Skyborn

by David Dalglish

  “Very well,” Argus said, and he bowed low in respect to them all. “It’s time we fly, and we fly unchained.”

  We fly unchained, cried the rest.

  Like a stirred nest of hornets, the Seraphim flew from the barn, keeping low to the ground so as to not alert distant knights of their presence. If they were spotted on the way, and their surprise ruined, then the entire assault would be over before it began. Bree flew a few yards to the left of Olivia, treating her like a squad leader even if she wasn’t. The land whirled beneath them, just a blur of grass and hills. Argus led the way, and he kept the group dangerously close to the ground, so that they had to rise and fall with every hill. After a few minutes, Bree realized he was guiding them on an indirect route, avoiding any villages between them and Melisand.

  Bree felt her stomach slowly cramping with each passing minute. It was like her first battle all over again, and no matter how much she berated herself, she couldn’t remove the growing worry.

  This is where you belong, she told herself. You’ll remember that when it starts.

  It’d been the same with the other two engagements. When combat began, a change came over her. The world seemed to slow, and all her tension, all her nerves, eased away. Worrying was impossible with her mind singly focused on the now, reacting on instinct, a primal killing dance in which she excelled. Pulse pounding in her neck, Bree stared ahead, hands bumping against the hilts of her swords, seeking reassurance from their presence.

  Hills became fields of farmland. They flew so close above the rows of corn Bree could brush the top of the stalks with her fingertips if she wished. Argus kept the entire pack moving at a blistering pace, her throttle pushed nearly to full. Up ahead, a cluster of small squares marked an approaching town. Bree didn’t know Weshern well enough to recognize it on sight, but given how they streaked toward it instead of veering told her they’d arrived at their destination.

  Hit hard, and slaughter them while they’re unaware, Argus had commanded, and all around Bree the Seraphs activated their gauntlets, eager to do just that. Bree kept her eyes peeled, searching for their target in the glow of the midnight fire. At such speed, they’d have little time before…

  And there it was, a circle of three wagons at the outskirts of town. Instead of slowing, Argus’s wings shimmered with silver light, bursting him ahead. Bree pushed her throttle to its maximum, and she wished she had greater control of her fire so she could attack at range with her element. At such a speed, she could only watch as they made their first pass over the theotechs’ camp.

  Ice and stone led the way, blasting through the wagons and smashing craters into the ground as if the wrath of God had unleashed upon the hapless camp. Bree saw no knights, just a dozen or so men in armor standing in a circle about the wagons. They lifted their enormous shields, the overwhelming volley smashing against them and beating them down. Fire followed, wide swaths encircling the camp and setting every wagon aflame. There would be no fleeing, not without enduring the inferno. Those with lightning picked their targets more carefully. Bree saw two soldiers die on their way for their weapons, arcs of lightning tearing through them so that their bodies collapsed unmoving.

  That had to have gotten them all, Bree thought as their Seraphim broke into two groups, one veering left, the other right, both looping around for another pass. This approach was slower, with more care to aim, and Bree quickly saw how wrong she’d been. The rest of the troops had awakened, joining those who’d first been on guard. Not near as many had fallen against the barrage as she’d expected, and they lifted dented and scratched shields while bracing with both their legs. Others beside them lifted bows, and Bree jerked to the right as she saw one aiming her way. The arrow sailed wide, and then a ball of flame crashed down between the two, the protector’s armor and shield mattering not. Bree pulled higher, seeing no reason to risk her life if she wasn’t ready to engage in the melee. She climbed above the others, watching them strafe the camp, a barrage of ice from Argus smashing the lone remaining wagon into pieces. Bree winced, hoping the elements they sought could withstand the punishment.

  Rotating in air, Bree spotted a hint of gold to the west, the glint locking her body in place. There, between the camp and the town…

  A barrage of ice and fire unleashed toward them as two knights suddenly burst into the air, their golden armor gleaming in the night.

  Their camp was separate from the others, Bree realized as she angled toward them, eager to engage. Against ground forces she was of limited use. But here in the air?

  In the air, she could dance.

  Two Seraphs died, caught unaware by the ambush, one knifed through the stomach by a lance of ice, the other bathed in fire from the waist up. He flew wildly afterward, blind and burned, until crashing into one of Melisand’s homes with enough force to crack the stone of its walls. Bree tried to pretend she didn’t see and was glad she could not hear the sound of impact over the roar of battle and wind in her ears. The rest of her group turned about to engage, but they’d had their backs to the two knights, preparing for a third assault. Only Bree had seen them coming, so she would reach them first.

  Swords drawn, she smiled and pushed the throttle to its maximum.

  Thin balls of fire flew like comets toward her, and Bree twisted her body with her waist and shoulders, twirling through without slowing in the slightest. They passed so close she felt their heat on her skin. How well the knight tracked her path cracked her veneer of confidence. Veering hard right, she swerved through the air, avoiding a thick lance of ice that had meant to cut straight through the center of her path. Bree veered immediately back, twirling once as two more comets burned below her, and then she was close enough to strike.

  The knight wielding the ice arced away, as if daring her to chase, but instead she closed in on the one still flinging fire. He’d hovered in place, left hand holding his right wrist to brace his aim. Bree saw his palm spreading open with fingers stretched, knew what he intended, and banked at the last second. A wide spray of fire shot toward her, covering a great space of air as it rolled outward, but she just barely skirted its edge. Bree hooked toward him, left hand shooting out to cut. She almost bathed it in flame. Almost.

  The sword cut against his chest, but unlike in her other battles, it did not slice through like cloth. Instead she felt a hard jolt, followed by intense pain in her shoulder. She was moving too fast, the sword unable to cut cleanly through to prevent the hard jerk to her momentum. Unable to keep hold, she released her sword. It flew wildly, pulling out a long stretch of the cord that kept it attached to her gauntlet. Screaming against the pain, Bree turned away and climbed, sword trailing after her like a useless appendage. She caught the other knight turning for her, but then the rest of the Weshern Seraphim arrived, preceded by a blistering barrage of ice arrows launched from Argus’s gauntlet. The knight dodged the first few, but the awkward movements stole some of his speed. Avoiding a burst of flame pushed him higher, right into a blast of lightning that ripped through his chest.

  Bree lessened the throttle as she spun to find the knight she’d cut. It must have gone in deep, for she saw him drifting east, body limp. Bled out, by her guess. Argus launched a single shard of ice, which caved in his skull, then flew over to the body. He grabbed the left gauntlet, shut off the harness, and let the body fall. The Weshern Seraphim looped up and around, converging on the desolation that had been the theotechs’ camp. Bree hovered for a moment, gently pulling on the cord attached to her sword to get the gears inside the gauntlet to start reeling it in. Once it was in her grasp, she sheathed it, then lowered to the ground.

  “Get the elements loaded up and out of here,” Argus shouted. “There’s not a chance in Hell the theotechs and knights in town didn’t hear that ruckus.”

  Bree touched down, and she held her aching left arm against her side. Feeling strangely detached, she stared at the charred corpses of Center’s soldiers, faces still locked in agony upon death. Most were burned, though a good m
any had been crushed by ice and stone as well. The ones struck by lightning seemed the most peaceful, their hearts burst inside their chests before they realized they’d been struck. Fire roared in scattered patches all around, the sound of its crackling an accompaniment to the humming of their wings. Bree stared at the corpse of a man lying on his back beside her, a jagged lance of ice protruding from his neck. His bloodstained tabard bore the symbol of Center, a clear circle intersecting five other circles, each bearing the symbol of the respective island’s colors. All but Galen, which had been filled in solid black. The sight chilled her, threatening to remove the last of the comfortable numbness that had blanketed her mind since the start of battle.

  “Bree?”

  She turned to see Argus staring at her.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s… it’s nothing.”

  He didn’t look convinced, but he let her be, instead supervising the Seraphs shoving aside pieces of the blasted wagons. Inside were ornate chests, stained wood, and with gold decorations. Carrying those would be impossible, but thankfully they didn’t need to. Bree glanced about as they opened up the chests and started pulling out elements wrapped in soft velvet cloth, stuffing them into pouches and bags. She saw only a single dead Seraph of their own, the man lying crashed into the center of the camp, neck twisted at an awkward angle, an arrow sticking out from his forehead.

  Feeling like a scavenger, Bree walked to his side, lifted his right arm, and popped open the elemental compartment of his gauntlet. Inside was an ice element, and she pocketed it to hand in later. Eyes sweeping across the devastation their elements had unleashed, she wondered how much they’d expended to recover what the wagons carried.

  I hope it’s enough to make up for what we’ve used, she thought. Part of her thought Argus wouldn’t care even if it didn’t. He wanted to strike a blow against Center. He wanted to let every citizen of Weshern know resistance wasn’t a hopeless endeavor.

  “Knights coming in,” a Seraph shouted, turning Bree’s attention their way. Sure enough, the gold shimmer of wings rose above the buildings, three in total.

  “Everyone, protect the elements,” Argus shouted in response. “Form up, and hit them hard. We need to buy ourselves time!”

  Wings thrumming with silver light, Bree led the way, swords drawn as the Weshern Seraphim flew to engage. With three dead and seven staying back to loot the chests, twenty were left to face against the three knights. It should have been overwhelming numbers. It should have been an easy victory.

  Then fire and lightning crashed through their formation as three more knights ambushed from high above, lurking so far they were but minuscule dots. Their attacks hit simultaneously with the three at the front, engulfing the battlefield in chaos. Seraphim dropped, bodies burned and scarred, their easy victory now a desperate battle for survival.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  SKYBORN,

  look out for

  THE CITY STAINED RED

  Bring Down Heaven: Book 1

  by Sam Sykes

  STEP UP TO THE GATES

  After years in the wilds, Lenk and his companions have come to the city that serves as the world’s beating heart.

  The great charnel house where men die surer than in any wilderness.

  They’ve come to claim payment for creatures slain, blood spilled at the behest of a powerful holy man.

  And Lenk has come to lay down his sword for good.

  But this is no place to escape demons.

  Prologue

  Cier’Djaal

  Some crappy little boat

  First day of Yonder

  You can’t lie to a sword.

  It’s a trait you don’t often think of between its more practical applications, but part of the appeal of a blade is that it keeps you honest. No matter how much of a hero you might think you are for picking it up, no matter how many evildoers you claim to have smitten with it, it’s hard to pretend that steel you carry is good for much else besides killing.

  Conversely, a sword can’t lie to you.

  If you can’t use it, it’ll tell you. If you don’t want to use it, it’ll decide whether you should. And if you look at it, earnestly, and ask if there’s no other way besides killing, it’ll look right back at you and say, earnestly, that it can’t quite think of any.

  Every day I wake up, I look in the corner of my squalid little cabin. I stare at my sword. My sword stares back at me. And I tell it the same thing I’ve told it every day for months.

  “Soon, we reach Cier’Djaal. Soon, we reach a place where there are ways to make coin without killing. Soon, I’m getting off this ship and I’m leaving you far behind.”

  The sword just laughs.

  Granted, this probably sounds a trifle insane, but I’m writing in ink so I can’t go back and make it less crazy. But if you’re reading this, you’re probably anticipating the occasional lapse in sanity.

  And if you aren’t yet, I highly recommend you start. It’ll help.

  I’ve killed a lot of things.

  I say “things,” because “people” isn’t a broad enough category and “stuff” would lead you to believe I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it.

  The list thus far: men, women, demons, monsters, giant serpents, giant vermin, regular vermin, regular giants, cattle, lizards, fish, lizardmen, fishmen, frogmen, Cragsmen, and a goat.

  Regular goat, mind; not a poisonous magic goat or anything. But he was kind of an asshole.

  When I started killing, it seemed like I had good reasons. Survival, I guess. Money, too. But the more I did it, the better I got. And the better I got, the less reason I needed until killing was just something I did.

  Easy as shaking a man’s hand.

  And when it’s as easy as shaking a man’s hand, you stop seeing open hands. All you see, then, is an empty spot where a sword should be. And will be, if you don’t grab yours first.

  I’m tired of it.

  I don’t live in lamentation of my past deeds. I did what I had to, even if I could have thought of something better. I don’t hear voices and I don’t have nightmares.

  Not anymore, anyway.

  I guess I’m just tired. Tired of seeing swords instead of hands, tired of looking for chairs against the wall whenever I go into a room, tired of knowing lists instead of people, tired of talking to my sword.

  And I’m going to stop. And even if I can’t, I have to try.

  So I’m going to. Try, that is.

  Just as soon as I get my money.

  I suppose there’s irony in trading blood for gold. Or hypocrisy.

  I don’t care and I sincerely doubt my employer does, either. Or maybe he does—holy men are odd that way—but he’ll pay, anyway. Blood is gold and I’ve spilled a lot of the former for a considerable sum of the latter.

  Ordinarily, you wouldn’t think a priest of Talanas, the Healer, to appreciate that much blood. But Miron Evenhands, Lord Emissary and Member in Good Standing of the House of the Vanquishing Trinity, is no ordinary priest. As the former title implies, he’s a man with access to a lot of wealth. And as the latter title is just cryptic enough to suggest, he’s got a fair number of demons, cultists, and occult oddities to be eradicated.

  And eradicate I have, with gusto.

  And he has yet to pay. “Temporary barriers to the financial flow,” he tells me. “Patience, adventurer, patience,” he says. And patient I was. Patient enough to follow him across the sea for months until we came here.

  Cier’Djaal, the City of Silk. This is the great charnel house where poor men eat dead rich men and become wealthy themselves. This is the city where fortunes are born, alive and screaming. This is the city that controls the silk, the city that controls the coin, the city that controls the world.

  This is civilization.

  This is what I want now.

  My companions, too.

  Or so I’d like to think.

  It’s not as though anyone chooses to be a
n adventurer, killing people for little coin and even less respect. We all took up the title, and each other’s company, with the intent of leaving it behind someday. Cier’Djaal is as good as any a place to do so, I figure.

  Though their opinions on our arrival have been… varied.

  That Gariath should be against our entrance into any place where he might be required to wear a shirt, let alone a place crawling with humans, is no surprise.

  Far more surprising are Denaos’s objections—the man who breathes liquor and uses whores for pillows, I would have thought, would feel right at home among the thieves and scum of civilized society.

  Asper and Dreadaeleon, happy to be anywhere that has a temple or a wizard tower, were generally in favor of it. Asper for the opportunity to be among civilized holy men, Dreadaeleon for the opportunity to be away from uncivilized laymen, both for the opportunity to be in a place with toilets.

  When I told Kataria, she just sort of stared.

  Like she always does.

  Which made my decision as to what to do next fairly easy. This will be the last of our time spent together. Once I’ve got my money, once I can leave my sword behind, I intend to leave them with it.

  Their opinions on this have been quiet.

  Possibly because I haven’t told them yet.

  Probably because I won’t until I’m far enough away that I can’t hear my sword laughing at me anymore.

  BY DAVID DALGLISH

  Seraphim

  Skyborn

  Fireborn

  Shadowborn

  Shadowdance

  A Dance of Cloaks

  A Dance of Blades

  A Dance of Mirrors

  A Dance of Shadows

  A Dance of Ghosts

  A Dance of Chaos

  Cloak and Spider (e-only novella)

  Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Orbit.