Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (26 page)

No…  More likely Ba'al
Zebub had already committed the profits he could skim selling humans to some
side-endeavor.  That was it.  Ba'al Zebub had expenses the same as everybody
else.  With the trade deal Lucifer had just passed in Parliament, the Sata'an
Empire was so flush with cash right now that Shay’tan could afford to be
magnanimous.  In fact … when it came to enticing his newest conquest over to
his
way of thinking, it downright
behooved
him.  Shay’tan decided he
would offer his right-hand man an even
more
productive means to skim
money

“Zebub!” Shay’tan said
with a toothy grin.  “You have my blessing to do whatever is necessary to
secure that planet as quickly as possible.  I want you to roll out the red
carpet and have that world industrialized within twenty years.  Every resource
I possess is yours to command!”

The feral glint in
Ba'al Zebub’s eyes didn't give Shay’tan the warm feeling he sought.  A scribe
rushed forward with another fire to put out within his empire, interrupting his
thoughts.  The old dragon pushed aside his apprehensions and focused on the
latest emergency.

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

March – 3,390 BCE

Earth:  Crash site

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

The snap of a twig…

Mikhail’s head shot
up, his hand automatically reaching for the reassuring bulge of the pulse rifle
strapped to his hip.  A greeting called through the air.  Immanu.  Ninsianna’s
father. 

Their eyes met. 
Either the shaman knew about the attack, or he'd picked up on the tension in
the camp.  Immanu waited for Mikhail to acknowledge his presence before coming
closer.  It was not the action of an assailant.  Mikhail nodded and moved his
hand back to his thigh, close enough that he could pull his weapon.

“Papa!”  Ninsianna ran
up and sank her face into her father's chest.

Mikhail raised one
eyebrow at the embrace.  It was a complex ritual, the seeking of physical
comfort, but he hadn't observed the phenomenon in enough settings to discern
the rules.  The gesture didn't appear to be an action one allowed one's
enemies.  When he'd allowed Ninsianna to hug him after the incident, he'd been
painfully aware of just how vulnerable he was to a knife in the ribs.  He
allowed it because …

Because he'd been as
rattled by the incident as
she
was.  If Ninsianna wanted him dead, she
would have left him to die in the aftermath of the crash.  He didn't know
who
to trust, but he trusted
her. 
Her father could give him answers. 
Answers which could only be imperfectly communicated given the language
barrier.

“Yanlış
çocuk nedir?”
 
Immanu gave Mikhail a look which communicated ‘
what
did you do to upset my daughter?’

“Jamin,” Ninsianna
cried.  “Jamin
eighteen Halifians
with
iki gece önce kampa
came!  They Mikhail
yakalamaya
çalıştım
or kill him.  Which not sure...
”

Mikhail fingered his
firestick and twitched his wings.  He couldn't fault her for the actions of her
jilted lover, but he was still perturbed.  The last time he was here, Immanu
had claimed their chief had ordered his son to stand down.  Middle-of-the-night
raids were not something that just ‘happened’ without somebody in authority
giving an order.  Either Immanu had lied, or he was mistaken about the
intentions of their village chief.  Either that, or the chief faced a coup
d’état from his son. 
Neither
possibility bode well for his continued
relationship with these people.

“
Ben gitmeden önce
this morning Jamin saw.
”  Immanu's facial features conveyed surprise.  “
This
hiç bahsedilmemesi
village make.
” 

Mikhail strained to
translate the conversation.  Immanu had seen Jamin this morning.  Something
about the village.  Either the shaman was a master of deception, or the news
came as a surprise.

“He
cesaret edemezdim
!
” Ninsianna
gave an indignant hiccough.  “
His
father him here
gelip yasakladı
said."

Mikhail
scrutinized their body language, trying to add context to what few words he
understood.  Something the chief had said to his son?  Ninsianna had been
silent since the incident.  Not only had she stopped speaking to
him,
but
she'd ceased her perpetual conversation with the deity she viewed more as an
invisible friend than someone she worshipped.

The last thing
he recalled was getting a spear in his thigh, and then looking down from the
roof of his ship to see bodies littering the ground.  The fact he'd killed some
of his attackers didn't surprise him.  He was a soldier.  That was what
soldiers did.  It was the fact he'd killed
all
of their attackers,
except for Jamin,
and he couldn't remember it!

That wasn’t
true.  He recalled Ninsianna's body thrown across her lover's, begging for his
life, and how much trouble he’d had stopping himself from killing
her
as
well. 
That's
what had him rattled.  Whatever training he'd
instinctively drawn upon, he'd only marginally been in control of it. 
That
was
why he wasn't too anxious to muddle his way through the language barrier and
ask what had happened.  If she knew he hadn't been in control it might terrify
her enough to go running right back to the man who'd attacked them for
protection.  Protection from
him...

His mind was
pulled back to the question Immanu had just asked.  He'd lost focus on their
conversation.  He couldn't
afford
to lose focus.  With the added
disadvantage of a language barrier, he couldn't allow a single detail to escape
his notice.

“Jamin told Ninsianna
that the men who came with him were mercenaries,” Immanu said in his archaic
version of Mikhail’s language.  “Halifians.  A rival tribe.  He hired them to
save her from you.”

Mikhail's wings
betrayed his distrust.  He hid his emotions, forcing his face to be impassive,
and his wings to return to their normal, guarded position.  Until he figured
out who was friend or foe, he couldn't afford to betray the direction of his thoughts.

“Oh Papa!” Ninsianna
cried out.  “Mikhail
öldürdüler
.  This
böyle olmaz
our people for
sorun
neden olur
?

Immanu harrumphed and
spoke in his own language, then translated so Mikhail could understand. 

“I told her the only
thing she needs saving from is an idiot of a father who tried to coerce her to
marry that peacock!”

Immanu looked towards
the ship.  The wind had shifted, bringing the scent of death.  The bodies were
gone, but flies feasted on the dried Halifian blood and remnants of entrails
baking in the sun.

“I need to discuss
this with the Chief,” Immanu said.  “Jamin didn't breathe a word of this to
anyone.  Chief Kiyan will be outraged that his own son conspired with our
enemies.”

“Is it possible that
your Chief authorized this attack behind your back?” Mikhail asked. 
“Mercenaries are not cheap.”

Immanu turned the idea
over in his mind, and then dismissed it.

“I'm not foolish
enough to blindly trust our leader,” Immanu said.  “But I'm a pretty good judge
of character.  The Chief is not hotheaded like his son.  He is intrigued by the
military advantage to be gained by allying with your people.” 

Immanu pointed to the
pulse rifle strapped to Mikhail’s hip.  Ninsianna hovered in the background,
wringing her hands as she strained to understand her father's words.  She asked
a question, to translate, no doubt.

“
Ben yalniz
,
him I need to speak,” Immanu said to Ninsianna. 

To Mikhail’s surprise,
she didn't argue but grabbed her satchel and headed off into a field where
she’d had success digging wild onions.  He couldn't understand her reply, but
‘supper’ had been one of the first words she'd taught him.  Immanu waited until
his daughter was out of earshot before continuing their conversation.

“Even though the men
who attacked you're not of our tribe,” Immanu said.  “As shaman, it's my duty
to perform the death rituals.  You must take me to them so their spirits don't
linger to harm to the living.”

“They are up there.” 
Mikhail pointed to a rise off in the distance.  He scrutinized the shaman’s
demeanor.  Was it his
own
dead he buried?  Allies?  Or should he take
Immanu’s words at face value?

“First I must gather
some things.”  Immanu examined the ground around the camp until he found a
plant Ninsianna called
qat
.  A mild stimulant she'd been giving him to
help rebuild his strength.  “Mikhail … could you please fill a container with
water?”

Mikhail went into his
ship to fetch a container and filled it from the stream.  Immanu studied it,
fascinated by its design.  It was only plastic.  But it was technology his
people had never seen.  He was
just
as interested when Mikhail retrieved
a small steel toolbox to carry an ember from the fire.  Immanu asked him to
line the box with dried moss. 

Mikhail understood
what Immanu was doing.  This was not just a ritual for the dead, but an
opportunity to work together and put him at ease.  He was not sure
how
he
knew this was what Immanu was up to, but it felt reassuring.  As though the
shaman shared the same unspoken ‘rules’ that
his
species used. 

An image of a shapeless
glob popped into his mind, a disembodied feeling of frustration at trying to
communicate with the thing Mikhail knew was sentient … and a hell of a lot
smarter than he was.  He pulled out a name.  Dardda’il.  The image was lost
before he could get more.  Dardda’il.  Dardda’il. Dardda’il.  Shapeless smart
globs he'd trouble communicating with because they didn't share the same
underlying rules of social behavior.  It was another fragment of his past to
cling to even as his gut told him that these Dardda’il were not a significant
part of his life.

Immanu looked at the
enormous pile of sticks Ninsianna had been gathering all morning.  ‘Make busy’
work to ease the silence which normally would have been filled with her
friendly chatter, or the conversation she'd stopped having with her invisible
goddess friend.

“Mikhail,” Immanu
asked, “we need firewood for the ceremony.  Could you please carry some with us
to the gravesite?”

Mikhail did as asked,
his face arranged in an impassive mask.  His instincts told him to trust
Ninsianna’s father.  Something about him was familiar … and not just the eerie
tawny-beige eyes Immanu had bequeathed to his daughter.  But the
middle-of-the-night raid had rattled him.  He hadn't simply crash-landed in
unknown
territory, but into territory which was hostile to his presence.  He needed
to be careful.

“We are ready,” Immanu
said.  “Show me where you put the bodies.”

“Where is Ninsianna?”
Mikhail stiffened when he realized she'd moved out of his line of sight.

 It had been little
more than two weeks since he'd woken up with no memory of his past, but she was
the only constant he had.  As much as he hated being dependent upon her, he
was
dependent upon her.  Not for physical protection … the pulse rifle would
protect him however long it took to deplete the battery.  Not long by the angry
red light blinking on the hilt, but long enough.  It was the
psychological
stability
she provided.  Someone who accepted him when even
he
didn't know who he
was.  He felt adrift in the vacuum of empty space and she was his life pod. 

“Ninsianna will be
fine,” Immanu said.  “She doesn't like the ceremony of the dead.  She will
avoid us until it's over.”

Mikhail led him to a
small hill he'd found far enough away from the downed ship so that the
mercenaries families wouldn't need to trespass upon the perimeter to visit the
graves.  He couldn't remember what one was supposed to do when burying one's
enemies, but from the prayers he'd been reciting as he'd become aware of the
carnage beneath him, the ritual must be deeply ingrained into his
subconscious.  He'd dug eighteen separate graves, each one's head facing the
rising sun.  Cairns were piled over each grave to prevent wild animals from
disturbing the bodies.  He'd arranged their personal effects on top of the
graves so their next of kin could identify them.