Emissary (46 page)

‘Salim?’

‘The Khalid have fled, I think, although they could be dead, Lazar, I didn’t have time.’

‘Stay out of sight, you’re no use to us in the fray and I’d rather you kept alive.’

‘I’ll watch and keep you briefed.’

‘You risk much?’

‘This time I can save many lives with my magic—I am obliged to take the risk because you and Ana are involved, and I think Maliz is hopefully too occupied to be sensing Iridor.’

‘Thank you,’ Lazar said and although it hadn’t been mentioned, Pez knew that was thanks for the time with Ana. At least it sounded reassuring that their friendship was back on solid ground again. As he watched the Spur run nimbly and silently down the dune, he felt a momentary guilt that he hadn’t asked after Lazar’s arm but then Lazar didn’t seem to care much anyway that blood was flowing down to his wrist; thank goodness the arrowhead was still buried, Pez thought, preventing the open wound from spouting too much blood at this stage. Pez cast a silent prayer to Lyana to protect Ana and Lazar and then he changed into Iridor to try to scout for a particular member of the Elim, one he hoped would not lose his life here this night.

Lazar hit the bottom of the dune at a full run and with such force his sheer momentum, together with wheeling swords, killed five men before they even realised they were being attacked.

He was shocked at how many men were in their camp and he had no idea who was foe or friend in the dark; he had to hope anyone from their own group would scream quickly or somehow recognise him before he dealt a killing blow.

After a momentary pause to take in the stupefying scene—many of the Elim already dead and only a few courageously fighting on, holding the royal tent secure—he settled himself into the serious business of maiming. Lazar had never been a fan of slaughter. He held true to his creed that the single most important task in any battle is not to kill but to disable your enemies so that they can no longer kill you. He was only one man but he had the benefit of surprise and coming from the rear, so he used it to best advantage as he set about his subtle art of slashing through Achilles tendons, hacking off sword arms, chopping at knees or hands. Fighting with two swords was his speciality—a Galinsean skill—and he had been one of his nation’s leading talents. Since he was old enough to support his own weight his father had thrust a practice sword into each hand. Lucien had learned from this tender age the beauty of being ambidextrous. As he grew older he understood and mastered the art of
separating himself mentally into two fighting sides, working as independently as they could of each other. It was no mean skill.

If any had been capable of taking time away from their own fight to watch him now, they would have been fascinated. Twenty-five men he dispatched single-handedly, in what seemed merely moments. But someone was observing him. A man on a camel, shrouded in black, so like a shadow that if not for the beast, Lazar would not have seen him.

The man in black robes silently applauded. He’d never seen such a magnificent display of ferocity. Such single-mindedness, such devotion to the cause. This fighter was a man to admire.

A rough count told him thirty of his men now lay mortally wounded or incapacitated. He worried not for any of them. Their lives were given years ago. This was the culmination of their faith, when they proved their devotion. On the warrior’s side, they were down to one brave Elim, holding off several of the watcher’s men, but he could not last, for there was a queue of others to take any of his enemies’ place as soon as they fell. It was simply a matter of time.

Perhaps these two were worth saving.

‘Shaba!’ The command was heard and the fighters, all shrouded in dark robes with only their eyes visible, obeyed that instruction and stopped.

Salazin, bleeding from several slashes, was breathing hard and looked to Lazar now for his lead. Lazar had barely broken a sweat but none of the intensity of his fighting rage had left him. He had eyes only for the leader on the camel.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

The man responded in perfect Percherese. ‘I think I’m your saviour.’

Lazar ignored the facetious response. ‘Why have you attacked us?’

‘Why not? You enter my land without permission, steal my fowl—although I understand a debt was paid, as is right, and—’

‘Your land? This is desert!’

‘My desert,’ the stranger replied, unruffled. ‘The Empty belongs to me.’

‘Where? What do you own in this wilderness,’ Lazar asked, ‘that you are permitted to slaughter for it?’

‘That is my business.’

‘No warning, no messengers?’

‘You should not be here. You entered the region of my fortress and you—’

‘Fortress!’ Lazar’s anger turned to cold rage. ‘What have you killed these innocent travellers for?’ he yelled, incensed that only one of the Elim remained alive.

‘Trespass,’ the shrouded one replied. In the burning torchlight, Lazar looked lost for a response. ‘And the fact that I hate the Percherese,’ the man added. ‘I’m hoping your Zar is behind
that tent flap. It would give me great pleasure to kill him, especially as I understand he is childless.’

Lazar’s fury was now ice. Over his dead body only would this murderer take what stood behind that tent flap. ‘I am Lazar, Spur of Percheron, I—’

‘I know who you are. Bring out the royals,’ he commanded.

Salazin, the remaining Elim, raised his sword. It was useless. Lazar gave a hand signal to the mute that in any language meant ‘stay your hand’. They were hopelessly outnumbered and he was going to have to risk that this madman had no interest in lesser royals. It was a big risk—these were men, after all, and the people about to be presented were women. Fair game.

Maliz, Herezah and Ana were dragged out. Lazar looked to Herezah and shook his head slightly. He knew he could count on her to understand. More torches were lit so their enemies could see their captives more clearly.

‘Ah, no young Zar. Who are these people?’

He addressed them but Lazar answered. ‘Vizier Tariq is making a diplomatic journey to Galinsea. He brings with him his wife and daughter.’ To her credit Herezah didn’t flinch, although Lazar knew what insult he had just given. He silently thanked her with his eyes for understanding and co-operating. She bowed her head, as did Ana.

‘I don’t know much about you, Tariq, but for some reason I thought the Percherese Vizier was unmarried, childless.’

Maliz bowed. ‘Sir, so did I.’ Lazar felt his insides do a flip. So the coward finally emerges. ‘Until my beautiful Farim came to me.’

‘Farim?’ the man queried.

‘My new wife.’ He gave a soft conspiratorial sigh. ‘I lay with this woman when I was a younger man. I did not know that my seed had quickened her womb and she had given birth to our beautiful Ana here. Farim came to me when Ana was turning fifteen and told me the truth. She needed help securing a good husband, a good life for our daughter. She had never asked for my assistance before. I had forgotten about her entirely, in truth. But Farim is persuasive and far more handsome in these older years than the gangly young creature I recall having bedded. And Ana is a beauty, I could not resist her needs.’

‘And you take the word of a woman you have not known for so many years that this is your child?’

Maliz shrugged, did not skip a beat. ‘Would you not if this pair were presented to you, sir? I am old, I am wealthy, I have nothing in my life. Farim and Ana have given me reason to wake up and bless my stars. Whether Ana is mine or not, it is irrelevant. These women are mine now.’

‘Very admirable,’ the man said, his head to one side. ‘Bring the girl closer.’

Lazar had silently revelled in the Grand Vizier’s supremely crafted lies but now his heart lurched as Ana became the focus of the stranger’s
attention. In a shocking move, the man pulled away her veil.

‘You need never do this for any man,’ he growled. ‘Choose it only if you do so for your own modesty or your faith.’ He pulled her further aside, and gave a warning finger to Lazar and to the Vizier, not that Maliz was about to do anything heroic—

‘Come, child.’

‘Where do you take her?’ Lazar demanded, fear thrilling through him.

‘I wish to speak with this girl who stares at me so defiantly.’ He withdrew Ana behind his camel and then closer to some dunes before he spoke directly to her. ‘Any other Percherese woman would have screamed, or covered her face with her hands if I’d done that to them.’

‘I am not any other Percherese woman, sir. I follow no man’s rules.’

He removed his own face covering but in the dark she could not make out his features. ‘If you follow no man, who do you follow?’

‘Only my god, sir.’

‘Zarab is not a worthy—’

‘I spit on Zarab, sir,’ she said for his hearing only, and felt rather than noticed the tension she provoked within him. ‘I follow Lyana alone. And if that curses me in your eyes, I am not afraid of you.’

He brought his hands together in a gesture akin to prayer, rested his fingertips against his
mouth as he considered her. ‘Lyana. Do you believe she will come again?’

‘I believe she is rising, sir. She will be amongst us very shortly.’

He gave a deep chuckle. ‘You intrigue me, Ana.’

‘And what of the others…my parents, the Spur?’ She carefully omitted Pez, for he had not been seen. Hopefully he might raise some alarm, perhaps persuade the Khalid to rally and fight.

‘They do not intrigue me.’

‘You’re going to kill them?’

He cocked his head to one side again. ‘The Spur is an extraordinary fighter. He certainly has a keen interest in you.’

‘What do you mean?’ she stammered, the first time she had dropped her confident countenance.

It amused him. ‘I mean he has revealed himself to me. Throughout the entire monologue from your father, the Spur’s eyes never left you.’

‘That’s not true,’ she whispered.

‘How would you know? Your head was bowed. He briefly gave attention to your mother but his concern is for you alone. Does he love you, Ana?’

‘I…I hardly know him,’ she answered, flustered, frightened for Lazar.

‘Well, because you mean something to this proud man, whose fighting prowess I can only admire, I shall give them a sporting chance. And I shall give him a choice.’

‘What choice?’

‘Heart over duty. Which do you think he’ll choose?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Let me give you a demonstration, then,’ he whispered close to her ear. ‘I’m thinking the very proud and honourable Spur of Percheron will choose duty…very sad, because I think you would like otherwise. Come, child, watch.’

Ana and her captor re-emerged, much to Lazar’s relief, but the pause that followed felt too sinister for him to trust this stranger, who had already killed on a whim. The metallic smell of blood clung like a death shroud about him and warned of more to come. The first streaks of dawn were slashing across the wide desert sky. It was hardly light but he could now finally pick out the ghostly face of their oppressor, who was smiling.

‘Brothers, sisters, a decision has been reached. It is because of this beautiful creature who stands beside me that I have decided to spare your lives…’ Visible relief was shown amongst the captives—their shoulders relaxing, worried, thin lips parting, and glances of ease shared. ‘…for the time being,’ he continued. ‘What happens next is entirely up to your Spur.’

Now all of them looked baffled. Salazin firmed his sword in his hand and Lazar tensed. The stranger was certainly not done with them as he’d hoped.

‘You have two fighters with you,’ the man explained to Maliz and Herezah. ‘Both formidable, especially your Spur. He is surely worth ten of mine.’ He rapidly spoke in his own tongue. They watched as a dozen of his warriors stood to attention and walked to stand in a line not far from the royal tents. Lazar didn’t need to be told what would happen next. He dropped his angry gaze to the ground, marshalling his strength, turning his fury into focus, readying himself for battle and the inevitable grief that he knew was coming.

The man said something else to his men and as one they answered, presumably in the affirmative, that they understood his instructions.

He returned his attention to the captives. ‘On my signal my men will hunt you down and kill you as they choose. What stands between you and death is this man over here,’ he said, pointing to Salazin, ‘and your Spur who has a rather nasty decision to make.’ He chuckled.

‘Wait!’ Maliz cried out. ‘This is barbaric.’

‘Then we are brothers in arms, Vizier. I have never thought your precious Zars over the years, or the god you pray to, have shown any mercy.’

‘To whom?’ Maliz beseeched. The man was speaking in riddles.

‘I’m sure you’ll work it out, Vizier, when the hour is upon you. And it’s coming; that, I promise you.’

Maliz began to jabber. ‘What are we expected to do, unarmed, without mounts?’

‘Run, I think, would be my first suggestion. My second would be that you leave right now,’ and they could tell he did not jest. There was no longer any amusement in his voice.

Maliz looked at Herezah and she in turn looked to Lazar. They both looked terrified. Salazin was the first to move, silently ushering the pair, pushing them into a trot. Herezah tripped on a tent rope, stumbling slightly, but Salazin grabbed her, kept her upright, pushed her forward. Maliz didn’t bother to wait for the Valide, he was already running as hard as his legs would allow. Lazar gritted his teeth, felt sure he would run through the cowardly Vizier with his blade if he got the chance. He looked back at the man who taunted them.

‘Give me Ana,’ he demanded.

‘No, Spur. She is mine. As I said, I find her intriguing and her life alone is safe, although you can secure the Vizier’s…and the Valide’s. Did you think I would fall for those lies? They were nicely done, too, and if not for my reliable information I might have fallen for them. But no, I know who that man is and I know that his companion is the Zar’s mother and I know that beside me stands his new Zaradine and Absolute Favourite. I also know that you and she have a special understanding, shall we say.’