring, they may surrender without a fight, and if not, you will have ships of your own to fill with Sharum to take the city.'

Ahmann stared at the map a long time, frowning. 'I will think on this.'

You will consult Inevera's dice, you mean, Abban thought, but he was wise enough to keep silent about it. It would be well enough to consult the hora before such a risky undertaking.

With Ahmann's writ in hand, Abban limped into the training grounds, headed for the Kaji'sharaj.

He was spotted immediately by Jurim, who had trained with him when they were both boys. Jurim had laughed when Abban fell from the Maze wall shattering his leg and had himself been cast down by Drillmaster Qeran as punishment. But while Abban remained forever crippled, Jurim had recovered fully. And he had not forgotten.

The warrior was taking his ease with others by the Kaji pavilion, enjoying cups of couzi and playing Sharak. It was a game Abban had been surprised to learn the greenlanders played as well, though they called it Succour and had different rules. One Sharum clattered the dice in a cup and threw, roaring with victory to the scowls of the others.

'What are you doing here among men, khaffit?' Jurim cried. The other warriors looked up at that. Abban's heart sank at the sight of two of them, Fahki and Shusten.

His own sons.

Jurim rose to his feet, showing no sign that his back had been whipped raw barely a week past. He had always been a quick healer, even before he began absorbing demon magic at night.

The warrior approached, looming. Abban was by no means short, but Jurim was taller still and blade-thin, while fat Abban was stooped by weight and forced to lean on his crutch.

Jurim did not dare touch Abban even with Ahmann nowhere in sight but like Hasik, he missed no opportunity to hurt and humiliate his former classmate. While Hasik took his hatred out on Abban's women, Jurim and Shanjat cut as deeply through his sons. The older men were Spears of the Deliverer after all, the most famed and deadly of the Shar'Dama Ka's warriors, seasoned by battle and kept young and strong by the magic they absorbed on a nightly basis. Fahki and Shusten worshipped them.

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.'