To Wield A Spear
In the Golden Empire, all men learn to wield the spear from a young age. The spear is more than a birthright for warriors; it is a sacred tool, its practice a ritual of devotion to the gods.
The sun was already low in Makhun when Kazem arrived in town. The place was remarkably small, no more than a large road and some buildings made of gray and beige stone and clay. The bear essentials were there: one butcher, one baker, one general store for tools, a bookstore, a tavern, and a few other buildings, but it still only took him a few minutes to traverse the entire town.
Most people had already retired home or to taverns for the evening, leaving the streets mostly deserted when he arrived. There was something unsettling about the sparse population. Even at night, Tel Kellah tended to be a lively place, densely populated and always bearing something novel to entertain its citizens. By comparison, Makhun’s spooky quiet seemed to hang over Kazem like an executioner’s blade.
What in Mithra’s name did people do in this town each day? People could work for most of the day, sure, but then they still had evenings and nights. They could go to taverns or court one another, but surely that got old as well. Didn’t it get boring, going to the same establishments and seeing the same people every single day for one’s entire life?
Kazem came to a stop outside of the town’s most prominent tavern, a shabby stone building that may once have been gray, but was now more of a sickly green. Whether that was from age, wear, or something else, he couldn’t say for certain. He dismounted from his karkadann, bending his knees to absorb some of the shock from the precipitous drop from the massive beast’s back.
His new spear jostled on his back as he landed. He glanced at the spear again. It was an unusual-looking weapon: wooden shaft painted red, black spear tip just a bit longer than average, slightly jagged on the edges. Strange that he still hadn’t adjusted to its weight. He had been strapping spears to his back since he’d been a child of ten. The burden should feel as natural to him as one of his own limbs, and yet the Shah’s gift to him seemed weighed down by something more than physical encumbrance. It had a spiritual presence, one he felt in his very soul as if the weapon were pulsating.
It’s only right that you be the one to wield this, the Shah had told him, yet even after two days on the road he had yet to receive any sign that the weapon was meant for him.
He put a hand to his back, running it along the spear’s wooden shaft. “What must I do?” he murmured. No answer.
Kazem tied his karkadann by rope to a post outside the tavern. There wasn’t really a need to tie up his karkadann - Belly was plenty intelligent, at least enough to know to wait for Kazem. The reason to do it was just in case someone tried to steal Belly, who would likely kill them for the attempt it he wasn’t tied up. The large, dual-horned beast could be a cranky thing and tended to be aggressive toward strangers.
He sauntered into the tavern, where he was met by the pleasant smell of wine and something else. It was warm inside despite the nighttime air, and the place was illuminated by lamps and candles all around the room. It was bustling inside, likely half the town’s population gathered here to drink and laugh. Kazem pulled up a stool and sat at the bar, occupying the last open seat in the house.
The bartender wandered over a moment later. “What’ll it be?”
“What kind of wine do you have?”
The bartender scowled, looking Kazem up and down. “...Not sure you’d like any of the wine we do carry,” he said carefully.
“I’m not here for any trouble,” Kazem reassured the bartender. “I just need some information and I’ll be on my way.”
The bartender nodded slowly. “Even so, m'lord, frankly we don’t carry wine to Tel Kellah’s standards here.”
How did he know that Kazem was a lord? Kazem's accent, perhaps? The sheen of his armor? Or perhaps it was standard to call anyone wearing dragonscale 'm'lord' around these parts.
“A local drink, then," Kazem suggested.
The bartender nodded again, more slowly this time, as if skeptical, then scampered away. He returned a moment later with a small glass, the smallest Kazem had ever laid eyes on. It couldn’t be more than five or six centimeters tall!
Kazem frowned. “What in the Destroyer’s name is that?” He took care not to swear by the name of his own god, Mithra, lest he give himself away as a member of the lords caste. Given the way the bartender was addressing him, however, maybe the man had already recognized him as a lord, anyway.
The bartender smirked. “We don’t do much wine around here, m’lord. Too fancy and sweet for the folks here. What you’re about to taste has a little more... well, let’s say it has a little more umph.” The bartender poured a clear liquid into the glass.
Kazem’s frown deepened. “You’re serving me wate-” He began, then choked up as he caught a whiff of the alcohol. “Destroyer! What is that smell?”
The bartender’s grin widened. “Just wait til you taste the stuff, m’lord. Nothing like it. But you have to shoot the whole glass at once, m’lord, or it’s a waste. You can’t be sipping it. Gotta down it all at once.”
Kazem eyed the man briefly with an eyebrow raised, then picked up the glass and downed it. “AHURA MAZDA!” He cursed a third time, much more loudly this time as he invoked the name of the divine creator in his shock. Kazem spent the next minute or two coughing and sputtering with the vehemence of a man being choked. The drink burned on its way down, filling his chest with fire.
“Aragh sagi, m’lord,” the bartender said. “Also known as dog distilled moonshine.”
“Dog-distilled?”
“Means it’s real strong n’ tastes like shit.” The bartender chuckled.
“You don’t say.” Already, his head was beginning to spin. “How strong, exactly?”
“At least five times as strong as any wine, if I had to venture a guess, m’lord.” The bartender squinted at the bottle. "Though, this specific one might be eight or nine times as strong."
“Destroyer, man. And people drink this daily, here?”
“Not much else to do in Makhun, m’lord.”
Kazem nodded at that. Mithra, his head was starting to spin already just from the one drink. Exactly how did one distill this aragh sagi?
“I’m looking for someone,” Kazem said, trying to keep his voice level. “She’d be the tallest woman you’ve ever seen. Even if she came disguised and you mistook her for a man, you’d have noticed how big she was.”
The bartender stroked his ratty beard, a thinning gray thing somehow matted with bits of dust and sediment. “I did see someone like that. Little over a week ago. Like you said, m’lord, tallest woman I’d ever seen. Had a giant sword on her back, kind of like how you’re carrying that there spear.”
Kazem nodded. “That’s her.”
It was lucky that Executioner stood out so much. He had feared that she would travel in some sort of disguise, but in hindsight he realized that worry had been unfounded. There was nowhere Executioner could go where she wouldn’t stand out. In all his days, he had never seen anyone, man or woman, as tall or imposing as Executioner was.
And anyway, even if someone did find her, chances were they wouldn’t be able to defeat her or bring her in. The fact that she had even brought her sword with her like that, not even bothering to try to hide who she was, was proof of Executioner’s confidence. Even those attempting to take her in her sleep would likely find themselves at Executioner's mercy. The Arash Shara woman was known to be immune to poison, and was supposedly impossible to sneak up on. Kazem resisted the urge to shudder as he was reminded of what Shah Bardiya had asked him to do.
“Was there anyone with her?” Kazem asked.
The bartender nodded. “There was a girl, maybe a teenager? Eighteen at most. Skinny thing. They weren’t here long.”
So Executioner really was with Princess Ariana. That was bad. Very, very bad. “Was there anyone else with them?” Kazem found himself asking.
The bartender shook his head. “Just the women.”
“Any idea where they were going?”
“No, m’lord,” the bartender said. “But some of the folks in town saw them setting off west. Could’ve gone anywhere like that - Gen, Ashtoff, Jar’Akai, few other places... There’s also the possibility that they’re already dead, of course, two women wandering alone into the desert like that.”
“They’ll be alright,” Kazem assured the bartender. “But thank you for your straightforwardness.” He produced a golden coin and placed it in front of the bartender, whose eyes widened.
“I... I can’t give you change for this...!”
“I don’t need change.” He stood. “Just consider it a fee for answering my questions.”
The bartender hesitated, eyeing the coin. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Then the bartender snatched the coin and pocketed it. “Thank you, my lord.” The bartender bowed his head. Kazem noticed that the bartender tried to speak with slightly less of an accent this time.
Kazem stepped out of the tavern lost in thought. He had a decision to make now. Should he ride in pursuit of Executioner, not knowing her exact trajectory, or make his way back to Tel Kellah to inform the Shah of what he now knew?
Part of him wanted to ride back to Tel Kellah. His father had been right. With war against the Scarlet Kingdom looming, Kazem needed to get back to his men. He was their Lord Commander, and should be the one leading them into battle. Another part of him knew that his charge hadn’t been to find information, but to directly bring in Executioner himself. The thought still made him uncomfortable. In what universe was Kazem supposed to be able to fight Executioner on equal terms, even if he managed to unlock the secrets of his new spear?
He frowned as he stepped out of the tavern in time to see a group of five men huddled around his karkadann. One of the men held a knife, which he was using to try and cut the rope tying Belly to the post outside of the tavern. Belly was huffing violently in protest, stamping his feet.
“I wouldn’t,” Kazem advised. “Belly’s not exactly the friendly type.” The men started visibly, whirling to face Kazem.
The man with the knife locked eyes with him. “I reckon that suits me just fine, it does. I’m not exactly the friendly type either.” He grinned, revealing two golden front teeth.
Kazem sighed. “Listen, I’m not in the best mood.”
The gold-toothed man huffed. “Aye, hear that, boys? Little lonely soldier’s not in the best mood. Must be a lot weighing on a big, important bloke like that. Maybe we ought to lighten his load a bit, eh?”
“Speak for yourself,” one of the other men replied. “I’m sitting this one out.” This man was at least half a head shorter than any of the others, though his broad shoulders and vigorous build made him look larger than they did despite the height difference. Like the other men he was dressed in modest, cloth rags. He wore an unwrapped turban around his neck, apparently having taken it off for the nighttime.
The gold-toothed man turned to his friend. “Do you have to undermine me when I’m trying to be intimidating, Hopper?”
“Sorry, I’ll shut up now,” the man named Hopper said. “...I’m still not fighting, though.”
“You see, this is what I’m talking about, innit?” the gold-toothed man replied, exasperated. “Why do you always have to challenge me in front of strangers?”
“I don’t mean to.”
“Yes, but you do. You always do. There was that tax collector in Ashtoff, the guy in Gen... I just wish you’d- Will you stop that?!”
While the gold-toothed man had been speaking, Hopper had begun snacking on some berries he’d apparently been keeping in the pack hooked to his belt. “What?” Hopper demanded. “I’m hungry. We haven’t had dinner yet.”
The gold-toothed man sighed. “Mate, I just feel like you don’t respect me.”
“What?!” Hopper stammered, incredulous. “You know that's not true, don't you Rash?"
"Always talking back... If that ain't undermining, I don't know what is, rightly."
"Dude, Rash, come on," Hopper pleaded. "I totally respect you, man. I wouldn’t be advising you if I didn’t, would I?" He held up a fist, grinning. "Beige Bandits for life, am I right?!"
Rash didn't seem convinced.
“I respect you a whole lot, boss!” A third man exclaimed. This one was far larger than any of his companions, more reminiscent of a massive, hulking tree than a man.
“Shut up, Darab!” Both of the other men snapped in perfect unison. Belly brayed loudly in response, almost as if in agreement with the men.
The third man, allegedly Darab, quickly silenced himself. “Sorry, guys...” He murmured, shrinking back. The display was so pitiful that Kazem actually felt sorry for the man. He seemed to be the punching bag of the group.
“Look, I'm sorry," Hopper said, pointedly ignoring Darab. "I've got a really strong personality and sometimes it makes me careless. I didn't mean to be a dick. I'll be better, alright?"
"I don't know..." Rash replied. "You've said stuff like that before."
"I just don’t want to fight this guy,” Hopper said, pointing toward Kazem. "Seems like bad news." Belly brayed again, and Kazem got the sense that his mount was, again, agreeing with the one called Hopper.
Rash made air quotes with his fingers. "This 'guy' has a karkadann. That's some serious fucking money, Hopper."
"Yeah, but wouldn't caution be wise right now? Do you remember how we found Kuth? Man didn't even have his head anymore! And the other three guys..."
Kazem perked up. A headless man, plus three others? Were they talking about the incident in the alley?
"Hey!" Kazem exclaimed, causing the men to focus on him once more. "Tell me more about your man without a head."
Rash sighed. “We’ll talk about this later, eh?” He asked, earning a nod from Hopper. “In the meantime this fuckin’ soldier’s been watching us with our hands around our cocks.” He turned back to Kazem, face splitting once more into an earful grin. “Sorry bout that, mate. You know how it is, these days. All your little subordinate muppets want to mouth off to you all the time.”
“I actually think your man there’s the smart one,” Kazem said. “The rest of you? Rest of you I’ll give one chance to answer my question and then walk away. I suggest you take it.”
Rash chuckled and pulled his knife away from the rope, then sheathed the knife. Instead, he drew a long tanto. “Think I’d rather take my chances than any of yours.”
The other three drew weapons, too. One drew a spear off his back. Darab and another man each drew heavy clubs.
Kazem shrugged. “So be it.”
He drew his spear and fell into the common stance: knees slightly bent, feet shoulder width apart, spear held outward with one hand, the other free. It was the most basic stance taught to anyone using a spear or other polearm, a defensive stance meant to control the space within a couple of meters of the user. Instantly a sense of power washed over Kazem. In spite of his role as a commander, he had always preferred the frontlines. He never felt better than when he held a spear - the straining of his muscles, the thrill of combat.
The unnamed spearman came at him first, opening with a series of rapid thrusts. The man moved on nimble toes, beating at Kazem furiously from the destroyer stance, the most aggressive of the stances. Kazem deflected blow after blow, then followed up with his own thrust, which the man batted aside. The unnamed spearman wasn't bad. His stance had some holes, but was clearly practiced - this spearman was no amateur. His base was strong, and he held his spear well.
Yet there was so much more to spearmanship than simply holding the weapon. Any man could hold a spear. To wield a spear required discipline, years of training, and, of course, oaths.
A tri-circle tattoo on his left shoulder began to blow. Magical energy rushed through Kazem, causing his heart to pound like a wardrum. He could hear it pulsing in his ears, the march of an army of liberation, freeing him from the shackles of ordinary human limits. He ducked beneath one man’s club and moved behind him.
“What the!” the bandit exclaimed, caught off guard by Kazem’s sudden increase in speed.
He dispatched the unnamed club bearer by impaling him through the chest.
“Shora!” Darab exclaimed.
The unnamed spearman blocked Kazem's next attack, but suddenly found himself launched backwards through the air. The spearman tumbled across the ground, grunting and sputtering. On Kazem’s right shoulder, another tattoo had begun to glow.
“H-He’s stronger now!” The spearman exclaimed, attempting to struggle to his feet despite the pain of his bruises.
Rash came up on Kazem’s flank, trying to slash at him with the tanto. Somewhere in his subconscious, Kazem wondered how Rash had ended up with such a feminine weapon. Even outside of the caste system, most men never touched the sword. He blocked Rash’s attack with the tip of his spear, then forced the bandit leader back with a mighty thrust.
Rash's eyes widened as he flew away several meters, landing and skidding across the sand. “Bastard!”
Kazem smirked. At that moment, Darab fell upon him, charging Kazem and swinging his club erratically. Kazem transitioned into the warrior stance, shifting his legs to be more mobile while taking a two handed grip on the spear. This stance was a reactive one, most easily transitioned into from commoner’s stance, and intended to punish any who got too close too quickly.
Darab was one of those who made such a mistake. Kazem easily twirled his spear and moved his body to redirect the club’s momentum as it struck, tearing the man off-balance and opening up his flank. Kazem shoved his spear through Darab's gut and then withdrew it. The jagged edges tore up the man’s insides on the way out. Darab gasped and crumpled to his knees.
"DARAB!" Rash exclaimed.
The unnamed spearman came up behind Kazem. He dodged a thrust of the bandit’s spear, then redirected another. Rash arrived a moment later, flicking his tanto blade in a violent series of slashing motions all aimed at creating lethal wounds. Rash was faster than Kazem had given him credit for, though not fast enough.
Kazem blocked another attack from the spearman, then spun his polearm to carry the momentum. He ripped the weapon right out of the other man's hand, then stabbed the man in the chest. The man crumpled to the ground. Kazem jerked his weapon free and flicked the blood from the tip. He looked up at Rash.
Rash spit on the ground. “Cheeky little bastard, ain’t ya? Alright, then. Take this, you fuckin’ muppet.” He sheathed his tanto, then bent down and picked up his fallen comrade’s spear.
Kazem's fingers clutched his weapon more firmly, a smirk playing on his lips. “I can do this all day.”
The bravado of his statement was abruptly undercut by a fierce surge of warmth rocketing through his vertebrae. It felt as though his very spine had been flayed open. A choked gasp escaped from his throat as the scalding sensation began to thread its way through every fiber of his being.
A voice spoke in his mind. “All day, eh? But what about the night?”
“What the?!” Kazem exclaimed. “GAH!”
The infernal heat sharpened, like little needles penetrating individual cells. It overtook all other sensation, made even his breathing agonizing, as if fire would pour from his lungs at any moment.
And then, as if mocking his very thoughts, flames did erupt - a deep, malevolent red, dancing violently about him.
“What are you?” Rash cried out, eyes wide with horror. “What dark magic is this?”
Kazem’s myriad tattoos began to shine in tandem: the tri-circle on his left shoulder, the emblem of Greater Alacrity; its counterpart on the right, Greater Strength; and the tight-knit cluster of triangles above his heart, Iron Skin. He felt every one of them, each oath he'd taken, each vow upheld. Piercing Strike, Phoenix Fire, Focused Eye, Greater Reaction. The depth of those commitments weighed on him, making his bones creak and his muscles ache. Yet there was a deeper gravity to it, something more profound.
Despite the weight, however, Kazem would not yield. He willed himself to remain standing, refusing to be crushed by his own power. He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew he couldn’t allow the oppressive magic coursing through him to win. He gritted his teeth, seeking to reassert dominance over the overflow of magic that threatened to tear open his veins.
“I will not be broken...” Kazem hissed. “Not... until... I avenge Kazra...”
He felt something shift inside of him. Suddenly it was like someone had lit a candle within him, enlightening him as to the nature of the power flowing within. With closed eyes, he centered himself. The engulfing energy retreated, the encircling flames waned, and stillness enveloped him. The glow of his tattoos faded. The flames dissipated, leaving behind only smoke. Kazem panted, exhausted by the exertion.
“Destroyer...” Rash breathed. “Who are you?”
With a sudden jolt of realization, Kazem’s gaze locked onto Rash. The present moment snapped back into focus. Realizing he was still in combat, he instinctively tightened his grip on his spear.
CRACK!
Kazem gasped as he felt something shatter against the back of his head. He tumbled to the ground and dropped his spear. He was conscious just long enough to see Hopper standing over him from behind, holding a broken, glass bottle. The smell of aragh sagi filled Kazem’s nostrils, and then everything faded to black.
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