Sword of the Gods: Prince of Tyre (Sword of the Gods Saga)

by Anna Erishkigal

  They decided to leave on the wet, strange tight-fitting loincloth and just have him put his dry pants on top. They didn’t think either he or his wife would appreciate them undressing him completely while his mind was too addled to tell them to go to hell. Pareesa arranged a blanket over his shoulders as best she could, given his wings were in the way, to keep him warm.

  “We need to deal with that arrow,” Pareesa said. She examined the shaft which had sunk into the meaty part of the humerus, the part that would be the bicep if you thought of the wing as an arm. The arrow had snapped off, leaving a hands-length stick with the arrowhead still embedded in the muscle, but it only seeped blood a little. "It doesn't look like it hit anything vital, but it's got to hurt."

  “I don’t think we should bring him to the triage area.” Gita rummaged through Needa’s things. “Not like this. We need to dig it out ourselves.” She found some supplies and an obsidian blade.

  “Ninsianna said he is always exhausted after he invokes the Cherubim killing incantations,” Pareesa said. “We should get him bandaged up and off to bed, then go tell Immanu where to find him so they can bring Ninsianna as soon as she recovers.”

  Whispering soothing words to keep him calm, Gita plucked out the tiny feathers that surrounded the injury, tucking one into her shawl when she thought Pareesa wasn't looking, then dribbled a few drops of a pungent, pleasant-smelling substance Needa kept stoppered in a tiny clay vial around the area where they needed to work. Myrrh sap. Magic to keep away the evil spirits that caused infection.

  "Maybe it would be better if you yanked it out?" Gita fingered the broken arrow. Both had the same thought. Better to have the one he trusted the most inflict the pain … just in case.

  "This will hurt me as much as it hurts you," Pareesa said. She grabbed the broken shaft and yanked it straight upwards.

  “Ow,” he mumbled as the flint slid out of his flesh with a reluctant, sucking sound, but otherwise he barely flinched. They were lucky the Halifians hadn't figured out how to barb the arrowheads yet as Mikhail had shown the flint-knapper or it would have done a lot more damage.

  Gita staunched the bleeding and stitched up the hole in his wing. Any other man would have howled bloody murder as she stabbed the needle into his skin and pulled the horsehair thread through. Mikhail’s muscles trembled under their fingers, but otherwise he was silent.

  "Where'd you learn to stich like that?" Pareesa asked, adding to her long wish list of skills to learn the art of stitching up one's own wounds. Gita's work was not pretty, but it was effective.

  Gita's eyes grew as black and fathomless as Mikhail's had when that bat-winged visage had seized control. Pareesa shivered.

  "My father sometimes … falls," was all Gita said.

  Pareesa did not press the woman for questions. It was no secret Merariy was the village drunk and beat his daughter. She watched as Gita dribbled a few more drops of the pungent-smelling concoction around the stitches and then smoothed the feathers around the injury, a small comfort to convey she was sorry for hurting him.

  “Come, Mikhail,” Pareesa coaxed him to stand. “Time to sleep.” She tugged his hand until he followed her up the stairs. Gita trailed behind them up the rickety step. Mikhail fell into bed and curled up in a fetal position, pulling his wings around himself so that all they could see was the top of his head

  “Ninsianna, ní féidir liom a bhraitheann tú,” he said softly. He was instantly asleep.

  “Good night, sweet prince,” Gita gently covered his still-wet wings with a blanket. “We’ll go tell Ninsianna where to find you. She’ll be at your side when you wake up and you’ll have no memory of this.”

  They whisked away all evidence it had been them who'd snuck him home and bound his wounds, then headed out to Yalda and Zhila's house where Needa had staged the house of healing.

  “He’s kind of cute when he’s sleeping,” Pareesa said as soon as they wandered through the streets. “Like a gigantic winged puppy.”

  The girls giggled, not because anything that had happened tonight was funny. Humor was necessary to deflect how disturbing what they had witnessed really was. Yalda informed them Ninsianna had woken up with a rip-roaring headache, frantic to find her husband. They told Yalda where they had deposited him and were rewarded moments later by the sight of Ninsianna hurrying home to join him.

  Their eyes met as they breathed a mutual sigh of relief. The thought passed unsaid between them. If that was what happened when somebody merely injured his wife, neither one of them ever wanted to see what would happen if something bad happened to her for real.

  “Should we tell him what we saw?” Gita asked somberly.

  “No,” Pareesa said. “We'll just make sure nobody ever pushes him to that point ever again. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Gita said. They locked bow-fingers a second time in an archer's gesture of solidarity. "What should we tell people when they come across the bodies he hacked apart far out beyond the battlefield?"

  "Most of those men were not Halifian," Pareesa said. "People will assume they killed their own mercenaries so they would not have to share the gold."

  "We'll let people assume whatever is convenient for them," Gita's black eyes had that look they always got when she looked through people, as if she could see their souls. "Yes. We must keep this quiet. Especially from him."

  They parted ways and both went home.

  Chapter 81

  November - 3,390 B.C.

  Earth: Village of Assur

  Ninsianna

  Ninsianna burst through the front door. She found him in their little bed, curled up in a fetal position, wings pulled over his own body, trembling as though he were cold.

  “Mikhail?” she touched his wing. “Are you alright?”

  “Ninsianna,” he murmured, shivering as though he was cold. “Ní féidir liom a bhraitheann tú níos mó [I can’t feel you anymore]. Ní féidir liom a bhraitheann tú [I can’t feel you].”

  She checked the stitch job on his wing and frowned, adequate work, but not the neat, even stitches of a trained healer. The feathers had been plucked around the wound and it smelled of myrrh, no dirt left carelessly behind to invite the evil spirits that caused infection, the spirits Mikhail called 'germs.' If she had done it, she would have done a neater job, but it was done. Whoever had stitched him up hadn't done so bad a job that she'd inflict pain upon her husband a second time to rip the stitches out and redo it.

  “Mikhail,” she placed her hand on his cheek the way she had the first time she had met him. “I’m here. See? Look. I’m right here.”

  “Ní féidir liom a bhraitheann tú,” his wings trembled. [I can’t feel you].

  Ninsianna stretched out alongside of him and wriggled under his topmost wing, coaxing him to uncurl enough for her to spoon her back into his abdomen. Ugh! His wings were drenched. Whatever had happened, he'd had the wherewithal to bathe the blood out of his feathers before coming home, but not to shake the water out of them.

  “I’m right here,” she said. “Can you feel me now?”

  Finally he wrapped his arms and wings around her and pulled her so close it felt as though he might suffocate her. He shuddered as though he was crying, but no tears slid down his cheeks and no sound escaped his throat.

  “Ninsianna,” he still spoke his native language, “Ní raibh mé in ann dar leat [I couldn’t feel you]. Shíl mé gur mhaith leat a chaill mé [I thought I’d lost you.]”

  “I'm here,” she said. “I am fine.”

  “Ní raibh mé in ann dar leat [I couldn’t feel you],” he whispered as he drifted back to sleep.

  Ninsianna felt his breathing gradually become regular and even as his shivering subsided. Just as her vision had prophesized, she had called for him and he had not come. Just as the vision had warned, the men had wanted to steal her baby. She tried to look into his mind to see how the situation had been resolved, for they were all still fuzzy about the details, but even in this moment when he wept for almost h
aving lost her, that irritating blue light blocked her from seeing into his memories.

  Anger welled up from her subconscious. This entire attack had occurred because they had tried to collect a bounty on him. She had heard it from the enemy's own mouth! All those lives lost! For what? Because he had begotten a child upon Shahla and then tried to foist if off on Jamin? It was no surprise Jamin had gotten even by telling the enemy where they lived. If Mikhail hadn't blocked her from seeing into his mind to hide his guilt, and his crime, for not only had he lied to her, but he had lied to the tribunal, none of this would have happened!

  "It's over," Ninsianna said with disgust. "It's finally over. I called for you and you came."

  Mikhail made a small sound in his sleep, like the whimper of a boy having a nightmare. He hugged her tighter, so tightly that it almost hurt, and wrapped his wings around her. He was suffocating her! If she was the one who had been attacked, why was he curled up in a ball, shivering, as if he had been the one they had tried to rape?

  She pushed at the wet wing and gasped for breath, hating to have her face covered, and tried to wriggle out of his grasp. Mikhail clutched her even more tightly to his chest as though he were terrified he would wake up and find her gone.

  Vulnerable…

  Mortal...

  Afraid...

  Ninsianna wasn't certain she liked this weaker, more vulnerable side of her husband.

  Chapter 82

  November - 3,390 B.C.

  Earth: Halifian tents

  Jamin

  They came in groups of two or three, the last batch straggling in a larger group of thirty, exhausted and badly wounded, telling a strange tale of men who had disappeared from the back of the line before they'd even made their way to Assur. They'd assumed the men had deserted until they'd tripped upon their bodies on the way back, throats slit, each body arranged neatly with the arms crossed, a large brown feather placed into each victim's hand. The Amorite leader forced Jamin to remain with him, despite his exhaustion from lingering blood loss, so that none of the survivors could stick a knife into his back.

  More than eight hundred men had gone against the Assurians, less than three hundred came back, all telling tales of a black-winged demon who had cut them down without mercy. Nusrat came back with five men instead of the twelve who had snuck into the village to face Yazan.

  "My brother?" the shaykh to the west asked, his face filled with apprehension.

  "Dead at the hands of the winged demon." Nusrat's face bore an unreadable expression. His bearing was still that of a prince, but his clothing was stained with filth and blood.

  Yazan swayed. One of his fellow shaykhs, the leader of a tribe to the south bordering Uruk lands and purportedly a close relation, caught his kinsman by the elbow to steady him. With no more living sons and now no brother, the tribe to the west was without an heir.

  "How?" Yazan's voice warbled with emotion.

  "The winged demon arrived before we had finished setting our trap," Nusrat said. "Thawban was killed by the sorceress. Instead of getting into position as he was supposed to have done, he decided to chase after the goat. She caught him unawares."

  "The goat?"

  "The sorceress."

  Jamin suppressed a snort. He'd always sworn that goat was a demon in disguise, uncannily clever for such a stupid animal.

  "And what of the others," another shaykh asked, one who'd come from the far southwest where the Pars Sea had receded to expose new grazing land. He'd sent kin into battle as well, although only Marwan and Yazan had sent in close kin.

  "The winged demon snuck up on Raghib and slit his throat before we expected him back," Nusrat said. "The battle still raged at the south gate. We never anticipated he would come back before our forces had driven the Assurians behind their walls. As for Qudamah, he died well. He got one good shot into the demon's wing, but it was not enough to slow him down."

  "And what of Dirar," Yazan's voice warbled. "How did he die?"

  "We tried to escape," Nusrat said. "But he hunted us like a falcon hunting a mouse. Dirar almost carved out his prize, but in the end, the demon was too powerful. I did not realize until we stood against him how powerful he really is."

  "I saw when we attacked the village before!" Yazan lunged at Nusrat. "Why didn't you protect him?"

  "Enough!" Marwan stepped between his fellow shaykh and his son. "You ran away after he killed Roshan! So do not fault Nusrat for not doing what you, yourself were not willing to do to save your own son!"

  "It is his fault," Yazan whirled and stalked towards Jamin. "He gave us false intelligence!"

  "Everything he told us was accurate," Nusrat said. His expression was neutral. "Everything … from the weak spot in one of the houses to how well-defended each gate of the city would be. The only thing that was unexpected was they sent a handful of men to defend the low ditch that ran up the north hill."

  "So it was defended!" Yazan pulled his knife out of his belt.

  Jamin pulled both knives out of his own belt and backed into the felt wall of Kudursin's tent. He had two blades, the obsidian one his father had given him when he had banished him, and the second, smaller flint one he had seized from Lubiad when he'd defeated him. They were paltry weapons against a seasoned knife fighter such as Yazan; especially given the fact his left arm was in a sling, barely able to clutch the second knife.

  "They sent a little girl," Nusrat spat. "If the winged demon had not dropped out of the sky, we would have defeated them!"

  "That would be Pareesa," Jamin tried to reason with Yazan. "And her B-team. That was not a real defense. She is a thirteen summer girl and her men are the fat sons of potters and weavers. He probably sent her there to get her out of his feathers."

  It was the wrong thing to say…

  "I will kill you for this!" Yazan lunged at him.

  Jamin danced to the side at the last moment, just barely missing getting the knife buried into his chest. An odd humor wafted through his brain. This had all started with him wanting to carve out the winged demon's heart, but now everyone wanted to carve out his heart, instead.

  "Wait!" Marwan stepped between his fellow shaykh and Jamin. "This did not have anything to do with bad intelligence. Dirar knew the risk when he chose to infiltrate their walls."

  Yazan's fist clenched around the wrapped bone pommel of the blade he itched to bury into Jamin's heart. Obsidian was a stone that could cut every bit as well as the metal knife the Amorite slave trader kept tucked in his belt. What made it an inferior weapon was not its ability to kill him, but the fact stone blades had a habit of chipping whenever they hit a solid object, such as his ribcage.

  "It is true," Nusrat stepped between them, not fighting to defend him against the grief-stricken shaykh, but not letting him come closer, either. "Dirar fought bravely, but it was not enough."

  "Then why are you still alive?" Yazan cried out.

  "Because your brother did not listen when I told him not to violate the sorceress," Nusrat said. "Instead of knocking her unconscious and waiting for the winged demon to return for her once our forces breached the walls, Dirar tried to rape her. She used her magic to call her demon husband to save her before we had a chance to get into position."

  "Do you know how many men we just lost?" Yazan shouted.

  The wall of the tent hit Jamin's back. The coarse feel of pounded wool scraped against his hand, too flimsy to serve as leverage to push against and project himself against his enemies, but too substantial to fall back against and have it collapse so he could escape. He could go no further unless he turned and cut his way through the tent. If he did, Yazan and his kin would fall upon him before he could finish the first slice, and outside the tent more than two hundred mercenaries languished, looking for somebody to blame for their resounding defeat.

  "We lost men as well, brother-in-arms," Marwan soothed his peer. "I lost three nephews and an uncle trying to take the Assurian north gate. We have all suffered losses tonight."

  "You
did not lose any brothers or sons!" Yazan shook his knife at Jamin. "All you lost were married into other tribes! It was you who allowed this jackal into our midst!"

  "I have few sons left to lose," Marwan drew up to his full height, reminding Yazan that although he might be the poorer of the two shaykhs, he was by no means the more cowardly. "In case you forget, the first eighteen men the demon smote came from my tents, including Nusrat's brother. How dare you accuse me of double dealing you now?"

  That second, silent mouth shouted the same message that Marwan's lips did, that Dirar's death had come as a surprise. Jamin's eyes met Nusrat's. Nusrat had chosen not to enlighten his father that, should Dirar manage to carve out the winged demon's heart, he'd intended to smite the mercenary himself and declare he now had the right to decide who would win his sister's hand. With three bags of Amorite gold, Nusrat would have enough resources to provide for his sister, her poor infant daughter no husband wanted, plus his own two wives and seven children.

  Jamin's heart beat faster. He studied the faces and body stances of the men who surrounded him, trying to figure out which ones truly wanted to smite him, versus which ones were posturing because no shaykh wanted to be on the losing side of such a fragile alliance.

  "Friends," Kudursin, the Amorite leader laughed. "There is no need for such hostilities. Our Sata'anic friends pay according to how many engaged the enemy, whether or not they survived. It is their people's way to provide for the widows and orphans of those killed defending them. If those men had no families…"

  Kudursin's hand swung palm-up towards Yazan to indicate that he stood to distribute the gold on his brother's behalf. The three other shaykhs in the room perked up with interest.