Sword of the Gods: Agents of Ki (Sword of the Gods Saga) (69 page)

The scent of sickness assailed his nostrils the moment he stepped inside. Three tallow lanterns cast their flickering yellow light in the next room. There was no sign of his father's chief enforcer. Pity. Varshab was one of the men he'd hoped to kill. He peeked into the separate kitchen, a luxury few houses in Assur possessed. The room was dark, but from the scent of sickness and barely-audible groan, Urda, their elderly housekeeper, had taken sick before going home for the evening.

Jamin frowned. After his mother had died, Urda had been the closest thing he'd had to a mother-figure, albeit a fearful and rather unwilling one. The last thing he wanted to do was kill her. He slid shut the kitchen doorway and prayed she would not recover enough to interrupt him.

He pulled the gold-handled knife
Lucifer had given him, bracing himself to do what was necessary. There could be no peace so long as the village clung to the winged demon's delusions. If he didn't deal with their rebellion, Hudhafah would have no choice but to wipe out the entire village. This wasn't about revenge…

Oh! Who the hell was he deluding? This
was
about revenge! His father had thrown him out like he was little more than the contents of a chamber pot! The muscle underlying his cheek twitched. Old hatred chilled his veins, filling him with cold determination. The others would kill the winged demon and whichever of the collaborators they could find in their beds, but
him?
This was
his
job to finish.

The knife felt heavy in his hands, cold, secure, deadly. He stalked into his father's sitting room, determined to carve out the black heart of a man who had cast his only surviving child out to wander the desert. His trench-coat trailed behind him like black dragon's wings as he moved towards a dark form on the cushions. He raised the knife above his head and stabbed down, not even pausing to think about he was doing.

"Eeee-yah!" Jamin shrieked with rage.

The knife passed through the form and kept on going, too soft, too easy. He stabbed again, but the blanket covering the form shifted, revealing a blanket thrown onto a pile of disheveled cushions. With a sob, he stabbed at it again and again until the goat-fur stuffing spewed out onto the floor like entrails. There was no one in it, no life to take, no revenge. His father was nowhere in this room.

Where was he then?

Jamin glanced up at the wall and spied the small, woven rug his mother had started weaving to line the cradle of the baby sister who had died along with her. His father had always kept it hung there as though it was a priceless artifact.

It was unfinished … just like his mother's life.

The colorful patterns whispered memories of a happier time when he'd been a small boy sitting at his mother's feet, watching her weave it as her belly had grown large from pregnancy. She had sung stories about an ancient goddess, an ancient people. He could almost hear her singing to him now.

'Death begets death; and hate begets hate. Choose the man you wish to be, before you take a mate…'

Jamin placed his hands over his ears to drown out the memory of his mother's song. Stupid, stupid romantic notions! The same notions which had prevented his father from moving on after she had died! For years his father had lain amongst her things, clinging to this accursed blanket, and ignored
him
! The sharp edge of his knife scraped his cheek and reminded him he was acting foolishly. His mother … was dead. It was time to send his father to join her.

He stabbed at the cushions a few more times, just to put himself back into the mood. That cold, empty feeling had deserted him, leaving him to contemplate the magnitude of what he'd been sent here to do.
He. Needed. To kill. His father.
A vomit-filled chamber pot indicated the Chief had been sickened along with all the other villagers, so he couldn't have gone far.

His eyes moved to the steps which climbed up to the second floor. The knife clutched in his hands, he stepped carefully, mindful not to let his combat boots thud, and slipped into his father's room, determined to smite him. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the murky gloom, but this room, too, was empty. By the looks of it, nobody had slept here for quite a long time.

Anger welled up in his belly. So? His father had finally taken up with a mistress? For some reason the thought bothered him.
He.
A man who had lain down with almost every woman in the village, was bothered by the thought that, after fifteen years, his father had finally replaced his mother?

With an uttered curse he kicked the bed. Wherever his father was, it was unlikely he would find him in the scant hours Marwan had said the hellebore would last before the more intestinally fortitudinous would recover enough to fight back. Frustration mingled with an odd sense of relief. By now the winged demon was dead, so even if he
didn't
kill his father, his mission would not be a failure.

He moved back towards the stairs. His eyes fixated on the entrance to his
old bedroom. The memory of how quickly Shahla's mother had purged all trace of her daughter ate at his psyche. How long
had
his father waited to eradicate his belongings from his home? An hour? A day? A week?

His blood pounded in his ears. He'd been sent out into the desert with nothing more than he could carry, a change of clothes, a few trade goods, and enough food to last him several days. Maybe his father had saved
something
?
Something
to remind himself that once upon a time his son had been a good man?

He moved across the landing, summoned to the room where he'd grown up by a gnawing sense of curiosity. His mouth felt as though somebody had just stuffed it full of sheep's wool. He paused in front of the doorway and pushed it open, bracing himself to find his belongings had been replaced by his father's treasury.

The room was silent, dark, and like the rest of the house it reeked of sickness. His feet automatically stepped over the spot where the carpet would trip you, to the corner where still was piled an atlatl he only used infrequently. He felt his way to the dressing table, his fingers gliding across familiar objects placed far more neatly than the tangled jumble he had always left them in.

He pressed his hand against the wall and found the hook where he'd always hung his shawl-cloak. A lump rose in his throat as his hand registered the soft wool of his best kilt. His lips moving, he silently counted out the number of fringes. One. Two. Three. Four. Four layers of fringe, the kilt only a chief's son was allowed to wear. He continued along the wall, his mind telling him what his eyes could see only dimly, that all of his belongings were still here in the room, neatly arranged and undisturbed. He sniffed and wiped his nose, forcing down his overwhelming sense of relief.

A small groan from direction of his old sleeping pallet caused him to freeze. A lifetime training as a warrior caused his hand to slip down and pull the knife back out of its holster. He held his breath, listening intently into the dark. Somebody was sleeping in his bed? Anger boiled in his veins. The bastard! The bastard had given away his room! He shot forward, intent on burying his knife into the chest of whoever had the gall to take over
his
room!

'Jamin…'

With a whisper that sounded remarkably like his name, the wind blew open the curtain and allowed a small sliver of moonlight to shine in upon the figure huddled in his bed. Jamin pulled his knife out of its downward arc a mere hairsbreadth from the intended target.

"Father?"

His mind wheeled. Why was his father sleeping in his room? He examined the pathetic figure huddled on his sleeping pallet. This was not the tall, regal man most villagers thought of when they spoke of the Chief, but the broken man he'd witnessed after his mother had died. Even in the moonlight, Jamin could see his father had aged. What had once been salt-and-pepper hair had now shone platinum, and his face was wrinkled like an old woman's.

His father whispered:  "Son? Is that you?"

A lump rose in Jamin's throat. His knife still in his hand, he went down on one knee so he would be eye-level with the man he'd been sent here to kill.

"Father, it is I…"

"Can't you hear her?" the Chief whispered. He shuddered as another convulsion wracked his body. "Don't you know she's been worried sick about you?"

His father stared at him, and it was not
him
he saw, but a hallucination induced by the hellebore.

"Mama's dead," Jamin swallowed. His eyes burned. "She's been dead for a very long time."

"She keeps telling me you were supposed to always carry
this
with you," his father said. "She is angry that I hid it away from you after she died. She says I was not supposed to let you go without it."

His father had something clutched to his chest. Jamin coaxed him to loosen his grip. Even in the dim moonlight, the object felt familiar in his hands. It was his treasure box, the one his mother had always told him to hide away his most heartfelt secrets and desires. It had been so long since he had seen it that he'd convinced himself the box was all made up inside his head. It was real. The treasure box was real?

Another convulsion wracked his father's body. He began to retch. Jamin grabbed the chamber pot and held it beneath his father's head while he upended the contents of his stomach. The thought that now would be a good time to kill him crossed his mind like an unwanted guest, but for some reason he could not force his hand to move even though he still gripped the knife.

His father stopped vomiting and lay back down upon the bed. His breathing grew more regular, synchronizing with Jamin's own.

Jamin examined the treasure box. It was exactly as he remembered it, palm's-breadth wide and perhaps three fingers high. Mama said it had been
hers
when she'd been a little girl, and before that
her
mother's, and her mother's-mother as well. It was carved from a hard, almost ebony material that was light like wood, but felt it cool like a stone. He traced his finger along the womb-shaped symbols which adorned the lid before finding the one which hid the intricate locking mechanism unlike anything carved by the finest craftsman.

He flipped open the lid. Inside were the items he remembered having put inside, each carrying a memory of his mother:  a lock of his own baby hair; the under-feather from an eagle; a pink cowrie shell traded from the Kemet; assorted colorful pebbles; and a woven wrist-band made when he'd been small. What was important was the
stories
he had shared with his mother as they'd laughed and added each item to the box, not the value of the items. Stories he had forced himself to forget after she had died because to remember them was too painful.

His vision blurred. He wiped at his eyes and realized his hands had come away wet.

"Why did you keep this from me?"

His father's chest rose and fell, peaceful until the next wave of convulsions struck him. It was now or never. Kill him? Or walk away and tell the lizard people his father had not been home?

He froze at the sound of the downstairs door opening. Someone was here, someone not incapacitated by the hellebore. Was it one of his
own
allies, come to tell him the winged demon was dead? Or one of the Assurians, aware now the village was under attack?

He slipped the treasure box inside the pocket of his voluminous, dark trench coat. He unclipped the strap which kept the pulse rifle secure and heavy on his thigh and then drew it, the sound of metal sliding against fabric loud to his sensitive ears. Someone was
definitely
moving around downstairs. He glanced at his father, lying helpless on the bed. Kill him? Or deal with the person downstairs?

Why choose now? His father was
obviously
in no condition to run away and, right now Jamin needed desperately to think! He squeezed his father's hand, and then stood, more than four cubits of rock, solid muscle, grown stronger from training with the lizard people. To them, he was nothing but a weakling, but to
these
people he was a force to be reckoned with, even
without
the added security of the lizard people's magic.

He crept towards the doorway, listening intently to whoever moved downstairs. They moved stealthily, but he had grown up in this house and knew every creak the way he knew his own heartbeat. His pulse whispered tension into his ears. He pointed the nose of the pulse rifle down the stairwell into the floor below, listening in the dark for the movement which did not belong.

There! A shadow cast by the tallow lantern lit in the sitting room. He willed his black eyes to peer into the darkness. The shadow moved.

Jamin stepped forward, his pulse rifle aimed down the stairwell.

The shadow moved again.

Jamin fired. The recoil of the pulse rifle forced him backward.

An arrow whistled past, barely a finger's-breadth from his cheek.

Jamin cursed and fired the pulse rifle again.

The dark shadow rolled.

He fired at it a third time.