Starfinder: A Novel of the Skylords (39 page)

“Where’s Artaios?” raged Jorian, searching the sky for him. He had launched five bolts against Artaios, all of them magically on target. Yet somehow the Skylord prince had persisted, flying on when even a single shot should have felled him. Fiona hugged her arms around Jorian. Unafraid for herself, she wanted only to save him.

“Jorian, go,” she pleaded. “Go back to Nessa. I’ll stay!”

Jorian glanced at her over his shoulder. “A centaur never runs, Little Queen. Remember what I told you? If they want you, they come through me!”

Fiona wanted to tell him it was hopeless; that he couldn’t win no matter what. But she couldn’t, and she didn’t apologize either. She looked up in the sky, saw the swirling hordes, and cast aside her bow. Forget arrows. What she really needed was a big stick to bash some Skylord brains.

“Let me down!” she ordered Jorian. “I want to fight!”

“Don’t you move!” Jorian thundered.

“Down! Let me—”

Fiona didn’t see the Redeemer until too late. Like a battering ram it came at them, slamming into Jorian and spilling Fiona to the ground. She landed hard, knocking the breath out of her lungs and rattling her skull. She clawed to her knees just as a trio of Redeemers fell upon Jorian. Kyros and Tyrin galloped toward him. More of the creatures descended to stop them.

Fiona didn’t cry or scream. She dug a rock out of the ground with her fingernails, gripped it like a hammer, and raced toward the Redeemers. She had almost reached them when another figure swooped down on her. Ivory arms swept around her waist. Suddenly she was flying, pulled aloft by snow white wings.

Fiona hefted her rock. Twisting, she saw the Skylord’s beautiful face, then realized the creature was smiling. Long, golden hair fanned out over her naked shoulders. She bore no weapons, wearing only an ill-fitting wrap of fabric. Fiona looked into the Skylord’s mysterious eyes and knew her.

“Esme!”

Lady Esme carried Fiona away rapidly. But she hadn’t come alone. Behind her came three enormous dragons, spitting flames and winging easily through the Skylords and their minions. Down below, a giant, feathered female dragon dropped to the battlefield. She reared her muscled neck, let out a furious roar, then cut a burning swath through the Redeemers.

Jorian and his centaurs broke from their attackers. The centaur Chieftain stared up at the dragon. For the very first time, Fiona saw an expression she’d never seen him wear before.

Awe.

 

Up in the
Avatar
, Rendor cluched the Starfinder, ready to order the explosion. He had taken the artifact out of its lockbox, cradling it in his lap as he calmly counted the seconds, waiting for the ship’s envelope to swell with just enough hidrenium to make the stuff unstable. Around him his crew continued the fight, each man picking up a rifle and firing hopelessly at the ogilorn, its oozing flesh still bulging into the bridge.

Rendor didn’t pray or feel afraid. He was ready to die. All he really wanted was a big enough explosion to blow the Starfinder to bits. Beside him stood Donnar, pistol in hand. Instead of aiming his weapon at the ogilorn, Donnar trained it on the roof. One bullet there, and the envelope would blow. One bullet, and the
Avatar
would die.

Rendor heard the hissing stop. He could feel the pressure of the airship around him, filled to bursting now with hidrenium. Donnar closed his eyes.

“Wait!” screamed Gann.

The
Avatar
lurched starboard. Outside, something roared. Gann pointed toward the opening in the bridge. There, the sliver of sunlight started to grow. Rendor leaped up and grabbed Donnar’s arm, pulling down the pistol before he could fire. He didn’t know how or why, but the ogilorn was letting go.

“Vent the envelope!” Rendor screamed.

Bottling stumbled back toward his console, madly pulling levers as he reached it.

“Stop firing!” Donnar shouted. He hurried toward a speaking tube and screamed the order to the rest of the crew. “Hold fire! Hold! Hold!”

Rendor inched toward the opening in the bridge as the
Avatar
righted herself. The ogilorn’s tentacles were dropping away. He peered past the wounded monster, straining to see. A red blast of flames burst against the ogilorn, slicing through it like a sword.

“Donnar, bring us about!” Rendor cried. “Bottling, vent to nominal!” He clutched the Starfinder, raising it up like a trophy as he watched the dragons streak across the sky. “Stringfellow, get us back in the hunt.”

In the dark, bleary world of his mind, Moth barely heard his name.

He recognized the voice. Moth forced open his eyes. In front of him sat Skyhigh, still strapped inside the dragonfly. But they weren’t moving. Slowly, Moth remembered what had happened.

“Moth, answer me . . .”

Skyhigh’s voice was breathless, shaky from the crash. Moth glanced through the shattered cockpit. Covered in earth, the dragonfly had ditched in the grass. The engine had stopped. Moth could hear his heartbeat pounding in his skull and the distant sounds of battle. He checked himself, flexing his fingers, counting them.

“I’m okay,” he answered.

For a long time Skyhigh didn’t move. He breathed out hard, then ran a hand over his forehead.

“Skyhigh?”

“I’m bleeding,” said Skyhigh, checking his palm. “We have to get outta here.”

Moth fumbled with his straps. Skyhigh fought to open the jammed canopy. Moth reached up to help him, and together they managed to pry away the mangled metal. As the canopy opened overhead, Moth peered toward the battlefield. The centaurs were charging into one enormous mass. Above them, the Skylords and their army swirled in disarray. As he climbed out of the dragonfly, Moth saw the distant
Avatar
turning back toward the valley. This time, though, the airship wasn’t alone.

“Dragons . . .”

Skyhigh turned to see. “What?”

“Look,” pointed Moth. “Dragons!”

They had crashed far from the battlefield, but the sight of the dragons was unmistakable. Jets of fire spat from their throats as they spiraled after their enemies, burning them from the sky. Jorian’s centaurs pressed toward the mountains as the
Avatar
’s guns opened a broadside. Moth and Skyhigh stared, dazed by the sight. Then, from the corner of his eye, Moth noticed a ruffle of white feathers.

There stood Artaios, mere yards from their dragonfly. He sheathed his flaming sword and took the golden helmet off his head, casting it aside. A shocking crimson scar ran down his beautiful face. His right shoulder and right wing drooped as though broken. He looked mournfully at Moth, then at Skyhigh.

“You see, Moth?” he said. “Only I can teach you to fly.”

“Artaios . . .” Moth stepped forward. “What happened?”

“Your beloved Alisaundra did this to me,” he said. His tone was calm but contemptuous. “I gave her wings. I gave her life meaning. She has ruined me.”

Skyhigh went to Moth’s side. “Where is she?” he demanded.

“She couldn’t kill me,” spat Artaios. “I am the Sword of Korace. Even Jorian’s lightning cannot kill me now, human.”

“Artaios, where is she?” Moth asked fearfully. “Did you . . . ?”

“I gave her a chance to serve me! Just as I gave you a chance to fly.” Artaios glared at Skyhigh. “You—did I not tell you to flee? Did I not warn you to take the boy from here, to spare him this?”

Skyhigh reached into his belt and pulled out Rendor’s pistol. Artaios scowled at the threat.

“I wear the armor of Ivokor,” he said. “If you had any learning at all, you would know what that means. There is no way you can harm me.”

Skyhigh aimed the gun right at his chest. “Let’s see about that,” he said, and cocked the hammer.

“I can’t let you leave now,” said Artaios. He moved closer. “I tried to spare you.”

“Not another step!” warned Skyhigh.

“Artaios, go!” cried Moth.

Artaios didn’t flinch. “Do it!” he ordered.

So Skyhigh squeezed the trigger.

Moth jumped back at the noise, then saw Artaios stagger. A look of utter shock came over him as he glanced down at his chest. A small hole in his golden armor started oozing scarlet blood. Artaios blinked as if he’d never seen such a thing before, as if the impossible had happened. He wavered a moment, then buckled to his knees.

“I am shot . . .”

Skyhigh lowered the pistol as Moth hurried toward Artaios. The Skylord looked up helplessly as Moth put his arms around his shoulders, seeking a way to remove the breastplate.

“Moth, leave him,” said Skyhigh. “We have to get out of here.”

“Get me something to make a bandage,” cried Moth. “Please!”

Artaios fell back against the grass. “Ivokor . . .”

“It wasn’t magic, Artaios,” Moth explained. He found the latches on the side of the breastplate. “Just a bullet.”

Artaios grimaced, understanding. Skyhigh came to stand over him. He hesitated, then helped Moth remove the armor. They rolled Artaios over to pull it off, then opened the white garment covering his chest, now soaked with blood. Beneath the garment was a perfectly plain bullet hole, just inches beneath the Skylord’s heart.

“Skyhigh, what do we do?”

Skyhigh studied the wound. “Stop the bleeding. Somehow.”

Moth pulled off his shirt, packing the wound with it and pressing down to stem the blood. A shadow settled over them as they knelt beside Artaios. Looking up, they saw a chariot pulled by cloud horses hovering a hundred feet above them. A Skylord leaped from it, sailing quickly toward them. Behind him, others darted down from the sky.

“Uh-oh,” said Skyhigh. “Company.”

Artaios was quickly losing consciousness. Skyhigh stood as the Skylord from the chariot fell like a falcon before them. Moth glanced up, recognizing his eye patch and battle-scarred face.

“Rakuiss. You need to get Artaios out of here,” said Moth. He didn’t bother greeting the Skylord or explaining what had happened. “You have to hurry or he’ll die.”

General Rakuiss looked down in shock at his wounded prince. Skyhigh once more pulled out his pistol.

“I got five more shots just like the one I put in Artaios,” he warned. “Get him out of here and let us go. Otherwise you’ll both be a couple of dead flying chickens.”

The other Skylords dropped from the air. The general held them back. He knelt down over Artaios, stroking his golden hair.

“My prince, can you hear me?”

Artaios opened his glazed eyes, nodding.

“You’re hurt,” said Rakuiss. “The humans. But I’m going to save you. I’m going to get you out of here. You must hold on.”

Artaios lifted his head and saw Moth over him, pressing down on his chest, hands coated in blood. He grabbed Rakuiss’ wrist, and with the little strength he could muster said, “Humans . . . saved me.”

Rakuiss reared back. “No, my lord. The humans did this to you.”

“No!” railed Artaios. “They go!”

Rakuiss relented, pushing Moth aside. “All right, my lord,” he said. “Yes.”

He scooped Artaios gently into his arms, then winged skyward toward his waiting chariot. Without a word, his fellow Skylords followed.

LADY ESME CARRIED FIONA far from the fighting, setting her down on a hillside overlooking the battlefield. The flight left Fiona breathless as she tumbled into the dandelions, then watched Esme drop soundlessly to the ground. The beautiful Skylord said nothing as she observed the unfolding battle. She sat down among the flowers like a child, wrapping her arms around her knees and her delicate wings around her shoulders. Fiona approached her carefully, wondering why she didn’t speak.

“Esme?”

The Skylord tilted her golden head. Her brilliant eyes flicked toward Fiona, then back to the battle. The strangeness of her unnerved Fiona.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” asked Fiona.

Esme smiled. “You are Fiona.”

“That’s right.” Fiona knelt down beside her in the dandelions and buttercups. “You saved me. You brought the dragons to help us, didn’t you?”

Esme’s gaze tracked upward, toward the dragons burning up the sky. Out on the field, the centaurs had regrouped. Fiona heard the keen of Jorian’s horn, but could not make him out among the throng. The remaining Skylords flew in confused circles, some of them abandoning the fight. Her uncle’s airship pursued them, joining the dragons in the hunt.

“Who are they?” Fiona asked, gesturing toward the dragons. “Are they Merceron’s friends?”

Esme looked unhappy. Frail, too. The garments she wore were haphazard, obviously thrown together just for modesty. But she really was beautiful, and Fiona had no trouble understanding why Leroux had loved her.

“Dreojen?”

Esme pointed toward one of the distant dragons. Fiona smiled. Merceron’s mate was smaller than the others, but still a powerful, magnificent sight. Suddenly she remembered the mask Jorian had drawn on her face.

“Esme, you have to take me back,” she said. “I can’t stay here. I belong with the others.”

Esme grimaced as she watched her fellow Skylords tumbling from the sky. “You will stay here,” she said. “Safe.”

Fiona couldn’t understand. “Hey, you brought them here,” she said. “What did you think would happen? You should be down there fighting with the dragons. We both should.”

“I am a Skylord,” said Esme. “I could never harm another.”

“After what they did to you? Huh. I’d be glad to fight them if they did that to me.”

Esme had no answer for her, or if she did she didn’t speak it. For Esme, speaking came with effort. Fiona supposed it was from being a bird for so long.

“Okay,” said Fiona, standing. “You can sit here and watch if you want, but I have to go.”

Esme reached up and seized her hand. “No.”