Blossom of Ruin: Six

The camp huddled among a field of scattered boulders. The tents, of several different styles, were arrayed in a rough circle around an open area. Sabit saw little movement—not that she expected any, as the afternoon heat was still intense.

Sabit move casually from shade to shade, careful not to disturb any of the sandy-robed slumberers. A robeless, shirtless man was bound hand and foot in the shade of a large boulder nearby. His smooth, dark skin and wide nose gave him the look of royalty. A fine-lined tattoo in the figure of a crowned elephant reinforced the impression.

After a moment’s consideration, Sabit approached the prisoner. Holding the sentry’s sword poised near his throat, she clamped her hand hard over his mouth. The man awoke with a start, eyes wide, pulling against his bonds.

“Scream and I cut you,” Sabit warned. The man’s eyebrows indicated his acceptance of her terms. “What is this place?” she asked in the tongue of the trade roads.

“A camp of madmen,” he replied in the posh accent of a northman. “They sacked my caravan, killed my guards. They have sent a runner to demand ransom of my father, the king of Urom. I would gladly turn that ransom over to you as my rescuer. Just cut me free.”

“They have stolen from those who stole from me,” Sabit said. “Where do they store their treasures?”

“In the center of the camp,” he replied. “The holy-of-holies, they call it, where their mad king stays and orchestrates their foul rites. Cut me free and I’ll help recover what you seek.”

Sabit regarded the man. He was shorter than she. Weakened by his time in captivity, he was unlikely to overpower her in a straight fight. And the ransom of a prince was no small thing. Another pair of eyes were always useful.  Yet, the scars of old betrayals still nagged her in the mornings.

“Give me your name and your oath,” Sabit said.

“I am Allamu, son of Hassimir, king of Urom,” he said. “I vow upon the sacred elephant to aid you and to reward you as I can when we make our escape.”

Sabit cut the ropes and handed the sword to Allamu. “I am Sabit. If you betray me, I will cut you open.”

Allamu smiled, “It is a better deal than the madmen offered.”

They moved toward the center of the circle—together.


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:

Blossom of Ruin: Five

The sun loomed high overhead. The shadows had wasted away to thin slivers of cool respite. Sabit tracked her quarry to a rough trail of hard-packed earth, which she followed, dashing from boulder to boulder, relishing the cool shade.

A large boulder ahead offered a shadow broad enough to stretch out in, even at midday. Sabit was nearly within its cool embrace before she saw the sentry stationed there, sword poised to strike.

Sabit ducked. The sword whistled.

Sabit rolled. The sentry kicked.

Sabit tripped the sentry with her spear. The sentry fell.

Sabit kicked at the sword hand. Missed.

The sword arced high, slicing Sabit’s robe. Twisting, Sabit plunged her spear into the sentry’s throat.

The sentry twitched and moved no more.

Sabit leaned back against the cool rock face, gulping deep lungfuls of air. Examining the sentry, she found it to be a woman, perhaps twenty years old. Her head wrap had concealed a strange, greenish rash around her mouth and nose. The whites of her lifeless eyes showed a greenish cast as well.

Sabit exchanged her ruined robe for that of the sentry, sun-bleached to the same shade as the surrounding hills. There was no sign of her necklace, nor any other bauble. A packet of twigs intricately lashed together hung on a cord about the sentry’s neck. Her waterskin was half-full, but she carried no food. Their camp must be close.

Sabit waited in the shade, replenishing her strength. When the shadows began to fatten, she knew it was time to move closer.


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:

Blossom of Ruin: Four

Sabit found walking through the night in the vast, open badlands to her liking. The air was cold, but the walking kept her warm. She slept the next day in the shade of a knot of large boulders.

Sabit hoped to catch up to the caravan before dawn the next night, but she had only walked a few hours when she caught whiff of fire ahead. Two of the wagons had burned down to charred scraps. The third lay on its side, broken in pieces. Fragments of charred carpet were scattered about, among many merchant corpses. Whatever had killed them had taken their long knives, their valuables, and their heads. Sabit found no trace of her necklace.

Finding a surprisingly unbroken water jar in the unburnt wagon, Sabit drank her fill and waited. When the eastern sky took on a rosy glow, a trail of blood and tracks could be seen leading south.

Wrapping herself in a robe and hood taken from one of the dead men, Sabit set out after the tracks. She could not say what assaulted her with more heat: the rising sun or the hard-packed earth. The glare off the bleached rocks dazzled her eyes and made the trail nearly impossible to follow.

Sabit found walking through the badlands during the day very much not to her liking.


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:

Blossom of Ruin: Three

A day’s walk along the river—with more attentive step—brought Sabit to a crossroads.  Several eastbound travelers filled their skins, amphorae, and jars with as much water as the containers would hold. Westbound travelers tarried in the cool waters, drinking as much as their bellies would hold.

A caravan of well-provisioned eastbound merchants—their wagons laden with bolts of brightly-colored cloth—had much trouble speaking with Sabit. With thick accents and soft voices, they leaned close to her to make themselves heard. They were poised to venture onto the hard road that wound through days of badlands before reaching the fabled oasis at Elpasné. The reasons for such a hard trek were unclear, but certainly of utmost urgency. The caravan held no position for an experienced guard, particularly a woman like Sabit. As soon as the wagon-boys had filled the last waterskins, the merchants were off.

Some of the other travelers spoke the tongue of the trade routes. Sabit learned of the new silver vein now coining rich men in the mountain town of Dzenik to the west. The plague in the northern city of Vlardin had only grown worse in recent months. Sabit shared as much of the tale of her time in the southern land of Ghabar as she dared among strangers. None knew of solid prospects for a woman skilled with a spear.

As the sun sank, Sabit laid down for the night. Perhaps tomorrow would bring better prospects. However, she found the inner lining of her belt was soft and empty. The thick silver necklace she had found in the river was gone!

Only the eastbound merchants had approached close enough to have taken it. They had half a day’s lead on the road. There were nearly a dozen of them, armed with long knives. The necklace was as good as gone now. The wisest course was a good night’s sleep and better prospects tomorrow. She should pay it no mind. What claim did she truly have on a bauble pulled from the wild river?

The western sky still glowed a reddish hue as Sabit filled her waterskin, held her spear in hand, and strode onto the Elpasné road with a determined pace.


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:

Blossom of Ruin: Two

The river was chill, but not cold. The current was swift, but not torrential. Sabit made her way quickly toward the bank.

Finding purchase on a boulder half-submerged, Sabit’s eye caught something out of place, reflecting the sunlight from beneath the murky water’s surface. Swimming closer, she grasped a necklace of finely-wrought silver chains as thick as her thumb. It felt like a month of warm food, perhaps more.

The bauble was wedged between two large rocks, held there by the force of the current for years without number. Sabit fished a bit of twine from a drenched pouch and secured the necklace to her wrist. With legs braced against one stony surface, back pressed against another, and the skilled application of her spear as a lever, Sabit pushed.

The rocks held still. Water surged over her face.

The rocks held still. Sabit strained until stars spotted her vision.

The rocks rewarded such effort with the tiniest of budges. It was enough.

Clambering onto the shore, Sabit found the shelter of a fallen tree and hung her wet skirts and drenched belongings to dry in the afternoon sunlight, clear and strong. The necklace she kept close. Its constellation of seven-pointed charms and minute chain links had tasted wilderness. Sabit was sure they would rebel against her continued possession, given half a chance.

The day was troubled, but not ruined. Her journey was delayed, but not despoiled. In the sunshine, Sabit considered her options.


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:

Blossom of Ruin: One

Sabit’s reverie nearly ended her life.

The warrior’s foot was poised to step upon a sleeping bear cub when the mother’s roar shook Sabit from her thoughts. Instinct lowered her iron-tipped spear to face the mother’s charge, the butt set firm against a root. The hillside was steep. The mother bear charged up through underbrush toward the narrow path where Sabit stood. There would be another half-dozen heartbeats before the spear’s metal point would face the enraged ursine’s jaws.

At five heartbeats, Sabit made a decision.

At four heartbeats she lifted her spear and charged down the embankment, toward the raging beast.

At three heartbeats, she ran like the breeze itself.

At two heartbeats, Sabit thrust the spear-butt to the ground, grasped near the wicked iron tip with her hands, and vaulted into the air. The bear lunged with its body, swiped with its claws, snapped with its teeth. Sabit smelt the bloody salmon on its breath.

Catching a tree branch, Sabit yanked the spear to her by a leather thong. She climbed quickly over the river where the mother bear had been fishing. The branch bent and creaked at her weight.

Another roar filled the air. The mother bear stood at the base of the tree trunk, poised to ascend. Sabit cursed her luck and whatever goddess had “gifted” her with a wandering mind.

With all her might, Sabit leapt toward the branch of a tree on the river’s far bank.

Her right hand caught the branch. The branch snapped. Sabit fell.

Nothing cleared the mind of distraction quite like a swim.


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:

New story starts November 1st


The first tale of Sabit the Wayfarer, Blossom of Ruin, starts on Tuesday.

Blurb: Sabit lives by her wits and her spear. When a cutpurse makes off with a bauble, what will Sabit risk to regain what is hers? What bitter, uncanny fruit will bloom from her thirst for vengeance, or justice?

This story will span the month of November. A new story will start December 1.

You can follow the story:

You can always follow Sabit’s adventures here on

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“A Life Worth Dying For”, a Tale of Oshala the Hex, now available

A Life Worth Dying For cover
The next sword-and-sorcery tale of Oshala the Hex is now available.

This tale includes the fate of a past love, the fate of a dark future, otherworldly slave-drivers, feats of acrobatic skill, travel to realm of dreams, a cursed graveyard, an ancient tower of learning, a twisted prophesy, close combat on the top of a spire, a people freed of their fetters, and a broken heart.

From the blurb:
A world of dark sorcery—a time of sharpened bronze.

The pale tower of the Academy has governed the city of Lytrops with wisdom and learning for centuries. When Oshala the Hex finds the entire city forced into menial labor and her lover beset by restless spirits, what price will she pay to break their chains?

This is a 6,900-word short story in the sword-and-sorcery genre.

The story is now available for purchase at these fine retailers:

Seven Samurai and Genre Expectations

I watched Seven Samurai last night for the first time. It is, of course, masterfully done. The visuals are so rich and the story is so well-told.

We watched it on Hulu, where it’s part of the Criterion Collection. So after the feature they had a short documentary about the film, its inspirations, its impact on the genre, and its context in Japanese history. Although I had know that it was one of those “masterpiece films” that everybody talks about, I hadn’t realized that it came out only a few years after the end of the American Occupation and how that informed what was going on in the film. Kurosawa was not just making a brilliant genre picture, he was taking bits and pieces of samurai genre conventions and remixing them in a way that applied to the new reality of post-war, post-occupation Japan. There are no questions of loyalty to one’s lord in this story; the samurai are hired by the common people, collectively. While the samurai do display stereotypical traits drawn from the genre, they are each an individual. The end shows the villagers victorious, and the samurai as dying off, with no place in society. To say these things less than a decade after the Japanese militarists had used ideas of bushido to rally the people to greater sacrifice in a losing war was, and still is, powerful stuff.

I’ve been thinking along similar lines myself about this sword-and-sorcery fiction I’ve been writing. There are so many horrible genre conventions in sword-and-sorcery, from “might makes right” to issues of gender to legitimate authority deriving from birth. But I feel there is also power in the genre, and virtue can be found there. A world so big and vast that you will only ever scratch the surface of it, no matter how much you study; and yet, still being able to have an impact. The idea that your future is in your own hands. The idea that individual actions are the root of positive change. I’d like to remix sword-and-sorcery into something relevant for the 21st century, much like Kurosawa did for samurai film.

Anyway, yeah, a really great film. Got me thinking.

“The Mercy We Make” the first tale of Oshala the Hex, now available

The Mercy We Make Cover
My first foray into sword-and-sorcery fiction is now available!

I’ve never found the “sword” quite as compelling as the “sorcery”, so the main character of my stories, Oshala the Hex, is a sorceress who has sacrificed part of herself in exchange for magical power that few others possess.

In this first short story, “The Mercy We Make”, Oshala the Hex is a solitary figure who breaches the stoic mountain fastness of a long-forgotten emperor in search of an ancient artifact. The undying spirits within welcome a new, living soul to torment. But who will get the better of whom? Can Oshala the Hex escape where multitudes have fallen? Will her mission of mercy end in triumph, or eons of unending torment?

Check back next month for a new tale of Oshala the Hex.

The first 5,000-word tale is now available from these fine retailers: