Gripping the shaft, Mikhail schooled calm to ease his jitters. A phrase came to mind in the clicking Cherubim language. Familiarity with the shaft in his hand increased. He must have had training with a weapon that was similar, but not identical to it. Spinning the shaft to strengthen the memory, images of sparring with the ant-like Cherubim came into his mind. His training had been in use of a tapered, double-ended staff with steel tips … a defensive weapon to fend off an armed assailant. Not a spear. But the Cherubim staff could also be thrown.
“Stand back,” he said to Yalda and Zhila.
Pulling the shaft into chamber against his body, he spun the weapon several times in moves designed to fend off hits from another, similar weapon. At a critical point, he wound up in a maneuver similar to the one Zhila had demonstrated earlier and threw his weight behind the shaft, even his wings moving in unison as he pictured himself becoming one with the weapon. The throw was good. It flew straight and true past the chief's staff, past the end of the field a good 80 paces away. The crowd stood in shocked silence before erupting into cheers.
“The newest member of our tribe has given us a tough act to follow,” the Chief announced. “Do we have any contenders for second place?”
Several more villagers threw their spears, including the little girl whom Ninsianna had threatened to tell he'd play dolls. Mikhail noted that, except for the very young or old, most members of the tribe were able to meet the 15 pace qualifying mark. Any enemy who attempted to unseat the Ubaid from their lands would have a tough time.
“Distance is good, but as every warrior knows, you've got to be able to actually hit your target,” the Chief announced. “Now we'll see who can hit a target at 30 paces." As he spoke, several warriors dragged man-sized targets made of lashed poles and straw into the center of the field. A series of concentric circles had been drawn on what would have been the heart area of an enemy to make a bull’s eye.
Once again, the Chief opened the event by hefting a spear 30 paces to hit the bullseye, followed by his son Jamin. One by one, other competitors followed suit. Many disqualified themselves by missing the bullseye, but almost everybody hit the actual target. Ninsianna threw a perfect throw, hitting the bullseye dead center.
“When are you going to ask that girl to marry you, dear?” Yalda asked.
“Huh?” Mikhail was surprised to hear the question that had been on his mind for several weeks now uttered outside of his own head.
“Every man needs a woman who can bring home a rabbit for the stew pot,” Zhila said.
“And Ninsianna can fish better than most,” Yalda cackled.
“It's your turn,” Immanu interrupted them.
Ninsianna came prancing back to give her parents another high-five.
“Top THAT!” Ninsianna threw her arms into the air in a V and did a little victory dance with her parents. They slapped her on the back.
Yalda and Zhila’s jesting had rattled his concentration. His Cherubim training helped him move beyond his emotions and focus on a single goal, hit the target. Spinning the spear to coax the reluctant memories out of his scrambled brain, stronger memories of time spent living amongst the Cherubim masters, learning how to hit, to throw, and to control his emotions flooded into his mind. More choreographed moves were loosened from his amnesia as he warmed up in preparation for his throw. The other contestants all finished throwing and turned to see what he would do.
Clicking a few sentences in the Cherubim language, he was ready. Spinning a defensive Cherubim kata, he reached the portion of the routine where the energy turned offensive and unleashed the spear. It hit the innermost ochre circle painted in the heart-area of an attacker and punched right through the man-shaped target, landing 15 paces beyond.
“He's disqualified!” Jamin shouted. “The spear is supposed to stick in the target!”
The other Ubaid grumbled. Would the Chief favor his spoiled son? Or announce what they knew to be right?
“Jamin," the Chief said. "It went through the target as though it wasn't even there. If that had been a man, he would be dead right now.”
“But…” Jamin objected.
“But nothing,” the Chief snapped. “The entire purpose of this competition is to encourage our people to be ready in case we are attacked. The throw was good!”
The Ubaid cheered. Yalda and Zhila clapped him on the back of the wings. Ninsianna gave him a knowing 'I told you so' smirk while Immanu and Needa congratulated him.
“You'd better start baking more hot bread, wife,” Immanu joked. “Before our neighbors lure our new son away from us. We need to think of a way to put that throwing arm of his to use.”
“I'm a healer, not a cook!" Needa cuffed her husband off the side of his head and elbowed him. “If you want soft bread, bake it yourself!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Mikhail noticed Jamin sulk over to his warrior friends to complain. That made no sense. A soldier's duty was to defend others, not gain glory for yourself. Mikhail couldn't remember his past, but he'd just regained memories of repeatedly getting his tail feathers whipped by the multi-limbed Cherubim masters. He could only remember admiration, not grudges because they were better than he was. From the way Jamin's hangers-on moved away to speak to other contestants, it appeared his fellow warriors agreed.
“Next,” announced the Chief, “our warriors will run the gauntlet to hit the target under battle conditions. We'll take a short break to allow our contestants to prepare."
Several warriors moved the targets further down the field, while others dragged in a series of obstacles to climb over, crawl under, or step through before reaching the throwing line. Spectators dumped buckets of water onto the ground so that the course became a muddy, slippery mess.
“You'd better take that off,” Yalda pointed to his shirt.
“Unless you want it to be ruined,” Zhila finished.
“Why?” Both male and female contestants were stripping down to their loincloths and changing into rags.
“As you run through the obstacle course,” Yalda explained. “The spectators throw mud and straw at you.”
“Our clay is filled with yellow ochre,” Zhila said.
“No amount of washing will get it out,” Yalda said.
“Oh. What should I wear?” Mikhail asked.
He watched Ninsianna slip off the nicer of her two linen shawls and put on the old, worn one she wore to plant the fields … the one that was so small it barely belted around her waist to cover her breasts. A leftover, she'd told him, from when she was younger. He knew she only wore it because nudity made him uncomfortable, but he hadn't possessed the guts to tell her that the way her breasts not-quite peeked through the too-small shoulder wrap was almost more titillating than when she stripped down to her loincloth to fish. He was gradually becoming desensitized to the sight of bare-chested humans, but when Ninsianna did it, it caused him to become distracted.
“The men usually go bare-chested,” Yalda said.
“Supposedly so as not to dirty their spare kilts,” Zhila said.
“But the real reason is they enjoy parading around for the women,” Yalda said.
“And we don't mind at all, do we Yalda?” Zhila elbowed her sister in the ribs.
“No, we don't mind,” Yalda laughed.
“Strip!” Zhila ordered him.
Mikhail was surprised not only by the widow-sister's prurient thoughts, but also the ease with which they finished each other’s sentences. It was one of the things which had attracted him to their company in the first place, the closeness the sisters shared. Suppressing a sigh, he stripped off his shirt and handed it to them for safekeeping, but refused to strip down to his underpants. His flesh prickled with the feeling of being watched. He wished fervently he wouldn't look even more peculiar being the only male in the village to run this gauntlet fully clothed.
Immanu and Needa came back carrying buckets of straw and wet, gloppy mud from the river. They handed a bucket to Yalda and Zhila.
&nb
sp; “You wouldn't throw mud at me, would you?” Mikhail asked.
“We shall be throwing it at you harder...” Yalda said.
“Than anyone else...” Zhila said.
“It's part of the fun!” they said together.
“Let’s get started,” the Chief announced. “Jamin will go first.”
“The old windbag doesn't like getting dirty,” Yalda muttered under her breath.
“Neither does the son,” Zhila said, “but he doesn't like losing, either.”
Jamin froze at the starting line then started to run. The spectators cheered and taunted, whipping balls of straw as he crawled over the wall. He dodged glops of mud as he danced gracefully through a series of squares set up to trip the unwary. The ground was muddy and slippery, but he kept his footing. Hitting the deck, he crawled through the mud on his hands and knees beneath the third barrier. He rose to his feet at the throwing line and hurled his spear at the target. It was a near-perfect throw, hitting the target only a half-inch beneath dead-center. Looking very much like a muddy chicken with straw sticking to the mud, Jamin threw his hands into the air in a victory V. The crowd cheered.
“That was a good run,” Mikhail acknowledged.
“Piece of cake!" Ninsianna turned and gave him a big smile.
“I think that last barrier will be a problem.”
“Why?”
“I'm too big," he said. "I'm not certain I can crawl under that last obstacle without getting stuck." He watched as more contestants ran the gauntlet, getting coated with mud from the course itself, or from the spectators gleefully pelting them with mud and straw. The most enthusiastic mud throwers appeared to be the families of the person running the gauntlet.
Ninsianna looked at him and frowned. “You're not too big. It's your wings that will give you trouble. Couldn't you just pin them to your sides like you do when you wear your dress uniform?”
“That’s uncomfortable,” he said. “It will impede my ability to crawl.”
“Poor pretty Angelic,” Ninsianna teased in a singsong voice. “Doesn't want to get his feathers all dirty crawling through the muck.”
“Whatever you do, don't touch the barrier,” Zhila said. “If you touch it, you'll be disqualified.”
“You're going to have to slide through on your belly,” Yalda said. “Like a snake.”
“Aren’t you glad you took off your shirt?” Zhila's features curved upwards into a toothless grin.
Mikhail glanced down at the hideous, sunken hole in his chest. He didn't think he'd ever been one to care much for his appearance one way or another, but he'd noticed more than one unabashed stare the moment he'd stripped off his shirt. Spectators pointed and whispered about the wound which should have killed him. At least it had healed enough that a crawl through the mud shouldn't cause any harm.
“Ninsianna, you're next,” Immanu called.
“Stop consorting with the enemy, daughter!" Needa poked Ninsianna in the belly. “Or we'll never get any olives.”
Ninsianna walked to the starting line and prepared to make her run.
“Here,” Yalda gave him a handful of mud. “You're supposed to distract her so she has a harder time concentrating on her throw.”
“But won’t that make her lose?”
“Better to lose here," Zhila said, "than in battle.”
Ninsianna leaped over the first wall, as graceful as a gazelle. Immanu pelted her with mud, followed by a well-aimed skein of straw thrown by Zhila. For an old lady who claimed she couldn't see, Zhila certainly could have fooled him! As she ran through the foot-boxes, Needa ran along the sidelines cheering her on and pelting her with skeins of straw. She dove under the third barrier, covering herself with mud from head to toe.
“Now, Mikhail. Now!” Yalda shouted. “Take her out!"
Just as she rose to her feet, he took aim and let fly a large glop of mud. Mud balls appeared to be a weapon he was unfamiliar with because his aim was off. The glop splattered on the side of her cheek.
“Later…” she mouthed, her golden eyes flashing with fire. She reached the throwing line, wound up her throw, and let fly her spear just as Yalda let loose a double-handful of straw. Ninsianna’s aim was true. She hit the target, but not well enough to beat Jamin’s throw.
“Too bad,” Immanu said to Needa. “No olives tonight.”
“Maybe Mikhail will share?" Needa turned and gave him a hopeful smile.
“Those olives…” said Yalda.
“Are ours…” said Zhila.
“Unless you have something nice to trade?” Yalda suggested. One steel-grey eyebrow rose in a calculating arc.
“Hey,” Needa said in her most charming voice. "We let you borrow our new son."
“We shall discuss the terms of surrender after the competition,” Yalda laughed.
Ninsianna was not too upset at her inability to beat Jamin’s aim. She pranced up to them covered from head to foot in mud and straw. “Sorry Mama and Papa … no olives this year.”
“That’s okay,” Immanu laughed. He stepped back and held his hands out in front of him. “Half the fun is watching you have fun.”
As she approached her mother, Needa put out both of her hands as well and said, “No you don't!!!" She bent in and whispered something in Ninsianna's ear.
Ninsianna laughed. She turned to Mikhail and gave him her most fetching smile. He gave her a puzzled look, trying to put the odd social interaction between she and her parents into context and trying very hard not to stare at the muddy nipple which had escaped her too-small shawl. With a grin, she came bounding over to where he stood like a tall, winged tree.
“Hug?" She leaped into his arms and pressed her muddy body against the length of his bare chest to give him a wet, muddy kiss.
Not sure what to do, Mikhail caught and held her, looking into her golden eyes as his breath caught in his throat.
"Ninsianna?"
Her parents and their elderly neighbors began to laugh. This appeared to be a well-known post-competition prank, but he didn't care that she'd just coated him with mud in front of the entire village. All that mattered was that he now held the beautiful, muddy female who had taken up residence in his dreams. He was mindful of the fact her parents watched, sizing up what his reaction would be. He suppressed the urge to kiss her back.
“Those two have it bad,” Yalda whispered to her sister.
“It's only a matter of time,” Zhila whispered back.
Mikhail put her down and rustled his feathers, not certain how he was supposed to react.
“You got me all muddy.”
“That was the idea." Ninsianna's cheeks turned bright pink. “You're up next.”
Mikhail crouched at the starting line, waiting for the Chief to give the command to start. What would be an advantage on the first obstacle, the wall, would be a detractor on the third, crawling underneath the stanchion. He needed to sink down into the mud to fit. His heartbeat slowed. He forced his mind to focus on a single goal. Beat … Jamin's … score. His hand tightened around the shaft of the spear.
“Go!”
His wings spread for balance, he sailed over the first barrier without flapping to gain the unfair advantage of flight. He tried not to cringe as Yalda pelted him with mud. He may have no memory of his past, but getting pelted with mud balls registered no familiarity, although dodging blasts from a pulse rifle came to mind. Running through the foot-barriers, he ducked two mud balls thrown by Immanu and Needa, but he caught some of Zhila's straw. The other villagers ganged up to pelt him with all manner of messy guck, but he could detect no malice in their faces, only laughter as they used the license granted by the games to take pot shots at the biggest male in their village.
Diving under the third barrier, he stretched his wings straight behind his back in an unnatural pose no winged creature would ever willingly assume and wriggled on his belly. He was still too big! Meshing the feathers of one wing into the other, he wriggled like a snake through the muddy guck until he got
to the other side. Ninsianna waited with a victorious grin as she blew a kiss, and then pelted him with a double handful of mud. Payback … for his earlier bad aim. He couldn't help but smile as she bent to follow through with a handful of straw.
Focus on the target! He leaped over the last barrier to reach the throwing line and spun the spear once before winding up his best throwing pose. Become one with the spear… He let it fly. It hit dead center before punching through the target into the field beyond. He would have to wait until the other contestants threw before seeing if he'd won, tied, or lost.
The spectators cheered, clapped, and cat-called as he sauntered back to the two elderly liege-ladies whom he championed for these games. Thick, yellow mud covered him from head to toe, including his wings. Ninsianna gave him a nervous smile and tried to slip away before he could repay her for her earlier mischief.
“Are you going to let her get away with that?” Yalda asked.
“Better be quick, boy!” Zhila poked his muddy belly. “Before she gets away from you.”
Ninsianna saw his intense focus and broke into a run. She hid behind her parents, squealing like a piglet being pursued by an angry dog.
“Don't look at us,” Immanu laughed.
“We’re not going to save you,” Needa said.
“An eye for an eye…” Immanu said in a mock-serious voice. He looked at Mikhail and nodded. He was being given permission.
Mikhail leaped into the air, flapping his wings to close the distance between them. It hurt. But the warm Mesopotamian wind caught his wings like a lover, caressing the leading edge and reminding him what it had been like to fly. This … he remembered. Thousands of tiny muscles stretched into her embrace, flaring each feather to hear the sweet song of flight. The first mistress any winged creature made love to was the wind. She tickled his sensitive feathers and whispered which way she wished to carry him, urging him towards climax.
He tilted his wings to catch her caresses, instinct taking over. Uplift. He twisted his legs to make up for the lack of a tail, stabilizing his flight as he embraced his fickle mistress and rode her into the sky. The spectators laughed, and then stopped in shock as they realized he'd just regained the ability to fly. To truly fly. Not just use his wings as a kite to glide over obstacles.
Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 28
