Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One

Mid-March – 3,390 BC

  Earth: Crash Site

  Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

  Mikhail

  Mikhail swung his sword in an arc, practicing his daily warm-up. The cool feel of the grip sliding into his hand gave him a chill of recognition that was both powerful, and ominous, as though he should remember where he'd learned to use it so well. If he focused on remembering the weapon, his body forgot how to use it. The most effective way to wield the sword was to simply empty out his mind and let muscle memory take over. In a land where men threw sticks and stones, his sword was a weapon of mass destruction.

  His eye wandered to watch Ninsianna wade through the stream, engaged in her perpetual conversation with her invisible friend, trying to catch fish using nothing but her bare hands. She was quite adept at taking care of herself, but he kept a close watch on her. Until he found a way off of this planet, he would make sure nobody bothered her.

  An odd sensation gripped at the place in his chest where Ninsianna had stitched his wound. He had a mission to complete, but with each day that passed, the thought of leaving her behind disturbed him more and more. Increasing the ferocity of his swing, he stabbed an imaginary opponent, smiting him a thousand times as he pondered the dilemma in his mind. Since no solution came, he swung, parried, and jabbed until his muscles screamed in protest.

  Splash! Ninsianna threw a fish onto the shore, laughing with delight. She came up behind him, the still-wriggling fish in her hands.

  “Mikhail … see … fish!!!” she said triumphantly.

  “Yes … fish good." He forced himself to maintain eye contact and not stare unabashedly at her breasts. Ninsianna had haltingly explained that making clothing was time consuming, whereas skin washed easily. Whenever clothing might become wet, dirty, or damaged, it was simply taken off. The only inhibition she seemed to possess was seeing her naked without the crude loincloth which was little more than a strip of linen held in place around her hips by a string.

  “I gitmek clean now." She fetched her obsidian blade and took the fish back to the stream to clean it. When she returned, she placed the fish, tubers and greens she'd scrounged up earlier onto leaves for cooking. As it began to roast, she unabashedly watched him practice with the sword, a smile lighting up her features.

  “You heal good. You get guclu." She held up one arm and scrunched her bicep.

  “What that word?" He pointed to his bicep.

  Ninsianna shook her head ‘no’ and repeated the word, pointed to his bicep, and then picked up a rock and pretended to heave it over her head.

  “Ahhh! Níos láidre … stronger. I get stronger. Yes?”

  “Yes, stronger … níos láidre." Ninsianna repeated the word until she'd committed it to memory. “Almost heal.”

  “Yes, almost,” he said. “But no fly. Wing still hurt bad.”

  “Bana izen ver … look?"

  Slipping his sword into its sheath, he sat and dutifully stretched out his wing. Relaxed against his back, or even slightly extended, although it hurt, the pain was not insurmountable. The moment he extended them fully upwards to get airborne; however, the pain grew so great it made him dizzy and threatened to make him vomit. He worried his wing had been broken beyond repair. She placed her hands over the joint where it had dislocated and felt along the bone. She paused when she reached an area that made him wince.

  “Hurt?”

  “Yes. Hurt bad.”

  Ninsianna felt for anomalies and then sat at his side, her expression serious. Mikhail scrutinized her tawny beige eyes, for when language failed, her expressive nature usually gave her away.

  “Bone good,” Ninsianna said. “Heal good.”

  “Wing good?”

  “No. Wing not good." She had that universal look people wore when they were about to tell you bad news.

  Mikhail schooled his features into his customary unreadable expression so she wouldn't see the fear that clenched his gut.

  “Kiris no good," Ninsianna said. "Hurt bad.”

  “What no good?” he asked, not understanding the word. Ninsianna pinched the bridge of her nose, concentrating on a way to tell him what she thought was wrong. She pulled off one of the primitive hide coverings she used as a shoe.

  “Kiris not good. Hurt bad." She pointed to her Achilles tendon. “Need long time heal. Kiris in wing hurt. Need long time heal.”

  “What that word?" He pointed to the spot of his wing that felt like somebody ripped it apart whenever he tried to fly and then to her Achilles tendon.

  “Kiris,” she said.

  Tendon.

  Tendon?

  Oh, damantia. She thought he'd damaged his flight tendon.

  “How long fly?" He masked his fear. For a winged creature, being told you might never fly again was like being told you might never walk again. Paired with the realization his ship might never work again and he was trapped, that was a lot of bad news. Especially when he couldn't remember if anyone cared enough about him to even bother looking!

  “I don't know." She put her hand on his cheek. “Mama know better. Mama better than Ninsianna.”

  He must not have masked his emotions as well as he thought because Ninsianna pulled him in for a hug. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of soap root. An unpleasant memory triggered in his mind and was gone. Buried in a darkened room. The smell of death. Being small and helpless. Whatever the hell that was all about, he was glad the memory didn't stick.

  “It okay." Ninsianna ran her fingers through his under-feathers. “Ninsianna ask Mama. Mama know better. Mama fix wing.”

  The tide of emotion he'd been fighting to keep at bay since he'd awoken impaled through the chest with what he thought was a spirit come to guide him into the dreamtime finally broke. Complete the mission? Who the heck was he kidding? Six weeks and he remembered little more about his past now than the day he'd placed his fate into her hands. He couldn't even remember what the darned mission had been. Much less how to complete it!

  “Cad é ag déanamh liom a dhéanamh faoi tú, mo ghrá?" He whispered in his own language so she wouldn't understand his words. What am I going to do about you, my love?

  The smell of cooked fish reminded them it was time to eat. He'd made her father a promise. He pulled himself back together before she read the naked vulnerability in his face. With his ship, his technology, his people, his memory, and his ability to fly gone, the only thing he had left to offer was his word of honor.

  Composing his features back into an impassive mask, he pulled away and suggested they go get a bite to eat.

  Chapter 34