"Nobody ever told us about a white-winged Angelic," Pareesa said. "Not even me." She pointed at Gita. "But there are other secrets Mikhail withheld from us, secrets even he didn't remember because of his memory loss. Perhaps it's time you enlightened us, Immanu, about the real enemy the Ubaid face?"
All eyes turned to Immanu, accusing him. Her uncle's voice warbled as words poured out with truths that had never been revealed.
“Every night Ninsianna had nightmares about a white-winged Angelic who would lead a legion of lizard-demons to destroy our village," Immanu said. "The chief knew, but we didn't tell anyone else because we feared it might cause you all to distrust Mikhail."
"And nobody saw fit to tell us this?" Pareesa asked. "Not even me? His closest student?"
"Maybe you weren't as close as you thought," Qishtea taunted her. "But why would he tell you anything? You're nothing but a girl."
Pareesa stepped into Qishtea's personal space even though her head barely came level with the Ninevian leader's nose. With a whispered prayer to the Cherubim God of War, she used Mikhail's sword to point to the dead she had personally smote to save him.
"Mikhail taught me to channel the power of a god," Pareesa spoke with a voice that rumbled through the men like thunder. "Tell me, Qishtea. What have you taught your men?"
"Look at her eyes," one of the warriors whispered. "They're blue like Mikhail's."
That dark gift, the one which enabled Gita to see showed her the blue cloak of energy which surrounded Pareesa the same as it did whenever Mikhail entered the killing dance.
Blind, deaf, dumb, pig-headed and stupid as he could be, Qishtea stepped back, even his stubbornness recognized that in Mikhail's absence, the Cherubim God of War had chosen a new mortal vessel to wield its power.
"Pareesa," Ipquidad spoke from where he kneeled next to Mikhail. "He's not doing so well. We have to get him back to the village so Needa can take a look at him."
"Let's get him onto the cart," Immanu stepped away from Gita. He glowered at her. "We shall finish this later."
Pareesa stopped, then gestured from Shahla to Gita.
"Get Ninsianna's cape off that traitor's body and put it on her," Pareesa said. "She needs to impersonate Ninsianna."
"Gita helped Shahla set this trap," Immanu said.
Pareesa tilted her head as though she was listening to somebody speak. Her voice was cold, inhuman, her movement alien as she pointed at Gita.
"She did no such thing," Pareesa said.
"I don't trust her," Immanu protested.
"I trust her," Pareesa said. "And so does the Cherubim god. If Mikhail thinks that Ninsianna has passed into the Dreamtime, he will cast his spirit after her, for his species will follow their mate, even unto death."
Immanu gasped.
"Is she … dead?"
"The God of War doesn't think so," Pareesa's eyes glowed bluer. "Merely hidden by the Evil One so even the gods can't find her." She pointed at Immanu and, this time, the voice which erupted from her throat was definitely not hers. "Son-of-Lugalbanda … if you want to see your daughter alive, you will make sure the only man capable of finding her doesn't die while you stand here bickering about who's to blame."
Immanu stepped back and allowed Gita to scramble to her feet.
Gita felt light-headed as the warriors rolled Shahla's body out of the cape and dumped her into a pile along with the enemy dead. She stifled her urge to cry, to plead with them not to desecrate Shahla's body. Right now, she needed to look after her own life, which, given the glances of hatred from every person except for Pareesa, might be ended the moment one of them got close enough to stick a knife between her ribs.
Immanu took his daughter's cape and arranged it over Gita's shoulders. It stank of blood, death and dirt. Wetness soaked into her back where Shahla's blood had saturated the cloak. Gita wept as Immanu tore out her braid and arranged her hair around her shoulders the way Ninsianna often wore it. He bent forward and whispered in her ear.
"If he dies, I will burn you alive upon his funeral pyre..."
Gita swallowed. With tear-stained eyes she met his golden ones and nodded. She had known, however innocent that knowledge might have been, and had not told anyone about the white-winged Angelic. The words she truly wished to say, that she would have never betrayed her cousin's beautiful, dark-winged husband because from the first moment she had lay eyes upon him, she'd been in love with him, died upon her lips. Shahla had professed love for Mikhail, too, but in the end she had betrayed him.
Gita sniffled as the warriors lifted their poor leader up onto the rickety wooden cart and began the long, sad procession back to Assur. A hand touched her shoulder. Gita turned to find Pareesa carrying Mikhail's sword.
"He needs you to be her," Pareesa said, nothing but a brown-eyed, thirteen-summer girl once more except for a faint glow of blueness which still radiated out of her irises. "Ninsianna would walk beside him and hold his hand."
"I'm no healer," Gita said. "And … everybody knows Mikhail hates to be touched by anyone except for Ninsianna."
"He let you touch him," Pareesa said. "For some reason he keeps thinking you are her. Use that," Pareesa grabbed her hand, "please?"
"Ninsianna would never forgive me," Gita said.
"I don't care about Ninsianna," Pareesa said. She qualified that. "Not as much as I care about him. Things weren't as wonderful as people believe between them just before Ninsianna was taken."
"I heard them … argue," Gita whispered. "I thought she was being terribly cruel to him."
"All I care is that Mikhail should live," Pareesa's eyes filled with tears. "No matter what the cost."
Gita nodded. Pareesa had single-handedly thrown herself into battle against seventy men to save him. All they asked of her was one, tiny deception, to pretend to be Ninsianna until the real Ninsianna could be rescued. Accelerating her pace to walk at the head of the cart, she slipped in past a brown wing which dragged despondently on the ground. He looked so pale, so lifeless, no longer the most powerful man in their village, but the weakest.
She pictured Ninsianna, the way she stood, the way she moved, the way that her cousin had touched her husband, and oh, gods! How many times Gita had watched Ninsianna sink into her husband's arms and wished it had been her who had found Mikhail the day his sky canoe had fallen from the sky and not her esteemed cousin. Oh, how she had fantasized that someday he might take her hand just as Pareesa asked her to do right now.
"Mikhail?" Gita whispered. She slid her hand into his, small and pale against his larger, stronger one. "Mikhail? Can you feel me? It's me? It's Ninsianna…"
For the first time that night, Mikhail moved.
"Ninsianna," he murmured.
His hand tightened around hers.
~ * ~ * ~
Chapter 10
November 3,390 BC
Earth: Mesopotamian Plain
Mikhail
He called into the darkened room, but nobody waited there for him.
"Ninsianna?"
Pain radiated out of his chest. It hurt! Hands. Touching him. All around him. Pleading with him to hang on.
Strong arms lifted him and cradled him on her lap, reading to him a bedtime story. The cadence of her voice rose and fell as they rocked, singing a song which felt familiar.
"Seanmháthair?"
'You must listen with your heart, chol beag,' his grandmother kissed his forehead. 'Can’t you feel your true mate calling to you?'
Thorns tore at him as he fought his way through the darkness. Pain. So much pain! The room grew even darker, more ominous, terrifying. Behind it yawned that terrible void, thrumming with unspeakable power. Horrible. Dark. Empty.
"Alone..." his voice came out a strangled cry.
The rocking continued, sometimes jarring, but all around him was the sensation of being held. He focused on the touches, searching for the one he knew would prevent him from falling into the void. All meant well, but only one touch anchored him. A hand in his, sm
all, but something about it felt familiar.
"Ninsianna."
Mikhail tightened his grip.
~ * ~ * ~
Chapter 11
The history of war is the history of warriors;
Few in number, mighty in influence.
Alexander, not Macedonia conquered the world.
--General George S. Patton, Jr.--
Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.11 AE
Sata'an/Alliance Border
Supreme Commander-General Abaddon
Abaddon
The Jehoshaphat was a dark grey falcon of a warship, with twin muscular hyperdrives which rose out of her back like a pair of Angelic's wings. Launch apparatus for a planet killer curved out of her nose cone like a raptor's beak, while rail guns bristled out of her hull like sharp, grey feathers. Eight pulse cannons clustered near each of her launch bays, giving her the appearance of a war hawk flexing her talons. She could birth hundreds of fighter raptors simultaneously to swarm the enemy, and if that failed, alongside her flocked dozens of smaller battle cruisers. She was a ruthless bird of prey built for a brutal purpose, to beat back Shay'tan after the Eternal Emperor had abandoned the Alliance to fend for itself.
Some said the Alliance no longer needed the Judgment of God now that the Emperor had returned. That these were different times. That kinder, gentler means had become available to resolve the disputes which arose between the Alliance and the petty kingdoms.
As far as Supreme Commander-General Abaddon was concerned, that was all a crock of tarbh!
Abaddon was a brute of a man, an old-style general who had fledged his pin feathers on the battlefield of the old wars which had been waged before the Emperor had lost his will to fight. He was taller than the average Angelic, burly and muscular thanks to a Seraphim grandfather who had fled that homeworld in search of adventure. He was quick to anger, and even quicker to seek revenge. He had gunship grey hair, falcon-grey wings, and steel grey eyes, accentuated by a scar which ran across his brow from his forehead to his chin, a cut given by the same Sata'anic sword which now hung forever ready at his hip.
Age had tempered Abaddon into the sword the Alliance had needed; more thoughtful, more measured as he'd moved up the ranks, mindful that it was no longer just his life he risked, but the lives of countless men; but that had never tempered his thirst to win. His men followed him because he was always the first to go into battle, the last to leave, and he never, ever asked anything of them that he would not do himself.
"Tighten up the formation to our starboard," Abaddon growled. "When we go at him, I want the bastard to know it's me."
"Yes, Sir," Major Pharzuphel said.
Pharzuphel was an efficient second-in-command, thoughtful, slow to anger, and cautious to carry out the letter of the Emperor's law; the kind of Angelic the Youth Training Academies had been churning out with increasing regularity. She was the yin to his yang, not quite a pacifist, for she was brave when she needed to be, but whenever he sought engagement, Pharzuphel always urged restraint. Within seconds, the blue triangles displayed on the three-dimensional hologram moved back into a perfect 'V'. Pharzuphel counseled no lesser actions. Both knew the time for caution had long since passed.
Abaddon gave a grunt of satisfaction. For twenty-five years the Emperor had kept the Jehoshaphat confined to her nest, only trotting her out whenever he needed to remind Shay'tan that the Immortals weren't the only ones that could make the old dragon bleed. Except for a few border skirmishes, this was the first time the Jehoshaphat had engaged in a real battle since the Emperor had come back from his extended 'vacation.'
How many amongst this fleet had seen the kinds of carnage he had? A few of the longer-lived Angelics? Not many. The Leonids had, although not against Shay'tan. The Centauri had suffered staggering losses against the old dragon, but not within the past generation. They were kids, all of them; ill-experienced, brave, but unprepared for the kind of war Parliament had just authorized Abaddon to wage.
Ominous red triangles blinked closer to defend the border of the now-defunct Third Empire. All around him, younger crewmen moved with anxious hyperactivity, hurrying, finishing up the busy-work, as if that could change the disparity in numbers they were about to face.
"What's our deep-space sonar picking up behind them?"
Abaddon pointed behind the overwhelming armada Shay'tan had amassed to engage them at the place where Lucifer had died.
"Nothing, Sir," Pharzuphel said. "Whatever he's got, they're there."
Abaddon stared at the two opposing lines of warships which were on a collision course. The red triangles representing Shay'tan's war fleet outnumbered the Alliance's blue ones six-to-one, but Abaddon was used to defeating overwhelming numbers. It was how he'd earned his nickname The Destroyer. It was what he couldn't see which worried him.
"Send out drones to scout behind the planetoids here … here … and here." Abaddon pointed to the string of asteroids which had once been the planet Tyre, the kind of places a clever dragon could set a trap.
"May I speak freely, Sir?" Pharzuphel asked.
"Speak," Abaddon grunted. He was a man of few words who'd gotten where he was today by listening to the boots on the ground. When he did speak, people listened, because if they didn't, his next words were usually spoken with the point of his sword.
"Perhaps it's simply a show of force?" Pharzuphel pointed at the amassed Sata'anic armada. "It's no secret we're only looking to take back what was taken from our Prime Minister."
"Those planets weren't taken," Abaddon gave a sharp laugh which sounded like a falcon's hunting cry. He pointed to the border that looked like somebody had gerrymandered long, grasping talons out of the Sata'an Empire to clutch each planet which was habitable. "Lucifer handed those planets to Shay'tan as punishment for his mother's death."
Pharzuphel blanched, but she did not contradict him. She was a dove sent to placate the hawk after the Emperor had returned and put him out to pasture. Abaddon suspected the real reason the Emperor had sent the pretty, beige-winged cadet was to entice him to retire so that under the law he could form a permanent relationship with her, but Pharzuphel had not been interested in an infertile old goat such as himself, and he had not used his rank to pressure her into a mating appointment after his natural lack-of-charm had failed to woo her. She was an efficient second, even if she was a bit too idealistic.
Abaddon's lip twitched into a rare, hawkish grin. Yes. Pharzuphel had never seen any real battles. So in a way, he'd get to pop her cherry after all?
He noted the plaintive, dove-eyed stare his weapons-officer Valac gave his second in command. Fraternization between active members of the military was forbidden, but ever since Abaddon had taken a human wife, he'd become lax about enforcing the letter of Alliance law. Which reminded him…
"Is the offloading complete?" Abaddon asked.
"They're not happy about it, Sir," Pharzuphel said. She tucked her wings tightly against her back. "But … Sir? Did you have to send the pregnant hybrids, too?"
"Yes," Abaddon grunted.
"But they're not civilians," Pharzuphel lowered her voice so the other officers on the bridge would not hear her disagree. "They have as much of a stake in this battle as anyone else in the Alliance."
Abaddon noted the way his weapons-officer opened his mouth as if he wished to say something. Pharzuphel shot the man an icy stare. The weapons officer turned back to his battle station, his hands gripping the controls. Abaddon stared up at his second-in-command, an efficient officer, but a bit too romantic, a characteristic they shared, although The Destroyer was careful to hide his tender side from his crew.
"They will be a distraction," Abaddon said. "We're too close to extinction to risk losing both a hybrid, and also their unborn child."
"But if we find the human homeworld," Pharzuphel said hopefully, "it won't matter anymore."
"We have not found the human homeworld yet," Abaddon fixed his stern, hawk-like gaze upon her body language, "and even
when we do, not even Shay'tan sends his children into war."
He noted the way Pharzuphel fidgeted with a chain worn beneath her uniform, a gesture he, himself, had done until Lucifer's breathtaking rebellion had brought his forbidden marriage out into the open. Dog tags? Or something else? Abaddon closed his eyes and inhaled.
Yes. That growing attractiveness the males in the ship had begun exhibiting towards Pharzuphel a few weeks ago suddenly made sense. It was a common ploy, to feign missing a heat cycle in order to avoid being forced into the Emperor's breeding program and assigned a stranger to mate with to introduce genetic diversity. The scent of HCGT was faint, but now that he looked for it, the pregnancy hormone was hard to miss.
His steel grey eyes stared into her guilty blue ones.
"You'd best get down there yourself, Major," Abaddon spoke low enough so that the other crewmen would not overhear.
"But…"
"You know the law," Abaddon leaned forward, his expression neither condemning nor approving. "The law exists for a reason."
"But you…"
"…are escorting my lifemate down to a safe haven," Abaddon said softly. "And I need you to guard her with your life, because if anything ever happens to her, it will kill me."
Emotions danced across Pharzuphel's face. Indignation. Anger. Worry. Unfortunately for her, or fortunately if you looked at it from Valac's point-of-view, Lucifer had gotten himself killed before he'd had a chance to invalidate the Emperor's anti-fraternization laws. Pharzuphel glanced at her husband, Abaddon assumed Valac was her husband by the way he, too, clutched at something strung on a chain above his heart, and noted the man's look of relief. Valac nodded. He wanted her to go for the same reason Abaddon was sending Sarvenaz.
Pharzuphel tucked her wings against her back into a crisp 'dress wings' formation and saluted him.
"I will guard her with my life, Sir," Pharzuphel said.
She turned to go, anger mixed with grief as their laws prevented her from even giving her mate a heartbroken goodbye. Her eyes welled with tears. The dull ache in Abaddon's own chest reminded him he had his own goodbyes to make. His mate would be no more happy about being forced down into a safe haven than his second-in-command.
Sword of the Gods: Agents of Ki (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 12