Bazaar of Death: Nine

In the deepest reaches of the night, Sabit dreamt.

  • • •

A battlefield—littered with bodies, flowing with blood. The acrid tang of smoke. A vicious war-cry. Numberless ranks of foes. The taste of copper at Sabit’s lip. A brutal charge.

Everywhere, the dance of battle. Sabit’s spear—long and sharp and cruel. The iron tip piercing an enemy’s gut, another’s chest, another’s throat. Savagery on every side. Struggle at every turn.

Sabit, victorious against every foe.

Cheers from her fellows. Cheers from the carrion birds in the sky. Cheers from the dead at her feet. “Hail, Sabit! Hail, victory!”

The thrill of triumph—coursing through her every fiber, pulsing like her very blood. The scent of conquest in the wind. The color of mastery in the clouds. The rhythm of supremacy beneath her feet.

An old woman’s cackle.

All of it stripped away. Sabit—naked, worthless, alone.

  • • •

That night, she dreamt no more.



Wayfarings of Sabit: Bazaar of Death is copyright (c) 2017 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: or

Isle of the Wicked: Sixteen

“You should know that when Sabit learns what you are actually doing, she will kill every one of you,” Allamu said as he slowly walked down the passageway, Melcior’s dagger perilously poised at his throat.
“Sabit is a powerful warrior, and I am glad that I saved her from her cruel, impending death,” Melcior said. “But she is only a woman. And His Honor will allow no mortal—woman or man—to question the might and the virtue of Batuul. No one can resist Batuul’s call. No one. Soon you will see for yourself. We are here.”
The narrow passageway opened into a wider chamber, with torches set around the circumference. Several acolytes labored over paintings on the cave floor. In the center, a single figure appareled in ceremonial robes, stood before a stone pedestal. His flinty-eyed gaze was fixed on the silken sheet draped over something upon the pedestal.
“Your Honor,” Melcior called. “I have brought another stranger laden with sins for Batuul to devour.”
The central figure looked up, his eyes flashing even in the dim torchlight. His pale visage was drawn with deep furrows of disgust as his gaze fell upon Allamu.
At that moment, there came a massive rumble from another one of the side passages, like an avalanche. All eyes turned toward the noise.
Allamu seized on the distraction and smashed the back of his head into Melcior’s chin. The captain’s grip loosened and he staggered back a step. Allamu swiped the long knife and swung the burning torch at Melcior. The seaman fell.
Allamu ran back the way he had come, vanishing into the darkness of the passage.

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: