Title: Odalisque
Author: Fiona McIntosh

Prologue

The prisoners, chained together, shuf?ed awkwardly into the main square of the slave market of Percheron; six men, all strangers and all captives of a trader called Varanz, who had a reputation for securing the more intriguing product for sale. And this group on offer was no exception, although most onlookers’ attention was helplessly drawn to the tall man whose searing, pale-eyed stare, at odds with his long dark hair, seemed to challenge everyone brave enough to lock gazes with him.

Varanz knew it too; knew this one was special and he sensed a good price coming for the handsome foreigner he had ensnared, although it had taken the help of six of his henchmen to ?rstly bring the man down and then rope him securely. It puzzled him why the man had been travelling across the desert of all places — that in itself a perilous journey but moving alone meant almost certain trouble, particularly from slavers renowned in the region.

But Varanz had a policy of not enquiring into the background of his captives; perhaps to ease his conscience he didn’t want to know anything about them, save what was obvious to his own eye. And this one, who refused to name himself, or indeed mutter much more than curses, was clearly in good health. That was enough for this merchant.

Trading for this cluster of slaves opened at the sound of the gong. The Master of the Market called the milling crowd of buyers to order. ‘Brothers, this is Varanz Set Number Eight.’ His voice droned on extolling the virtues of each on offer but already the majority of potential buyers were in the thrall of the angry-eyed man, the pick of the bunch and the only one of the six who held his head de?antly high. When it came to his turn, the Master of the Market, also sensing a lively auction, decided to state more than the obvious of healthy appearance, strong structure, good teeth and so on. ‘He was found emerging from the golden sands of our desert alone, not even a camel for company. Brothers, I’d hazard this one will make a ?ne bodyguard. If he’s canny enough to travel our wasteland and remain as well as he looks, then I imagine he has excellent survival skills.’

‘Can he ?ght?’ one buyer called out.

Varanz arched an eyebrow and looked towards the slave, wondering whether he’d ?nally get something out of the man. His instincts were right.

‘I can ?ght,’ the man replied. ‘In fact I demand to ?ght for my freedom,’ he challenged.

Such ?ghts were rare, of course, as most prisoners took their chances with a new life as a slave. But now and then one would risk death in the bid to win back their independence.

Varanz strolled over to the man now that he knew his tongue was loosened. ‘You understand what you ask for?’

‘I do. It was explained to us on the journey here by one of your aides. I wish to ?ght for my freedom. I also wish to speak with your Zar.’

At this Varanz smirked. ‘I can’t imagine he will want to speak with you.’

‘He might after he watches me ?ght. He will probably enjoy the spectacle of witnessing me best twelve of his best warriors.’

Varanz was speechless at the man’s arrogance. He shook his head and walked to the Master, brie?y explaining in a quiet mutter what the slave was proposing. Now both of them returned to stand before the man.

‘Don’t try and talk me out of it. I want my freedom back. I will pay the price if I fail to win it,’ he warned them.

The Master had no intention of attempting to thwart the proposition of some sport after an already long and wearying day in the market. He could see that Varanz was unfazed, knowing that he would get a good price either way.

‘What is your reserve, Varanz?’ he asked.

‘No less than 200 karels for this one.’

He nodded. ‘I will send a message to the palace for authorisation,’ he said, now turning to the man. ‘You must give us your name,’ the Master insisted.

He knifed them with a cold gaze. ‘My name is Lazar.’

The palace did more than give authorisation. A runner returned swiftly with the news that Zar Joreb, his interest piqued, would be in attendance for this contest. Varanz was not as surprised as the Master of the Market at this news but he understood how unusual it was for the Zar of Percheron to visit the slave traders. He mentioned as much to Lazar.

The foreigner was unmoved. ‘I wish to speak with him if I succeed.’

Varanz nodded. ‘That is up to our Zar. We have told him twelve of his men will ?ght you to the death. This is no doubt why he is coming to witness the contest.’

‘It is why I suggested so many.’

Varanz showed exasperation in his expression. ‘How can you best a dozen ?ghters, man? There’s still time to change your mind and not waste your life. I will ensure a cosy position for you. A fellow like you will ?nd himself in high demand by a rich man to escort his wives, families . . . take care of their security.’

Lazar snorted. ‘I’m no nursery maid.’

‘All right.’ Varanz tried again. ‘I know I can sell you as a high calibre bodyguard to a man who needs protection whilst he travels. I’ll ?nd you a good owner.’

‘I don’t want to be owned,’ Lazar snarled. ‘I want my freedom.’

The trader shrugged. ‘Well you’ll have it, my friend, but you’ll be carried off in a sack.’

‘So be it. I slave for no-one.’

Their conversation was ended by the Master of the Market hissing for silence — the Zar’s karak was apparently just moments away and he knew this by the arrival of a troop of Percheron’s guard. Varanz nodded to one of his aides to escort the rest of the prisoners away. Trading would resume once this piece of theatre was done with.

‘I wish you luck, brother,’ he said to Lazar and moved away to stand with the Master, who was marshalling all of the other traders into a formal line of welcome. The Zar ?nally arrived ?anked by more of the Percherese Guard, but his karak was carried by six of the red-shrouded Elim the elite guardians of the Zar’s harem. The Elim also provided bodyguard duties to royalty. The Zar’s entry between the slave market’s carved pillars of two gryphons was heralded by the sound of several of the curled Percherese horns being blown furiously, and everyone who was not attached to this royal retinue instantly humbled themselves.

No-one dared raise their eyes to the Zar until given formal permission.

No-one but Lazar that is.

He was on his knees because he had been pushed into this position but he brazenly watched the Zar being helped out of the karak; their gazes met and held momentarily across the dust of the slave market. Then Lazar dipped his head, just a fraction, but it was enough that the Zar knew the brash young man had acknowledged the person who was the closest thing to the god Zarab that walked this earth. The Zar did not acknowledge him.

A special seat that was brought by the Guard was set up and the Elim unfurled a canopy over it, beneath which Zar Joreb settled himself. He had a wry smile on his face as the Master of the Market followed protocol and made the of?cial announcement that the prisoner, Lazar, captured by Trader Varanz, had opted to ?ght for his freedom against a dozen of the warriors from the Percherese Guard. No-one watched the Master or even the Zar. All eyes were riveted on the dark foreigner, whose wrists and ankles were now unshackled and who was disrobing down to the once white, but now dirty loose pants he wore beneath. They watched his measured movements, but mostly they watched him study the twelve men who followed suit before taking some practice swipes with their glinting swords. They all bore smirks, none prepared to take the ridiculously outnumbered opposition seriously.

The gong was once again sounded for silence and the Master outlined what was about to happen. It was a super?uous pronouncement but strict protocol was a way of life for Percheron’s various markets and especially in the hallowed presence of the Zar.

‘. . . or to the prisoner’s death,’ he ?nished sombrely. He looked now to Zar Joreb who, with an almost imperceptible nod, gave the signal for combat to begin.

It didn’t make much difference to Lazar, who appeared to the audience to be unintimidated by numbers. His face wore the grim countenance of someone who was utterly focused; he made no sound, never once backed away, always threatening his enemy rather than the other way around. It was soon obvious that his sword skills could not be matched by any of the Percherese, not even ?ghting in tandem. His ?ghting arm became a blur of silver that weaved a path of wreckage through ?esh, turning the dozen men, one after another, into writhing, crying heaps as they gripped torn shoulders, slashed legs, or profusely bleeding ?ghting arms. To their credit the ?nal two fought superbly but neither could mark Lazar with his own blood, let alone best him. He fought without fear, his focused expression never changing, and his speed only increasing. He ?nished one off by cutting him down by the ankle and then stomping on his sword wrist, breaking it, to ensure he did not return to the fray, and ?nally fought the other into exhaustion until the man was on his knees. Lazar ?icked the guard’s sword away and gave a calculated slash across his chest. The man fell, almost grateful.

The slave market was uncharacteristically quiet, save for the cries of bleeding, paining men. Varanz looked around at the carnage, his nostrils ?aring with the raw metallic smell of blood thick in the air, and he raised his eyebrows with surprise. No-one was dead. Lazar had mercilessly and precisely disabled each of his rivals but claimed the life of none. He threw his sword down and stood in the circle of hurt warriors, a light sheen of perspiration on his body the only indication that he had exerted himself. His chest rose and sank steadily, calmly. He turned to the Zar and bowed long and deeply.

‘Zar Joreb, will you now grant my freedom?’ he spoke ?nally into the hush that had fallen on everyone, including the wounded.

‘My men would surely seek death than live with losing this ?ght,’ was Joreb’s response.

Varanz watched Lazar’s curiously light eyes cloud with de?ance. ‘They are innocent. I will not take their lives in what was purely a piece of entertainment for those gathered.’

‘They are soldiers! This was a ?ght to the death.’

‘Zar Joreb, this was a ?ght to my death, as I understood it, not theirs. It was made clear that I either win my freedom through death or through survival. I survived. No-one impressed upon me that anyone had to die as part of the rules of this custom.’

holding his breath, it seemed impossible but their Zar was laughing at the prisoner’s audacity. ‘Stand before me, young man.’

Lazar took two long strides and then went down on one knee, ?nally his head bowed.

‘What is it you want, stranger?’ the Zar demanded.

‘I want to live in Percheron as a free man,’ Lazar replied, not lifting his head.

‘Look at me.’ Lazar did so. ‘You’ve humiliated my Guard. You will need to rectify that before I grant you anything.’

‘How can I do this, Zar Joreb?’

‘By teaching them.’

Lazar stared at the Zar, a quizzical look taking over his normally deadpan expression, but he said nothing.

‘Become my Spur,’ Zar Joreb offered. ‘Our present Spur must retire soon. We need to inject a fresh approach. A young approach. You ?ght like you’re chasing away demons, man. I want you to teach my army how to do that.’

Lazar’s gaze narrowed. His tone sounded guarded. ‘You’re offering to pay me to live as a free man in Percheron?’

‘Be my Spur,’ Zar Joreb urged, this time there was no humour in his voice, only passion.

‘I accept, but ?rst you owe Varanz over there 200 karels apparently.’

Joreb laughed loudly in genuine amusement. ‘I like you, Lazar. Follow me back to the palace. We have much to speak of. I must say, I’m impressed how you put your life in danger to get what you want.’

‘It was never in danger,’ Lazar replied and the semblance of a smile twitched brie?y at his mouth.

© Fiona McIntosh, 2005