“I…I hardly know him,” she answered, flustered, frightened for Lazar.
“Well, because you mean something to that 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 honorable Spur of Percheron will choose duty…very sad, because I think you would like otherwise. Come, child, watch.”
ANA AND HER CAPTOR reemerged, 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, warning of more to come. The first streaks of dawn were slashing across the wide desert sky; though it was barely light, he could now finally pick out the ghostly eyes of their oppressor; the rest of his face was hidden behind his desert turban.
“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…” Herezah sighed in visible relief at his words, and Maliz’s shoulders relaxed. “…for the time being,” the stranger continued. “What happens next is entirely up to your Spur.”
Now all of them looked baffled. Lazar tensed and noticed Salazin firming his grip on his sword. The stranger was certainly not done with them.
“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, marshaling 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 responded in an affirmative-sounding cheer.
Returning his attention to the captives, the stranger explained, “On my signal, my men will hunt you down and kill you as they choose. What stands between each of you and death is this man over here”—he pointed 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 found that your precious Zars over the years, or the god you pray to, have shown any mercy.”
“To whom?” Maliz beseeched.
“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.” Lazar 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 fast 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. You may rest assured that her life alone is safe, although you now have the power to secure the Vizier’s…and the Valide’s.” At Lazar’s start, he chuckled again. “Did you think I would fall for those lies? They were nicely done, too, and if not for my reliable information, I might have believed 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 Favorite. I also know that you and she have a…special understanding, shall we say.”
“I’m warning you, whoever you are. Do not lay a finger on Ana.”
The stranger laughed. “You are not in a position to threaten me, Lazar. I still have twenty men ready to cut you down, and as good as you are with both of those blades, you will not catch me. But you can try. I know you want to.” He shouted a command and Lazar looked in horror as the men who were lined up yelled some sort of war cry and began their pursuit of the desperately retreating trio.
“Here is my camel, saddled and ready,” the man offered. “Take it, and hunt my men down as they hunt your people. You have a duty, Spur, to your Zar. His wife is safe—I give you my absolute word—but his mother is not. She is at risk of a horrible death, for my men have not had a woman in a long time.”
Lazar felt the grip of panic around his insides. The despair of choice.
“Heart or duty, Spur? Choose.”
Lazar looked out toward where Herezah had fallen over. Her pursuers were still some distance away and Salazin had turned to help her, sword raised. He would no doubt fight to his death to keep her safe for a few minutes more. But the men would be upon them soon. He returned a sad gaze to Ana.
“Ah, duty calls,” the man said, laughing delightedly. “Say farewell to Ana, Spur. It’s unlikely the two of you will ever see each other again.”
“Ana,” Lazar said, ignoring his tormentor. “I shall come for you.”
Howling laughter followed his promise but Lazar met it with the disdain it deserved. He bowed to the woman he loved. “Wait for me,” he impressed upon her, and before the man could taunt him further, he addressed him. “She is with child. The heir to Percheron. Do not harm her.”
“I will not harm Ana, but I cannot say the same for the child.”
“Heed my warning, stranger: I will come for you and I will have your blood.”
The man ignored the warning, “Hurry, Lazar, they are almost upon the Valide,” he warned.
Lazar ran and leaped upon the camel that had been cajoled to its knees. The handler let go of the rope that held the beast and it instantly pushed itself to its feet.
“What is your name?” Lazar demanded.
“I am Arafanz, of the Razaqin. May you and your kind never forget it.”
Lazar urged the camel forward, then gave a final glance to Ana, whilst a slap on the animal’s rump from the handler spurred it into an almost instant gallop. Lazar gave a blood-curdling howl, loading it with all of his hate, every ounce of fury he had ever felt. The camel, trained for battle, ran the men down easily, and from his vantage, Lazar no longer gave any quarter. He beheaded his foes, one after another, until four of them together managed to bring the camel down, at which point he leaped nimbly from the dying beast before it crushed him. Without breaking pace, Lazar continued to fight in a haze of bloodlust he had never felt before.
The remaining warriors kept backing their victims farther and farther from their camp. Herezah was hurt; she was limping and Lazar could see that she had been cut, blood blooming at various sites on her body. The men had deduced that attacking the Spur was useless—he was too good for all of them—so they concentrated their efforts on tormenting the helpless woman, hoping to draw Lazar into their midst and best him that way. Salazin, realizing their intent, dragged Herezah from the fray.
The warriors fought bravely, ferociously. If Lazar had had the opportunity, he would have marveled at their willingness to die. As it was, he had never encountered such lack of care for life and so he dispatched them as efficiently as he could. They were no match for his whirling swords. Salazin returned to the fight and, with one swing of his curved scimitar, took off a man’s head, as Lazar finished off the final two with a series of concerted blows.
He bent over to breathe, unable to speak. It was too soon after his illness for this sort of exertion. Su
cking in air, he used the time to gather his wits, to regain his calm. In the distance he could see that the camp was deserted and understood that Arafanz would have disappeared with Ana the moment he himself charged across the sands to fight.
“How is the Valide?” he asked, straightening.
“She needs the help of physics.” Salazin’s voice sounded gritty from lack of use and from his own exertions.
Lazar nodded, the direness of the situation sinking in. He needed to get the Valide back to Percheron. Without their royal emissary, the journey to Galinsea was now lost, and he could hardly go on alone, even if he’d wanted to, and leave the Valide.
No, his duty called. He could hear Arafanz’s laughter still echoing in his mind. How well the man had played him.
“Where is Tariq?” he asked.
“Cowering somewhere,” Salazin replied in a hiss.
“Find him. I will take the Valide.”
The last of the mute guard nodded and jogged off in search of the Grand Vizier. Lazar trudged to where the Valide lay panting in the distance, bleeding in the sand. Dawn had broken fully, and although it was still cool, it would not remain so for long. He hoped she had not heard his murmured conversation with the “mute.”
“Put your arms around my neck, Herezah,” he said, and surprised himself with the gentleness in his voice. She opened her eyes, looked at him with an unsure frown. He lifted her easily and settled her into his arms. “I’m taking you home, Valide. Please stay alive, for all our sakes.”
Herezah didn’t smile but even injury had not cowed her biting wit. “And waste the chance to be this close to you for the first time in my life, Lazar? You jest.” She breathed shallowly, her face pale. “No, I will not die. I think I will savor every moment.” He would not look at her but he realized she knew he battled his emotions, understood that it must have taken every ounce of his strength to run toward her and not Ana. “Thank you, Lazar,” she said quietly.
He had nothing more to say, although inwardly he set his promise in stone, carving it mentally on his heart, burning it into his flesh. He would return for Ana.
EPILOGUE
Pez had watched it all unfold with increasing horror. He could not hear what was being said, but it didn’t take much expertise to work out what was happening once the man in black robes brought Ana back from behind the camel.
He had seen the intruders line up, had watched the heated exchange between Maliz and his captor, and then felt frustrated, helpless, when suddenly the Grand Vizier, Herezah, and Salazin had set off running. He knew what would come next.
Rightly enough, Lazar was wavering between giving chase and staying with Ana, who remained encircled by the stranger’s arm in an embrace that looked all too proprietary. Pez knew he was keeping Ana; that explained Lazar’s reluctance to leave. He wanted to save her but presumably she didn’t need saving as such. The man looked relaxed—he would not hurt her. But he would hurt the others and that’s where Lazar’s duty lay. He was compelled to save the lives of the Grand Vizier and, especially, the Valide. She in particular was his responsibility. Ana was not under threat, Pez guessed.
And then he watched with shared despair as Lazar jumped onto the camel and gave chase. He would kill all the attackers, of that Pez was sure, but he could not be in two places at once. And Pez was also sure, as the stranger urged Ana onto another camel, that Lazar could not know where she was being taken. And in the vast desert, how would he ever find her again?
Ellyana had given him no clues, curse her, but she persisted in making him believe that Ana was vital to Lyana’s rising. She had given him instructions so horrible that he had not wanted to carry them out; he had resisted, argued, but she had calmly impressed upon him that without this deed, all could be lost. And so he had enlisted the help of Salazin and together they had followed her bidding, hating it even as they went about their secret task. And then that night, Ellyana had reversed her instructions. It baffled Pez. But it still did not divert him from his duty as Iridor.
His duty remained with Ana—he was none the wiser as to whether she was the physical embodiment of the Mother Goddess, or just another pawn. But he could not take the chance. He would follow her captor; Iridor would be Lazar’s eyes.
He cast a final glance toward the Spur in the distance, watched him cutting down the enemy expertly from behind, his camel reaching them with ease.
He had no time to reach Lazar to tell him what he was doing, and he would not risk a link through the Lore that could alert Maliz, or worse, alarm or distract Lazar. Already the black-robed men and Ana were well into the distance, moving fast.
The shifting sands would cover their tracks quickly enough, and without a beast of his own, Lazar could never give chase.
Pez transformed into Iridor. Then he flew. Harder, faster, than ever before, giving chase to an unknown enemy into the Empty Quarter of the Great Waste.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Atrip to the Gulf this year allowed me to ride a camel into the golden sands of the desert on the outskirt of Dubai, as well as to learn more about Bedouin settlements, to experience belly dancing under the stars surrounded by the shifting dunes, and to explore a traditional spice souk, filled with sensory goodies. It was a boon for the story of Percheron.
Many people make a vital contribution to my books but suddenly there’s so many of you that I’m hoping a simple list will suffice. So…my thanks to:
Pip Klimentou, Sonya Caddy, Gary Havelberg, Judy Downs, Matt Whitney, Trent Hayes, Apolonia Niemerowski, Bryce Courtenay, and Robin Hobb. Plus, of course, Kate Nintzel at Eos for her editing and friendship as we move through this adventure, Greg Bridges for his amazing art again, and to my agent, Chris Lotts, for his partnership and support.
My thanks to all the wonderful librarians who have involved me in their communities this past year and encouraged their readers to give fantasy and specifically Percheron a go and the nomination for the international literary award in Dublin is a most unexpected surprise. And special thanks to the booksellers, at the coalface, who do such a terrific job of handselling sf to an eager community, especially that amazing man Steve Hubbard in Minnesota and the lovely gang at Borderlands in San Francisco that I was fortunate to meet last year.
Finally, heartfelt gratitude to Ian, Will, and Jack for their endless patience in losing me to other worlds.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
FIONA MCINTOSH was born and raised in Sussex in the UK, but spent her early childhood commuting with her family between England and West Africa. She left a PR career in London to travel, and found herself in Australia, where she fell in love with the country, its people, and one person in particular. She has since roamed the world working for her own travel publishing company, which she ran with her husband until she took up writing full time. McIntosh lives with her family in South Australia.
You can find out more information about Fiona or chat with her on her bulletin board via her website: www.fionamcintosh.com.
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Praise for FIONA MCINTOSH
and The Percheron Saga
“A sweeping, majestic tale of love and bravery, evil and goodness…The scope and flow of [McIntosh’s] writing, her meticulous research and the detailed description in this taut novel set up an excellent introduction to what will be a trilogy. A truly grand vision brought to life on the page.”
—Good Reading (Australia)
“A magnificent setting distinguishes this first of a new fantasy trilogy…[S]trong characters and an enticing plot bode well for future installments.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Two words on the cover (‘Fiona McIntosh’) always let me know that I’m in for a good read.”
—Robin Hobb
“McIntosh’s work has always been grittier than most [epic fantasy].”
—Guardian (London)
“South Australia’s queen of fantasy.”
—
Advertiser (Adelaide)
Also by FIONA MCINTOSH
THE PERCHERON SAGA
Odalisque
THE QUICKENING TRILOGY
Myrren’s Gift
Blood and Memory
Bridge of Souls
CREDITS
Map by Matt Whitney
Cover design by Ervin Serrano
Cover illustration by Greg Bridges/www.gregbridges.com
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
EMISSARY. Copyright © 2006 by Fiona McIntosh. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Microsoft Reader September 2007 ISBN 978-0-06-154081-3
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