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

by Anna Erishkigal

  Chapter 43

  Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.04 BC

  Orbit – Haven-3:

  Diplomatic Carrier ‘Prince of Tyre’

  Prime Minister Lucifer

  Lucifer

  “What's wrong, Sire?” Zepar asked.

  “Godsdamned migraines,” Lucifer mumbled. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb to dull the pain as he stumbled out of bed. Everything had an eerie halo and he was seeing double. “When are we supposed to meet with that representative from the Tokoloshe Kingdom? I want to get this meeting with the cannibals over with as soon as possible.”

  Zepar shifted from one foot to another. His wings twitched in concern.

  “What?”

  “That meeting happened two weeks ago, Sire,” Zepar said. “We just reached orbit around Haven-3. You're scheduled to address Parliament this afternoon about the budget.”

  Lucifer groaned. It had been a long time since he’d had a blackout this bad. The last thing he remembered was arguing with Zepar after leaving 51-Pegasi-4.

  “What did I miss?"

  “You agreed to cede certain disputed territories to King Barabas in exchange for a reduction of hostilities, Sire,” Zepar said.

  The last time he'd cut a deal with the Tokoloshe Kingdom, they had reneged, attacking a Delphinium colony and devouring thousands of innocent civilians. He'd lost 632 brave Centauri kicking the cannibals back off of that world, a number which could never be replaced. What in Hades had he just done?

  “Why would I turn civilians over to the cannibals?"

  “King Barabas promised not to eat them,” Zepar said. “The colonies are lightly populated. They can relocate to colonies he ceded to us in return. He is only interested in the mineral rights.”

  An old familiar feeling of dread seeped through his body. Whenever he had a blackout, he usually found out that he'd been up to things he wouldn't necessarily condone. Twenty-five years. Twenty-five years he'd been free of the accursed memory lapses! Why now, of all times, had they suddenly returned?

  “What else was I up to?"

  “That was it, Sire,” Zepar said. “You ceded those planets because the Centauri are too thinly spread to police them. You mentioned something about giving them a few worlds they have a hope of defending instead of an impossible mission.”

  “That sounds like me.” Lucifer's headache began to fade. “Tell Doctor Halpas to get in here and check out what in Hades is wrong with me. I thought we cured these when we did the surgery?”

  Zepar tucked his dirty white wings against his back, the rustle of feathers signaling his discomfort. For an Angelic, Zepar was rather ordinary looking, his bland, off-white coloring enhancing the common misperception he was nothing more than an obsequious lackey. In reality, it was often Zepar who pulled the political strings and kept Lucifer's far-too-busy life on schedule. It had allowed him some leeway when he'd suffered blackouts during the 200 years his father had been absent, but now that his father was back, perhaps he could take some well-earned rest and get his noodle straightened out?

  “What?”

  “Sire,” Zepar said. “If word gets out you're having blackouts, you'll be forced to resign. Doctor Halpas is obligated to report your condition to the Emperor.”

  'Resignation will be the death knell for–all- of the hybrids. You must keep your illness to yourself…'

  How could he admit he even had blackouts without jeopardizing his position as Prime Minister? When his father had disappeared, he'd had no choice but to cover them up, but now he was certain the ungrateful old fool was more likely to throw him to the wolves rather than to help him. Hashem had already burned him once. Twice, if you included the trade deal he'd vetoed and forced Lucifer to override. The last thing he wanted with extinction staring his species in the face was to be forced to resign and have one of Emperor’s non-hybrid lackeys put in his place.

  “What do you recommend?” Lucifer asked.

  “The same thing we did before,” Zepar said. “I'll run some preliminary tests to determine what is wrong with you, and then call in a specialist who is not beholden to the Emperor.”

  “Do you think it’s another aneurysm?” Fear clenched at Lucifer's gut. The last time he’d had blackouts lasting this long, he'd needed emergency brain surgery. Zepar had manufactured a ‘leaked’ story about vacationing with a non-humanoid mistress to cover his ass while he'd healed. Lucifer still had migraines, but he usually just slept it off.

  “I won’t know until we run some tests,” Zepar said. “I'll do it as soon as you get back from your speech."

  Lucifer twirled a long white primary feather, deep in thought. For a political aide, Zepar had a surprising level of genetics knowledge. Lucifer had offered to put in a good word with his father so Zepar could pursue research he was obviously interested in, but Zepar had pooh-poohed the idea, insisting he only dabbled in science as a hobby. Still … Zepar's unexpected ties to some rather unorthodox medical practitioners had saved Lucifer's tailfeathers on more than one occasion, especially when it came to his brain-splitting migraines and the occasional blackout they caused. He had no choice but to trust Zepar's judgment.

  “What about the crew?”

  “They've been hand-picked for their discretion,” Zepar said. “It’s not like you did anything you were not supposed to be doing. The meeting with the Tokoloshe Kingdom was a pre-scheduled diplomatic mission, we discussed exactly what was on the agenda, and the treaty you negotiated was reasonable. Nobody will know you can’t remember it unless you choose to tell them." Zepar put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

  Okay. It's going to be okay. Zepar always made everything okay.

  “Let’s keep this thing quiet, then,” Lucifer said. “Hopefully it won’t happen again.”

  “Of course, Sire,” Zepar said. “You can always count on me.”

  Chapter 44

  End-April – 3,390 BC

  Earth: Village of Assur

  Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

  Mikhail

  Mikhail lugged home the two buckets of water he carried home twice each day as one of the few chores he seemed competent to handle. He carried them into the house, where Needa sat busily cutting part strips of an ancient piece of linen into healer's bandages, rolling the narrow strips of cloth up into neat rolls.

  "Ma'am," he greeted her.

  “Let me look at that wing,” Needa ordered.

  Mikhail stretched out his injured wing, knocking bundles of medicinal herbs that were hanging off of the rafters onto the packed earth floor. With the space the family had carved out of one corner of the main living area for his cot, they now had even less space than they had before. The house was so small he couldn't fully extend one wing, much less both of them, and had to keep them tightly pinned against his back.

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “I'll pick those up.”

  “Yes. You will!" Needa cuffed the back of his wings. "Now … you … outside! You're too big to fit inside my house!" The tiny crow's feet that crinkled the edge of her brown eyes signaled she was not truly angry.

  Mikhail dutifully stepped outside, surveying the tiny courtyard separated from the neighbor's lot by a mud-brick wall. Like most houses in the village, an overhang shielded the door from the sun. A conical oven sat in the middle of the courtyard, used for cooking outside whenever the family didn't wish to heat up the house. An enormous wooden bowl of ground emmet, water, salt, honey, and fermented goats milk sat on the wooden table underneath the overhang, covered with a cloth to keep out the flies. Later this evening he would help Ninsianna fire up the oven, trying not to singe too many feathers so Needa could bake flat bread.

  At one end of the yard, the family's dairy goat bleated a greeting, standing on her hind legs to see if Needa brought any scraps. Leading the goat outside the village to pasture each morning and bringing her home each afternoon was one of the tasks he'd taken upon himself to pull his weight, although the goat was less than pleased wit
h his self-appointed industriousness. A neighbor peeked over the laundry she hung in the next yard over as he spread his injured wing. He studied her with an unreadable expression, wondering whether her curiosity was hostile or benign. No matter where he went, his every move was scrutinized.

  Needa felt along the bone, her trained fingers registering every nuance of the flesh which lay beneath. His wing twitched involuntarily when she got to the spot where it felt like somebody was ripping the limb off of his body every time he extended it. The longer the injury lingered, the less likely it was he would ever regain the ability to fly. Without a cutting-edge surgical team to go in and repair the damage, Needa was his last hope

  “It didn't bother you when you made wind to spread the barley seed,” Needa said.

  “No, Ma’am," he said. "As long as I reach straight outwards and not up, it's fine."

  “Does this still hurt?" Needa felt along the place where his tendon had partially torn away from the bone.

  “Somewhat,” he said, “though not as bad as before. I can move my wings horizontally to do a hop-glide, but I can't stretch them up to pull myself off of the ground."

  The initial act of becoming airborne, not the flying itself, was the real marvel of flight. Gravity only reluctantly released its hold.

  “Have you been doing the exercises I recommended?" Needa massaged the area around the torn tendon.

  Mikhail suppressed a grimace of pain. Unlike Ninsianna’s pleasant ministrations, there was nothing gentle about Needa’s perfunctory manner of dispensing healing. She was efficient … blunt … and every bit as talented as the Emperor’s best trauma surgeons.

  “I've been performing your exercises three times a day,” he said. “It doesn't seem to help." That panicky feeling he'd been suppressing since the day he'd learned he might never fly again clenched in his stomach like a small animal trying to dig its way out of the earth. Never had he felt so helpless in the face of an obstacle he didn't know how to overcome.

  “Show me how far you can move it on your own … straight up … before it hurts too much to move further. Slowly!!! No jerking the muscle. And no playing tough boy! I can't help if you don't tell me the truth.”

  “This is where it starts to hurt,” he moved his wing so the knee joint was above his head and the trailing edge ran horizontal to the earth.

  “Tell me when it gets too painful to bear." Needa grabbed his injured wing just before the joint and held it stable while she maneuvered the end-tip up another foot before dizziness began to make his head swirl. She held the wing in the uncomfortable position while he exhaled to control the pain. It hurt, but if the pain could help him fly again, he would endure.

  “What is the prognosis?" He sighed with relief when she finally released his wing and ruffled his feathers to work out the small stabs of pain as blood circulation increased into the injured limb.

  “Try it again,” she ordered.

  He lifted the wing as far as he could go, grimacing as he hit the end of his comfort range. He pushed the uncooperative limb just a little bit higher.

  “That's four inches higher than a minute ago,” she said, “and a good foot higher than last week.”

  “What does that mean?" He hoped it meant things were improving. He didn't think he would be of much use to the emperor he could only vaguely remember … or complete whatever mission he'd been sent here to accomplish … if he couldn't fly. He stretched his wing until the spasm which had developed in the axillary muscles finally began to subside.

  “It means you need more time to heal,” she said. “Months. But you may be able to fly again once it does.”

  “Yes, Ma’am." A smirk twitched up one corner of his mouth despite his best attempt to maintain a neutral demeanor. He didn't relish the thought of having a gimpy wing for a few more months, but it was the most hopeful news he'd received in weeks.

  “Ask Ninsianna to help you stretch like I just did several times a day,” Needa said. “And to keep massaging it for you. Massage removes the evil spirits from the flesh.”

  By 'evil spirits' he assumed she meant the tiny daggers stabbing through the flesh which protested having just been forced to move after months of inaction.

  “Yes, Ma’am." He masked his thrill at having an excuse to ask Ninsianna to massage his wing. The only evil spirit he wished removed was the distance which had cropped up between them since they'd left his ship. Since coming to Assur, her gentle ministrations had all but ceased.

  “Now, go make yourself useful, young man!" Needa shooed him away with her hand. “You're eating me out of house and home!”

  “Yes, Sir!" He gave her a good-natured salute.

  Chapter 45

  You're the one who bakes the bappir

  In the big oven,

  Puts in order the piles of hulled grains,

  Ninkasi, you're the one who bakes

  the bappir in the big oven,

  Puts in order the piles of hulled grains…

  …When you pour out the filtered beer

  Of the collector vat,

  It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.

  Ninkasi, you're the one who pours out the

  Filtered beer of the collector vat,

  It is [like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.

  Hymn to Ninkasi -

  Sumerian Goddess of Bread and Beer

  End-April – 3,390 BC

  Earth: Village of Assur

  Ninsianna

  Ninsianna stretched to ease the crick which had developed in her back and wiped the sweat from her brow. Every spring, they entered planting season full of energy left over from the idle winter, but within days they were reminded that the sun was a harsh taskmaster. If not for the fact Mikhail appeared uncomfortable every time she took off her shawl, she would have already stripped down to the waist like their neighbors had already done.

  The too-small cast-off shawl of her childhood was artfully tied to cover all the parts that made the stoic Angelic stiffen and stare bolt-straight into her eyes. The garment was sweaty, filthy, and plastered to her skin, making her silent curses to the sun all that more colorful. She could almost hear She-who-is laughing at her discomfort. Thank the goddess they were nearly done planting the day's allotment!

  “Ninsianna,” Mikhail pointed to the plot next to theirs. “Why do those two old women plant their field alone? Don't they have family to help them?”

  The plot in question had been freed from the receding flood waters a full week before her family's plot came above the floodtide, but the widow-sisters still had much left to plant in contrast to their nearly planted field. Yalda and Zhila were both women in their seventies, an advanced age even for the Ubaid. They bent over their baskets of seed, arthritic hands and backs bent from a lifetime of hard labor, methodically casting seed upon the silt. As they worked, they chattered to one another, one sister finishing the thoughts of the other.

  “That's Yalda and Zhila,” Ninsianna said. “Halifians killed their sons in a raid and their daughters are married to men from far-off villages.”

  “Why do they not go to live with them, then?" Mikhail tossed another handful of grain out onto the fertile soil. "Elderly women shouldn't be forced to perform such hard physical labor."

  “They don't wish to be a burden upon their children,” Ninsianna said. “They are sisters and don't wish to be separated. So they fend for themselves.”

  “Doesn't anybody help them?”

  “If we finish planting our own fields before sundown,” she said, “we usually go over and help them finish spreading the rest of their baskets. They are very old and it takes them a long time. It's only an extra hour we have to offer per day, but it helps. They are very kind, funny old women.”

  She didn't add that the reason so many villagers helped them was because Yalda made bread so soft it melted in your mouth, while Zhila was a talented brewer of just about any concoction which could be fermented. The widow sisters were savvy about who they rewarded with the r
eal fruits of their labor, the bread and beer they manufactured from grain harvested from their field. No matter how much other villagers tried to steal their secret recipes, no one had ever been able to replicate the one-two punch of the brewer-and-baker widow-sisters who avidly worshipped Ninkasi, the goddess of barley and beer.

  “What about them?” Mikhail nodded towards where Jamin and several warriors lounged on the edge of the field, their baskets empty.

  “It gets more difficult for the Chief to get them to do their fair share every year,” Ninsianna snorted. “They say they are powerful warriors and such work is beneath them. If we don't plant, we don't eat!”

  “We should move faster, then,” he said. “So we can offer to help. You have an extra hand to plant your allotment now. We can do more.”

  “Yes,” Ninsianna nodded with approval. “We shall go faster.”

  Tossing handfuls of the wild barley seed into the air, Mikhail whipped his enormous black-and-brown striped wings with a frenzy to distribute the tiny grains across the silt. The breeze whipped up by his wings caused her to close her eyes and relish the feeling of being cooled by a living fan. Laughter welled up in her chest, the joy of watching him show off for her making her heart swell with happiness.

  “Mikhail, stop!” she laughed. “If you spread your seed any further, you'll plant grain all the way up to the Taurus Mountains!”

  “Are we done yet,” he asked with a smile.

  Her heart skipped a beat. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. If she'd thought he was beautiful before, that was nothing compared to the joy she felt as she saw him smile for the very first time. Ever since the goddess had touched her with the gift of sight, Ninsianna could see straight into people’s souls. Right now, she was being blinded by the golden-white spirit-light which surrounded him, radiating out of his heart as though it were rays of the sun. Realizing her jaw had fallen open, she shut her mouth and attempted to compose her features into something other than naked desire.