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

by Anna Erishkigal

  "50 men," Ebad signaled. "They've stopped."

  Pareesa held up her hand, signaling her men to wait, wait, wait as the Halifians paused approximately 30 paces from where they were hiding. They were waiting for something, perhaps the diversion of the larger mercenary force coming from the south to attack the village?

  Pareesa’s only advantage was surprise. If they jumped up and yelled ‘boo’ right now, it would tip their hand.

  Gripping her spear, she signaled her men to prepare to do battle….

  Chapter 62

  November – 3,390 BC

  Earth: Village of Assur

  Ninsianna

  "There … there … and there," Ninsianna kept her voice low.

  One by one, the young women and boys who made up her archery squad fanned out from the central square and climbed the ladders which gave the Ubaid access to the network of flat roofs which sprawled across the village. Ninsianna slipped her bow diagonally across her torso so it would be out of the way and hauled over a bundle of arrows like a caracal (desert lynx) hauling its kill up a tree.

  The central granary occupied the highest ground in Assur. This ensured that not only was their sacred grain protected from both rats and raiders, but also sat higher than the Hiddekel River, which on occasion rose so far above its banks it flooded the houses in the outer ring. The temple itself was modest, little more than an alcove built into the front of the granary, with a small carved fresco depicting the goddess standing upon a pair of lions. Ninsianna paused to greet the goddess she spoke to as a second-mother, sister and friend.

  "Couldn't you have sent me someplace more exciting?" Ninsianna complained to the fresco, which always made the goddess look as though she smirked about some secret only SHE knew.

  The goddess, of course, did not answer. First SHE had spoken to her husband, and then the villagers at large. Was it too much to ask that the goddess speak to HER? Other than, of course, to ask her to go babysit the empty temple so her husband would not fret?

  No. She was being high-maintenance again. Mama said she shouldn't demand too much of the goddess. Of course, Mama said that about everything.

  Ninsianna could not help but don the same enigmatic smirk worn by the goddess. If She-who-is wanted her to guard this temple, perhaps SHE knew something the others didn't? Yes. The goddess knew how much she hated being told to be a good girl and stay home. After all, wasn't that why she had broken off her engagement with Jamin?

  She helped the other archers pass up three more bundles of arrows then scrambled up herself, cursing when it gave her a splinter. Sucking on her hand to ease the pain, she assigned the junior archers into groups. They kept their heads down in a not-very-comfortable crouch. Yadidatum scurried over to speak to her.

  "Why did they stick us all the way back here?" Yadidatum's lip trembled. Even having just tumbled out of bed, the soft-spoken beauty had her shawl artfully draped as though she were dressed for a festival.

  Ninsianna interpreted her friend's spirit light to read the real question on Yadidatum's mind. 'Why wouldn't they let me provide cover fire for my husband?'

  "Because you are with child," Ninsianna said. "Just as I am. If you lose your life, it will be two Assurian lives lost tonight."

  "I only have the first symptoms of morning sickness," Yadidatum complained. "Why doesn't anybody trust me to make the shot?"

  Ninsianna held back a chortled laugh. Because Yadidatum's shots always fell short! She'd be firing into the backs of their own defenders and not just the enemies mounting an offensive.

  "Because I need somebody I can trust to keep the junior archers focused," Ninsianna half-lied. It was only a half-lie because she did need help in that regard. Despite Yadidatum's total lack of skill, she had a maternal, calming effect upon the younger members of the archery squad. "Take three squadrons and have them serve as lookouts for the houses that overlook the second ring."

  Yadidatum gave her a grateful nod, glad to be given something useful to do besides worry about her husband. Just because she was a lousy shot didn't mean she was stupid.

  Most Ubaid houses rose two stories, with a ladder up through the skylight to aerate the house in summer. Because most houses were built one on top of the other, the interconnected rooftops acted as a secondary 'road' which could be defended by removing the external ladders. This meant the rooftops were an excellent place to provide cover fire.

  "Pull up the ladders," Ninsianna signaled the archers on the rooftops across the square. Kneeling, she used hand signals to direct her young charges to begin sorting through the bundles of arrows.

  The ones already in her quiver were the ones she used to hunt. She could rely upon them to fly true. The ones they had just hauled up in the bundles were a different story. Since the last attack, every man capable of chipping stone had been put to work crafting arrowheads, but arrows were sensitive to tiny imperfections. Relying more on her sense of touch than vision in the dim moonlight, Ninsianna fingered each one and sorted them in order of arrows she thought would fly accurately down to ones she would only use as a last resort.

  She then began sorting them by length. A perfect arrow should extend a palms-breadth beyond the length of her fingertips. One by one she stuck the butt-end between her breasts and pointed the arrow out with both hands to test if they had the required length. Longer ones went to her left for the few people who were taller than her, shorter ones to her right for the kids. The archers passed the rejected lengths back and forth until all had been divided and each had a suitable bundle of approximately three quivers. It was not a lot of arrows.

  A hand touched her shoulder. "I've laid out the tracer arrows. Should I ignite the pot?"

  Ninsianna turned towards her newest prodigy, Ghazal, a young woman of fifteen summers. Though not nearly as athletic as Pareesa, Ghazal had an unerring ability to find her target in the dark.

  "Yes," Ninsianna glanced at the small pot of deadwood smeared with bitumen. "But keep the coals covered until we need them so we don't tip off the enemy we are waiting for them."

  Tracer arrows were wrapped with a thin strip of linen and dipped in dried, melted pitch made from the sap of the cedar trees or melted bitumen. If they needed to see, they would fire a tracer arrow where they thought the enemy crept towards them so they could make their shots without wasting precious arrows, but any archer taking aim with a flaming arrow made for an easy target.

  A thought danced through her mind, though whether it was a reminder from She-who-is or her own subconsciousness processes, Ninsianna could not tell. Ubaid roofs were made from wooden poles stuffed with reeds or, on some of the better houses, wattle and daub. They were adequate against the sparse rain … but highly flammable.

  "Make sure you put the goat-hide under the pot so the roof does not ignite," Ninsianna added. "She-who-is will be displeased if we set fire to her temple and burn down our own granary."

  "Yes, Chosen One," Ghazal said, her eyes wide with wonder.

  Ninsianna realized her eyes must have glowed golden, though she was learning that wasn't necessarily because She-who-is was feeding her information. Some of this wisdom came from herself. She hoped... Sometimes it was frustrating not knowing where she ended and SHE began!

  "Oh … and where's your vest?" Ninsianna added, positive that last thought was her own. They'd learned their lesson from the last raid to make sure the fire-archers wore a rough vest made of layered goat hide. It would not stop a perfectly aimed arrow, but it would reduce the risk of their most visible archers being killed.

  "It's … I'll go put it on," Ghazal said.

  Ninsianna turned to strap up the goatskin bracer Mikhail had crafted for her those first few weeks when he'd taught the women archery.

  'More vests,' Ninsianna muttered to herself as she wrapped her finger-guard around her wrist so she would not lose it under fire. Perhaps all the archers should be made to wear vests? Yes. She would discuss the idea with Mikhail as soon as they were past this crisis.

  "The
re goes Rakhshan and his sons," one of the boys pointed to the flint-knapper hurrying through the streets, his arms laden with the tools of his trade.

  "That's one less critical asset the enemy can deprive us of." The words tumbled from Ninsianna's lips as though it were her husband speaking and not herself. Critical assets? Before she had met Mikhail, such a word had not existed in her vocabulary. But she understood the concept. They must protect their ability to replenish their weapons, both including the men who knew how to make them, and the tools needed to do the actual work.

  That feeling of urgency which had dogged her since the night She-who-is had sent her the vision of the Evil One reminded her that a real war was coming. This skirmish was merely the wind which preceded a sandstorm. She knew it. She knew it because every night She-who-is reminded her it would be thus, and never had she had reason to question the goddess.

  "All arrows are ready," one of the younger archers whispered.

  "Now what?" another asked.

  "We wait," Ninsianna said. "And be quiet. This attack is too frontal, too brazen. Mikhail thinks it may be a diversion to sneak a small number into the village to hit the granary."

  "It will be a long, hard winter if they hit that," an elderly woman who'd joined their group agreed. "Most people do not store enough to get them through the next harvest."

  "Keep down," Ninsianna ordered the woman who was one of many who'd climbed to the roof to act as spectators. "They're not supposed to know we're awake."

  A whisper moved across the rooftops as the archers crouched out of sight and settled into waiting. Ninsianna staved off the urge to leave this dull duty and put herself into the thick of the action by performing the warm-up exercises Mikhail had taught them. She signaled the younger archers to follow her example. Back straight, arms held out at a right angle, pull the bowstring back to your ear and then slowly release it without snapping the string, again and again, until you were certain you could replicate that movement with a real arrow.

  Memory of that first heady lesson, when Mikhail had so sweetly seduced her by helping her develop the proper posture right before asking her to marry him, inspired a warm glow to ignite in her feminine mysteries. Oh! Goddess! How she missed the isolation they had shared back when he had still been at his ship!

  Her mood darkened. Why, oh why, had he gone and mucked things up by laying down with Shahla instead of just coming to her? Goddess only knew she'd been willing!

  Ninsianna stared up at the moon.

  "He said he did not lay down with her," Ninsianna whispered softly so the archers around her would not hear, "but Shahla's own memories say she did. Why won't you let me see into Mikhail's mind to verify which is true? Is it because he hopes to hide the truth from me?"

  Horrid images picked out of Shahla's mind were the only thing she could think of each time she looked at her husband. Shahla, staring up at him silhouetted in the sunlight like a beautiful winged god. Shahla, slipping her shawl to entice him with her breasts. The feel of Mikhail's hand in Shahla's as she had lured him into the reeds which lined the Hiddekel River. Smiled! He had smiled at her! Mikhail never smiled! The feel of his feathers as he had let Shahla caress his wings. The feel of his length as he had entered her. The feel of his body moving against hers. The way his wings had flapped as he had reached ecstasy…

  Ninsianna sobbed…

  Why! Why, oh why, had he lay down with the accursed woman when she had been willing?!! Every man in the village Shahla had fucked, as well as any trader who came through in the frequent caravans, and never once had Shahla conceived a child until the day she had lay down with him!

  Tears welled in Ninsianna's eyes as she caressed the slight swell of her abdomen. Just as she had conceived so quickly…

  "Tell me it isn't true?" Ninsianna turned her teary eyes towards the east where she knew eventually the sun would rise. "Please tell me all those times he claimed he was going out into the desert to fix his broken sky canoe, and didn't come home, weren't because he was really laying down with Shahla?"

  The goddess, of course, did not answer that prayer. SHE was a pragmatic goddess who had no qualms about scratching an itch. Ninsianna had not put out. Shahla had. In HER mind, one copulation was as good as another. There was a disconnect between Ninsianna's pain and her mistresses ability to understand what the problem was.

  'Even if it -was- true,' Mama had scolded her. 'And I'm not saying it is, because I am positive it is a lie. But even if it -was- true … so what?'

  'He … he …' How could she explain she had thought he was -above- such carnal needs? A creature of heaven? A living god?

  'Your father made him -swear- upon that god he serves that he would not lay a hand upon you as a condition of being welcomed into this house,' Mama had shaken her finger in her face. 'And he -kept- that word! Long after any other man would have succumbed to your charms!'

  'But why Shahla?'

  'He has no interest in Shahla!' Mama had scoffed. 'But every person in this village saw the way you threw yourself at him like a harlot. -Had- he succumbed to Shahla's charms, and I'm not saying he did because I am certain it is a lie, it would have been because it was -you- he wanted to lay down with and he'd given his word he would not touch you! Not because he wanted -her!-'

  Ninsianna gulped. In a way, that thought almost made things worse. The Mikhail she thought she had fallen in love with would never use someone to sate a baser need. That was something Jamin would do.

  "Why won't you let me see inside his mind so I can know which is true?" Ninsianna whispered at the dawn which would not come.

  She shut her eyes and followed that thread which connected from her naval to her husband's spirit light. She could not see inside his mind the way she could the others, but through this thread she could sense what he was doing. Stalking the enemy. He had invoked the killing dance and begun to hunt.

  Trills of excitement rippled through her body like a songbird in spring, not her thrill, but the bloodlust of the goddess. She could almost taste each life he took and savor it as the goddess welcomed each slain spirit back into the dreamtime like a long-lost son. She-who-is was eager to do battle and annoyed she could not simply manifest down here herself to be the huntress.

  Mikhail's words earlier this evening made her frown. Were there limitations to being a goddess? If so, why? And why did She-who-is need her if she was really all that powerful?

  Everything grew still. She stretched her consciousness to watch for the invaders with senses beyond the normal five. Mikhail had moved closer, which meant so had the enemy.

  Stringing an arrow, she motioned for the other archers to do the same. They waited…

  Chapter 63

  November – 3,390 BC

  Earth: plain outside Assur

  Angelic Special Forces Colonel Mikhail Mannuki'ili

  Mikhail

  Mikhail flew south down the Hiddekel River, skimming the reeds which lined the shores. On a clear, moonlit night his silhouette would be visible against the sky, but tonight the moon was waning. Ever since Ninsianna's performance as the mouthpiece for She-who-is, the wind had become restless, roiling the scant cloud cover to streak across the sky in angry ribbons.

  Was She-who-is on their side? Who knew… But the weather had certainly become unsettled.

  He stopped on the riverbanks to rub the yellow, silty mud onto his face, arms, and anyplace else which might reflect the moonlight. A memory of Raphael smearing mud into his golden feathers reached up from his subconscious like a cat rubbing at his ankles. It was a pleasant, if disjointed, sensation, giving this whole ritual of preparing to kill a bit of a heart-warming, homey feel in his otherwise vacant past. His feathers were dark, so he did not need to camouflage them.

  The mud was cold and stank of vegetative decay, arousing goose bumps wherever he smeared it. It was an unpleasant, but necessary step to meld into the darkness. He smeared the mud down his nose and the cheekbone underneath each eye. War paint. On a whim, he ran his finger in
a spiral on one cheek, painting a shamanic symbol Immanu had taught him to honor the dead.

  A throaty gulp from the reeds called the alarm.

  He froze…

  The night was silent except for an occasional low moan from the wind. He strained to listen. Even the crickets were absent this late in the autumn. The gulp came a second time, answered by a similar gulp far downriver. Sometimes an enemy used an animal's call for cover. Had he been made?

  A small splash answered his prayer. A bullfrog. A real bullfrog. For some reason it seemed the amphibians should be larger, closer to his size, and carrying weapons, but this small creature was native to this planet … and harmless. Not an enemy. He exhaled and forced his heart rate to slow down. It was time to hunt.

  He flapped to get airborne, praying no enemy lurked close enough to hear the pounding of his wings. Soaring until he found a helpful wind current, he coasted behind the copse where the attackers had hidden, flapping only as needed to circle around behind them. He patrolled this perimeter several times per day. Whoever commanded these men had staged the army just beyond where he normally flew. The enemy had watched him … and adapted.

  That dark power which lurked beneath his subconscious called to him to hunt, to smite, to kill, to make his lover happy by killing off her enemies. It warred with a soul-grating cacophony which screeched, frantic that he could not feel his wife. It was as if there were two Mikhail's, the one who wanted to get this over with, and a second, more primal version of himself that hungered to destroy. Memory of the thrill of She-who-is-Ninsianna's hand gripping his testicles warred with anger that the goddess toyed with him. That dark power which had responded to HER touch thrummed, eager to fill that vacant spot which had opened up in his chest the day Ninsianna had begun to doubt him.

  'Call upon me. Call upon me and the power is yours…'

  The whispered prayers of the Cherubim grew louder within his own mind.