Sword of the Gods: Prince of Tyre (Sword of the Gods Saga)

by Anna Erishkigal

  Furcas held his arm, blood visible on his cuff, while Pruflas had scratches on his face. Neither bodyguard spoke, only eyed him with their usual cold-eyed stare. Eligor wondered if he'd ever seen them blink…

  "You called for me, Sir?" Eligor asked Zepar.

  "Yes," Zepar lay out a series of neatly labelled syringes and vials into a box. "We're about to rendezvous with the Beylan to transfer cargo to a new recipient. I need you to help the Prime Minister get cleaned up and into the shuttle."

  "Yes, Sir," Eligor said. He stepped towards the door and stopped. "The Beylan? That's a Leonid battle cruiser, isn't it?"

  "Yes," Zepar put the last syringe into the box and handed them to Pruflas. "Any more unnecessary questions?"

  No, Sir," Eligor glanced at the syringes. "It's just … I thought you'd had no luck getting them to accept our Leonid brothers?"

  Zepar's feathers rippled with annoyance.

  "I haven't. And they need a solution to their problem. So I'm going to let them take care of the confounded male Ba'al Zebub dumped on us as some kind of sick joke."

  Eligor glanced at Furcas holding his bloody arm, no emotion in his eyes except the icy stare he would swear was hatred if not for the fact he'd never done anything to arouse the mercenaries ire.

  So? The dark-skinned human had gotten him. Again? Eligor wasn't the kind of man to find humor in someone else's downfall, but even he had to admit it was poetic justice. He was being called in because, as the longest-serving crewman and one whose loyalty had never been called into question, they wanted him along instead of the idealistic Lerajie in case the human male attacked someone and needed to be beaten and drugged into a stupor. Eligor hadn't seen the human male since he'd dropped him off at Lucifer's weeks before, but he'd seen Lucifer's arm afterwards, an injury requiring seventeen stitches. Whatever depraved crap Lucifer was into these days, the dark-skinned man hadn't taken it laying down.

  "Perhaps the Leonids will pose a significant enough threat to get him to behave," Eligor said. At an average height of nine feet for the lionesses and eleven for the males, they sure as hell scared the shit out of him. "Do you think they'll be able to get him to breed?"

  Zepar shrugged. "Lionesses are tempting creatures when they go into heat. I've been acclimating him to video footage and pictures. We'll just have to see."

  "Too bad you can't just explain the situation to him, Sir," Eligor said. "I mean, I know they can't talk or anything, but maybe they're like the Cephalopods? Smart enough to mimic you if you show them a bunch of times what to do? He seems to be a lot smarter than the females."

  "That is not your concern," Zepar gave him a stare that was every bit as malignant and cold as those of the two goons. "And I wouldn't go repeating that observation if I was you. Do you know what would happen if the media released stories of humans being more intelligent than they really are?"

  Yes. It was all he could do to encourage his idealistic sidekick Lerajie to keep his mouth shut and not go running to the animal rights activists. They'd have wackos dogging their every step.

  "Sir," Eligor said, duly chastised.

  "You do hope to get one of your own someday for reproduction, don't you, Eligor?" Zepar asked. "How old are you now?"

  "Four hundred and fifty eight," Eligor said.

  "Past the age when the Emperor deems you expendable enough to ship you out to the Tokoloshe Front because he's washed your genome off as a lost cause," Zepar said. "Is that what you want to have happen?"

  Images of being captured by the Tokloshe, strapped down to a feeding table, and devoured alive popped into his mind. Eligor felt sick to his stomach. He was well aware of what happened to an Angelic once they got blacklisted. Some, such as The Destroyer, were kept close because Shay'tan was scared shitless of them, but most others got sent on missions with ridiculously high body counts.

  "No, Sir," Eligor said.

  "Go," Zepar said. "Get the prima donna out of bed and make sure he looks presentable enough to give the sales pitch. We'll take care of the dark-skinned male."

  Zepar picked up the last syringe on the tray, a large, thick-needled hypodermic with a plunger full of enough sedative to knock out a whole herd of Centauri. He turned his back to Eligor and motioned the two cold-eyed goons to move into the holding area where no one but Zepar was allowed to go. The goons intercepted all cargo until Zepar had a chance to figure out which ones he could train as breeding stock and which ones were useless except to be stuck in Lucifer's harem.

  Some of the crewman whispered they thought it was unfair Lucifer had kept so many for himself, but Eligor had watch duty over the rejects four days a week. He'd rather wait for one of the trainable ones. The thought of … ugh! He didn't know how Lucifer did it. Fucking something that couldn't even think! Although at least the alpha-stud only took them once … just long enough to plant his seed.

  He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and moved out of Zepar's office to the sound of shouting and bodies being thrown against the wall in the back room. Eligor shrugged. So far as he was concerned, Furcas and Pruflas got what they deserved.

  He made his way down to the Prime Minister's personal quarters. There was no guard stationed outside his door today, which was unusual. No one had seen him since the day he'd come out of his father's throne room, trembling, and ordered them to drop him off at his living needle ship so he could return to the Prince of Tyre without a lengthy shuttle run.

  Whatever had happened in the Emperor's throne room, it had been really, really bad…

  "Mister Prime Minister," Eligor called as he knocked on the door. "Sir?" There was no answer. No sound at all. After trying several more times, he used his keycard to access the door. It wasn't even locked.

  "Sir?" Eligor called out. The room was pitch black. The scent of vomit assailed his nostrils. He ruffled his feathers with disgust.

  "Mister Prime Minister, Sir?" Eligor called. He flipped on the light switch and, for a moment, thought perhaps he was the first man on-scene at a murder.

  "Sir?" Eligor tripped over an empty liquor bottle as he moved over to the figure sprawled across the bed to check for a pulse. It was too fast and a bit erratic, but otherwise it appeared to be in order. "Sir? Are you alright?"

  Lucifer groaned and curled up in a fetal position, his snowy wings trembling like a bird which had just slammed into glass and lay trembling upon the ground, waiting for a predator to come eat it.

  "I can't do this anymore," Lucifer mumbled. "Get someone else to do it. I give up."

  Eligor gasped as not only disjointed images came into his mind, but emotions flowed into his body. Sorrow. With a sob, he covered his mouth, unable to make sense of the flood of images which violated his mind, unable to tune them out. Shit! They'd always joked the Prime Minister had the power of persuasion, but this was the first time he'd realized the man had abilities reserved for the gods!

  He recognized the attack was not intentional, but a side-effect of the potent Mantoid liquor whose empties were scattered about the room. Was it possible to drink so much you died of alchol poisoning? Yes. He'd heard of such things in lesser species. He'd better get help.

  "Zepar, this is Eligor," he called into his comms pin. "I think you'd better get up here."

  There was a delay, then an annoyed answer.

  "I'm busy," Zepar said. "Whatever it is, deal with it yourself."

  The sound of a struggle and shouting filled the static in the background. It appeared the Leonids 'gift' wasn't going willingly.

  "He ain't doing so good, Sir," Eligor stared at the unconscious figure. "I don't think he'll even be able to walk. Much less look presentable for your VIP's. Maybe they're going to have to take a rain check?"

  "Just clean him up and roll him into the shuttle," Zepar said, not sounding surprised. "I'll sober him up once we get there."

  The sound of fighting grew louder, including shouted expletives in a voice he recognized as Pruflas. Eligor snorted a rare thrill of victory. Good. The dark-skinned man
did what many of the crew wished somebody dared do, put the two goons in traction.

  "I'll get him there, Sir," Eligor called. "The rest is up to you."

  Zepar cut him off with a curt response.

  Was this what really went on when Zepar chased them all away from the Prime Minister and wouldn't let anybody near him except for Furcas and Pruflas? If so, he could see why Lucifer's Chief of Staff liked to keep things under wraps. He stared at the pathetic puppet prince curled up on the bed, white wings trembling as he tried to claw his way back into his alcoholic stupor.

  "Sir," Eligor said. "I've got to get you cleaned up. Okay? Zepar asked me to help you down to the shuttle bay."

  "Why won't he leave me alone?" Lucifer sobbed. "I told him I need to get my head examined."

  Eligor resisted the temptation to agree with him.

  "It looks like you've got a nosebleed, Sir," Eligor said. "Did you bump yourself?"

  Tripped on a liquor bottle was more like it…

  "Headaches," Lucifer mumbled. "Hurts so much all the time. Can't think. Not supposed to be like this."

  "Like what, Sir?"

  "Can't remember." Lucifer's eyes, which had only been open a crack, rolled back in his head. Eligor checked his pulse again. Erratic and too fast, but otherwise fine. He'd just passed out.

  Gee … this duty seemed familiar. Like wives … like husband. Nice to know 150,000 years of evolution hadn't changed much in their species. Eligor moved into the bathroom to get the shower running, trying to decide whether he should give him a cold shower to sober him up, or a hot one to just get him cleaned up and comfortable. Soft moans came from the room, as though Lucifer was crying. Hot. Definitely hot. Eligor was a pragmatic man, not a cruel one. Not unless he had to be. He waited until the bathroom filled with steam.

  "C'mon, Sir," Eligor dragged him to the edge of the bed and sat him up. Lucifer teetered on the edge like a drunken rag doll, ready to fall. He had a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. Eligor pried his fingers open to get him to release it. Lucifer began to sob.

  "I don't know why she didn't speak up for me," Lucifer wept. "What did I ever do to her? She rejected me because I wasn't able to beget offspring upon her."

  Eligor had no idea what the hell that was about, the drunken ramblings of a broken man, and did not care. He shoved his shoulder under Lucifer's armpit and half-dragged, half-walked him to the bathroom to sit him down upon the toilet seat, unable to avoid crushing a few of his primary feathers in the process. Lucifer could take his own damned dump! As soon as he'd stripped him down to his boxer shorts, habit compelled Lucifer to finish his own grooming routine.

  Eligor caught a glimpse of two thin pink scars running down either side of Lucifer's spine, thickening just where they disappeared into his boxer briefs as he stumbled into the shower. An old injury? He'd been Lucifer's man for 225 years and didn't remember him receiving such an injury. Perhaps before that, when he'd been a little boy?

  He stepped out to give the man some privacy, praying he wouldn't have to haul a wet, drunken, naked politician out of the shower if Lucifer passed out. Now that would make for some awkward media coverage! For him… Eligor liked his mating appointments to be with women, thank you very much, and anyone who insinuated otherwise would have to deal with the wrong end of his fist!

  He moved about the room, picking up the empties and depositing them in the trash. The wastecan overflowed with liquor bottles. Why in Hades did Zepar enable the guy by letting him have access to this much liquor? Shit! Had that been him who'd drunk that much, he'd have died of alcohol poinsoning! He knew Lucifer liked to drink, but 225 years he'd been serving the man and never realized it had gotten this bad. A thud in the shower jolted him out of his worries.

  "Sir?" Eligor knocked on the door. "Are you alright, Sir?"

  "I'm okay," his response was thin and weak. "Just give me a minute, okay?"

  Oh. Shit. Clothes. He should have done that part first. What the hell should a Prime Minister wear to traffic illegal, non-sentient sex slaves to half-humanoid lion-people? He rummaged through Lucifer's closet, everything looking far too expensive. He'd been stuck on goon-squad duty for so long he'd lost touch with what was even supposed to be fashionable. He thanked the goddess this wasn't an important state dinner he was dressing Lucifer for, but just an internal mission. He settled on a simple off-white suit jacket, matching slacks, and undergarments. Dressy. But not the fanciest he'd ever seen the Prime Minister wear.

  "Did you, perchance, grab me any clothes?" Lucifer's speech was slurred, but better than Eligor had thought it would be.

  "I … um … here," Eligor shoved the garments through the door. He expected Lucifer would throw the outfit back in his face, but he did not. He waited and waited, for a time fearing Lucifer had passed out again, but the occasional thump and curse let him know Lucifer was getting himself dressed.

  He stared at the crumpled paper he had pried out of Lucifer's grasp. The comforter was smeared with vomit from Lucifer's bender. Might as well clean it up and give the guy a clean place to crash after Zepar finished using him for whatever intrigue he was up to now. He smoothed out the parchment and went to put it on the bureau, where the envelope was strewn, and noted angry red handwriting scribbled across the front in a bold, masculine hand.

  'REFUSED! Return to sender…'

  The letter was addressed:

  Private Jophiel

  10th Force Support Squadron

  Minshara Air Force Base

  Kepler 22-b System

  Eligor was not a curious man, which is why Zepar had hired him to cruise around the galaxy backing up Lucifer's under-radar adventures, but with Lucifer taking his sweet time getting dressed, it wasn't like he had anything better to do. He smoothed out the letter, the paper heavy and thick with it's gold-leaf emblem at the top announcing it was an official document from the office of the Prime Minister, the mere use of paper to communicate instead of an electronic document proof this letter carried matters of great import, and read the carefully scripted handwriting that was dated 35 years ago:

  * * *

  'My dearest Jophiel,

  I know our time together was unsuccessful, but I think of you every day. I have written to you two prior times and not received an answer. I, like you, desire to obey our beloved Emperor and god, my father, who art in Haven. But he has been gone these long 190 years, and while I have tried my hardest to fulfill his edict to be fruitful and multiply, the truth is, I am weary.

  Our species was not meant to be bred like farm animals, to fill the ranks of my Father's armies and be denied the chance to love. If he was still here to see what his policies have reduced us to, I truly believe he would relent about these terrible laws that make us bow down to the naturally evolved species, but deny us the chance to -live.-

  My father went away and left -me- in charge. If you would give me a chance, I would move Haven to make our union a permanent one, and get Parliament to grant the same rights to others of our species so all could find the happiness I have found in your arms. Perhaps, in time, She-who-is would be moved by our example and gift us with a child?

  Is féidir liom a bhraitheann tú, chol beag. [I can feel you, little dove]

  Love,

  Lucifer

  * * *

  The scrape at the door made Eligor fold the note and shove it inside the envelope, the one that had the words 'REFUSED' scrawled across it in angry red ink. Shit! No wonder the Prime Minister hated the Supreme Commander-General's guts! 35 years ago? Crap! The woman couldn't have been more than a cadet at the time! And she'd refused him? The Prime Minister? After Lucifer had poured his heart out to her?

  And now Lucifer was off on the mother of all benders because Jophiel had caused the Emperor to say something horrible to Lucifer at that meeting they'd had several days ago.

  "I could use a little help," Lucifer's voice floated out of the bathroom, soft and weak. Eligor pushed open the door and was taken with how pathetic Lucifer appeared, a broke
n man, not the prince depicted in the media. His feathers were disheveled and his wings drooped so low they dragged on the ground. He looked, if anything, like a bird who'd been mauled by a cat.

  'Which twin is he today?' Eligor asked the question he found running through his mind each time he lay eyes upon the man lately. 'The good one.' Right now, Lucifer was about as raw and real as a guy could get without slitting his wrists.

  "What happened, Sir?" Eligor asked. He didn't usually pry, but sometimes if you signalled you wouldn't tell someone to shut up if they needed to talk, they'd open up and chew your ear off.

  Lucifer leaned on him as he led him out to a chair and helped him sit down to put on his dress shoes. Eligor ended up tying the shoelaces for him. Those eeries silver eyes stared into his and, for a moment, Eligor caught an image of a boy sitting in the branches of the Eternal Tree, listening to a little bird sing.

  The power of persuasion. It was rumored the Seraphim had possessed such gifts, healing, telepathy and telekinesis, a grand experiment in eugenics which had resulted in any Angelic who didn't measure up getting tossed off their planet, which is why Eligor had Seraphim blood running through his veins within 6 generations. After the Emperor had disappeared, Zepar had suppressed the history of what Lucifer's biological father had done to try to get him back, but like any Angelic older than 225, Eligor had been there. Lucifer had more Seraphim blood flowing through his veins than anyone except for perhaps Abaddon and the Colonel.

  "Let's just say it's been a bad last couple of days," Lucifer's voice warbled as he spoke.

  "The Emperor?" Eligor had been there when Lucifer had come out of the Great Room, looking like somebody had just torn out his heart.