"Namhu," Pareesa called to her little brother who pretended not to shadow them. "Run up and tell Chief Kiyan that Chief Qishtea is here to see him on an official matter of state."
The Ninevian visiting warriors rushed to the shore's edge and waded in to help pull their brand-new chief's enormous river canoe up onto dry ground. They sensed, as she did, that whatever Qishtea had to say, this occasion was a formal one not fitting for an act so practical as taking off one's shoes. There was no hostility in his expression, but it was guarded, not the jovial one which had begun to emerge when he'd spent three days here to learn the fundamentals of swordplay.
Pareesa's eyes fell to Qishtea's hip. Strapped to it was a twin to the sword she wore. A Sata'anic sword. One identical to the five she had refused to give away. Pareesa stepped back and refused to meet Qishtea's outstretched hand.
"What is the meaning of this?" Pareesa challenged.
Qishtea's face remained an impassive mask, but a shadow of guilt clouded his brown eyes.
"What I have to say will be said first to your chief," Qishtea said. He glanced up the jagged path to the crest of the hill where, just beyond lay the north gate to the village.
As if on cue, Namhu reappeared at the edge of the embankment, followed by the solid form of Varshab, the Chief's personal guard. The pair made their way down the jagged path, Namhu bounding down like an eager goat, Varshab with the careful movement of a man who knew better. Qishtea turned towards the visiting warriors.
"Go back into the village and gather up your things," Qishtea said. "Leave any stores of grain or supplies you were given behind as a thank you gift for your host-families."
The Ninevian warriors exploded with chatter, but did not question Qishtea even though he was new to acting as their chief. Unlike Jamin, who had only ever cared for the hunt, Qishtea's father had forced him to act as both diplomat and leader of their warriors.
"You're leaving?" Pareesa stared at him incredulously. "But Qishtea! You gave us your word!"
Qishtea's expression was filled with remorse.
"My father gave Mikhail his word," Qishtea said softly. "That we would come to Assur's aid if ever you were attacked. And I shall keep that word until Mikhail breathes his last breath."
Relief warred with the incongruency in Qishtea's face until it dawned on her the verbal slight-of-hand.
"Mikhail is still alive!" Pareesa jabbed a finger at the young chieftain's face, heedless that he was just as heavily armed as she was. "How dare you break your vow!"
She glanced at the river canoe. Her eyes met the gaze of the next man to step out of the canoe, and then the man behind him, and the three men after that. Qishtea was the only chief who had come in person, but in the canoe he carried emissaries from each of the northern Ubaid villages. Unlike the southern villages, who had skulked away like thieves, the northern tribes had come united to abandon Assur as a group.
"How could you!" Pareesa shouted at Qishtea. She reached for the handle of her sword. "I should cut you down where you stand, traitor!"
"Pareesa! That's enough!" Varshab ordered, a grizzled veteran whose experience made up for whatever speed middle age had caused him to lose. When Varshab spoke, it was with the authority of the Chief.
"Varshab," Qishtea held out his hand. "I have come to speak to Mikhail."
"Mikhail?" Varshab said. "I have been sent to bid thee welcome from the Chief and escort you there for a visit."
"I came to see Mikhail," Qishtea repeated. "I will speak to Kiyan after I have spoken with the winged one." He glanced at Pareesa. "In person. Not second-hand."
Pareesa gulped. Her game was up. For weeks now she had pretended to act under Mikhail's order when, in reality, every word which came out of her mouth was a blend of wishful thinking and ideas bounced off of Varshab. The village elders had been recruited to come up with suitable lies because the winged one had not woken up in weeks.
Varshab's gaze was serious, but not angry. Pareesa realized the Chief's man had must of known this day would come.
"He is very ill," Varshab said. "We have done all we can for him, but two weeks ago he lost consciousness and has not awoken since."
Qishtea nodded, as if Varshab had just confirmed something he already knew. Who had betrayed them? Who had stolen hope before the warriors had trained together long enough to begin to care for each other independently of their affection for Mikhail?
Pareesa followed behind them like a dog begging for a bone. She glanced at her little brother, Namhu, always lurking, pretending to not listen so he could eavesdrop on the adults. Without her perceived position as Mikhail's protégé, she was little more than a pesky kid.
Word must have gotten there before them, because Immanu met them at the door. From Qishtea's determined expression, they would not dissuade him for seeing Mikhail's condition for himself.
"Qishtea," Immanu said. He held out his arm in the forearm-to-forearm greeting of men of equal status.
"I am here to speak to Mikhail," Qishtea said.
Immanu's cheek twitched with a mixture of sheepishness and regret. With a sigh, he gestured for Qishtea to follow him inside the house. Immanu moved to block Pareesa's entrance, and then thought better of it.
"Since we made you speak on his behalf," Immanu's expression was weary, "we might as well allow you to speak for yourself when Qishtea sees what we have hidden."
Pareesa climbed up the steep, narrow stair like a beaten dog, cringing as Immanu pulled back the curtain.
Qishtea clamped his hand over his nose to block the stench of rotted flesh. Pareesa covered her face with her shawl. Three times each day she had come when he was still awake, but for the last few weeks she'd only come once per day, unable to bear the sight of their Champion brought so low.
"What is she doing here?" Qishtea jabbed his finger at Gita, kneeled next to the winged one's bed. "How could you let a traitor tend to him?"
From the way Immanu glowered at Pareesa, he asked himself the same question.
"Gita didn't do anything wrong," Pareesa said. "She would never betray Mikhail."
Qishtea's face reddened into the dark burgundy of an overripe pomegranate. He whirled to face Pareesa.
"She and Shahla were inseparable!" Qishtea poked his finger into Pareesa's chest as though she were a man, heedless of the fact he poked between her breasts. "I should know! Goddess only knows I fucked the woman enough times!"
"Gita?" Pareesa raised her eyebrows.
"No, Shahla!" Qishtea hissed into her face. "It was a game! To lay down with me behind Jamin's back. Gita followed her around like a servant and could be relied upon to carry messages to her lovers."
Qishtea stepped towards Gita, his hand clutched on the hilt of his sword. "My father is dead because of you!"
Pareesa noted Gita's pale hand slip under the bed where she'd hidden Mikhail's sword without Immanu's consent. The black-eyed girl always avoided trouble, but if Qishtea thought he could slit her throat, Pareesa had no doubt who would be the victor.
Siamek stepped between them, his expression surprisingly furious.
"Enough," Siamek shoved him back. "If you harm her, you will have to kill me, as well." He glanced at Pareesa. "Not to mention Mikhail's little weapon of mass destruction."
Qishtea jabbed his finger into Siamek's face. "Shahla consorted with Jamin to bring down all of our people, and you can be damned sure she sent that one to him as her messenger!"
Pareesa glanced at the scrawny, black-eyed woman who had found Mikhail's sword and held it, ready to strike, just out of sight beneath the bed. Qishtea had not seen Gita rein in the Dark Lord the night he'd seized control of Mikhail's body. Pareesa had.
"Get Gita out of here," Immanu gestured to Siamek, "and throw her in the pit."
That subtle tickling which indicated the old God of War was half-listening to her grew more insistent, proof he was not half-listening any longer. 'Put a stop to this' she could almost hear him shout into her mind.
Pareesa stepped b
etween Mikhail and the young chief who wished to drag away the only thing keeping Mikhail alive. She opened her mouth to speak, but the voice which came out was not her own. Her sword made its way out of her belt and pointed, not at Qishtea, but at Immanu.
"Ní bheidh tú a dhéanamh tairiscint dóite an leanbh go dtí an ceann olc ar an mbealach do athair féin déanta íobairt de do dheirfiúr," spilled out of Pareesa's. "Má tá a fhios an bandia nuair a hid an ceann olc do níon, go mbeadh sí a bheith sa bhaile cheana féin. Tá do súil amháin a aimsiú di má mhaireann sí son."
Immanu turned chalk white.
Pareesa stood, sword pointed at Ninsianna's father as if he was an enemy. Why? Why did the Cherubim god suddenly distrust Ninsianna's father? It was not the Cherubim language the old god used, but that ancient variant of Mikhail's native tongue which only the shamans spoke.
It was Qishtea who pulled them back from the brink of madness.
"Pareesa risked everything to save him," Qishtea said. "If she insists this girl's presence brings the winged one comfort, then let it be so." He glanced at the sorry sight of the emaciated Angelic. "Even if Gita does finish the job, from where I stand, it would be an act of mercy."
Qishtea moved out the door. The curtain fell shut behind him, leaving Mikhail, and Gita, in darkness ... along with whichever poor guard had to stand guard over them. Everybody thought Gita had something to do with Shahla's trap. The only reason she was there was because every time they tried to pry her away from Mikhail's side, he deteriorated, though by the way things had been going, he'd end up dead soon enough.
"Come, Pareesa," Qishtea said. His expression was not one of anger, but relief. "I will speak now to Chief Kiyan, but I think you have earned the right to hear what I have to say."
They made their way to the Chief's house, Pareesa trailing behind them like an afterthought. Her bluff was called. Everyone would now know the truth. The Chief greeted Qishtea with warmth, but the dance of chiefs was strained. This was not a meeting of friends, but between two chiefs whose villages occasionally went to war.
Chief Kiyan's elderly servant scurried out with a tray filled with ceramic cups and a pot of hot herbal chai. The familiar scent of grasses and dried flowers warmed her almost as much as the physical heat generated by her cup. They sipped in silence, this being part of the ritual, until the first cup had been consumed.
"Why have you come?" Chief Kiyan finally asked.
Qishtea's expression was grim.
"I felt you deserved the dignity of my coming to tell you this in person," Qishtea said. "Nineveh has decided to accept the Sata'anic lizard's offer of inclusion in their empire."
"What?" Chief Kiyan said. He leaned forward, his eyes flashing with anger, but from his posture, this news was not entirely unexpected. "You gave Assur your promise of peace."
"I did not say we would wage war against you," Qishtea said. He looked down at his hands. "The lizards have promised that any village which comes under their command will receive Shay'tan's bounty, long lives and fruitful crops."
Pareesa boiled with anger. "You swore an oath to fight them!"
Qishtea met her gaze, his eyes far more wrinkled than a twenty-something man's eyes should be.
"My father swore an oath," Qishtea said softly, "to come to Mikhail's aid if ever Assur was attacked, and I shall uphold that oath for so long as the man he made that oath to still breathes."
"You are a coward!" Pareesa shouted.
"Pareesa!" Chief Kiyan interrupted. "I will not have you treat the Chief of Nineveh so! Or I will order you to leave!"
Pareesa glanced up, to where Varshab stood over her, ready to implement the Chief's orders. She shut her mouth, picturing her eyes shooting daggars.
"And who made you this promise of Shay'tan?" Immanu asked.
"Your own son," Qishtea said.
Pareesa sat numb as Qishtea outlined the descent of the sky canoe, the army of lizard demons, the return of his cousin and two other women with wild tales of magic which would make their lives easier, and the accusations of those women that it was Mikhail's own people who were the end-buyers of the kidnapped women and not the lizards, who promised to keep the women of any allied tribe within that tribe when they married a man who had proved his loyalty to the Empire.
"And what is my s-s-...." Chief Kiyan asked, and then changed his words. "What does Jamin have to do with all of this?"
The fierce Nineveh chieftain stared at his hands, his expression worried.
"He has visited every village in Ubaid territory except Gasur, which has always been Assur's fiercest ally," Qishtea said. "Jamin now commands an army which exceeds anything Mikhail has pieced together thus far."
Qishtea placed his hand on Chief Kiyan's shoulder. "Understand, friend-of-my father. Without Mikhail to tell me how to fight them, I have no idea what to do." For the first time, the young chief allowed them to see his fear. "Jamin disintegrated our wall as if it was made of straw. How can I protect my people if we don't have walls?"
"That's it?" Pareesa shouted. She whirled to the Chief. "You're just going to let them break their promise?"
Chief Kiyan's eyes were distraught. If ever a man so important as the Chief were to weep, it would be now, hearing from his social equal that his own son had orchestrated the downfall of his village.
"You weren't there, Little Fairy, when the sky canoes rained lightning down upon the gathering of chiefs," Chief Kiyan said. He rubbed the arm still weak from injuries. "Thank you, Qishtea, for coming to tell me this in person. Eshnunna, Dur-Kurigalzu and Arrapha sent runners yesterday to recall their warriors, but they gave coward's excuses. They did not tell us what my s-s-… what Jamin has been up to."
Qishtea rose and tossed the end of his elaborately fringed shawl over his shoulder, the instinctive gesture of a chief or high-ranking male. He paused before Pareesa as he moved to leave. Pareesa glowered at him, seething with hatred, but she caught Varshab's reproachful look and bit her tongue.
"I am not your enemy, Little Fairy," Qishtea held out his hand. "If the winged one arises from his deathbed and gives us an alternative to slavery under the lizard demons, I am open to listening to his plan. But I am not Jamin. The fate of my people rests with me."
"I would rather be dead than a slave!" Pareesa jutted out her chin.
"Yes," Qishtea said. "I know you would." He sighed and withdrew his hand. "And once upon a time, I'd have felt that way, too. But now I must think of the good of my people. They don't wish to die for an idea."
The delegation made its way out of the village, back to the banks of the river where the enormous, elaborate canoe strained at the oars to propel itself upriver, against the powerful currents which sought to wash the Ubaid downstream. Behind them trailed their warriors, packs laden with what they needed to make the long walk home to villages which had chosen, if not to stand against Assur, to stand idly by while the lizard demons ground them into the earth.
Pareesa watched them go. It felt as though someone had just carved a great, empty place in her chest. She realized Ebad stood behind her, helped along by Ipquidad, deathly pale and barely able to stand.
She met Ebad's gaze with tears in her eyes.
"Let's get you home," Pareesa whispered. "I do not wish to lose you, too."
~ * ~ * ~
Chapter 36
Battle is the most magnificent competition
In which a human being can indulge.
It brings out all that is best; it removes all that is base.
All men are afraid in battle.
The coward is the one who lets his fear
Overcome his sense of duty.
Duty is the essence of manhood.
--General George S. Patton--
Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.12 AE
Former Third Empire: Jehoshaphat
Supreme Commander-General Abaddon
Abaddon
The Jehoshaphat trembled beneath his hand from the strain of jumping through hyperspace with the magnet
ic field of one engine thrown out of alignment thanks to damage in the exhaust port of her ramjet. All around him, crewmen scurried, their eyes wide with fear. He could smell it oozing out of their pores at the oh-too-real prospect of the command carrier shaking herself to pieces in the bitter emptiness of subspace.
"Just a little bit further, gorm beag," Abaddon crooned. "I know what it's like to fly with an injured wing. Just a little bit further, love. You wouldn't want the other ships to hunt without you now, would you?"
A sub-audible hum caused his pinfeathers to stand on end. The Mantoids, with their enhanced ability to feel that vibration through their hard, green exoskeletons, clamped their limbs over their ear-holes.
Ow! Damantia! Shay'tan's foot that hurt! Talk about rattling your teeth!
Abaddon stuck his tongue over a tooth he'd been meaning to have the ship's dentist take a look at. He'd delayed doing so because the younger Angelics rarely suffered from maladies caused by advancing age. It felt like betrayal that his body had forced him to slow down due to aching knees and muscles that took far longer to recover than he'd like to admit. He had a wife now, a younger wife, and he intended to live many more years swapping hunting stories and begetting as many offspring upon her as his aging loins would sire.
"Drop time in T-minus-one minute," said acting second-in-command, Lieutenant-Captain Shzzzkt. The Mantoid's mechanical-sounding voice range enhancement box was unable to keep the fearful warble out of the insect-man's voice.
"Lieutenant Valac," Abaddon barked at his Angelic weapons officer. "I want those pulse cannons fired at the biggest Sata'anic ship you can get a lock on the instant this ship materializes on the other side. You got that?"
"Shouldn't I…"
"That order was not up for interpretation, Lieutenant!" Abaddon growled before the man even had a chance to finish saying 'fire a warning shot across the bow.' This wasn't Hashem's war against Shay'tan any longer, but his war. Their war. The hybrid's war, the war they waged to preserve their right to continue existing as a species. Shay'tan had found something and Abaddon intended to take it.
Sword of the Gods: Agents of Ki (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 37
