Sabit glared at Heguir with hatred smoldering n her eyes. “I was going to let you live. But now you are a walking dead man.”
“That is powerful talk for the woman chained to the wall,” Heguir said. He loomed over Sabit just out of the reach of any kick she might throw. “You are obviously a woman who is far too used to getting her own way. We will change that soon enough. “
“You’re a dead man, Heguir. The moment I slip these chains, I will—”
“You will cower before my terrible majesty,” the slave merchant bellowed and grabbed one of the of many talismans he wore around his neck. A tiny bottle of green sand set in a silver hawks’ talon vanished into his bony fist. He squeezed.
The ache in Sabit’s shoulder flared into a spike of pain. Her heart hammered in her chest, desperate to escape. Desperate to be anywhere but here. The slave merchant no longer appeared as a thin, cruel man to Sabit’s gaze. He was powerful. Dangerous. Angry. Fear gripped Sabit’s heart like a hawks’ talon.
Heguir smiled at his triumph. “Now that you have learned to fear my displeasure, we can have a more productive chat. That tattoo I had inscribed into your flesh cost a dear price. Only the unfortunates that can earn enough by their sale to warrant it get my magic grafted inescapably into their flesh. Your bearing speaks of a warrior’s past. Your interest in the warlord’s wench speaks of your ambition. Having one of the Old Sisters in your service speaks of your destiny. That’s the kind of woman who makes enemies. Enemies that would pay handsomely—both for your flesh and for this talisman that will keep you in line.”
He bend over Sabit’s trembling form. “Now, tell me, wretch. What is your name?”
— — —
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Wayfarings of Sabit: Chains is copyright (c) 2018 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every Thursday (and the occasional Monday). You can support this and other stories on Patreon: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller Find more sword and sorcery fiction at http://ipressgames.com/fiction/.