Zikka Sandwhisper's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

The gold idol was gone from Zikka Sandwhisper's shrine, and the sand had already swallowed the thief's trail. She knelt at the empty altar, where the fertility idol had stood for three generations of her tribe. A sultan's men had taken it at dawn, laughing, while her people slept. Now she pressed her palm to the warm stone and made a promise. She would steal it back. But the desert had erased the path. Three roads cut away from her oasis into the dunes. She could not tell which one the caravan took. Every hour, the gold slipped further. By nightfall she would have no trail at all. Zikka did not go to the roads. She climbed the ridge behind her village, to the scarred tribal shrine of carved stone and bone. There she whispered to her desert wraithbird. The pale bird listened, then rose on wide wings and circled the burning sky. She waited. Sweat ran down her bare shoulders. The bird searched the dunes while the sun climbed. Twice it dropped low over the empty roads and found nothing but wind-blurred sand. Then it screamed and dove toward the eastern road. Zikka ran back down the ridge. She found Tharak Sandstrider sharpening his blade beneath the palms, his orc shoulders bare in the heat. He served her, and he had sworn to guard the shrine. He had not been there at dawn. "The bird found them," she said. "East road. We ride now." Tharak stood. He would not meet her eyes. "I failed you, priestess. I slept while they robbed us." "You can die apologizing, or you can help me take it back." She tossed him his bow. "Choose fast." He caught it and nodded once. That was enough. They rode hard along the eastern road. The wraithbird led them, dipping and rising, until the dunes fell away and the caravan appeared below. Zikka stopped her mount and stared. It was no small party. Dozens of pack beasts stretched across the sand. Tasseled tents swayed on their backs. Armed guards walked in ordered lines, spears bright in the sun. At the center rode a broad man draped in gold. Chains hung at his throat. Rings caught the light on every finger. Even his beard seemed to glitter. This was Sultan Zahir Al-Dhahab, and the whole desert seemed to bend around his wealth. Zikka's jaw tightened. Somewhere in those tents sat her stolen idol, guarded by more men than her tribe could ever field. "We found the road," Tharak said quietly. "But we cannot fight that." "No," Zikka agreed. She watched the gold man laugh at some joke among his guards. A slow plan turned behind her eyes. "We cannot fight him. So I will get close instead." She loosened the ties of her scant priestess garb and urged her mount forward, down the dune, straight toward the sultan's line.