Starfinder: A Novel of the Skylords (35 page)

“No,” said Fiona, shaking her head. “Not my grandfather.” Again she couldn’t look at him. “He didn’t talk about this in the meeting, but he’s got a plan, Moth. If we can’t beat the Skylords on our own, he’s gonna blow up the
Avatar
.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Moth. “That’s what they were talking about when I left.”

“Just when I thought I had a family again!” Fiona raised her face to the moon. “Now he’s gonna kill himself.”

Moth wasn’t sure how to comfort her. “An explosion that big . . . it might destroy the Starfinder too. That’s what he said, Fiona. He doesn’t want the Skylords to get it.”

“Crazy! Everyone on the
Avatar
will be dead!”

“He’s doing it to save everyone, Fiona. To save
you
.”

“I don’t want him to!” cried Fiona. “I want him to be alive!”

She thrust down her pen and let the paper tumble from her lap. Moth picked up the letter she’d been writing and read the first few lines.

“What’s this?”

Fiona snatched it back. “I told you, it’s a letter.”

“To whom?”

“To my family.”

“Uhm, you don’t have a family, Fiona.”

Fiona looked exasperated. “Just pretend then, okay? Jorian said we’re soldiers now. It’s what soldiers do before battle; they write to their families.”

Moth didn’t understand, but didn’t want to embarrass her either. “Who will you send it to when you’re done?”

“No one,” said Fiona. She picked up her pen again. “Maybe someone will find it someday after this is all over.”

“You mean when you’re dead?”

“Yeah,” said Fiona. “When we’re both dead.”

Suddenly, Moth remembered something Rendor had told him. “You have no faith, Fiona,” he said. “You don’t believe in anything, and if you don’t believe, we’ve got no chance at all.”

“That’s right, Moth, we have no chance,” Fiona snorted. “You were at the meeting. Weren’t you listening? The Skylords are coming, and all we have is a broken down ship to try and stop them.”

“Really?” snapped Moth. “What about Jorian? What about Skyhigh and Alis, even? You don’t have faith in any of them!”

Fiona sighed as if talking to a child. “Moth, we’re going to die here, just like Merceron. That’s why I have to write this letter, to tell people so they know what happened to us.”

“Oh,” said Moth scornfully. “You think that’s what your family would want to hear? That you’re scared? That you’re about to die? That’s
not
what soldiers write in their letters, Fiona. I know, because Leroux told me stories about them.”

“Leroux told a lot of stories.”

Moth took the pen from Fiona. “This is a story about an Eldrin Knight at the battle of Rhoon Falls.”

“Everyone died at Rhoon Falls.”

“Right,” said Moth, “but there was this one Eldrin Knight that wrote a letter to his mother right before the battle. He told her not to worry, because they had so many men and weapons that their enemies would be crazy to attack them. He told her about the good friends he had in the company, and how he was safe. His mother got the letter a whole day before she found out he’d been killed.”

Fiona went blank. “So?”

“Don’t you see? His mother had a whole day of happiness. It was like a gift!”

“Moth, he
died
.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t tell his mother that! He could have written her a letter saying how scared he was, but he didn’t. He didn’t want her to worry. That’s the kind of letter soldiers really write home, Fiona. If you weren’t just pretending—if you really had a family to write to—that’s the kind of letter you’d write, I bet.” Moth handed Fiona back her pen. “I have to get back now,” he said. “Don’t stay here too long, okay?”

 

When Moth was finally out of sight, Fiona took her letter and tore it into tiny bits, showering the ground with them. Then, on a second piece of paper, she began again. She wrote for nearly an hour, pausing when her hand cramped, telling her mother and father not to be afraid for her. She wasn’t alone, she told them, because she had friends to help her fight. She had a magical centaur named Jorian who could shoot an arrow clear to heaven, and a boy named Moth who wasn’t afraid of anything.

Grandfather’s here too
, she wrote.
He told me he misses you, Mom. I know he won’t let anything happen to me.

When Fiona was finished, she folded the letter neatly one time and placed it under a rock near the tree for anyone to find. Then she stood up, brushed the dirt and grass from her backside, and headed for the village.

THE TWO-HUNDRED-FOOT OGILORN guarding Mount Oronor blinked its fifty eyes when it spotted Artaios’ chariot. Engulfed in the mists crowning the mountain, the monster floated like a massive pink orb before the fortress, its barbed tentacles twisting in the cold air. Six keepers tended the beast—five Redeemers and a single, youthful Skylord. On the far side of Mount Oronor, Artaios could see another ogilorn on guard, it too surrounded by tenders. Culled from the darkest corner of the known world, the ogilorns had come at the order of Artaios himself, joining his thousand-strong army.

Artaios slowly guided his chariot past the massive ogilorn, disturbed by the way its many eyes tracked him through the sky. Ogilorns were violent, unpredictable beasts, known mostly for the way they hunted breeching whales with their blood-sucking tentacles. Artaios’ father had used ogilorns, too. Artaios could still remember seeing one peel the skin from a dead dragon.

He arced his fiery chariot wide around the beast, toward its young, flying keeper. The Skylord pointed toward the fortress.

“Great Artaios,” he greeted, shouting above the wind. “Rakuiss awaits you!”

Below, the ancient fortress was a hive of activity, with Skylords and Redeemers moving through the avenues, training with weapons and corralling the hordes of cloud horses. Fires belched smoke into the air and tiny, sparkling fairies darted through the foul air. The coming battle had brought the long-dead fortress back to life.

Over his shoulder, Artaios spotted Pandera, defiant behind its wall of mountains. Jorian’s own army was on the march. Redeemer spies had been keeping watch over the valley. Rendor and his airship remained in Pandera, and the Starfinder with him. Artaios cast a cool glance toward the valley as his chariot descended. Despite his hopes, Moth was still in Pandera, too.

The chariot settled into a clearing near the main keep. Towers jutted up like teeth from the mountain, spiked with ragged stones. Skylords fluttered around the chariot instantly, each one greeting Artaios. Then, out of the mist another figure approached, his sandaled feet crunching the pebbly ground. He paused near the chariot, crossing an arm over his bent knee as he bowed.

“Magnificence,” he greeted. “We are ready.”

They were the only words Artaios wanted to hear. He let the reins drop from his hands, and with a flutter of wings vaulted from the chariot to land before his subject, stooping to put a hand on his shoulder.

“Rise, old friend,” said Artaios. “Your lord is pleased.” Rakuiss rose, his left eye covered with an eye patch, his right wing bent awkwardly against his back. A veteran of the dragon wars, he was nearly as old as Korace himself, but had managed to stave off time’s ravages. His experience and loyalty made him the perfect choice to lead Artaios’ army.

“How fares your father?” asked Rakuiss. It was the same question the old warrior always posed, always with genuine concern. If Korace had ever truly had a friend, Rakuiss was it.

“Not well,” confessed Artaios. “There aren’t many days left for him, my friend. This matter of the Starfinder . . .” Artaios sighed. “It breaks his heart to see the realm at war again.”

Rakuiss’ good eye twitched. “To be so troubled, after all he has done. We will make Jorian and his abominations pay for this, Artaios. The humans too.”

Artaios sagged, offering only a nod.

“What saddens you, Magnificence?” asked Rakuiss. “I promise you, the centaurs have no chance at all. Soon you’ll have the Starfinder, I swear it.”

Artaios smiled. His troubles had nothing to do with the Starfinder. “Everything you’ve done here pleases me, Rakuiss.”

“What then? You are distressed, my friend, I can tell.”

“No,” Artaios lied. “Just anxious to have this over.”

“Tell me to and I will end it,” said Rakuiss. “All we await is your order.”

Suddenly it seemed like all the Skylords and Redeemers stopped what they were doing. Artaios glanced around, impressed by the fortress, sure that Rendor and the Starfinder couldn’t escape. Oddly, the notion saddened him.

“Soon,” he told Rakuiss. “Now, though, let me go and speak with Ivokor.”

 

Artaios picked his way through the giant, filthy cavern, his eyes tearing as he approached Ivokor’s workshop. The sound of hammers and chains rattled his skull as he passed bare-chested gargoyles sweating over anvils and urns of liquid metal. Tiny, soot-covered fairies darted through the sulfurous air, their tattered wings barely able to sustain them. Through the haze of smoke Artaios spotted Ivokor across the foundry, hunched over his giant workbench. Pincers and clamps hung from pegs driven into the rock wall. Flecks of metal covered his hairy arms and sparkled in his mane. Dirty-faced fairies fluttered around him, handing off tiny tools. Ivokor growled as he ordered them about, barely missing them with swipes of his meaty paw.

“Ivokor,” bellowed Artaios. As he approached, he kept his wings tucked carefully against his back, afraid to brush or damage them against anything. Ivokor raised his feline head in surprise, letting a jeweler’s loupe drop from his eye.

“Artaios,” he said, wiping his grimy paws against his heavy apron. “Why didn’t anyone tell me you were here?” he griped, batting at the fairies.

“You’re getting old, Ivokor,” said Artaios. “You should have been able to smell me.”

“Who can smell anything down here?” Ivokor tossed aside his tiny hammer and waved Artaios closer. “Come. It is done.”

The fairies scattered as Artaios approached. Ivokor stooped and pulled a large metal chest from beneath his workbench, squatting down beside it, his tail swaying excitedly. Ivokor had the head of a lion and the strength of one too. His golden arms bulged with muscles, the same arms that had hammered out Artaios’ magic sword.

“I finished it just last night,” he said proudly. He waited until Artaios was hovering over the chest. “This time, I know I got it right.”

“Open it,” said Artaios impatiently.

A flick of Ivokor’s fingernail snapped the latch. Slowly, he opened the lid, revealing its dazzling contents. Artaios drew back, his eyes stabbed by escaping light. A golden glow poured from the chest, bathing Ivokor’s feline face.

“Seven souls,” he said, his voice crackling with pride. “Seven lives, just for you.”

Artaios beheld the golden armor, his fingers reaching for it through the shimmering. The breastplate pulsed with life. He could feel its soft heat, like breath against his hand. As his fingers touched the enchanted metal, the seven souls encased within it called out to him, singing in his mind.

“I feel them,” he whispered. He closed his eyes as he listened to the ghostly chorus. “So strong . . .”

“They will protect you, Artaios,” said Ivokor. “Seven times. That’s all. Seven shots from Jorian’s bow is all you can withstand.”

Artaios held the breastplate up to his face, studying himself in its polished surface. The metal swirled with golden hues, the very essence of the sacrificed Redeemers. They were loyal, he realized, and none of them had been forced to give their lives for him. They had done so willingly.

Loyal
, thought Artaios.
Not like Alisaundra.

“Seven souls,” he said softly. “Seven shots.”

“That’s right, and not a single one more,” said Ivokor. “Let the others do the fighting for you, Artaios. Stay as far away from Jorian as you can.”

“What?” Artaios glared at Ivokor. “Perhaps I should just go home to the palace. Would that be cowardly enough for you?”

“I’m serious,” grumbled the smith. “Seven shots is all this armor can take. On the eighth you’ll be dead.”

Artaios gently placed the breastplate back into the chest. “You forget who you’re speaking to, Ivokor. Jorian will be the one lying dead, long before he fires seven arrows.” He closed the lid of the chest with a sigh.

“Artaios?” probed Ivokor. His cat-eyes narrowed. “You’re not happy?”

“Yes, yes, I’m happy, Ivokor,” Artaios snapped. “I’m thrilled beyond words. I’m so happy I could dance!”

“My lord . . .”

“No, enough.” Artaios stopped himself, feeling foolish. “The armor is fine. Better than fine. It’s just . . .” He hesitated. “The humans, Ivokor.”

Ivokor looked puzzled. “What about them?”

“I’m to kill them. All of them.” The confession made Artaios wilt. “It’s my father’s will.”

“I’m confused,” said Ivokor. He leaned against his grimy workbench. “Isn’t that why we’re all here? To kill the humans, get back the Starfinder?”

“There are children, Ivokor.” Artaios toyed with a box of rivets on the bench, twirling his finger through them. “One of them . . .”

Again he paused. Why was he so bothered about Moth?

“What?” pressed Ivokor. “One of them what?”

“Never mind.” Artaios mustered a smile. “Thank you, Ivokor. You’ve done a magnificent job.”

Ivokor regarded him strangely. “Just remember what I told you, all right? Seven shots.”

“I can count,” said Artaios crossly. “Have the armor brought up to my tower.” He shook out his wings, disgusted by the sooty air. “I have to go. This place sickens me.”

LIKE A FAINT, SHIMMERING STAR, Moth could see Mount Oronor from his place in the grass, aglow with fire. Next to him sat Fiona, cross-legged on the ground, and next to her sat her grandfather. Behind Rendor sat the entire crew of the
Avatar
, surrounded by the centaurs of Pandera, every one of them entranced by the image of Jorian framed against the night. The moon was high over Jorian’s head, bathing his painted face and braided hair. Across his naked chest was strung his magic bow, throbbing with preternatural light. Mount Oronor loomed ominously over his shoulder, but Jorian was unafraid. In his hand he held a pot of crimson pigment.