Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (19 page)

Oh, gods! 
That
was
why she'd broken things off so suddenly.  The demon was using her to infiltrate
their village!  How could his father be so
stupid?
  A shaman was more
believable than the Chief’s own son?

Chief Kiyan shut the
door behind him.  “Sit!”

The housekeeper
scurried into the kitchen.  Jamin knelt on the felted camel-hair carpet and
leaned into one of the stuffed pillows that served as a chair.  His father
didn't sit, but towered over him, causing Jamin to bridle over the forced act
of submission.

“You must give up this
idea of forcing Ninsianna to marry you,” the Chief said.  “It was wrong of me
to exercise my prerogative to deny her hand in marriage to another.  I had
hoped she would stabilize your fiery temper, but I see now your pursuit of her
has only
inflamed
those natural tendencies, not soothed them.”

“But Father,” Jamin's
breath caught in his throat as at last he allowed his vulnerabilities to
escape.  “I love her.”

Three weeks ago he'd
been sitting on top of the world, setting mud-bricks into the sun to dry to set
the foundations of their dream house.  He'd daydreamed of the magnificent sons
she would bear him and how much pleasure he would give her when he taught her
how to make love to a man.  And now … his world spiraled out of control.

“If there was ever any
hope of her loving you in return,” the Chief sighed, “you just ruined it.  I
want you to marry someone who will love you as much as I loved your mother. 
Not someone who marries you because you've given them no other choice.”

“My mother is
dead
!”
the old anger boiled in Jamin's veins.  “All you ever do is daydream about
her
instead of paying attention to
me
!  You look at
me
and you
hate
me because I'm still here and she is not!!!”

“That's not true,” the
Chief said.  He ran his fingers through his hair, the
same
thick black
hair Jamin had inherited, only streaked with grey.  He looked at his son, the
son who had his father's build, but the face and eyes of a dead mother.  The
Chief’s shoulders slumped.  It was a look Jamin knew only too well.  His father
couldn't bear to look at him without being reminded of the woman he'd lost. 

“You're the only
reason I've been able to go on living,” the Chief's voice was little more than
a hoarse whisper.  “But you have become arrogant.  It must stop!”

“He is a
demon
who
was cast down from the heavens!”  Jamin gestured with his hands to show
something falling out of the sky.  “It's an evil omen.  We must defend the
village!”

“Immanu has legends of
his people returning in a time of great need,” the Chief said.  “He thinks we
should welcome the winged one into our midst and teach him our ways so that
when his people arrive, they'll be favorably disposed to us.”

“A song no man in this
village has ever heard until today!” Jamin retorted.  “That's a little convenient,
don't you agree?”

“Immanu is a good
man,” the Chief said.  “I'll not tolerate you sullying his name.  As for his
request that we invite Mikhail into our village, I'll make my
own
decision
once I have met this winged man.”

“But Father….”

The muscle in Jamin's
cheek twitched with aggravation.

“But nothing!” the
Chief snapped.  “I have made up my mind!  You and the warriors are forbidden to
go anywhere near the sky canoe until I say otherwise.  If you do, you will
answer to the tribunal!”

He turned his back,
indicating Jamin was dismissed.

Jamin slammed the door
on his way out, furious.  A week ago he'd been looking forward to marrying
Ninsianna at the summer solstice, and now he was goat dung?  She was
his
fiancée! 
If
he
didn't rescue her, nobody would!  His father always went on and on
about how important it was to form alliances so you would have someone to watch
your back when you needed help.  Well … there were other ways to skin a goat!

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.02 AE

Earth:  Sata'an Forward Operating Base
^[3]

Lt.
Kasib

 “The package is ready
for shipment, Sir.”  Lieutenant Kasib tucked his tail along his side and
saluted his commanding officer.

“How many?” General
Hudhafah squinted up from a stack of reports.

“Just one, Sir.”

“Ba’al (Lord) Zebub
asked for three samples,” Hudhafah said.  “Why aren’t there more?”  His
gold-green eyes narrowed into slits.

“Two expired in
transit, Sir,” Kasib said.  “Our soldiers reported the cargo reacted adversely
to our presence.  The native population has had no contact with our species and
is unusually terrified.”

“Hmmm…”  Hudhafah
leaned back in his chair and scratched the soft white under-scales of his
chin.  “Have we formed any trading partnerships with the native population?”

“Yes, Sir,” Kasib
said.  “The Amorite slavers don't care who they trade with so long as our money
is good.”

“We'll use
those
as intermediaries, then,” Hudhafah said.  “Be sure to explain we want maximum
genetic diversity.  No more than two from a single target area.  Got that?”

“Yes, Sir,” Kasib
saluted, tasting the air with his forked tongue, sensing the pheromones which
indicated his commanding officer's mood.  They were thinly staffed until
Emperor Shay'tan resupplied their base and Hudhafah was in a foul mood.  “What
about the current package?”

“Send it to Ba'al
Zebub,” Hudhafah said.  “He has plans for it.”

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

February - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

“If I have to spend
another minute in this ship,” Mikhail complained, using gestures to communicate
where words failed, “I'll go insane.  Can we
please
finish the language
lessons outside?” 

Although the ship had
been built for his species, it had not been designed to live upon on a long
term basis.  His wings were beginning to cramp.  He felt just good enough to be
a cranky patient. 

“I no understand.” 
Ninsianna hovered like a worried dragonfly.  She tried to herd him back into
his chair.  “Go … where?”

“Outside.”  He pointed
towards the cracked hull.  “Outside.”

“Yes … outside,”
Ninsianna said in halting Galactic Standard.  “You be … careful … no … do … too
much.”

Ninsianna orbited his
every step like a moon around a gas giant, not relaxing until he found a large
rock to sit upon close to the stream.  As soon as he sat, she rummaged for
sticks to make a fire.  He got up to help.

“You no … too much …
do!” Ninsianna scolded.  She herded him back to the log, pointing until he sat
back down.  “You … hurt.  You … too much do.  You … hurt more!” 

He enjoyed the flash
of her beautiful, tawny beige eyes.  She had the demeanor of somebody
accustomed to having others follow her orders.  The stream gurgled nearby.  He
inhaled, relishing the earthy scent of the decaying log and soil carried in the
wind.  The air inside of ships was always filtered.  He tried not to be obvious
that he sniffed the air like a tracking hound.  It had the scent of a planet
teeming with life.

Ninsianna struck two
stones together and aimed the sparks into some dried moss.  She blew until the
smoldering bundle ignited.  The ease with which she accomplished the task was
fascinating, as if she started fires like this every day. 

“What kind of rocks
are those?” Mikhail pointed to the two stones she struck together.  He repeated
the question in her language, “what … rocks?” 

He understood the
concept of starting a fire with two stones, but suspected he'd never had much
cause to do so.  He carried a traditional flint and steel striker in his survival
kit.  Oh!  A memory!  He grabbed the rocks out of Ninsianna’s hand in an effort
to capture it.

“
Yangin tas
,”
Ninsianna said in her own language, giving him the rock with a deep groove in
it.

“What this rock?” 
Mikhail held the second rock.  She repeated the word and demonstrated how it
was used until it dawned on him that it was a ‘striker.’

He spent the morning
observing her move outside the ship, doing this thing or that.  She was
fascinated with things she found in his ship's galley, with often amusing
results.

“No!”  Mikhail leaped
up just in time to save a plastic container she had used to retrieve water from
being used as a cook pot.  “No … good … fire.  This one!” 

He pointed towards a
steel cylinder that was actually part of his ship, but would make an acceptable
pot.  A smile lit up her face as she realized how well it heated water.  She
shoved a handful of leaves from a plant with small blue flowers gathered from a
surrounding field into the makeshift pot and brought it to a boil.

“Here!”  Ninsianna
handed him a cup with steaming liquid.  “Drink!”

He gave it a wary
sniff before taking a sip.  It wasn’t bad.  It wasn’t good, either, but it was
hot and drinkable.

“Borage,” Ninsianna
pointed to the little leafy plants that grew in the area.  She made him repeat
the unfamiliar word.  “Borage … make … no hurt … no more.  Make you … no hurt …
faster.”

A painkiller?  Mikhail
paid close attention to his body's reaction to the tea.  It didn't have a
straightforward analgesic effect, but he felt a subtle increase in his energy
levels.  Over time, he realized his pain had subsided, although not to the same
degree as popping a pill.  Ninsianna encouraged him to drink a second and third
cup, then stopped him from drinking any more.

“No too much,” she
stammered in a combination of his and her language, using her hands to help him
understand where words failed.  “Little … then little more … later.”

He watched, absolutely
transfixed, as she snapped off a sapling, peeled the bark and wood off the end
to make it into a makeshift spear, and hacked at the end using a stone blade.

“I go …
balik
,”
she said. 

He didn't understand
what
balik
meant until she walked to the stream, stripped down to her
loincloth, and waded in.  As she peered into the water, she spoke to herself,
as he often caught her doing, as though a friend walked at her side. 
Spear-fishing was a feat which took considerable time and effort,
if
you
succeeded at all.  Lunch would be more dried meat and sour berries.  Oh … how
he wished his ship had enough power to use the food replicator!  Ninsianna
jabbed the stick into the water and came up with a fish wriggling at the end.

“
Balik
!” 
Ninsianna triumphantly bounded out of the stream, her pert breasts bouncing
along with her steps.