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

by Anna Erishkigal

  Goat. He'd rather bugger a goat than be forced to marry Shahla, who hid behind her father, refusing to speak to him alone; no doubt fearful of the beating he would give her. What did she think he'd do after he married her? Suddenly grow to love her? There was only one woman he loved, and that woman had just played him right into his soon-to-be father-in-law's hands.

  A ponderous wind blew an empty basket across the tent settlement, causing the moisture to weigh heavier upon his skin. It was moist enough to leave his shawl saturated with his own sweat, but cool enough to make him feel a chill. He wrapped it tighter to keep out the wind. By some strange stroke of fate it was Aturdokht who first emerged from Marwan's tent and glanced up the hill, her eyes burning into his even through the distance, waves of hatred seething off of her like a mirage in the desert.

  She disappeared back into the tent. Jamin thought perhaps he'd be forced to wait, this wild desert spirit who hated him defiant enough to not tell her father, but within moments Marwan emerged with his kin. He was dressed, not in the casual attire he had worn when Jamin had happened upon their tents uninvited the last time, but wearing layered robes of many colors, a green cloth wrapped around his head, and an embroidered cummerbund into which had been stuck a bone-handled obsidian blade. The ceremonial finery of a desert shaykh.

  "Jamin!"

  Marwan came at him with open arms, but Jamin was a practiced student of his enemies … allies … whatever they were these days. He had dealt with them often enough to read the way Marwan's henchmen fanned out to watch not just him, but three men dressed in the colors of a different group of tents. Two of the men were known to him, for he had seen their faces in his village moments before the winged demon had returned to smite their kinsmen. From their fine, ceremonial attire, similar to Marwan's, they were high-ranking individuals themselves; although without the fringes the Ubaid wore it was hard to denote their rank. The third man attire was deceptively simple, but he wore the attire of a tribe which sent chills down Jamin's spine.

  An Amorite slave dealer…

  "If it isn't my future son," Marwan greeted with false warmth, "come to visit his betrothed."

  The scar that ran horizontally beneath his cheekbone puckered, giving him the appearance of a man speaking out of two different mouths at the same time, the one which uttered words that you could hear, and the second, silent mouth which spoke the truth. It captivated him, that silent mouth his father had carved into Marwan's cheek.

  Jamin stiffened. "I got your message."

  "Come, son," Marwan gestured down towards the tents, emphasizing the word 'son.' "Aturdokht is anxious to behold her intended."

  From the cold-eyed glare she had given him before disappearing back into the tent, Aturdokht desired no such thing. But Marwan's puckered scar, that mouth which did not speak, whispered to play along.

  Marwan hesitated just long enough for Jamin to verify he did not come at him with a knife before putting his arm around his shoulders as though he were a real son. The shaykh's dark eyes met his, and then glanced furtively to the three visitors and back again.

  Jamin shifted the knapsack of barley off his back. "I come bearing a small token of my affection."

  From the silent squeeze Marwan gave his shoulder, Jamin knew it was the correct response. One of the three strangers looked upon him with curiosity; the other two glowered with seething anger. What were kinsmen of Aturdokht's slain husband doing here?

  Marwan's men fanned out to drive a wedge between he and the three visitors. Jamin feigned a level of comfort he did not feel with the desert shaykh standing close enough to bury a knife into his ribs, sensing Marwan felt the same way about him. But whatever was going on, Marwan viewed him as the lesser threat.

  Thunder rumbled. The air grew thicker, more stifling as they moved amongst the tents. The eagles had, thank the gods, disappeared, although perhaps that was a bad omen, to be out of the protective eye of She-who-is? The darkening horizon drew closer, turning angry red where the wall of sand came closer like the wrath of the gods.

  "A storm is coming," Jamin said.

  The men shouted as they moved through the tents, calling to the women hiding within the way they would when an enemy was in their midst. Him? Or the three men Marwan kept separate from him? Cloaked women scurried out, their faces covered so their enemies would not be tempted by their beauty, securing tent-posts and ordering children to carry baskets into the tents. The shifting wind carried smoke from a cook-fire their way. Scents of a feast, the decadent aroma of roasted goat and onions was so thick he could almost taste the meat upon his tongue.

  "Come, son," Marwan said. "We have friends we would like you to meet. We have prepared a feast in our guests honor."

  It was not a large feast, not by Assurian standards, but lavish in its presentation and far more than the starving Halifians could afford to lay out without hardship later. A small, low table sat in the center, a table set for five. The fifth bowl sat clean and untouched. His seat. It was a good thing he had not eroded what little goodwill lay between them by being frightened off by the approaching sandstorm.

  "I am honored," Jamin said. He noted the way Marwan's men fanned out, not seated on the central carpet as they had the last time he'd been here, but seated behind himself and the three strangers as though they anticipated trouble.

  Marwan sat on his plump, embroidered cushion, even more elaborate than the one in Jamin's house thanks to the gold this desert shaykh had received in return for Ubaid women. His mouth tightened into a grim line. No matter how tempting it was perceive this feast as acceptance, his father was not wrong in asserting the people of the desert should not be trusted. To move amongst them without a blood-tie to bind their allegiance was to walk into a pit of cobras.

  "Let us eat!" Marwan clapped his hands. As if on cue, his method of earning that allegiance glided out, carrying a crock of roasted goat, sautéed onions, garlic, chickpeas and mustard greens. Except for the goat, these were not foods the people of the desert came by easily. From the way the two strangers from the tribe to the west gestured to the vegetables, this portion of the feast had been brought as a gift to curry favor. But for what?

  Aturdokht's eyes met his. She was attired the way a woman of her stature and spirit deserved to be dressed, a green wrap covering her face in such a way that it accentuated her smoldering hazel eyes.

  Marwan caught his eye, a subtle nod towards the bag of barley he had brought. Vegetables were a luxury, but grain was the substance of life to these people, a staple they could carry with them wherever they traveled that would not spoil in the desert heat.

  Aturdokht saw it too, this silent language that passed between them. He was being played, but her dark eyes held no secrets, the green flecks burning with her hatred of him. She stopped in front of him to serve him first, only the way she held the platter too tight as he helped himself to goat and chickpeas betrayed the fact she wished to dump the platter into his lap. Her wrists had scabbed over where three days of being tied in the sun had rubbed raw the flesh. Jamin's cheek twitched with anger. Her offense had not warranted the severity of the punishment.

  "I bring a gift for thee," Jamin met her gaze with his own, dark one. "Perhaps you might grind this barley and bake your father some bread so he will be favorably disposed to me?"

  She held his gaze, an intimacy women of the desert only reserved for a lover. A growl from one of the three strangers warned which one was Aturdokht's suitor. Her nostrils flared, an indicator that he had exceeded her expectations. Her eyes burned into his, filled with hatred and something else. She straightened without saying a word and made a show of acting demure in front of the other three men, casting her eyes downwards and refusing to meet their gaze as she served them their meal.

  Marwan clapped. Without having uttered a word, Aturdokht disappeared behind the curtain which separated the public portion of the tent from the women's section.

  Jamin's mouth twitched with regret. He had come to inform Marwan he could not
take his daughter to wife while his father forced a marriage to someone else, a complication his father did not know about when he'd given him the sack of grain to bring to his enemies. He hoped to negotiate a lesser blood tie that would secure for Marwan the water rights he craved and alleviate the stress upon Assur of constantly living with an enemy at their gate. The people of the desert took many wives to secure such rights, especially the shaykh's, but Ubaid law permitted only one wife, the rest considered little more than concubines with few property rights.

  He had lain awake each night since his last trip here, weighing the choice he had to make between Ninsianna, Shahla, and Aturdokht, unable to forget those smoldering green eyes. He had decided he would not dishonor Marwan's daughter by subjugating her to Shahla's rule. Not only would Shahla's treatment of the wild desert spirit earn her a knife in her heart, a complication Jamin would not mind but not for the fact he would lose both of his wives along with the favorable trade relations his father wished to foster, but he suspected she might bury a knife in his heart, as well, for dishonoring her thus.

  "I would like you to meet Yazan and Dirar, our neighbors to the west," Marwan grinned at the two unknown Halifians, exposing his rotted teeth, "and Kudursin, their trading partner."

  "I am pleased to make your acquaintance," Jamin regarded them, his dark eyes intense as he scrutinized them for clues as to what this meeting was about. He was being used. They knew he was being used. Marwan knew he knew he was being used. And yet they played it, this dance of deceit where enemies dined with one another and pretended to be friends, just waiting for the chance to bury a knife into each other's back.

  The tent shook, an indicator of the approaching storm. If he lingered here, soon he would have no choice but to stay until the storm passed, unable to make it back to the network of caves where he had left supplies to stay the night. The other men sensed it too, these men who had pursued Aturdokht onto Ubaid land. Marwan had moved his tents deliberately close to Jamin's village, not close enough to provoke retaliation, but enough to signal to these strangers the tribe sought an alliance with his people.

  "Come … eat!" Marwan ordered. As head of this tent, custom dictated no guest should eat until he took the first bite. He did so now, stabbing a portion of roast goat with his blade and carrying the charred delicacy to his mouth, the mouth which spoke, that is. The mouth which did not speak, the scar which had never healed properly and betrayed the emotion Marwan otherwise kept hidden, whispered something different. Be careful…

  Jamin reached for the carved bone two-tined fork which had been laid out to eat with, only the shaykh permitted to unsheathe his blade in the confines of his own tent, and selected a portion of goat, surprisingly tender. Most meat was chewy and stringy as herds were slaughtered only as they reached the end of their useful lives, but this goat had been slaughtered young. An honor? Or because their herds were starving and it had been necessary to sacrifice a weaker member of the herd before they lost it to nature?

  The taste of honey exploded onto his tongue, a delicacy no Halifian could afford. Not only had this goat been slaughtered young, but it was basted with crushed dates and honey. Jamin watched his host for guidance. That second-mouth whispered these strangers were here because they wanted something. Something Marwan was reluctant to give them.

  "It seems there has been a misunderstanding," Yazan said at last, the older of the two strangers and, by his elaborate dress, a shaykh himself. "Aturdokht asked leave after her husband was killed to seek solace in the company of her sisters and now she refuses to return. We have come to beg her forgiveness and ask her to come home."

  Jamin glanced in the direction where the women sat, only a thin opaque curtain separating them from the men, a barrier as concrete as any defensive wall, and yet so insubstantial as to let their every word pass. Was she listening to what he said, his wild desert spirit?

  "I was under the impression Aturdokht was a widow," Jamin spoke carefully, not only because he was dining in a pit of vipers, but also because he did not wish to lie. "Her husband died trying to liberate my village from the winged demon. Marrying her into our tribe would be the honorable thing to do."

  "You are mistaken," Yazan said. "Roshan was my son. Under tribal law, his closest brother must marry her and begat a son upon her in Roshan's name so that his name will not die with him."

  "I was told Roshan had no brother," Jamin said.

  "But I do have a brother," Yazan said. "If no brother is available, then the next closest brother who is not a father must marry her and give her a son. That would be Dirar. My younger brother."

  Yazan gestured to the younger man who glowered at him from across the low table. This man was not dressed quite so elaborately as Yazan, with a sullen expression and a scar that cut deeply into his nose. He had the look about him of a mercenary. A younger brother of a younger sister-wife, a half-brother at best, perhaps a good fifteen years age difference between he and Yazan. From the way he sat stiffly apart from his brother, there was no love lost between the two.

  "Ahh!" Marwan clapped his hands. "Perhaps had Dirar come forward and offered to alleviate my daughter's grief upon learning of her husband's death, Aturdokht might be favorably disposed to him. But he did not come forward, and your head wife prevailed upon you to send my daughter packing, back to our tribe to dishonor her for the death of your son at the winged one's hands."

  "Roshan's mother was beaten severely," Yazan said, never taking his eyes off of Jamin. "I should have never have allowed myself to be taken with the hysterical madness of a woman's grief upon learning of my son's death."

  A low heat that was less than anger, but more than irritation, rose in Jamin's chest and made his cheeks flush. Was Marwan toying with him? No. From the way Marwan glanced between him and the women's section of the tent, something else was going on here. But what?

  "The Ubaid do not have your laws of first marriage," Jamin said. "But Aturdokht bore your son a daughter. Under Ubaid law, whether or not their offspring was a daughter or a son, upon becoming a widow, her husband's property passes to her. She would not have been evicted from her home."

  "Your houses are settled!" Dirar spat.

  Yazan gave the man a warning rumble, his glower ordering his brother to remain silent.

  Jamin glanced at Marwan for guidance. The desert shaykh stared down at his hands, picking at his fingernails. He was letting them argue it out, knowing full well Aturdokht listened from the other side of the curtain. What could he say that would be the truth before he had a chance to pull Marwan aside and tell him about the problem, but would not upset whatever plans Marwan had counted on when he'd invited him here? He was finished with telling lies, but sometimes there were truths that were less than lies.

  "Yes," Jamin said. "Our houses are settled. They are permanent. And so are the lands my people till to yield our grain. When you have a baby to raise, sometimes you just want to know you will always have a home. An Ubaid husband could give her that security."

  The low murmur of voices from behind the curtain indicated the women were intrigued, although whether that intrigue was good or bad he could not say.

  "You will not have your home for long," Dirar's mouth twisted into a cruel sneer. "The lizard gods have set a bounty upon your winged demon's head. The only reason they have not descended upon your village and leveled it to the ground with their sky canoes is because we have not told them which village he resides in … yet!"

  Jamin noted the third stranger, the Amorite, scrutinized the exchange, sitting back but not participating. A warning bell began to go off in the back of his mind.

  "We are all brothers in ridding this land of the winged demon," Jamin watched the Amorite's reaction out of his expanded field of vision. "But the last raid your men got greedy. I warned you not to hit such a powerful creature head-on."

  At last the Amorite slaver spoke, his voice so soft spoken as to be the hiss of a desert adder.

  "So you admit that yours is the village whe
re the winged demon lives?" Kudursin asked. "And not some other Ubaid village?"

  That warning bell grew louder.

  "Why do you ask?" Jamin said.

  "Don't tell him anything!" Dirar growled. "He'll only make it more difficult for us!"

  "Silence!" Yazan ordered.

  Jamin scrutinized the dynamics between the three. The Amorite didn't know! Mikhail had killed all seven Amorites who had come to kill him the last time. These two Halifians wanted nothing to do with Aturdokht except to use her to collect the bounty.

  Jamin gave the Amorite a smile which did not meet his eyes. "I was not aware the bounty had been raised. How much is it now?"

  "My employers offer a gold coin for every man who joins us to go after him," Kudursin said. "And three more once we bring back his head."

  A king's ransom. Jamin's eyes met Marwan's hooded ones. Why had the desert shaykh not simply taken Yazan up on his offer to raid Assur again? Why were they including him?

  "I will tell you the same thing I told your kinsmen the last time they came after him," Jamin said. "You cannot hit such a powerful creature head on. He channels a dark magic, more powerful than any you have ever seen before. Even more powerful than these lizard demons of whom you speak, or they would be coming after him themselves instead of sending you after him."

  "The lizard people have magic which is even greater," Kudursin said. "I have seen it with my own eyes. Sky canoes that travel up into the sky and weapons that can turn rocks into fire. Your winged demon does not possess such magic!"

  Jamin glanced at Marwan, at that second mouth that did not speak. Eighteen of his kinsmen had met their deaths at the winged demon's sky canoe, the thing Ninsianna called his 'ship.' Why had Marwan not told them of the location? All of a sudden he got it. Marwan was giving him a gift.