The needling pain of returning sensation in her arms and legs dragged Sabit back to consciousness. Her mouth dry, her throat tight, her head pounding, every part of Sabit ached. Her eyes felt like they were sealed with wax—she managed to force them open on the third attempt.
There was precious little to greet her gaze. Sabit lay on a wooden plank in a tiny stone cell. Thick bars of wrought iron formed one wall. In one corner stood a wooden bucket of water. In another, a bucket crusted with human filth. Sabit had weathered worse prisons.
A loud clang sounded from nearby, striking Sabit’s ears like a hammer blow. Dazed, she watched as two men rushed past the cell door, carrying a third between them. The carried man dripped blood from a gash to his side.
Sabit pulled herself to the bars, straining to see where the men had gone. The hallway outside was lined with cells like hers, most of them empty. The men deposited their charge on the wooden plank in a nearby cell.
One of the standing men bent to examine his charge’s wound. “You’ll survive this one, Narik,” he said in rasping voice. “Which is more than I can say for your opponent. You earned your pay today, and your rest tomorrow. If you milk it, you might not need to fight in the forum of justice for another month. I’ll just sew this up.”
Sabit hung her head. She hated gladiatorial arenas.
—–
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: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/