From the Minor Annals
by Bernita Harris
That year brought plague and pestilence and a desperate hunger.
The night skies were like ichor and the clouds like the poisoned spume that clung to the rocks of the shrinking river.
That year the maidens of the clan were sacrificed one by one to the new priest's unsated god.
That year I stood on the stony hillside with the others, our faces washed to bloody bone in the streaming torchlight.
When the moon curved above the clouds like a knife I watched the priest raise his arms in incantation.
I saw the sigil of the goddess written in the sky above her veiled face and I knew he lied.
When he led me forth his eyes gleamed red. My mother moaned, and the clan rustled like a hot wind through dry leaves.
I waited until we reached the stinking altar before I struck.
I let them tear him to pieces among the stones.
There were no more sacrifices that year.
That year, or thereafter.