'Approaching target village,' the voice in the ceiling said. 'T-minus eight minutes.'
"You heard the man!" Sergeant Dahaka bellowed. "Spill out in two staggered columns to flank the ship, and then form up into an extended echelon, three rows deep. We're going to try to reason with them, but if they come at us, we're going to hit 'em so hard they don't ever do it again."
The lizards tightened the special clothing that could prevent most primitive weapons from piercing their heart and pulled on the hats they called flak helmets. The lizards had scoffed at human spears until Jamin had shown them just how effective the weapon could be in the right hands. Dahaka shot him an evil green eye. With a frown, Jamin tied shut his own special vest even though he hated the thing because it was too big and reduced his mobility to fight.
'Three - two - one,' the voice in the ceiling counted down as the sky canoe began that gentle rocking motion Jamin now associated with landing. There was a gentle bump. 'We are on the ground.'
The back ramp whirred down. Jamin yanked on the buckle to free himself from the seat harness and pulled up the hood of his long, black trench coat.
"Move! Move! Move!" Sergeant Dahaka shouted.
The sea of Sata'anic soldiers poured out of the ship like angry green ants swarming out of a hive. Jamin unstrapped the safety strap on his pulse rifle and flipped off the safety. He'd figured out pretty quick that the last thing Kasib wanted him to do was fire the thing. All those times he had taunted Mikhail because the man had refused to fire his pulse rifle a second time, and now he understood why.
He puffed himself up to make himself appear as large as he could, and then strode down the ramp like a conquering general, a show that had worked well for all the other villages he'd helped the Sata'an subdue. Before them rose the walls of Nineveh, tall and imposing, a large, circular island which rose out of the alluvial plain at the confluence of the Hiddekel and Khosr Rivers. Jamin posed just out of arrow range and waited for the most powerful village in Ubaid territory to give him its answer. Submit … or die.
The men grew silent as they waited for someone to come and give them their answer. Long, forked tongues flitted out to lick the air. Jamin could almost taste the bloodlust which rippled through Shay'tan's men. While not a vicious people, the entire Sata'anic culture was built upon the engine of war.
The great, wooden gate swung open. Out strode a group of Ninevians, arranged into a defensive square with a single, tall figure in its center. The group of warriors moved out halfway and then stopped.
Jamin stepped forward and signaled the other soldiers to move the front three echelons forward with him, one row kneeling, one standing, and the third row slipping through their ranks, one row at a time as the entire defensive line moved closer to where Qishtea stood. This close to Nineveh's walls they were within bow range, but Qishtea didn't know their second ship had landed at the crest of the ridge and had its pulse cannon aimed at Nineveh's walls.
The Nineveh chief stepped forward, his hair cascading in dark ringlets down to his shoulders and his hirsute beard oiled and curled, decorated by beads as befit his rank. Despite his finery, Jamin could detect the glint of fear.
"Greetings," Jamin stepped closer. He opened his arms just far enough to convey his hands were empty. "I gave you one turn of the moon, and so it has come to pass that the moon has grown dark and then she has returned to give us light again. So what say thee? Shall you accept the blessings of Shay'tan?" Jamin made the Sata'anic prayer-gesture of touching his fingertips to his forehead, his heart and his lips. "Or shall my brothers be forced to bring your village to its knees?"
"You come to me with a lizard's forked tongue, claiming to be a man of honor," Qishtea's brown eyes glittered with anger, "and yet you bring weapons to tear down Nineveh's walls?"
"Would you submit otherwise?" Jamin gave him a false smile.
Qishtea's lips curled up into a sneer. "You know I would rather die."
Jamin's cheek twitched. This did not bode well. He glanced up at the wall, where he was certain an arrow was aimed for his heart. He prayed the archer was a capable one, and that her aim would be true and not veer off to hit him someplace he was unprotected.
"Perhaps," Jamin said evenly. "But what about your people? What about their lives?"
"I have heard about the fate of those who serve Shay'tan," Qishtea hissed. "Our women, enslaved? Two-thirds of our grain gone to feed a distant empire? All of our young people conscripted to serve in Shay'tan's armies for the first twenty years of their lives?"
Jamin met his old adversary's gaze.
"And what of the good things service to Shay'tan can bring?" Jamin asked. "Did not Kuaya bring to you tales of all the wonders she has seen?"
"Material things," Qishtea spat. "Trinkets to bribe a man to sell his soul to the devil." His eyes grew hard, the look of a bull moments before it charged. "You can go to hell!"
The arrow came, exactly as he expected it, and hit him full in the chest. Jamin yelped as it knocked him backwards onto his ass.
Qisthea leaped forward, the sword Jamin had given him the last time he was here drawn, and swung it down to decapitate him.
Jamin rolled.
Qishtea stared at him in surprise.
Jamin yanked the ornate bejeweled knife Lucifer had given him out of its holster and rolled back to his feet, the knife held in front of him like a street fighter.
With a bloodthirsty shout, the lizard people opened fire on the warriors. Jamin noted with satisfaction the way his men wasted not a single precious shot, but that each Sata'anic soldier had selected a different target and dropped them with knife-sharp precision, leaving only the leader for him to deal with, a statement of their belief in him; that despite his small size and primitive origins, that they believed him to be capable of the same code of honor.
"How?" Qishtea asked. "I saw you take an arrow in the heart."
"Didn't I tell you?" Jamin gave a sharp laugh like a bark. "Service to Shay'tan makes you invulnerable."
Qishtea launched himself at Jamin.
Jamin dodged the awkward motion of the sword. While he was not all that proficient with the weapon himself, Sergeant Dahaka had made him practice just enough that he wouldn't end up on the wrong end of one during the all-too-frequent Catoplebas and Marid brawls.
He slammed down the butt-end of his knife handle on the back of Qishtea's neck. Qishtea fell. Jamin grabbed the Ninevian by his long, black hair and rammed his knee into between the man's shoulder blades.
"Either you order your village to submit," Jamin pressed the knife against Qishtea's throat. "Or I shall cut off your head and mount it to a pike in front of your own walls!"
"Then I shall rise from the dead," Qishtea panted. "Just as Mikhail has done."
The words filtered into Jamin's bloodlust like sharp little rat claws.
"Wh-what?"
"Mikhail lives!" Qishtea hissed. "So long as I hold what he stands for within my heart, I shall live forever, and nothing this dragon-god you worship does can ever defeat me!"
Jamin dug the knife into Qishtea's throat. Something warm and wet poured down onto his hand. Blood. Qishtea's blood. But while he twitched in pain, Qishtea did not cry out but embraced his imminent death.
"My own father told me Mikhail was dead," Jamin hissed. "Just before I left him to die."
"Your father lives," Qishtea said. "As does Mikhail. For they held a funeral for him on the winter solstice, and then when the first rays of dawn came, Mikhail rose up from his deathbed, healed."
Qishtea closed his eyes and waited for the killing cut. A cold hand touched his arm. Jamin looked up. In front of them kneeled Shahla, clutching her decrepit rag doll, her eyes filled with tears.
"Shahla?" Jamin whispered.
"What about her?" Qishtea hissed. "I told the slattern the child could not be mine!"
Jamin glanced up at Shahla, who had taken on that same terrified defensive crouch she had made the day he had beat her, the day his fury had caused h
er to lose the infant that no one wanted. That image caused his blood lust to retreat. He thought of a day right around the time when Shahla would have conceived, when Gita had lured him into Qishtea's house during a trading delegation to walk in on Shahla having an intimate moment with the Nineveh heir apparent.
"You swore to me you had not lain down with him when I took you back!" Jamin shouted at Shahla's ghost.
Shahla writhed on the ground and screamed, silently, always silently, for never once did Shahla make a sound.
"Do you even know who the baby's father was?"
Shahla pointed at Qishtea…
Beneath him, Qishtea lurched and tried to make a break for it. Jamin pulled Qishtea's hair so that his neck bent back far enough that Jamin could see his eyes. He removed the blade from Qishtea's throat and poked it into his cheek just beneath his eye.
"Because of you," Jamin hissed at him with hatred, "I was banished and Shahla lost her baby. Your baby. Not mine!"
A single tear welled in the corner of Qishtea's eyes.
"Laum came to my father," Qishtea choked, "and claimed his daughter was with child. I did not believe him. Everybody knew that Shahla only lay down with me because she wanted to make you jealous."
Jamin glanced over at the wraith kneeled next to him, her hand touching his arm, her expression pleading. As much as he wanted revenge, Shahla did not wish for him to kill her former lover.
Jamin bent forward to whisper in Qishtea's face.
"I did not touch her until after the summer solstice," Jamin said. "The child was yours. And I killed it because I thought it was Mikhail's."
He slammed down Qishtea's face into the rock, and then rose to kick him again and again.
"Just kill me," Qishtea whispered through his battered and bloody face. "Just kill me and be done with it."
Jamin glanced up at the walls, the tall Nineveh walls which no tribe had ever been able to breach. Something inside of him turned cold and rancid. To a Sata'anic citizen, to be taken captive or defeated with dishonor was a far greater punishment than to be condemned to die.
"I came to make you submit to Sata'anic law," Jamin said coldly. "And so you shall."
He grabbed Qishtea by the hair and forced him to look at his village through his bloody and swollen eyes as he gave the order to take down Nineveh's walls
"Open fire," Jamin spoke into the tiny, magic speaker in his collar.
With a horrific roar that sounded like an earthquake blended with lightning and an entire herd of auroch stampeding, the sky canoe on the ridge fired its pulse cannon, just one shot, but that was all it took. The entire eastern wall of Nineveh collapsed into the water. With a bloodthirsty shout, the lizard people streamed past him in a parade of explosions he was too numb to hear, past the bodies of Nineveh's now-deceased elite warriors who'd been easily picked off by Sata'anic weapons, an ignominious end for men accustomed to fight to the death.
Screams filled the air, along with the stench of lightning and burned flesh as the ordinary foot-soldiers moved forward under the command of Sergeant Dahaka, shooting any man who came at them as they made a beeline straight for the temple granary. Through all this, he forced Qishtea to watch, held his head and shook it to make sure the man did not lose consciousness until the screaming had stopped and the only sound was shouts of victory and the terrified wailing of the survivors.
He stared at the now-vacant space where he had seen the ghost of Shahla. Had she gone because she was now at peace? Or was she just gone for now? It was hard to tell, whether he ever really saw her, or if his mind had conjured her up out of loneliness and guilt. Qishtea, he realized, had passed out quite some time ago.
He rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and tasted blood, Qishtea's blood, and then checked out the magic vest Dahaka had insisted he wear today, the one that had saved his life from an arrow.
Damn his chest hurt like hell!
Private Katlego came striding out of the city pushing a magic carpet they called a hovercart laden down with bushels of precious grain. The pig-man curled back his snout and gave him a pleased grin.
"Two-thirds of their grain," Katlego said. "A perfect tribute for Shay'tan."
Jamin stared at his opponent who he knew was still alive by the rise and fall of his back.
"Take it all," Jamin stared into the vanquished village with a cold stare. "Take every last grain and bit of food they have, including the stores they have inside their houses. You will find them hidden beneath the floors, and also in giant jars."
"What about him?" Katlego pointed at Qishtea.
Jamin knelt next to his unconscious enemy, the one he had not killed because a ghost had begged him not to.
"If he's going to submit," Jamin hissed. "The first thing he needs to do is look like one of us."
With a few delft strokes of the beautiful, jeweled knife bequeathed upon him by Lucifer, Jamin scraped off Qishtea's pride and joy, the dark ringlets and beard which caused every woman in Ubaid territory to throw themselves into his bed. He did so ungently, and when he was done, Qishtea's face and scalp was riddled with scars in all the places Jamin had shaved him down to the bare flesh.
He rose and held the black locks and beard in his fist, still filled with gold and lapis beads. He held it out to the place where Shahla no longer stood, but she did not reappear to take his gift. He stood there, numb, as the lizard people made trip after trip into the village to deplete it of the food they needed to survive the remainder of the winter. Let Qishtea oversee the leadership of that and see how long he was favored by his people when they were starving?
Kuaya came out accompanied by Nineveh's shaman, hands held over his head. Jamin recognized Zartosht, the most ancient shaman in Ubaid territory. He was an old man, stooped with age, his eyes rheumy and clouded with cataracts, but the man possessed a mind as sharp as a well-crafted obsidian blade, and within that mind were many secrets, including stories about how their people had come to reside so far from Shay'tan's empire. Jamin gestured for the soldiers not to kill him.
"What do you want, shaman?" Jamin asked.
"Do you not understand what you do, son of Kiyan?" the old shaman asked. "This grain belongs to She-who-is."
"She-who-is must pay her tribute same as everybody else," Jamin stated flatly.
"You must not do this," Zartosht's voice warbled. "Our people will starve."
"As Qishtea left me to starve rather than speak up after I was banished for his crime?" Jamin said.
"If you steal this grain," Zartosht said. "She-who-is will no longer look upon you with favor."
"I am already damned," Jamin said, "and I stopped being HER favorite the day her Chosen One spurned me for the winged demon."
"Mikhail is stronger than you are," the ancient shaman said. "And someday he shall defeat you and your spawn of Hades. Just you see! Someday Mikhail will crush you beneath his boot!"
Jamin shrugged. "Perhaps. But that does not change the fact that we are taking all of your grain." He turned to two Sata'anic soldiers who had just deposited baskets of grain into the shuttle. "Take this one back into the village and lock him up inside his house so he doesn't do something stupid, like try to fight us."
"Aye, Sir," the two soldiers said. They grabbed Zartosht by the arm and hauled the old man away, still shouting that She-who-is would get him.
Jamin turned to Kuaya, whose eyes were filled with a combination of fury and terror. He pointed down at the unconscious Qishtea.
"Take him into the village and make sure he lives," Jamin said. He untangled the tiny little speaker from his collar and handed it to her. "When he decides to submit, use this to get in touch with the lizard people and tell them you are ready to barter back your labor for some food."
"And what if Qishtea tries to kill me?" Kuaya asked.
"Then use it to call down another lightning strike," Jamin said coldly. "If you die, I will flatten Nineveh to the ground and leave no survivors."
He signaled for three passing soldie
rs to haul the unconscious Nineveh chief back into his own bed. He stood there, unfeeling and numb, as carpetful after carpetful of precious grain was hauled out of the village, followed by jars containing fermented vegetables, beer, priceless olives, dried acorns and dates, and countless other goods that would solve the Sata'anic base's food problems for the next several months.
"Leave nothing behind," Jamin told the first lizard who came out and asked if they should take everything. "Not food, not gold, not trade goods they can use to resupply. If they cannot eat, the humans cannot fight us."
The first shuttle took off, laden down with grain, and the second shuttle took its place. At last Sergeant Dahaka came strolling out of the village, driving in front of himself a magic carpet carrying the mother lode of all grain tributes. He gave Jamin a pleased grin. The lizards hadn't really wanted to play nice with the Ubaid after all the trouble his people had given them.
"What are you going to do with those," Sergeant Dahaka pointed to the double fistful of black hair still clenched in Jamin's fist.
Jamin straightened the hairs into a nice, neat bundle; that cold, numb feeling receding as his familiar guilt reasserted itself.
"Make an offering of it to an old friend," he said softly.
~ * ~ * ~
Chapter 76
Late-January: 3,389 BC
Earth: Uruk Territory
Gita
"Gita?"
A hand touched her forearm shaking her awake.
"Gita. It's time to go."
Gita didn't need to open her eyes to know whose voice whispered to her in the dark.
"Dadbeh?"
She rolled over, reluctant to leave the wonderful dream where she lay, asleep, in Mikhail's wings, and that as she did he kissed her hair and called her mo shaol maité. The song faded, along with the warm sensation it always brought to her chest, leaving her feeling so barren it felt a though her ribcage might collapse inwards to fill the emptiness caused by his absence.
"The others are ready," Dadbeh whispered. "If we don't move now, we'll lose the element of surprise."
Sword of the Gods: Agents of Ki (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 75
