Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (Sword of the Gods Saga)

by Anna Erishkigal

  “Sir,” Major Glicki gestured towards her console, “General Harakhti is on 146.955 kMHz. He would like to speak to you right away.”

  “Put it on the main screen,” Raphael ordered.

  The furry image of the Leonid four-star general came up on the main screen, his magnificent reddish-brown mane a sharp contrast to the short golden fur which covered his brow. The most animalistic of the four hybrid species, Leonids resembled their leonine ancestors, but had the enhanced intelligence and opposable thumbs of a human. They could walk bipedally to free up their hands to use technology or weapons, or run on all fours to garner increased speed. Male and female alike belonged to a fierce warrior culture that made the Sata'an lizards appear tame. When all else failed, the Emperor would say “send in the Leonids!”

  “General Harakhti … what can I do for you?” Raphael saluted the higher-ranking officer even though, technically, they were not within the same chain of command. Re Harakhti was the highest-ranking general in charge of the Leonid fleet, so even if Raphael hadn't admired the man, he would have given him the proper respect anyways.

  “We have been intercepting an unusually high number of Sata’an cargo ships moving back and forth between the Empire and your sector,” General Harakhti rumbled. “They claim to be traders, but so far as we know, there's nobody to trade with that far out. What in Hades is going on?”

  General Harakhti’s ship patrolled the volatile border between the Sata’an Empire and disputed Alliance Trust Territories where constant border skirmishes erupted. The front-line Leonids were often the first to notice an uptick in suspicious activity, although they left it to intelligence personnel such as Raphael to piece together the larger puzzle. General Harakhti had been around the block enough times to realize the suspicious activity and Raphael's placement at the edge of the same sector where all that suspicious activity was headed were probably related.

  “We've been observing the same thing, Sir,” Raphael said. “The Prime Minister has ordered hands off all peaceful traders.”

  “Cactarbh!!!” General Harakhti growled in the style of an old-school general who had earned his stripes the hard way … in battle. “I don't buy it. What do they think we are? Stupid?"

  Harakhti's whiskers twitched in disgust. Unlike the cool, reserved Angelics, the thoughtful Mer, or the earthy Centauri, Leonids were a hot tempered race who spoke their mind. Raphael found their forthrightness to be refreshing.

  “I've been assigned to this sector to report all unusual activity to General Jophiel,” Raphael said. "Colonel Mannuki'ili went missing shadowing one of those ships. Any additional information your forces observe would be appreciated.”

  “Parliament is full of fools!” General Harakhti said in the throaty snarl typical of his kind. “Don't inspect Sata’an ships flying into Alliance airspace my ass! Well … we are still allowed to stop ships that break weight, tonnage and safety laws, aren't we?”

  “That's correct, Sir." Raphael understood the veiled proposal General Harakhti made. “According to the Sata’an/Alliance Treaty signed in 152,299 AE, paragraph 47, subparagraph J, subsection iii-d, either side may board any ship traversing their territory to make a routine health, safety, or welfare inspections so long as no individual race is singled out.”

  “Well then,” General Harakhti flashed his fangs in a self-satisfied grin. “Perhaps it's time to write a few traffic tickets?”

  “Yes, Sir … traffic tickets,” Raphael nodded. “General Harakhti … it has been a pleasure … as always…”

  “Yes, always,” General Harakhti purred. “And congratulations on the new little one. I’ve got a few cubs of my own…

  Chapter 36

  Late-March – 3,390 BC

  Earth: Mesopotamian plain outside Assur

  Jamin

  For three days Jamin had wandered the desert, searching for the encampment of his enemy. He was thankful when at last he spied the colorful banners the People of the Desert used to differentiate one tent-group from another. When he'd been but a boy, not too long after his mother had died, he'd come upon a man sitting at the edge of his favorite hunting path, a man with a scar that led from his lips to his ear. They had talked for a while about insubstantial things, hunting squirrels and the best way to find water in the desert, and then the shaykh had tussled his hair and sent him on his way. Why Marwan hadn't killed him or taken him for a ransom, Jamin had never understood, but when he'd become desperate after the winged demon had snatched his fiancé, he'd gone to Marwan to hire men to steal her back.

  Dark eyes peered out from hides stretched across the wooden poles as Jamin strode into the encampment, forcing himself to appear chiefly. Two hostile-looking men stopped him from going any further, their stone blades clearly visible in their belts. A moment later, the scar-faced man stepped out from amongst the tents wearing a hastily-donned fitted robe that was unlike the loose shawl worn by Ubaid men. His face was as merciless as his beak-like nose, and the scar gave him a sinister appearance.

  "Let it never be said that Kiyan's son lacks a manhood," Marwan said. He gestured towards the men who had come out of the tents behind him. "You take your life into your hands to come back to treat with us again."

  "I need more men," Jamin said. "I have brought you something in trade."

  “He killed eighteen of our kin,” Marwan said. His scar puckered up like a second, silent mouth. "How do we know you did not set us up?"

  “Now you understand why I view him as such a threat," Jamin said. "Your kin's mistake was in thinking they could take him alive for a ransom. Next time, you should listen when I tell you I want him dead."

  The other men pushed closer, their dark eyes filled with murder, but Marwan held them back, for it was, indeed, as he said. Kidnap and ransom was how the People of the Desert garnered resources when times grew hard and the desert did not provide all they needed to survive. Somehow, he doubted Marwan would allow that, for when the desert shaykh had sought him out as a boy for whatever purpose, he'd assured him the People of the Desert had their own peculiar code of honor.

  Either they would kill him outright, or they would hear what he had to say. Jamin unslung the heavy pack he'd carried all the way from Assur. Although Halifians scorned the 'settled' tribes who tied their fate to the land, the dried emmet these people relied upon to supplement their diet of goat was in short supply this time of year.

  A quiet murmur arose from the tents where the women hid. Veiled eyes peered out from cracks between hides propped upon poles to act as walls. A slender hand reached out from underneath one of the tents to signal interest. The grain he offered was not without value.

  Marwan spied the hand signal and waved it off. The slender hand disappeared from view. Unlike Ninsianna, Halifian women did not dare contradict their husband.

  “You'll have to pay us a lot more." Marwan gestured with two fingers and his thumb to show he meant something easily tradable. “Otherwise my unsettled kin will not be interested in the risk. The Amorites offer gold for young female slaves. It's a lot easier to snatch women gathering forage in the field than to go up against a hardened warrior such as your demon.”

  The other Halifian men laughed, a rough, guttural sound. Several felt at their belts for their blades. Jamin understood enough of their language to comprehend these men bore him ill will for walking their kin into an ambush. If he didn't treat with the people of the desert carefully, it might be him that ended up dead instead of the winged demon.

  “Once I am chief,” Jamin said, “you will be richly rewarded.”

  “You're not chief yet,” Marwan said. “And we can't spend it if we are dead.”

  You're not chief yet! Those were the exact same words Ninsianna had taunted him with moments before the winged demon had appeared to snatch her from him.

  Two of the mercenaries took a step towards him, their hands moving towards their blades. He was here alone and the desert shaykh only ever had the most peripheral control over his men. Unveiled aggression w
ould get him killed.

  “The good will you earn should be compensation enough,” Jamin said. “I have my father's ear. I'll urge him to be better disposed to your people. It's not right, how he blocks your access to the river and refuses to trade with you our life-giving grain.”

  Marwan laughed, as though he knew something that Jamin didn't know, but his eyes were filled with some other emotion, neither humor nor hatred.

  “Your forefathers evicted our forefathers from the village you now claim to be your own," Marwan said, "and now you come to me for help because somebody took what is yours?"

  The other Halifians chuckled at the irony.

  "If you want me to ask our unsettled to kill this winged demon," Marwan said, "you must bring me something to sweeten the trade.”

  What Marwan asked might turn out to be a problem. Ever since his last unauthorized pilfer, the Chief had taken to keeping his personal treasury locked in the temple of She-who-is. If there was one thing Jamin understood about his father, it was that the old man was cheap!

  “I'll see what I can come up with," Jamin said. He pointed to the heavy sack he'd hauled all the way from Assur. Lessons his father had given, and been ignored, whispered into his brain in a soft, feminine voice. He'd come into this camp without warriors to back him up. If he wanted to leave with his life, he needed to offer them something in return. "You may keep this grain as a gesture of my goodwill."

  He backed out of the tent settlement, aware of the hostile eyes which watched him as he left. As he climbed the sparsely vegetated rise, the grass already nipped close to the craggy land by the enormous herd of goats, he looked back. Dark covered shapes scurried forth from the low tents, their heads and faces covered with robes so that he wouldn't be tempted by their beauty. If only Ninsianna had been thus covered when the winged demon had first arrived! Perhaps then, the demon wouldn't have taken it upon himself to steal his bride?

  A single ray of sunlight broke through the clouds and shone like gold upon a covered female who walked clutching an infant to her chest. She paused outside her tent, her dark eyes the only part of her he could see as she watched him standing there upon the horizon. She wore the black head scarf of a widow. She looked …. young.

  The wind picked up and caressed his cheek.

  'The winged one has made many widows amongst this tribe. Some of them are quite beautiful. Perhaps you could ally your tribes peacefully -that- way?'

  "Never!" he hissed.

  He stormed back to Assur, determined to put in place his plan.

  Chapter 37

  April – 3,390 BC

  Earth: Village of Assur

  Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

  Mikhail

  “Are you ready?”

  “No,” Mikhail admitted as he caught his first glimpse of the village which was about to become his home. “But it is not right for me to keep you from your people."

  Built upon a rise in an otherwise featureless land sat a village upon a hill. Squat yellowish houses made from clay-mud bricks clustered around the apex. The houses on the outermost edge were built with only tiny slits for windows facing out, so close they created a natural wall. On flat rooftops moved about people. Just outside the inner ring were smaller structures, some constructed of wood, others constructed of the same yellowish brick that blended in with the land. Most appeared to be pens for keeping livestock, but a few were houses, newer in construction than the ones clustered around the hill. The soldier in him whispered this village was a place he could easily defend.

  Beyond the village, the great river Ninsianna called Hiddekel had carved out fields from the higher desert, creating an enormous flat alluvial plain neatly divided into fields, the rocks from those fields laid out in low walls to demarcate which plot belonged to whom. The river was still in flood tide from the spring rains, but already villagers were busy planting the fields closest to the village, their higher terrain making them the first fields released by the receding flood tide.

  It was a Stone Age village, much of it by appearance built within the last generation. Everything looked orderly and well-run. This chief he was about to meet might have his faults, but lack of industriousness was not one of them. He could see why such a leader would want his hot-headed son married off to someone as pragmatic as Ninsianna. It had not been his fault she'd spurned the Chief's son, but the awkward timing of his arrival had caused his relationship with these people to get off on the wrong foot.

  He didn't look forward to this meeting. If the Chief rejected him, he would be banished back out into the wilderness. Alone. For Immanu had impressed upon him his daughter was needed here. His own people had not come looking for him. Mikhail fingered his dog-tags. Although he didn't mind solitude, there was a difference between preferring one's own company, and being abandoned. Never had he felt so alone.

  “You'll do fine." Ninsianna slid her small hand up to take his larger one, giving it a squeeze. “Papa summoned the shamans who remember the old songs. Much of the original meaning has been lost, but they hope you might help them make sense of them?”

  “How many songs are there?" Mikhail asked. The way Ninsianna’s father took every word he uttered as though it were a divine truth made him uncomfortable. He didn't look forward to facing an entire group of shamans who looked to him the same way. He was just Mikhail. A soldier. Nothing more.

  “There are hundreds of them,” Ninsianna said. “And thousands more where only a fragment is remembered. We don't use written symbols to help us remember the way that you do. It's all remembered in a song.”

  “I hope I can understand what they say,” Mikhail said. “My grasp of your language is still limited.”

  “You don't know every word,” Ninsianna said. “But what you do know, you speak almost without an accent. You'll do fine.”

  Her lips curved up in that warm, reassuring smile which had been the first thing he'd noticed about her. Beautiful, tawny-beige eyes picked up the hues of the mid-morning sun, making them appear gold. He'd seen such eyes before, but the memory refused to come to the surface. Her eyes inhabited his dreams, whispering for him to trust her, to do whatever she asked, because it was the will of the gods.

  Mikhail forced down the emotion which came with that thought, how very badly he wished to touch her. It was not logical to spend so much time fantasizing about her! But with a total lack of memory, he had no idea how to act. Not when a female so enticing had made him the center of her universe. Not sure what to do, he did nothing. But he wouldn't force fantasies of her from his mind, either. The night of the attack had taught him that he kept much darker urges than his feelings for Ninsianna bottled up inside of him.

  Checking for the reassuring feel of his sword and pulse rifle, he adjusted his dress uniform, straightened up to his full height, and settled his wings against his back in the tight formation he knew was the proper way to greet one's superior officers. Towering over his savior by more than a cubit, he allowed Ninsianna to tug him towards the mud-brick village.

  Chapter 38

  April – 3,390 BC

  Earth: Village of Assur

  Ninsianna

  There was an unwelcoming, guarded feel to the village as she led Mikhail through the tall wooden gate which was one of two entrances into their otherwise unassailable wall. The usual sentry eyed their passage with a cold stare. Just inside the first row of houses, Jamin’s warriors lounged sharpening their weapons, glowering at them, but they remained silent and did not move against him. Jamin himself was nowhere to be seen, probably being kept on a tight leash inside his father’s house.

  No children played in the street, but men and women went about their business, grinding barley, sorting acorns, or chipping obsidian to make spearheads. Some stared at the unbelievable creature which had walked into their midst, even though her father had warned them Mikhail would come today, while others pretended not to see him at all. Squaring her shoulders, Ninsianna led him up through the three ascending rings until at last they
approached the central plaza. By his lack of expression, Mikhail had picked up on the unwelcoming vibe.

  Just outside the temple of She-who-is, which was really just the temple granary with a small statue of the goddess tucked into a cubby in the wall, a colorful pavilion had been raised to give them shelter from the sun. Beneath that tent, and all around it, sat wizened old men. Her Papa rose up to greet them the moment they came within sight.

  “Ahhh, Mikhail, welcome!" Papa gestured for her to bring Mikhail underneath the shade of the long strips of cloth which fluttered in the breeze with a brisk 'snap.'

  “Where's the Chief?” Ninsianna asked.

  “He'll be making a grand entrance later on this afternoon,” Papa said. “Come, Mikhail. Sit. The shamans are anxious to meet you.”

  Normally during such a gathering everybody simply sat on ground, seating themselves from the lowest-ranking shaman to the highest, but sitting on the ground was a challenge for a man with wings. Papa led Mikhail to a stool located closest to the little statue of the goddess. Ninsianna shot her Papa a grateful look. After the icy reception by the villagers…

  Mikhail ruffled his feathers as he sat down on the too-short stool, carefully arranging his wings into the tight formation she thought of as ‘dress wings.' He made eye contact with each one of the shamans, no doubt sizing them up, but his face remained neutral, expressing neither satisfaction nor dissatisfaction. Shamans tended to be a stone-faced lot, but they nodded with approval. Whatever they'd been expecting, Mikhail was it.

  “We have prepared a feast in your honor,” Papa said. "Are you hungry? It would be no insult if first you wish to eat."

  Ninsianna scrutinized the scant baskets filled with flat bread. It was a modest feast, with just barely enough to go around. A sense of anger welled up into her belly. Chief Kiyan was notoriously stingy when it came to investing his own resources. It would strain her father’s budget to put out even the meager preparations he'd been able to make, but she was glad he made the effort. She hoped Mikhail didn't know enough about her people’s customs to realize the Chief's absence was a dance-step in the intricate social waltz of one tribe greeting the emissary of a second tribe they were not certain they wanted to do business with. She cursed Jamin in her mind. Damn him for stirring up trouble!