CHAPTER TWO | KI?

  13,041 years until Contact, 13,041 years until Convergence

  ‘When the heavens above did not exist, and Earth beneath had not yet come into being—there was Abzu, the first in order, their begetter, and the demiurge Tiamat, who gave birth to them all.’

  – Enūma Eli?, as cited in ‘Prisca Theologia’ by Dr Mujahid Shah

  Beneath the burn of a midday sun, two armies glared at each other. Sitting upon his horned war-beast, Dumuzid—Lord of Ki?—looked resplendent in his regalia, a magnificent greatsword resting upon his shoulder. Alim couldn’t help but stare at it. He had heard of the sword Andamin, and like all weapons wielded by the nobility, it was forged from adama, the same metal that had lined the great arkship of old. Tales abounded of its ability to cleave a man in two, though Alim hoped this was merely the result of fanciful storytelling.

  Beside him, Halad—his sentinel—continued to scan the opposing ranks. ‘They look strong, my prince. Damned bastards knew we were coming.’

  Alim looked to the army at his back. Most of the soldiers he found there were friends—comrades of the training yard. He had bled with them, suffered with them, and now, by order of the king, he had marched them some three hundred leagues into the inner territories. After a month on loaded foot, they looked utterly exhausted.

  Alim sighed. ‘Wait here.’

  Sheltered within a cedarwood litter, Alalnagal—the king’s chancellor—rose from his cluster of cushions to watch the prince drop from his mount. ‘Your Highness, you’re not going to try and’—he rumpled his lips as if the words tasted sour—'bargain with these traitors, are you?’

  Alim patted his dappled stallion, his crown of black, tightly coiled curls springing back into place as the creature nuzzled the top of his head. He had owned many a battle steed over the past hundred years, but Nebu? Nebu was special. ‘If I die out there, take care of the old boy, will you?’

  ‘Are you talking to the grass-eater or me?’ Halad challenged, slipping from his own mount, a dun-coloured hothead named Gikun.

  Alim glanced at the chancellor, here by royal decree to keep tabs on the expedition’s likely “growing” list of failures. ‘To which “grass-eater” are you referring?’

  Alalnagal bristled as laughter tittered through the ranks. ‘Your Highness, need I remind you that we’re at war? Your “word games” won’t work out here. Do you expect Dumuzid to hand over the city simply because you asked him nicely?’

  ‘Why?’ Halad said. ‘Did you not hear of the time we fucked our way through an Eriduan convent?’

  Alalnagal glared. ‘How—in any way—is that relevant?’

  ‘Because we asked them,’ the sentinel grinned, “thrusting” between his hands. ‘Really nicely.’

  Unable to maintain their composure, the senior-ranking soldiers within the surrounding vanguard broke into stifled fits of laughter. Furious, Alalnagal ordered his litter-bearers to parade him through their ranks, using the opportunity to shout—what he deemed—much-needed abuse into each squirming face.

  Turning from his handiwork, Halad looked back to the prince. ‘As much as I hate to admit it, the snake’s right. You won’t be able to convince Dumuzid to give up the city. He’s too proud.’

  ‘I know,’ Alim said, adjusting his sword belt, his own adama-forged weapon tapping the travel-worn muscles of his thigh. ‘I’m counting on it.’

  Understanding dawned on Halad’s face. ‘You’re going to challenge him? You can’t be serious!’ He studied Dumuzid upon his war-beast for a second time. ‘He’s as beastly as that woolly monstrosity beneath his—’

  ‘We’re in no fit state for a battle.’

  ‘My prince, your concern is admirable but unmerited. We outrank the Ki? in both numbers and skill. Drop this nonsense at once, and we’ll charge them as one.’

  Though his sentinel’s dissent had been less than subtle, Alim knew it had come from a place of love. ‘They have the city, Halad. If the battle turns in our favour, they need only retreat to their walls. The road was hard. Provisions are stretched. We can’t afford for this to turn into a year-long siege.’

  ‘Fine. But if single combat is your command, send me, and I will bring you the traitor’s head myself!’

  Alim smiled. ‘You are more than worthy of it, my friend, but I doubt Dumuzid’s pride will bend to accept a challenge from you.’ He looked across the sun-baked field to the opposing force ahead of them, the menacing glint of Andamin’s blade. ‘If we are to tempt him, I fear the offer must come from me.’

  ‘What’s the matter, sentinel?’ Alalnagal sneered, returned upon his litter to peer down at them both. ‘Do you believe our crown prince unequal to the task? What is that death pact you and yours follow? “If the blade falls, so too must the shield”?’

  Halad glowered. ‘I have no such fears. His Highness is as skilled with a blade as you are in vexing me.’

  ‘How reassuring,’ Alalnagal smirked. ‘Your Highness, forgive me. I merely voice the concerns of the court. Your elevation to the rank of commander has been deemed a little... premature by some: “unbloodied” as you are.’

  Halad moved his hand to one of the combat knives stashed at his hip. ‘A wholly remediable concern, Your Lordship.’

  But before his sentinel could antagonise his father’s chief minister any further, Alim stepped towards the litter. ‘I am grateful for your candour, chancellor, but—if memory serves—you did much to fan the flames of this conflict.’

  ‘Your Highness, are you suggesting we allow these traitors to go unpunished? Those who openly defy your father?’

  ‘Not at all. I only mention it in case my father finds himself without an heir before today’s end; I’m sure the court will be more than happy to remind him upon whom he should thank for his grief.’

  Alalnagal shrank a little when he noticed the smirks worn by the surrounding officers. Despite the initial wariness concerning their new commander, watching him effortlessly corral the chancellor’s scheming tongue had been an abundant source of entertainment during the march north, and this latest exchange had been no different.

  ‘Your Highness. In the... unlikelihood that you should fail, surely the blame would lie with—’

  ‘Escort His Lordship to the rearguard,’ Alim growled. ‘See that he stays there.’

  Halad chuckled the moment the chancellor was lumbered off. ‘Swear to me your first act as king will be banishing that snake.’

  Alim summoned the strength to smile. ‘Agreed.’

  * * *

  When Zikê watched the prince step out into the parched field between them, he knew precisely what the commanding novice was planning. ‘My lord. The crown prince approaches.’

  Dumuzid shifted on his war-beast, provoking the hulking, uni-horned creature to unleash a rumble of irritation. Around him, the noblemen of Ki? shared in Zikê’s unease, though they were decidedly less effective in hiding it. Noticing their restlessness, the crown prince moved his hands from the sword at his waist, lifting his posture in an image of peace. A few paces back, his disreputable sentinel begrudgingly copied his master in kind.

  It proved enough for Dumuzid. Urging his war-beast forward, he moved out to meet them, followed closely by his entourage. ‘Alim?’ he called, peering down at the prince when they reached a meeting point betwixt their two armies. ‘Is that you?’

  Crown Prince Alimnunanta gave Dumuzid a small smile. ‘It’s been a while, Lord Ki?.’

  Stood before them, with neither mount nor retinue, the Prince of Dilmun appeared wholly unremarkable compared to the exhibition put forth by the City of Ki?. In truth, he looked more like a common sellsword than the son of a king, his studded leather armour barely more refined than those worn by the gutter-born sentinel at his flank. Inches wanting from the usual seven feet, he was infamously stunted for an Anunnaki male, and though his face was akin to a court lady’s fantasy, his deep black skin and bright amber eyes appeared no different to any other citizen residing within his father’s vast kingdom.

  Glancing at the weapon belted to his side, Zikê noted the prince’s favouring of the lighter, one-handed arming sword but also the lack of a corresponding shield. Either it was a foolish overestimation of his skills as a swordsman or a daunting suggestion of them.

  Neither boded well.

  ‘A while?’ Dumuzid repeated, his voice booming across the parched field. ‘It’s been nearly a hundred years, boy!’ He turned to his vanguard. ‘The last time this royal whelp graced us with his presence, he was hoofing it south with a barrel of my finest saga under one arm and a servant girl under the other!’ He paused to garner snickers from his men. ‘Now look at you. Crown Prince of Dilmun. Commander of the King’s Legion. I almost regret marrying Zuêna to that beast from Sipa.’

  The prince’s smile faltered. But only momentarily. ‘Trust me, my lord. No man regrets that night more than I.’ He glanced to his sentinel. ‘My eye for women was shockingly deficient after taking that barrel.’

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  ‘My prince, you’re too hard on yourself,’ Sentinel Halad immediately quipped. ‘The women of Ki? are pleasing enough’—he threw a wolfish smirk—'in the dark.’

  Zikê stepped forward as Dumuzid soured upon his war-beast. ‘You’re not welcome here. Withdraw, or we shall be forced to kill you all.’

  ‘This madness is of your master’s doing,’ the prince retorted. ‘Had he simply given what was owed—’

  ‘A babe cannot suckle from a barren teat!’ Dumuzid snapped. ‘What does your father expect me to do? Starve my own people?’

  Zikê watched as the prince dodged the question. There was little point in arguing the king’s morals; even his own son seemed to doubt their existence. ‘If you truly care for your people,’ he continued, ‘then there is no need for a battle. No one need die today except for you... or me.’

  And there it was. Calculated. Precise. Dumuzid’s hostility melted into a grin. ‘You’re challenging me to single combat? Has the sun cooked your brain, boy?’

  The prince did not answer, but there was a strength to his silence. Zikê’s lips thinned into a grimace; the man standing before them was no longer the petulant child they had once known. ‘My lord—’

  Dumuzid signalled for silence. ‘Prepare yourself, boy. As Marutuk slew Tiamat, my people will be free.’

  * * *

  Excitement passed over the battle lines, each side hollering encouragement to their respective champion. The dispute between the king and his wayward liege lord was to be settled in the old way, the crown prince himself taking on the responsibility. It gave the two rival armies the relief they craved but were too proud to admit. For once, squabbling noblemen would settle their disputes for themselves, leaving the common man to return home in peace. ‘Be patient,’ Halad said, taking advantage of the rising anticipation to check over the prince’s armour. ‘Evade his attacks. When he tires, use the length of that ridiculous greatsword against him.’

  ‘Halad,’ Alim murmured, the realisation of the task ahead taking root. ‘If I should fail—’

  ‘Fear not. I’ll make sure to slit the chancellor’s throat before I see to my own.’

  Alim hesitated. He knew that humour was often his sentinel’s way, but his comment had seemed ill-timed, suggestive of doubt. ‘So, you believe it... a possibility.’

  ‘I’m no chanter, my prince, but if you need faith, look behind you.’

  At first, Alim thought it a metaphor, a rare moment of sentimentality from a warrior hardened by centuries of military service. But when the indicative tilt of his head helped him along, it didn’t take long to register Halad’s true meaning.

  Broad and muscular, Dumuzid had always been a man of stature, a relative giant among a people already favoured with towering physiques. But after a hundred years, that which had appeared imposing from a distance was proving less impressive up close. Watching him attempt to roll gracelessly from the back of his irritated war-beast, Alim now saw that the surfeit idleness of lordly life had expanded the nobleman’s waistline, his fish-scaled armour of a thousand adama plates pulling tight around his core.

  ‘Dumuzid’s not the warrior he was,’ Halad said. ‘And his men know it.’

  Alim looked to the lord’s accompanying vanguard as they assisted him down from his mount. Eyes settling on the willowed figure of Dumuzid’s sentinel, Halad’s theory was confirmed. ‘They don’t think he’ll win,’ Alim concluded, shifting his gaze when Zikê glared back.

  ‘They know a good gamble when they see one,’ Halad continued. ‘And when the odds are not in their favour.’ He paused, his golden eyes becoming kind. Sentimental. ‘You are not the boy they remember, my prince.’

  ‘By Marutuk,’ Alim groaned. ‘Do not remind me.’

  Halad placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t scorn the mistakes you survive, my prince. They have led to everything you are today.’

  ‘Everything I am today is because of you, lusag?u.’

  Halad chuckled. Lusag?u: an endearment from Old Speech, reserved for only the most treasured of friends. ‘Indeed. I think a sizeable lordship when you are king should just about cover it.’

  Alim scoffed. Had the rigid practices of the Sentinel Guard—the kingdom’s renowned “Nunuru ?eserem”—permitted it, he would’ve rewarded Halad for his loyalty decades ago. As far back as memory could allow, the soldier had been by his side, acting more like an attentive older brother than the indentured protector of the king’s one and only son. But—ultimately—imagining a life for Halad was futile. In most cases, only death released a sentinel from his bond.

  That thought alone caused Alim to look back, Zikê’s unease bearing more than dread for his master’s life alone. Alalnagal had not been wrong during his earlier bout of taunting. If Alim fell to Dumuzid’s blade, Halad would be expected to commit ritual suicide.

  The same was true for Zikê.

  ‘Focus,’ Halad warned, sensing his ward’s mind when the prince glanced down at the black-coated suicide knife that all sentinels were expected to carry: the dreaded ugnigan blade. ‘Either Dumuzid dies a warrior by your hand or as a traitor before your father’s court. His sentinel’s fate is assured either way. As is mine.’

  ‘But it’s not fair,’ Alim said. ‘This is all my father’s doing.’

  ‘Dumuzid bears responsibility for this unpleasantness as much as the king. Unburden yourself of it, my prince. Focus.’

  Alim followed Halad’s counsel and took a few steadying breaths. Ahead, the noblemen of Ki? were backing away, leaving only Zikê behind to assist their lord. Holding Dumuzid’s greatsword upright, the tip of its blade placed upon the dusty ground, the sentinel watched the crown prince intently as his master paused to stretch and flex his limbs. Alim could not help but stare at Andamin in return, seeing now that the greatsword was as tall as Zikê himself.

  Patience, Alim thought, harking back to Halad’s advice. Evade his attacks. Tire him.

  Shooing Zikê to one side, Dumuzid took up Andamin and performed a wide-arching flourish. Alim tried to mask his awe as he heard it cut through the air, but the Lord of Ki? was not easily fooled. ‘You’ve heard of this blade?’ he asked, holding it prone with outstretched arms to allow the prince a closer look. ‘She is Andamin. The Sword that Splits the Heavens. Look at it, boy. Look! There is no greater honour than to be killed by a sword with a name.’

  Alim moved his hand to grasp the grip of his own weapon: black shagreen crisscrossed in wrappings of blue. His father’s colours. But before that, the colours of Marutuk. And before that, Holy Na’anak.

  Dumuzid smiled. ‘I see you favour the arming sword. Tell me, boy, does she yet have a name?’

  At his back, the men of Ki? whooped at the wittiness of their master’s taunt. A weapon could only be named after the accomplishments of the one who wielded it, and the prince had not yet achieved any feats worthy of consideration. ‘Perhaps,’ Alim said, drawing his blade with a short little flourish, ‘today is the day.’

  Dumuzid glowered. The prince’s response had been quiet but loud enough for his sentinel to hear it, and as Halad cheered in approval, it triggered a jeering tumult from the King’s Legion behind, their acclamations rising to compete with that of the Ki?.

  ‘Enough words! Face me, boy!’

  Dumuzid came for the prince, roaring like some fearsome beast as he swung Andamin down in a deep, plunging stroke. Alim darted to the left, dodging the falling blade, but Dumuzid was far more graceful than the prince had bargained for. Lifting his greatsword, he countered Alim’s sidestep, forcing the prince to lunge backward. Somehow, Alim managed to avoid the tip of Andamin’s swing, the shock of his face reflected in the rippling luminescence of her adama steel.

  ‘Retreating already?’ Dumuzid said, using the restored distance between them to reset his stance, the glint of Andamin aloft. ‘Surrender your weapon, boy! Those colours deserve better than to be held by a coward!’

  The prince twirled his blade—playful, unbothered. ‘Just letting you catch your breath, old man.’

  Snarling, Dumuzid launched for him again, using the motion of a lateral swing this time. Alim ducked, but it was a move the Lord of Ki? had been expecting. Thrusting Andamin backwards, he moved to strike the prince in the face with her pommel, but Alim evaded the gambit by sliding on his knees. Frustrated, Dumuzid turned and continued his assault, his efforts to land a blow growing ever more wild and pernicious. Still, the prince was too agile, eluding the sting of Andamin’s blade as if he were a mere wisp of wind.

  ‘You’re... light... on your feet, boy,’ Dumuzid said when his attacks came to a lull, his voice trembling between breathless gasps. ‘I’ll... give you that.’

  Alim glanced to Halad, who gave a subtle nod in return. The prince lowered his posture, baiting Dumuzid to strike with another downward swing. Creativity spent, gripped with fatigue, the Lord of Ki? obliged. Alim saw surprise flash across his face as he met the attack instead of dodging. Allowing the edges of their swords to converge, Alim used the lord’s momentum to slide up Andamin’s length, the scraping peal of adama steel ringing out across the dusty field. When his sword stopped against the greatsword’s parrying hooks, Alim straightened, lifting Dumuzid’s arms, creating an opening within which to strike. Circling out of the bind, Alim was one with his sword, allowing it to flow with him.

  Dumuzid barked when Alim took a slash at his underarm.

  ‘Dilmun takes first blood!’ Halad declared, the prince angling his sword skyward to present the blue shimmer of Dumuzid’s inner water for all to see.

  Exasperated, fogged with pain, the Lord of Ki? overextended with his next strike. Moving with a firm gracefulness that rivalled the gust of a storm, Alim parried the attack, rendering Andamin’s length ungainly as he wrenched her—skittering—from Dumuzid’s grip. Defeated, the liege lord surrendered to gravity, toppling like a mountain without roots.

  ‘Yield,’ Alim said, placing the tip of his sword upon the lord’s throat.

  ‘I... cannot,’ Dumuzid panted. ‘This... is a fight... to the death... Your Highness.’

  Alim froze; it had been the first time the lord had replied with the proper honorific.

  ‘It’s all right, Alim. Let it be... your hand... that ends me. There is no greater honour than to be killed... by a sword... with a name.’

  Alim shook his head. ‘Dumuzid—’

  ‘Zikê!’ the Lord of Ki? bellowed. ‘Name this blade!’

  ‘Imhullu,’ Zikê answered, quick enough for Alim to realise he had been preparing for the command this entire time.

  Alim stared down at his sword.

  Imhullu. In Old Speech, the word was best translated as “the South Wind”, and as she rested upon Dumuzid’s shoulder, rippled and splattered with blue, Alim noticed a sudden weight to her he had never noticed before.

  ‘Imhullu,’ Dumuzid repeated, allowing the word to resonate. ‘A fine name. A fine name, Zikê! For the winds in the South are swift, and the prince has bested me... in their spirit. Now... Your Highness... let us finish this.’

  ‘No,’ Alim murmured, backing away as Dumuzid settled into a kneeling position, the vivid blue of his Anunnaki blood beginning to pool like an oasis between dunes.

  Halad pressed a hand to Alim’s back. ‘Give him a warrior’s death, my prince. Quickly now. Before Alalnagal claims him for your father.’

  Alim glanced back. Sure enough, despite his orders, the chancellor was making his way to them, his passage slowed by the shuffling steps of his travel-weary porters. No doubt, he had a whole host of ungodly punishments awaiting should the Lord of Ki? be forced to suffer the king’s justice. ‘I have one request,’ he began, his hand beginning to tremble as it tightened below Imhullu’s mushroomed pommel.

  ‘Name it,’ Dumuzid said.

  ‘Give me your sentinel.’

  Dumuzid laughed as Zikê—the ominous black of his ugnigan blade already in hand—gawped bewildered behind him. ‘You wish to... claim Zikê?’

  ‘My father sent me for your head, my lord. Anything more would exceed expectations, and I don’t think the Royal Court is quite ready for that.’

  ‘Hah,’ Dumuzid grinned. ‘Perhaps not.’

  Stepping forward, clearly nervous, Zikê said, ‘I’m sorry, Your Highness, but you cannot ask this. A sentinel’s oath is eternal. I must follow my master into the afterlife.’

  ‘I have lived over a thousand years,’ Dumuzid countered, ‘and have had many a sentinel sworn to me. Fear not, Zikê. Wherever the prince is about to send me, I will be well-guarded.’

  ‘My lord—’

  Dumuzid turned back to Alim. ‘If you want him, then of course, you may have him.’ He winced into a bow. ‘Accept him as my tribute to you... Your Highness.’

  Zikê dropped to his knees. ‘My lord...’

  ‘Now,’ Dumuzid said, straightening up. ‘Finish this.’

  He may have spoken the words, but the keen instinct to survive had roused a turmoil of shakes across his whole body. So, as Alim placed the double-edged tip of his newly named sword above Dumuzid’s left collarbone, Zikê quickly sheathed his ugnigan blade and slid close to hold his master steady. Etched with a rare look of sorrow, Halad didn’t hesitate to offer the same.

  ‘Your Highness!’ Alalnagal was heard shouting in the distance. ‘I request that you leave the traitor alive!’

  ‘Ready?’ Alim asked.

  Dumuzid closed his eyes. ‘Do it.’

  Plunging with all the force he could muster, Alim buried Imhullu into Dumuzid’s torso, aiming for his heart. When the lord stiffened in pain—his eyes open and staring blindly as Zikê and Halad fought to hold him in place—his last breath escaped as a short, gargled shriek, the blue blood of their species flooding his throat, frothing with bubbles.

  It was not like the stories; all Dumuzid knew—all Alim saw—was terror, grief and pain. Pulling hard to reclaim his sword, Alim did his best to smother his tears as the lord slipped into unconsciousness, Imhullu’s final act misting the air with a cloud of blue mist, a sign to all that Dumuzid, Lord of Ki?, was dead.

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