Sword of the Gods: Agents of Ki (Sword of the Gods Saga) (94 page)

Tears streaked down her cheeks and fell onto her arm. She used her shawl to wipe the snot from her nose and gasped for breath, for in the end she had failed, but in a way, she also knew that she had not.

"To die alone," Pareesa whispered. "Alone. It was the only thing Mikhail ever feared."

The silence stretched out, with only the sound of the green wood crackling in the fire.

"The old god told me that if my battle to save Mikhail that night failed," Pareesa said. "And we both fell beneath the war clubs of our enemies, that he would carry Mikhail's spirit to dwell in that sacred place, and that I could join him, me, a thirteen summer girl, because I had sacrificed my life
willingly
, not to seek favor from the gods, but because I loved him with every ounce of my being."

The fire burned brighter as at last it reached some internal point of combustion and burned, not scrub brush anymore, but wood, actual real wood, the purest fuel upon which any sacred fire could burn. It burned bright white, radiating out its heat and light to illuminate the square. The faces of the villagers glistened, entranced, as though
they
could see this place she described reflected in the brightness of the fire.

"The old god said," Pareesa sniffled. She faltered. Her entire body shuddering as she tried to find the strength to continue, but the village had grown silent, waiting for her to finish what she had to say.

She gasped for breath then held the sword aloft once more, praying for the strength, the wisdom, the
voice
to say what she needed to say.

"The old god told me," Pareesa said, "that when Mikhail was a little boy, that the Evil One came and exterminated all his people. The reason he was sent to train with the Cherubim was because there was no one left to care for him, a boy whose people had gone ahead without him."

She turned back to Immanu and his grieving wife.

"
You
took him in as your son," Pareesa said. She whirled towards Yalda and Zhila.
"You
became the grandmothers to replace the one he remembered only vaguely." She pointed at Behnam, the ancient archer. "You were his sounding board." She whirled to Chief Kiyan. "You his mentor." She turned to Siamek. "And in the end, at last he began to trust you."

Siamek began to shudder with tears.

Pareesa whirled to face the other villagers. "You, Namhu, he admired your spunk. And you, Yadiditum, never had he trained a more unlikely archer, but he was proud of you, a gentle weaver who wished she possessed a warrior's heart."

She whirled to other villagers, words flowing from her mouth with connections each life Mikhail had touched within the village. You … he did this for. You … he taught that. This person he carried water for. That person he built a levy.

"Every person in this village accepted him as one of ours," Pareesa said. "So he
became
ours. Now that he dwells within this Hall of Heroes, he is
still
ours, because
we
are his people.
We
are the ones who welcomed him and blessed him with the family he had lost."

She realized she was shouting, and she did not care. She could see it. She could see the entrance open up in the fire to reveal the place she described, this Hall of Heroes where winged creatures mingled with countless other species the likes of which she could never have imagined.

"I can
see
them," Pareesa shouted. "I can see this place where Mikhail will always live, and if you are brave, if you love him as much as I did and live bravely by the lessons he taught us, he will watch over us, he will listen for our prayers and whisper guidance when we are weak so that, unlike him, we shall never have to fear that we will die alone."

She turned to Immanu, his hair no longer reflecting red, but white, nothing but a shaman with salt-and-pepper hair.

"He will watch over us because we love him," Pareesa said. "And whether Ninsianna is alive or dead, he will find a way to help her, because he is our Champion and death is no obstacle when you die a hero."

She held his sword upright towards the moon.

"Right action!" she shouted. She looked at Siamek, praying he would understand what she was trying to do.

"Right action!" it was Ebad who returned her call.

"Right action!" Siamek shouted.

Pareesa recited the words to the prayer the old god had whispered to her after she had taken Mikhail's sword.

Heaven and Earth are my parents;

Awareness is my home;

My own good character is my source of magic;

And the path of honor my road;

The flash of lightning illuminates my eyes;

The winds whisper wisdom in my ears;

Unshadowed thought is my strategy divine;

To make the pathway clear

Opportunity is my design;

Emptiness and fullness my tactics;

An absence of self is my personal sword;

And noble action my practice;

Let righteousness always be my armor;

And benevolence be my shield;

Let the tides of virtue decide life and death;

As to who prevails on the battlefield

She repeated the prayer to the righteous again. Some of the warriors began to pick up and murmur the words. She repeated it a third time. This time, more of the villagers began to memorize the words. On the fourth try, the entire village began to shout the prayer the old god had taught her. The path of a righteous warrior. The path Mikhail would urge them to follow had he lived.

Pareesa stuck the point of the blade into the flame, into the hall she could see reflected within it, to the place she knew Mikhail belonged.

"To Mikhail!" she shouted. "He shall live forever so long as we remember his name. May he never forget, in turn, that he is much beloved by humanity."

"Mikhail!" the villagers shouted

Immanu threw his arms around her and sobbed. She held him, Ninsianna’s grief-stricken father, until at last his sobbing subsided.

The ram wriggled out of Siamek's grasp and broke away.

“Go after it!” Chief Kiyan said.

Siamek did not move.

“I think I will let it go,” Siamek said. “Let us begin this new year with an act of mercy. It is the kind of sacrifice Mikhail would have wanted to memorialize his life. Mikhail. Angelic of Mercy.”

“Mikhail,” Pareesa realized this symbol was a more fitting one. “Angelic of Mercy!”

“Mikhail! Mikhail! Mikhail!” the villagers began to chant.

Immanu turned to the chief, his wild salt-and-pepper hair glowing more salt then pepper in the torchlight. Pareesa realized that overnight, Ninsianna's father had aged.

“What do I do now?” Immanu stared into the fire.

“We shall tell stories about his greatness," Chief Kiyan said. "And celebrate his ascension into the next realm." He pointed to the bonfire. “We have lit a magnificent beacon to help him find his way to this place Pareesa has described. The rest is up to him.”

"Mikhail! Mikhail! Mikhail!" the villagers chanted.

The fire burned higher, brighter than she had ever seen. Flames shot into the air and showered sparks which illuminated the village, but when the sparks touched the people's skin, none of the people were burned.

Pareesa leaned into Ebad. His slipped his one good arm around her and then, gingerly, with the injured arm he still wore in a sling, drew her into his embrace and comforted her.

All around her, the villagers mourned Mikhail's loss, but also celebrated it. It was as if each spark which ascended out of the bonfire carried a tiny piece of the people's love, and each of those sparks sped skywards towards him, carrying their good wishes, carrying their wish that he would not forget them now that he'd become immortal. In death, the old god had promised her, Mikhail would be even more powerful than he'd been to them alive.

Why, then, did it feel as though her heart had just been ripped out of her chest.

“What do I do now?” Pareesa wept.

“We tell stories about him until the dawn comes,” Ebad kissed her forehead. “We tell stories about how heroic he was, and how very much he loved his wife. And then come morning, we shall bury his body amongst our ancestors so that, even though he has returned to the heavens, he will not forget that once upon a time he was loved by humans.”

With a sorrowful nod, Pareesa sank into Ebad's arms and allowed herself to succumb to her grief.

~ * ~ * ~

December, 3,390 BC

Earth: Village of Assur

Mikhail

It is said that when you die, all illusions are stripped away and the soul is sent naked into eternity, for nothing can make that journey across the void but spirit; the only emotion which can exist there is love. It is said that time has no meaning there, and as you cross over, the spirit who loves you most will stand there to greet you, whether they have died before you, or you have died before them, and you shall greet this spirit and recognize them so you can intertwine your souls and make the journey together.

He'd always known he would make this journey alone, but as he stood ready to change form, for some reason the void no longer held any terror. He felt no pain. He could not even feel the hunger which had plagued him for as long as he had existed because. He dwelled in darkness, but all around him he felt a shield of love.

A single spark appeared and gently descended to settle upon his brow.

Breathe.

He took a breath and the pain came back, but it wasn't as sharp as it had been before. His heart fluttered once again and died. Something warm pressed against his body. More sparks came out of the darkness and settled all around him.

Breathe. All you have to do is breathe.

The warmth trembled against his torso. A weight. It covered his body like a shield, chanting the same thing over and over again.

'Take me. Take me. Oh, great goddess. Please take me instead!'

He took a breath, and remembered that he had a hand. Lift it. Yes. Lift his hand and touch the body which trembled against his chest, reminding his heart that it needed to beat. More sparks settled around him, whispering that he did not have to make this journey alone. Love. Softness. Hair. He laid his palm upon her head, surprisingly corporeal for a spirit which had come to travel with him into the next world.

Mikhail opened his eyes.

Radiating white light as though she wore a crown of stars, the black-eyed Seraphim stared back at him, her eyes glistening
bright with tears.

~ * ~ * ~

December, 3,390 BC

Earth: Village of Assur

Gita

Wrong. Her mother had been wrong! No divine gift had appeared to enable her to save him. Gita pressed her cheek against his chest, praying to hear his heart beat one more time.