He passed a few villagers curled up in the alleys, wracked with convulsions and drenched in their own vomit. One made eye contact with him, but even if he hadn't changed his appearance to appear more Angelic than Ubaid, by the cloud of delusion which raged within the man's eyes, he doubted the man would have recognized him even if he'd been dressed in his former chiefly regalia.
At last he came to Shahla's old house, the finest in the village after his father's and the temple of She-who-is. The stench of excrement assailed his nostrils. Whoever had decorated the linen-trader's house with the contents of their chamber-pot had done an especially thorough job. He wondered if the culprit had any idea their actions had inspired the linen-trader to betray them?
"Shay'tan be praised," he whispered to the Sata'anic dragon-god. Kasib had told him how their esteemed emperor always anticipated such human foibles and was clever enough to turn them to his advantage. Whoever had done the naughty deed, they had played right into his hands.
Laum's door was bolted tight, but Jamin had crept into the linen-trader's house enough times to lay down with Shahla that a lock was not a deterrent. In the courtyard was a tiny, luxurious garden featuring a new crop Shahla's father had been experimenting with. Grapes. They were past season now, but Jamin found a few which had dried into tiny, sweet shrunken raisins as he climbed up the support terrace and let himself into Shahla's second-story window.
He looked around her room, amazed that all traces of his former lover had been erased. The sleeping pallet had been removed, the small nightstand which had hosted her kohls and rouges now held a spinning whorl and various implements of weaving, and dominating the entire room were bundles of heckled flax and the largest loom Jamin had ever seen. An odd sense of anger gurgled deep within his belly. By the progress of the cloth bolted firmly onto the frame, Shahla's mother had wasted no time reclaiming the space to fatten her wallet!
He stepped carefully, cringing at the sound his heavy modern combat boots made with each footfall as he slipped down the stairs. He found Shahla's mother curled up in the luxurious cushions they kept in their receiving room, covered from head to toe in her own vomit.
"Laum? Is that you?" Munzur raised her head and peered at him in the dim light of the sole tallow lantern.
"No," Jamin said. He went down on one knee so that he would be eye-level with her when he killed her. He wanted Shahla's mother to know who he was so she could tell her daughter it had been him to do this favor.
The woman's eyes grew wide as at last she recognized him.
"You!"
"Yes, it is I," Jamin said. "The man you wished to be your son-in-law."
Munzur struggled to sit up, but the nausea hit and caused her to convulse in pain. She tried to retch up more of her supper, but from the stench of vomit she'd already upended the entire contents of her stomach. Marwan hadn't been kidding when he'd said it was a powerful purgative.
"You don't belong here," Munzur hissed, but her accusation was as weak as she was.
His own blood roared in his ears.
"I don't belong here because of you," Jamin said.
"You killed my daughter!" Munzur accused.
"You killed your daughter," Jamin growled, his eyes black with fury. "You killed her with your manipulations."
"You lie!"
Jamin gave her a jackal's grin.
"I do not lie," Jamin said. He leaned forward. "Before she died, Shahla and I made our peace, and she told me how terribly cruelly you treated her after her baby had died. There is only one thing I must do to earn her forgiveness. Do you want to know what that is?"
Munzur's eyes grew wide with fear.
"My husband will be home any moment!" Munzur clutched her vomit-stained shawl. "He has vowed revenge for what you did to our daughter."
Jamin's grin grew wider, feral, a predator who had his dinner cornered.
"Shahla wished for me to repay your cruelty with like," Jamin said. "I have come to pay my debt."
"Help!" Munzur hit at his hand as he placed his fingers around her throat and squeezed.
"Don't fight it!" Jamin crushed her windpipe. "Just close your eyes, and when you open them again, you will find yourself in the dreamtime."
Munzur clawed at his hands, but the hellebore had weakened her enough that her struggles were surprisingly ineffective. Her eyes bulged as deep in her chest she made a strange, gurgling sound.
An odd urge of power warred with that part of him which screamed this was a murder, not the justice as he wanted it to be. How many times had he dreamed of cutting out Munzur's viperous tongue? She kicked and tried to roll away, but the more she fought, the harder he clenched his fingers. He remembered the way Lucifer had pressed into his backside as he'd whispered into his ear and told him to visualize his enemies as he'd pulled the trigger on his pulse rifle.
That same peculiar euphoria he had felt then tingled through his body and aroused a pleasant sensation in his loins. Jamin's cock grew hard at remembering that overwhelming sense of power. He could almost hear Lucifer whispering for him to bury his shaft as the life left her body so that he could take her essence and absorb it into his own.
'Take her … take her … take her,' Lucifer's seductive voice whispered into his brain.
His cock vibrated between his legs so violently that had he been wearing an Ubaid kilt instead of the cumbersome leg-coverings called pants, he might have succumbed to the urge. Jamin's eyes rolled up into the back of his head as his balls convulsed. Oh, gods! He'd always liked it rough, but this? So close! He was so close! How many times had he fantasized about doing this to Ninsianna after she had broken his heart? To take his unfaithful former fiancé by force and throttle the life out of her as he fucked her?
Another voice whispered to him, a quieter voice, his mother's voice, whispering that above all he must always treat others kindly. He had made a promise as he'd lain dying of infection from Aturdokht's arrow as the Amorites had carried him across the desert. He breathed deeply and focused on his mother's imaginary treasure-box, drowning out the memory of Lucifer whispering into his ear.
"Laum asked that your death be a tender one," Jamin said. "Sleep, woman. Go to sleep, and when you awaken you will find yourself in the next world."
Munzur's struggles grew weaker. He realized there was nothing tender about the way his fingers dug into her neck. He grabbed a cushion and pressed it over her face. There. Shahla would want her mother to have a soft death, not a hard one. He waited until her body stopped convulsing, and then pulled off the pillow, pressing his fingers to her throat to make sure she was truly dead.
There. It was done…
He stared at Munzur's lifeless body. Somehow he'd thought the act of revenge would have given him greater satisfaction, but with her lips blue and tongue protruding from asphyxiation, all he could think about was how much she resembled Shahla. Shouldn't he feel something for having killed her? Guilt? Self-loathing? Self-justification? Maybe even relief? Nothing. He felt nothing. Not even that strange sense of euphoria and sexual power. Not towards her, anyways.
He picked her up and carried her gently up the stairs to settle her into her bed. Her empty bed. Thanks to him, the woman need never know it had been her husband who had ordered her death, nor suffer at the hands of the village for her husband's treason. It was a kindness, really, what he had just done.
"You should not have forced your daughter to pursue me while I was under the spell of the sorceress Ninsianna," Jamin said as he placed his fingers over Munzur's vacant eyes and shut her eyelids.
He made sure her dress was straight and crossed her arms before pulling the covers up to her neck. So many manipulations, so many people vying to catch the eye of the Chief's son back when he had still been a catch and not some stateless criminal. Might he have fallen in love with Shahla if Ninsianna hadn't used her magic to seduce him while he'd been weakened from the auroch wound? He stared at Shahla's mother, who resembled her only somewhat.
"No," he said to no one bu
t himself. His father had been right all along. All his life he'd been waiting for someone who would love him the way that his father had loved his mother. Shahla had not been that woman, and neither had Ninsianna. But perhaps had he not been blinded with daydreams about the shaman's daughter, he would have treated Shahla a lot less cruelly?
"May Shay'tan guide your spirit into the dreamtime," Jamin whispered as he kissed the dead woman's forehead, and then pulled the covers over her head.
He paused long enough to wash his hands in the bucket of hellebore-tainted water, mindful not to place a single drop in his mouth, and then arranged his clothing to be so neat it would survive one of Sergeant Dahaka's surprise cleanliness inspections.
It was time to go pay a visit to his faithless father...
~ * ~ * ~
Chapter 42
December, 3,390 BC
Earth: Village of Assur
Namhu
"If you don't go up to bed right now, young man," Mama shook her wooden spoon at him, "I'm going to assign you chamber pot duty for the entire week instead of Zakiti!"
Namhu glanced across the room at the aforementioned pesky little sister. At five years old, Zakiti had taken to acting as his shadow ever since Pareesa had grown too busy to look after her.
"But Namhu already…" Zakiti started to tattle.
"Shh!" Namhu gave her a dirty look.
Zakiti smirked, and then glanced over at the small bowl of dried dates he'd hidden underneath the fold of his shawl. Oh? So that's how it was going to be? Zakiti was blackmailing him into sharing? Namhu scowled, trying to intimidate her.
She shifted her cunning smirk to that darling little smile he found impossible to resist. Unlike Pareesa, who was a bossy know-it-all who forever told him to scram, Zakiti worshipped him the same way that his older sister worshipped Mikhail.
It was kind of nice being looked up to…
Oh. Alright! Namhu lifted up a single finger. One. One date in exchange for his sister’s silence.
Zakiti’s smile grew victorious as she held up three fingers. Three dates, not just one.
"What did you say, Zakiti?" Mama asked.
Zakiti glanced over towards the chamber pot, already half-full. In each family the youngest child was expected to empty the chamber pots as soon as they were big enough to carry them. If Zakiti tattled that he’d been relieving her of that duty and using the contents to decorate the front of the linen-trader’s house, Mama would tan his backside with a belt.
Namhu held up three fingers and nodded. Three dates. He would acquiesce to his little sister’s blackmail.
Zakiti gave her mother a smile which was pure innocence. "Nothing, Mama. I was just saying how tired I am tonight."
"Alright then," Mama snapped. "To bed now. All of you!"
"How come Pareesa doesn't have to be home for bed?" Namhu said.
A frown of worry crossed Mama’s brow. Not only had Pareesa never come home to milk the goat, but she'd never shown up for supper, either. An inquiry amongst the warriors revealed she’d never gone to training. Pareesa had always done what she darned well pleased, but it wasn't like her to disappear, merely to argue about it until she got her way.
"Pareesa is doing something important for the Chief," Papa said. "Now go to bed. We don't have enough tallow to keep the lanterns burning until the wee hours like some people in this village!"
Behind Papa, Granny made a shooing motion with her hands. Yeah… Namhu wasn't stupid. The adults wanted the common area to themselves. There was much to be concerned about and they still thought him too young to overhear their talk of the village defenses.
He paused for a drink at the bucket of water he'd drawn earlier from the well and passed the ladle around to his brothers and sisters. As he did, he slipped the dates out of his shawl and tucked them under his armpit so his Mama wouldn’t see them. He’d spent the afternoon at the flint-knapper's house helping him fletch arrows and drinking in the latest gossip about whether or not Mikhail would live.
The other warriors laughed at him whenever he shadowed them, but Rakshan, the flint-knapper, let him watch him knap arrowheads out of shale. Why, he even let Namhu keep any arrowheads that came out less than perfect! This afternoon, Rakshan had given him three almost-perfect arrows and the handful of dates for helping him clean up the workshop.
Namhu kept his arm pressed tight against his side as he climbed up the ladder one-handed.
"What's wrong with your arm?" Papa asked.
"He's pretending he's wounded like the chief," Zakiti chimed in.
"Oh?" Papa raised one eyebrow.
Zakiti winked at him. "Sure."
Namhu forced himself not to roll his eyes. For a five summer girl, Zakiti's gift with words was almost frightening.
He scurried up the stairs and ditched the dates underneath his sleeping pallet, quick, before Mama came up to kiss them all goodnight. If his parents saw he had them, they'd make him share them with all six of his brothers and sisters, his granny, and them. Zakiti wasn't helping him out of kindness, but to preserve her own share of the bounty.
Namhu crawled beneath his blanket and engaged in the usual elbowing and nudging of legs and elbows as he and his four brothers jammed into a single bed. Beside them, lucky Zakiti crawled into bed by herself. Their baby sister Gemeti was still too small to sleep with the bigger kids, and even when Pareesa did come home, she went to bed late. Granny slept with the girls, ostensibly because she was cold, but Namhu suspected it was really so their parents could -do- things to one another, icky, disgusting things that involved lots of grunting and funny noises in the dark.
He waited for his brothers to fall asleep so he could eat the dates, listening to his parents talk about the traitor and her friend, the one they couldn't kill because Mikhail thought she was Ninsianna. Granny and Papa thought they should just stone her to death like was rumored was done to her mother, but Mama was adamant that such a death would be barbaric. None of the adults agreed with Pareesa, who insisted that Gita was innocent of conspiring with Shahla to hurt Mikhail.
At last his brothers fell asleep. Namhu crawled silently out of the bed and pulled out the bag of dates and the three brand-new arrows Rakshan had given him today. Zakiti always wanted to hear him tell stories about what a good shot he was and how many squirrels he had taken.
"Zakiti?" Namhu whispered.
"I'm still awake," Zakiti whispered.
"Did I ever tell you that you're a pest?"
"Every single day."
"Well if you want them, you'd better eat them quick," Namhu said, "before Granny comes up to bed."
Downstairs the topic of conversation turned to Qishtea's abandonment of Assur and how the other tribes had all followed suit. Why was Nineveh so important anyways? Shouldn’t each village think for itself?
Zakiti grabbed her three dates and popped the first one into her mouth. Namhu did likewise, savoring the sweet, somewhat gritty burst of flavor onto his tongue. They ate in silence, the only sound the occasional groan of pleasure as brother and sister relished the forbidden treat.
He somewhat grudgingly split his last date and shared it with her without being asked. Zakiti was a devious little thing, but more than once she had covered his backside. He then pulled out his brand-new arrows and let her feel the arrowheads, explaining how he had personally chipped them out of slate and fashioned the fletching out of duck feathers.
Downstairs, a loud crash reverberated through the house.
Mama and Granny both screamed.
"What is the meaning of this?" Papa said.
"Where's Pareesa?"
"Get out of my house!" Papa said.
Downstairs there were loud crashes and screams. Papa shouted. Mama cried out in pain.
Zakiti's eyes grew large and frightened. Namhu grabbed his bow and strung the arrow he'd just been teaching his little sister how to measure and crept to the entrance of the stairwell.
"Answer the question, man, or we'll slit your woman's throat!"
>
"D-d-don't tell him anything," Mama's voice warbled.
Namhu peeked down the stairs at the three men wearing Uruk attire. One of them held Mama with a knife pressed against her throat. He strung his lone arrow into the bow. One arrow. Three men. He gestured for Zakiti to bring him the other two arrows.
"Answer me, man!" one of the Uruk shouted.
Zakiti fumbled under his bed, and then crept quietly towards him on her hands and knees, pausing when the floor creaked beneath her hands. Oh, please gods, let his little sister have enough common sense not to cry out and let the invaders know there were people sleeping upstairs.
Namhu stiffened his aiming arm and drew the bowstring all the way back to his ear. The man had Mama in front of him. To shoot him dead, he'd only have a matter of a finger's breadth.
The Uruk holding Mama looked up. He opened his mouth to shout as he spotted Namhu kneeled at the stairwell.
Namhu loosened his fingers and let the arrow fly.
The Uruk called out a warning. Namhu's arrow slammed into his neck, cutting off his words.
Mama screamed as the knife pulled inwards to her throat.
Papa leaped towards the man with the knife.
Zakiti pressed the second arrow into his hand.
A second Uruk dove at Papa with his own knife aimed for Papa's chest.
Namhu pulled back the bowstring and let his second arrow fly, right into the second raider's heart.
Papa tackled the gurgling, neck-shot Uruk away from Mama. The two fought while Mama kicked him.
The third Uruk dove for Granny. Granny grabbed the nearly empty water bucket and swung it at the man's head. The man ducked. As he rose, Namhu strung his third arrow and let it fly.
His arrow hit the Uruk in the side. The man cried out in pain.
Granny kicked the man and then picked up the bucket again and bashed the man over the head with it.
Papa got the knife away from the man who held Mama by the throat and buried that knife in the man's chest. The man twitched for several moments, and then finally stopped moving. The man Granny hit with the bucket's face was smashed beyond all recognition. The second Uruk who had dove for Papa had died before he'd even hit the ground.
Sword of the Gods: Agents of Ki (Sword of the Gods Saga) Page 44