Holding her breath, Sabit strained against the chains that held her tight. The bronze cuffs dug into the flesh of her strong warrior’s hands, but would not yield to her desperate flailing. Sabit could feel the greasy curls of smoke oozing across her skin. The smoke mixed with her own sweat, forming a sticky red film that seeped into her pores, restoring the sharp, painful memory of every wound she had ever suffered.
Her side burned with a phantom gash.
The twisting throb of a separated shoulder.
The sharp agony of a broken leg.
The searing, driving need for breath, lungs aflame in agony. Stars swimming before her eyes—seven points like pin pricks in her heart.
Having held her breath too long, Sabit drew a desperate, shuddering gasp of air and smoke and anguish.
The red smoke before her eyes. Faces in the curls and wisps. The somber eyes of Mariama, head of the Sisterhood of the Lioness. The murderous fury of Dessine, the proud hunter. The silent judgment of the skilled archer, Qaansoole. The shattered hopes of her young son, Qays.
Bewildered, handsome, broken-hearted Allamu.
The lips of the old soothsayer, dripping with harsh prophecy. The slave-catcher’s triumphant fingers around Sabit’s neck—like curls of smoke smothering her breath and clawing at her eyes.
Her friends, chained and helpless because of Sabit’s failure. The agonizing, desperate cries echoing in the haunted tunnels of Vert. The battle cries. The burning house. The champions of the forum, their trust in Sabit become terror.
Allamu despairing, trapped beneath the water, drowning in his own memories
The cowardly snarl of the Magistrate of Vert. Illi’s massive bulk trembling at death’s door, held at Sabit’s mercy. The one-eyed glare of the forum overseer. The twisted priest of the god-demon Batuul, furious at Sabit’s rejection of the faith.
Allamu, swallowed by the hungry waves.
Irkalla, despondent at the death of her son. Ishum, sweet, vile, innocent, dead.
Sabit, ever alone. Sabit, failing everyone she tried to help. Sabit, doomed to live on while those more worthy suffered in her wake. Sabit, her only virtue as a butcher of wickedness.
A killer. A befouler. A betrayer. A murderer.
*
Outside the cell, a lone guard grinned as he listened to hour after hour of Sabit’s wracking coughs of the smoke, her wracking sobs of grief, and her wracking shrieks of agony.
— — —
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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/.