Birthright (The Technomage Archive, Book 1) - Complete Novel

Chapter Twenty-Six

Headmaster Gilbert Squalt's calm composure broke the second his professor's flayed skull landed in his lap. He stood up to get away from it, and Nary Thralls' skull fell to the floor. Damien could see that he was sick and frightened, but somehow, the headmaster had the presence of mind to pick the skull off the ground and place it gently on his desk.

He looked at his hands, coated in someone else's blood, and gingerly opened a drawer to his desk with one finger and took out a handkerchief. He wiped his hands clean, and when that handkerchief was saturated, he took another out of his desk and wiped at the puddles of blood on the surface of his desk. After that, he turned his attention back toward Damien.

"What is wrong with you, Damien?" Squalt asked. His voice was forceful, stern, but cracked mid-sentence. Damien noticed and smirked.

"I said I wanted to know who broke into my house and stole my book." Damien's face was stone and his voice was equally even. He had dealt with people like Squalt before: those who hide behind assumed power, but truly have none. With Nary Thralls' death, Damien had raised the stakes and both men knew it. The time for barely-concealed hostility within friendly banter was over.

"I told you that I don't know anything, Damien. I meant it."

"And I know that you're lying to me," Damien said, walking toward Squalt's desk. "I know that you know who took it. You know who came into my home and made me break my vow."

"Made you? How did they make you reactivate the nanites in your bloodstream? By threatening your life?"

"Oh, no, Gilbert. They never threatened me. In fact, they never saw me." Damien leaned into Squalt's crescent-shaped desk, resting his weight on his knuckles. "I heard them. They were speaking our language."

"Well, that's not terribly difficult, Damien. We are speaking our language right now. That's how we can understand each other. Do you see how that works?"

Damien Vennar stared at Gilbert Squalt. His eyes darted to Nary Thralls's skull, its lifeless eye sockets staring into the distance. He could do the same thing to the headmaster, and it took everything Damien had not to. But he needed answers and a rash action—no matter how good it would make him feel or how much Squalt deserved it—would get him nowhere.

"You know what I mean," Damien said, relaxing and standing straight.

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Our language, Gilbert. Ours. The one that, if you recall, went out of fashion more than a couple thousand years ago?"

"And their talking frightened you into breaking a centuries-long vow to leave the order, Damien? Are you that much of a coward? Just what did they say?"

He said, "They mentioned the Untouchable, Gilbert," as though that would be explanation enough.

"Then they're terrorists."

"What?"

"Have you lived in a cave for years?" Squalt asked. Without hesitating, he continued, "Oh, right. You have."

Damien just stared at him.

"Really? You haven't heard about this Untouchable mess?"

"I guess not."

"Damien, you really are out of touch with the world around you." The headmaster sat down and leaned back in his chair. He was relaxing again. "Five or six years ago, something happened. People across Erlon were beginning to be attacked at random."

"I vaguely recall hearing something about that."

"Mmm hmmm," the headmaster said and continued. "They killed people, Damien. Mostly women and children, but men, too, if they were nearby. They used Flameblades to do it." He paused to give Damien a chance to react. He did not. "They used the name Untouchable, which meant very little to the general public. But the combination of that name and their choice of weaponry made them quite interesting to the order. Their attacks became more frequent in the past few years, escalating from attacks on small groups of people to large-scale destruction of scientific research facilities and religious organizations. They have attacked sites in every city-state from Yagh to Bester."