The Desert Spear

If the first book in The Demon Cycle series is so uneven that it seemed as if it were written by two different authors, The Desert Spear certainly is written exclusively by the worst of the pair: Peter V. Brett’s fantasy novel continues to undermine the best parts of its characters while offering a troublesome take on sexism – and this time with an anticlimactic ending to boot.

The protagonist is now Jardir, a desert warrior who, after obtaining a magical spear, decides to proclaim himself the sacred leader of his people and start a holy war. Meanwhile, the herbalist Leesha, alongside her friend Rojer, continues her preparations to arm a village against the night demons; the messenger Arlen attempts to warn the northern peoples of Jardir’s threat, and the girl Renna tries to protect herself from her father’s sexual advances.

The initial focus is on Jardir’s rise in the kingdom of Krasia. The warrior lives in a patriarchal and sexist society where having daughters is seen as a curse, while boys learn to become the “man” of their respective families. Since Krasians are the only ones in that world who openly confront the demons every night, they value strength above all else, which women obviously lack, as you certainly know, and they even see rape as great evidence of physical superiority. The characterization of Krasia (which is Asia with two additional consonants) often borders on stereotyping with its heavy-handed mix of elements from some oriental cultures: it’s said, for instance, that a group of virgins awaits in paradise those men who die heroically in battle.

During the first act, some characters stand out among the crowd: Jardir’s first wife, for example, emerges as a sort of Lady Macbeth, pushing the warrior to betray his values in search of glory and the title of “The Deliverer” he so desires. The warrior may reflect, “Am I doomed to always have success without pride?” but never strays from the path set by his wife, who is always there to encourage him to do what he truly wants, no matter the cost. He often brings up the idea of “destiny”, too, represented by the prophecies his wife makes – as she dispenses with Shakespeare’s witches by assuming their function as well – and he is troubled by them.  The Merchant Abban, on the other hand, serves as a kind of moral compass, encouraging Jardir to constantly expand his worldview and embrace other perspectives, trying to prevent him from becoming a religious fanatic.

Jardir’s conquest of other lands, which is pursued under the guise of uniting all peoples against the demons, is established as the main threat at the beginning. The second act, then, returns to the previous characters’ point of view, with the demons no longer functioning as the main antagonists, being replaced by men and their oppressive culture. The narrative, however, fails miserably when tackling this subject, being rife with problematic dialogue and symbolism.

Leesha’s mother, for example, continues to spread her sexist worldview, arguing that rape has a silver lining for the victim: yes, you read that right, for Elona, being raped means that someone, at least, desired the raped person – and so the victim should be grateful for that. Once, a politician named Jair Bolsonaro – before being embraced by the Brazilian people and elected as president – said to a female opponent, “I would never rape you because you don’t deserve it.” Elona would certainly see nothing wrong with this statement and be one of the millions who voted for him.  “Not how I’d wanted you to lose your flower,” she says to a girl, “but it was time it was done somehow, and I expect you’re the better for it.”

Elona is clearly framed as a villain, so her disgusting worldview would have been organically challenged by the narrative if Leesha herself didn’t condone it at one point. Yes, you read that right again. Remember how Leesha was depicted as a brave woman who struggled hard for her independence in the last book? Here, this woman deems her mother’s point of view heartless, but also realistic. Let that sink in for a moment; let it sink much like the horse in The Neverending Story. “She sees the world with cold clarity,” Rojer says about Elona at one point. “Heartless clarity, is more like it,” Leesha corrects him, changing the wrong word. You changed the wrong word, Leesha. Poor horse.

Leesha’s characterization in The Desert Spear would have made the Leesha we met at the beginning of The Warded Man vomit. At one point, she chastises herself for drugging a guy who had tried to rape her every night during a trip and even pities him when he apologizes… for not being able to get it up. In another scene, she considers having sex with the very same guy and still reflects how cooking for a man is great. Cooking for your loved one is indeed great, but Leesha’s reflection is surrounded by a glaring accumulation of terrible situations, dialogue, and symbols that imbue it with, well, sexism.

While we’re still trying to recover from these scenes, we’re introduced to the girl Renna, whose arc involves her being raped daily by her own father. Not only does this series seem unable to introduce a feminine point of view without resorting to rape, but, in both cases, rape is also used as a narrative device to romantically bring both victims close to the very same man.

I didn’t count, but it’s possible there are more rape attempts than battles with demons in The Desert Spear, especially since, in Krasia, the practice is common even among boys: when you rape someone, you prove you’re stronger than them, remember? Yes, you do, unfortunately. And, to add insult to injury, the attitude of a man who’s raped in the book is diametrically opposed to Renna’s: while he immediately starts to plan his revenge and trains hard to make it possible, the girl passively accepts her fate, hoping that some enchanted prince will save her: “Her eyes were always searching the road east, praying that one day he would come and take her away.”

When they’re not damsels in distress, female characters here are characterized in only three ways: some manipulate men with their intelligence, some with their genitals, and some with both. In The Desert Spear, the feminine is basically limited to its relation to danger and sex. It’s no wonder that Jardir’s first wife takes us back to the figure of Eve, offering the forbidden fruit and corrupting her man. It’s no wonder that one of the earliest depictions of demons in the book has their long claws compared to “a woman’s manicured nail.” It’s no wonder that – no wait, manicured? Really? The demon’s terrible claws? Jesus – it’s no wonder that the moment a woman tears several demons apart, her feeling is described as one of lust instead of pride or glory. It’s no wonder that Leesha’s mother says that a woman’s power lies between her legs and “that only a fool chooses not to take advantage of it.” Leesha, of course, “opened her mouth to protest, but for some reason her mother’s words rang true, and no rebuttal came to her.” Every day, another horse sinks in.

Every attempt to paint a positive portrait of the feminine is sabotaged by the very context in which it arises. There is a moment in which a female character says, “But you ent my da or my husband, and even if you were, my body’s my own, and I’ll do with it as I will,” but she says that in the middle of a discussion where she’s fumbling with black magic and knows she’s doing something wrong. She sounds deceptive and foolish, then, and her words never ring true.

By the same token, what’s the point of Jardir stating that the women around him are all very strong if, when a demon prince analyzes his enemies, the creature concludes that Arlen’s and Jardir’s minds are very resilient and impenetrable, but those of the women around them are weak and fragile, making them easy prey?

It doesn’t matter that both Arlen and Jardir are each protected by their own magic charm that made them more resilient. They could have been protected by magical lollipops or Liam Neeson, for all that matters. When all the characters possessed by demons are women, there is an unequivocal symbolism present in the narrative: women’s bodies are vessels for evil. The moment someone reflects that women are not in the wrong when they refuse to be with a man is almost staggering, constituting a glimpse of the maturity the rest of the book severely lacks.

Moving on to the returning male characters from The Warded Man, Arlen, who was once the protagonist, now just keeps repeating dozens of times that he is not the people’s savior – called “The Deliverer” instead of “Lisan al-Gaib”– while Rojer remains as disposable and irrelevant as he was before.

Besides that, the book’s ending is also marred by a major anticlimax, as instead of dealing with Jardir’s holy war – the main point of the first act – or the sexist culture of their society – the main point of the second act – it prefers to focus on a battle against two random demons whose high rank and sporadic appearances in the story don’t quite disguise their narrative insignificance.

The attempt to equate mental possession with rape is also sudden and poorly set up: besides coming out of nowhere, the comparison means demons would have to be linked to men now – only men rape because rape is proof of strength and women are weak, you surely remember, and I’m sincerely sorry for that – opposing the rest of the symbolism that surrounds these creatures with their many manicured claws.

With some troublesome character development, a misguided discussion on sexism, and an anticlimactic ending, The Desert Spear is the worst parts of its predecessor magnified.

September 30, 2026.

Review originally published in Portuguese on November 18, 2016.