Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One

by Anna Erishkigal

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 with 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