He nodded, moved closer. “Is my leader here?”
“No,” she said, dabbing at her forehead. “He was briefly here to check on me but he has left. I don’t know where he went.”
“I do. He has gone to deal with Spur Lazar.”
Her head snapped back. “What do you mean?”
“They came for him when I was there.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“Yes, spoken to him. He insists that I get you out.”
She shook her head sadly. “I can’t go anywhere. What about him?”
Ashar shrugged. “He made me promise that I would have a camel readied for you and for the other prisoner.”
“The woman?”
“Her name is Ganya, Miss Ana. She is my sister.”
Ana steadied herself, leaning against Arafanz’s bed, her face surprised. “You’re sure? You’ve spoken with her?”
He nodded. “I recognized her immediately. The dead must wait, although I swear I will make Arafanz pay in blood for my father’s death. You must come with me now. I have to get you both to the camels.”
“Ashar, get your sister and get out of here. I cannot go. It is not only because I will slow you up but because Arafanz is coming back to fetch me. I suspect he wants me to see my lover and my husband being killed.”
“He will not hurt you or the baby.”
“I know. It doesn’t matter. If he kills Spur Lazar, I will die anyway. I shall take my own life. He and the Spur ultimately want the same thing, which is the faith of Lyana returned to Percheron. But Arafanz chooses death and destruction to achieve it. Lazar will not allow him to kill the Zar if he can help it.”
“Don’t be too sure of that, Miss Ana. Do you remember where the camels are sheltered?”
“Yes. You put them in with the goats when there’s a storm.”
“Good. Whatever happens, I will have a camel ready there for you. Whether you are with me, with the Spur, or just alone, get there.”
“The Samazen—”
“Spur Lazar says we are to take our chances with the sandstorm. I know the story, Miss Ana. You’ve survived it once before. You can again.”
She smiled softly at him. “Your faith is vast, Ashar. I hope Lyana keeps you safe.”
“And you, Miss Ana. I must go now. I have instructions to see to the needs of the Zar.”
“Will you try and help him get away, too?”
“That is not part of my plan, no.”
“You must, Ashar. He is the Zar of Percheron. You must not condemn him to death.”
Ashar shrugged. “He is not my king, Miss Ana. And he is ordained by Zarab, whom I don’t recognize. Your son is the only Zar to whom I will pledge fealty.”
She reached for Ashar. “I am pleased that you are going to save yourself and your sister…and I am grateful to you for trying to aid Spur Lazar, but I beg you, Ashar, please do whatever you can for Boaz. He is not a bad person. He does not hate Lyana as Arafanz would have you believe. He doesn’t know her; he was not raised in the faith. But I know him. He would like all that she represents, all she can teach him. Give him a chance. Please, I beg you. Take him with you and Ganya—keep him and Lazar apart.” They heard footsteps. “They’re coming for me,” she said, suddenly frightened. “Go, take care of yourself,” she added, pushing him away.
“Find your way to the camels, Miss Ana,” he begged, before turning and slipping out of the chamber.
He ran as fast as he could to the lower level to do his duty for Zar Boaz, as Arafanz had requested. His leader would take exquisite pleasure in slaying the Zar in front of his followers but for Ana’s sake Ashar intended to pay the young ruler appropriate respect, no matter if his life was already forfeit.
As he knocked on the door before entering, he decided he was no longer Razaqin, for he was already betraying Arafanz. No, first and foremost he was Khalid, and to reinforce that decision, he intended to let the Percherese ruler know that the desert people loved Lyana more than they loved any Zar. Ashar suddenly felt himself burning with a new passion. He was the son of a tribal chief, he was no fanatical spiritualist, and suddenly all he wanted was revenge for his family’s name and to return to his tribe. He looked at the angry face of the man who was probably around the same age as he was. “Zar Boaz, my name is Ashar of the Khalid. I am here see to your needs.”
“I need nothing but vengeance. Can you offer me that, Ashar of the Khalid?”
“I suspect you will not have time for reprisals, Zar Boaz. They will be coming for you next. They have already fetched Spur Lazar and your wife, the Zaradine.”
“What do they intend to do?” Boaz asked.
Ashar enjoyed seeing the fear flit across the young ruler’s face. “Why, execute you, of course. What else did you think Arafanz and his Razaqin want?”
Boaz’s expression changed. He frowned, cocked his head to one side. “But not you, Ashar? Come in, please, and tell me what it is that you want.”
29
Lazar had kept his face lowered. He had cocooned himself in his own silence, not meaning to but using some of the time to think over his life, about the death of Shara and how his domineering parents had shaped his life and why he found himself now in this hopeless situation. He thought about Iridor and how helpless Iridor, despite demigod status, was going to be against all these men. He thought about the magic that Beloch and Ezram insisted he possessed, the magic he knew neither how to call nor what having it meant. He wished it could help him now, give him a glimpse toward a means of escape, but he knew this was a useless pathway to follow, and he was relieved when he heard the soft murmur that dragged his mind from his musings. He looked up to see Ana being escorted into the chamber. She looked pale but she walked unaided and with defiance. Always defiance.
Their gazes met and locked and he understood that if his life amounted to anything, his purpose must be to save his yet unborn child. This boy was already heir to two thrones. He might be the only chance they all had of averting war between Percheron and Galinsea. If Lazar could give his father a new heir, a new beginning, it might resolve the grudge between the two of them. This boy was, by right, the next King of Galinsea, born of a Percherese mother, a royal no less. It mattered not that Ana was a slave. She was Percherese and she had been accorded regal status. And as if they shared one mind, he could sense that Ana felt the same way. She had never cared much for her life but he suspected she cared very much for the boy—the proof of their love. Even if both of them died this day, their son would live for them, a testament of their union.
He wanted the boy to live. He would call him Lucien, for the man Lazar once had been, the man he had turned his back on. His son would live up to his name and claim his rightful place on the Galinsean throne. He would use Arafanz’s strategy; if a boy king could be taught to change a nation’s faith, then that same boy king could be guided to change the way a nation thought. Young Luc could sweep aside all the acrimony between the two nations and bring peace to the region with the right guidance.
It was a plan that lifted his heavy heart and even made him smile across the sea of staring eyes. And Ana smiled back, both oblivious and uncaring of who watched.
Arafanz broke the spell between them, his voice suddenly cutting across the soft murmurs.
“Come, Ana, my dear, take your seat beside me. We shall not keep you long—I am sympathetic to your predicament.”
Lazar watched her hold her belly as she lowered herself into her seat, ignoring Arafanz’s helping hand, her eyes refusing to break their lock on his own. He gave a soft nod of encouragement, ignoring the tear that escaped and rolled down her sweet face. His attention was caught by a young man who walked up to stand beside her chair—Ashar. Lazar detected the near-imperceptible nod of the young man’s head. He felt a small surge of hope—the camels were readied.
“Ah, have you been with our royal?” Arafanz asked him.
“Yes, Master. He wishes to speak with you.”
“The time for talk is o
ver. But tell me, why is your hair filled with sand?” Arafanz quizzed.
Lazar felt his gut twist but Ashar reacted quickly and calmly. “I have not seen the Samazen ever in such force, Master. I made the mistake of looking outdoors.”
“And paying a price, I see. That must have hurt.”
Ashar touched at his cheeks, burned from the whipping sand. “I learned a lesson.”
“Good. That is what makes a mistake worth the pain.”
Ashar nodded. “Yes, Master.”
Arafanz looked toward a man at the entrance. “Is he here?”
The man bowed an assent.
“Excellent. We are ready, then. Lazar, I suspect you don’t plan to die without a fight, so let’s give you one.” He gave a signal and what looked to Lazar to be a score or more of men leaped into the ring. With a terrifying ringing sound, they dragged their ferocious curved blades from their hips.
Lazar backed away. He knew there was no escape but he moved instinctively.
“I plan to make this a little more balanced than it looks, Lazar. My men will attack in pairs only. For each man you cut down, another will replace him. There are presently twenty men in the ring with you. I seem to remember taunting you with the same number of men the last time we met. Except duty got in the way, then, didn’t it? Such a shame—it would have made a spectacle. So let’s give you the same scenario. Twenty men against you. Kill them all and I will spare someone you care about.”
Lazar whipped around to face the man who taunted him. “You have no intention of killing Ana—so don’t toy with me, rebel.”
“I do not refer to Ana. I refer to him,” he said, pointing. Lazar swirled back to see Zar Boaz being led into the chamber. “We all want the Zar dead, possibly even Ana does, now that she carries your child. The Zar is probably only here because he was looking for revenge. Poor fool. He thought he’d join you and do something heroic and now Percheron will lose its Zar.”
“Not if I can help it, Arafanz,” Lazar growled.
“Aha,” the rebel replied, delight in his tone, “that’s the spirit, Lazar. Kill all of these men before you and perhaps I’ll spare his life. Or perhaps I’ll let you choose. It may be that you prefer to spare the life of Ganya of the Khalid—also one of your women, as I understand it. I gather you took comfort from the loneliness of the quiet nights in the desert inside Ganya’s sweet—”
“Shut up, Arafanz,” Lazar said, ignoring the look of pain that ghosted across Ana’s face. He wasn’t sure whether it was her contractions or his desert dalliance. If the latter, he knew he wouldn’t be permitted to explain the how or why of it to her.
“Perhaps my treacherous wife should know of his affair with my mother, the Valide,” Boaz yelled, joining the fray.
Now Lazar did look at Ana fully. She deserved that much truth from him. He kept his face devoid of emotion but she had always seen through him; he was sure she could tell that not only was Arafanz telling the truth but that Boaz was not lying either.
Arafanz made a show of surprise. “The Valide? Lazar has lain with the Zar’s mother? Oh, how daring of you, Spur, you have been busy.”
“They are lovers,” Boaz confirmed. “They have been for a while, I’m assured by my mother.”
“That’s a lie! We have nev—”
“Lazar, it seems one woman at a time is not enough. You see, Ana, my dear, this man is not worthy of you. For all we know, the Valide and the desert woman are both carrying his spawn.”
Lazar refused to dignify Arafanz’s taunts with any further defense. Instead he simply turned his attention to Ana. He could not mistake the injury in her expression but he hoped she trusted him enough to know that the only woman he loved was her. Was it enough, though? Who was to say that Ana was not prey to the same foibles—such as jealousy and envy—as any other woman?
“And so we once again come around to the same question, Lazar. Heart or duty?”
“What do you want from me, Arafanz?” Lazar hurled back, his anger fighting free at last.
“Some entertainment for my men at the very least, Lazar. Will you do your duty and protect the Zar you are sworn to guard at the expense of your own life, or do you follow your heart and try to fight your way free toward Ana and the unborn child of yours she carries? Ana, of course, is under no threat, as you know, so I’ll give you a third choice—just to keep it interesting. I will let you go free. You will be followed for the rest of your life—not that you’ll be aware of it—and should you ever leave Percheron for the desert again, you will be killed. Take the third option, Lazar, for your life and that of Ana’s and the child’s are safe. One way or another, my men will kill the Zar—you might as well let us do it now. But you have a choice to make.” He turned to Ashar. “Take her to that chair on the dais.”
Lazar watched as Ana was helped to her feet and escorted to a seat not far from the opening they had been brought through. He could see her clearly on the dais if he turned his back on Boaz, who had just been shoved into the ring with him.
“Now you can watch the woman you claim to love whilst you go about your business of killing. Be swift, Lazar, for Ana is in labor and you don’t want her suffering her next contraction here, in front of all the men. She is due one quite soon, from my calculations. Or do you choose to walk from here, Spur, a free, uninjured man? I will throw in the desert woman for your ongoing pleasure on the journey home.” He laughed softly to himself, seemingly enjoying his own magnanimity.
“Give me a weapon!” Lazar roared, and now Arafanz openly laughed. Lazar ignored him, turned to Boaz. “I can’t promise you anything, Highness, but stay behind me for as long as you can.”
“You’re still going to try and save me?” Boaz asked.
“I gave a sworn oath. My life before yours.”
“You are a constant surprise, Spur,” Boaz said curiously.
Lazar walked over to where a Razaqin had laid out the two swords they’d taken from him.
He picked them up and weighed them. He had fought twelve men at once for Zar Joreb’s entertainment many years previous and he was a better swordsman now. With Lyana’s guiding hand, he would slay the twenty and win the Zar’s freedom.
“Ready?” Arafanz asked politely.
“I hope they’ve said their farewells,” said Lazar.
The rebel laughed delightedly and signaled the first pair of Razaqin to take their chances against Percheron’s famed Spur.
Ashar was feeling light-headed. He had taken Ganya fresh water after his strange visit with Zar Boaz. The words of the young ruler had piqued his interest. He had been offered power and riches to help Zar Boaz escape, and although he had fled the room, he had heard the prisoner out, heard his promises and pledges. If he accepted the royal’s offer, he could take Ganya back to their people. Safety was guaranteed, as was wealth. They would never want for camels or food, or blankets again. The Zar had even mentioned trading. Ashar remembered how that had always been his father’s dream, to work as a merchant between Percheron and its western neighbors. They had never had enough money at one time to buy the goods to sell, though; instead, they had been forced to live hand to mouth. With the Zar’s support, Ashar could fulfill his father’s dream and set up a Khalid trading route.
No one had noticed the two pails he had brought into the arena as the other Razaqin were filing in. He wondered if this whole plan of his and the Zar’s could work. He hadn’t been able to discuss it with the Spur, or even Ganya. He’d just had time to throw some black robes on her and smuggle her out of the fortress, leaving her with the camels, where she was waiting for him now. No one would miss her, he hoped; everyone was in the arena and her guard would rightly assume she was still secure in her prison. He wished he could somehow get a message to Lazar but it was too late. Arafanz had just signaled the first pair of Razaqin warriors to engage the Spur.
He held his breath as Lazar murmured something to the Zar, then raised both swords, initiating an explosion of jeering and cheering as the formerly silen
t audience suddenly started baying for blood.
“Be brave, my Zar. As long as I’m breathing I won’t let them touch you.”
“Don’t let me die, Spur!” Boaz screeched.
It briefly occurred to Lazar that Boaz, although squeamish, had never lacked courage. His near-hysterical response was surprising, as was his recent use of Lazar’s title, which he normally reserved for formal situations. But Lazar didn’t have time to dwell on trivialities. All he could do now was take a deep breath and raise his swords.
The audience, clearly thirsty for bloodletting, especially the blood of Lazar, roared its approval as the first of the Razaqin approached.
Lazar didn’t move initially; he just watched. The footwork of the one on the left was heavy. He would be slower, so he must focus first on the man on his right, who was now moving around in a wider arc. Arafanz had watched him fight before and had probably instructed his men accordingly. Still, he could take these two, he decided, faking a lunge to his right before spinning low and slashing at the fellow’s knees, allowing his movement to twist him all the way around to hack into the neck of his attacker to his left. He finished off the man on the right with a slash across his neck as well. There was no time to breathe. The next pair entered the arena. They were more cunning, took their time sizing him up. Others rushed to pull the dead away.
“We’re all going to die,” Boaz said from behind him. “How can you hold them off?”
“It’s what I do,” Lazar growled back, waiting, watching.
“You’re doing this for Ana, not for me! It all makes sense now. Feigning loyalty to me and yet both of you traitors.”
“This is not the time—”
“She’ll never have her ‘red blanket time’ with you again,” Boaz spat.
And Lazar couldn’t respond; he instinctively took the hammering blow, crossing both swords above his head. He kicked the man at his left, heard the knee break. Good. Down but not out, so he skipped forward, out of the felled man’s reach, whilst he dealt with his partner, dispatching him in a whirl of glinting sword moves. He didn’t have time to return to the first man before a replacement had arrived, fast and accurate. The men were unmasked, so he could look into their eyes. This one’s eyes were dead, grimly determined with the desire to be the one to kill the Spur. Lazar realized that Arafanz had destroyed his soldiers’ ability to think for themselves and he began to wonder, now that he focused on the slightly glazed expression of his opponent, whether these men were drugged. It made sense. To make any rational person walk into unnecessary peril, one would need to trick him or remove his inhibitions. Their beloved leader must encourage them to drink before they fought and in that drink would be a potion capable of dulling their sense of fear. Lazar stabbed the man, knew the blow was fatal, ran quickly over to the man with the broken knee, and with a vicious blow cut off the arm that was reaching for his blade. Lazar had barely a second to register the Razaqin’s incredulous look at his arm in the sand before Boaz was screaming at him to look behind him. Squatting instantly, Lazar spun in a fast, killing arc, taking out both men at once, waist-high, their abdomens splitting open like ripe fruit, spilling their contents.
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