Like a whirlwind, Sabit batted aside every spearpoint thrust toward Allamu’s fallen form. Woodpeckers did not raise the wooden clack of shaft-against-shaft so rapidly. Sabit shoved two spearpoints toward the sky and twisted to kick their wielders square in the chest. Two more charged in. Batting the spears to either side, Sabit dashed between the spearmen and struck, driving them to their knees.
She whirled again, reclaimed her footing, readied for another assault. The captain of Ghabar stood a short distance off, arrow nocked and drawn. “Sabit,” she said, “you were exiled.”
Sabit glared at her replacement, counting the steps between them. The distance was too great. “You wear the captain’s mantel well, Aruru.”
“The mantel has an honorable legacy to uphold,” Aruru spat. “You should not be here. The Prioress’s words are law. Even for you.”
The muscles clenched in Sabit’s neck. She swallowed a thousand bitter truths. “I must see the Prioress. Elpasné did not kill the prince. This siege is misguided.”
The other guards had risen now. They formed a circle of spear points around Sabit. Their furtive glances spoke volumes about how “misguided” they felt their Prioress’s actions were.
“You will see the Prioress,” Aruru said. “I suspect she will condemn you to a quick death, but it is better than the slow one.” She gestured for the guards to seize Sabit.
“Wait!” Sabit said. “I must attend my companion, felled by your arrow.”
Turning to the spot where Allamu had fallen, they found only an arrow upright in the dirt and a scrap of torn cloth. The earth was too hard-packed to show footprints.
Wayfarings of Sabit: Blossom of Ruin 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