Flying the Storm

15.





Song and Sona

Aiden never thought he’d be glad to see the town of Ashtarak again, but he was - immensely. It meant that they had finished their job: they had rescued those that needed rescuing, and they had survived.

Most importantly, it meant that after patching up and somehow finding more ‘nol, he and Fredrick could take the Iolaire and go. They had no more obligations to this town and its people. Aiden would no longer have to play mercenary, which was good because he didn’t think he liked it very much. They could do what they were supposed to do: hauling and selling.

But in the meantime, he wanted peace to rest. It was the middle of the night, after all, and it had been a very bloody long day. The hunger that gnawed at him had subsided sometime between giving Koikov the slip and crossing into Armenia, so all he wanted to do right then was sleep. No doubt there was drinking to be done first, but for once he didn’t much feel like it.

The Iolaire was brought to a hover, its engines roaring, with Aiden facing the town. A few lights dotted the streets and windows, but the town was mostly dark. It had been a long time since an electrical grid had existed in Armenia; a long time since a stable power supply had been part of life. Still, people had adapted to the new world left by the war, just as they had adapted to disasters throughout history.

It was like a cycle, Aiden tiredly supposed. Peace bred prosperity, prosperity bred dissatisfaction, dissatisfaction bred greed and greed bred war. No matter which way you spun it, that was all it was. Past wars had been for land, for beliefs, money. The Eurasian War had been no different, when you lifted the lid. Energy had been its prize. Two civilisations fought like crows over a carcass, and millions died because of it.

God, his thoughts got depressing when he was tired.

The Iolaire yawed round so its nose pointed towards the town and Aiden faced away to the south. The vast Ararat plains were dark, but the sky showed many more stars than earlier. Slowly, the aircraft started to descend, and the whirr of its landing gear lowering was just audible above the engines. The aircraft’s bright landing lights illuminated the same dusty patch they’d taken off from, gradually getting closer to Aiden’s turret. Finally the Iolaire crunched down onto it, blasting dust and pebbles and grass around itself, before the engines slowed with a falling whine and the cargo ramp buzzed open.

With the engines stopped, Aiden sat for a moment and collected his thoughts, letting his ears be deafened by the silence. He pulled his headset off and hung it on its hook, replacing the faint static hiss with the tramp of feet beneath him on the cargo ramp. There were voices also, muffled and excited, as the passengers of the Iolaire debarked onto the landing patch, helping the few limping wounded down from the hold as they went.

Aiden sat and watched them as they embraced and gathered; some smiling, some crying, others silently standing aside. The freed women’s white gowns shone in the landing lights, contrasting with the darker, dirtier, more muted clothes of the men. Only three of the girls were from Ashtarak. The others were Armenian also, but from different towns. In the morning they would find their way home from Ashtarak, by road or otherwise, Aiden imagined. Maybe the militia would escort them. From the look of it, most would have been more than happy to. These were very pretty girls, after all.

Aiden switched off the HUD, swivelled his chair and clambered down out of the turret. Fredrick was walking across the hold towards him, stretching his back. “Good job,” he said.

Aiden shrugged, and then winced at the complaint from his arm. “Not too bad yourself.”


They turned as a great cheer erupted outside. Tovmas was walking down the ramp, his hand held in the air. When he reached the crowd, many arms reached out to embrace him, Vika’s foremost among them. He was pulled into the middle of the jumping, shouting mass, grinning and holding Vika tightly.

Then, out of the darkness beyond the floodlit landing patch came another, much larger crowd, streaming up the road from the town to welcome those that had returned. They whistled and whooped as they flocked, though some were quiet as they searched for loved ones from the militia who had flown out only the day before. Many found who they were looking for, hugging and welcoming them with shuddering relief, but some didn’t. Realisation of their fears sunk in, and though some wept, others just stood numbly, looking up at the yawning hold as if waiting for the dead men to rise. Their sacrifices seemed all but forgotten by the triumphant crowd.

They were chanting a single word, over and over. “Fedayeen!”

Fredrick slapped Aiden on the back and moved off towards the ramp. Aiden followed after a moment, his injured arm beginning to ache again.

At the top of the ramp, Aiden and Fredrick were stopped in their tracks by a sudden silence. The crowd were looking at them, and all cheering and jumping had stopped. From its heart came Tovmas, making his way towards the westerners. He moved out into the clearing to the bottom of the ramp and looked up at them, his arms wide.

“Thank you, my friends,” he said, “we are in your debt.”

Tovmas bowed his head to the pair, and the crowd stayed silent. Then, as he straightened back up they burst into cheers and cries, arms punched in the air as they hailed the westerners. They rushed up the ramp, seized Fredrick and Aiden and hoisted them up above their heads to carry them down to the landing patch. They were borne like heroes across the crowd, jostled and thrown into the air as they laughed and cheered, caught up in the sense of joy and victory forced onto them.

Perched on the shoulders of the crowd, Aiden could see some of the militia bearing the blanket-wrapped bodies of the dead down the ramp to their waiting relatives. It stopped him smiling as he realised just how many there had been. Nine dead, he counted: one at Zovashen, five at Kakavaberd, Magar and two others at Sederek. It was a miracle that none had been hit by the interceptor’s fire, but even so, Ashtarak’s victory hadn’t been cheap.

The pair was set down as the crowd began to move down the hill, and Fredrick returned to lock up the Iolaire. Aiden watched as the mass of celebrating people headed off out of the brightness of the Iolaire’s lights, disappearing into the night as they walked down the road. His joy seemed to leave with them.

The light shut off suddenly, and Fredrick closed the cargo ramp. He came over to Aiden’s side. “I’ll check that wing tank in the morning. Are we going?” he asked.

“I suppose we should,” he said. “Don’t much feel like it, though.”

“Are you crazy? There won’t be a woman in this town who’d say no to us right now.”

“I think some might,” said Aiden.

Fredrick was quiet for a moment. In the darkness, Aiden couldn’t quite make out his face. Then Fredrick punched him lightly on his intact arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

They walked side by side down the dark road towards town. The cheering, singing crowd was far ahead of them, almost at the first buildings. More people were coming from the houses and cabins, joining the throng.

“You know, despite it all, I think I could get used to this mercenary thing,” said Fredrick as they walked. “Maybe we should have signed up to the Black Sea Corps when we had the chance.”

“You didn’t have to kill anybody,” replied Aiden, harshly. He could make out the relatives and friends of the dead now, as they stretchered the bodies down the hill, lagging behind the crowd.

Fredrick was quiet again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just meant for, you know, the glory.”

“Yeah, it was really glorious back at that market. Really bloody glorious.”

“Jesus Aiden, you know what I mean.” Fredrick gestured at the crowd. “This!” he said.

Aiden didn’t reply. He couldn’t shake the memory of Magar: alive and talking to him one minute; the next, dead with a coin-sized hole in his ribs.

“I really need a drink,” he said.

Fredrick and Aiden reached the town a few minutes later. The crowd had stopped at the tavern along the street, and though some were inside, there was not enough room so the majority were instead drinking and celebrating out on the street. More people were arriving in ones and twos from further up the road, from side streets and the surrounding buildings.

The pair stopped outside the bar with the rest of the crowd, and somebody pressed bottles of drink into their hands. Aiden took a swig. It was the most delicious thing he thought he’d ever tasted. “Beer!” he cried, grinning suddenly, his troubles forgotten. “I’ve been dying for a beer since...well, for a very bloody long time!”

Fredrick laughed. The joy of the crowd was infectious now they were close to it again. Neither of them could resist it. Arms were wrapped around their shoulders and they were pulled into the crowd. People were dancing, though there was no music, and joyous faces shouted to Aiden in words he didn’t understand, while people vigorously shook his hand and embraced him. Though many were bumping into him and pressing against his bound arm, he felt no pain. He was enjoying himself too much to notice.

Gradually the party moved down the street. Who was guiding it, Aiden didn’t know and didn’t care. The street curved slightly as it went deeper into Ashtarak, lined with larger and more sophisticated buildings the closer to the centre it went. At one point it crossed bridge over a river. Here and there stood lamp posts, lonely and spread out, shedding a sodium glow over everyone and everything.

Eventually, two or three bottles later, Aiden and the crowd reached a wide open square. Here they stopped, and the party spread out around the square. Into the middle marched a pair of men wearing sleeveless vests and big, roped drums hanging from their shoulders. They stood with their arms and drumsticks held high until the crowd quietened for them. Then Tovmas joined them, clambering up onto a small stone platform that stood in the centre. He had a bottle in his hand.

He shouted to the crowd in Armenian, crying out a speech, punctuated regularly by great cheers from the hundreds of listeners.

“He’s telling them about the fight with the slavers,” said a quiet voice behind Aiden. It was Nardos. Unlike the majority of the crowd, he wasn’t smiling. “It’s like it was a glorious battle or something,” he spat, “instead of plain, bloody murder.” Aiden lost his smile then, too.

“He says they will build a great monument, here in the square, to all those that took part,” continued Nardos, louder over the renewed cheering. “Word will be spread across Armenia that the people of Ashtarak and their glorious militia are strong and will not stand for injustice.”

“Do you think it’s gone to his head?” asked Aiden.

“I think it has. He wants more,” said Nardos. “I think he enjoyed it.”

Aiden was looking at Tovmas. He looked happy, true, but his expression was a little manic. He could see that Nardos was right, that Tovmas maybe was glory-drunk. Aiden could see how a man just like Tovmas - a strong leader with a bit of a following - could become very dangerous indeed. He’d seen it across Europe. The same kind of people had divided countries into city-states and territories, fighting for dominance and old hatreds.


“He thinks he is a warlord,” said Nardos, his words echoing Aiden’s thoughts.

After another cheer from the crowd, Tovmas switched to English.

“This night, my western friends,” he said, looking directly at Aiden, “is for you!”

“Fedayeen!” shouted the crowd, “Fedayeen!”

Nardos moved off into the roaring crowd, his face expressionless. Aiden swigged his beer and looked around himself. Some of the joy of the celebrations returned to him as he saw their grins and laughter. He looked back at the platform, but Tovmas was gone. The two drummers, however, were still there with their arms raised. They looked at each other.

Then, in unison, they began to beat the drums. It was a constant, pulsing rhythm that Aiden could feel in his bones. A trio of beautiful women danced into the middle of the square before the drummers. They moved fluidly, with intricate movements of their legs and feet, their arms outstretched and their hands curling. In a distant way, it was like Highland dancing. All they needed was swords and tartan skirts. Aiden smiled at the thought.

All around him, cheers erupted and dancing began. Without even meaning to, Aiden began to dance too. Like everybody else his body writhed and pulsed to the beat, and he let himself be taken over by it. The rhythm became all there was. He let his fears about Tovmas and the memories of the day just slip into darkness, replaced only by the pounding beat of the drums and the warmth of the drink in his stomach.

Then through it all approached a woman, dressed in a cutaway blue gown, her hips rolling and her hands entwined as she danced her way through the jumping crowd. All the way across the square, her eyes never left his. Dark, gleaming eyes. Her lips were perfect, open slightly to reveal the tip of her tongue and white teeth; her dark, glossy hair hung almost to her waist. Aiden was drawn irresistibly to her.

Their hips connected first, grinding and twisting to the beat. Her face was close to his, her arms raised by her head as she danced. Some kind of reed instrument had started to play along with the drums; an eastern, acidic sound that seemed to draw Aiden even closer to the woman before him.

Somehow, the music was both joy and sorrow. It spoke to him of the fights and the flight, the souls rescued and returned; of the watching dead. Aiden felt attached to the people here like none before. He felt he understood suddenly what drove them, why they celebrated, why they mourned. It was wordless, but it was a story as old as Armenia itself, and Aiden had become part of it. Emotion welled in his throat.

His hands found her hips, and hers his neck. Their foreheads touched. She was a little shorter than him, and he could feel her hot breath on his throat. Heat spread to his loins. He wanted her, badly, and he knew she wanted him. Their lips merged and they kissed. She tasted sweet, like berries. He kissed her with the passion of a survivor, and she responded feverishly.

The music became more intense, with the duduk climbing in pitch, screaming its song as the crowd surged and danced. The story was reaching its climax. Aiden’s eyes did not move from the woman he was holding, and they danced faster and more powerfully. He felt her hand on his wrist. She motioned with her eyes away from the square, and Aiden knew her meaning exactly.

He stopped dancing and showed that she should lead on. She stopped then too, and led him by the hand, weaving through the crowd towards one of the streets. Aiden finished his beer and pressed the empty bottle into the open hand of a cheering bystander. Then, just as they were reaching the edge of the party, he spotted Fredrick not far away. Fredrick was dancing with his hands on a woman’s hips, smiling at her with his best, trademark crooked smile.

They rotated slightly, and Aiden balked as he saw Vika’s face smiling back up at Fredrick.

He planted his feet and stopped dead, openly staring at the blond Dane and the achingly beautiful Vika. Jealousy reared its ugly head in Aiden’s chest, and fuelled by the alcohol, he felt his blood boil. The music and the dance were forgotten. At that moment, he hated Fredrick. He hated him with every fibre in his body. He hated him for his looks, he hated his luck, and above all he hated him having his hands on Vika’s body. He was completely, stupidly furious.

He had forgotten about the woman leading him, until she tugged on his hand and looked at him, confused by his sudden stop. Shaking his head and trying his best to smile, and hesitantly followed her once more. They left the crowd, taking a wide street away from the square. Behind them, the drums kept beating and the duduk howled at the night.

“Ay-dan,” said the girl, softly.

Aiden looked at her. She knew his name? They had stopped in the middle of the street. He realised he must have had a face like thunder, so he tried to smile.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

The girl looked at him, puzzled. He realised she had no English.

“Aiden,” he said, pressing his hand to his chest. He then waved to her, indicating that it was her turn. She understood the gesture.

“Sona,” she said, gently taking Aiden’s hand and pressing it to her chest. Aiden’s lust flared again. She led him along the street.

Eventually they reached a small, single-storey stone-built house somewhere in the town, though the route they’d taken was more or less lost on Aiden. He had been preoccupied, his mind filled with hate for Fredrick and terrible burning for Vika. The injustice of it gnawed at him mercilessly.

Sona led him into the house, closing the heavy wooden door behind them. Inside were only three rooms, and the only one he saw was the bedroom. She let go of his hand there and crossed over to light a gas lantern. The room jumped into colour as the lantern shed its warm, hissing glow on it, illuminating an ornate rug, various ornaments and wall hangings. Against the wall to his right was a large bed, draped in quilts and skins, with vivid pillows stacked at its head. The room smelled faintly of incense.

Sona turned to Aiden, walking towards him slowly, untying the toga at her shoulders. It fell away, and Aiden’s eyes widened; his pulse accelerated. The very shape of her was incomprehensibly perfect. Her naked limbs were long and supple, with the definition gained by a life of hard work, and her skin shone golden in the lantern light. She cocked her head slightly to the side, a tiny smile on her lips, as she reached him and began to loosen his belt. He pulled his shirt off, and felt a little pride as her eyes lustfully took in the muscles underneath. As his clothes hit the floor, she pressed herself tightly against him, gripping his back with both hands.

As Aiden felt the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest and her smooth skin under his hands, he forgot Vika. For that night, at least, he belonged to Sona.