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

by Anna Erishkigal

  "Oh, no!" Ninsianna shouted and held up her hand.

  Chief Kiyan gave her a puzzled look, still panting from his recent exertions.

  “I wouldn't do that if I were you,” she warned.

  “I was just going to ...”

  Ninsianna pointed to the bodies piled at Mikhail's feet.

  “Give him a moment. Once he has calmed down, he will appreciate the sentiment, but not now. Let him be until the blood lust passes from his veins.”

  Thankfully Mikhail took to the air without a word, circling the village and keeping watch, no doubt, as his shadow passed repeatedly back and forth across the moon. The villagers came flooding out their houses to help the wounded and grieve for the Assurians who had died. Her father came up behind her and put his hand upon her shoulder.

  “You described it,” Papa shook his head. “But I didn't believe it until I saw it for myself. It's as though the gods themselves act through him. Now I understand why the old songs describe his kind as the swords of the gods.”

  With the sight granted to her by the goddess, her purpose for sending Mikhail here to reside amongst her people was becoming clearer. The words of the Song of the Sword came into her mind, the meaning of one particular verse so palpable it felt as though the goddess herself was singing the words.

  'A sword of the gods to defend the people, and raise armies from the dust…'

  “He had help, Papa.” Ninsianna gestured to the warriors and archers who had helped win the battle. “Mikhail has done this before. We haven't. If he hadn't been here, we would have been overrun. You must go to the Chief first thing in the morning and demand he order all of the warriors be trained to fight like that, male or female, young or old.”

  “Like Mikhail?”

  “Yes.” She felt the thread which energized her whenever she was given a vision by the goddess. “She-who-is sent him to prepare us. The demons that are coming will be a lot worse than these Halifians. Mikhail must prepare us to battle not just men, but demons, because he won't always be here to defend us.”

  “But you and he are about to be married!” Papa said.

  “And so we shall,” Ninsianna said. She remembered her vision and shivered. “But when the darkest one of all arrives, Mikhail won't be here to defend us. She-who-is has shown me this will be so.”

  “But Mikhail loves you,” Papa said. “Why would he not protect you?”

  “I don't know why, but he won’t,” Ninsianna said. “She-who-is has shown me that we must learn to defeat these demons ourselves.”

  “I'll speak to the Chief,” Papa said. “I sent Kiana to get your mother so she can help our wounded. Go to Mikhail as soon as he lands. I saw an arrow sticking out of his wing.”

  Ninsianna’s heart leaped to her throat, but she forced herself to remain calm. “I will find him and bring him home.”

  * * * * *

  She found him perched on the roof of her parent's home, crouched in the same leopard-like pose he'd assumed that night at the ship. The unearthly ice-blue glow still gleamed in his eyes as he watched her, muttering in the clicking Cherubim language.

  With her gift of tongues, Ninsianna now understood the prayers he uttered in the clicking language, begging forgiveness from She-who-is for the lives he'd been forced to reap. Asking HER to guide the souls of his enemies into the dreamtime. Although he killed with frightening efficiency, his gift weighed heavily upon him. The fact that the Cherubim had instilled in him as part of his training mantras dealing with the aftermath of battle indicated that they, too, must be moral creatures.

  “I will go inside to get supplies to dress your wounds,” Ninsianna called up to him.

  She waited until he made eye contact, his eyes glittering with that internal blue light that she assumed must be every bit as eerie as the golden light that burned within her own eyes whenever She-who-is decided to speak through her. It was an emotionless gaze, but neither cruel nor inhuman. Mikhail gave her a nod.

  Ninsianna forced herself to give him a small smile before stepping inside the front door of their house. The moment she got inside, her false sense of bravado shattered. Time. He needed time to go through whatever process these Cherubim had instilled in him to come down off of his blood lust and return to being Mikhail. How long had it taken him the last time? Several hours, perhaps a quarter of a day. She gathered her supplies, lit a lamp, and took a calming breath before going back outside.

  “I'm ready for you now,” Ninsianna said. She instinctively knew it would be easier to reach that part of him that was still Mikhail in the Cherubim tongue, perhaps because that was the language of the masters who had turned him into a weapon. “You must come inside because it's too dark out here for me to see.”

  Still muttering prayers for forgiveness, he spread his wings and glided down to the earth like a dark shroud, nary a feather rustling as he folded his wings against his back, oblivious to his own pain. His attention was still turned inward, in towards whatever deity he prayed to who was neither this emperor he served nor She-who-is. He didn't make eye contact, although she sensed he was more aware of her presence now than at any time since he'd known her. The energy was still Mikhail … but whatever source of power he drew upon, it was not the energy of She-who-is.

  “Inside with you,” she feigned normalcy as she did her best impersonation of her Mama. “At the table. Near the light. Sit down so I can patch you up.”

  He ambled inside and sat upon the nearest stool. By the eerie blue glint in his eyes, he was not fully back yet from wherever he went when he entered the killing dance, but she could see the beginnings of emotion. The blue light her goddess-enhanced eyes had seen stream forth like a sunrise during battle waivered, whatever source he channeled no longer necessary in the safety of their home. She had no idea what went on in the larger universe, but if this was how the Cherubim defended the Eternal Emperor, she could see how he'd reigned supreme for thousands of years.

  She spoke to reassure him as saw the arrow to the wing wasn't his only injury.

  “I must look at this shoulder wound first." She touched above a dark stain in his shirt. "This is dangerously close to where you were wounded before. I may need to put a few stitches in so it doesn't keep opening up.”

  She watched the cold lack-of-emotion loosen its hold as the blood-lust drained from his body. Touching his shirt, she slipped the neckline far enough aside to confirm the wound was from an arrow which he'd torn out. This was the second time he could have been killed by an object that had landed dangerously close to his heart, but luckily whoever had shot the arrow had possessed little strength in the draw.

  “You need to have to take this off so I can get at it,” she tugged at his shirt. “Let me help you?”

  His lips moved silently in prayer, praying for the men he'd killed instead of prayers to ease his own pain. He sat passively as she undid the strange fasteners and slipped off his shirt. She quashed a curse as she realized the arrowhead had broken off and imbedded itself into the major pectoral muscle, but thankfully it had not pierced his rib cage. It would be less painful if she removed it now, while he was still under the spell of whatever he did to become an instrument of HER will, than later, when he would feel every awkward dig.

  “I need to dig this out.” She touched his cheek to make certain he understood her. “Are you ready?”

  Eye contact. The eerie glimmer was still there, but fading. The flowing blue spirit-light had settled inward, no longer visible to her goddess-enhanced eyes except for the glimmer of blue still glittering in his eyes. His prayers had changed, only the occasional word audible. He prayed now for the wisdom to use his gift wisely. She must work quickly, while the coldness of the blue light still shielded his ability to feel. It occurred to her that training warriors not only to kill, but also to dull their own pain, was masterful. These Cherubim must not only be formidable warriors, but also powerful shamans.

  “This will hurt." She gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry?”

  She
pressed her obsidian blade into his flesh and pried out the flint as though she dug a tuber out of the ground. Mikhail exhaled and breathed into the pain. She could feel his muscles quiver beneath her touch, but he kept his expression otherwise blank. The arrowhead made a sucking sound as she pulled it from his flesh. His prayers stopped and started, no longer automatic as he fought to stay on the threshold of the killing dance long enough for her to finish.

  “Souvenir,” she placed it on the table. “Now I'll stitch you up. This will hurt, too, but hopefully not as much.”

  Mikhail grunted his consent.

  Gently touching the old scar beneath the new wound, she suppressed the urge to kiss him. Allowing him to linger in that cold mental place he went after battle would spare him a small amount of the pain she inflicted upon him. Threading her bone needle with horse hair thread, she punctured thirty stitches into his pectoris major where it spanned his shoulder and chest. The muscle trembled beneath her fingertips with each of the thirty stabs, but while his flesh betrayed he was in pain, Mikhail's chiseled features remained distant and stoic.

  “I must pull the arrows out of your wings,” she said. “The arrowheads have shot through. If I pull off the fletching, I can pull the shafts the rest of the way through your wings without needing to tear the arrowhead back through your flesh.”

  She knew he was fully back by the way he flinched as she touched his wings. The Cherubim had taught him to suppress his pain, but as the coldness wore off, so did his ability to ignore it. He closed his eyes and slowly exhaled as she pulled through first one arrow, and then the other. He didn't utter a single syllable of pain, but by the tremble of feathers beneath her fingertips, the coldness of the killing dance no longer protected him from feeling what she was doing.

  Even when not in a meditative killing dance, he had the highest pain tolerance of any person she'd ever met. Plucking out enough feathers to get at the two wounds with her needle, she sewed those up as well. Examining him to see if he had any wounds she'd missed, at last she was satisfied.

  “Mikhail,” she placed the palm of her hand upon his cheek. “My parents will be bringing wounded here to treat. You will get no sleep down here in the common area. I want you to sleep in my bed tonight.”

  Eye contact. Mikhail nodded, his eyes filled with the pain he refused to let show on his face. The prayers had stopped. He was now fully back. With a sigh, he pulled her into his arms and buried his nose into her neck, only the subtle tremors of his muscles beneath his flesh betraying the emotion he'd been suppressing.

  "Ninsianna," he whispered her name. He sounded … exhausted. As if he might fall over.

  “Come,” she led him up to her tiny room. “Let’s sleep.”

  He curled up behind her as they spooned together in her narrow bed, holding each other as they fell asleep. There was nothing sexual about their first night together. Just two creatures seeking comfort in the arms of the person they loved. Ninsianna sensed as she had that first day on the ship that what he needed more than anything in the world was for her to touch him and let him know he was not alone. Touch would succeed where words failed.

  Snuggling her head onto his arm and whispering goodnight, she felt him shiver as he wrapped his arms and wings around her and drew her close.

  Chapter 79

  Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.07

  Haven-4: Youth Training Academy

  Colonel Raphael Israfa

  Raphael

  Jophiel had fallen asleep, her head resting upon his shoulder. Was it just wishful thinking? Or did Uriel's breathing seem a little easier?

  The room suddenly smelled of ozone, as though they were in a forest and a thunderstorm had just passed, scrubbing clean the air. The dust sparkled in one corner of the room even though Raphael could detect no source of light that would cause the strange phenomenon. It took a moment for his mind to recognize what he was seeing, an ascended being coalescing into physical form. Unfurling the golden wing which kept his mate and son cocooned from the world, he witnessed the Eternal Emperor materialize inside the isolation chamber.

  “Your eminence,” Raphael tried to extricate himself from Jophiel and the baby without waking them.

  Wearing a perfectly ordinary laboratory coat, buttoned up wrong so the collar sat askew, if not for the fact the Emperor's picture adorned every household in the Alliance and his golden eyes, had Raphael not witnessed his mystical appearance, he might have mistaken the Emperor for a doctor.

  “Please,” the Emperor gestured, palms-down. “Don't get up. As you were.”

  Raphael threw his son’s life at the mercy of the old god.

  “Isn’t there anything you can do for him? Please, your eminence. He's just a baby!”

  The Eternal Emperor Hashem gave him a weary sigh.

  “Contrary to popular belief,” the Emperor said. “I am neither omnipotent, nor omniscient. If I had the power to solve all problems, then problems wouldn't exist."

  The Emperor's bushy eyebrows rose high above his golden eyes, making him appear griefstricken. Jophiel had spoken of the Emperor as though he were a trusted father figure as they had lain together in the afterglow of the mating appointment which had given them Uriel, but this was the first time Raphael had seen this side of their Eternal Emperor himself. How could one so powerful appear so mortal?

  “Then Uriel will die, won’t he?" Raphael was unashamed of the tears which welled into his eyes. He was just glad Jophiel was not awake to hear their son was doomed.

  “No, he won't,” the Emperor sighed. “I've gone to an old friend whose talents lie in a different direction than mine and pleaded intervention. Your son will live, but I must bear the consequences for that choice. We must all bear the consequences that are soon to come.”

  Raphael clapped his hand over his mouth to prevent his sob of gratitude from escaping. His natural inclination to gush was tempered by how old and weary the Emperor looked right now, as though he carried not just the weight of the Alliance, but the entire universe upon his shoulders. All this time, while he and his fellow citizens had been praying to the Emperor for help, perhaps it was in reality the Emperor who needed their help?

  What was it Jophiel had said? No creature could coordinate something so vast as this empire alone, not even the Eternal Emperor…

  “What do you need me to do, Your Majesty?"

  “Do what you already want to do in your heart,” the Emperor said. “I will no longer discourage Jophiel from raising her child herself." He met Raphael's gaze. "Nor from choosing to be with you, if that is what she so desires. But what Jophiel does, the others will follow. Do you understand that? Do you understand the price of this course of action?”

  “Our race will die out,” Raphael said.

  “Either way, your species is doomed," the Emperor said. "But I have heard a rumor that Shay’tan has the solution to this problem within his grasp."

  "What solution, Sir?"

  “I don't know what that means!" The Emperor's brow furrowed deep with frustration. "The price for choosing to stay here with you in the material realms is ignorance!"

  The Emperor pointed at Raphael.

  "Finding out information is where your natural talents lie, young man. I need your help. In exchange for this bargain I have made to save your son's life, you must help me find this solution which Shay’tan has purportedly found. Whatever it is, the fate of the Alliance rests upon it.”

  “I won't let you down, Your Majesty,” Raphael said. "I give you my word."

  Whatever cards Shay'tan held up his scaly sleeve, Raphael would bet anything it had something to do with the mysterious buildup in Zulu Sector and his missing best friend!

  Jophiel stirred just as the Eternal Emperor shimmered out of the room.

  “Who was that?”

  Raphael kissed her forehead and pulled her closer. “Shhhh….”

  He offered Uriel his finger so his son could wrap his tiny fingers around his larger one.

  “Look, Jophie. Uri
el is breathing is easier. I think our son is going to live.”

  Chapter 80

  And [Lucifer], who was their leader,

  Said unto them:

  'I fear ye won't indeed agree to do this deed,

  And I alone shall have to pay the penalty

  Of a great sin'

  And they all answered him and said:

  'Let us all swear an oath,

  And all bind ourselves by mutual imprecations

  Not to abandon this plan

  but to do this thing.'

  Then swore they all together

  And bound themselves

  By mutual imprecations upon it

  And they were in all two hundred;

  Who descended …

  And all the others together with them

  Took unto themselves wives,

  And each chose for himself one,

  And they began to go in unto them

  And to defile themselves with them ….

  And they became pregnant,

  And they bore great giants...

  Book of Enoch, Book 1 – Watchers

  Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.07 AE

  Tango Sector: Diplomatic Carrier ‘Prince of Tyre’

  General Abaddon aka ‘the Destroyer’

  Commander of the Angelic Air Force

  Abaddon

  The Alliance's highest-ranking Angelic Air Force general had always been a man of fierce passions and parsiminous words, the kind of old-style general who got things done because his men trusted him to be the first one into battle and the last one to exit the battlefield. To not leave until every man who followed him either got out safely, or flown out, dead or alive, oftentimes by Abaddon's own burly grey wings.

  He was a hard man, forged in the fires of Shay'tan's hammer, the Alliance's oldest serving general and still as fit as the day he'd graduated from the military academy. He'd taken his first kill to win back a homeworld so remote nobody even remembered the planet's name and come up through the ranks the old-fashioned way, one dead Sata’anic lizard at a time. Age had made him wiser, but no less likely to seize the dragon by the tail. If anything, age had made him better, shaped his appearance into the sword the Alliance needed him to be. Steel grey hair, grey eyes, grey wings, but it was his fierce courage which had earned him that fourth star.