Your Goddess Weeps

“How long do we have to wait here? This place smells like rat shit and mildew,” a small woman said.

She was equipped with a mid-sized blade sheathed at her side and wore light armor.

“Until we see 'em,” a portly man grunted, taking a long drag from his cigarette.

He was outfitted with the same blade and armor as the woman.

“Why can’t we just leave this to the Saints stationed at the capital? That’s where the priestess resides anyway.”

“Because—”

“Because what, Yacob?”

“Because we can’t let those inkskinned bastards get anywhere near the priestess, Zahara.”

Zahara pouted. “Nightmen are people just like us, you know.”

“The hell they are. Regardless, we were assigned by Elias to observe and eliminate any possible threats that come through here.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Yeah, but nothing. Besides, you can quit your yapping… they’re here.”

Yacob put out his cigarette on the splintered windowsill and pressed his back to the wall, peering out through the grime-covered glass. With barely any clouds in the night sky, the moon cast a faint yet present luminescence on the dirt road. Walking down that road was a slender man, skin as dark as midnight. His long arms swayed as he stepped, legs equally lengthy. His hair was braided into twists, his face long and narrow.

He stopped in the middle of the road, sliding his pack off his shoulder and resting it on the ground. He looked around slowly, turning his face toward the broken window of the abandoned row house. The faint smell of tobacco and wood pulp hung in the air.

The man stood his ground and took a deep breath through his nose.

“Whoever you are—thief, traveler, or soldier—I bid no harm. I come in peace.”

Zahara side-eyed Yacob. “Bullshit. What do Nighties know about peace?”

“Yacob, what are you doing?” Zahara asked as he moved toward the door.

“What we were assigned to do,” he muttered, kicking open the rotten wooden door.

Yacob sauntered to the center of the road, his mouth grinning but his brows furrowed. The man, his attention elsewhere, was staring up at the night sky, stars reflected in his eyes.

“HEY!” Yacob shouted.

The man turned to him. “Never thought I’d see a Saint all the way out here in the boonies.”

“Well, today’s your very unlucky day. You said you come in peace, right?” Yacob asked, arms crossed.

“Yes, I did. As you can see, I am unarmed,” the man replied, raising his hands to the sky. His skin glistened in the moonlight.

“Well, if peace is what you preach…” Yacob unsheathed his sword. “Then why don’t you turn around and peacefully go back the way you came.”

The man’s hands dropped to his sides. The two stared at each other. The chirping of crickets died down as bloodlust permeated the air. The last few crickets chirped… then silence.

Zahara could barely breathe. Her heart pounded as she swallowed hard, mustering the courage to intervene. She ran out of the row house, stopping beside Yacob.

“H-Hey, how about we all calm down?” she stammered, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Yacob shot her a disgusted look and shrugged her hand off.

“Whose side are you on?” he snapped.

He raised his blade toward the man, who stood unflinching.

“You take another step and I’ll cut you down where you stand. We know your objective, Nightman.”

“If you truly knew what I was after, you’d grant me passage down this road with no resistance. I am a missionary of my people—nothing more, nothing less.”

“That’s the problem. Your people are a cancer on this beautiful country. Even after we granted you sanctuary, you spit in our faces, terrorizing the nation.”

“Yacob, that’s enough!” Zahara shouted.

He ignored her, eyes locked onto the Nightman.

“Cancer? Sanctuary?” the Nightman said, his voice low. “We would’ve never been dragged into this country if you ‘Saints’ hadn’t raped our motherland, destroyed our altars, and denounced our gods.”

“Lies. All we did was spread the gospel of our goddess, and you followed—like the cockroaches you are. You’ve no one to blame but yourselves for the death of your old faith.”

The Nightman’s expression flattened, but his eyes burned with rage. Then, without warning, he lunged forward.

Yacob shoved Zahara back, taking a defensive stance. He gripped his blade with both hands, pointing it forward. The Nightman’s arm extended mid-lunge, fingers inches from Yacob’s face.

Yacob slashed upward, cutting clean through the Nightman’s wrist.

The Nightman jumped back, clutching the oozing stump close to his chest. Yacob rested the blade on his shoulder and spat on the severed hand at his feet. He turned to Zahara, who stood wide-eyed, caught between awe and horror at his swordsmanship—and his misplaced confidence.

“What did I tell you? You can never trust a Nighti—”

“LOOK OUT!” Zahara screamed.

Yacob turned—only to be struck across the face by a bloody stump of exposed bone and torn sinew. He dropped his blade and stumbled back, wiping away the mix of his and the Nightman’s blood.

“YOU BASTARD!” he snarled, lunging to tackle the Nightman.

But the Nightman didn’t budge. His stance wide, he absorbed Yacob’s punch to the ribs and responded with a swift knee to the throat.

Yacob reeled, clutching his neck, head thrown back toward the sky. The Nightman didn’t hesitate. With a closed fist, he cracked Yacob’s jaw. Yacob spun as he collapsed, landing face-first in the dirt.

Zahara rushed to his side and turned him onto his back. As she tended to him, she sensed a presence.

She looked up—and froze.

The tip of Yacob’s blade hovered an inch from her face.

She looked past it, locking eyes with the Nightman. He held her gaze for a moment, then withdrew the blade, stabbing it into the dirt beside Yacob’s feet.

“Your goddess weeps in our dreams, consumed by sorrow.”

He walked over to his severed hand. As Zahara watched in disbelief, he picked it up and reattached it. Bones snapped into place. Flesh reknit, muscle and sinew forming seamlessly. The Nightman flexed his fingers once. Twice.

“I wish only to hold council with the High Priestess. My people can no longer live like this.”

He walked over to his pack, lifted it with his newly restored hand, and slung it over his shoulder.

“How do we know you don’t intend to harm her?” Zahara asked.

“I do not wish to harm her…” he said, stepping past her onto the dirt road. “But if I am met with more resistance, I will not flinch, nor will I hesitate…”

He walked on, his back to her.

“…For I will stop at nothing to get what I want.”