The Emerald Spear

The air was thick with sweat, the suffocating press of the marketplace an assault on all senses. Meru shoved through the churning crowd, clutching the small, rusting blade strapped to her hip. Against the backdrop of ancient Dahomey, a kingdom of unyielding walls and whispered rebellions, she was a contradiction—barely over twenty, lithe yet undeniably strong, her dark umber skin adorned with intricate whorls of tribal paint. Her lean physique moved with the exact precision of a warrior, though her body bore none of the scars that should have accompanied such prowess.

She wore a deep green tunic that billowed over trousers dyed a similar shade; its vibrant hue shimmered as if capturing the essence of the rainforest. A simple brass circlet held her short, coiled hair back from her face, framing sharp cheekbones and wide almond-shaped eyes that missed nothing. The outfit wasn’t ostentatious, but it made her stand out, just as she intended. Among the merchants hawking ochre-dyed fabrics and the storytellers spinning tales of gods who fought by moonlight, Meru looked too composed, too resolute. And that was the point.

The man with the scar was already watching her.

“Ten paces,” she muttered to herself, feeling his heavy presence trail her like a hunting lion. Three days of reconnaissance had taught her his patterns: when he paused to haggle obnoxiously over spices, when he stopped to exchange gossip with the village griot, and the exact moment he’d let his guard down by the roasted yam stall. She had one shot—one window lasting no more than two breaths—to steal the scroll from his satchel.

Meru’s fingers brushed the knife, her palms sweating. This was madness. She was no thief—she hadn’t been trained for cunning subterfuge in the same way she had been trained to fight. And yet, desperate circumstances left no room for dignity. The Emerald Spear, a weapon whispered of in myths since the time of Queen Hangbe herself, could turn the tide of the threatened coup. Without it, Dahomey would become easy prey for the encroaching colonial armies.

She passed him, her shoulder grazing his as she stumbled deliberately into his path. He snorted, annoyed, his raspy voice barking for her to pay more attention. For a split second, his gaze dipped toward the mess of groundnuts a child had spilled at his feet. That was her chance.

Her hand darted into the satchel, fingers slipping over scrolls written in faded ink on brittle parchment, and—

“Not quite quick enough, girl,” came his guttural growl.

He caught her wrist mid-motion with the force of an iron jaw. Meru froze, heart hammering like a war drum. She’d calculated everything—everything, except the possibility he might suspect her. His grip was brutal, his scarred face a mask of grim cruelty. Around them, the normal hum of market life continued uninterrupted, no one caring enough to intervene.

“Who sent you?” he demanded, pulling her so close she could smell the smoky tang of palm wine on his breath. His other hand closed in on the satchel, though she fought like a cornered hawk. The scroll was within her reach, but the growing commotion was gathering attention. A guard flicked his gaze her way, oversized machete gleaming against his cuirass.

“You’ll regret this,” Meru hissed, springing into the language of panic as her heel came crashing down on the man’s foot. He stumbled, loosening his grasp. The world tilted into chaos as she grabbed the satchel and ran; a cacophony of shouts and curses erupted in her wake.

``//rolled'on

The Source...check out the great article that inspired this amazing short story: Feeling Discouraged? Try THIS Powerful Mantra

Disclaimer: This article may contain affiliate links. If you click on these links and make a purchase, we may receive a commission at no additional cost to you. Our recommendations and reviews are always independent and objective, aiming to provide you with the best information and resources.

Get Exclusive Stories, Photos, Art & Offers - Subscribe Today!