The archer in the patched cloak, Qaansoole, raced onto the balcony. The dazzling morning sunlight illuminated the ranks of mercenaries charging toward the marble house, their drawn swords glinting with bright edges of death.
Sabit gained the balcony a moment behind. “How many arrows have you left?”
“Barely a score,” Qaansoole answered, nocking one and raising it to her deep, brown cheek.
“Make them count,” Sabit said as she hefted a javelin rough-hewn of rare mahogany. The day before, the javelin had been the leg of one of the Magistrate’s ornate tables. Now, the tall spear woman let the coarse weapon fly toward the first rank of charging mercenaries.
The makeshift javelin sailed and twisted in the air, striking just short of the first mercenary in line. He leaped over the useless wooden shaft and let out a mocking laugh. His mirth died as Qaansoole’s arrow lodged through his throat.
One man fell. The horde behind him surged toward the white marble edifice—an unbroken wave of bronze and fury.
Wayfarings of Sabit: Tumult is copyright (c) 2017 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/