The Dark Lord's Vessel

Chapter 5-1

Chapter 5

You mustn't think of these people

As just some sort of unfortunates…

They are not — they are one of you.

I saw a major general, one of the

Finest athletes of his time,

Definitely break — break because he could

No longer sustain the agonies of combat.

.

—General Dwight D. Eisenhower

.

MIKHAIL

The village where Ninsianna was born rises triumphantly above the river on a rocky hill, making it unapproachable on two sides. Scores of workmen bustle around the shattered gate like a hive of ants, doing their best to repair the place where an Alliance Devil Cruiser blasted it down. A brown-skinned carpenter wielding a wooden mallet orchestrates their movement like the conductor of a Havenly orchestra. Despite his advanced years and some painful swelling in his joints, old Behnam still moves with the agility and grace of a warrior.

"Mikhail!" Behnam holds up his mallet in a salute.

I bank my wings to hover over the oldest man in the village.

"Ho! Behnam!" I shout down. "I see you have made some progress?"

"It will hold, for now." Behnam's expression turns grim. "But it will protect little if another sky canoe comes at us from the air."

"Until Shay'tan sends them more power cores," I say, "they will have to come at us on foot."

From Behnam's puzzled expression, I realize I must have said that last statement in Galactic Standard. Rather than translate a lengthy technological concept that involves a supply chain that runs halfway across the galaxy, I say:

"They're low on magic. They won't send another sky canoe until their god gives them some more."

"Ahh!" Behnam grins, exposing his toothless gums. "Well in that case, I will build it big and strong."

I fly above the streets where a river of humanity moves towards the Temple; the elderly, the wounded, and people whose homes have been destroyed. Most wear that perplexed look that all war zone victims have; dirty, hopeless and disheveled. I've seen countless refugees, ranging from small villages to the populations of entire solar systems, but this is the first time I've ever viewed the refugees as mine.

An arm shoots up before I can talk myself out of landing.

"Mikhail! Mikhail!" A teenage girl jumps up and down like an eager little yippy dog. "Over here!"

My mood lifts at the sight of my fairy general, for Pareesa means fairy, and she has the impish nature that implies. She is a tall, slender girl, thirteen summers old, with a pale olive complexion, hazelnut brown hair, and mahogany eyes that are often filled with mischief. She wears her shawl-dress belted high like a man's kilt, and strapped to her waist is a deadly Sata'anic sword.

The villagers part to give me space to land. I settle down into the crowded square in a flurry of black-brown feathers. The villagers abandon the bread-line and surge forward to crowd around me.

"Mikhail! Mikhail!"

Panic flutters in my chest as I stumble backwards. Hands reach to touch my wings, as though my mere presence can grant them strength and healing. A lifetime of training causes me to scan for enemies. This one looks angry. That one is tall enough to be a threat. An old woman rushes towards me, her hand upraised.

Ninsianna crouches beside the bonfire in her scarlet cape. The lizards rush at her. She throws herself into my arms and raises her hand.

"I'm sorry."

Pain radiates into my chest. I look down, perplexed, at the knife sticking out of my heart.

I clutch my chest wound, desperate to deflect the fatal blow.

The old woman laughs and shakes her wooden spoon at me. "Hey, Mikhail! Have you tried the stew yet?"

The memory evaporates, leaving me standing before a harmless old woman. She turns, oblivious to how close I just came to killing her.

I clutch my arms to my chest, my heart pounding.

Oh, gods!

Cold sweat erupts onto my brow as my damaged left lung heaves like a Centauri stallion that just run a marathon through a minefield.

Not real, not real, not real, not real…

I flap my wings to force them to give me room.

An eager bundle of teenage energy catapults herself onto my chest. She wraps her arms around my waist and gives me a ribcage-crushing hug. I step backwards, my dark feathers rustling with alarm.

"Mikhail! Guess what?" Pareesa's eyes sparkle with excitement. "Needa says my Mama's going to live!"

I stand there, awkward, stiff and unyielding. My heart pounds until Pareesa pushes me away. That strange sensation of 'but from you, I don't mind so very much' wars with my overwhelming claustrophobia.

"That's good news." I force myself to feign calm. "Will she also regain use of her arm?"

Pareesa's youthful features war between hope and anger.

"They're not sure. Needa says no, but Doctor Peyman said a Sata'anic surgeon could reconnect the, uhm, the uhm, messengers?"

It takes a moment to translate the crude explanation from Ubaid into a Galactic Standard medical diagnosis.

"The néarchóras," I correct her. The Ubaid have no word for nervous system. The Sata'anic physician is a godsend, but with each life he saves, he dispenses propaganda about the benefits of Sata'anic Rule.

A voice floats across the square, calling Pareesa's name. We both glance at her tall, glum father who just passed through the line, carrying bowls full of food, surrounded by his children.

"I've got to go." Pareesa scrunches up her face. "Papa said it's my turn to help him babysit."

She might as well have said 'Papa said I have to poke out my own eyeballs and eat sheep dung' for all her enthusiasm to care for her six younger siblings. I suspect that's why she began warrior training in the first place. To get out of doing just that task.

"Will you be able to lead the training tonight?" I ask.

"I'll tell Papa I have to break away!" She gives me a breathtaking grin. "I want them to be ready to join the Emperor's armies."

She turns, oblivious to my inner turmoil, already off to conquer the next great thing. "Bye!" She skips off with girlish enthusiasm, her sword thwapping against her thigh, the most unlikely, and deadliest, soldier I have ever trained.

I step forward. Something goes crunch beneath my boots.

"Ouch!"

Dark eyes stare up from a small, heart-shaped face.

The village fades, leaving me standing in a lush field filled with vines. I -feel- her laughing as I reach into the shadows. My eyes tell me they are empty, but my heart knows Amhrán hides here.

"I see you," I say, even though that's technically not true.

The grape-leaves move. The delicious perfume of ripening grapes wafts around her, masking her scent from detection.

"How do you always find me?"

"I don't know. I just do."

She rustles the leaves out of her raven-black wings, plumage which is anomalous even amongst the dark-winged Seraphim. She is like a doll; a pale, slender child with prescient, too-large ebony eyes, devoid of any white. In them swirls a fathomless hunger.

"Someday," she says, "I shall hide so well you will never find me."

"Just you try!" I laugh at her. "I am up on all your tricks!"

A small, shy smile softens her expression. She slips her hand trustingly into mine.

"Come on!" She yanks me deeper into the vineyard. "Let's go hide again."

All of a sudden, Amhrán grows very short. Mahogany brown eyes stare up at me.

"Well?"

My mind whirls at the sudden shift of height. The vineyard disappears, leaving me standing in the middle of a crowd.

"Wh— what?"

"When are you going to take me for that ride?"

I look around frantically, searching for Amhrán. The grapes, the orchard, the verdant fields have all disappeared, leaving me staring down at Pareesa's little sister, Zakriti.

"I— ahh, um…"

"You promised!" Zakriti jabs an index finger towards my belly. The five-summer-old copy of Pareesa is barely tall enough to reach my hips.

"I, uh, your father said…"

Zakriti holds up her basket, the one where she keeps her unusual pets. "You promised if I helped you, you would take me for a ride!"

A sense of vertigo makes me feel as if I have been thrown into a high-speed blender, the kind Mantoid bartenders use to whip their precious liquor into a froth. All around me mill dispirited, wounded people. They bump against me, patting and fondling my wings even though I've told them how much I hate it.

"I am busy!" I snap at her. "And your father told me no!"

Zakriti's lip trembles, her eyes fill with tears. And then her brown eyes flash with anger.

"You're MEAN!!!"

She shoves the basket into my hands and stomps away, a small, brown-haired ball of fury whose temper even Pareesa fears. When she reaches her next two older brothers, she points back at me and whispers something in their ears. As a single unit, all three children cross their arms and turn their backs on me.

I stare at the basket, uncertain whether I should open it or chuck it into the nearest black hole. Where Pareesa is a natural at all things involving weapons, her little sister Zakriti can charm the most venomous creature into letting her play with it as though it is a kitten. I hold the basket as far away from my body as I can and cautiously lift the lid, determined that, this time, I won't squeal like a little girl. When nothing happens, I crane my neck to see what nasty creature Zakriti brought to watch me jump.

Lumpy clay beads sit strung on a piece of rawhide. I lift them out of the basket, a small gift made by little hands. Into each bead has been pressed one of the Cherubim prayer-symbols I've been teaching Pareesa, a copy of a copy by a child who can't actually read them.

That aching emptiness crawls inside my throat. I search for Zakriti to thank her, but Pareesa's family has already disappeared. I wrap it twice around my wrist and knot the rawhide with a triple knot. The next time I see her, I owe Zakriti an apology.

I take my place in the temple food line, forcing myself not to snap when two children start tugging on my wings, poking me, prodding me, patting me as though I am a dog. A sense of agitation presses in until the urge to fly away becomes so strong I want to scream. Were I not starving from missing breakfast, I'd just skip lunch, but I need to build up my strength so I can search for Ninsianna. I still weigh far less than I did before I got stabbed.

I stare up at the clay statue of a curvaceous woman that has been lovingly placed into an alcove. In many ways, She-who-is reminds me of Ninsianna. Same voluptuous figure. Same ample bosom. The same enigmatic smile, as if she knows a secret and it amuses her.

"I don't suppose you'll give me better directions to the Sata'anic base than just go northwest?" I meet the statue's empty eye sockets. "Some accurate intelligence? And maybe a friendly guide?"

No. Of course not. To HER, I am just as expendable as Shay'tan's skull-crackers. How am I supposed to protect her Chosen One when SHE disdains everything I stand for?

Beneath the statue, my mother-in-law has set up a healing station. It reminds me of an Alliance triage ward as she grabs the injured out of line to scold them about the need to change their bandages. Needa makes eye contact and immediately frowns.

"You forgot to milk the goat!" Her unibrow pinches into a scowl. "The poor thing broke out of her pen and came to me, bleating in pain."

"I'm sorry, Mama." Guilt grips my gut. "The sentries said they heard a scream, so I flew out into the desert on patrol."

Needa gives me a wan, tired grimace. In her eyes is a silent recrimination. When, son, will you bring back my daughter? She gestures at the young woman who stands next to her wrapping a linen bandage around an old man's leg, a sought-after beauty whose belly swells ripe with child.

"Yadiditum milked her."

The pretty brunette looks up from her ministrations and smiles, a ray of sunshine amongst the miserable patients. A handsome young man sneaks up behind her, his hair still tussled from a recent nap, and places his hands over her eyes.