Isle of the Wicked: Fourteen

Allamu held the torch as Melcior led the way, deeper into the inky depth of the caverns. The soft splash of sandals through shallow water seemed very loud in the stillness.
“You have ventured a long way from home,” Allamu said, slowing to examine a mural covered by dust and webbing. “The sea voyage alone must have taken weeks.”
“Dangerous travel to a strange, barren land is a small price to pay to see the glory of Batuul in person. This island is where Batuul has slumbered, so this is where it was needful to come,” Melcior replied. “Once His Honor feeds your sins to Batuul, you will understand our devotion.”
Allamu’s hand found cool water dribbling down the wall from a tiny crack near the ceiling. Studying an arc of glyphs upon the wall, Allamu muttered, “If I read these right, the thing entombed down here is no god. It is—”
“You will come now!” Melcior whispered harshly. He had silently come up behind Allamu and now held a long knife to the shorter man’s throat.
With scarcely a move of his head, Allamu agreed to the demand. The two made their way deeper 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: