He realized Siamek had moved to stand beside him as any good lieutenant should during training. "Siamek? Move into the back line. At the end."
A shadow crossed Siamek's face. Anger? No. Hurt. Did he fear being demoted after Jamin's taunting yesterday? Mikhail decided it was better to risk a small confession now, in the hopes a strong warrior such as Siamek might help him work out the bugs, rather than bluster his way through it blindly.
"We do not have this exact weapon back where I come from," Mikhail hefted his spear. "You will recognize before I do how far an average warrior can throw it. I need your feedback."
Siamek nodded, the shadow disappearing. He moved to the rear as asked.
"We're going to throw one line of spears after another," Mikhail moved to stand in the first line, which by happenstance contained all 36 of his female warriors. "The first line will throw when I count out loud one. As soon as your spear leaves your hand, I want you to kneel."
The woman to his left gave him a bold grin.
"So now you want us to kneel before you, oh great leader?" Azin was a trickster like Dadbeh and Firouz. Although her throwing arm was not as powerful as a man's, a certain amount of weight being necessary to add distance into the throw, she was deadly accurate.
Mikhail tucked his wings against his back to discourage her from touching them and donned a neutral expression.
"I want you to kneel so the line behind you can throw without being hindered by your head," Mikhail stated flatly.
Azin kneeled and shot him a grin, undaunted by his no-nonsense demeanor. She was not beautiful, but like Pareesa she was outspoken and a talented warrior. All it took was someone willing to give them a chance to prove themselves for women such as Azin to step out from behind their weaving looms and take up a spear.
"I agree," Azin winked at the man behind her. "It would hurt if Tirdard hit me over the head. His wife would not be pleased if he had to carry me off."
"Yadidatum knows you are full of flatulence," the young man in question poked her with the blunt end of his spear. His smile indicated he took no insult from her jibing. "Ninsianna, on the other hand, would scratch out your eyes if she overheard you making such untoward propositions to her husband."
Mikhail watched the exchange with interest, mentally filing it under that expanding repertoire of inexplicable human behavior Ninsianna called 'flirting.'
He stepped backwards to stand in the second line of defense. Tirdard was a capable warrior, but this line also contained many of the less talented men. It set off a red flag. Another memory lurked in his muscles, but as he tried to pry it out, it remained frustratingly hidden. Like most things he 'remembered' about warfare, it wasn't a memory at all, but something his body just knew the moment you stuck a weapon in his hand.
"As soon as the first line throws and kneels," Mikhail said. "The second line will throw and kneel as well. The trick is to do it together."
He glanced at the men around him and added, "I will need to adjust who stands where as I see each man's strengths and weaknesses. Focus on mastering the movement of throwing and kneeling to the count as a single line, not who you're standing next to."
He moved back into the third line to stand next to Siamek. "As soon as the second line kneels, the third line will throw."
"But then we will be out of spears, Sir," an middle-aged warrior named Kiararsh said. "What then?"
Yes. What then? He'd been mulling over that same problem himself, but whatever he was trying to work out within his mind had not yet made its full appearance. He was only certain of one thing.
"This is not the weapon this maneuver was originally designed for," Mikhail confessed. "But it's part of a larger tactic I will teach you over the next few weeks. If we get it right, you can stand against a larger force of up to eight against one."
Even his eyebrows rose in surprise at the statistic which had flowed from his lips as naturally as the prayers he said to achieve inner peace. So it was a memory! He hoped it surfaced before he finished teaching the first component. The single platinum dog tag sliding against his chest reminded him he should know more. Colonel. At some point in his life, he must have trained other men, because that part of him that remembered bits and pieces knew colonel was not a rank which was given lightly.
He remained in the rear line to see the differences between how far he could throw versus the average human. It did these people no good if he pictured Angelics performing this maneuver and then the humans fell short in battle.
"First line throws on three," Mikhail said. "One … two … three!" The first line of spears flew distances ranging from ten to thirty paces, taking far too long.
The worst offenders belonged to Pareesa's team, the sixteen soft sons of merchants and craftsmen he'd saddled her with giving supplemental training, including Ebad, the man he'd noted earlier. She'd called them the 'B-team' after badgering him for information on how a proper Alliance military commander would train the laggards and the rejects. It kept her … and them … out of his feathers.
"Second line throw on three," Mikhail called. "One … two … three!"
The second line threw. Some threw fifteen paces; others threw thirty, and everything in between. Perhaps Jamin was right? Their skills with a spear were atrophying? No! Jamin was a goat's behind! Many of these men could barely throw because they had never practiced in the first place.
He stepped back to stand between Kiararsh and Varshab, both who'd studiously avoided being appointed lieutenants. Varshab needed to remain tied to the Chief, while Kiararsh, while technically part of Jamin's elite warrior troop, had only been appointed to babysit Jamin. The Chief wanted his men to remain, well, his.
"We need to adjust these lines," Varshab said quietly so the others could not hear.
"I agree," Kiararsh said from his other side. "But he has appointed Siamek this task. Let him make recommendations. If we do not agree with his opinion, we shall speak up."
Mikhail gave both older men a silent nod, aware that the Chief had sent them to mentor him the same way he watched over Siamek.
"All right, warriors," Mikhail called. "Third line on three … one … two … three!"
Although the third line was back the furthest, overall their spears overshot the first two lines. Something was wrong with this picture. He wished fervently he could write it down. Not only had the Ubaid not yet invented paper, but they possessed no alphabet beyond tally marks to keep track of numbers for trading. Even Ninsianna, whose gift of tongues permitted her to translate any spoken language, could not interpret Alliance cuneiform.
"Everybody retrieve your spears!" Mikhail ordered. He moved over to speak to Siamek.
"I see a flaw in how I have adapted this," Mikhail said quietly. "How do you propose I rectify it?"
"Pareesa's B-team is too weak to be put in the front line," Siamek said. "Much as it pains me to say this, you should command her to teach them more. At ten paces away before they can hit their mark, the enemy will overrun us before the second line can make their throws."
"The same thought occurred to me," Mikhail said.
"The women can't throw much further," Siamek added stiffly.
Mikhail frowned. That second memory, the one that wouldn't shake free, niggled beneath the surface of his subconscious.
"I will leave them in front for now," Mikhail said. "But I would appreciate it if you would work with them. They must increase their upper body strength to increase their range."
Siamek's eyes trailed over to where the black-eyed girl stood watching their every move, her too-large eyes giving her the appearance of a nocturnal animal. Siamek grimaced.
"I would consider it a personal favor." Mikhail crossed his arms in front of his chest. He did not wish to add 'because if -I- do it, Ninsianna will become so jealous she will refuse to speak to me for a year.'
"Now?" Siamek asked.
"First we will practice the throw a few more times," Mikhail said. "We will rearrange the second and third rows. But s
tarting tomorrow morning, get the women together before they head out into their fields to practice their throws."
"Agreed," Siamek said.
Mikhail led them through six more synchronized throws, each time tweaking the lines until only the women stood in the front row. He moved Pareesa's B-team to the far end to participate and learn, while the two rear lines had become six. It felt better, but not right. Whatever the memory was, this was as much as his scrambled subconscious would give him today.
"Alright, ladies and gentlemen," Mikhail called. "It's time for some good, old-fashioned synchronized marches. Get out your buckets."
With a universal groan, they retrieved baskets lined with goat-hide or soaked in bitumen to make them waterproof and marched with Siamek down to the river, carrying them back with their arms held out at their sides to build upper body strength.
"C'mon!" Pareesa shouted at her B-team. "Keep those arms up! If I can do it, you can do it! Why do you men move so slowly?"
Mikhail had to look away to avoid laughing. The little slave driver enjoyed making them repeat their lessons. It was an indignity the B-team submitted to because he had pulled them aside and explained, using gruesome depictions of battle injuries, that he did not wish them to get themselves killed. Pareesa, being Pareesa, carried out his orders like some nightmarish drill sergeant. Either the B-team would shape up … or they would gang up on the draconian little imp and throttle her.
The B-team gave him a pleading look that communicated, 'what did we ever do to you?'
Mikhail's eyes crinkled in a suppressed smile. The warriors seemed to be behaving themselves today, no stag dances, little gossip. Jamin's taunting had caused the opposite effect on their group cohesion. Much as the men and women resented having to do this after a day spent laboring in the fields, they resented even more the fact Jamin had gone hunting instead of training and then rubbed their faces in it.
"Strength training!" Mikhail shouted. The men and women lifted their buckets in a variety of moves designed to build muscles. A raised voice at the far end of the group caught his attention.
"What are you doing?" Pareesa stomped her foot in exasperation as she scolded Ebad. "Did I, or did I not, just spend three days teaching you to stand straight and suck in your belly? You'll hurt your back!"
The look Pareesa shot at Mikhail was 'why saddle me with such an incompetent.' By the time a young man reached adulthood, age 15 or 16 amongst this tribe, he was expected to either prove capable as a warrior or be sidelined into more pastoral tasks. At 17 summers, Ebad had already been relegated to the life of a tradesman until the raids had forced him to reconsider his career choice.
Mikhail decided to take pity on him before Pareesa made the entire B-team do a thousand pushups.
"You're doing better, Ebad," Mikhail stepped towards them. "But picture it this way. Instead of a bucket full of water that you're lifting, what will happen if I come at you like this?"
He rushed in like a raptor diving for a songbird, delivering a hammer fist to the top of Ebad's head. Ebad moved his arm, but not far enough. The blow landed with the lightest of force, but it still caused the young man to drop his bucket of water and yelp.
“How did you do that?” Ebad rubbed his head. “It was over so fast I could hardly see.”
"Normally you would have a weapon in your hand," Mikhail said. "Not a clumsy bucket of water. Try it again empty handed."
Mikhail performed the move again, but this time Ebad blocked the strike. Recognition dawned in Ebad's eyes.
"I can move faster now," Ebad said.
Mikhail nodded. "And when you build upper body strength, you will move faster still. Just like this little imp…" He glanced at Pareesa.
Pareesa rolled her eyes. Her disdain must have been crushing to Ebad's self-esteem, but Mikhail had to hand it to him. Natural warrior or not, Ebad kept trying.
He moved back to the larger group and watched them exercise until the sun dipped beneath the horizon. It was time to call it a night.
"Alright, men!" Mikhail called. "Spears tomorrow and buckets. We're going to practice some good old-fashioned spear-throws at targets, and then we'll do it in a line."
The warriors dumped the water onto their crops and, with a victory whoop, ran en masse to the Hiddekel River to soak the sweat off their bodies before returning home to their families. His tension drained as the men and women stripped down to their loincloths and crashed into the water whooping and laughing. He envied them, the ease with which they expressed their joy at the end of the day.
"Mikhail!" Azin shouted, his best female warrior after Pareesa. "Will you join us today?"
"Yes! Please join us! You must learn how to swim!" the other women gestured, their body language more reminiscent of seductresses inviting a sailor to cast their raft into a white water rapid than women warriors.
Mikhail could swim just fine, thank you. It was stripping down to his underwear and being gawked at by near-naked women which made him choke. He'd gotten better about not shutting his eyes to avoid staring at their breasts, but if there was one defect his wife possessed, it was jealousy. If he felt uncomfortable with the Ubaid tendency to view clothing as an afterthought, their only real prohibition being against publicly displaying one's genitals, then he could see why it would make her unhappy.
"Go ahead without me," Mikhail kept his expression neutral. "I will cool down afterwards."
He lingered in the background, just far enough back so he could keep watch over the now-playful warriors who had their guard down against threats such as the crocodiles which patrolled the river. Pulling his sword, he swung it first with his non-dominant left hand, and then switched over to his right as he conducted katas to keep nimble the various patterns of cuts, slashes, stabs and blocks he used in battle. That always made the women gawk, but it also sent a clear message to potential flirters, 'stay away from me.'
He was anxious to get home, but Ninsianna would be finishing up her father's lessons and not appreciate any distraction. This was one of the few times per day he had time alone with his own thoughts and he had grown to relish it.
Pareesa finished her nightly bath and emerged from the water, undaunted by his flashing sword. She had the decency to toss her shawl around her shoulders before asking questions about what he wished her to drill the B-team on tomorrow morning. Pareesa made her charges get up at dawn each morning for extra practice. After months of archer training, she'd learned that if she wanted her mentor to make eye contact, she needed to cover up.
"Toki ni anata wa watashi no kerubimu tatakai no inori o oshieru nodarou ka?" Pareesa asked in halting Cherubim. When will you teach me the Cherubim battle prayers?
"Anata wa sore o eru toki," he replied. When you earn it. Although his memories about his time amongst the Cherubim were sketchy, their training, which had been pounded into his subconscious via years of pure, brute rote repetition of martial arts and weapons drills, primitive weapons luckily for the Ubaid, had stuck with him, along with their language.
Pareesa's fairy-like features lengthened into a scowl. He decided to give her a boon for her hard work today … and give his aching feet a rest. Somehow, he doubted he'd spent as much time walking as he did flying before he'd ended up amongst the humans.
"Here … sit." He carefully arranged his wings as he sat down upon a log deposited high and dry by last spring's flood. "Before you go into battle, you must first purify your mind."
"And that will make my eyes glow blue so I can use a sword?" Pareesa's face lit up with enthusiasm.
"No." Mikhail removed the scabbard from his right hip and slid the aforementioned weapon into it, leaving his pulse rifle strapped to his left thigh. "It will clear your mind so that you can…"
He trailed off mid-thought. He knew the prayer. He knew what happened when he said the prayer. But he could not remember learning it or why he repeated it to himself hundreds of times each day. With the added frustration of training the warriors, perhaps he did so that many times e
ach hour? Pareesa looked at him expectantly. She knew him well enough to recognize when he reached for a memory which was no longer there.
"Can you at least tell me the words to the prayer?" she asked, no judgment in her question.
"Mattaku machigatta kōdō o shinai, suru koto ga dekimasu dekirudake ōku no yoikoto o suru, anata no kokoro o kiyomeru," he recited to her in a rhythmic, but not sing-song manner. Do no wrong actions. Do as much good as you can. Purify your mind.
She repeated the words until she had them memorized. He recited along with her, teaching her to focus on her breathing. Although not the Cherubim killing incantation, he felt the edge of that mind-expanding awareness he associated with the killing dance.
He opened his eyes and stared into her brown ones. Sometimes, when he worked with her one-on-one like this, he could swear a much older woman stared out of those young eyes. It was as though she had known these lessons all along and all he did was remind her of knowledge she already possessed.
"Your eyes are glowing blue," Pareesa smiled. She moved her finger towards his cheek without touching him. "Just a little … around the edges. Why don't my eyes glow blue?"
"Your eyes are brown, little fairy," Mikhail could not help but smile. The emotion was fleeting as it felt awkward. "But who knows? If you practice hard enough, perhaps your eyes will do it, too?"
"How many times do you say this prayer each day?" Pareesa asked.
"Hundreds of times," Mikhail said. "Sometimes, when working with Firouz and Dadbeh, hundreds of times in a single moment so I don't feed their entrails to the goat." He said those last words with a deadpan expression.
Pareesa laughed. She knew it was about as close as he ever came to telling a joke. "I often feel that way about Ebad and the B-team. Another way we are alike?"
Mikhail allowed the crinkle of his eyes to betray he found her amusing, his little protégé who would sprout wings if only she could figure out a way to do so. In many ways, were her complexion not swarthy and her eyes brown, she more closely resembled him than her own people, genetic evidence of a grandmother who had married into the tribe from the far north where it was said there were people with blue eyes such as him.
Sword of the Gods: Prince of Tyre (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 8