A Shrine to an Unknown God

WOMAN WITH A SWORD

"I LITERALLY WASN'T EVEN TALKING," Ezra protests. "You were the one that was talking. Is the sword really necessary?"

"Doesn't matter! I said shut up!"

"Antigone—" slowly, he gets to his feet. "What's happening?"

"When a woman with a sword tells you to shut up, you shut up."

He throws his hands up in mock innocence.

I strain my ears, focusing them in the direction I heard the scream from. There it is—louder now.

I press Ezra backwards with my hand. "You stay here."

"What? Why?"

"Do you have any weapons?"

"No."

"Do you even know how to fight?"

"Well—no."

"My point exactly. You need to stay here, where you're safe."

I turn to go. Anything could be happening to that person screaming for help. I can't risk wasting anymore time.

"Wait—!" Ezra exclaims. "I went to nursing school for... an amount of time. If someone's hurt, I can help."

"Nursing school? So you're a healer?"

"I mean—that might be a bit of a stretch. But I am CPR certified. Well, not exactly certified but I went to the classes and—"

"Fine!" I think bringing this scrawny kid along is a horrible idea, but I don't have any time to argue. "Just stay behind me."

I press myself onwards, sprinting down the rough road leading to town. Houses and tavernas of sun-bleached stone and red tile roofs fly past me. My feet barely touch the ground. The screams—cries for help and just general screams—get louder the closer I get to the agora in the center of town. It isn't all that far from the temple.

Behind me, Ezra is huffing and puffing. "Jesus," he says. That name again. "Can't you slow down?"

"Can't you run any faster? Someone is in danger."

"Valid, but no."

Just before we reach the agora, I go careening down a corner, skidding down an alleyway. In front of me is the hulking figure of a man, his back to us, his legs spread. Between them, I can see two dangling little feet. It seems that he's holding a child hostage. In front of him, facing us, her back against the wall, is a sobbing girl with the strangest hair and clothes that I have ever seen.

At first glance, I think this girl is a nature spirit of some sort, a nymph or a dryad—I do not know how else to describe her, other than that she seems wholly earthly. Like you ripped a tree out of the ground and turned it into a girl. Her skin is the dusty brown of tree bark, her eyes the rich color of the earth. Her hair falls to her back in thick knots, and is strangely blue. Her wrists are adorned in colorful bracelets that jingle as she moves. A single pearl rests on a black string at her throat. I don't have the words to describe the clothing that she wears, but they expose her belly button, which has a little dangly piece of jewelry attached to it.

I run a quick evaluation of the man.

His hair frames his head in an afro like a crown. He wears a golden tunic, and I don't see any visible weapons—obviously not a soldier, though he looks too young to have retired. He must be a member of one of the royal families. His skin is a beautiful shade of brown, dark as black onyx.

I think I can take him.

I turn to Ezra and press my pointer finger to my lips, signalling him to please, for the love of the gods, be quiet. For once in his life, he listens. He nods. I hold my hand out, an order—stay. He nods again.

Cautious of anything around me that could possibly alert the man to my presence, I creep forwards. The blue-haired girl's eyes flick to me. She opens her mouth to scream. Quickly, I press my fingers into my lips again. Please don't make him notice me. Please, gods, please. She turns her attention back to the man, looking at him through a well of tears.

"Please," she sobs, and her voice is like wind rustling leaves. "Just let her go. Please."

Reaching the man, I thrust my sword into his side, right above his hip.

The blood that spills out is not red. It's golden. The color of the gods' blood. Ichor.