Enslaved By The Desert Trader. Greta Gilbert

      He placed his fingers to his lips and his high whistle split the morning. His horse slowed, then reared up, just as he had trained it to do. Its front legs swam in the air and the woman tumbled to the ground in a pile of purple cloth.

      She was, thank the Gods, unharmed. She stood immediately. Her headdress had come unwrapped and one of her small delectable breasts had burst free. Tahar smiled as he watched her struggle to cover herself, cursing the Red Land and everything in it.

      She was dusting herself off when the first arrow pierced the ground beside her. Another followed close behind, and if she had not had the awareness to get moving she would surely have been hit. Scanning the cliffs, he quickly found the arrows’ source—two men clad in the unmistakable blue linen of the King’s Guard.

      Tahar’s horse had now returned to his side, and he mounted it. ‘Khemetian filth!’ he yelled at the guards, and they momentarily ceased their shooting.

      Tahar barrelled towards them on his stallion. Now the guards had two targets to shoot for, and soon the arrows were flying in Tahar’s direction as well.

      Tahar rode unflinchingly towards the archers, catching one of their arrows in his saddlebag. He plucked a second arrow right out of the air with his hand. He changed direction, moving as unpredictably as he could, buying himself time enough to fashion his long rope into a large loop.

      The guards were dumbstruck when the rope encircled them. It yanked them to the ground like captured goats. Tahar swung out of the saddle and pulled the rope taut, so the men were pressed together, back to back. He wrenched their quivers and bows from their arms, broke one bow in half upon his knee, and placed the other on the ground beside him with the remaining arrows.

      ‘Your beast is no donkey,’ said a smooth, feminine voice from behind him. ‘And you are not a simple trader.’

      She was staring up at his horse in awe. How had he not noticed her there?

      ‘Nay, it is no donkey,’ Tahar said, keeping his eye on the guards.

      ‘What is it, then? It runs like a gazelle.’

      ‘The people of my tribe call it a horse.’

      ‘Your tribe? What tribe is that?’

      ‘The People of the Grass. From the lands beyond the Dark Sea.’

      The Khemetian guards stared up at their captors in confusion, and Tahar read their thoughts. Who was this Libu man whose tribe was named for a cow’s food? And who was this Libu woman who dressed like a man and spoke perfect Khemetian?

      ‘Look there!’ the woman exclaimed, pointing to a donkey lurking in the shade at the base of the cliffs.

      In minutes she had returned with the beast, and Tahar inspected its saddlebags. Inside there was water, a hunting knife and two sleeping carpets, but not a bit of food. Tahar studied the men. They appeared quite thin.

      ‘Your King has placed a reward on Libu heads, has he not?’ Tahar demanded. ‘That is why you hunt us?’

      ‘Aye,’ confessed the older of the two guards. ‘Finish us quickly,’ he urged, glancing at the dagger wedged in Tahar’s belt.

      The younger man’s lips were trembling.

      Tahar shook his head. He would not be a part of any more killing. He pulled out his dagger, but did not use it to cut any throat. Instead he cut off a large swathe of the woman’s headdress, fashioned it into a kind of sack, and filled it with grain from his own saddlebag.

      ‘I’m sorry that I cannot give you our heads,’ Tahar said, tying the sack closed, ‘but this purple cloth may be used as proof to collect your reward, and the grain it contains is worth its weight in copper.’

      He held up the heavy sack and placed it in the donkey’s saddlebag.

      ‘This is smoked addax,’ he explained to the men, retrieving a large palm leaf bundle from his horse’s pack. He tucked the addax in beside the sack of grain. ‘Together with the grain, the addax will be more than enough to sustain you on your journey back to Khemet,’ Tahar said. ‘Now, stand.’

      The two men pushed themselves to stand and Tahar slowly undid the rope.

      ‘You must go north before you go west,’ Tahar explained. ‘Keep to the oases and be wary of thieves.’

      Shock and confusion spread across the men’s sunken faces as Tahar bent to help them onto their beast. Securing them in their saddle, Tahar slapped the donkey on the rump.

      ‘Now, go,’ he said.

      As the beast ambled away the older man turned. ‘You have our thanks, Man of the Grass,’ he told Tahar. ‘Your kindness will not be forgotten.’

       Chapter Twelve

      ‘You gave them all our meat,’ the woman said, her eyes as big as plates.

      ‘That I did.’

      ‘But...it was meat.’

      ‘I took their arrows,’ explained Tahar. ‘I left them without the means to hunt.’

      ‘But they were trying to kill us.’

      ‘Ah, but they did not succeed. Come, let us take our rest at the pool.’ He placed his hand against the small of her back.

      Too exasperated to swat it away, she allowed him to guide her towards the oasis. ‘But—’

      ‘But what?’

      ‘It was meat.’

      Tahar spoke as cryptically as he could, for her growing frustration was proving quite entertaining. ‘We will find more meat. Do not forget that I am now the owner of a fine bow.’

      ‘And the horse?’ she gasped, glancing back at the placid animal he led by the reins.

      ‘What about the horse?’ asked Tahar, hiding his grin.