For King and Phoenix

Sand.

Lots of it.

Dunes rolled into the lazy blue and orange horizon, streaks and pillars of fire and heat slanted over the palettes of the sky. The air shivered like a heroine addict in the middle of December.

The single shadow standing in the middle of the desert fell to its knees, gasping for air that didn't come. It collapsed, stretching out prostrate across the sand. Thus, because it decided to try and finally die at this very moment, it completely missed the caravan that appeared, shimmering and small, over the crest of the horizon. However, two hours later, when the caravan crossed the expanse of fire-red desert, they didn't miss the shadow.

000

A stick appeared in its peripheral vision of slitted fever-bright eyes, which narrowed dangerously.

It was poked. Twice. It exhaled a gentle grunt of annoyance and the stick retreated at a breakneck pace. A sigh followed this, an exhalation of breath so devoid of emotion that it brought the stick-holder back in curiosity. Finally, the shadow was rolled over.

An incessant babbling suddenly poured forth, full of shock. It grated on the shadow's hearing. The shadow ground its teeth together and clenched its fists before sailing upwards and knocking the stick-bearer across the temple with the back of a black-gloved hand. The babbling stopped and the shadow slumped in relief.

"Thank Allah," it whispered.

At this very moment, the shadow became a woman dressed in black and armed to the teeth.

A sword prodded her front, square between her breasts, and she tried to make out the form of the person now causing a great inconvenience. Those brilliant eyes traveled up the length of the bright silver blade, to the leather-covered hilt and the bronzed hand that held it, up the length of a well-muscled arm, a broad shoulder, a clothed neck, and then a very male face darkened in anger and not just a little of fear. The woman, from behind swaths of black cloths around her face and hair, grinned wolfishly. It was reflected in her eyes.

"Who do you think you are, woman?" the man spat at her feet.

The grin faded, mostly from confusion.

"You bear arms and beat our runner. I should just kill you here, in the middle of the sands –"

"– or perhaps I should show you why I bear arms and why I am definitely not afraid of you." The same black-gloved hand lifted and pressed a single finger against the sharp side of the blade. The grip on the hilt tightened. She began to smile and she pushed the blade to the side. It moved, but not without resistance as it scraped along the side of her breast. The man frowned at her and she took a single step back, tilting her head, to take him in.

He was obviously the leader of this pack of rabble, swathed in white and black with greatly tanned skin and dark eyes that inspected her just as much. However, there wasn't much to see except for the slice of white flesh around her eyes and those sunshine blue eyes that pierced through him.

"Well, girl? Who are you, before I make you mine?"

"Her husband has surely lost a catch," someone, another man, leered from behind the leader. The runner sniggered. Under the swath of cloth, she arched a single eyebrow in surprise before –

"What do you think you're doing, you crazy tavern wench?" the leader spat.

The woman didn't appear fazed as she dropped her outer robe onto the sand, revealing a long, toned, white body dressed in carefully draped translucent black scarves, black leggings that followed the form of her thighs and calves, and a black scrap of cloth that masqueraded as a blouse with one of the slip-thin sleeves falling off a delicate shoulder. By consequence, she revealed the tattoos that sailed and laid siege across her skin, green and black and blue and red and white and a whole myriad of colors swirling before their gaze.

"What in the name of Allah?" the runner boy whispered, peering around his leader. The man stuck an arm out.

"Stay back, Ahmed," he said. "You," he proceeded to growl.

"Yes, me," she said pleasantly. Her hand went for her sword and so did everyone else's. "I'm not going to attack anyone."

"That is left to be revealed," he countered. Her sword flew out of its black sheath and straight up into the sky. Some of the caravan travelers gave muffled exclamations of twin disgust and fear. The runner boy sidled backwards away from her. Black steel winked against the sky over the desert and the entire caravan backed up a few steps.

"Show us the inside of your wrist," someone demanded. Smart, she thought in admiration. Everyone takes the black blade at face value.

She flipped her right wrist over, revealing long blue veins entwined with complicated tattoos. However, there were two things that were not, and indeed should not have been, overlooked.

One: the intricate symbol tattooed just below the forest of veins, complex and slightly odd to behold upside down. For this reason, she righted her arm so the tips of her fingers reached for the sky.

Two: the three horizontal strips of silver embedded in her flesh, the skin healed around them holding them in place.

"Shit," the runner boy stated flatly.

"Watch your tongue, Ahmed," said the same man who had ordered her to reveal her wrist. He thumped forward, past the leader (who was now staring at her with disbelieving eyes), and stood in front of her. She smiled in amusement at the old man with a gray beard and squinty brown eyes, his wooden leg prohibiting easy movement in the sand.

"Good afternoon, Elder," she said, dropping a short straight bow with her sword slack at her left side.

"Commander al-Jessad, we are pleased to have you here," the old man began. "But why are you in the middle of a God-forsaken desert and not fighting with the regiments?"

"My king sent me to oversee the battalions and bring back news from Africa, Elder. My place is not fighting in Africa, it's in Mecca next to him. I did my duty." And a little more than what was required, but still...

"Where is your horse, Commander?" the Elder asked.

"That, Elder, is a very good question." She winked. "I am only a commander, not all-seeing. Perhaps you'll let me travel with your caravan, Elder. I swear I'm not here to kill anyone."

"Samson, may I have a word with you?" the leader asked in barely concealed rage.

"It's a good idea, Ali," the Elder rebuffed him. "She will bring us protection throughout the desert and possibly some entertainment." Those blue eyes darkened. "Not that kind of entertainment, Commander. Whoever thinks they can lie with you without your consent has already lost both his balls." She threw her head back and laughed at the utter crudeness and reality of the statement.

"Samson!" Ali barked.

"Welcome to the caravan, Commander al-Jessad. My name is Muhamat Samson ibn-Tieyo. This is Ali al-Ayyu ibn-Yessef, our so-called leader."

"Elder, you're pushing it," Ali growled lowly.

Blue eyes danced. "You have no need to feel threatened by me, al-Ayyu. I already command thirteen regiments, the movement of the king, and to some extent, the king's battalions. Why do I have need to take over a small trader's caravan?"

"That's the only problem, you see," the Elder continued, almost as if she hadn't just insulted them all. "We aren't traders."

Finally, she saw the black splashes of paint across the side of the white van pulled by horses. They reared at her approach as she sidestepped everyone and reached out to touch the white cloth, her mouth slowly opening in surprise.

"You're desert pirates."

"And you're an assassin for King Duayali. I think we're even."