Isle of the Wicked: Nineteen

Sabit twisted the priest’s arm. The priest folded to his knees. The long knife clattered to the ground.
“Take your hands from His Honor,” Melcior shouted as he tackled Sabit from behind. The two hit the ground hard and rolled, struggling. The priest crawled around Batuul’s pedestal, seeking the fallen knife. Wensa yanked her arm free from one of the acolytes, striking the other upon the ear.
The priest had circled the entire pedestal before his fingers found the handle of the long knife. It did not budge—an unshod foot stood upon the flat of its blade.
“You may feed your god all the sins of the world, Your Honor,” Sabit said, “but only demons hunger for blood.”
Glaring up at her, the priest said, “I would have made you more than a hunter of meat. But it seems that you are fit for only the bloodiest of work.”
The priest pronounced an arcane syllable. Pain exploded across Sabit’s body, as though her very skin were on fire. The spear woman collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony.
The priest lifted the long knife.

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: