Goddess

by Fiona McIntosh

  The smell of blood was strong in his nostrils and now the odor of punctured bowel joined to form a familiar battleground stench.

  The next pair was already arriving. Just before Lazar gave himself over entirely to the business of killing, Boaz’s mention of his red blanket forced him to pause, just for a second. Something was wrong. But his arms had already begun their controlled but whirlwind killing maneuvers and Lazar’s mind turned blank as he became one with the weapons, no longer registering death or pain. He was being injured, and he felt each bite of the blade that opened his skin, the superficial wounds neither slowing him nor being permitted to enter his thoughts.

  Behind him Boaz continued to yell, but although Lazar heard the noise, he could no longer comprehend the words. The only element he was aware of in the whole chamber, in fact, was Ana’s presence. She was his anchor, holding him steady, giving him a reason for this terrible choice of murder that he was making over and over again.

  As though awakening from a dream, he found himself on his knees, bleeding profusely. The skin of his chest and belly was a profusion of wounds and blood. He was breathing hard, feeling slightly dizzy and suddenly weakened. There were only two Razaqin standing in the ring. Eighteen bodies had been carted off; the chamber stank of sweat and blood, of urine and feces, of undigested food spilling from intestines and of leaking wounds from already rotting corpses. He tasted salty tears—was he crying? He could not tell. He sensed one of the men moving around him, obviously determined to reach Boaz, leaving his partner to finish him off. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to be fast enough. Boaz began to moan.

  Red blanket? It echoed through his mind again. His old sword teacher had warned him of this—he had taught Lazar to empty his mind of all thoughts, but cautioned that when rationality returned to the fighter’s mind, the distraction could threaten death. It was the body’s way, his tutor had said, of giving you some final moments to yourself to pray, to think of your loved ones, to hate the man who was about to kill you.

  He had no intention of dying. Why was he thinking of the red blanket he had given Ana to sleep on during their original journey from the foothills? The same blanket she had mentioned in the desert during the second doomed journey in an innocent-sounding, couched message of love spoken in front of the Valide and Grand Vizier…

  “Spur!” Boaz howled, and instinctively Lazar stabbed upward and behind him, sticking his attacker through the throat. He twisted the blade out, felt the gush of blood hit his bare back, but understood there was no time to haul himself to his feet as the last of the twenty gave a warrior’s cry. As he ferociously twisted the sword out of the man’s throat, he brought his other arm down in a swinging motion, hurling the blade directly at his companion, who was running toward Lazar. As if he saw it happening at one quarter of life’s normal speed, Lazar watched his sword arc, tip over hilt, before slamming into the man’s chest. The Razaqin barely had time to register the spume of blood before he dropped dead, hitting the sand like a stone dropped from a height, barely a step from where Lazar was breathing in heavy rasps, only the whites of his eyes visible through the blood that seemed to cover him from head to toe.

  Silence greeted the last man’s death. Although the cheering had long since dissipated, a lone person clapped. Lazar knew it would be Arafanz. He painfully hauled himself from his knees, swaying dangerously on his feet. He ignored the rebel, looked instead through the blood that dripped from his hair—he wasn’t sure if it was his own or some other poor fool’s—to search out Ana.

  And it suddenly fell into place for him. He had been fighting for the wrong life. As the ironic clapping continued, he struggled over to one of the dead Razaqin and retrieved his sword. As he did so, he heard the Zar yell at Arafanz.

  “I am free, rebel! You have witnesses!”

  Suddenly nothing sounded right to Lazar’s ears. Not the eerie silence of the audience around him, not the voice inside him that was desperately trying to persuade him against the terrifying notion that was suddenly consuming him, forcing him to think about doing something he had never thought possible. Not even the insincere praise from his captor sounded right.

  “My compliments, Spur Lazar. You truly are a one-man war all of your own. You have won your Zar a pardon from death…for the time being.”

  Boaz clapped once in victory, turning to Lazar and giving him a grin so malevolent that it made the Spur stop in his tracks, the sword held loosely at his side.

  “I hear you fought a dozen men for your own freedom once,” Arafanz commented, “and now you fight almost twice as many for your Zar. He should be proud of your courage, even if it is not rooted in loyalty. You are still a cuckold, Your Majesty,” Arafanz taunted.

  “Wait!” Lazar roared.

  “Is something wrong, Spur?” Arafanz replied. “Fret not, I am a man of my word. I said twenty men only and you have bested them all. What I plan to do with you is—”

  “This is not the Zar,” Lazar said, hardly daring to believe his own words as he stared uncomprehendingly at Boaz.

  Arafanz laughed but Lazar saw Boaz blanch.

  “What?” the Zar yelled. “What are you talking about?”

  Lazar shook his head, began advancing on Boaz, squeezing away helpless tears. “Boaz, I am sorry,” he said, raising his sword. He heard the Zar scream a name and then pandemonium broke out as his blade crashed down into the skull of the Zar of Percheron, Mightiest of the Mighties, and Lazar watched the face of the young man he had loved since he had been a sweet-natured infant, and to whom he had pledged eternal loyalty, cleave into neat halves, falling away in a mass of gore as Boaz’s body crumpled beneath it.

  He heard a woman’s scream above the roar of the Razaqin—knew it was Ana calling him—before he took in the frightening scene of Ashar throwing pails of liquid over the gathered men. It was lamp oil by the smell of it and this was confirmed when Ashar ignited the men with a burning torch he grabbed from the wall. Through the erupting flames and the subsequent panic, Lazar saw Arafanz roar his despair, and then Lazar, unsure of where he found the strength, was running.

  30

  Ganya remained hidden behind the camels. She still wore her black robes and she was helplessly trembling. To be found now would mean instant death but she worried more for Ashar. He was taking such a risk and he had been babbling about getting the Zar out as well as Ana and Lazar. Could they all make it? The Samazen was in full roar outside. She knew from experience that it was impossible to see so much as a your own fingers in front of you. How were they to escape in this?

  She had no idea where Iridor was, or how he fared. She had even tried to discover the special magic pathway that was so easy to open up when she was touching him, but it eluded her and she had now lost track of time. She wondered if Ashar would ever come for her and what she would do if he didn’t. She had just decided she would wander into the Samazen and let its wrath kill her before she permitted Arafanz or his Razaqin to do so. She was of the desert; she would commit her body to it.

  As she was making this decision the doors of the shelter burst open, bringing with it a swirl of angry sands and three hooded figures. She recognized Lazar’s body immediately, despite its bloodstained state. In his arms was Ana, who, despite her pregnancy, was petite. Ganya had seen women nearly double their size in pregnancy but this girl carried her weight well, although she was certainly heavy with child and looked ready to birth, what with the stains on her garments and the grimace on her face. Ganya took all this in with one cursory glance before she threw her arms around Ashar.

  “Where’s the Zar?” she asked, realizing already he wasn’t coming.

  “Lazar killed him.”

  “You killed the Zar?”

  Ana moaned. “Lazar, what possessed you?”

  “He was going to kill you,” came the stony reply.

  As Ganya began to protest, Lazar cut her off. “No time, Ganya.” He looked at Ashar. “Which one?”

  “Her usual—Farim,” Ashar said. �
��This one, already saddled.”

  “All right. You know the beast, get it up.”

  “Lazar, how do we go out in this?” Ganya demanded as she watched her lover place the young woman gently in the saddle, whispering softly to her.

  “We take our chances,” he growled. “No, go!…Hup, hup!” he called to the camel, swinging up behind Ana. “Stay strong for me,” Ganya heard him say to her. “Ashar?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re responsible for your sister. You head east now. You know the way. I know you can’t see anything, but force the animal in an easterly direction. Your head, your heart, know the direction. Trust them. We cannot help each other. We are going to lose sight of ourselves the second we move out. So we travel alone. If you can travel east for one hour and survive it, there’s shelter at our old camp, remember? There’s some rocky outcrops there. Get below them and hole up for however long it takes. Did you pack water?”

  Ashar nodded, looking frightened.

  “That’s all you need. Your camel will give you eighteen days so long as you can survive these first few hours. The Samazen will only last four days. We can do this.”

  “We don’t have much choice,” Ashar admitted.

  “Lyana guide you,” Lazar said to Ganya, and she knew he was saying good-bye.

  She had no time to say anything. Her beast was moving, her arms around the waist of her little brother, and the Samazen was howling. They were heading into night and the fiercest sandstorm she had encountered in her nearly four decades.

  As he suspected they would, Lazar lost Ganya and Ashar within moments of their two beasts reluctantly stepping outside their shelter. The other beast blundered, spooked by the Samazen, and Lazar cast a prayer that Ashar would wrest back control. The camel he and Ana rode refused to leave the walls that cocooned her, but begging Ana to hold her seat somehow, Lazar jumped down and with strength he didn’t know he possessed, dragged, pushed, and pulled the animal into the angry maelstrom.

  What he had only prayed might happen nevertheless took his breath away when it did.

  The sands miraculously went still around them and then, as if on some signal, danced back. As the camel and its cargo fully emerged, they found themselves moving in a strange void. It was late afternoon; Lazar could see the fiery ball of the sun dipping to the west. He could clearly see the rough hair of their beast. The noise had dulled to a soft roar around them. They moved in gentle warmth, rather than fierce heat, and what seemed to be an impossible safety. Around them he knew the Samazen raged. Ahead he saw the first camel; Ashar and Ganya had their heads bent against the storm; though they looked beaten, Lazar was relieved to see that Ashar was guiding them east.

  “Hang on,” he whispered toward them. “One hour, that’s all.”

  And then, curiously, Lazar and Ana’s camel swung in a new direction.

  “Hey,” he called, pulling on the reins, but she ignored him.

  “She knows only one way,” Ana murmured.

  “What did you say?”

  “Her name is Farim. She knows only one path. She will take us there safely.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “You will see.”

  “Look, Ana,” he said, pointing.

  She raised weary eyes.

  “It’s Arafanz. Look at him squinting. He can’t even see through the sands this far, but I swear I could reach and touch him. I know he can’t hear us either.”

  “What is happening?” she asked softly.

  “This is Lyana at work. The Samazen is your friend, Ana. It protected you once and it is doing so again. I’d hoped it would.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I didn’t. I took a terrible risk.”

  It had to be the magic surrounding them but Lazar suddenly felt young and uninhibited again, the way he’d felt before he’d even met Shara; a boy on his way to greatness, without any need to be shy or to shield his feelings. “When I saw you walk out of that fortress, my heart felt as though it stopped. In that moment I have never known such terrible pain and yet such a sense of elation. And I didn’t even know you carried my son,” he said, reaching around to stroke her taut belly, swollen with life. “All I knew was that if Arafanz had killed me then and there, I would have led an enviable life because you were in it and you had loved me.”

  “I still do,” she sighed.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why do you doubt me? I carry your child.”

  “Arafanz—”

  “How he feels about me is his business. I have been his prisoner for many moons. I had to survive for our baby’s sake.”

  “Did he ever…”

  “No. He never pushed himself upon me. In truth, Lazar, he was tender and sweet. He is a different man when he is separated from his crusade.”

  “You like him,” he said, keeping his tone even.

  “Helplessly, yes, I do. He has a warped way of viewing loyalty and commitment to his faith, but when he’s just being a man, on no mission, he is intelligent, gentle, amusing.”

  “As I said, I should be grateful that he kept you safe.”

  “I would be lying if I said I was unhappy here.”

  Such a notion had not occurred to Lazar. He felt his shoulders sag. “Do you regret me coming?”

  Ana turned as best she could in the saddle. “No, Lazar, no.” She leaned back against his bloodstained chest. “How could I? My son’s father is here. The man I love, the only man I have ever loved, is here.”

  “Are you angry, Ana?”

  “About Ganya? No. You are a man; I imagine—”

  “I want to explain. There is so much to tell you, it’s hard to know where to begin.”

  “Tell me from the day you rode away. Tell me all of it.”

  And so on the journey to the cave, above Farim’s steady plod through the Samazen that howled around them but left beast and its cargo untouched, Lazar told Ana everything he could remember from the moment he slew the last of the Razaqin and picked up Herezah, to the moment Arafanz recaptured them.

  “So Boaz was lying about Herezah?”

  “He didn’t know any different. She would have told him we were lovers. How was he to know it wasn’t true?”

  “You could have denied it.”

  “It was a delicate moment, Ana. We are facing war with my realm—there were more important things to worry about than Herezah’s lies. And anyway, I looked guilty because Salmeo did interrupt us—”

  “Oh, please don’t tell me. It’s not important. Nothing’s important anymore other than the safe delivery of our son and the fact that we are together.”

  He hugged her, kissed the top of her damp hair, loving her all the more. “How are you feeling?”

  “Weak. I’m sure I’m meant to be feeling stronger, Lazar. I have a long way to go in the birthing process yet, but I feel frail.”

  “You’ve been through a lot, had too many shocks, your waters broke early, and your baby is coming before it really wants to. This place we’re heading for, is it proper shelter?”

  “Yes. It is warm and dry, silent and calm. It is where I’m meant to be—I sense it is the place I’ve always been meant to be.”

  “Don’t make it sound so final. I will keep us safe.”

  “Tell me about Iridor.”

  “Well, as I explained, he is now fully Iridor.”

  “But he continues to elude Maliz?”

  “Yes, it’s why he refuses to use his magics.”

  “I can’t believe Boaz is gone,” she said miserably.

  “I realize now that I lost Boaz in the desert. I wasn’t there. He died alone, no doubt fighting for his existence against a demon.” A soft sob escaped Lazar. He hadn’t meant to break, thought he was in control of himself, but this day had been like none other. Fighting was easy in comparison to the emotional turmoil he was struggling with. And worse, he felt nauseous and dizzy. He didn’t want to admit what was nagging at his thoughts, refused to allow it to take hold in his mi
nd.

  Ana heard his choked breath. “Lazar, don’t. I need you to be strong. You’ve always been so strong.”

  “I let him down. My Zar is dead and I could have prevented it.” Was it a trick of the cocoon or was his eyesight narrowing.

  “No, you’re wrong,” she said, reaching back to touch his unshaven face. “How could you know that this is what Maliz planned? He is a demon. He is relentless. He would have seen Boaz’s weaknesses and preyed on them.”

  “You were his weakness, Ana. Only you made him vulnerable.”

  “So you see, I am to blame, not you.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that, I—”

  “No, I know you didn’t. I’m simply stating a fact, Lazar. Boaz was vulnerable to any negativity about me. The demon would have sensed that from the earliest moment of his arrival into Tariq’s body. Which meant he’s had almost two years to prey on Boaz’s weakness, especially if he’s suspected me of being Lyana. And unfortunately Boaz paid for his vulnerability with his life.”