Broken Justice: Four

The chase had taken Sabit further afield than she had realized. Walking the deserted streets, she struggled to find familiar sights. Every collapsed building seemed to bear some depiction of Verq, patroness of justice—either in a bas relief carving, or a fully-sculpted form, or a faded painting of her sacred balance. Had Sabit passed this particular pile of rubble on her way from the docks? Or had it been that half-collapsed wall?
What sort of empty-headed fool would want to come to a place like this?
Allamu would. As she walked, Sabit reflected on the heated words that had passed between them days ago on the ship.

“The majesty of the Vertan courts of justice are sung of throughout the world,” Allamu had said when the ship had taken refuge from a sudden storm in the Vertan bay. “I long to see their grand spires, learn the wisdom of their magistrates, and taste their dark wine.”
“The city itself is two days upriver in the best conditions,” Sabit had countered. “These are unfamiliar waters to our captain and his crew, and dangerous. If we continue without stopping, we can reach Urom before winter squalls begin to blow. I swore to return you to your father’s court, Allamu. We must not stray from that goal.”
“If you had ever been to Urom, you would not be so driven to return to it,” Allamu said to Sabit with a dark gleam in his eye. Turning to address Melcior, the ship’s captain, and the seated rowers, he said, “What say you, fellows? Do we put out to sea and another week or three of rigging and rowing? Or do we make our way to the jewel of the west? Who has not heard tell of the fortunes won by strapping men in the forum of justice? Who has not longed to walk the colonnade of the scales and behold its wonders? Who is with me?”
The crew was with Allamu. The captain took Sabit’s part. At such an impasse, they placed their fate in an impartial arbiter: A flat bronze coin produced from Sabit’s pouch. The tossed coin spun in the breeze, glinting on its sunlit side and scowling on its shadowed face.
The city of justice prevailed.
Sabit had given Allamu four days of sullen looks as the ship made its way upriver. Despite the lack of other traffic and the decay of riverside watchtowers, Allamu was not dissuaded from his drive to see the city. The coin had vindicated his dream and he refused to be swayed. Before the ship could even be moored, Allamu had leaped to the abandoned dock and vanished into the crumbling streets of Vert.

A sudden chattering of monkeys drew Sabit from her reverie. Turning toward the noise, Sabit spied the mast of her ship on the far side of a decaying warehouse. With hope that Allamu had returned to the ship and to his senses, Sabit made her way toward the dock.

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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/

Broken Justice: Three

Weaponless in a strange city, facing an unknown number of well-fortified defenders, Sabit’s most sensible course of action would be to withdraw. She ought to return to the dockyards, where the ship and crew that brought her to this place awaited her return. It was a prudent plan.
Instead, Sabit seized the iron grate with both hands. Screaming “Coward!” she pushed, pulled, and pried at the unyielding iron. Arms and legs, back and shoulders strained with effort.
The iron did not move so much as a finger width.
Pausing to draw breath for another assault, Sabit heard a grunt from the darkness on the far side of the iron grate. She leaped to the side, narrowly dodging her own spearpoint as it was thrust through the grate at the level of her gut.
Instantly, Sabit seized the spear’s wooden shaft and pulled. Its wielder in the darkness held firm, twisting the spear in Sabit’s grip. Her hands could not find solid purchase on the wet surface.
With all of her might, Sabit yanked again. There was a groan from within and a sudden downward force on the spear butt. The point ascended rapidly, jamming the wooden shaft between the bars.
The sound of snapping wood filled the doorway. In her hands, Sabit held her blood-covered spearpoint and little else. Less than a cubit’s length of the mesquite shaft remained attached to the black iron spearpoint.
A man’s cry for help came from deeper in the darkness. Sabit heard heated voices and hurried footsteps approaching. Her rage cried out for Sabit to stand her ground and face her foes.
Sabit looked at the broken spearpoint in her grasp and the archer’s blood staining her hands. Turning her back, she hastily made her way across the square and toward the dockyards.

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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/

Broken Justice: Two

The archer knew this city well. Even though her stride was shorter than Sabit’s, she held onto her lead as they zigzagged through the crumbled buildings and twisting alleyways of the once-grand city of Vert. Every time Sabit pulled close enough to seize her patched cloak, the woman would lurch through an adjacent archway or step over an unseen bit of rubble that caught Sabit’s shins and sent her staggering.
The brown skin of Sabit’s forehead shone with sweat by the time she came out of a maze of passageways to see her quarry dashing across a wide, open square. The archer had a substantial lead, but the spear woman broke into a sprint. Sabit drew closer to the cloaked figure.
Bounding off a fallen, broken statue, the archer suddenly leaped into the air, spinning to face her pursuer. Sabit saw that the archer’s bow was already half-drawn. The spear woman dove and rolled as an arrow whizzed past her head.
The archer kept running, her shout echoing across the empty square. As Sabit rolled to her feet and rejoined the chase, she spotted her attacker’s destination: a doorway on the far side of the square, covered by a grate of iron bars. At that moment, the grate opened from within. She could see that the archer would reach the doorway before Sabit could overtake her.
Shifting her stance, Sabit used the momentum from her sprint to launch her spear into the air. Although it had not been crafted as a javelin, the spear soared in a low arc. Sabit’s only weapon and the cloaked woman disappeared into the doorway in the same instant.
The iron grate closed, locking Sabit away from both of them.

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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/

Broken Justice: One

“Allamu!”
Sabit’s cry echoed through the labyrinthine expanse of abandoned stone buildings. Facades covered in cracks or ivy or both looked down upon the lone spear woman walking the empty street. To one side, a retaining wall had burst—rich soil sloped away from the crack, tangles of thornbush spreading from its surface. A score or more of tiny, grey birds chattered among the thorns—their harsh, sniping calls reminding Sabit of the last words she had exchanged with Allamu. Would those words of anger—cutting and hot—be the last she ever spoke to the man from Urom?
With an explosion of fluttering wings the birds launched into the air. Instinct heeding instinct, Sabit leaped in the same instant behind the remains of a collapsed stone column. An arrow buzzed through the air where Sabit had just trod, striking the ground a hand’s breadth from where she now crouched.
Making her way along the uncollapsed side of the retaining wall, Sabit peeked over the top. Huddled behind the thorns was a short figure in a heavily-patched cloak. Nocking another arrow, the cloaked figure raised her head above the thorns in search of her quarry.
Sabit worked her way quickly to the far side of the overgrown garden. She was nearly in position to hurl her spear at the attacker when the masonry beneath her sandals began to crumble. At the first sound of stone, the archer leaped the thorn bush and sprinted down the street. Sabit cleared the thornbush three heartbeats later.
The chase was on.

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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/

Isle of the Wicked: Twenty-Two

The sun hung low in the western sky by the time Sabit, Wensa, and Allamu reached the rim of healthy trees circling the Wicked Rocks. Below, the twisted maze of boulders slowly disappeared beneath the rising waters. Only the massive spires of featureless black stone remained above the waves, stretching toward the sky.
“Those rocks were set as sentries when the demon Batuul was imprisoned here, centuries ago,” Allamu said. “When the prison was forged, the ocean promised that if the rocks ever failed, she would keep the demon bound.”
“And so she has,” said Wensa, smiling at Allamu. “She saved you to be her hands.”
Allamu looked away. “You are the one whose faith saved me, Wensa. I merely sought escape. What say you, Sabit? Do you seek escape from this place?”
The spear woman looked down at the tangle of black stone and black water. Something down there had lightened the burdens upon her heart. Or had that been an illusion? She looked at the bedraggled remains of green feathers at her wrist. Some trick of some spell, or a demon’s whispered lies, or something else entirely had shown Sabit a glimpse of a future not weighed down with regret.
“The world is wide,” Sabit said. “There are many paths. A destination glimpsed at the end of a dark trail can sometimes be reached by other means.” She looked at Allamu. “There is a ship and crew awaiting a priest who will never come. Shall we chart them a new course?”

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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

Isle of the Wicked: Twenty-One

Sabit’s every move was agony. Raising her leg felt as though the muscles were tearing apart. Sabit rose to her knees despite the pain. Stretching her arm was like plunging her hand into a raging fire. Sabit grit her teeth and reached for her spear.
Stepping on the fallen spear, the priest stood before Sabit, his long knife raised high. There was a great rushing, roaring sound from a side passage.
Although her shoulder spasmed painfully with the movement, Sabit punched the priest in the gut.
A roiling wall of water surged through the mouth of the passageway, inundating the room. Half the torches were quenched instantly. Water was thigh-deep and rising. As the seawater overtopped the pedestal of Batuul, there was a shriek of rage and contempt that all present felt in their very bones.
The cry faded beneath the water—as did the sorcerous pain that had consumed Sabit. Grabbing her spear, she saw no sign of the priest. The water was at her waist now. Moving toward the passage where the rockslide had been, Sabit saw Wensa at the entrance to a nearby passage, struggling with something under the water.
Striding over, Sabit seized the mass from Wensa’s grip and pulled Allamu from the water, his unconscious form heavy in the seawater.
Together, Wensa and Sabit pushed through the chest-deep surge toward the base of the rockslide and began to climb.

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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

Isle of the Wicked: Twenty

Allamu made his way in complete darkness. An awkward, crouching half-crawl allowed him to follow the trickle of water he had heard earlier. Shouts from the central chamber echoed through the twisting passageways. One of the voices was Sabit’s, but Allamu knew he could not find his way back to help her, even if he attempted to return. His only route was forward.
In a short time, Allamu found a wall of tightly-packed stones where cool water seeped through the tiniest of cracks. He could almost feel the ocean on the other side of the rubble, aching to enter the tunnels. The sea had rejected Allamu’s death once. Would it spare him another time?
Sabit’s scream of pain echoed in the distance.
With the long knife, Allamu began to pry the wall apart, stone by stone.

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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

Isle of the Wicked: Nineteen

Sabit twisted the priest’s arm. The priest folded to his knees. The long knife clattered to the ground.
“Take your hands from His Honor,” Melcior shouted as he tackled Sabit from behind. The two hit the ground hard and rolled, struggling. The priest crawled around Batuul’s pedestal, seeking the fallen knife. Wensa yanked her arm free from one of the acolytes, striking the other upon the ear.
The priest had circled the entire pedestal before his fingers found the handle of the long knife. It did not budge—an unshod foot stood upon the flat of its blade.
“You may feed your god all the sins of the world, Your Honor,” Sabit said, “but only demons hunger for blood.”
Glaring up at her, the priest said, “I would have made you more than a hunter of meat. But it seems that you are fit for only the bloodiest of work.”
The priest pronounced an arcane syllable. Pain exploded across Sabit’s body, as though her very skin were on fire. The spear woman collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony.
The priest lifted the long knife.

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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

Isle of the Wicked: Eighteen

Wensa struggled to draw breath as she stumbled to her feet. Ignoring the pain in her arm, she struck at the priest’s hand holding her hair. His grip was like iron.
Melcior opened his mouth to question, but was silenced by a glare from the priest.
“Your Honor!” Sabit choked out between coughs. “Stop!”
The priest turned to the spear woman. “This woman’s ancestors imprisoned Batuul beneath these dark spires—confined his power to this wretched wasteland. Batuul hungers for freedom that he might consume the sins of others just as he has consumed yours, hunter-of-meat. Surely, you cannot stand in the path of Batuul. This woman despises you. Her blood is her only value.”
Sabit stood and considered the priest’s words as her breathing grew more steady. The dry, stale, oppressive air of the chamber pressed in on her, like the weight of long-forgotten sins. The anguish that the priest’s words had lifted from Sabit’s heart on their first meeting seemed to hang in the air itself—as though a misplaced breath would draw its pain back into her chest. The green feathers at her wrist were weighed down by dust.
Still struggling to breathe, Wensa managed to grab the priest’s hand and dig her fingernails deep before two acolytes seized her arms. They forced her to her knees before the shroud-covered pedestal. The priest raised a long knife into the air.
“No,” Sabit said, seizing the priest’s raised hand. “You will not.”

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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

Isle of the Wicked: Seventeen

Following the crash, the passage mouth vomited a cloud of dust into the central chamber. Torches instantly extinguished by the wind, the chamber fell into darkness filled with the sound of coughing and the skitter of settling rocks.
Melcior relit the first torch, one side of his face scorched badly. Shambling toward the center, he helped the priest to his feet, and continued to check on the fallen acolytes. Some had been bruised, but none were seriously injured. Batuul’s low pedestal sat undisturbed.
As Melcior approached, a dust-covered form coalesced from the passageway at the dust cloud’s center. No, it was two figures—one taller than the other—clinging to one another as they made their way over piles of rubble. The taller figure leaned on something, perhaps a staff or spear.
“Sabit?” Melcior said.
Stepping further into the light, the dust-covered spear woman let out a powerful cough. The torch flickered. At her feet, a smaller woman wearing the garb of the local island fishers knelt heavily on the smooth stone floor. A gash in the dark skin of Wensa’s arm tripped blood upon the floor.
A rumble came from the center of the chamber. This was not the sound of stone upon stone. This was something else entirely.
“Yes, Batuul,” said the priest. “I hear your hunger. I smell your repast. I sense your vengeance is at hand.”
The priest approached Sabit and spoke to her, even as she struggled to breathe clearly. “You have done well, hunter-of-meat. You have brought Batuul that for which he hungers. His gratitude shall be grand. But, first, he must drink deeply of the blood of his captors.”
Seizing Wensa by the hair, the priest dragged her toward Batuul’s pedestal.

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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