Sword of the Gods: Agents of Ki (Sword of the Gods Saga) (82 page)

Shay'tan stared at the girl's nut-brown skin, slanted forehead, and her otherwise humanoid features. The bodies in the cave had been dead for tens of thousands of years, but this one, although pale and sickly, still possessed a living aura. Her life-energy had been fed upon, repeatedly, until all that was left was a shallow husk.

"That damage is not from the ice," Shay'tan said.

"What did it?" the physician asked.

Shay'tan did not answer, and the physician had enough sense not to press him. All knew better than to antagonize a dragon.

"Remove the electrodes."

"We think they're the only thing keeping her alive."

"This isn't living," Shay'tan said. "And even if she
did
wake up, where would she go? She went to sleep 74,000 years ago, and now her entire species is dead."

The physician knew better than to say,
'you're the last of your species, too.
'  He removed the electrodes, checked the creature's heart with his stethoscope, and declared her heartbeat was fading.

"Leave us," Shay'tan said.

The physician packed up his medical bag and, with a mournful expression, passed through the door into the crowd of scientists who waited anxiously on the other side.

Shay'tan stared down at the dying child. Yes. That's what it was. A dying
child
. He'd always known Moloch had preyed upon the young because their life-energy was easiest to feed upon and misdirect to do his bidding in the absence of his
own
body, but this contraption was a new low. Moloch couldn't incarnate into physical form, nor could he manipulate matter directly. All he could do was whisper suggestions and, in a few rare genetic cases, find a mortal vessel compatible enough that he could possess it.

This child, he suspected, was just such a vessel. Imperfect, or why encase her body in a prosthesis, but a vessel nonetheless.

Shay'tan touched the child and channeled enough warmth to heat her body up to a normal temperature. He was not a god of healing, but sometimes all a body needed was to feel warm.

The little girl stirred and opened her eyes. He was not surprised to see that her eyes were pale bluish-grey, not the brown of most Nephilim. Not quite silver, for she was not genetically evolved enough to act as a full-fledged vessel, but close enough that Moloch had been able to use her consciousness as an interface. She reached towards him, the brightest object she could see.

"Am I dreaming?" the little girl asked.

"No," Shay'tan said. "Do you know who I am, child?"

"You are the dragon who devours planets."

Shay'tan snorted, but not in anger.

"I am your god, come to set you free," Shay'tan said. "Do you know how long you were asleep?"

"I can't remember," the girl said. She began to cry. "Where'd my Mama go?"

"Would you like me to take you to her?" Shay'tan asked.

The little girl nodded her head yes.

"First you must do something for me," Shay'tan said. "And then I will carry you into the dreamtime and see if I can find her."

"Will it hurt?"

"No," Shay'tan said. "Your mortal shell is too weak for me to save. I will wait until you pass naturally, and then I will peek into your soul, to see if I can figure out where they sent your Mama. Would that be okay?"

The little girl nodded. Shay'tan gently picked her out of the cryo-chamber, stifling his anger at the electrodes which had been drilled into her skull, and cradled her to his breast as though she was his own offspring. The little girl turned gasped for breath, her life-force fading from even the slight effort of their conversation.

Tears of fire streamed down Shay'tan's muzzle.

"Shhh," he soothed her. "Don't fight it. Just let your mortal vessel expire, and when you wake up, I will take you someplace pretty."

"Mama," the little girl gasped, and then she breathed no more.

Shay'tan transformed back into his natural form. Fire-dragon. Destroyer of worlds. Cleanser of all that had been touched by Moloch. He used his fire to cremate the child's remains, and as he did he could see into her short, tragic life.

For three years Moloch had used her body as an interface, and in that time her spirit had overheard plans to overthrow his empire. The rebellion of the Nephilim, the capture of his mate, and the destruction of Nibiru had all been part of an elaborate plan, but those plans had not solidified until
after
Moloch had abandoned this vessel for the next one.

She did
not
know the location of Earth. The ice planet was nothing but a dead end.

Shay'tan carried her spirit to the gateway of the dreamtime. The girl shimmered, puzzled, until she figured out how to shape a facsimile of her former form, free from the painful electrodes and wires.

"Are you ready to go?"

"The little girl frowned. "I did some bad things, didn't I?"

"You are a child," Shay'tan said. "An innocent. Moloch used you because children are
always
willing."

The little girl's lip trembled. Guilt crushed Shay'tan in the chest even though in this form he had no heart but the nexus which formed the basis of his fiery essence.
He
had not been innocent when he had exterminated them in his grief.

"Will you find my parents?" the little girl asked.

"You have my word," Shay'tan said, "and a dragon never lies."

The little girl stared through the veil which separated that portion of the dreamtime traversed by the gods from that portion reserved exclusively for the spirits of the dead. For all
HER
faults, She-who-is was meticulous about making sure as few souls as possible were left exposed in that vulnerable in-between state when they were not inhabiting a protective mortal shell. Having watched her
own
brothers and sisters get devoured, she made sure none of her creations suffered that same fate … unless they displeased her.

"I will hold you to your promise," the little girl said.

She let go of his hand and skipped through the curtain, unafraid in the way that children often were. It was why they were such easy prey for Moloch, food for a malignant god.

Shay'tan breathed relief, as though the child's gifting of that one single task had somehow granted him a path to absolution, a way to make up for the genocide he had committed.  He transferred himself to the remotest part of his empire and let loose his rage, the rage of a dragon who'd been outsmarted, until dozens of planets were destroyed, all lifeless, of course, because
she
had taught him to value life. Then he teleported back into his palace to tear apart the useless statue of Moloch bit-by-bit until there was nothing left but a pile of molten metal.

~ * ~ * ~

December, 3,390 BC

Earth: Village of Assur

Gita

It was almost nightfall when she heard them arrive downstairs; first Rakshan's voice, then Behnam's, then Yalda and Zhila's, and then finally Immanu himself returned with the Chief. They conversed amongst themselves, and then sent Siamek up to fetch her, followed by Zhila, winded from her climb up the steps. Despite her age, the second-oldest woman in the village refused to lean on Siamek's arm and peered at Gita with her cateract-clouded eyes.

"They wait for you, child," Zhila said.

Gita nodded, her eyes black with fear. She'd known this was coming. She'd known this was coming all along. The Tribunal. The three-judge panel who convened only to consider matters too weighty for even the Chief to decide ... or too controversial.

Zhila's wrinkled lips tightened into a grim line, though whether it was at
her
, or the lingering stench of Mikhail's chest wound, Gita couldn't tell.

"They're meeting
here
because Mikhail is too frail for you to leave his side for too long," Zhila said. "And also because the Chief fears Immanu might rile up the village to take matters into their own hands, no matter
what
the Tribunal decides."

"You'll come get me if he forgets to breathe?"

"Just tell the truth, child," Zhila said. "Tell the truth no matter how frightened you are or damning the evidence might be. If you tell the truth, the Tribunal will be inclined to grant you mercy, for only if they know the truth can they guide this village about larger matters."

"I understand."

Once upon a time, the widow-sisters had been her protectors, two kind old women who had given her a piece of bread each morning under the ruse of letting her fetch their water. They had always been kind when no other soul had
seen
her, but Mikhail had been dearer to them still.
Did
they think she was guilty? Gita had no idea. The moment Immanu had accused her of being a traitor, the entire village had rallied behind him, all waiting for Mikhail to wake up and adjudicate her guilt.

Only Mikhail
hadn't
awoken. And now Immanu wanted his vengeance without even waiting for the man to pass into the eternal night...

Siamek towered over her, his expression dark and unreadable. Why, oh why, did they always send
him
to guard her? Him, who trusted her less than all the others? She moved past him, noticing the way he pulled back when her shoulder accidentally brushed his chest.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled.

Emotion danced across his face. Anger? Hatred? Longing?

'Don't look at me like that,
' she thought to herself, but she dared not give voice to those words. Not to
him,
he who had every reason to hate her.

She moved down the stairs, still blood-stained from the night before. Seated on a long bench were Yalda, the oldest woman in the village, Behnam, one of Mikhail's eight original archers, and Rakhshan, the flint-knapper, a man who Gita barely knew. At one end of the Tribunal stood Immanu and the Chief, and at the other stood Needa, her arms crossed, glowering at her husband.

Zhila was old enough that she should have sat in Rakshan's place, but Yalda and Zhila always said they were of such like mind that having
two
sisters on the tribunal would be like granting no decision at all. Gita searched for a friendly face, but the Tribunal was stone-faced whenever they were faced with an adjudication. Chief Kiyan refused to meet her gaze, while Immanu glowered at her, his eyes filled with hatred.

"You have made serious allegations,
shaman
," Yalda said. "Allegations you have made before, and which the Chief's own investigation did not support. Now you have asked
us
to second-guess his judgment, claiming
new
evidence which the Chief does not wish to consider."

Needa glowered at her husband.

Immanu glared at the Chief.

The Chief glanced at Gita, his expression cloaked.

Gita's eyebrows raised in surprise. The Chief had already conducted an investigation? How come none of the guards had told her this? All of a sudden, her continued existence, Needa's refusal to kick her out, and Immanu's anger at the fact Mikhail went downhill the moment he forced her to leave all made sense.

"We shall
not
entertain evidence upon which the Chief has already considered ... and rejected," Behnam said, the elderly archer. "Only new evidence, shaman. Who do you call as your witness?"

Gita's heart fell as her uncle called the name.

"I call Waradishtar of Nineveh," Immanu said. "Qishtea's second-in-command."

Immanu's eyes glowed with victory as Waradishtar strode into the house, wearing the fringed robe of an emissary. Gita felt sick. Waradishtar had always had it out for her, even
before
she'd insulted him at the Regional Meeting of Chiefs.

"What evidence do you have for us, son?" Yalda asked. As the oldest living person in this village, it was
her
privilege to speak first, whether or not she was a woman.