Isle of the Wicked: Twenty-One

Sabit’s every move was agony. Raising her leg felt as though the muscles were tearing apart. Sabit rose to her knees despite the pain. Stretching her arm was like plunging her hand into a raging fire. Sabit grit her teeth and reached for her spear.
Stepping on the fallen spear, the priest stood before Sabit, his long knife raised high. There was a great rushing, roaring sound from a side passage.
Although her shoulder spasmed painfully with the movement, Sabit punched the priest in the gut.
A roiling wall of water surged through the mouth of the passageway, inundating the room. Half the torches were quenched instantly. Water was thigh-deep and rising. As the seawater overtopped the pedestal of Batuul, there was a shriek of rage and contempt that all present felt in their very bones.
The cry faded beneath the water—as did the sorcerous pain that had consumed Sabit. Grabbing her spear, she saw no sign of the priest. The water was at her waist now. Moving toward the passage where the rockslide had been, Sabit saw Wensa at the entrance to a nearby passage, struggling with something under the water.
Striding over, Sabit seized the mass from Wensa’s grip and pulled Allamu from the water, his unconscious form heavy in the seawater.
Together, Wensa and Sabit pushed through the chest-deep surge toward the base of the rockslide and began to climb.

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: