The Dark Lord's Vessel

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

For many years now I,

A poor soldier,

Wandered aimlessly around

The lush valleys of Troy,

One month following the next,

Worn out by the passing of time

With only one frightening prospect

In mind. That my wandering paths

Will lead me to Hades,

The destroyer of all

.

—Sophocles, Ajax

.

MIKHAIL

"Amhrán!"

I bolt upright, my chest heaving as I reach across the void for the black-winged Seraphim's hand. Instead of flesh, I find the reassuring hilt of my sword. I wield it clumsily at the shadow in the doorway, an enormous lizard wearing a too-small uniform. My wings tremble as a cold sweat makes me shiver, but even as I speak the doomed child's name, her memory fades until all I can remember is a pair of fathomless black eyes. A distant song clashes with something primordial which nips at my subconscious, baying like a hungry animal waiting to be fed.

“It's just a dream, just a dream, just a dream…”

I sheath my sword before I accidentally hack somebody to pieces.

My dog tag jingles as I pat the covers on my sleeping pallet, vainly searching for my wife among the blankets. No matter how neat the linens when I go to bed, by morning they always roll themselves up into a facsimile of a sleeping woman. It's been five long months since the last time I held Ninsianna, but to my shame, it is not her I dream of each night, but the death-cry of a child I’d been betrothed to as a little boy.

I shut my eyes and force myself to remember what it felt like to hold the woman I love; her effervescent laughter, her radiant smile, and the way her goddess-kissed golden eyes glistened brighter every time I made her cry out with pleasure.

Oh, gods! How I crave the touch which makes me forget anything but her!

"Ninsianna, ní féidir liom a bhraitheann tú." I can't feel you. My hand trembles as I caress the blanket, imagining its coarse weave is the warm silk of Ninsianna's skin. It's no use. Even when she was here, I've never been able to feel her unless I held her within my wings.

I scan the darkness, utterly alone despite the rise and fall of eleven other chests which sleep in fitful injury. The makeshift hospital reeks of fermenting barley-water, poorly washed bodies and the crisp, clean bite of linen bandages boiled in myrrh. The beer almost makes me smile until I remember that, too, has been taken away.

A familiar voice wafts sleepily across the room.

"Mikhail, are you okay?"

I press my face into my hands, forcing my voice to remain steady as I answer my mother-in-law's question.

"I'm fine, Mama. It was just another nightmare."

Needa groans, her exhaustion so palpable it causes my wings to droop.

"That's the second one tonight. Would you like me to get up and make you a tea?"

I draw my wings around my torso and ruffle my feathers to fend off a chill that has nothing to do with the early spring temperature. I know which tea she speaks of, the one which makes me sleep without the nightmares. I stretch one wing, eager to drug the memories which lurk in my subconscious back into a stupor. One of my long primary feathers brushes across a sleeping form.

"Hey!" an anonymous voice grumbles.

I jerk my wing up and tuck it tightly against my back.

"Sorry."

Were we alone, I might take up my mother-in-law's offer if for no reason other than to talk, but I need to wake up if the enemy strikes again. While my battle is done, Needa still wages a war against the injuries and infection which are as formidable an enemy on this primitive planet as the three spaceships which leveled Assur.

"No thank you, Mama. I have an early morning."

Needa's reply is lost to my ears as she turns back into her blanket and allows her exhaustion to carry her back into her dreams. I wait until her breathing resumes a steady, shallow rhythm before I heave myself off the sleeping pallet, holding my wings stiffly so I don't clobber any of the injured. I wince as my head bangs a ceiling rafter. I step carefully, not pausing to hunt for my combat boots or flight jacket. Ever since the lizards blew up our village, I've taken to sleeping fully dressed.

I duck out the low, wooden door and shut it behind me as I step into the pre-dawn chill. Out of habit I inventory my weapons. Empty pulse rifle. Sword. Survival knife. And a new tool, dropped by one of the lizards.

I slip the night-vision goggles out of my pocket and focus the lenses skyward, searching for a ship. The night of the attack, I could have sworn I'd seen the sleek, white lines of the Alliance flagship, Prince of Tyre, but the only ship in orbit now is a squat, grey Sata'anic battlecruiser. A sense of unreality niggles at my subconscious. The white-winged Angelic of Ninsianna's nightmares couldn't possibly be Lucifer, could it? Why would he do such a thing? And what would the Eternal Emperor's son be doing all the way out here?

The scent of burnt-out houses and lingering stench of death hangs over the village even though we've buried all the dead. A lump claws at my throat as I caress the door-frame of the house which once belonged to my two adoptive grandmothers. If only I had reinforced the wood? Salvaged titanium panels from my crashed ship to make the door impenetrable? Stood there, personally, to defend Yalda and Zhila instead of the rest of the village?

If… If… If…

Why am I still alive, while everyone I care about is dead?

The strange key Yalda gave me beckons from my shirt-pocket, the one buttoned over my heart, along with the tiny wooden fetish I once carved for the girl who keeps reaching out of my nightmares. I hold the golden cruciform key up to the moon to examine its six-sided shaft and the eleven-pointed star which makes up the head.

“You must summon your Emperor,” the dying Yalda had whispered. “And take him to the temple at Jebel Mar Elyas. He will know what to do once you bring him there and give him this key. Him, and that other emperor you oppose, the dragon. You must bring them both there, for only if they work together can they bring the Evil One to his knees.”

I slip my fingertips along the deceptively slender chain. What does it mean? Find the temple at Jebel Mar Elyas? And even if I can find this temple, do I want to? Not when every fiber of my being cries out to find my wife?

That peculiar tunnel vision which always precedes a blackout makes the ruined village appear more desolate than it already is. The Cherubim say I must push the memories back into my subconscious, along with the fleeting tidbits which sparkle like fairy dust, bringing with them an inexplicable mix of happiness, grief and rage.

My chest heaves as I whisper Jingu's admonition. "It is in the past, Nidan Mannuki'ili. You must act as if it never happened."

At times like this it doesn't behoove me to stand still, for only in right action can a man find respite from the ghosts. I walk amongst the burned out houses, focusing on the sound my combat boots make as they scuffle against the compacted dirt. Its mundane things which give me inner peace; hard physical labor, the wind against my face, and the soft, black leather which wraps the hilt of my sword.

I clench my fist until I can feel the steel which underlays it. The sword always helps me fight the darkness best; the promise it contains that never again will I be that helpless nine-year-old boy.

I wander the streets until I reach a stretch which has been cleared of rubble. Most species depict us with fluffy little wings, but in reality they're bigger than our bodies because Angelics are bred to fight. I unfurl my full twenty-cubit wingspan and listen to the satisfying whoosh as I flap my wings against the inky sky. My axillary muscles ache from yesterday's long, fruitless flight.

You're still too weak to leave. You'll never survive the journey across the desert. Even if you -did- know which direction to fly.

I drop to the ground to do a thousand pushups, an amount I did easily back when I went through Alliance Basic Training. I will not let my injuries defeat me. I will find out where she is. I will tell the Eternal Emperor we are here.

I push against the ground until my arms tremble, my blood roars in my ears, and sweat pours down my forehead into my eyes. I would do pushups forever if my still-weakened body would let me, but my lingering chest wound forces me to stop at five hundred and twenty-seven.

Damantia!

I curse my weakness as I cheat and flap my wings. Just three more pushups! I will do more than yesterday!

"Five hundred and twenty-eight."

My ruined pectoral muscle screams in pain, a raging fire which pleads for me to let it heal.

"Five hundred and twenty-nine."

My left arm collapses, but I am prepared for this battle I wage every single day. I push up, balanced only on my right arm, and scream a war cry. Me against myself.

"Five hundred and thirty!"

My arm collapses before I can do five hundred and thirty-one, hurtling me face-down into the dirt. I gasp for breath, unable to move until the trembling and pain subside. I curl one wing up so I can roll over onto my back and stare, still panting, up into the stars.

There is Haven-1. Close to the center of the Milky Way, close to the galactic center.

I reach up and trace the slender purple belt of stars.

The cool, spring night causes me to shiver as the evaporating sweat carries my body heat away, but this is a different sweat than the nightmare which woke me up, the sweat of accomplishment, the sweat of taking back control. Tomorrow, I will do three more pushups than I did today. And the day after tomorrow, I will do three more than that. I have to keep moving. It's the only way to beat back the demons.

A sound catches my attention from the burned out house to my right. Wings flared, I roll and come upright, my pulse pistol already drawn. I aim the weapon into the shadows even though it's useless because I've already used up all the charge.

The shadows move.

A Tokoloshe glider zips through the air with a high-pitched, whirring cry; fierce, bear-like humanoids clutch to the sleds like crazy pilots.

Cannibals!!!

My heart beats so fast I fear it might jump right out of my chest. I crouch in the shadows as the Tokoloshe strap their victims to a feeding pole.

I grab my collar.

"Glicki," I whisper into the microphone-pin. "Call in an air strike."

The first victim shrieks, a bone-jarring, agonizing howl as the Tokoloshe flay off their skin and carve hunks out of living muscle. The cannibals believe they must make their victims suffer, a blood-offering to appease their evil god. The man's shrieks rise to an agonizing crescendo. I feel his screams inside of my muscles, as if his pain is my own.

Oh, gods! The Emperor ordered I am not supposed to interfere!

"Damantia, Glicki!" I hiss frantically into the pin. "Where's those gunships!"

I slap my hands over my ears, ashamed at my inability to act. The Emperor has forbidden me to interfere.

I cannot act.

I can't … not act.

I can't let these people suffer like mine did!

A familiar tunnel closes in around me as a doorway opens to another place, another time, the gateway to a memory I do not want to know! My own saliva turns to ice as a deathly cold settles into my tissues.

My left hand comes down onto the hilt of my sword, a reassuring temptation, a promise of never again.

I slip the safety off my pulse rifle and take aim at the biggest cannibal, so real, so visceral I can taste the victim's bowels let loose as he begs the Tokoloshe priest to kill him. The trigger feels smooth and reassuring beneath my finger. I line up the gunsight and slowly squeeze…

Nothing happens.

A small, red light blinks next to the safety switch, signaling the weapon is out of power. I stare at the pulse pistol, momentarily confused. Why am I carrying a Sata'anic pulse pistol, and not an Alliance one?

'Oh, gods!' My heart pounds, a warlike drum. 'Not real, not real, not real…'

The shadows retreat. A small, pale orange form steps out of the rubble with a still-live rat dangling from its mouth. Prescient golden eyes give me an indignant glare as if to say, 'hey, buddy. Don't you know we're on the same side?'

I rub my eyes, whispering the prayer the Cherubim taught me to cut off my emotions, to stave off the memories, to keep the darkness at bay. It takes far longer than it should for my heart rate to slow down enough to slip the pulse pistol back into its holster.

"Carry on, Private Mouser," I tell the cat with a warbling voice. "Good job."

The cat's tail shoots up in a disdainful hook. It slips back into the shadows, a small, orange furry ghost.

I shiver even though it isn't really all that chilly. Usually when I get a flashback that bad, I retreat into to the Cherubim monastery, but Haven-2 is far beyond my reach. Maybe I should wake up Needa and take her up on that cup of tea?

No. I am acting selfish. It's only boogie-men who haunt my nightmares, not real enemies like the ones we just defeated. Needa lost her daughter because of me. The least I can do is let the poor woman get some rest.

I wander towards the south gate, absent-mindedly fingering the hilt of my sword. The ruined wood has been hastily patched back together, but it remains too weak to withstand an assault by anything except a battalion of song birds. Cheerful yellow torches light up the alley, and on the rooftops, a half dozen sentries perch with spears and bows.

A man steps out of the shadows, a half cubit shorter than I am, swarthy-complexioned and strong, wearing the three-fringed kilt and shawl of an Elite warrior. Tirdard wears a primitive stone blade tucked into his belt, but beside it sits a Sata'anic sword pillaged from the enemy dead. His hand snaps up in a not-too-shoddy Alliance salute.

"You're up early, Sir. Didn't you just go to bed?"

I give the young warrior a half-salute back, more out of habit than any desire to uphold military decorum at this ungodly hour.

"Good morning."

"Not yet!" Tirdard laughs and points at the horizon. "The morning star has not yet risen. It will be three more bêru before the sun rises."

I let out a groan. That means I've gotten less than two hours of sleep.

"Have the scouts reported in yet?"

"No more signs of the lizards," Tirdard says. "But one of the search parties thought they heard a scream."

"Human? Or animal?"

"They couldn't tell, Sir," Tirdard says. "It was too far off."

"I'll go take a look." My axillary muscles twinge, as if to remind me I've been flying far more hours than I should. "Are all of our sentries accounted for?"

"Everyone except for Dadbeh," Tirdard says. "He's not due back until today."

I cannot help but scowl. Dadbeh refuses to divulge any intelligence about the Sata'anic base until the Tribunal hears what his prisoner has to say. Despite my best efforts to discreetly stalk him from the air, he disappeared into the endless network of wadi canyons.

"Send a patrol south to escort him back to the village. As soon as he's securely onto Ubaid lands, he'll likely move back to the road."

"It's already been done, Sir."

"On whose orders?"

"Siamek's," Tirdard says. "Firouz woke him up."

I suppress a sense of annoyance. Needa threatened to castrate the next person who rouses me from my sleep. Not that I'm getting any. Sleep. The minute I nod off, the nightmares begin again.

"Siamek needs rest more than I do." I gesture an imaginary sword wound from my shoulder all the way down to my hip-bone. "Next time, come and wake me, not him."

I bid the sentries farewell and make my way down to the lowest part of the village, to the place where a white-winged Angelic flew in to pick up a body. I dig my combat boot into the large, dark stain where somebody obviously bled out. Some of the villagers swear the dead man was Jamin.

I stare at the remains of the mud-brick houses which, once upon a time, made up part of Assur's outer wall. The Sata'anic gunship crashed through four of them on its way down into the river. All that remains is a gaping riverfront view.

I fish the binoculars out of my pocket and thumb the knob to night vision. Here, the village remains vulnerable. I warned Chief Kiyan the lizards have equipment to swim underwater or rappel right up a cliff, but the Assurians can't conceive of such things until they see them for themselves.

The infra-red plays tricks with the shadows, reminding me of all the times the lizards have scaled such a cliff. The longer I stare into the darkness, the more visceral and real those past events become, until I can almost hear the lizards hiss as they rappel their enormous bodies up the rope. Only this time, I can tell the memory belongs firmly in the past.

I will get no more sleep tonight, so I might as well fly patrol.

I tuck my wings against my back so they will not catch the wind, cast my body off the cliff and relish the sensation of falling.