Sabit could not say how long she suffered, alone in the darkness—sometimes standing, sometimes hanging listlessly from her chained wrists. In time, even consciousness gave way to waking nightmares.
*
Sabit in the forest, her loyal bandits at her side. Nerit—his face trusting, the leech tattoo on his cheek subdued and sated. Sidi—his quick jokes far sharper than his misaimed arrows. Regida—her face smiling above the inferno of resentment in her gut. Verdandi—attentive and wise over the cookpot.
Drills complete. Young chests heaving with exertion. The bandits flush with bountiful raids. Celebrations beneath the trees. The sedate nights, awash in the songs of the forest.
A bandit queen triumphant.
A great gash in the world itself—as black and bottomless as Sabit’s own past. A roiling mass of forgotten lore. From that morass, a man. Tall, strong, proud.
Kehnan.
Sabit’s spear, firm in her grip. Long, strong, sharp.
Useless.
Kehann’s gentle hand on Nerit’s shoulder. Blinding heat. Blistering light. The young man’s screams. His leech tattoo, the last scrap devoured by flames.
Everywhere the screams of bandits. Everywhere suffering. Everywhere death. Kehnan at its center.
Sabit as its source.
Sabit’s arms stock-still. Her screams of fury. Long, loud, powerful.
Useless.
*
Screaming, Sabit came to herself—her skin dripping with frigid water. In the waking world, her body felt cold and wet, her eyes saw flickering, blazing light. Her ears heard a voice.
“Welcome to your tomb, Mongoose.”
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Wayfarings of Sabit: Agony is copyright (c) 2018 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every Thursday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller Find more sword and sorcery fiction at http://ipressgames.com/fiction/.