Sword of the Gods II: Prince of Tyre

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Late-September - 3,390 BC

Earth: Village of Assur

NINSIANNA

Ninsianna inhaled the decadent scent of water, a sacred substance to the people who lived in this dry land, and beheld the glow of life-energy which emanated from every living thing. In the sky above her the enormous mated pair of golden eagles floated lazily in the updraft of the Hiddekel River. Wispy clouds gave promise of the winter storms which would soon swell the river over its banks and deluge the ground upon which they stood. Until then, the empty riverbed made an ideal place to practice archery.

*Thwunk*

She got off a perfect shot, a combination of natural skill and her growing ability to use senses beyond the normal five. She turned to her squad mate, a frustrating student, but one the goddess whispered must learn to use the bow. If Yadidatum could learn to shoot, any woman could.

"How am I supposed to hit the target if it's that far away?" her friend Yadidatum lamented. "Every time I master a new skill, you move the target!"

Delicate pink puffs of energy flowed off of Yadidatum's spirit light, indicative of her soft, domestic bent, not the energy of a warrior. It was her irresistibility to men which had driven the voluptuous beauty to take up archery. Why wait to get kidnapped by slavers when you could defend yourself?

"C'mon, Yadidatum!" Homa and Gisou chanted together, two young women the same approximate age. "You can do it!" As inseparable as twins, the two friends were competent archers and, now that Mama had started training apprentices, becoming relatively decent healers.

"Why couldn't She-who-is endow me with natural ability?" Yadidatum grumbled as she lined up the shot, a perfect portrait of feminine beauty.

"But you always look so fashionable with your bow and quiver," Ninsianna laughed at her friend's frustration. "Your efforts please HER. We are all gifted with different talents."

"But you are good at everything," Yadidatum complained.

"I cannot weave cloth or embroider a fringe to save my life," Ninsianna said. "Two months I have been married and I have yet to weave my husband a suitable kilt with fringe. Most women would have sewn an extra fringe onto her husband's kilt to denote he was a married man."

"Now that would be a fine sight to behold," Gisou added her voice to the conversation. "Never have I met a man who liked to cover up as much as your husband!"

"He has fine legs," Homa leered. "If only he would let us see them. And a muscular chest! Why does he persist in wearing those strange foreign garments that cover his calves?"

"They're called pants," Ninsianna forced her hands to loosen where she gripped her bow. Her jealousy was irrational. These women were her friends. She pointed to a khaki-beige garment lying sodden at the top of her basket which she'd washed in the river only moments before. "And the garment which covers his chest is called a shirt. I do not like it, but he insists on wearing his uniform."

Yadidatum chewed her lip as she spread her legs to line up her shot, her aiming arm stiff and perpendicular to her torso. They all held their breath as she drew back her bowstring to her ear and took aim.

"C'mon Yadidatum, take the shot," they all urged their friend.

Ninsianna found herself praying, 'Steady. Steady. Keep your eyes open. That's it…'

At the last moment, Yadidatum shut her eyes. With a dull *thwung* the arrow fell short of its mark. Every archer groaned.

"Pareesa didn't have any trouble learning this!" Yadidatum stomped her foot. "All she has to do is watch him do it once! She's only thirteen summers old!"

"Some people are just natural warriors," Ninsianna reassured her. "What matters is how well you compete against yourself."

"I see the children coming down the hill for their lesson," Homa pointed to a group of boys and girls, aged seven to thirteen, pouring out of the north gate of the village. "We'd better hurry before Alalah kicks us off her practice field."

Homa and Gisou took their shots, hitting the target with various degrees of proficiency. Ninsianna lined up a second shot, relishing the feel of the bow which felt like a natural extension of her hand. She pulled the bowstring to her cheek and gently loosened her fingers so the jerk of her hand would not send her shot amiss. With a whistle, it hit the target dead-center, no special powers from the goddess needed. Ninsianna yanked out her arrows with a victorious grin.

"You always hit dead center," Yadidatum said.

"Ninsianna is a good shot because she is the Chosen of She-who-is," Gisou said.

Dozens of children carrying bows surged around them like eager little jackals, herded between Alalah, Orkedeh, Behnam and Kiana, the remaining archers of Mikhail's original eight. Ninsianna could not stay. The Chief had ordered her to study under her shaman father to perfect her gift, while Homa and Gisou now apprenticed under her mother to become healers. Yadidatum would remain behind to practice with the children, ostensibly as a teacher, but she needed the practice even more than they did.

The squadron leader poked Yadidatum's elbow with the end of her bow. An older woman in her forties, Alalah was the organizational force behind keeping the archery program flowing now that Mikhail and Ninsianna were occupied doing other tasks.

"Ninsianna learns the same way the rest of us do," Alalah, snapped. "Through dedication and hard work. Now quit whining and start shooting at that target. You didn't have any problem keeping your eyes open when you were hunting ducks!"

Yadidatum's cheeks turned a deep scarlet. An image leaped into Ninsianna's mind along with the whispered giggle of the goddess's breath through the stalks of grain.

'That's because the duck had such attractive brown-black wings, just like the quarry she took archery lessons to hunt in the first place…'

Ninsianna clapped her hand over her mouth before She-Who-Is could compel her to speak that thought aloud. Yadidatum would die of mortification if she knew that Ninsianna knew she had once borne an affection for her husband! She glanced up the hill to the north gate where her father had just appeared. It was time to go attend her nightly lesson.

"Time to go!" Ninsianna called. Rewrapping her shawl and tucking the end into her belt so it did not expose her breasts, she picked up the basket of laundry, strung her bow across her back and bid her friends goodbye.

As she climbed the steep path up to the ring of mud-brick houses which formed the outer wall of the village, she glanced over the fields to where Mikhail stood training his troops. Ninsianna smiled, though she had trouble telling whether it was her pleasure she felt, or the pleasure of the goddess she channeled. Perhaps they were one and the same?

Papa met her about a third of the way up the path. "Let me take that basket from you, child. You can carry these, instead. They are much less heavy."

Average height, strongly built, and moving with a grace that betrayed he was also trained to be a warrior, Immanu's wild salt-and-pepper hair and bushy eyebrows gave him the look of not quite existing in this world. Father and daughter both possessed the same tawny-beige eyes, wide-set and large as though they could see right through you and discern all of your secrets, although ever since Ninsianna had been touched by the goddess, her eyes glowed more gold than beige.

Ninsianna handed off her heavy basket and pressed her head towards Papa's as they passed the sentries into the village, eager to share his secrets. "What news comes from the Chief?"

"Stories have filtered down from the north that the Anatolians also suffer from kidnapped young women," Papa's brow creased with worry. "It is not Halifians or Amorites masterminding these raids, but some other tribe altogether."

"Have the Chief's trading partners located where the lizard demons have set up their encampment?" Ninsianna asked. Although She-who-is showed her the lizard-demons would come from the west, the rest of the information was irritatingly, frustratingly blank, forcing them to rely on old-fashioned methods of gathering information.

"Alas, no," Papa said. "But there are rumors from other villages of traders who have met with them. It is said they possess sky canoes such as Mikhail's that cast a terrible fire and fly from village to village as though they were a bird."

They reached their typical two-story mud-brick house, nicer than many others in the village, but not elaborate compared to wealthier families such the Chief. Mama's only concession to luxury was a kitchen table carved of wood and two solid benches, wide boards being a rarity in a climate where heat and lack of rain left the trees twisted and gnarled. Ninsianna held open the door while Papa carried the basket of wet clothing straight through to the back courtyard where a more typical Ubaid table sat, low and comprised of mud bricks so the heat from the adjacent beehive oven would not singe it. The goat bleated a greeting.

"Hello, Little Nemesis," Ninsianna bent to hang up Mikhail's strange clothing on the twisted flax they used as a clothesline. "I see you are still in your pen. It's best not to engineer an escape when the fields are full of men throwing spears or Mikhail may decide to use you as a target."

The goat stood up and peered over the rickety fence, nodding its head as though it could understand her. She suspected it could by the way its spirit light whirled towards her, a pleasant green tinged with bits of yellow. Yellow meant thoughts, so some scheme percolated in the goat's mind. Probably her next escape attempt! Ninsianna burst into laughter.

"What's so funny, child?" Papa asked.

"I was just talking to Little Nemesis about what she would do next to try Mikhail's patience."

"I suspect She-who-is coaches the goat to teach him how to relate to lesser creatures," Papa beckoned for her to come inside the house.

Ninsianna hung up the last garments and followed Papa inside. His prayer-carpet had been rolled out to provide a clean place for them to sit upon the packed earth floor. Around it lay sacred articles representing each direction where a different spirit-force lay.

"What will we learn tonight?" Ninsianna asked.

"More remote viewing," Papa said. "A trader from the north came to speak to the Chief today. One of the villages he came through claimed to have seen one of these lizard demons."

Ninsianna groaned. Remote viewing was difficult without the aid of kratom, a blue flower with a mild hallucinogenic effect, but one she could no longer avail herself of now that she was carrying Mikhail's child. Even when she had used the flower, She-who-is would only let her look so far.

Papa lit first a tiny oil-filled clay lamp, then a bundle of dried herbs. Ninsianna placed her scrying bowl in the center of the carpet, though if the goddess intended for her to see something, she rarely needed a reflection from water anymore. Papa began to chant the same rhythmic song in a soothing, froglike bass.

Ninsianna added her voice to the song, another crutch she no longer needed, but helped her stay connected to her father so she didn't journey too far. That familiar thread of consciousness thickened and grew stronger, drawing her into the realm that lay between this one and the place spirits went when they died, a place a shaman could gather information.

"Ninsianna, what do you see?"

In the dreamtime, Papa stood next to her, holding her hand. On the other side of him stood a shadow wearing a peculiar outfit, the echo of the man Papa had met with this afternoon. Ninsianna scrutinized the man's body for an obvious 'thread' which might connect him back to this place where people had seen lizard demons.

"I see many threads," Ninsianna said. "But I cannot tell which one might be the right one. Should we follow them together?"

"We shall follow them separately," Papa spoke into her mind. "But if you sense a lizard demon, trace the thread back and lead me there. We do not know if these creatures possess magical powers which could harm you while your body is separate from your mind."

Ninsianna traced the threads, most of which led north over the Taurus Mountains to the lands called Anatolia. Once upon a time she had considered marrying Jamin because he had promised to take her there on a trading mission. Now all she had to do was connect to someone who had been there and it felt as though she could see these lands for herself. They weren't so different from Ubaid territory, perhaps a bit greener. She felt disappointed. No lizard demons.

At some point her physical body made her aware that Mama had come back from her daily rounds and bustled about the kitchen, cutting melons and simmering a crock of potted lentils. Each night they ate a light supper, split up to attend training to defend their village, and then reunited after the sky became so pitch black nobody could see.

This journey was getting her nowhere! The threads exhausted, Ninsianna amused herself by implanting false images of the scent, taste and look of the melons Mama had finished preparing into the hapless Anatolian visitor's mind. She suppressed a giggle as she sensed the man succumb to the urge to locate for himself some of the melons in question and begin to eat them. Her consciousness registered his satisfaction as he bit into a melon and the sensation of juices dripping down his chin. If only her husband were not so thick-headed that she could not communicate with him thus!

She tried the trick with Mikhail, but although she could easily follow the thread which ran from her abdomen to the scar she had healed in his chest, she could never see inside her husband's mind unless she physically touched him. Should she try remote viewing the visitor's threads again? Or succumb to her hunger and stop journeying?

The sound of Mikhail making his entrance made the decision for her. If she had been following an interesting thread, she would have lingered in the dreamtime, but the dark cloud which preceded him into the house warned her that he needed her attention more than She-who-is. With a call to alert her father she was finished, she willed her mind back into her body and opened her eyes to behold her beautiful winged husband, so tall he had to stand with his head between the rafters which held up the second story.

"Mikhail!"

Ninsianna rose from the prayer-mat and slid into his arms. At five cubits tall, he was more than a cubit taller than her, so that her cheek rested at his heart. His stiff posture, tightly tucked wings, and the tiny muscle which twitched beneath one cheek as he tried to maintain an unreadable expression only confirmed what the goddess had shown her in the dreamtime. Something had gone wrong at training.

"Ah, chol beag [little dove]," Mikhail sighed. He moved his arms and dark wings, still damp from his recent dip in the river to wash off the stench of training, to encircle and protect her.

Ninsianna slid her hands around his back to massage the axiliary muscles which powered his wings, rubbing the soft pinfeathers where feathers gave way to skin. It was where his stress always sat after a hard day of training. As she rubbed, she projected soothing images of herself giving him a full body massage, once they had retreated to their bed. It was a form of communication she could use when physically touching him, but never across the dreamtime the way she could any other person.

Mikhail arched his back as her supple hands squeezed the places that hurt and made his pain go away. A low growl of pleasure rumbled in his chest.

"How was training?" Ninsianna's goddess-kissed eyes peered right through his inscrutable expression to get at the real emotions he hid. His blue-tinted spirit light matched his eyes, but it was marred by splotches of grey, the aura of a man carrying too many responsibilities.

Mikhail buried his nose into her hair and inhaled, his flesh trembling beneath her fingers with all the pent-up emotion he did not know how to express. Ninsianna melted against him, understanding it was the cure for all of his ills.

"I just don't understand why humans need to be so illogical," Mikhail mumbled into the top of her head.

Mama set Mikhail's bowl at his usual place and ladled lentils into it, her way of saying 'welcome' and dispensing comfort at the same time. Like Mikhail, Mama spoke little, but when she did speak, you had better listen.

"What did they do now?" Ninsianna's lips curved up into a smile, her golden eyes twinkling with mischief. She slid one hand up to touch his cheek, the first gesture she had ever used to communicate with him, back when they had not yet spoken each other's language.

"Dadbeh and Firouz decided to perform a stag dance instead of the self-defense maneuver I was teaching them," Mikhail said. "In front of Jamin, no less. When I didn't understand it was an honor, everyone laughed at me."

"They've been practicing that move for weeks," Papa interrupted from the table where he'd moved to sit next to Mama. "They wanted to surprise you."

"Why did they have to show it during training?" Mikhail asked. "It distracted everyone from the lesson and made me look like an ineffective leader."

"Oh, Mikhail, you didn't scold them? Did you?" Ninsianna tried not to laugh.

"I never scold," Mikhail said flatly, a hint of anger flaring into his blue eyes. "You know that."

"No," Ninsianna pursed her lips into a mock pout. She slid her hands up to frame his cheeks and batted her eyebrows as though she were a village gossip. "You just give them that oh-so-displeased expression. The one you always wear when you wish to convey 'I don't understand you, but I think you are a goat turd.'"

"I do not," Mikhail's feathers rustled with indignation.

Ninsianna donned a perfect facsimile of his unreadable expression, but the tremble of her lip betrayed she was about to burst into laughter.

Colors shifted in Mikhail's spirit light as red anger over her light-hearted mockery warred with the purple laughter she was determined to pry out of him. The hands she'd placed on either side of his cheek forced his lips up into a smile the same way a mother might coax a smile out of a child who pouted.

"There," she said, still wearing her mock pout. "Much better now. Was that so hard?" With a laugh she stood on tip-toes and planted a kiss, biting his lower lip to break his concentration. At the same time she reached between his armpit and chest to scratch the ticklish spot on his wings only she knew about, the one that made his wings twitch.

Mikhail's wings reflexively flapped. Dried herbs strung from the rafters fell as he tried to tuck the too-large appendages too tightly against his back for her nimble fingers to torment, but Ninsianna knew her quarry and smote his foul mood without mercy.

"Stop mocking me!" he cried out, but it was too late. His face erupted in that rare and elusive creature she suspected he'd known little before he'd met her … a human smile. The dark shadow lifted from his spirit-light and left it a brilliant, whitish blue, the breathtaking color she associated with him.

"See? That wasn't so hard!" Ninsianna laughed. "Try smiling once in a while, Mr. Oh-So-Serious, and perhaps we won't all seem so illogical?"

"I raised my eyebrows at them," Mikhail defended. "It was my intent to convey an apology."

"See, son," Papa clapped his hands together, pleased Mikhail had applied the lesson he'd spent weeks trying to teach him. "You are learning."

Mama harrumphed…

"We can't all be tricksters," Mama said. "Some people don't want to be smiling all the time." Mama's temperament was no-nonsense, pragmatic and blunt, as close to Mikhail's taciturn nature as any in the village.

Mikhail shot his mother-in-law a grateful look.

Papa reached across the table to touch Mama's hand. "Mikhail has had difficulty learning our unspoken language," Papa said. "But even you have to admit he has come a long way in not glowering at us like we are all insane."

"Maybe we are all insane," Mama grumbled, not one to back down from a position she thought to be right.

In most Ubaid households, the man was boss and the woman kept house, but in this three-healer household, one who healed the flesh, one the spirit, and one, Ninsianna, who had inherited the ability to do both, things were much more egalitarian. Mama called the shots. Everybody else listened. That was just the way it was. For some reason, it seemed to reassure Mikhail, as though he had known many such women back where he had come from.

Mikhail's grin subsided, but not completely. "Thank you, Mama, for understanding me."

With quiet conversation over the late-night snack, they snuffed out the tiny oil lamp and went to their separate rooms, one married couple on one side, the other married couple on the other, with only a thin wall to separate them. The walls did little to dampen sound, but part of Ubaid culture was the ability to pretend they could not hear her parent's nocturnal activities in the other room.

It was less difficult, she was certain, than their ignoring Mikhail's twenty-cubit wingspan pounding against the walls…