Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (Sword of the Gods Saga)

by Anna Erishkigal

  “What kind of rocks are those?” Mikhail pointed. He repeated the question in her language, “what … rocks?"

  He understood the concept of starting a fire with two stones, but suspected he'd never had much cause to do so. He carried a traditional flint and steel in his survival kit. Oh! A memory! He grabbed the rocks out of Ninsianna’s hand in an effort to capture it.

  “Yangin tas,” Ninsianna said in her own language, giving him the rock with a deep groove in it.

  “What this rock?" Mikhail held the second rock. She repeated the word and demonstrated how it was used until it dawned on him that it was a ‘striker.’

  He spent the morning observing her move outside the ship, carrying many items outside as she set out to expand their encampment. Ninsianna was fascinated with things she found in his ship's galley, with often amusing results.

  “No!" Mikhail leaped up just in time to save a plastic container she had used to retrieve water from being used as a cook pot. “No … good … fire. This one!"

  He pointed towards a steel cylinder that was actually part of his ship, but it would make an acceptable pot. A smile lit up her face as she realized how well it heated water. She shoved a handful of leaves from a plant with small blue flowers gathered from a surrounding field into it and brought it to a boil.

  “Here!" Ninsianna handed him a cup with steaming liquid. “Drink!”

  He gave it a wary sniff before taking a sip. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t good, either, but it was hot and drinkable.

  “Borage,” Ninsianna pointed to the little leafy plants that grew in the area. She made him repeat the unfamiliar word. “Borage … make … no hurt … no more. Make you … no hurt … faster.”

  A painkiller? Mikhail paid close attention to his body's reaction to the tea. It didn't have a straightforward analgesic effect, but he felt a subtle increase in his energy levels. Over time, he realized his pain had subsided, although not to the same degree as popping a pill. Ninsianna encouraged him to drink a second and third cup, and then stopped him from drinking any more.

  “No too much,” she stammered in a combination of his and her language, using her hands to help him understand. “Little … then little more … later.”

  He watched, absolutely transfixed, as she snapped off a sapling, peeled the bark and wood off the end to make it into a makeshift spear, and hacked at the end using her stone blade.

  “I go … balik,” she said.

  He didn't understand what balik meant until she walked to the stream, stripped down to her loincloth, and waded in. Mikhail averted his eyes until she moved far enough into the stream to submerge her curvaceous backside. He pretended to stare at something else, watching her intently from the corner of his eye, forcing his eyeballs to take in what she was doing and not the way her soft flesh jiggled as she walked. Ninsianna peered into the water as she spoke to herself, as though a friend walked in the water beside her.

  Mikhail's stomach grumbled. Spear-fishing was a feat which took considerable time and effort, if you succeeded at all. Lunch would be more dried meat and sour berries. Oh … how he wished his ship had enough power to use the food replicator!

  With a delighted squeal, Ninsianna jabbed the stick into the water, splashing so much water it obscured her momentarily. To his surprise, she came up with a fish wriggling at the end.

  “Balik!"

  Ninsianna's face lit up in a triumphant grin. Mikhail averted his eyes as she bounced back towards the shore, her brown breasts bobbing with every step. The stream suddenly sounded very far away as his own blood rushed in his ears. Ninsianna put down the spear with the still-wriggling fish impaled upon it and wrapped her shawl back around her still-wet waist and shoulders before bringing him the fish to inspect. Mikhail realized he'd been holding his breath and exhaled.

  “What that word?" Mikhail pointed to the fish.

  “Balik,” she said. “Balik.”

  “Iasc,” he translated. “Fish … Iasc." He suppressed the facial expression accompanying the thought which otherwise would have made him smile. ‘Thank the gods! Something to eat besides that terrible dried meat and sour berries!’

  “Simdi bu temdiz gidecegiz." Ninsianna grabbed her stone blade and headed back down to the stream.

  Something about cleaning the fish? She took a handful of water and said a prayer before dumping it on the fish's head. Then she got down to the unpleasant task of cleaning it, using the stone blade to scrape off the scales and remove the entrails. Rinsing it in the stream, she walked into the underbrush to bury the undesirables before returning to rinse her hands.

  “Fish … good." Ninsianna's eyes gleamed with anticipation. She poked the fire with a stick to create a flat area amongst the coals and set the fish directly onto them to cook.

  Mikhail considered telling her that she could salvage one of the flat titanium-steel panels which had come crashing down from the ceiling of his ship, but thought better of it when she began to sing. She moved outside the periphery of the clearing to comb the underbrush for other things to eat. She obviously knew what she was doing.

  She returned periodically to put something onto the fire or near it. Curled up green things. Some type of leaves. Knobby little tubers. Little round nuts with caps on them which she dug out of a hollow tree as though she'd just won a wager. She nestled the nuts and tubers into rocks strategically placed into the fire to protect them from burning. Mikhail’s stomach growled as the delightful aroma of cooking fish wafted his way.

  As she worked, Ninsianna talked to herself as though she were having an animated conversation with a friend. She didn't appear to be insane. Perhaps she engaged in a prayer ritual? He suspected she discussed him with whatever deity she prayed to for guidance. Given how quickly she had rustled up a meal, whoever she prayed to obviously listened. Not to mention the fact he was still breathing from injuries which should have killed him.

  He made a mental note to question her society’s spiritual beliefs once the language barrier had been overcome. The Cherubim….

  Damantia! The memory flitted into his mind and was gone again before he could grab onto it.

  Ninsianna moved back to the fire, scooping the cooked fish onto a plate, along with the curled green things, tubers, and roasted nuts. Mikhail decided to amuse his otherwise empty mind (for what are you to occupy your mind with when you have no memories?) by watching how she would react to certain stimuli. Stretching out his wings as far as he could before it became painful, he flapped them to test the planet's gravity. He was rewarded by a momentary sensation of uplift as well as the surprised look on Ninsianna’s face as the draft blew sparks onto strip of cloth she wore wrapped around herself to make a crude dress.

  “Mikhail … tú dona!!! Bad!!!" She waggled her finger and patted her shawl to douse the sparks. She muttered a string of words he guessed meant something along the lines of “look what you just did to my dress!”

  “Tá brón orm,” he apologized.

  He felt an evil thrill at watching her express her anger. He didn't think the females of his species were so expressive. In fact, given how much he enjoyed riling her, he felt he wasn’t used to doing the irritating, either. Ninsianna gave him a wary scowl as she scooped the fish and tubers out of the fire using the oversized, primitive stone blade she always carried and plopped them into a bowl. He decided a lesson about using modern cutlery could wait as she ate using her knife and fingers. Following her example, he picked up the fish and took a bite.

  A sensation that could only be described as a first-class trip to Haven exploded onto his taste buds as he bit into the warm, succulent flesh of Ninsianna's fish. He forced himself to remain silent rather than oink happily as he chewed, hoping she didn't notice the way his feathers rustled with suppressed delight. Belatedly, he realized by her wounded expression that perhaps in this culture it was customary to express some sentiment of gratitude to the chef?

  “Good,” Mikhail said. He had no idea how to say, 'this is the tastiest meal I hav
e any memory of eating' so he raised his plate and nodded instead. Ninsianna gifted him with one of her breathtaking smiles. The meal didn't trigger any memories, but he had the feeling this meal would compare favorably to whatever fare he normally ate when he wasn’t eating remolecularized food cubes.

  A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead. Sniffing his own sweat, he realized he'd become fairly ripe. Stripping off his shirt and combat boots, he waded into the stream and sat down in a hollow, sighing with pleasure as the water washed over him. Soaking his hair and feathers in the cool water, he was surprised when Ninsianna came up behind him and offered a freshly dug root of a plant. Wearing nothing but her loin-cloth, she ducked beneath the water and showed him how to rub the brownish root to create lather before rubbing it through her hair.

  “See… how…" Ninsianna's expression was guileless as she held the root out to where he sat in the water.

  Looking up, the only thing Mikhail could “see … how” was how her brown nipples stood at attention from the cold water dripping off of them mere inches from his face.

  “See … how … soap,” Ninsianna repeated, holding out the root and giving him the word. “Soap.”

  “S-s-soap…” Mikhail mumbled. Color crept into his face as he realized he'd sprouted an erection. He had no idea when he'd last had relations with a female, but from his reaction he guessed it had been quite a while. Remembering the promise he'd made to her father, he thanked the gods he sat in the stream so she wouldn't see his reaction straining guiltily against the confines of his cargo pants.

  “Ninsianna … help … soap?" She pointed to his blood-matted hair.

  Mikhail froze as she squeezed a natural soap gel out of the root and rubbed the lather through his hair, gingerly washing away the dried blood from his stitches, down his shoulders and neck. It was the most exquisitely sweet torture since … he couldn't remember. The soap root burned wherever it made contact with an open wound, but he ignored it. He twitched under his skin wherever she touched him.

  “Gortaithe … hurt?” she inquired.

  “No,” Mikhail lied. “Líon ní chuireann sé gortaithe [it doesn’t hurt]."

  Actually, he wasn't lying. Her ministrations didn't hurt. It was maintaining his self-control as her hands ran the slippery substance over his bare skin that hurt!

  “Mikhail,” Ninsianna pointed to his chest. “I … see?" She wished to examine his wounds.

  She bent in front of him, giving an unobstructed view of her breasts as she examined her needlework. Although in no way did her hands linger or convey any meaning other than a desire to help him, Mikhail shivered with a nearly uncontrollable urge to pull her into the water.

  ‘Promise … you made a promise…’ he reminded himself as he schooled an impassive expression. A small, unwelcome voice welled up from his subconscious, reminding him to be cautious in all matters of the heart. Although he couldn't remember who he was, he felt certain he was an honorable man. He would keep his promise!

  Moving to his back, Ninsianna lathered up more soap root and proceeded to pick the dried blood out of his feathers. It had to be the most agonizingly pleasant twenty minutes he had ever spent. Ninsianna perfunctorily lathered up the areas he would have trouble getting on his own in his less-than-perfect state.

  “Leigheas maith leat … you heal good."

  Ninsianna handed him the soap root to finish washing the uninjured portions of his lower body. She walked back to the shore, wringing the water out of her long, chestnut hair as she went. Wrapping her shawl around her waist and tossing it over her shoulder, she never gave him so much as a backwards glance as she walked back to the fire.

  Mikhail stayed in the stream, not because he felt like sitting there once he'd rinsed the soap root out of his feathers, but because it took that long to get his libido back under control. Keeping his hands off of her was a wise course of action. For all he knew he had a mate back … someplace … anxiously awaiting his return.

  As soon as he got back to the shore, Ninsianna insisted he sit down so she could bandage him back up.

  “You … degisim giysi … now." She pointed to a clean set of clothing she'd retrieved from his ship while he'd wallowed in the stream. He felt self-conscious about changing in front of her.

  “No,” he said. “Later.”

  “You … degisim giysi … now,” she said again. He gathered the unknown word was ‘change.’

  “No,” he shook his head. “It isn't proper to change in front of a female who is not your mate." He knew she didn't understand, but she accepted that he wished to stay in his cold, wet clothing while she bandaged him back up and reset the splints on his broken wing.

  She repacked his shattered ribcage with leaves and some type of sap. For the rest of his life he would have a hole in his chest to remind him that he owed this woman a debt he could never repay. Ninsianna replaced his wrappings with khaki beige strips which fluttered from a nearby bush like cheerful flags. The strips had been washed and salvaged from the uniform he'd been wearing when his ship had crashed.

  “My shirt?" He shot her a raised eyebrow.

  Ninsianna frowned and muttered something he took to be an apology. She didn't understand the subtle nuances his kind understood to be teasing. She mistook his admiration at her resourcefulness for anger.

  “It’s okay. It's good." He took her hand to reassure her. “Thank you."

  Ninsianna scrutinized his expression, her emotions dancing across her face. Puzzlement. Curiosity. Relief. She finished binding his chest in silence, helping him pull a clean shirt over his broken arm.

  “Hurt … good." She placed one hand over the wound on the front of his chest, the other over the hole in the back.

  Mikhail winced in anticipation of pain, but Ninsianna didn't apply pressure. Instead, she chanted a sing-song prayer, reminiscent of one of the songs sung by her father the shaman. Mikhail forced himself to remain still even though he didn't share her pre-technological belief that magic could heal his wounds. The Emperor…

  Damantia! Another memory fragment came and went, leaving him no further enlightened, merely frustrated.

  Wherever Ninsianna placed her hands his skin became warm; a pleasant, tingling sensation he would forever associate with her. Little by little a comfortable lethargy spread throughout his body. Magic that worked? He didn't think it was normal to recover from such severe wounds so quickly, but what did he know? For all he knew, he really had died and the spirit who had come to escort him into the dreamtime was spinning a pleasant dream.

  “You … tasimak,” Ninsianna pointed to his wing. She wished him to spread his broken wing so she could examine it.

  “Sciathán … wing,” Mikhail translated.

  He suppressed a sigh of pleasure as she massaged the area below the break, unable to prevent himself from leaning into her touch. His wing itched like mad! Ninsianna was fascinated by his wings, patting them every excuse she could find as though he was a pet madra, but she masked her curiosity as she bound the makeshift splint back into place. Her species could exercise emotional self-restraint when necessary just like his could. They were just less inclined to do so.

  “Thank you." He noted the way her irises turned a brighter shade of gold whenever he made eye contact. He'd seen such golden eyes someplace before; someone besides her father, who shared the unusual coloring, but he couldn't remember where.

  “You … degisim giysi … now." She handed him the rest of his dry, clean clothing and pointed towards his ship. “Then … sleep. You … hurt.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Mikhail said, ready to obey. Dry clothing. And a nap. Just what the bossy doctor ordered.

  Chapter 23

  Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.02

  Haven-1

  Prime Minister Lucifer

  Lucifer

  Lucifer nodded to the two Cherubim guards who shadowed his adoptive father whenever the Eternal Emperor Hashem was in corporeal form. He waited for them to give him entrance, not to the throne room,
where only those who knew the Emperor well understood he was loathe to inhabit, but into the cutting edge genetics laboratory which had been grafted onto the Eternal Palace.

  Although most mortals assumed the Emperor could wave his hands and cause molecules to rearrange themselves into fantastical creations, immortality only granted ascended beings a modicum of control over the elements of nature, and an imperfect control at that. Most 'old gods' got stuff done the same way any other mortal in the universe did, by rolling up their sleeves and getting to work.

  Work to Lucifer's adopted father meant splicing genetic enhancements onto existing species using the scientific vehicle of recombinant DNA. Immortality meant you could work on your obsession long enough, unhindered by death, to eventually work out a solution. Through trial and error, most old gods eventually mastered the art of manipulating the rules of physics which were much more malleable than most cultures understood. She-who-is had grown so powerful that she could use her mind to manifest whatever sparked her interest; but immortality, by itself, did not grant omnipotence.

  It was why the Emperor hadn't been able to wave his hands and make his army's inbreeding problem simply go away. No matter what method the Emperor used, whether natural breeding, cloning, artificial insemination or a certain amount of hand-waving ascended hocus-pocus, hybrid gametes combined artificially in meiosis simply failed to cause an embryo to grow.

  “Father?" Lucifer called to the very ordinary-looking man bent over an ordinary-looking stainless-steel laboratory table. “I came as soon as I could.”

  “Lucifer." The Eternal Emperor Hashem didn't even glance up. “Glad you could make it." The Emperor could assume any form he wished, but the form he preferred was that of a wingless human male. He continued fertilizing leathery eggs the size of softballs, ignoring Lucifer until he finished.