Isle of the Wicked: Seventeen

Following the crash, the passage mouth vomited a cloud of dust into the central chamber. Torches instantly extinguished by the wind, the chamber fell into darkness filled with the sound of coughing and the skitter of settling rocks.
Melcior relit the first torch, one side of his face scorched badly. Shambling toward the center, he helped the priest to his feet, and continued to check on the fallen acolytes. Some had been bruised, but none were seriously injured. Batuul’s low pedestal sat undisturbed.
As Melcior approached, a dust-covered form coalesced from the passageway at the dust cloud’s center. No, it was two figures—one taller than the other—clinging to one another as they made their way over piles of rubble. The taller figure leaned on something, perhaps a staff or spear.
“Sabit?” Melcior said.
Stepping further into the light, the dust-covered spear woman let out a powerful cough. The torch flickered. At her feet, a smaller woman wearing the garb of the local island fishers knelt heavily on the smooth stone floor. A gash in the dark skin of Wensa’s arm tripped blood upon the floor.
A rumble came from the center of the chamber. This was not the sound of stone upon stone. This was something else entirely.
“Yes, Batuul,” said the priest. “I hear your hunger. I smell your repast. I sense your vengeance is at hand.”
The priest approached Sabit and spoke to her, even as she struggled to breathe clearly. “You have done well, hunter-of-meat. You have brought Batuul that for which he hungers. His gratitude shall be grand. But, first, he must drink deeply of the blood of his captors.”
Seizing Wensa by the hair, the priest dragged her toward Batuul’s pedestal.

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: