Birthright (The Technomage Archive, Book 1)

by B.J. Keeton

  Chapter twenty-Two

  Swinton Marelotov hadn’t thought carrying another person’s supply pack would be that tough. It really hadn’t been at first, but the rocky, always-uphill terrain was having its way with him, and Swinton was getting tired.

  He blamed it all on Harlo’s bag.

  He couldn’t just leave it behind, either. She was the only medic they had, and if those angels hadn’t killed her yet, she would need her supplies to patch up any of them who got injured. From the way the past twenty-four hours or so had been going, there was likely to be quite a bit of patching going on before they were done.

  A screech echoed all around him.

  Swinton dropped to one knee as soon as he heard the sound. He ducked under an outcropping and tossed both bags on the ground at his feet. He peered around, doing his best to remain hidden, but saw nothing.

  A second screech.

  Another wonderful downside to being in the mountains was that everything echoed. If a single rock fell from a cliff, it sounded like an avalanche. Because of the echo and amplification, Swinton assumed there was just one angel screeching, but he couldn’t be sure. He also couldn’t tell where it was. He just knew that it was nearby. The rocky terrain echoed too much for him to locate its source.

  It hadn’t even been an hour since Harlo had been taken, and he was already about to run into another freaking angel. He cowered under the minimal shelter he had found, and re-secured the packs he had to carry. If he waited just a little more, there was a good chance the screecher would go somewhere else and leave him alone.

  Dust trickled down in front of his face from the edge of the overhang. He heard flapping, then a dull thud above him. Something landed on the rock he was using for shelter.

  He heard another shriek.

  Swinton closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He was shaking, and he felt like he needed to vomit. He thought back to his training with Bryt. What was it that Bryt always told him?

  “You have to calm down at some point, Swinton.”

  Calm down, sure. Like he could be calm when he had watched the other four members of his team get kidnapped. Like he could be calm when he was the only one left.

  But he had to be.

  Bryt’s voice filled his mind. “If you’re spastic in a fight, you’re no good to anyone except your enemy. Take a second, calm yourself down, and look at your options. Most of the time, there are more than appear at first glance.”

  Okay, he had stopped shaking. That was good. Not shaking meant calm. Next, options. What options did he have? He had his gun, his nanite sleeve, and his packs of supplies.

  More dust fell in front of him. He heard scraping above him. He figured it was one of the big, purple men shuffling around up there looking for him.

  As another screech sounded, he started shaking again, and had to take a few more breaths to calm himself before it became a problem. It was only going to be a matter of time before the screecher found him. The thing probably already knew he was there, anyway. Why else would it have landed directly on top of him? Swinton understood how low the odds were that it was a coincidence.

  So he had to do something, or he would be taken like the others. But what could he do? Shoot the thing? Burn it with some kind of Conjured fire? Throw medical supplies at it and hope to heal it to death? Nothing stood out as a good idea, but sitting there until it snatched him up was an even worse one.

  More screeching.

  More dust swirled in front of his hidey-hole, and he heard wings flapping. The thing was taking off. Did he really get that lucky?

  No, of course not. The angel’s feet appeared in front of him and descended from the overhang. They were bare and sticking out from beneath a flowing purple robe. They touched down softly, and the being they belonged to knelt down immediately. Its wings were outstretched, and their span was long enough that they fully blocked the purple sun from beaming in on Swinton. Darkness fell around him, and he stared into the angel’s bloodshot eyes. They almost glowed in the low light.

  Swinton swallowed hard, and his assailant’s gaze never left him. Until that moment, Swinton had thought Bryt—small as he was—had the most intimidating stare he had ever seen. He felt like his soul was being examined.

  Neither of them moved for a long moment, then Swinton decided to do something. It might not be the right option, but at least it was an option.

  He pulled his gun’s nose up and fired at the winged man. The gun wasn’t a slug-thrower, either, and if it had been, things might have turned out differently. As it was, however, the pulses of blue energy that shot out of the gun were intercepted before they reached their target. They dissipated as they struck the broadside of the Flameblade the angel brought up to protect itself. Swinton kept firing, even trying to lower the intensity of the pulses mid-barrage to see if the wider, less focused shots would make it partially around the Flameblade’s sponge-like aura.

  No such luck.

  Any shot he fired, the angel’s sword absorbed, its purple aura glowing brighter with each burst it yanked out of the air. The purple man’s face might as well have been stone.

  Well, that isn’t working, Swinton thought. He gulped and tried to remember what Harlo had said to get its attention. He was pretty sure it was just Charon.

  “It’s okay,” Swinton said. “I’m a friend.” Like it would believe that after you just shot at it, Swinton. It has to be smarter than that.

  No response.

  “I’m a Charon.”

  It screeched in response.

  That was it, all right. The angel’s mouth didn’t move to emit the sound, but it very obviously originated with him. There was another word, though. What had the thing said to Harlo before it took her? Swinton briefly wondered if it was smart to go that route. If it took Harlo because she had said that word, would he fare any better?

  Now that the creature wasn’t shielding itself from Swinton’s shots, it turned its Flameblade toward Swinton. It jabbed quickly at him, and he was able to move to one side. The thing slashed at him, and he just barely pushed himself far enough away to avoid being cut. The purple fire surrounding the Flameblade touched him, but he felt nothing. He sat still, and the angel pointed the sword’s tip deliberately at Swinton’s throat.

  This is what I get for shooting at it, Swinton thought. I’m gonna die right here. I’m too dead to be kidnapped.

  Then the word came. He remembered what Harlo had been saying. He licked his lips and started shaking. “Juh-juh,” he started. His mouth felt dryer than it may ever have. He coughed to clear his throat. He clenched his teeth and made himself focus. “Jaronya?” He had intended it as a statement, but it came out as a question.

  The angel’s eyes narrowed and thrust the sword toward Swinton’s neck. He jerked to the side, and felt the metal bite into the flesh just below his left jaw. He put his hand up there to stop himself from bleeding out, but there weren’t torrents of red everywhere. The angel had missed his jugular.

  He didn’t have long to celebrate being alive because the angel pulled the Flameblade back slightly and stabbed directly through his left shoulder. If the wall behind him had been anything but rock, he would likely have been pinned to it. Instead, he heard metal strike the stone behind him as pain radiated from his shoulder and into the rest of his body.

  Being stabbed hurt so badly that Swinton barely even noticed when the sword disappeared. One second it was buried inside his shoulder, and the next it was just gone. It hadn’t pulled out. It had just vanished. The angel’s arm, however, had not. A large, purple hand gripped Swinton’s injured shoulder and pulled him out of his hiding place. He yelped in pain as his attacker’s fingers dug into his wound.

  Swinton found his feet unable to touch the ground. He hovered there for a second before the ground began disappearing beneath him. The angel was kidnapping him, after all.

  Luckily, the angel had adjusted his grip from his stab wound. Swinton was being hauled like he was some sort of sack, wi
th the winged man’s arm wrapped solidly around his midsection. The mountains rushed by beneath him, and he saw for the first time that there was indeed a path through the mountains. At least, by air.

  Walking that path would have been nearly impossible—ridges, crags, and chasms would have been impossible to traverse—but there was a clear, winding valley higher up that reminded Swinton of one of the Skylanes back on Erlon. He had only flown in the Skylanes a couple of times, but the angel’s flight-path was very reminiscent of weaving in and out of traffic between Bester’s skyscrapers. They were gaining altitude, even though the ground remained a consistent distance beneath them. Swinton had no way to gauge how high they were, but it was getting colder, which meant higher altitude.

  Each beat of his kidnapper’s wings caused Swinton’s injured shoulder to throb. The pain was tolerable, but just barely. Luckily, the longer they flew, the less he felt the pain in his arm. The wingbeats hurt less and less, even though they were steady and never slowed. The numbness began at the wound, and worked its way all the way down his arm and into his fingers. They had been in the air for maybe five minutes when he lost all ability to control his arm.

  It had never occurred to Swinton that the loss of sensation and control in his arm would affect his ability to hold onto Harlo’s medical supplies, but when he saw the pack plummet to the ground, he cursed himself.

  Hope we don’t need those any time soon, he thought. A knot formed in his stomach as he watched the medical pack fall. He wished that he had stayed a scholar six years ago. He never would have been in this mess if he hadn’t been mesmerized by Ceril’s damn Flameblade. He never would have been in a situation to be kidnapped in the first place, and thus he never would have dropped the supplies that might have saved someone’s life. If someone died because they didn’t have something in that satchel, it would be on him.

  Swinton paused deriding himself as his captor flew out of the Skylane. This must have been what Ceril had been talking about when he said they needed to find civilization. Ruins stretched out below him—broken buildings, foundations, roofless houses, shattered towers. He could see what had to have been roads once upon a time, but now, they would barely pass for footpaths. Swinton struggled for a better look around, and as he swept his gaze from left to right, he saw that the entire ruined city was encircled by mountains, as if it was in some sort of valley in the middle of the mountain range.

  The angel made a beeline for the only standing and complete building Swinton could see. It was a tower that dwarfed the rest of the ruins. It was, of course, purple, but it was also edged in gold. Its entire surface shimmered in the twin violet suns, their light unobstructed by clouds at this altitude. Many of the roads connected with the tower, like spokes of a giant, broken wheel. Maybe half a dozen of the angels flew around the tower at various altitudes—probably security patrols—and Swinton saw three more standing in front of the tall doors at its base. His captor wheeled himself around the tower and spiraled toward the top, flying formation with the patrols until he landed on a balcony over three-quarters of the way up.

  He dropped Swinton without warning, and the Flameblade once again appeared in the angel’s hand. He pointed the sword’s golden blade at the wall, the purple fire appearing to melt a hole large enough for Swinton to fit through.

  Swinton didn’t move. He just looked at the hole, then back at the winged man standing over him. The angel gestured toward the opening he had made as though he wanted Swinton to hop right through so he could be sealed up inside the tower, but Swinton just stared at him. He wasn’t going in there unless he had to.

  To be fair, he was probably going to have go in there very shortly, but any kind of resistance he could muster was good.

  “Swinton, are you okay?” said a voice from inside the hole. “What happened?”

  Swinton tried to peer inside, but he could see nothing. “Harlo?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” came the reply. “What happened to your arm?”

  “How did you—”

  “Medic.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Swinton said. “This one stabbed me before he flew off with me. I kind of shot at him first, though, so I might have brought it on myself.”

  “Why don’t you come in here and let me take a look at it? Were you able to grab my pack before you got taken?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I did—”

  “Well, throw it through to me, then come in. You’re not going anywhere else. That balcony’s not exactly accessible, you know?”

  Swinton cleared his throat. “Did being the operative word there, Harlo. I…kind of dropped it on the way up here.”

  “Oh,” she said. The one word conveyed a lot of disappointment. “How did you—”

  “I can’t exactly…feel my arm. It went dead a few minutes after he started flying us up here, and that was the arm I had your pack around. I just couldn’t hold on anymore, Harlo. I’m really sorry.”

  “Yeah, me, too, Swinton. The supplies would have been able to help your arm. I’ll just have to see what I can do like this, though. I might be able to work something out with my sleeve.”

  “I hadn’t even thought about that.”

  “Most people wouldn’t. Anyway, come in here. Tall, dark, and purple over there isn’t looking too happy about us chatting like this.”

  Swinton looked up at his kidnapper, who was still pointing his Flameblade toward the wall. He must have been keeping the hole open. He stared at Swinton, his face expressionless. The lack of expression was more intimidating than anger would have been. If Swinton had any indication of how the angel felt about his prisoner, he would have felt better. As it was, he felt he might be served a nice, homemade breakfast once he got inside the tower, or he might be thrown off the balcony. They were equally likely.

  He pushed himself up with his good arm and felt his balance waver. The wind didn’t seem that bad when he was lying down, but once he stood up, Swinton felt the gusts more acutely. He tried to steady himself, but his left arm hanging as dead weight made it harder than it should have been. He put one foot back to brace himself, but he found only air.

  Swinton tumbled over the edge of the balcony, and he heard Harlo yell after him. He was sure that he screamed, too. His descent stopped quickly, but not because he struck the ground. Swinton felt the familiar beat of wings as he rose back to the balcony’s level. His kidnapper was still there keeping the portal to the tower open, so he must have been caught by one of the roving security patrols.

  Maybe it was his lucky day, after all.

  The two angels spoke to one another in a language Swinton couldn’t understand. It was low and rumbling. He felt it more than heard it. He wasn’t even sure their mouths were moving. He just felt the deep bass reverberating in the angel’s chest as it hovered near the platform and discussed something with the other one. When their conversation ended, Swinton found himself being literally tossed inside the tower.

  They had apparently grown tired of his lack of initiative and put him where they wanted him by force. The wall became solid as soon as he passed through. He struck the far side of the room and rolled onto his stomach. He grunted in pain, and Harlo was at his side immediately. She pushed him onto his back and laid his arm out as straight as she could.

  “Are you okay, Swinton? What happened?”

  “I fell.”

  “I noticed. How did you fall?”

  “The wind out there was rough, I couldn’t balance with this arm wobbling around all dead. I don’t know. I just did.”

  “You’re lucky one of those things was there to catch you.”

  He stared at her as she bent closer to examine his shoulder. “I think that’s the only time we’ll ever say that.”

  “Maybe,” she agreed. “Can you feel this?” She poked her finger in the middle of his palm. He shook his head. “This?” She had moved to his wrist. Another shake. She moved up his arm, and each time, he felt nothing. “Okay, one more.” She thrust her finger into the wound itself
.

  He cringed in anticipated pain, but none came. “Not a thing, doc.”

  “This is bad, Swinton.”

  “I didn’t think it was good. By the way, do you have any idea how strange it is to have someone put their hand inside an open wound and it not hurt? It’s kind of freaky.”

  “It is on my end, too. I’m going to do what I can to help you, but I’m not sure what’s wrong.”

  “I’m sorry I dropped your pack.”

  “It’s not your fault. And besides, even if I had my pack, I don’t know if there’s anything in it that could help with this. It isn’t placed right for nerve damage to have caused the numbness, and it hasn’t been long enough for infection to set in that severely, not from a wound like this. Tell me, Swinton, did this wound ever bleed?”

  He thought about it and said, “No. I don’t think it did. My neck did,” he leaned his head over to show her where he had almost had his neck cut out, “but not the shoulder. I don’t think so, anyway.”

  “Okay,” she said. “That makes it tricky. I’m afraid this dead feeling is going to spread to other parts of your body. If it does…”

  “Then do what you have to, doc. Just patch me up, and bill me later.”

  “Bet on it,” Harlo said with a smile. “This may take a little while, so just lie back and relax, okay? I’m going to have to concentrate pretty hard to get my nanite sleeve to figure this out and fix it, so this friendly banter we’ve got going on…”

  Swinton nodded and turned his head to the right. “Just tell me when you’re done, alright, doc? I may try to get a nap in while you’re working.”

  “I’m jealous,” she said. “I need you to do one thing before you do that, though, sleepyhead.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Take off your shirt and jacket.”

  “Harlo, I never knew—”

  “What did I say about banter?” she said.

  “Gotcha,” Swinton said. “I might need a little help, though.” She glared at him. “Seriously.” He nodded toward his arm. “Can’t move the arm, remember?”

  “Mmm hmm.” Together, they pulled off his fatigues. When they got to his undershirt, Harlo said, “Are you sure you didn’t bleed any?”

  “What?” Swinton looked down. “Not that I know of. It’s just the color of the shirt—no blood mixed in.” He paused, then said, “It was my brother’s. He was in the army in Bester. He told me that he wore it whenever he was out on a mission, and he came back every time without a scratch. He said it would keep me safe, too. It’s stupid, but this shirt was his way of telling me that he was proud of me for being picked and making it as a Charon, you know? I—”

  “I get it, Swinton. Now, take your nap, and let me fix you up. I don’t want to be the one to make your brother a liar.” Then she plunged her fingers knuckle-deep into his shoulder.