Days later, Sabit crouched behind the curving stone wall of a village hut, her trusty iron-tipped spear in her hand. Dessine and the other members of the Pride crouched close behind her. The group of warriors took care to silence their movements through the unseasonably cool mud of the village roads.
They need not have bothered. Nearby, the village’s goats screamed and rammed the stone walls of their pens. And yet, despite the desperate fury of the animals’ panicked protests, the sound that could not be drowned out was a slow, deep chant of dozens of united voices. The song—if it could be called that—suffused the air, emanated from the sky and the earth at once, and shook the very stones. Yet, the rising and falling pitches never quite resolved themselves into words.
Sabit craned her neck around the curve of the hut. In the village clearing, dozens of people stood shoulder by shoulder, their voices raised in inhuman song. At the center of the throng, a lone figure stood upon a barrel. His naked flesh was covered in twisting patterns of bright yellow and blood red—the sinuous lines weaving themselves into eldritch symbols that clawed at Sabit’s mind to look upon. The sorcerer’s upraised arms sheltered a roiling cloud—dark and pregnant with something other than rain—floating between his hands and growing with every rise and fall of the song.
Sabit stepped from behind the wall and pulled back her arm, spear at the ready.
The sorcerer snapped his gaze away from the otherworldly mass gathering above his head. He locked eyes with Sabit, and screamed in fury.
Wayfarings of Sabit: Sisterhood of the Lioness 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: https://patreon.com/michaelsmiller or http://ipressgames.com/fiction/