The night wore on. The songs praising Sabit’s prowess diminished first to ribald lyrics praising her more feminine attributes, and then faded still further to drunken snores. The overseer stalked the halls, wary of champions wandering outside their sanctioned areas. Little else moved in the darkness—except a black-cloaked figure approaching Sabit.
The spear woman lay sprawled on a trestle table hastily assembled in the space between the rows of champions’ cells. The slumbering bodies of her fellow fighters piled around Sabit like pilgrims bowing low before some petty shrine of their goddess. With careful step, the figure in the black cloak picked their way around the sleeping champions, freezing as still as a rabbit at every snore and mutter.
Upon reaching the table, the figure bent low over Sabit’s slumbering form to whisper in her ear. “Sabit! I haven’t much time. You must listen to me.”
The spear woman stirred. Without opening her eyes, she slurred, “Shut up, Allamu. I need to sleep. I’ll chastise you for running off in the morning.”
“By morning I will be the Magistrate’s prisoner,” Allamu whispered from beneath the hood of his cloak. “It is all part of a plan to free you and the crew and … and everyone.”
Sabit groaned. “We can plan in the morning. Sleep now.” The spear woman rolled over.
“If you remember only one thing, you must remember this,” Allamu said urgently. “Trust Qaansoole. In this matter, she speaks for me.”
Allamu was certain that Sabit nodded her head before she let loose another beer-drenched snore. Before the overseer could return, Allamu slipped off 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: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/