“Guards! Guards!” the Magistrate shouted as he tried to back out of his chair, instead falling to a quivering heap upon the floor.
Before the guards could act, Sabit leaped over the Magistrate to the third row. There, Qaansoole had drawn her bow and was already raising it, an arrow half-nocked. Her patched cloak fluttered in the breeze.
“You were so kind to show me how to use my own spear,” Sabit snarled, snatching the bow from the archer’s grasp, “allow me to return the favor.”
With bow in hand, Sabit charged back down the stands and leaped over the wall, into the arena. Landing on Illi’s broad shoulders, Sabit wrapped the bowstring around the man’s neck. The massive warrior flailed ineffectively against her, his range of motion confined by Sabit’s strong legs. The white flesh of Illi’s face turned red, then purple. The man staggered, dropped to his knees, then collapsed. The bowstring snapped as Illi’s head hit the sand. A silver horn sounded three clear notes, proclaiming victory.
As the Chegwin delegation cheered Sabit’s victory, the spear woman looked up into the stands, locking her gaze with Qaansoole. The weaponless archer glowered. Sabit tossed the bow up to her, the broken ends of string trailing uselessly in the breeze.
Sabit threw back her head and laughed. Allowing the crowd’s adulation wash over her, she paid no mind to the quiet, cloaked figure that watched her from the entrance to the champion’s quarters.
Wayfarings of Sabit: Isle of the Wicked 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 or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/