'Do no wrong actions. Do as much good as you can. Purify your mind.'
He could feel the emptiness gnawing at him, hungry, eager, starving, pleading with him to let it feed. It felt as though his soul had become a great black hole which only Ninsianna could fill. A thought whispered into his subconscious. Did she have any idea what a dangerous game she played?
Movement caught his attention. Worries about his marital difficulties distracted him from the coming battle. It would not help his marriage if he got himself killed. Whatever this darkness was that lurked beneath the surface, he needed to keep it leashed. He whispered the familiar Cherubim prayers to push aside the emotions which warred inside of him.
"Oni o taiji suru tame ni, watashi ni anata no chikara o sazukeru," Mikhail whispered. To subjugate the demons, grant me thy strength.
He flared his feathers to soften the sound of his descent as he dropped out of the sky. Rocks crunched beneath his weight, dislodged. He paused; worried he had alerted his prey. Most of the enemy forces spotted earlier had already moved closer to the village, but some had lingered, most likely support personnel such as healers and cooks. There was no command center, no Halifian tent. There didn’t appear to be anyone more important here than healers. Killing these men would serve no legitimate purpose.
Tucking his wings against his back, he crept towards the rear-guard like a shadow, clicking the Cherubim killing incantations as he drew his knife. He was no murderer, but these men intended to harm his village. Every life he reaped beforehand would be an Assurian life he saved.
The wind shifted sideways, carrying his scent away from these men. That curious lack-of-feeling of the killing dance pushed his emotions far away. Pushed away the discomfort of the mud drying on his skin. Pushed away his terror that these men would conquer Assur and hurt people he had grown to care about. It could not, however, push away that aching void which had opened up in his heart the day Ninsianna had grown cold. Danger. Danger his subconscious screamed at him. This threat is far worse than even death.
The group he stalked walked casually like men who were going to a parade, not launching a massacre. That dark power which lurked beneath the surface grabbed at his anger, whispering. Smite them. One of the men stopped to take a leak.
Mikhail rose out of the shadows like a crocodile emerging from still waters to snatch an unwary gazelle and clamped one hand over the mercenary's mouth. With a practiced jerk, his knife slicked through the man's throat until it stopped at the hardness of the spine. The man flailed, but with no pathway to get a message from his brain to his body, he was already dead. Gore splattered out of severed arteries into Mikhail's mouth, salty, copper, the familiar taste of death. That dark power that hungered within him thrummed with glee.
No! The admonitions of the Cherubim flooded into his brain. He must never take pleasure in the kill! He hugged the man to his chest and whispered the Cherubim prayers into his ear as he finished dying.
"Sen hoshi no hikari wa kanojo - daredearu no hikari e to anata o michibiku koto ga." May the light of a thousand stars guide you into the light of She-who-is.
As soon as the man stopped twitching, he lowered him to the earth, pausing to close his eyes and slip a small feather that had come loose during the skirmish into his hand. That dark power receded as the familiar ritual helped him keep the hunger at bay, still lurking, still present, but content to be along for the hunt.
His heightened senses drew his eyes to two more attackers trailing behind the rear of the line, talking in a language that was neither Halifian nor Uruk. One fell behind the other to pull something out of his satchel. One mercenary dead. One Assurian life saved. Mikhail clamped his hand over the man's mouth to silence him as he cut his throat. The second man turned to look for his friend and saw Mikhail holding his compatriot's twitching body. Before he could shout, Mikhail buried his knife in the man's heart, safe passage prayed for his soul before his body even hit the ground.
Clicking the Cherubim meditations to deepen his concentration, he became the alpha-predator, invisibly hunting the lives of his enemy. Creeping back and forth in the shadows, he cut down one after another. Six, ten, twenty, thirty-seven Assurian lives saved. The more he killed, the fewer his adopted people would have to fight. It never occurred to these men that one of their intended victims harvested their lives like stalks of grain growing in the fields. So long as he quieted their death-scream, nobody thought to look behind them.
At last battle cries erupted from the front of the village as his vitale skirmishers threw their spears and dove behind the wedge. It had begun.
Spreading his wings to go address the real threat, the disciplined fighters approaching from the north, Mikhail put away his knife and drew his sword…
Chapter 64
November – 3,390 BC
Earth: Village of Assur
Gita
The warriors crouched like wild boars, slipping out the south gate in furtive two's and three's, hoping to avoid alerting the army which moved towards them that the village was awake. Gita chewed her lip and waited for her turn. The men moved out first as it was more important the wedge be in place than the skirmishers. A nervous whisper was quashed by Siamek. Didn't these people know anything about remaining hidden?
'I'm invisible … I'm invisible … I'm invisible…' Gita recited the chant which had kept her safe since childhood.
The last of the men crouched low and scurried out holding their shields, careful to keep their spears off the ground so they did not clatter against the rocks. When Mikhail had made them practice the wedge, that training hadn't included lining up the maneuver silently, at night, right under the nose of an advancing army. But Gita knew a thing or two about remaining unseen.
She turned to her battle buddy, Azin.
"Picture you're a small little mouse," Gita pressed her lips to Azin's ear so the sound of her voice would not carry. "Vary your steps so they do not create a pattern. The way a mouse scurries and then looks to the sky for a hawk."
"Thanks," Azin said far too loudly. The talented young woman was a fierce warrior, excellent with a spear, but impulsive and prone to acting without thinking. Siamek had paired the two of them together as a punishment, but Gita had grown rather fond of her outspoken friend.
"Quiet!" Siamek hissed. He towered over them, glaring down at Gita with that hurt, resentful expression he'd worn for nearly a year.
Gita lowered her eyes, denying him the opportunity to make eye contact. Whenever you met somebody's gaze, people could read your emotions. She'd learned young it was better to be the mouse, scorned, but alive, than the brave lioness who stood her ground.
Her mother had been brave…
Her mother was dead…
A mouse… Jamin had tried for years to convince her to stop being so timid and then grown angry when she'd finally taken his advice and joined Mikhail's team of warriors. The fool! Why had he gone and beaten Shahla after she'd convinced her to marry Dadbeh? Now she'd lost two friends! Poor Shahla, whose mind was broken, and Jamin, the only person she'd ever trusted enough to tell what had happened to her mother.
Siamek's expression softened.
"You're up next," Siamek touched her shoulder. "Be careful. Okay? You only have to throw a single spear."
Gita met his gaze. Hope ignited in his dark eyes, that same hope she had crushed one year ago. She realized she was being cruel. She looked down and refused to make eye contact again. Siamek's mouth twitched with regret. He took his hand off of her shoulder.
"Ten paces," Siamek said to her and Azin together, his voice harsh with anger. "Throw the spear when they get to ten paces. And then get behind the wedge so we can protect you. Just because you can throw a spear doesn't mean you can go hand-to-hand against the men."
Gita nodded without meeting his gaze. Mouse. She was nothing but a mouse. She tugged Azin by the hand and scurried mouse-like out the south gate, keeping to the elongated shadows, picturing she had bald, pink ears and a fuzzy little tail, na
ked of fur. Mouse. Cautious. Timid. Everybody wants to eat the mouse. Be careful. She cringed every time Azin's clumsy feet kicked a rock and shushed her when Azin made it worse by trying to apologize.
A thousand paces out from the village a dry stream bed channeled water towards the river. Gita crouched down, tugging Azin so her head did not stick up above the gradient. The stream bed was little more than a shallow indentation carved into the soil by the sparse rain, but it was deep enough that if the three lines of men crouched so their backsides hit the earth, in the darkness an enemy might mistake the humps for part of the natural terrain.
The rocks felt cool against Gita's hand. She pictured becoming one with them. Rocks. Cool. Still. Silence and the darkness were their allies, hiding the bold Assurian defense.
She squinted at the spot where the enemy would crest the rise and then not even the darkness would hide them anymore. Ten paces? Her heart sped up at the mere thought of it. Ten paces. All she had to do was to throw her spear ten paces, and then she could dive for safety behind the line of men. Her mouth felt so dry she could barely move her tongue inside her cheek. Why hadn't she thought to bring a goatskin of water?
Azin moved next to her like a wild boar, spear already pointed forward, eager to charge out of the woods and gore her enemies. Why couldn't she be bold the way that Azin was? Ten paces, Gita reminded herself, and eyed the exact spot in her mind's eye she would throw at the first enemy head which appeared above the rise. The moment they threw their spears, the women were to melt into the line of men behind them before the entire wedge stepped backwards ten paces to retake the higher ground on the opposite side of the stream. Theoretically it would give the enemy the disadvantage of traversing that same trench before slamming into the teeth of the wedge.
Or at least that was the plan…
Why hadn't she just stayed in the safety of her house like a normal woman would? Seven hundred men crept towards them now. Seven hundred! Men! The sounds of movement were obvious out on the plain now that they knew what they were listening for. Footsteps marching in unison instead of in uneven patterns to hide their approach. The occasional whisper, quiet curse, and occasionally a chuckle. The squeak of a rodent dislodged from its hiding place by hundreds of feet trampling the soil.
A chilly wind blew a strand of long, black hair across her face and gave her goosebumps. Gita shivered. Ninsianna had said the goddess was with them tonight. Perhaps? The wind had become unsettled after her cousin's speech and the sparse clouds tried mightily to hide the moon. Not even the insects chirruped to betray their hiding place, making the sounds of the approaching army all the louder.
Her spear balanced in her hand like an old friend, every bump familiar in her grip. In a way, it was an old friend. After her father had nearly put out her eyes, Jamin had given her his old one and taught her how to use it. Under his tutelage, she'd taken to the weapon well. Of course, there was a huge difference between throwing at a target when nobody depended upon you to get it right and throwing that same spear during battle … with people throwing spears back at you. The small gap in the wedge beckoned where she was supposed to dive after throwing her spear. She prayed she wouldn’t trip and get herself killed.
‘I’m invisible … I’m invisible … I’m invisible...'
She squatted as low to the ground as her knees would tolerate and stilled her movement so that not even the sound of her breathing would give away her position. Beside her, Azin made a heroic effort to still her perpetually moving body. Skirmishers were supposed to stand two paces apart, just far enough that they wouldn't get in each other's way. A small noise to her left indicated the last one had just scurried into position. Behind them, she heard movement and tiny whispers as Siamek moved behind them and nudged the warriors into a proper wedge. The sounds of the approaching army grew louder. Beside her, the butt end of Azins spear clattered against the stones, a small noise, but still a noise.
'Stop … enemy,' Gita signaled Azin to stop moving.
Azin gave her a thumbs-up.
'Get down!' Gita flapped her hand downwards. Argh! She adored Azin, but sometimes she got her into trouble! This wasn't warrior training where the worst punishment would be a hundred of Pareesa's pushups! Distraction could get you killed!
The wind shifted and blew from the direction of the approaching army. A foul smell drifted in their direction, unwashed bodies, a hint of excrement, and the stench of sour milk and rotted meat as though these men had spilled supper on their clothing and never bothered to bathe. Even Azin must have felt the ripple of anticipation because her fidgety friend grew still, her spear clenched in the ready position. The enemy was almost upon them.
Gita looked to the sky, hoping to see the reassuring silhouette of wings. Streaky clouds obscured the moon like some great, dark predator's claw-marks. There was no sign of wings against the inky sky. She knew it was for the best, that the enemy would watch for him and know they were awake if they saw his flight, but she was also disappointed. The only reason she'd joined the women's warriors was because she'd developed a hopeless affection for the man.
Her cheek grimaced in an embarrassed sigh. Right thing to do. Wrong reason. Since the day they'd buried the eagles, she'd realized the poor bastard was so hopelessly in love with her cousin that she could prostrate herself naked before the man and he'd step right over her, oblivious to the temptation.
Lusting after Ninsianna's husband was wrong! What Shahla had done … deliberately estranging his wife by claiming Mikhail had fathered her baby, had been cruel.
Should she tell Ninsianna it wasn't true?
What did she know? Shahla hadn't told her she was pregnant…
The grunts of the enemy drifted closer, no longer subtle. They tried to approach unnoticed, but there was no way that many men could remain quiet, especially ones as undisciplined as the mercenaries who ran wild in the desert. Anxious little cheeps of fear came from a the warriors all around her, even the men, like ducklings who knew a jackal circled the nest. She could smell her own perspiration, filled with fear.
She replayed the move Pareesa had taught her in her mind. Crouch. Chamber. Target. Rise and throw with her weight behind the spear. Duck and run. She then replayed how Mikhail had demonstrated the spear in training, but it was a lesson taught by Jamin, not Mikhail, which came to mind now.
'I can't do this. It's wrong to kill.'
'You can,' Jamin had chewed on a stem of barley-grass, his black eyes filled with anger. 'And you will. Or one day that drunken bastard will kill you. Just like he did your mother.'
'I shouldn't have told you about that.'
That tough expression he'd developed to make everyone think he was a hardass softened. 'I can't watch out for you all the time, kid.' He tussled her hair like she was still a little girl.
'Couldn't you just ask your father to intervene?'
'I asked,' Jamin scowled. 'Merariy must be holding something over his head, because he told me to mind my business.'
'I appreciate what you did.'
Jamin shrugged. He'd spent the night in the hole after giving her father a taste of his own medicine. Based on the thundercloud which moved behind his black eyes, he'd gladly do so again if it would get her out of his hair. Her eyes were no longer swollen shut, but she still sported bruises and a puffy face. That hardened shell Jamin projected to the rest of the world, the one that said he didn't give a goat's rump about anything, caused him to stiffen his shoulders.
'Do you want that spear? Or don't you?" Jamin had asked. "Because half the guys in this village would give their eye-teeth to own that thing.'
Gita gripped the spear in the present moment. It was a fine weapon, sturdy, if a bit longer than was comfortable for someone her height, with a genuine obsidian point instead of flint like the other warriors carried. It flew straight, even with the tiny chip in the head, which had been Jamin's excuse to cast it off and convince his father to give him the trade-price for a new one. She ran her finger on the point of the sharp
, volcanic glass, pausing at the tiny imperfection which had appeared the day he'd come to her and insisted she learn to use it.
"Oh, Jamin … why'd you have to go and turn into my father?" Gita whispered to herself. She crouched exactly the way he'd taught her and paused the action at the moment before she was supposed to rise and let fly the spear. As she did, she could feel the muscles twitch beneath her skin, dress rehearsing the move as she recreated it in her mind.
'The secret to a good throw is to put every ounce of your being into it," he'd said. "Every ounce of resentment. Every ounce of hatred. Picture someone you are angry at and pretend you throw the spear at -them.-'
'I don't get angry the way that you do.'
Jamin stepped behind her, the big brother teaching the adopted little sister how to throw, and guided her arm through the motions of throwing a weapon that was far too large for her to wield.
'Who do you hate the most?'
'You must love your enemy, not hate them.'
Jamin placed both hands onto her head and turned it towards the target. 'Picture them burying your mother into the ground up to her waist so she was helpless and couldn't run away.'
Gita swallowed. Her chest hurt. Even now, that memory made it difficult to breathe.
'Picture your mother's tears as she begged your father to help her,' he'd said. 'The pile of stones. The Amorite invaders. What did your father tell them?'
'He said she was a sorceress. He said she committed adultery by leaving him to seek sanctuary at the Temple of Ki.'
Jamin forced her to look at the target he had set up to teach her to defend herself the exact same way her father had forced her to look at her mother.
'Stop it!'
'Who threw the first stone?'
For so long as she lived, she would never forget the look of betrayal on her Mama's face when her father had picked up the first stone and used it to smashed her mother's nose. 'He did.'
Sword of the Gods: Prince of Tyre (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 67