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

by Anna Erishkigal

  “Did you explain Mikhail’s injuries and his memory loss?” she whispered so Mikhail wouldn't hear.

  “Yes,” Papa said. “I warned them not to pester him with too many questions he can't answer.”

  Mikhail sat stiffly in the ceremonial attire he called ‘dress uniform,’ a set of garments even fancier than the seven identical outfits he owned. Gradually his wings relaxed as the shamans tested their ability to converse with him in his own language. Being grilled with questions didn't appear to bother him. In fact, he claimed he expected it. 'Faisnéisithe’ he called the meeting scheduled for today. Debriefing

  “What can you remember about the place you're from?” one shaman asked.

  “Only fragments,” Mikhail said. “Bits and pieces of information that don't seem very important, to tell the truth.”

  “What do you think of the Song of the Sword?” another asked.

  “I'm certain that I've heard a version of this song before,” Mikhail said. “But it feels like a song you sing for children. You have verses that are not in our version, but I can't remember the exact words.”

  The shamans seemed satisfied with his explanations. As frustrating as it was to not have him answer all of their questions, his forthrightness reassured them. Ninsianna stayed close, mindful to always remain within his sight. Although at no time did Mikhail completely relax, after a while he no longer seemed uncomfortable. He was a guarded creature, even more taciturn than the shamans and not prone to loquaciousness. Ninsianna wondered how long it would take for their nonstop questions to try his patience.

  Mama gestured for her to help her pass around dried dates, roasted acorns and water for their guests. The acorns were still warm from the oven, a special treat! Ninsianna walked from shaman to shaman, offering sustenance in a grass basket she'd woven with her own hand.

  “Ninsianna,” her father said. “You and Mama must leave. It's time for the shamans to sing the sacred songs.”

  “Yes, Papa,” she said, disappointed.

  “Ninsianna must stay,” Mikhail said.

  “But it's forbidden,” a shaman said. “Women may not venture into the province of the shaman!”

  “In my culture, there is no separation between men and women,” Mikhail said. “Ninsianna stays, or I leave.”

  Ninsianna felt almost giddy with excitement. Was this a real memory? Or did he make it up because he sensed her disappointment? Jamin hadn't stood up for her like this!

  “But…” another complained.

  Mikhail's jaw tightened into a stern, square line.

  “Ninsianna has earned my trust." His icy blue eyes communicated he wouldn't compromise on this issue. “The others haven't. Ninsianna stays.”

  He unfurled his wings from the tight formation he'd kept them in all day, ruffling his feathers and stretching them to half of his twenty cubit wingspan. With a small cry of fear, the shamans beside him jumped and scrambled away. With his wings pinned against his back it was almost possible to forget what Mikhail was. Unfurled, it was obvious why his species was called the swords of the gods.

  Mama placed her hand upon Ninsianna's arm. While her brown eyes were filled with resentment at being asked to leave, her expression was unusually contrite.

  “It's all right,” Mama said. “You stay. I need to go finish the supper I have prepared for our guests."

  The shamans muttered about her presence, but settled down as they discussed which songs should be sung first. A winged creature of legend had just fallen from the stars to sit in their midst. Old taboos about women had little importance if that was what their guest insisted upon.

  Pulling out an assortment of rattles and drums to keep the percussion which made the memorization of long songs possible, the air filled with the vibration of chanting. Some of the shamans sang actual words while others hummed the harmonies which underlay each song. Some of the songs had a single voice singing information handed down through history via brute, rote memorization. Others required two or more shamans to each sing a role answering a central narrator as though they were re-enacting an epic play.

  Starting with the Song of the Sword, each shaman sang a lesser song telling a little piece of Mikhail’s people's history. They sang about a time of great calamity; and an ark which had carried her people from a land called Nibiru across a great sea and landed on this shore. Winged guardians and other half-human creatures that had battled giants and driven them from these lands. They sang about a promise … that someday the winged ones and their kin would return.

  “Does any of this sound familiar to you,” one shaman asked.

  “Some of what you sing sounds familiar,” Mikhail said. “Like a lullaby where you remember the tune, but not the words." His expression grew thoughtful. "These half-human creatures you sing about? I know that they are as real as I am, but I can't remember what they look like. Other songs prompt no recognition at all."

  "Which songs?"

  "Your origin myth," Mikhail said. "The story of travelling across a great sea and battling giants? I am certain I have never heard of such a thing before.”

  “What parts seem familiar?”

  “The Eternal Emperor,” he said. “When you sing of him, I know that he exists, but not in the manner of which you sing. You think of him as an all-powerful god. We see him … differently. Like a chief. I think I may have even met him.”

  "You met god?" The shamans pondered this piece of information.

  “What about the songs of the other heavenly beings?” Papa asked. “The Cherubim, the wheels, and the chariots?”

  “Cherubim?" Mikhail raised one eyebrow in interest. “Sing the Song of the Cherubim.”

  An ancient shaman from Nineveh was the keeper of this particular song, which meant it must be an especially sacred one as only Zartosht was higher in rank amongst the Ubaid shamans than Papa. Zartosht was a contemporary of Lugalbanda, the powerful grandfather who had cast off his mortal shell and gone into the dreamtime shortly after she'd been born. The shaman's skin was paper-thin with age and his voice so warbley that Ninsianna had to strain her ears to hear the song about the highest order of heavenly beings. When he got to the part describing them as having multiple arms and eyes, she could see the song trigger a memory as Mikhail's wings settled into a softened, relaxed formation.

  “I know of these Cherubim monks,” Mikhail said. “I lived amongst them as a boy, but I can't remember why. They taught me…." His voice became lost in thought.

  The breeze picked up, cooling the air beneath the pavilion. Mikhail's feathers reared up in their follicles, as though he wished to capture that breeze and take to the air. Ninsianna placed her hand upon the leading edge of his wing, fearful he might succumb to the urge.

  “Master Yoritomo,” was all that Mikhail said, and then, while he was here, Ninsianna could see he was really not.

  Shamans were used to pulling images out of the dreamtime. They nudged one another and remained silent, willing to give him time to digest the memory that had been triggered. At last Mikhail began to speak in that strange, third language he had spoken the night of the attack, the language made up of clicks as well as spoken words, but this time the language was not threatening, but just a language like any other she'd ever learned.

  “The Cherubim taught me how to control my anger,” Mikhail finally said. “They said I must always control my anger because it opens the door to other things, but I can't remember why I was so angry. All I recall is that I was very young.”

  “What do these Cherubim monks look like?” one of the shamans asked.

  “They resemble the creatures you call ants,” Mikhail said. “Only taller than I am and much better at controlling their emotions. They are the most trusted defenders of the Eternal Emperor.”

  Ninsianna suppressed a smirk. If Mikhail was considered emotional, she couldn't imagine what these Cherubim were like. Mud brick walls?

  “Ants? That's ludicrous!” one of the shamans blurted out.

  “So is a man with
wings,” another said. “But you're looking at one.”

  “That's all I can remember,” Mikhail said after a long pause. “But it's one memory I didn't have before.”

  A commotion caught their attention as the Chief's door opened across the square and the Chief came out, making his grand entrance at last. Villagers trailed in his wake like flies drawn to a sweet, sticky substance such as honey.

  "Ninsianna?" Papa gestured for her to fetch the Chief a seat.

  Papa had expected this, for set aside was a second chair. Ninsianna grabbed the bench and moved it to the appropriate place directly beneath the statue of She-who-is. The shapely statue smiled down on her benevolently, as if she kept a secret. Yes. This was the same chief who had tried to force her to marry his son. Just for spite, Ninsianna moved the seat so that Mikhail and the Chief would sit on either side of the statue, seated face-to-face as equals, and not at the head the way custom dictated the Chief meet a subordinate.

  The Chief wore his finest five-fringed kilt, the one which had taken his deceased wife two years to adorn with fringes. Around his shoulders was carefully arranged a fine dyed shawl of the finest linen, and around his neck he wore a golden torque. His hair and beard shone like a river otters pelt, tightly curled into the oiled ringlets of a man of power and adorned with beads. His tall ceremonial hat was colorfully embroidered with brightly colored thread and beads. It was a show of wealth designed to meet with an opposing tribes.

  Papa hastened forward and moved the Chief's chair directly beneath the statue of She-who-is. Harumpf! Ninsianna suspected that where Mikhail came from, the Chief wouldn't garner much recognition at all! Chief Kiyan was not a bad man, but he was a fool insofar as his son was concerned, an indulgence which could cause the tribe retaliation if he didn't start dealing with the problem that was his heir!

  “Greetings!" The Chief held one arm straight out in front of him, palm down. Emissaries seeking favor from a foreign chief usually kneeled, placed their weapons-hand over their chest, and waited for the higher-ranking Chief to place his hand upon their head before stating their business.

  “Greetings." Mikhail stood up and held out with his weapons-hand. He tucked his wings against his back into the ‘dress wings’ position. Ninsianna had never seen this social exchange before, but it appeared to be the gesture of two potential allies sizing one another up.

  The Chief paused as though not sure whether to take the breach of protocol as an insult or cultural faux pas. He decided to roll with it and accepted the offered hand. Whatever gesture Mikhail had just made, everything about his body language conveyed respect.

  “Welcome to our village."

  The Chief tilted his hand towards Mikhail's stool. He waited for Mikhail to submit by sitting down. Mikhail remained standing. He appeared to be waiting for the chief to sit down first. There was no arrogance in his expression … or in the position of his wings. Everything about his demeanor conveyed politeness. Another cultural difference, perhaps?

  The Chief glanced to the sword strapped at Mikhail’s side and decided to sit down first. The moment he did, Mikhail sat down as well. The Chief made small talk about the annual flood which left fertile silt upon the fields, success at planting fig trees, lack of success planting olive trees, and various trade agreements amongst tribes the shamans represented before getting down to business.

  “Immanu tells me you have no memory of your past,” the Chief said.

  “Very little,” Mikhail said. “Nothing particularly helpful.”

  “And yet you were able to kill eighteen armed assailants, all by yourself." The Chief got directly to the question on everybody’s mind, scrutinizing Mikhail to gauge his response.

  “I know what I know,” Mikhail's face was an impassive mask. “But I don't know that I know it until I need it.”

  Ninsianna noted the slight twitch of feathers which belied his stoic expression. Irked. The fact he'd been attacked while vulnerable had started his relationship with their village off on a sour note.

  “I'm sorry that my son felt it necessary to molest you in your home,” the Chief apologized, his expression one of regret. “It won't happen again. You have my word.”

  “Apology accepted,” Mikhail said with no emotion whatsoever. By the way his feathers stopped rustling and relaxed, she gathered Mikhail had gauged the Chief’s sincerity and decided it was genuine. Whether or not Jamin would honor his father’s wishes, however, remained to be seen. Somehow, Ninsianna thought they hadn't seen the end of things.

  “Immanu asks that you be accepted into his household as his son." The Chief gestured beyond the ring of shamans to the curious villagers who peeped out of their houses at the unbelievable creature who had walked into their midst. “You must understand that membership in this village comes with responsibility?”

  Ninsianna noted the way Mikhail's wings perked up with curiosity. Papa had mentioned this to her, but she had said nothing to Mikhail, fearful he might refuse.

  “Such as?" Mikhail sized up the Chief as though he were a pot of beans waiting to be counted.

  “It's planting season,” the Chief said. “As soon as the Hiddekel River recedes, everyone, from the youngest child to the oldest granny, takes to the fields to scatter seed upon the silt.”

  “I agree,” Mikhail said.

  “We don't have the resources to support a warrior class,” the Chief continued. “Every villager has a trade. You must figure out what you are good at and provide a service that's valuable to the tribe.”

  Mikhail's feathers ruffled beneath her hand. She slid her fingers into his silky underfeathers, placing her hand against his skin. 'Just relax,' she whispered within her own mind. 'Everybody here wants to be your friend.'

  “I don't remember what I'm good at,” Mikhail said. “But I'll do whatever is necessary."

  “Agreed,” grunted the Chief. He gestured towards his own personal guard. “Lastly, as you saw yourself, our neighbors look for any excuse to steal the hard-earned fruits of our labor. Every man and woman, as soon as they learn to walk, must learn to defend themselves. We only fight when provoked, but it happens with great regularity.”

  “I think you already know that is where my talents lay,” Mikhail said. “So long as I reside within your village, I will help you defend it.”

  “Then all is well!" The Chief stood to allow Mikhail to kiss his hand as was their custom when swearing fealty to the village chief. Thinking better of it, he awkwardly shook hands which he was sharp enough to perceive must be the winged one's custom. The Chief might have failings when it came to his son, but he was no fool.

  He turned to Papa. “Immanu, you have a son!”

  The other shamans cheered. The Chief left with as much pomp as he'd arrived, while the older warriors lingered behind to shoo away the curious onlookers.

  Many hours of feasting, drinking, and singing the old songs later, the gathering began to break up. Ninsianna helped her mother settle the visitors into temporary accommodations. Relatives were putting up some of the shamans, a few pitched tents in a nearby field, and the rest would spend the night jammed into her father’s house. It was time to settle her new 'brother' into his accommodations.

  She led Mikhail into their modest mud-brick home. She'd always been proud of her parent's house, larger than many in the village, but to eyes now grown accustomed to the clean lines of the great sky canoe, the rammed dirt floor appeared shabby, the multi-purpose room too small, and ceiling far too low. What did the houses his people lived in look like, she wondered? When his people finally came for him, would he feel ashamed for having been forced to live here?

  Mikhail silently took in his surroundings with that unreadable expression he always wore. She led him through the multi-purpose room and up the stairs that was little more than a ladder to the second story. The ladder continued upwards through a hole onto the roof where on extremely hot nights they would occasionally sleep outdoors, but tonight a woven reed mat covered the exit because in April the climat
e was still rather cold. The ceiling in the second floor was so low he had to scrunch up his wings and tilt his head between the joists so as not to bang his head. It was not a house designed for a five-cubit-tall winged man!

  She showed him into what used to be her parent's bedroom. “Papa has set aside this room for you."

  Mikhail sized up the room, and then turned to face her, his face, for once, not hidden behind a mask.

  “Ninsianna … this is the largest sleeping quarters in the house,” he said. “I do not wish to usurp your parents.”

  “It is our way…”

  “But it's not ours!" The determined set of his jaw indicated this was a subject he wouldn't be swayed on. “Please, is there another room?”

  Ninsianna blushed pink.

  “There is mine," she whispered hopefully. Mikhail raised a single, dark eyebrow. “But it would be considered improper to share it amongst my people," she added. "It's not like the sleeping quarters in your ship. My room is tiny and there is only one bed. People would think….."

  She knew what they were already thinking. Although they were wrong. At least about her taking any action on her impure thoughts. Oh, goddess be! Nothing had gone on because Mikhail expressed a total lack of interest in her!

  Mikhail stepped closer. Her breath caught in her throat as the first unguarded expression she'd seen since the day she'd found him in his crashed ship, impaled through the chest, softened his features and made him appear much younger. She reached up and placed her palm upon his cheek, conveying via touch the wish she didn't dare put into words.