Erin Yorke - Desert Rogue

A groan escaped the trader’s lips despite the gentle ministrations of the young man attending him. This had been the worst day of his life. His only consolation was that it could not become worse.

But it would appear his trials were not yet at an end, Zobeir decided with a frown as the worthless idiot seeing to him suddenly ceased any attempt to bring his master consolation.

Raising his hand to slap the young slave, Zobeir opened his eyes to find his target, and saw the visitor who had entered the area on silent feet. The man was swathed in black and loomed over him like some avenging angel. Zobeir, himself frightened by the stranger’s presence, could not fault his ignorant servant for freezing at the sight of so intimidating a figure.

With a swiftness that seemed incongruous in light of his obesity, the slaver climbed to his feet and bowed in obeisance to his visitor. Zobeir had no doubt as to the man’s affiliation even if his identity was unknown.

“A thousand welcomes, worthy master,” Zobeir murmured as he prayed a connection had not been made between the white woman who had been rescued from the bazaar and the rich banker’s daughter who had been marked for death by the man this mysterious messenger represented. “And Allah’s blessings on him whom you serve.”

“May Allah hear your prayer and grant it,” the dark figure responded, his voice slightly muffled by the obsidian cloth winding down from the crown of his head to the base of his neck and trailing over his shoulder so that only his equally black eyes were visible.

“Is there another service you desire, master?” Zobeir asked nervously, his squat body twitching from anxiety. “If there is, I dare not believe my good fortune, unworthy as I am, in being asked again to help the one who will rid our land of nonbelievers.”

“No, Zobeir. The Chosen One has no more to ask of you,” the visitor said, his voice as flat as the disklike bread being baked in the slave trader’s ovens at that moment.

“Then—then why am I so hon-honored with your presence?” the portly figure stammered. He rued the moment he had decided to disobey the directive of the Chosen One. He should have simply had the European girl slaughtered as he had been ordered to do, but then, he had not understood why he had been commanded to kill the daughter of a rich man. It had eaten at his very being. What a fool he had been, he silently berated himself as he stood fixed in place by the harsh stare of the man who regarded him so coldly.

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