Authors: Fiona McIntosh
Emissary (47 page)
‘I’m warning you, whoever you are, not to lay a finger on Ana.’
He 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 make it as far as 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 will die 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 towards where Herezah had fallen over. Her pursuers were still some distance away and Salazin had turned to help her, stood by her, sword raised and would no doubt fight to his own 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 and laughed delightedly. ‘Say farewell to Ana, Spur. It’s unlikely the two of you will ever see one another 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. Harm her not.’
‘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.’
‘Hurry, Lazar, they are almost upon the Valide,’ he warned.
Lazar ran and leapt upon the camel that had been cajoled to its knees for the purposes. 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 bloodcurdling howl of his own, loading it with all of his hate, every ounce of fury he had ever felt at the world. He became a rampant killing device on four legs. The camel, trained for battle, ran the men down easily, and from his vantage, Lazar no longer gave any quarter. He beheaded his foe, one after another, until some of them brought the camel down, at which point he leapt nimbly from the
dying beast before it crushed him. Without breaking pace, he fought in a haze of bloodlust he had never felt before.
The remaining enemy kept backing them further and further from their camp. Herezah was hurt. Her ankle was probably twisted and Lazar could see she had been cut, blood blooming at various sites on her body. The men had already 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, realising their intent, immediately stopped trying to defend, and dragged Herezah from the fray.
The warriors knew they were likely to die this day but it mattered not. Their souls were already given and harboured in a secret, beautiful place. What remained were shells and those, too, would give up their lives gladly for their cause and join their souls in the Garden.
And so they fought bravely, ferociously. If Lazar had had the opportunity, he would have marvelled at their desire 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. At each given chance he took it. They were no match for his whirling swords. Salazin ran back and with one swing of his curved scimitar took a man’s head off, as Lazar finished off the final two with a series of concerted blows.
He did not speak but he bent over to breathe. It was too soon after his illness for this sort of exertion. He sucked in the air, used the time to gather his wits, to calm the berserker within him. He glanced at the dying camel with a sense of hopelessness, realising it was useless to him, and in the distance he could see that the camp was deserted. He also 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 full sense of despair laying itself across him. He needed to get the Valide back to Percheron. The journey to Galinsea was lost anyway without their royal emissary, and he could hardly go on alone, even if he’d wanted to, and leave the Valide, potentially to die.
No, his duty called. He could hear the laughter of Arafanz still echoing in his mind. How well the man had played him.
‘Tariq?’
‘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 a frown. Lazar knew it was because she was unsure of why he was here instead of with Ana. He lifted her easily and settled her into his arms. ‘I’m taking you home, Valide. Please don’t die, for all our sakes.’
Herezah didn’t smile but even injury had not cowed her biting wit. ‘And waste this 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 savour every moment.’ He would not look at her but he realised she knew he battled his emotions, understood that it must have taken every ounce of his strength to run towards her and not Ana.
‘Thank you, Lazar,’ she said, and meant it.
There was 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.
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 was encircled by the stranger’s arm. That embrace looked all too proprietary. Pez knew he was keeping Ana and 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 would never know where she was being taken. And in the desert, how would he ever find her again?
Ellyana gave him no clues, curse her, but she persisted in making him believe Ana was vital to Lyana’s rising. She was evasive, would never answer his questions directly, and yet she had given him instructions so horrible that he had not wanted to carry them out. He had resisted, argued, but she had also calmly impressed upon him that without this deed, all could be lost. And so he had conscripted the help of Salazin and together they had followed her bidding, hating it as they went about their secret task. And then on the night he had felt so ill, 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 had no choice. He would follow her captor. Iridor would be Lazar’s eyes.
He cast a final glance towards the Spur in the distance, watched him cutting down the enemy expertly from behind, his camel reaching them
with relative ease before they could see off the Grand Vizier and Herezah.
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 the Vizier, or worse, at this stage, alarm or stop Lazar. Already the men and Ana were well into the distance, all mounted, moving fast, the black-robed man in their midst. 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.
A trip to the Gulf 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, and my thanks to Tim Harrowell at Emirates and Dhahi Al Budoor at Dubai Tourism for their help in making the trip so enjoyable.
Many people make a vital contribution to my books but suddenly there are so many of you that I’m afraid a simple list will have to do. So…my deepest thanks to: Pip Klimentou, Sonya Caddy, Gary Havelberg, Judy Downs, Matt Whitney, Trent Hayes, Apolonia Niemirowski, Mandy and Bruce Macky, Bryce Courtenay, Robin Hobb, Sue Hill and Nicole Lenoir-Jourdan.
My thanks to all the wonderful librarians who have involved me in their communities over this past year, and encouraged their readers to give fantasy and specifically Percheron a go. The nomination for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award was a most unexpected surprise…thank you. Once again, thanks to all the talented
booksellers around Australia who embrace fantasy and have been so fantastically supportive of this series and indeed all of my work.
None of it is possible without the team at HarperCollins Australia/New Zealand. Thanks especially to Linda Funnell, Stephanie Smith, Robyn Fritchley and Samantha Rich, not to mention the very hard-working sales teams. I bow to the mighty red pen of Kim Swivel, who, on this latest outing together, has shown me how a partnership with a fine editor is so crucial.
Greg Bridges—you are king! Thank you for another amazing piece of art for the cover. Don’t ever stop.
It has been incredibly rewarding in 2006 for Percheron to be part of the Big Book Club in South Australia and the national Books Alive campaign, both of which are doing magnificent jobs in showing the wider community that fabulous entertainment awaits them in books. Congratulations to the silent hard workers behind the scenes who make these events happen.
Finally, heartfelt gratitude to my family for their endless patience in losing me to other worlds.
Fx
F
IONA
M
C
I
NTOSH
spent the first half of her life in Britain; she was raised and educated in the seaside town of Brighton before heading to London to work in PR and marketing. On a globetrotting holiday she discovered Australia and decided to stay. For the last couple of decades she has pursued a career in travel, roaming the world on the hunt for the planet’s best hot chocolate, and has made her home in Adelaide, where she lives with her husband and teenage sons.
You can find out more information about
Fiona or chat to her on her bulletin board via her website: www.fionamcintosh.com
Email: [email protected]
For information about Fiona McIntosh and her books, plus all the latest science fiction news, visit ‘Voyager Online’: www.voyageronline.com.au—the website for lovers of science fiction and fantasy.
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Praise for Percheron
O
DALISQUE
(Book One)
‘Fiona McIntosh follows in the footsteps of greats such as Jean M Auel and Guy Gavriel Kay…A truly grand vision brought to life on the page’
Good Reading
‘Odalisque
has all of the edge and action that have made McIntosh so popular…a novel of relentless pace and passion from one of our best fantasy voices’
Australian Bookseller & Publisher
‘fast and furious. A great read’
Herald Sun
‘breathtaking new fantasy…Brilliant’
Aussiereviews
MISSARY
(Book Two)
‘In the world of popular fantasy fiction, Fiona McIntosh is a street-smart enchantress’
Sun Herald
‘riveting’
Adelaide Advertiser
‘Powerful, imaginative, action-packed passionate’
Woman’s Day
M
YRREN
’s G
IFT
; B
LOOD AND
M
EMORY
; B
RIDGE OF
S
OULS
‘enchanting…McIntosh manages to sustain suspense while deftly handling a large cast of characters and an intricate plot’
Publishers Weekly
‘Fiona McIntosh is a seductress. I have not moved from the sofa for three days…’
Sydney Morning Herald
‘it’s a “just one more chapter” sort of book. Don’t start reading
Myrren’s Gift
in the evening if you have to get up early the next morning!’
Robin Hobb
‘there’s an extremely visual, if somewhat brutal, quality to her work…a very promising start to an engaging tale’
SFX Magazine
B
ETRAYAL
; R
EVENGE
; D
ESTINY
‘a rattling good adventure that fulfils all the requirements of fantasy’ Adelaide
Advertiser
‘slick, hard and dark fantasy at its blistering best…
Destiny
ends the Trinity series…with a punch in the guts and a slap in the face. [The] story line is crisp and crackling with explosive power’
Altair