“You are Sabit,” the gaudy man muttered. “You are the strong spearwoman. You come from the south.”
Sabit lowered her spear point, level to the man’s chest. “You’ve no right to that name. I never it gave it to you. You do not know me.”
The man giggled—a blood-curdling sound of wickedness. “You never gave it to me, but I have it all the same. Like this silver bauble you thought so clever to conceal within your belt. It was tricky to filch, but likely would have fetched a handsome price in Elpasné’s temple market. It has a better home now.” The man’s long fingers rose to his throat to stroke Sabit’s necklace.
Looking down at the broken, decaying heads of the merchants, Sabit took note of the pale pink color of the roots emerging from their shattered skulls. Those roots fed the plant stalk that the thin man stood beneath, plucking dusky red petals and chewing them thoughtfully. With each bite, he learned more of what the merchants had known. He ate their memories.
Sabit rushed toward him, spear extended.
With uncanny speed, the slumberers lounging about the clearing leapt to their feet. Like a wave of arms and bodies, they were upon Sabit before she took a dozen steps. Her spear sent one to walk with gods. She cracked a jaw with the backswing before three more pulled the spear from her grip with the weight of their bodies. Sabit punched and kicked. Teeth flew and bones broke, but the horde still came–their bizarre green eyes unfazed by the violence, their green-stained faces insensate to the pain of her blows.
As a mass, they wrestled Sabit to the ground. Half a dozen robed forms held her. The spearwoman from the south had fallen.
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Wayfarings of Sabit: Blossom of Ruin 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