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

by Anna Erishkigal

  “Like Mama?”

  “Yes. Like Mama. Mama rarely sees the things that we see, but she can sense the echo of what somebody else is feeling. When she was your age, I taught her how to focus her mind to see. The gift doesn't come naturally to her, but she can do it.”

  “But seeing is so easy!” Ninsianna exclaimed. “I have always been able to see. Even when I was a little girl! What I have a hard time understanding is the echo of aches and pains that Mama describes.”

  “You inherited the ability to see from me,” Papa said. “As I inherited the ability from my father, Lugalbanda. But I have a hard time feeling what others feel as Mama does.”

  “How come Uncle Merariy didn't inherit the ability to see?”

  “She-who-is doesn't always convey the gift equally,” Papa said. “Even amongst family members. Some get more. Some get less. Your ability is greater than mine, while my brother got no ability whatsoever.”

  There was a bitterness to Papa's voice as he spoke those words.

  “Is that why you don't like him?”

  Papa sighed.

  “Don't let the mistakes of my past color your relations with our family,” Papa said. “Merariy and I said terrible things to one another that we were never able to take back. He was the eldest son. He felt he should have been trained to be shaman by our father, even though he lacked natural ability. I broadcast that fact to the entire village because I didn't want my father to choose him over me." Papa's eyes were filled with remorse. "I tried to mend bridges with him later, but he has become bitter.”

  “He is the village drunk,” Ninsianna said with disgust. “And his daughter hangs around with that trollop, Shahla. I'm embarrassed people even know she is my cousin.”

  Papa gave her a scrutinizing look. “Green is not your color, child.”

  “She'd better keep her hands off of my … ahm … I don't care if she is my cousin!" Ninsianna's eyes flashed with jealousy. “She follows Mikhail around as though she were a lovesick puppy!”

  “Mikhail wouldn't notice if they covered themselves in honey and threw themselves naked at his feet," Papa laughed. “He only has eyes for you!”

  Ninsianna was quiet. It was not his eyes she wanted on her. It had been almost a week since the solstice festival and he hadn't laid a hand on her since! She swore that if he didn't take the initiative soon, she would corner and tie him in the milking shed instead of the goat so that she could have her way with him!

  “Tell me more about how you see into the dreamtime, Papa?”

  “The second way to see is to follow the threads.”

  “Those are the connections that bind all living creatures together through the dreamtime, right, Papa?”

  “Yes. It only works if you've formed a connection to the other person. But sometimes you can follow a thread from a person you know well to a person they are connected to who you don't know very well.”

  “Like … a friend of a friend?”

  “Exactly,” Papa said. “Depending upon the kind of relationship you have, the threads can be connected to different parts of your body.”

  “Where do I find these threads?”

  “Most connections are through your gut … right … here." He pointed to a spot two inches above her belly button. “Now … close your eyes and picture somebody you have a strong connection with until you get a sense of where they are connected to you."

  Ninsianna reached down to her tummy and found the connection. “Got it.”

  “Follow that thread until you bump into the person you're thinking of,” Papa said. “You should get a vague sense of what they are doing.”

  “I can see … Mikhail,” Ninsianna reached out as though following an invisible cord. “He is … busy. Working. In the field, I think. In Yalda and Zhila’s field. Papa! I can see the field!”

  “Following threads is the simplest way to remote view,” Papa said. “You can project images into their mind or receive them. Although, if the person is untrained, they'll have a hard time differentiating their own thoughts from somebody else’s.”

  “What if you need to see someplace and you're not connected to anyone there?” Ninsianna asked. “For example, what if I wanted to see the village where the Kemet traders come from?”

  “That, child,” Papa gave her a wolfish grin, “is what the kratom is for. The third kind of seeing is called remote viewing. It's dangerous because your consciousness leaves your body and travels separate from it, as though you can fly connected only by a thread. Sometimes you fly over the earth to see. Other times you travel through the dreamtime. That was the type of seeing you were doing when you drank the sacred beverage to gain your vision of Mikhail.”

  “I don't think it would be practical except in a dire situation,” Ninsianna said. "After I journeyed, I slept like the dead."

  “If you do it enough times, you can train your mind to travel outside of your body without the aid of hallucinogens. But it's dangerous. While your mind surfs the dreamtime, your body is vulnerable.”

  “Is that what happened when She-who-is gifted me with the second vision?” Ninsianna asked.

  “I think so,” Papa said. “That's the other danger. The dreamtime is large and interesting. Sometimes people get lost. Or become so interested in what is on the other side that they just let go of the thread that connects their mind to their body and cross over to the other side.”

  “Like grandpapa Lugalbanda did when grandmamma died?” Ninsianna's voice lilted with pride.

  Papa didn't meet her gaze.

  “Yes,” Papa said. “A shaman can will himself to pass when his time here is finished. It's why we are entrusted to perform the death rituals. We can guide the dead person's spirit part way because we travel it so often ourselves, but we can't bring them all of the way or we'll die, too.”

  Ninsianna shuddered. “I hate the death rituals!”

  “If you wish to be entrusted with the life-giving abilities of a shaman,” Papa's expression grew serious, “then you must embrace the death-aspects, as well. You can't have one without the other. You can't have life without death. Nor can you have death without rebirth. You must always strive to possess balance within yourself, or you'll create imbalance in the world around you.”

  Ninsianna reached for the kratom. “Papa, show me how.”

  “Remote viewing. First, you take…..” Immanu guided his daughter through the mother-of-all acid trips.

  Chapter 66

  Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.07 AE

  Neutral Zone: Diplomatic Carrier ‘Prince of Tyre’

  Lieutenant Apausha

  Lt. Apausha

  Lieutenant Apausha had smuggled many goods into Alliance territory, some of them even onto ships owned by business magnates, but this was the first time he'd ever rendezvoused with a flagship as magnificent as the Prince of Tyre. Even Ba'al Zebub's ornate flagship suffered in comparison to the sleek, white ship which looked like a slender ray of light with a pair of cat's whiskers on its nose-cone.

  "That's one hell of a ship," Apausha's radioman and navigator Hanuud admired her out the viewing window. "Too bad we aren't stationed on such a beauty."

  "What's wrong with the Peykaap?" his pilot Wajid patted the console of the smuggling vessel which had gotten them through more scrapes than they cared to reminisce about.

  "Nothing," Apausha pushed down the bad feeling which rumbled way down in the pit of his stomach. "It's none of our business. Now let's make this drop-off and get the Haven out of here, Shay'tan be praised."

  "Shay'tan be praised," his two crewmen repeated after him. They guided the Peykaap in to dock alongside the Alliance flagship. A disembodied sense of dread made his dorsal ridge stand on end. He'd just transported something from Sata'an-flagship to Alliance-flagship. Why in Haven was Lucifer even allowing them this close to his ship? It didn't make sense. These sorts of deals were supposed to be done by minions … not at the uppermost echelons of society. The entire thing stank.

  He allowed hi
s ship to be searched and his mean to be frisked for weapons before stepping on board the Prince of Tyre to speak to whoever they were supposed to hand off the cargo to. He was relieved to see it was not Lucifer himself, but some underling, though not by much.

  “Chief of Staff Zepar,” Lieutenant Apausha greeted, recognizing him from the streaming video newsfeeds. “As you requested. Thirty human females. All in good health. Great care was taken to protect their modesty and transport them as humanely as possible.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.” The dirty-winged Angelic rubbed his hands. “My crew will take care of them right away.”

  “Thank you, Sir." Apausha tasted the air with his forked tongue and decided he didn't like the way Zepar smelled. He wasn't happy about turning the females over to a pair with such questionable morals. Every man in the Sata’an Empire had heard about the Alliance Prime Minister’s appetites … and the Chief of Staff who pimped him out like some prize stud stallion.

  “Your ship is utilitarian." Zepar's voice was hypnotically reasonable. “Stay and rest a while. We have prepared a private room and a meal for you and your two crewmen.”

  “Your hospitality shall be appreciated, Sir,” Apausha said with a bow.

  Like … or dislike … he would take Zepar up on his offer. The Peykaap had been built for stealth, all engine and hidden compartments to hide contraband, not a lot of comfort for a living cargo. What little space had been available had been assigned to the females. His men could use a long, hot shower right about now, a luxury every shipboard Sata’an relished.

  After a feast and long naps relishing the luxurious, if somewhat bland accommodations typical of Angelic spacecraft, they made their way back to their own ship. They were escorted, of course, but the Angelic guards were unfailingly polite. They'd just delivered thirty of the most precious cargo the Angelics needed. Since lower-ranking Sata’an males were as much cannon fodder in the eternal struggle for domination of the galaxy as the hybrid races, they were as weary of war as the hybrids were. Perhaps this whole free-trade business might turn out to be good for everyone?

  Zepar come out of a room leading one of the females Apausha had delivered earlier. Two burly, cold-eyed Angelics guarded the door.

  “Sir,” Apausha greeted.

  Zepar glanced at them, hissed something in a language that was neither Galactic Standard nor one Apausha recognized to the two goons guarding the door, and shoved the female down the hall. It was the state of the woman, however, which would remain forever burned into Apausha's mind. The Sata’an bridal dress was ripped beyond recognition and she was nearly naked. The poor creature was bloodied and battered, with blood dripping down her legs from rough, probably forced sex. She'd been the feistiest one amongst their cargo, but now she had an empty, haunted look in her eyes, as though she were dead and her body just didn't know it yet.

  Flitting his forked tongue to taste for pheromones, Apausha caught the scent of semen. In the room beyond, he could hear a second female begin to scream as someone roared like a ravenous beast. A disembodied sense of horror ran down his spine to the tip of his tail. The roar was so deep, so primal, it felt as though the ship itself shuddered with its power.

  “Man … that’s just…” radioman Hanuud said.

  “Wrong…” his pilot Wajid finished.

  Their two Angelic escorts looked to the door as though they wished to intervene. The two cold-eyed goons standing on either side of it obviously outranked them. One Angelic stepped towards the door. The second grabbed his comrade by the arm and muttered something under his breath. The two goons none-too-subtly flexed their muscles, their eyes as ruthless as those of the worst Tokoloshe pirate. The implication was clear.

  "Shay'tan protect us," both of his crewman whispered together, gesticulating to their foreheads, their lips in their hearts in an invocation to their emperor and god.

  “Let’s get the Haven out of here…” Apausha shoved his men down the hall before Zepar realized they knew what was going on. He would speak to Ba'al Zebub about his reservations. The Sata’an were a lot of things, but this struck him as just … plain … evil.

  Chapter 67

  July - 3,390 BC

  Earth: Village of Assur

  Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

  Mikhail

  Mikhail looked at the eight volunteers, plus Immanu and Ninsianna, who had answered the Chief’s call for archers. Seven were female, eight if you included Ninsianna. The last was an elderly man in his late sixties.

  He'd asked them to meet at the edge of the rapidly dwindling river so they'd have some relief from the opressive afternoon heat, but now he wished he'd chosen a field closer to the village in the hopes of enticing a few more archers to join their ranks. Much to his chagrain, Jamin had undermined his efforts by insinuating any warrior willing to train alongside women lacked a manhood.

  Mikhail snorted in disgust. The Chief had made the request voluntary, not mandatory, and the warriors from surrounding villages were not due to arrive for a few more days. Still … they were his first command. He would train these women as best he could.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Mikhail said, “we don't have the resources for a standing army. You'll have to train in addition to things you already do at home.”

  A groan went through the group, but he knew the candidates had already been apprised of this fact.

  “However,” he said. “Many of us have the same duties every day. We all draw water from the river to water our crops. We all go into our fields and rake out the weeds so our crops don't get strangled out. These activities, if done mindfully, can help you build strength to draw the bow or defend yourself against an enemy.”

  “That never occurred to me,” one of the young women said.

  “It has for me,” the old man said. Mikhail recalled the man's name was Behnam. “You don't get to be my age and not figure out a few shortcuts.”

  Mikhail pulled out one of the crude bows he'd fashioned earlier and some hastily assembled arrows. The workmanship was nothing to brag about, but they would suffice until he'd a chance to fashion some more.

  “Halifian insurgents have been raiding villages up and down the river and kidnapping young women,” Mikhail said. “They can get away with it because they have these." He held it up so the trainees could see. "With one of these, a warrior can shoot at you from hundreds of paces away and never get close enough for you to strike back.”

  A nervous murmur went through the troop. There was a good reason, he suspected, why the volunteers skewed towards females. Women had a lot more to lose. This was the first time anyone had ever offered to formally train them. Although the Chief was pragmatic about not forbidding women to learn weaponry, he'd never actively encouraged it before now, either.

  “This is how this weapon is used." He slipped an arrow onto the string and drew his bow. Taking aim, he let it fly towards a target set up 100 paces down the field. It hit nearly dead-center.

  “Ooh!" A buzz of excitement went through the future archers.

  “It will take time to build the upper body strength to wield this weapon.” He pulled another arrow from his quiver and let that one fly as well. “But once you master it, it doesn't matter whether you're male or female. Women tend to be better shots because they practice more.”

  To accentuate his point, he strung two arrows simultaneously and let both fly. They landed within the inner circle, although not dead center the way he would have preferred. He surmised he’d had little practice with the weapon since the Cherubim masters had taught him to use it as a boy.

  “Can this weapon also be used for hunting?” Behnam asked.

  Mikhail paused. Although he had no recollection of ever using the Cherubim weapon thus, why hadn't he remembered the primitive weapon, and its possibilities to put food on the table earlier? Gods only knew he was a decent enough shot. All this time he'd been a drain on Immanu's resources when he'd possessed the means to provide all along.

  “Yes,” Mikhail said. �
��You can shoot game before it has a chance to sense your approach." He gave Immanu an apologetic look, hoping his future father-in-law didn't have the same shameful thought that he did. "Immanu … if you would, please?”

  In rapid succession, Immanu threw three weighted balls of straw into the air. Reaching into his quiver in rapid succession, Mikhail grabbed each arrow, strung the bow, and shot each bale down. The candidates murmured enthusiastically.

  “I could get me some serious roast duck with such a weapon,” Behnam said with a toothless grin.

  “Or goose,” Immanu added. The two gave each other a look two males might give before placing a wager.

  “Hunting sounds like excellent practice for the day you might need to defend yourself against an armed assailant,” Mikhail said. “Therefore, hunting is an after-class activity I encourage.”

  He made a mental note to follow his own advice. He glanced at Behnam who eyed his bow with an eager, covetous eye, his toothless lips smacking as he doubtless imagined what it would be like to use such a weapon to hunt the elusive waterfowl who rarely came close enough to shore to catch. He would ask him, not Immanu, to teach him the best places to hunt.

  “When will we get our own weapon?” one of the candidates asked, a curvy, dark-eyed beauty. She looked down at her feet, her cheeks pink with embarrassment.

  “I'll loan you a bow for training today,” Mikhail said, “just to give you a feel for it. These ones belong to me, but if you want to have one of your own, you'll need to make it yourself.”

  “We don't know how to make such weapons,” a slender girl said, barely at the threshold of being a woman.

  “Every archer should know how to fashion their own bow and arrows from materials found in nature,” Mikhail said. “That way, if you're ever stranded, you'll be able to make a weapon to hunt and survive. You will learn how to make your own in the coming days. Until then, you need to take turns." He gestured to five more bows leaned up against a bush. "Line up … and take a bow.”