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 over. 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 silent 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.

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?"