Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (31 page)

 “General Harakhti …
what can I do for you?” Raphael saluted the higher-ranking officer even though,
technically, they were not within the same chain of command.  Re Harakhti was
the highest-ranking general in charge of the Leonid fleet, so even if Raphael
hadn't
admired the man, he would have given him the proper respect anyways.

“We have been
intercepting an unusually high number of Sata’an cargo ships moving back and
forth between the Empire and your sector,” General Harakhti rumbled.  “They
claim to be traders, but so far as we know, there's nobody to trade with that
far out.  What in Hades is going on?”

General Harakhti’s
ship patrolled the volatile border between the Sata’an Empire and disputed
Alliance Trust Territories where constant border skirmishes erupted.  The
front-line Leonids were often the
first
to notice an uptick in
suspicious activity, although they left it to intelligence personnel such as
Raphael to piece together the larger puzzle.  General Harakhti had been around
the block enough times to realize the suspicious activity, and Raphael's
placement at the edge of the same sector where all that suspicious activity was
headed, was probably related.

“We've been observing
the same thing, Sir,” Raphael said.  “The Prime Minister has ordered hands off
all peaceful traders.”

“Bullshit!!!” General
Harakhti growled in the style of an old-school general who had earned his
stripes the hard way … in battle.  “I don't buy it.  What do they think we
are?  Stupid?” 

Harakhti's whiskers
twitched in disgust.  Unlike the cool, reserved Angelics, the thoughtful Mer,
or the earthy Centauri, Leonids were a hot tempered race who spoke their mind. 
Raphael found their forthrightness to be refreshing.

“I've been assigned to
this sector to report all unusual activity to General Jophiel,” Raphael said. 
"Colonel Mannuki'ili went missing shadowing one of those ships.  Any
additional information your forces observe would be appreciated.”

“Parliament is full of
fools!” General Harakhti said in the throaty snarl typical of his kind.  “Don't
inspect Sata’an ships flying into Alliance airspace my ass!  Well … we
are
still allowed to stop ships that break weight, tonnage and safety laws, aren't
we?”

“That's correct,
Sir.”  Raphael understood the veiled proposal General Harakhti made. 
“According to the Sata’an/Alliance Treaty signed in 152,299 AE, paragraph 47,
subparagraph J, subsection iii-d, either side may board any ship traversing
their territory to make a routine health, safety, or welfare inspections so
long as no individual race is singled out.”

“Well then,” General
Harakhti flashed his fangs in a self-satisfied grin.  “Perhaps it's time to
write a few traffic tickets?”

“Yes, Sir … traffic
tickets,” Raphael nodded.  “General Harakhti … it has been a pleasure … as
always…”

“Yes, always,” General
Harakhti purred.  “And congratulations on the new little one.  I’ve got a few
cubs of my own ….

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

Late-March – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Mesopotamian plain outside Assur

Jamin

Jamin suppressed the
urge to put a rag over his nose.  The Halifian's stank as though they hadn't
bathed since last fall, which was likely since they spent most of the year in
the desert herding their goats.  They usually resided further out this time of
year, but the spring rains had petered out early, forcing them to come closer
to the tributaries that fed the Hiddekel River and increasing the amount of
conflict between their tribes.  Already the grasses were beginning to wither
and dust kicked up at every step.  Dirt had worked its way into his clothes,
his eyes, his shoes.  Dirty.  Never had he seen a people so inured with the
desert dust!

Dark eyes peered out
from hides stretched across wooden poles, just barely tall enough to stand up
in the center.  Halifian women hid whenever an emissary such as himself
arrived, but even if he
did
happen to spy one, the barbarians forced
their women to hide their faces so that a trader wouldn't be tempted to sneak
back and kidnap one of them. 

Kidnap and ransom were
time-honored methods of getting resources whenever the desert didn't provide
for their needs, but the Halifians were for hire for
other
nasty chores,
such as a coup d'état, although they were unreliable for any task beyond what could
be obtained for a simple bag of grain.  The people of the desert allied with no
man, least of one who was 'settled.'  Walking into their camp was like stepping
into a pit of vipers, but they were the only way he could rid his village of
the demon which had cast a spell not only over Ninsianna, but also his father's
common sense.

He felt as though he
needed to act!  Now!  He was sick of jibes from his fellow warriors and
satisfied sneers from women he'd bedded in the past.  Ridiculed.  Pitied. 
Laughed at.  If his father wouldn't help him win back his reluctant bride, then
he would do it himself!

“He killed eighteen of
our men,” the Halifian leader, Marwan, sneered, exposing his rotted teeth.  The
scar-faced man eyeballed Jamin with the
same
distrust that he viewed
them
. 
"How do we know it was not a setup?"

“We made a mistake
trying to capture him alive,” Jamin said.  “This time, I want him dead.  Lure
him out of his ship and fill him with spears.”

He unslung the heavy
pack he'd carried all the way from Assur, the heat of the desert already
unbearable even though they were still at the tail-end of the rainy season. 
He'd stolen grain from the communal granary to offer the Halifians something
for their services. 

Halifians scorned
tribes who tied their fate to the land, roaming the desert far and wide to find
forage for their enormous herds of goats and sheep.  With the wild winter
grains still wet and green and summer fields still underwater, dried emmet to
make the flatbread these people relied upon to supplement their diet of goat
was in short supply this time of year. 

A quiet murmur arose
from the tents where the women hid.  Veiled eyes peered out from cracks between
hides propped upon poles to act as walls.  A slender hand reached out from
underneath one of the tents to signal interest.  The grain he offered was not
without value. 

Marwan spied the hand
signal and waved it off.  The slender hand disappeared from view.  Unlike
Ninsianna, Halifian women didn't
dare
contradict their husbands.

“You'll have to pay us
a lot more.”  Marwan gestured with two fingers and his thumb to show he meant
something easily tradable.  “Otherwise my men are not interested.  The Amorites
offer gold for young female slaves.  It's a lot easier to snatch women
gathering forage in the field than to go up against a hardened warrior such as
your demon.”

The other Halifian
mercenaries laughed, a rough, guttural sound.  Several felt at their belts for
their blades.  Jamin understood enough of their language to comprehend many bore
him ill will for walking them into an ambush.  If he didn't treat with the
people of the desert carefully, it might be
him
that ended up dead
instead of the winged demon.

“Once I am chief,”
Jamin said, “you will be richly rewarded.”

“You're not chief yet,”
Marwan said.  “And we can't spend it if we are dead.”

Jamin glowered at the
Halifian leader. 
You're not chief yet!
  Those were the exact same words
Ninsianna had taunted him with moments before the winged demon had appeared to
snatch her from him.  Two of the mercenaries took a step towards him, their
hands moving towards their blades.  He was alone.  Unveiled aggression would
get him nowhere with these people.  He needed to hide his contempt and pretend
that he respected them, a skill he'd never been able to master.  For
her
,
he would do it.

“The good will you
earn should be compensation enough,” Jamin said.  “I have my father's ear. 
I'll urge him to be better disposed to your people.  It's not right, how he
refuses to trade the life-giving grain with you.”

“Your land used to be
our
land!” Marwan said.  “Halifian land!  Your forefathers evicted
our
forefathers from the village you now claim to be your own.  And now you whine
because somebody took what is yours?  Too bad!  If you want us to kill this winged
demon, you must sweeten the trade.”

That might be a
problem.  Jamin had lost his father's trust.  The Chief now kept his personal
treasury under lock and key.  As if
that
was any surprise.  If there was
one thing Jamin understood about his father, it was that the old man was cheap!

“I'll see what I can
come up with.”  Jamin pointed to the heavy sack he'd hauled all the way from
Assur.  Lessons his father had given, and been ignored, whispered into his
brain in a soft, feminine voice.  He'd come into this camp without warriors to
back him up.  If he wanted to leave with his life, he needed to offer them
something in return.  "You may keep this grain as a gesture of my
goodwill.  Consider it a symbol of my intention to trade fairly with your people
once I'm made chief."

He backed out of the
tent settlement, aware of the eyes which watched him as he left.  As he climbed
the sparsely vegetated rise, the grass already nipped close to the craggy land
by the enormous herd of goats, he looked back.  Dark covered shapes scurried
forth from the low tents, their heads and faces covered with robes so that he
wouldn't be tempted by their beauty.  If only Ninsianna had been thus covered
when the winged demon had first arrived in their village!  Perhaps then, the demon
wouldn't have taken it upon himself to steal his bride?

A single ray of
sunlight broke through the clouds and shone like gold upon a covered female who
walked clutching an infant to her chest.  She paused outside her tent, her dark
eyes the only part of her he could see as she watched him standing there upon
the horizon.  She wore the black head scarf of a widow.  She looked …. young.

The wind picked up and
caressed his cheek.

'The winged one has
made many widows amongst this tribe.  Some of them are quite beautiful. 
Perhaps you could ally your tribes peacefully -that- way?'

"Never!" he
hissed.

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

April – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

“Are you ready?”

“No,” Mikhail admitted
as he caught his first glimpse of the village which was about to become his
home.  “But I'll manage.” 

Built upon a rise in
an otherwise featureless land was a village upon a hill.  Squat yellowish
houses made from clay-mud bricks clustered around the apex.  The houses on the
outermost edge were built with only tiny slits for windows facing out, so close
they created a natural wall.  On flat rooftops moved about people.  Just
outside the inner ring were smaller structures, some constructed of wood,
others constructed of the same yellowish brick that blended in with the land. 
Most appeared to be pens for keeping livestock, but a few were houses, newer in
construction than the ones clustered around the hill.  The soldier in him whispered
this village was a place he could easily defend.