Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (30 page)

Mid-March – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash Site

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Mikhail swung his
sword in an arc, practicing his daily warm-up.  The cool feel of the grip
sliding into his hand gave him a chill of recognition that was both powerful …
and ominous.  As though he
should
remember where he'd learned to use it
so well.  If he focused on
remembering
the weapon, his body forgot how
to use it.  The most effective way to
wield
the sword was to simply
empty out his mind and let muscle memory take over.  In a land where men threw
sticks and stones, his sword was a weapon of mass destruction.

Ninsianna waded
through the stream, engaged in her perpetual conversation with her invisible
friend, trying to catch fish using nothing but her bare hands.  She was quite
adept at taking care of herself, but he kept a close watch on her.  Until he
found a way off of this planet, he would make sure nobody bothered her.  He had
a mission to complete, but the thought of leaving her behind disturbed him. 
Increasing the ferocity of his swing, he stabbed the imaginary opponent he
envisioned standing between him and Ninsianna, smiting him a thousand times as
he pondered the dilemma in his mind.  He swung, parried, and jabbed until his
muscles screamed in protest.

Splash!   Ninsianna
threw a fish onto the shore, laughing with delight.  She came up behind him,
the still-wriggling fish in her hands. 

“Mikhail … see …
fish!!!” she said triumphantly.

“Yes … fish good.”  He
forced himself to maintain eye contact and not stare unabashedly at her
breasts.  Ninsianna had haltingly explained that making clothing was time
consuming, whereas skin washed easily.  Whenever clothing might become wet,
dirty, or damaged, it was simply taken off.  The only garment that seemed
non-negotiable was her loincloth.

“I
gitmek
clean
now.”  She fetched her obsidian blade and took the fish back to the stream to
clean it.  When she returned, she placed the fish, tubers and greens she'd
scrounged up earlier onto leaves for cooking.  As it began to roast, she
unabashedly watched him practice with the sword, a smile lighting up her
features. 

“You heal good.  You
get
guclu
.”  She held up one arm and scrunched her bicep. 

“What that word?”  He
pointed to his bicep.

Ninsianna shook her
head ‘no’ and repeated the word, pointed to his bicep, and then picked up a
rock and pretended to heave it over her head. 

“Ahhh! 
N
íos láidre
… stronger.  I get stronger.  Yes?”

“Yes, stronger …
níos láidre
.
”  Ninsianna
repeated the word until she'd committed it to memory.  “Almost heal.”

“Yes, almost,” he
said.  “But no fly.  Wing still hurt bad.”

“
Bana izen ver
… look?" 

Slipping his sword
into its sheath, he sat and dutifully stretched out his wing.  The moment he
stretched up to get airborne, the pain made him dizzy and nauseous.  He worried
it had been broken beyond repair.  She placed her hands over the joint where it
had dislocated and felt along the bone.  She paused when she reached an area
that made him wince.

“Hurt?”

“Yes.  Hurt bad.”

Ninsianna felt for
anomalies then sat at his side, her face serious.

“Bone good,” she
said.  “Heal good.”

“Wing good?”

“No.  Wing not good.” 
She'd that universal look people wore when they were about to tell you bad
news. 

He schooled his
features into his customary unreadable expression so she wouldn't see the fear
that clenched his gut. 

“
Kiris
no
good.  Hurt bad.”

“What no good?” he
asked, not understanding the word.  Ninsianna pinched the bridge of her nose,
concentrating on a way to tell him what she thought was wrong.  She pulled off
one of the primitive hide coverings she used as a shoe.

“
Kiris
not
good.  Hurt bad.”  She pointed to her Achilles tendon.  “Need long time heal. 
Kiris
in wing hurt.  Need long time heal.”

“What that word?”  He
pointed to the spot of his wing that felt like somebody ripped it apart
whenever he tried to fly and then to her Achilles tendon.

“
Kiris
,” she
said.

Tendon.

“How long fly?”  He
masked his fear.  For a winged creature, being told you might never fly again
was like being told you might never walk again.  Paired with the realization
his ship might never work again and he was trapped, that was a lot of bad
news.  Especially
when he couldn't remember if anyone cared enough about
him to even bother looking!

“I don't know.”  She
put her hand on his cheek.  “Mama know better.  Mama better than Ninsianna.”

He must not have
masked his emotions as well as he thought he did because Ninsianna pulled him
in for a hug.  He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of soap
root.  An unpleasant memory triggered in his mind and was gone.  Buried in a
darkened room.  The smell of death.  Being small and helpless.  Whatever the
hell
that
was all about, he was glad the memory didn't stick.

“It okay.”  Ninsianna
ran her fingers through his underfeathers.  “Ninsianna ask Mama.  Mama know better. 
Mama fix wing.”

The tide of emotion
he'd been fighting to keep at bay since he'd awoken impaled through the chest
with what he thought was a spirit come to guide him into the dreamtime finally
broke.  Complete the mission?  Who the heck was
he
kidding?  Six weeks
and he remembered little more about his past
now
than the day he'd
placed his fate into her hands.  He couldn't even remember what the darned
mission had
been. 
Much less complete it!

“
Cad é ag déanamh liom a dhéanamh faoi tú, mo
ghrá?
” 
He whispered in his own language so she wouldn't
understand his words. 
What am I going to do about you, my love
?

The smell of cooked
fish reminded them it was time to eat.  He'd made her father a promise.  He
pulled himself back together before she read the vulnerability on his face. 
With his ship, his technology, his people, his memory, and his ability to fly
gone, the only thing he had left to offer was his word of honor.

Composing his features
back into an impassive mask, he pulled away and suggested they go get a bite to
eat.

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

Mid-March – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Outside Crash Site

Jamin

Jamin watched, and
saw, everything…

He gasped for breath,
burying his face into his knees to suppress the scream which threatened to
erupt from his heart in a wail of grief.  Deceiver! 

He'd known.  He'd
known in his gut the day she'd run into the winged demon's arms that he'd been
replaced, but he'd deluded himself into thinking she would grow tired of
caretaking a freak and return to their village.  He'd been busting his hump,
cutting timbers for her dream house and preparing his warriors for the day he
just
knew
demons would swoop down from the sky and attack their village.

First people.  Gita
had told him the priestesses at
Jebel Mar
Elyas had legends about winged demons that had
come across the waters and killed off all of the people who had been
on this world before.  Nephilim.  Slant-browed, barrel-chested giants.  And now
they were back to kill
them…

He watched Ninsianna
lead the winged demon into the sky canoe.  He wanted to kill him!  He lurched
forward, spear clutched in his fist, and fell back.  The tribunal.  His father
had threatened him with the tribunal if he thwarted his authority one more
time.  Several of the village elders bore grudges against him.  The penalty for
disobeying a direct order from the chief was public humiliation, banishment, or
stoning.  He would bear humiliation gladly if it would win back her heart, but
the thought of being sent away from her?

He looked at the
goatskin parchment clutched in his fist.  Equal.  His father had told him
Ninsianna could never love a man who didn't treat her as his equal, so Jamin
had thought up hundreds of ways to prove he
did
view her as his equal. 
It was only a little room sketched onto the side of their dream house, but the
‘hospital’ room was meant to be his temple to
her
.  The goddess he'd
failed to worship ... and lost.

He unrolled the
goatskin, tears streaking the charcoal he'd used to mark it.  He'd even
sketched plans for a garden to grow medicinal herbs.  For six weeks he'd
plotted ways to win back her heart.  He was, after all, the son of a chief. 
How could she
not
want him?  Her rejection had made him the
laughing-stock of the entire village!

Real
men didn't cry!  Fading into the woods from the spot
he'd taken to watching the goings on at the ship, he waited until he was out of
ear shot before he began to rage.  If this is what they did
outside
the
ship, he could only imagine what went on in private.  Hatred of the winged
demon hardened in his veins. 

'Jamin … let her
go…'

The wind taunted him,
whispering his loss through the cedars.  A green grasshopper flew onto his hand,
tilting its head to look at him and whirring its gossamer under-wings.  The
muscle in his cheek spasmed, stress causing the errant facial tic to develop a
mind all its own.  Let her go?  He gave the wind his answer.

"Never!" 

He squashed the
grasshopper and threw the blueprints into the bushes.  Skulking back to the
village, he plotted how he would get even.

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

Galactic Standard Date:  152,323.03 AE

Zulu Sector:  Command Carrier ‘
Light Emerging
’

Colonel Raphael Israfa

Raphael

Raphael examined the
map of the Orion-Cygnus spur of the Milky Way galaxy, all solar systems they'd
sent scout ships thus far marked in various colors to denote what they'd
found.  Six weeks into the manhunt and already he'd discovered dozens of
previously uncharted solar systems and hundreds of planets, one of them
marginally habitable.  None of them, unfortunately, had any sign of a homing
beacon … or Sata'anic activity which might indicate it was the planet where
Mikhail had been shot down.

“Sir,” Major Glicki
gestured towards her console, “General Harakhti is on 146.955 kMHz.  He would
like to speak to you right away.”

“Put it on the main
screen,” Raphael ordered. 

The furry image of the
Leonid four-star general came up on the main screen, his magnificent
reddish-brown mane a sharp contrast to the short golden fur which covered his
brow.  The most animalistic of the four hybrid species, Leonids resembled their
leonine ancestors, but had the enhanced intelligence and opposable thumbs of a human. 
They could walk bipedally to free up their hands to use technology or weapons,
or run on all fours to garner increased speed.  Male and female alike belonged
to a fierce warrior culture that made the Sata'an lizards appear tame.  When
all else failed, the Emperor would say “send in the Leonids!”