Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (7 page)

Moving his legs to
reassure himself he still had them, he examined his broken wing.  It looked
bad, but at least the bone no longer stuck out through his skin.  He had no
idea whether or not he would ever be able to fly again.  That depended upon
this planet's gravity.  He tried to grab the tidbit of information as it
flitted through his mind, about the planet, but it departed as fleetingly as it
had appeared. 

Who was he?  What was
his name?  He couldn't remember.  All he knew was that the woman at his side
had taken heroic measures to save his life and now she was curled up beside
him.  She'd covered him with a blanket, but was herself uncovered and
shivering.  Curling his good wing so as not to wake her, he pulled her in
closer, wrapping the limb around her like a blanket before allowing himself to
drift back to sleep.

* * * * *

“O-kim-hayatını
bağışlaması için uygun gördüm.”

He awoke to find her
kneeling at his side.  Her hands accentuated her words as she poured droplets
from a water skin onto a rough cloth and dabbed blood off of his skin.  Her
hands and expressive demeanor bridged the gap where language failed.  He gradually
came to understand that she explained to him his injuries.  She was beautiful,
exotic by the standards of his people with her wavy black hair, olive skin and
unusual tawny beige eyes.  Eyes that seemed … familiar. 

Root race
flitted through his mind along with a sensation he'd
just won the lottery. 
Damantia!
  He grabbed the elusive thought, but it
went as quickly as it had appeared.  He
knew
things, but he couldn't
remember them!

He tried to sit up,
but the woman pushed him back down, communicating with her hands that she
wanted him to remain still.  She couldn't possibly be his mate.  No part of the
language she spoke sounded familiar to him.  A mission clawed at his belly,
screaming for him to communicate
something
to somebody in authority, but
he couldn't remember what he felt so compelled to finish or who he was supposed
to communicate that information to.  The spin of the room convinced him to obey
her.

Every nuance of her
behavior gnawed at his subconscious like drunken glee.  Why was she so
fascinating?  Was it because he found her attractive?  She wore a shapeless
beige dress that appeared to be little more than a length of cloth belted
around her waist and thrown over one shoulder to cover her breasts.  The fabric
was crude, as were the implements she used to tend his wounds.  They were the
tools of a stone-aged culture. 

By gods!  How had she
saved his life?  His lungs hurt, but the dizziness finally subsided enough that
he dared attempt communication.

“Who are you?” 

The woman smiled.  She
said something unintelligible in reply.

“Who?”  He crossed his
hands palms-up in the sign of asking a question.  “Are you?”  He pointed to her
chest.

“Nin-si-anna.  Who …
are … you?”  She repeated, word for word and gesture for gesture what he'd just
asked in a heavily accented voice.

He wracked his brain. 
Nothing came to mind.  Ninsianna asked the same question again.  How could he
explain to someone who didn't speak his language that he couldn't remember
who
he was?

“I don't know.”  He
covered his eyes and made a gesture as though something flew out of his head.

“Ninsianna,” the woman
smiled and pointed to her own chest.  “Idonno,” she pointed at him.

“No.”  He shook his
head in frustration.  “I don't remember.”

“Ninsianna,” the woman
pointed to her own chest and frowned.  “Idonrememba,” she pointed at him.

“No, I don't know who
I am!" he said.  "I can't remember!”  He hit his own forehead to
emphasize it wasn't working properly and groaned as the stitches holding
together the
reason
he couldn't remember shot pain into his skull.  The
room began to spin.  He closed his eyes.

The woman frowned
until it dawned on her what he was trying to say.  She touched his head near
the stitches and nodded to indicate she understood his head injury was muddling
his thoughts.  Silently resuming her ministrations, she dabbed dried blood from
his scalp.

He avoided wincing,
not wishing to see her expression of dismay every time he flinched.  When she
got to his chest wound, she noticed the silver tags strung around his neck. 
She pointed and asked a question.  Pulling the slender chain from beneath his
shirt, he read the information etched into the dog tags in boxy cuneiform.

“Colonel Mikhail
Mannuki’ili, 352d SOG, Angelic Air Force.”  Although the information failed to
jog any recollection, he understood what it meant. 

“You, Ninsianna,"
he pointed to her chest.  "Me … Mikhail." 

“Mikhail,” Ninsianna
repeated and smiled, speaking a line of gibberish before saying again,
“Mikhail.”

Although the name
didn't ring any bells, it pleased him to hear her say it aloud.  He
assumed
it was his name because the only reason he would wear dog tags was so his
fellow soldiers could retrieve his body for burial.  He was a soldier.  A
soldier who had achieved the respectable rank of Colonel.  It wasn't much, but
it was something.

She held out her water
skin.  He sucked the water down, nearly emptying it before he realized he
should leave some for her.  He had no idea what resources existed on this
planet, but he needed to conserve supplies until he'd recovered enough to
formulate a rescue plan.  Whatever that meant...  With no recollection of who
he was, where he was from, or how he'd gotten here in the first place, that
might prove difficult. 

Ninsianna signaled she
was leaving to fetch more water.  She gave him a stern look, pointing to the
floor and pulling the blanket to his neck, and made the universal hand at the
side of her head to signal sleep.  It appeared they shared the same underlying
body language.  Mikhail nodded.  She touched his cheek.  Reassurance she would
be back, he hoped, before she exited the ship.

His head hurt. 
Everything had a surreal glow.  Sleep gladly took him once more.

~ * ~ * ~ *
~ * ~

February - 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Ninsianna

Ninsianna crawled over
the rubble which blocked the crack out of the great sky canoe and worked her
way down to the stream which thankfully tumbled down from the hill where his
sky canoe had partially buried itself.  As she walked, she spoke her thoughts
aloud the way one might speak to a close friend.

“He's so emotionless,
Mother.  As though he possesses no fear!”

A shadow fell across
her path.  She glanced up, just in time to see an enormous golden eagle swoop
into the stream in front of her.  An omen!  A positive one, for eagles were
sacred to her people.  It dove beneath the surface, wings splashing water
everywhere, and came up carrying a nice, fat fish.  Ninsianna laughed as the
eagle effortlessly carried its squirming dinner up into the sky.

"Yes!  I agree! 
He must be a formidable warrior!  Now if only he could remember his own
name!"

She'd seen such
amnesia before after a warrior had suffered a blow to the head.  Usually a few
hours passed and then the memories would return, although Mikhail (she said his
name several times and decided she liked the way it rolled across her tongue)
appeared to be unusually lucid for someone who couldn't remember his own name. 
Perhaps he'd misunderstood her question?  Or was he withholding information? 
She reached the brook, swollen with water from the late winter rains, and
kneeled.

“Thank you, goddess,
for giving me this pure water,” she sang.  She scooped up a handful of water,
faced the east, and offered her first drink to the earth as an offer of
gratitude before filling her water skin.  In a land with scant rainfall, water
was sacred.

She saw her own
reflection and realized that she was covered in blood. 
His
blood. 
Leaving on her shawl so it would get clean, she waded waist-deep into the
stream and kneeled in the spot where the eagle had snatched the fish only
moments before, just deep enough for her to float.  Ducking to wet her hair,
she didn't hear their approach.

“Ninsianna … come
here!” 

She flipped back her
wet hair and frowned.  Jamin … and the entourage of young warriors who
perpetually followed him.  There was no way she was going back to the village
with him!  Not now.  Not ever!  Especially now that the goddess had sent
someone
better
to take his place!

“No,” she said. 
“Leave me alone.  I will not marry you!”  The will of the goddess filled her
with bravery.  She turned her back, signaling she wished to have nothing more
to do with him. 

“She's willful for a
forced bride!”  Siamek elbowed Jamin in the ribs.

“I don't think she
likes you anymore,” Dadbeh teased. 

Firouz began to slurp
like a dog.  Ninsianna didn't know what the gesture meant, but it made Jamin
shake with anger. 

“I'll show you, woman,
who is in charge of this tribe!”  Jamin splashed into the water after her. 

Ninsianna stood her
ground.  The power of the goddess surged through her veins like a bolt of
lightning.  Never before had she felt so bold, so powerful. 

“You are
NOT
the
chief of this tribe, yet!” she shouted.  “And I
will not
obey you!!!”

On the banks of the
stream, the other warriors laughed and cat-called, cracking jokes about Jamin
needing to wrangle her into the milking shed like a recalcitrant goat.

“You will come away
from this accursed fallen star before you get hurt!”  Jamin grabbed her arm and
tugged her towards the shore. 

Ninsianna spit in his
face.

The warriors burst out
laughing.  Jamin grabbed her hair and shoved her face beneath the water. 
Ninsianna struggled, but she was not strong enough to free herself.  He pulled
her head above the surface.

“Do you yield?”

“How dare you!”  She
slapped him in the face.  He shoved her face beneath the water a second time. 
Water came rushing up her nose.  She kicked and hit with all her might, but
Jamin was twice her weight.  He pulled her head back above the surface.

“Do you yield?”

“Help!” The others
laughed at the drama unfolding before them.  No help there!  She needed to help
herself, then.  She kicked backwards and landed her heel in his testicles. 
Jamin yowled in pain.

“I will teach you some
respect, woman!” 

Jamin shoved her head
beneath the water a third time.  This time, he held her there.  She gasped for
breath and breathed water into her lungs.  It felt like they were about to
burst!  She struggled, but only the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears
and the muffled sound of Jamin's voice filtered through the water.  She prayed
to She-who-is to help her.  Suddenly Jamin loosened his grip.  Popping up like
an otter, she gasped for breath and looked at where the others gaped towards
the shore.  Walking towards them from the shattered sky canoe, his good wing
outstretched, was Mikhail. 

“He is my protector,”
she shouted, hoping to panic them before they noticed how badly injured he
was.  “Run, before he smites you where you stand!”

The village warriors
were brave, but the lightning which erupted from a stick Mikhail held in his
hands got his message across as much as his size and wings.  Rocks exploded out
of the ground at the warrior's feet, tossing the men back as though they'd been
rammed by an auroch.  Smoke and a scent like a thunderstorm wafted up from the
place where the lightning had struck.  The warriors shouted and ran away. 

Jamin, however, had
never been one to back away from a fight,
especially
when it was over
something he viewed to be
his. 
Letting go of her hair, he held her arm
and shoved her behind his back, his dark eyes flashing with defiance.