Broken Justice: Sixteen

Forcing her sore, weary body to move, Sabit staggered after Allamu. Hampered by the ache in her joints, she reached the exit from the champions’ quarters too late. The massive door—made of iron bars as thick as Sabit’s wrist—had already been locked. Sabit pushed fruitlessly against the cold metal.
On the far side, the overseer dragged Allamu across the small, open plaza toward the Magistrate’s house of marble. It so happened that the Magistrate and his entourage were on their way to the forum for the daily inspection. In the middle of the plaza, the overseer bowed low before the Magistrate, his thick hand never leaving Allamu’s arm.
The air was still and Sabit could just barely hear the men’s words over the pounding in her head.
“I found this one in Qaansoole’s cell,” the overseer said.
“Really?” said the Magistrate. “I thought our little archer was a strict ascetic these days. She is full of surprises. Who are you? Can you fight?”
“I am called Allamu. I can fight if there be good reason,” replied the man with the patched cloak hanging from his hips. “Qaansoole was once my betrothed.”
The Magistrate laughed heartily. “She astonishes me once more! ‘Betrothed,’ indeed. You shall not fight, Allamu. We have more vital uses for you.” Turning to the overseer, the Magistrate proclaimed, “Take this man to the hostages’ dormitory. Fit him for chains and put him with Qaansoole’s other young man. We’ll see if she slips out again.”

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Wayfarings of Sabit: Broken Justice is copyright (c) 2016 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/

Broken Justice: Fifteen

The harsh clang of bronze sword against iron bars stabbed into Sabit’s head like a spear point driven through the eye. Tongue cloven to the roof of her mouth, her lips felt like tough strips of meat, salted for a long journey. Every joint felt swollen to twice its proper size—Sabit would almost rather her limbs be removed than that she need to move them.
“Get up,” came the overseer’s booming voice, stalking down the rows of cells, striking an bronze sword against the bars like the knell of death’s own bell. “If you want more celebration, you need to win more cases. And for that you need to train, you louts! Get up!”
Sabit groaned. Immediately, she winced at the sound of her own voice. How much had she drunk? What celebration was worth this suffering?
“Who’s this?” the overseer shouted, too loud and too close. “Qaansoole, you know the rules about non-champions here!”
The allure of seeing the disgrace of that vexing archer gave Sabit the strength to peel open her eyes. The dim shafts of distant daylight were like daggers, but she could make out several figures in the hallway.
Qaansoole was naked, save a black cloak, free of patches, wrapped around her body. “Let him go!” the archer pleaded with the overseer. “I’ll give you half my next prize! Just release him! Don’t take him before the Magistrate.”
The overseer, unmoved by Qaansoole’s pleas, hauled a man from Qaansoole’s cell. He, too, was naked, save for Qaansoole’s heavily-patched cloak hanging from his hips. As the overseer dragged the man out of the cell block, Sabit got a good look at the man’s face.
It was Allamu.

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Wayfarings of Sabit: Broken Justice is copyright (c) 2016 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/

Broken Justice: Fourteen

The night wore on. The songs praising Sabit’s prowess diminished first to ribald lyrics praising her more feminine attributes, and then faded still further to drunken snores. The overseer stalked the halls, wary of champions wandering outside their sanctioned areas. Little else moved in the darkness—except a black-cloaked figure approaching Sabit.
The spear woman lay sprawled on a trestle table hastily assembled in the space between the rows of champions’ cells. The slumbering bodies of her fellow fighters piled around Sabit like pilgrims bowing low before some petty shrine of their goddess. With careful step, the figure in the black cloak picked their way around the sleeping champions, freezing as still as a rabbit at every snore and mutter.
Upon reaching the table, the figure bent low over Sabit’s slumbering form to whisper in her ear. “Sabit! I haven’t much time. You must listen to me.”
The spear woman stirred. Without opening her eyes, she slurred, “Shut up, Allamu. I need to sleep. I’ll chastise you for running off in the morning.”
“By morning I will be the Magistrate’s prisoner,” Allamu whispered from beneath the hood of his cloak. “It is all part of a plan to free you and the crew and … and everyone.”
Sabit groaned. “We can plan in the morning. Sleep now.” The spear woman rolled over.
“If you remember only one thing, you must remember this,” Allamu said urgently. “Trust Qaansoole. In this matter, she speaks for me.”
Allamu was certain that Sabit nodded her head before she let loose another beer-drenched snore. Before the overseer could return, Allamu slipped off into the darkness.

—–
Wayfarings of Sabit: Isle of the Wicked is copyright (c) 2016 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/

Broken Justice: Thirteen

The house of Chegwin was generous in victory. In addition to a hefty sum of silver coins awarded to Sabit for securing the favor of Verq, the head of the house arranged for a celebration throughout the forum of justice. The kegs of dark beer and the racks of roast lamb came as no surprise to the more seasoned champions. The Magistrate made a point of encouraging winners to indulge not only all the champions, but also the opposing party in their suit. A watchful observer might say that Verq, the patron lady of justice, did more to achieve peace and unity in the night time songs and bantering between former rivals deep in their cups than in the stark daylight of bloody battles.
Illi regained consciousness not long after the battle, and his appetite not long after that. The man’s thick, black beard had protected the skin of his throat from being cut by the bowstring. He wore only an ugly purple bruise as emblem of his defeat. But with a handful of house Lanyon’s silver and a few tankards of dark beer, any resentment the champion may have held for Sabit was quickly washed away. By night’s end, Illi was happy to reenact his defeat for the delight of his fellow champions, particularly with one of the pretty serving girls standing in for Sabit as she climbed his massive girth.
It had been a long time since Sabit had won so clean a victory. Her skill had won the day and there had been no need to sacrifice her heart to do so. The roast mutton was succulent and the dark beer spread warmth and comfort throughout the spear woman’s body.
Perhaps the overseer was right. Perhaps the forum of justice was the place where Sabit truly belonged.

—–
Wayfarings of Sabit: Isle of the Wicked is copyright (c) 2016 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/

Broken Justice: Twelve

“Guards! Guards!” the Magistrate shouted as he tried to back out of his chair, instead falling to a quivering heap upon the floor.
Before the guards could act, Sabit leaped over the Magistrate to the third row. There, Qaansoole had drawn her bow and was already raising it, an arrow half-nocked. Her patched cloak fluttered in the breeze.
“You were so kind to show me how to use my own spear,” Sabit snarled, snatching the bow from the archer’s grasp, “allow me to return the favor.”
With bow in hand, Sabit charged back down the stands and leaped over the wall, into the arena. Landing on Illi’s broad shoulders, Sabit wrapped the bowstring around the man’s neck. The massive warrior flailed ineffectively against her, his range of motion confined by Sabit’s strong legs. The white flesh of Illi’s face turned red, then purple. The man staggered, dropped to his knees, then collapsed. The bowstring snapped as Illi’s head hit the sand. A silver horn sounded three clear notes, proclaiming victory.
As the Chegwin delegation cheered Sabit’s victory, the spear woman looked up into the stands, locking her gaze with Qaansoole. The weaponless archer glowered. Sabit tossed the bow up to her, the broken ends of string trailing uselessly in the breeze.
Sabit threw back her head and laughed. Allowing the crowd’s adulation wash over her, she paid no mind to the quiet, cloaked figure that watched her from the entrance to the champion’s quarters.

—–
Wayfarings of Sabit: Isle of the Wicked is copyright (c) 2016 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/

Broken Justice: Eleven

Illi’s mallet was carved like the head of a great fish—curling tail giving rise to spikes on the back end, gaping jaws full of jagged teeth on the front. Sabit could see every carved scale upon its surface as the weapon whistled within a finger length of her face.
Before the massive warrior could adjust his grip for the backswing, Sabit struck. Charging in close, she smashed the shaft of her spear into the back of Illi’s thick right arm. A bright red welt bloomed in stark contrast against the man’s pale skin as he roared in pain. Illi’s backswing was slow and Sabit dodged out of the way without difficulty.
The delegation from Chegwin cheered. Sabit thrust her spear point toward her opponent’s face. Illi brushed it aside with a single, meaty hand. He stepped toward Sabit while the spear woman was off-balance, causing Sabit to fall back to stay out of the range of his deadly mallet.
They repeated this pattern several times. Every time Illi tried to get close, Sabit gave ground. She faded back and back, until she was at the wall at the arena’s edge. Illi’s lips parted in a gap-toothed grin. Raising his mallet high, he swung it over his head and down toward Sabit with terrifying speed. The force of the blow would surely cripple her.
It would have, had Sabit still been there when the blow landed. However, she had planted her spear as soon as Illi raised his mallet. Pushing against the ground, Sabit used the spear to vault herself partway up the wall. Kicking off the sandstone surface with her feet, Sabit landed on Illi’s broad shoulders just as the mallet was striking the ground where she had stood.
From this high perch, the top of the wall was an easy leap. In moments, Sabit stood atop the arena wall, looking eye-to-eye with the Magistrate and his attendants.

—–
Wayfarings of Sabit: Isle of the Wicked is copyright (c) 2016 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/

Broken Justice: Ten

By the time the sun had reached its zenith, the forum of justice boasted a small crowd. Nearly a third of the spectators’ seats were filled with the hangers-on of the rival houses, various functionaries and officials of the Magistrate’s court, and a handful of local workers here more for the spectacle of bloody entertainment than for the edifying sight of divine justice played out upon upon mortal flesh.
Sabit stretched her limbs and rolled her shoulders in preparation for the coming battle. Although the laws of the forum forbade striking a champion on the ground, there was no prohibition against killing strikes while one’s opponent was still on their feet. She needed to be limber.
Sabit looked across the arena to the other champion’s preparations for the contest. The head of house Lanyon would be championed by Illi, a massive man from the far south. He stood a full head taller than even Sabit’s considerable height, with legs like tree-trunks and a chest as broad as a barrell. Illi prepared for the oncoming fight by gnawing on a joint of roast mutton, gobbets of fat clinging to his long, black beard.
“Illi’s been known to shatter bones with that mallet of his,” came a voice from the stands. Sabit glanced up to find a woman looking down at her with a lopsided smirk. Her eyes were bright and her tight, black curls were cropped close to her scalp. The woman wore a simple blue tunic and a cloak festooned with patches. A quiver of arrows rested on her hip. “He favors his right side, so if you keep low and to his right, you won’t give him a clean shot.”
“You broke my spear!” Sabit shouted at the woman. In the center of the forum, the Magistrate yammered on about something. Sabit paid him no mind as she confronted the infuriating archer. “You shot at me!”
“Yes, I let loose an arrow in your direction. If I’d meant to hit you, I would have,” the woman retorted. In the distance, a horn sounded. “You looked like you would make a good champion, but I had to test you. The lady of justice only wants the most skilled in her service. You passed the test.”
“Come down here and I’ll show you a test worth passing!” Sabit bellowed.
“Sadly, I was recently scratched by a spear and am still recovering,” the woman laughed. “I’m sure we shall test one another’s mettle soon enough. Keep alert! Here comes Illi!”
The mountain of a man trundled toward Sabit, mallet raised high. The contest had begun.

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Wayfarings of Sabit: Isle of the Wicked is copyright (c) 2016 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/

Broken Justice: Nine

On the fourth day after Sabit’s capture, the champions were ushered to the floor of the great forum itself. The fighting area itself was oblong, more than a hundred and twenty cubits from end to end, but barely fifty cubits wide. The surrounding walls of tan sandstone were eight cubits high—too tall for even the mightiest champion to leap into the gallery where the contenders of the case and other observers would sit to watch the proceedings. The floor was covered with coarse sand, churned a dusky red from ages of blood spilled in the name of justice.
Three dozen champions filed into the sunlit arena, taking their place on either side. Sabit had met most of the others during training, but had not seen them in their full regalia. Their armor glowed with fresh polish and their weapons sparkled in the sunlight. The contenders walked the length of the arena between two rows of champions, the fighters puffing out their chests, striking outlandish poses with their weapons of choice, and composing their features into scowls of terrifying fury in desperate attempts to be chosen. Battles were almost never to the death, and even a defeated champion was paid for his efforts.
Sabit’s armor was in good repair, but unadorned. The only ornament she wore was a tangle of silver chains she had found cast off in the wilderness. Sabit bore her spear easily, standing in the near-slouch of a predator awaiting worthy prey. The spear woman’s placid stance made a stark contrast to the exploits of the other champions.
Today’s case was spawned by that stickiest of human emotions: love. The firstborn sons of two rival merchant houses of Kelmaars had fallen madly in love with one another, in defiance of their families’ protests. The young lovers had stolen a ship and fled the confines of their ancestral home. The head of house Lanyon—the family whose ship was stolen—blamed all of house Chegwin for the theft and demanded recompense. The head of house Chegwin claimed that the whole affair was a Lanyon plot to deprive her of her only son and heir. A bitter feud—costly of treasure and steeped in blood—would surely engulf these two houses if the forum of justice could not settle their case beyond all hope of appeal.
The head of house Chegwin approached Sabit. She was a thin, old woman with a back as straight as a staff and wrinkles around her jowls that gave her the look of sucking on something loathsome. “How many cases have you won, champion?” asked the old woman, looking up into Sabit’s impassive face.
“Not a one,” Sabit replied.
The old woman made a dismissive noise and took two steps further along before turning back. “How many cases have you lost?”
“Not a one,” Sabit answered.
A harsh smile spread across the old woman’s face. “An unknown? I like that. And I could do worse than choose one who bares such a symbol. A silver necklace of seven-pointed stars is a good omen. Will you take up my cause and fight for justice, champion?”
Sabit glanced at the scarred overseer in the far end of the arena. In the morning air, she could hear the faint echo of the work gangs clearing rubble from the streets, her own crew among them. Sabit looked down at the head of house Chegwin. “Yes, I will fight for you.”

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Wayfarings of Sabit: Isle of the Wicked is copyright (c) 2016 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/

Broken Justice: Eight

With a few days’ training, Sabit had thoroughly familiarized herself with the workings of the Vertan forum of justice. While the central forum itself was strictly reserved for trials, the mammoth building housed two smaller courtyards for training. Nearly every type of weapon used throughout the world was on offer, and practiced by one of the several dozen champions or other.
Skilled costumers outfitted Sabit with leather armor designed more to impress onlookers than to protect the wearer. Her possessions from the ship were brought. A weaponsmith who had learned his craft in far-off city of Bahteel crafted a new shaft of ironwood for Sabit’s well-traveled spearpoint.
More importantly, Sabit spoke with her ship’s crew. The sailors were being held in two different outbuildings, along with a number of other hostages of the forum’s champions. Their captors kept them fed and clothed, and forced them to labor in the rebuilding of the crumbling city, brick by brick. Melcior, the captain, had been taken to the Magistrate in person and none of the crew had seen him since. All of them wore heavy cuffs of metal at ankle, wrist, and throat. Escape would be no easy matter.
There was no word of Allamu.

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Wayfarings of Sabit: Isle of the Wicked is copyright (c) 2016 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/

Broken Justice: Seven

A one-eyed man approached Sabit’s cell. He was shirtless, save a leather strap running from right shoulder to left hip. A short whip with many tails hung from his belt. His grey, frizzy hair testified to many years of life. The collection of pale scars against his tawny skin spoke to the hardship contained in those years.
“You’d be the spear woman, then,” the man croaked as he studied Sabit through the bars. “What other weapons do you favor? Do you know your way around a trident and net?”
Sabit returned his gaze—her rich brown eyes showing nothing but contempt. “I will not fight for the amusement of your crowds.”
The man let out a dry, croaking sound. “This is Vert. You have been chosen to stand as champion in the forum of justice. You fight for no one’s mere amusement. We have a much higher calling.
“You fight for justice itself. Chiefs and barons, kings and clansmen, satraps and headmen all make their way here to the ancestral seat of justice to settle their quarrels beneath the watchful gaze of the Magistrate of Vert. This forum is the final arbiter of righteousness west of the mountains. You should be honored to uphold such a glorious tradition. I am. Fight well and you could end up a forum overseer like me.”
“You are mad,” Sabit replied. “This city’s days of glory are long past. The streets are a deserted ruin of scavengers and vermin. I have squatted behind finer piles of stones to relieve myself. No one would come to this worthless tangle of broken masonry to seek shelter from the rain, to say nothing of seeking justice.”
The overseer scowled. “It’s a shame you feel that way. Qaansoole has spoken highly of your skills to the king, even if you let her break your spear. There’s always a demand for women champions. You could make good coin from rich men in need of your skills. But I cannot make you fight, of course.” He fingered the whip at his belt. “This is merely a mark of office. Warriors worthy of the forum aren’t driven by fear of pain. If you refuse to be a champion, you are free to serve your sentence for mooring your ship at the Magistrate’s own dock. The ship will be seized by the king. You and the rest of your crew will be chained and sold on the auction block. Of course, champions and their people are protected from such fates.”
The overseer watched Sabit’s face as she pondered his words, and the lives of the crew she had hazarded on a foolish dream and a coin flip. “Well, woman, what say you?” he croaked.
Sabit stood up and approached the bars. “I fight best with spear, trident, or staff. I’ve handled nets and lassos before, when needed. If I’m to uphold your glorious tradition, I won’t do it on an empty stomach. When do we eat?”

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Wayfarings of Sabit: Isle of the Wicked is copyright (c) 2016 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/