Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (28 page)

February – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Jamin

Jamin knew what was
coming the moment he came home from the hunt and spotted Immanu leaving his
father's house.  Stiffening his spine to remind his father he was now a little
bit taller than him, he strode inside and held out his share of the gazelle he
and Siamek had slain as though it were a peace offering to the man his whole
life he'd called 'the Chief.'

“What the
hell
were
you thinking?!!!”  His father's anger hit him full-force like the leading edge
of a sandstorm.  "Halifians?!!!"

Veins bulged forth
from the Chief's neck, muscular and thick from a lifetime of training as a
warrior-chief.  He spat out the last word as though it were goat shit.

“
You
weren’t
going to do anything!” Jamin's black eyes flashed with anger.  “
You
weren't
even here when it happened!  A demon was cast down from the sky in a fireball
which nearly incinerated half this village and all
you
want to do is
invite him over for a feast!”

“He possesses
technology we
need
to fend off our enemies,” the Chief's hand tightened
into a fist.  “The Halifians!  In case you've forgotten who our
real
enemies are!”

“The Halifians are our
enemies because our ancestors kicked
their
ancestors off of their tribal
lands,” Jamin said.  “How come you're not so anxious to invite
them
over
to discuss things?”

“I tried!  They
ambushed us.  Twice!"  the Chief threw his arms to his side the way a
referee would make an 'out' signal during a kabbadi match.  "And then
they…they…they…" 

His father turned his
back to him.  Whatever the
real
reason was the Chief hated the
Halifians, it went far beyond the usual tit-for-tat warfare the Ubaid waged
against their other neighbors.  "At some point, you've got to acknowledge
diplomacy doesn't work and take a hard line.”

“Diplomacy has not
worked with the demon, either,” Jamin said.  “First he shot lighting at us out
of his firestick.  And then he slaughtered eighteen men I hired to free my
fiancé.”  He replicated holding the firestick in front of him.  It was peculiar
magic, a weapon that didn't require cocking back your arm to throw a lightning
bolt the way you would a spear or blade.

“Ninsianna is
not
your
fiancé anymore,” the Chief said.  “She has taken refuge with the winged one
because
you
refuse to take no
for an answer.  He's not
threatening her.  He's
protecting
her.  From you!”

Jamin felt as though
he'd just been struck.

“She never gave me a
reason why!” Jamin's voice broke.  “She just broke it off.  For no reason!  One
day she tells me she loves me and can't wait to get married, and then the next
day she says she doesn’t.  We didn't even have an argument!” 

He turned his back so
the Chief wouldn't see the tears that threatened to erupt at her betrayal. 
Real men didn't cry!

“Sometimes people just
realize they just aren't right for one another,” the Chief said, his anger
gone.  “Ninsianna didn't leave you for the winged one.  She left.  And then
when you tried to force her hand, she took refuge with someone powerful enough
to make you back off.  She's just not the right person for you.”

“Then who is?” Jamin
said.  “None of the others even come close.  They are so vapid.  Like sheep!  I
want a mate who will be my equal in all things.”

“And the first thing
you tried to do when you
found
that equal,” the Chief said, “was change
her.  You tried to force her to fit your narrow notion of what a wife
should
be.  Someone to cook your dinner and follow your orders.  Is it any wonder she
balked?”

“Mama followed your
orders,” Jamin said.  “She never dishonored you in front of the tribe.”

“You were nine years
old when she died,” the Chief said.  “You were too young to remember what she
was really like.”

“She used to sing me
songs,” Jamin said.    “And bake bread that was so good it made my mouth
water.  I don't remember her ever starting an argument.”

“If you think your
mother was one to follow orders, then you'd better think again.”  His father's
eyes focused wistfully into the past.  “She was every bit as strong willed and
independent as Ninsianna is.  Or Needa, her mother.  If you want to see how to
treat a woman, look to how Immanu treats his wife.”

“But Needa bosses
Immanu around and is a terrible cook.”

“And Immanu is a very
happy man.” Sorrow etched his father's face.  “As I was happy when your mother
was still alive.  There are more important things in life than the best cook or
most obedient wife.  I would give up everything I own just to have your mother
back for a single day.”

They stood there in a
stalemate. 

“He is a threat,
father,” Jamin said.  “He almost killed me.  I looked into his eyes and what
looked back at me wasn't human.”

“I agree he is not
like us,” the Chief said.  “But Immanu assures me the legends say his people
are the champions of She-who-is.”

“His eyes glowed
black.”  Jamin shuddered at the memory.  “When Ninsianna threw her body over
mine to stop him, he nearly smote
her
as well.  Whatever had possession
of him didn't recognize her.”

“He is a winged
creature of legend,” the Chief said.  “And a potential asset to this village. 
You need to stop thinking of him as your enemy and start thinking of ways to
get him to teach us what he knows.  The only thing keeping him here is his
affection for Ninsianna.”

“So now Ninsianna is …
what?” Jamin snarled.  “A game piece on a cribbage board?  This is
my
fiancé!”

“You didn't have a
problem when it was
you
who wanted her against her will,” the Chief
said.  “In fact, when you pleaded with me to invoke my chiefly privilege to
deny her hand to any other man, you convinced me what an
asset
an
allegiance between the shaman’s daughter and the future chief would be.  You
wanted a healer for a wife so you could increase your own prestige!”

“A wise chief would
meet a threat with whatever means are necessary,” Jamin reasoned.  “The demon
will lead our enemy's right
to
us.  We need to be prepared.”

“He possesses
unbelievable strength and technology,” the Chief said, “but he has not moved
against us.   He has only harmed those who sought to harm him first.”

“He only waits because
he is injured,” Jamin said.  “If we strike while he is still weak, we have a
chance to defeat him and take his technology.”

“Until I meet him in
person and gauge his character,” the Chief said.  “I don't know
what
to
think.  It would be better for all concerned if he were our friend.  Not our
enemy.”

“You're passing up the
only chance we may ever have to take him by surprise,” Jamin said.  “While he
is still weak enough for us to defeat.  It's foolish to pass up this opportunity.”

“A wise chief only
uses force
after
all attempts at diplomacy have failed,“ the Chief
said.  “Not before.  Once you use force, you lose forever the opportunity to
reason
with your enemy.” 

The muscle in Jamin's
cheek twitched in irritation.  It was an old argument, when to use force versus
when to attempt diplomacy.  His father granted favors to those who were weak
and thus had little value as allies, while he was reluctant to send emissaries
to tribes that were strong, such as the Halifians who forever dogged their
existence.  Although Jamin believed diplomacy had its place, they often found
themselves to be polar opposites on
when
to attempt that diplomacy.  As
far as Jamin was concerned, diplomacy should only be used to placate an enemy
who was too powerful to defeat.

“He is a threat,”
Jamin said.  “We may never get another chance.” 

“If you think he is a
threat,” the Chief said.  “Then you're free to train as many hours as you like
with your warrior friends to hone your skills.  Practicing for the worst while
hoping for the best does no harm.”

“Yes, father.”

“You will only
practice a
fter
all of your other duties have been attended to,” the
Chief added. “This is not an excuse to slack off!” 

“Yes, father,” Jamin
grumbled. 

“But under
no
circumstances
are you to go anywhere near him,” the Chief's eyes grew hard.  “Or his sky
canoe.  Not until
–I-
decide.  I'm the chief!  Not you!”

“Yes, father,” Jamin
muttered under his breath.

“Go, now,” the Chief
said.  “I have to go figure out how much damage your unauthorized theft of my
resources has caused.”   

Jamin left.  His
father was a fool!  Signaling his friends who loitered outside, they stalked
off to the training field behind the village to practice.  If the Chief
wouldn't address the threat, they would.  Jamin would make sure they were
prepared.

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

Late-February – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Ninsianna

Ninsianna stared at
the long, lean legs protruding from beneath the pair of silvery oars that
powered Mikhail's sky canoe. 
Engines
he called these devices.  Each was
larger than the largest auroch, with sharp spearheads and thick hollow reeds
connecting every aspect of his ship as though they were enormous twin spiders
sharing a single web. 

“
Céilí
m
ór!
!!”
he
cursed.  Something rang as it hit the floor.  “Ninsianna,
d'fhéadfá a fháil dom le do thoil go bhfuil
eochair
?”

“Here …
anseo,
”
she handed him the grasping tool he called ‘wrench.’  He'd repeated the phrase
‘le
do thoil’
enough times to understand it meant ‘please give me.’  The
strange tool, in fact, just about everything in his sky canoe, had no
correlation in her language.  She simply paid attention and learned whatever
she could.

Normally she allowed
She-who-is to guide her intuition rather than commit magical uses to memory,
but the goddess had sent her a tempting teacher!  Muscular thighs flexed
beneath taut woven clothing as he shifted position to move deeper beneath the
engines.  His undershirt had ridden up, giving her a pleasant view of his belly
button.  She knew she should ask him questions about how the magic he was
trying to fix actually
worked
, but right now she was having too much fun
watching taut abdominal muscles ripple beneath his skin.  Perhaps he was
too
tempting?

“Ninsianna,
d
'fhéadfaí tú a lámh le do thoil dom scriúire?
”

“Anseo.”
  She grabbed the small spear-like object called
‘screwdriver.’  His wings were splayed beneath him on the floor like a brown
feathered cape.  She crawled over them on hands and knees, trying to feel where
feathers ended and flesh began so she didn't kneel on living tissue.

“Thank … you.”  He
regarded her with that cool, expressionless mask he always wore as he took the
‘screwdriver’ from her hands.  The moment stretched out before he shifted his
gaze back to manipulate the little spear into the ‘engine.’ 

“You're welcome,” she
said concisely in her own language, carefully backing out.  They both froze as
she placed one hand down upon the spot where his bare abdomen disappeared into
his pants, dangerously close to where his manhood pressed through the fitted
garments.  His warmth radiated up through her fingers as she registered his abdominal
muscles harden at the unexpected contact. 

“Oh … excuse me!"

She jerked away her
hand a full moment
after
she should have removed it.  Why did
embarrassing moments such as this always stretch out in time?  She scurried the
rest of the way out from beneath the engines, ripping out a few dark feathers
in the process.