Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One

by Anna Erishkigal

Summer Solstice - June - 3,390 BC

  Earth: Village of Assur

  Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

  Mikhail

  His knee hurt.

  Immanu had explained their custom of prostrating oneself before the Chief, but Mikhail refused. There may not be many things he remembered, but going down on both knees and having somebody stand over him, demanding submission, felt so unnatural that he'd been unable to prevent the anxious twitching of his wings. After Ninsianna had been unable to dissuade her father from imposing Ubaid social customs upon his new 'son,' it had been Needa who'd stormed over to Chief Kiyan's house, pounded upon his door, and let him have it. Mikhail had not been there to hear this juicy conversation, but from the whispers that drifted his way in the days that followed, three square blocks had heard his new 'mother' chew the Chief out. The mere thought of it made him smirk, even now.

  That had led to conversations about what felt natural. While his mind didn't want to release his memories, his body could often be tricked into regurgitating the information. If he emptied out his mind and did things, his body let him know if he'd done it before. After an afternoon spent attempting every known demonstration of swearing fealty, they'd finally come up with a solution. Go down on one knee, place his right fist over his heart, and let the Chief put his hand upon one shoulder, not his head.

  Staying in that position for half an hour, however, while the Chief droned on and on and on, wasn't part of the bargain. The gravel dug into his knee, his wings ached from being held above the ground, and his muscles were beginning to cramp. By how awkward this gesture was for a creature with wings, he suspected it was not an Angelic gesture of respect, but a Cherubim one.

  “Membership has its privileges,” Chief Kiyan droned on. "But it also comes with responsibility. The responsibility to contribute something of value to the society in which you live. To carry your own weight. To ply a trade. To defend our village in time of need."

  So far, Mikhail had one out of the three. Defend the village. As for the other two? He was giving it his best effort while trying not to eat Immanu out of house and home.

  He shifted focus to the warm, tingling sensation that originated with Ninsianna's hand resting upon his shoulder. He liked it when she touched him. It did things to him. Warm, fuzzy things that felt totally alien, and yet so familiar, as though it were something he'd searched for his entire life. Chief Kiyan's voice receded as Mikhail noted the way the warmth echoed in his chest.

  “Mikhail,” Ninsianna whispered. “Tá tú ag ceaptha chun freagra a thabhairt dó [you're supposed to answer him].”

  “Hmmm?” he asked, coming back to reality.

  “You're supposed to say you will protect and honor our customs,” Ninsianna repeated.

  “I'm sorry,” Mikhail told the Chief. “Could you please repeat exactly what I'm supposed to say?”

  “I solemnly swear to protect and honor the people and customs of Assur,” Chief Kiyan said.

  Mikhail repeated the oath word for word.

  Some of his adopted people cheered. Some of them clapped. Some of them got up and stretched with mutters of “oh thank the gods the old windbag has stopped speaking” before coming over to congratulate him. With a sigh of relief, Mikhail heaved himself up off the ground and flared his wings to work the cramps out of them, nearly knocking over several villagers.

  “Mikhail, Mikhail!” several children clamored about. “Can we touch your wings?”

  “Go ahead." He sat down on a stone wall so he wouldn't tower over the children, but kept his wings high enough off the ground to avoid being stepped on. It was a lesson he'd learned the hard way. He masked his awkwardness behind an unreadable expression as the village children patted him as though he were a dog.

  “Hey! Run your hand in the same direction as the feathers," he said. "Not the wrong way. You’ll break them.”

  “When you can fly again,” a precocious boy ran a feather he'd inadvertently plucked across his face, “will you take me for a ride?”

  “I don't think your parents would be too happy if I did that,” Mikhail said. He felt a twinge of remorse as disappointment crossed the little boy's face. “I don't think I'm meant to carry any more than my own body weight.”

  “Can I climb on your lap?" A little girl held up her arms. He picked her up, not sure what to do with her. He looked to Ninsianna for guidance. The girl put her hands on his cheeks and pressed her forehead against his, eye to eye. “Look,” she said, “I only have one eye.”

  “I can see that, little one,” Mikhail suppressed a smile. Human offspring baffled him. It felt as though he'd never been around any children before.

  “Sore ga sarani akka suru kanō-sei ga arimasu [it could be worse],” Ninsianna said in the clicking Cherubim language so the children wouldn't understand. “Kanojo wa anata o motomeru koto ga dekiru [she could ask you] ningyō o saisei shimasu [to play dolls].”

  “Anata wa kanojo no aidea o ataeru aete shinaide kudasai!" [Don't you dare give her any ideas!]

  Ninsianna gave him an evil smile, as though considering suggesting just that.

  “Ninsianna,” a young warrior named Dadbeh called. “Firouz sliced his leg horsing around with Tirdard. It's bleeding all over the place. Could you please take a look at it?”

  Ninsianna turned to Mikhail, wearing that expression she always donned whenever anyone came first to her for healing instead of her mother. “If you'll excuse me, duty calls.”

  A stab of jealousy tightened in his chest as he watched Ninsianna's hand lingered on the young man's leg far longer than Mikhail would have liked. He chided himself on the ridiculous emotion. Ninsianna liked to touch. Whenever she did, it smacked of intimacy, whether or not it was him she touched or somebody else. What he'd thought was special, reserved only for him, he now understood was her normal way of relating to the world. It made him feel … unimportant. He watched her tend the wounded male out of the corner of his eye as well-wishers converged upon him, blocking her from his view.

  “Why do you let Ninsianna tell you what to do,” a brassy young woman named Shahla asked. She suggestively ran her fingers down his chest. “A real woman would let you be in charge."

  Mikhail suppressed a scowl. He only liked it when Ninsianna touched him. Whenever anybody else did, it felt … wrong.

  “Angelics don't differentiate between males and females." He hoped the ice in his voice would make Shahla go away. He might suffer from lingering memory loss, but he wasn't stupid. Shahla was trouble.

  “But males are so … strong,” Shahla ran her hand down the side of her breasts and hips. “And women so soft and yielding. I wouldn't want to have to act like a man.”

  Shahla was beautiful, but her forward demeanor put him off. Which was worse? When the villagers had feared and avoided him. Or when everyone had decided they had an open invitation to tweak his feathers and prod him like a prize goat. Sometimes he just wanted to fly back to his ship and tell everyone to leave him alone!

  Like right now…

  Warmth sank into his damaged wing as fingers slipped through the pin-feathers which had finally begun to grow back. His wings tingled as an achingly familiar warmth flowed into his heart and made him smile. Ninsianna. He would know her touch anywhere. He reached back without looking and took her hand, slipping his fingers through hers.

  “Is féidir liom a bhraitheann tú, chol beag,” he murmured so the others wouldn’t understand his words. I can feel you, little dove.

  A fearful squeak and the tug of her hand jolted him out of his pleasant cocoon. Shahla covered her mouth and giggled. He looked up and saw Ninsianna coming at him from a different direction, wearing an expression like a thundercloud. Glancing at whose hand he held, he was held captive by the blackest pair of eyes he'd ever seen. The black-eyed girl tugged her hand, trying to break free. She had the look of a prey animal about to be slaughtered.

  “I-I-I'm sorry,” she stammered. “I shouldn't have … I'm sorry…”

  He
looked from the painfully thin young woman whose hand he held to Ninsianna. Although her eyes were black, not gold, and her features painfully thin, there was a family resemblance. Not incredibly so, but enough that he could see why he'd mistaken her for Ninsianna. The only reason the girl had not yet bolted, as she plainly wished to do, was because he still held her hand captive. He let her go.

  “What's the matter, Ninsianna?” Shahla taunted. “Do you fear your man will realize you're not the only woman in Assur?”

  The brassy young woman grabbed the shy black-eyed one and dragged her towards a group of warriors. Mikhail looked up into Ninsianna’s eyes and saw that she was upset.

  “For a moment, I thought she was you,” he said. “Is she a relative?” The moment the words left his mouth, he realized the were a mistake. Ninsianna scowled. It was an ugly expression she rarely wore.

  “More like the village tramp and her spooky side-kick,” Ninsianna snapped. “Everybody will be talking about this now behind your back!" She pointed to where Jamin leaned against a goat shed, a look of dark intensity on the swarthy male's face as he scrutinized them with a malicious smirk.

  Was Ninsianna jealous? For him? For some reason, her jealousy pleased him. He reached up to touch her cheek the way she often did to reassure him. Her anger melted. Slowly but surely, he was learning the intricate dance of non-verbal human social interactions. He suppressed his own jealousy as a second young man asked her to look at some sibling's injury, abandoning him to the village children once more.

  “And now it's time for the summer solstice games,” the Chief announced, grabbing a spear out of a pile and balancing it perfectly in his palm. “We shall begin with the spear throwing competition.”

  His two elderly sister-widow friends hobbled up to rescue him from some curious children.

  “Mikhail,” Yalda asked. “Will you compete?”

  “Yes, you must compete,” Zhila said. “I think our fine young friend will be good at it, don't you, Yalda?”

  “Yes, he is very strong!" Yalda squeezed his bicep and nodded approval. “And become even stronger hauling water to our crops. We shall see how the other warriors fare against a man who is not afraid to dirty his tail feathers, shan’t we, Mikhail?”

  Mikhail suppressed the smile which threatened to burst through his habitual poker face. His affable new 'grandmothers' wanted to make a point about the young warriors' insistence they were too important to help other members of the tribe. He'd quickly learned that beneath his new friends grandmotherly exterior lay the razor-edged wit of two sharp swords.

  “Yes, I'll compete. You must introduce me as your champion.”

  The widow-sisters each grabbed an arm and tugged him out the south gate of the village with surprising vigor for two women well into their seventieth year. The warriors gathered in the flat, rocky plain, some sort of obstacle course already set up beforehand. Several Ubaid females also joined the group, mostly young women he'd seen around the village, but not yet formally met. Although Ninsianna lamented the fact that women were discouraged from participating in traditionally male activities, it appeared it was not forbidden. The constant threat of annihilation from hostile neighbors meant strict male-female rules were imprudent in areas such as the ability to defend one's own self.

  “Ahhh … here comes Ninsianna,” Yalda said. “She will compete again this year.”

  Ninsianna glided up to them, her face lit up in a beautiful smile.

  “You're too late,” Zhila taunted Ninsianna. “We have already commandeered your fine young man to be our champion. If you want to win the prize, you will have to earn it on your own!”

  Ninsianna laughed.

  “I see you've been conscripted into service,” Ninsianna said. “Maybe I'll be nice enough to share a few of the prize olives after I have kicked your tail feathers.”

  “We shall see,” Zhila pursed her wrinkled lips as though she were a trader. “I know a thing or two about a good throwing arm and our champion has a strong one." Zhila squeezed his bicep in approval.

  “Hey … what am I … a prize goat?” Mikhail suppressed a laugh.

  “Yes!” all three women said at once.

  “It's been a long time since we were strong enough to compete ourselves." Yalda's cataract-clouded eyes turned inward to competitions of years past. “Zhila used to be quite good, you know?”

  “Ahhh…” Zhila said, “but that was many years ago. These days I count myself fortunate to toss my walking stick into the corner.”

  “Listen!" Ninsianna said. "The Chief is about to explain the rules.”

  Chief Kiyan outlined how the competition would proceed. The prize was an urn of olives obtained in a trade with the Ghassulian tribe in the Ghor valley. Olive trees rarely grew more than a few miles from the Akdeniz Sea, so the prize was considered precious.

  For the first round, all contestants would throw the spear into a field marked with measurements. Anyone who couldn't throw 15 paces would be eliminated. In the second round, the contestants would throw spears at a target 30 paces away. Anyone who couldn't hit the target would be disqualified. In the third round, the contestants would run through an obstacle course and then hit a target. The one who hit the closest to the inner circle without being disqualified would be the winner.

  “Have you ever thrown a spear before?” Yalda asked.

  “I'm not sure,” Mikhail said. “I can't remember.”

  “Here, let me show you." Zhila grabbed a spear from the pile and posed in a fierce throwing stance that was amazing for one so advanced in age. “The secret is not in the throw, but how you put your weight behind it when you release the shaft.”

  Picking up a second spear from the pile, Mikhail found the center of gravity and hefted it into the position Zhila demonstrated. The shaft felt familiar in his hand. “I think I've had training throwing a similar weapon. But I'm not an expert. It feels as though I haven't wielded such a weapon in a very long time.”

  “When you throw,” Zhila said, “picture your entire body becoming part of the spear. Like this…”

  Zhila hefted the spear 17 paces into the field, a remarkable feat given her advanced age.

  “You should compete,” Mikhail said with admiration. “That will qualify you past the first round.”

  “My eyes are too bad,” Zhila said. “I can still throw, but I can't see the target well enough to hit it. And my knees ache too much to run the obstacle course. Such games are for the young and strong!”

  “Let’s start!” the Chief clapped his hands. An excited murmur rose up as spectators gathered behind their chosen champions to cheer them on.

  “Your spear-throwing lesson is over,” Ninsianna laughed, hefting her spear with practiced grace. “Now it's time to take your lumps!" Mikhail had seen her hunt fish. Beating her was not a given.

  The Chief took the first throw. His spear sailed a good 50 paces. The crowd clapped approval. Then his son Jamin threw. His spear flew 50 paces as well. Like father, like son, Mikhail thought to himself, although the Chief was a much more admirable man than his sullen, spoiled son. One by one, other villagers threw their spears. Immanu and Needa lined up behind their champion, Ninsianna.

  “So, I see our new son has defected to our neighbors,” Needa joked with a deadpan expression.

  “That's because Yalda keeps him plied with bread,” Immanu said.

  Immanu was right. The widow-sisters did keep him fed. It made more sense for him to haul water from the river to irrigate their crops, and them to thank him by keeping him plied with hot, soft flat bread, straight out of Yalda's oven, than for the two old women to waste such talent bent over in the fields. Besides … anything tasted better than Needa's cooking…

  “Look!" Needa pointed. "It's Ninsianna’s turn!”

  Ninsianna wound up in a graceful pose that brought a memory to the surface of a temple painting he'd once seen of She-who-is engaged in a hunt. Although she didn't possess the weight to heave her shaft quite as far as the Chief
had done, she made 46 paces, more than enough to qualify and better than most of the young men. Mikhail tried not to beam too blatantly with pride as she strutted back to her parents and gave them a high-five.

  “That's how it's done!” she bragged.

  Several more contestants threw, including a slender young girl and the black-eyed waif. Even children as young as six or seven were expected to try for, and surpass, the fifteen pace mark, which appeared to be the point of setting the first qualification bar so low. Mikhail scrutinized the way the others threw, his sharp eyes watching for patterns in the body movements of the most successful contestants. Then it was his turn.

  “Become one with the spear…” Zhila reminded him. “Everything else is secondary.”

  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.

  “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.

  The Emperor had bred his species to hunt. With the sharp eyes of an eagle, he spied Ninsianna slipping into the crowd, unaware he'd taken to the air in her haste to escape his playful wrath. He was the hunter and she the prey. He tucked his wings into his sides and dove like a hawk. The wind whistled past his ears, singing exhalations at his return to her bosom.

  Ninsianna paused when she didn't see him pursue her and never thought to look up. Swooping down from the sky like an eagle, he grabbed her, just barely touching the ground as he adjusted for her weight, and strained to lift the both of them into the air. Ninsianna shrieked, pressing the length of her body against his in terror.

  “I owe you this,” he laughed, wrapping his arms around her so she wouldn't fall. His enormous dark wings flapped, straining to free her from the grasp of gravity, her jealous lover. He reached into the air and pulled, tilting his wings until the wind aided their escape. Pain shot down the damaged wing, protesting his abuse, but it held. Pain didn't matter. Only Ninsianna … and flight … mattered to him now. He pushed aside the pain and shot back into the sky.

  Ninsianna screamed. She slid her arms around his neck, her legs flailing like a prey animal trying to escape the eagle's grasp. He caught the lazy updraft over the Hiddekel River and leveled off.

  This was what he'd been bred to do…

  Ninsianna’s shriek echoed in his ears, but combined with her terror he heard exhilaration as she relished the feeling of becoming one with the wind. Their eyes met, stealing the breath from his lungs as he forgot to breathe. Looking deep into her golden eyes, he finally succumbed to the urge to kiss her, greedily tasting the luscious red lips that had tempted him from the moment he'd woken up in his crashed ship with no memory of his past. With a moan, she wrapped her legs around his for stability. Warmth spread through his body as he sought out her tongue. She hesitantly, and then with increasing boldness, tasted the inside of his mouth, murmuring his name as she forgot her terror.

  “Mikhail,” her lips pressed against his ear so the wind wouldn't steal her words. “You can fly…”

  “With you … I can do anything."

  He adjusted his wings so they could circle in the lazy updraft from the river valley below like the mated pair of golden eagles who forever circled the river in search of fish. Mud. Ninsianna’s face was now as streaked with mud as his was. It was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen. With a mischievous grin, he added:

  “And now you are covered in mud too, my love.”

  Chapter 53