Starfinder: A Novel of the Skylords

by John Marco

  “Commander Donnar told me you wanted to see me,” he said. “If it’s about Fiona, I promise—I’ll do my best to find her.”

  Rendor had to force himself to say his next words.

  “No more searching for Fiona, Captain.”

  Skyhigh blinked in disbelief. “No?”

  Rendor reached into his pocket and took out his watch. He ran his thumb over its embossed surface before popping it open.

  “The Skylords aren’t going to let us out of here,” he said without looking up. “They’ll try to keep us from going home, pin us here against these mountains. Until we can get the Avatar airborne again, we’re vulnerable.”

  “All right, but . . .”

  “We need your dragonfly. You’ll be our eyes while we’re grounded. I need you to run patrols back the way we came, see if the Skylords or their Redeemers are starting to gather. Daylight flights only.”

  “Sir?”

  “Hmm?”

  “When the Avatar’s repaired, are we going home?”

  Rendor snapped the watch closed. “We haven’t gotten any of the things we came here for,” he said. “Not Fiona, not Moth, and not the Starfinder. No, Captain. We’re not going home.”

  Skyhigh beamed at the news. “Good.” He glanced down at the watch. “Nice watch. Real gold?”

  “A gift,” sighed Rendor. “From my daughter.” He patted the tail of Skyhigh’s dragonfly. “She gave it to me the day I first got one of these contraptions to fly. I suppose she was proud of me.”

  “Fiona talked about her a lot,” said Skyhigh. “She loved her very much.”

  Rendor put the watch back in his pocket. Talking about his daughter was something he rarely did. It was easier just to look at the watch.

  “Fiona’s a lot like her,” he said. “Strong. Beautiful.”

  Skyhigh looked at him strangely. “Beautiful?”

  “Yes. Fiona’s very beautiful. Don’t you think so?”

  “It’s not that, sir,” said Skyhigh. “It’s just . . . have you ever told her that, Governor?”

  “Why would I?” asked Rendor. “She hates me. She doesn’t believe a thing I say.”

  THURMWOOD

  MERCERON DESCENDED ALONG the coast, the choppy sea spraying his spectacles. Lady Esme glided alongside him, her sharp eyes searching the cliffs for an opening.

  Even over the ocean’s briny scent, Merceron could smell his fellow dragons. He remembered the fold in the cliffs, a crack just large enough for him to squeeze through. The tangled vines clinging to the salt-covered rocks pointed the way. Lady Esme followed Merceron as he swooped lower, the waves licking at his belly. A tiny, sugar-white beach skimmed the bottom of the cliffs.

  “There!”

  With a flurry of his wings, Merceron landed on the sand. Esme alighted on his shoulder. Together they stared into the dark crevice. Merceron’s long snout tasted the air.

  “A dozen of them,” he determined. “Maybe more.” The smell of fish and seaweed mingled in his nostrils, masking the lingering note of his beloved Dreojen. For a moment, Merceron couldn’t move. The tide rolled in, splashing against his back and driving Esme from his shoulder.

  “Wait!”

  Inhaling deeply, Merceron pushed his big body sideways into the crevice. The sunlight vanished instantly. The rocks scraped his wings. Slowly, the crevice opened into a tall, dripping cavern. Overhead, stalactites hung like daggers.

  “Esme?” Merceron whispered. “Come here.”

  He put out his arm. The gesture called the kestrel back to him. Just as her claws grasped his coat, something moved in the shadows. Merceron scraped his talons together, summoning a fiery spark. He blew on it until it lit the chamber. On the far side of the cavern, a familiar face stared back at him.

  “Thurmwood.”

  The dragon peeled himself from the shadows. His yellow, catlike eyes frowned. A single, upturned fang protruded from his lower jaw. Fifty years had barely changed him.

  “Still alive,” groaned Thurmwood as he hunched his way across the cavern. “The mermaids said so, but I didn’t believe it.”

  Merceron held up his fiery claw. “The others, too,” he said. He glanced around the cavern. “Ganomyrn, Varsilius—show yourselves.”

  Two more dragons slipped from the shadows. Old Ganomyrn led the younger, small-boned Varsilius into the light. In the years before the war, Ganomyrn had been a close friend, an architect who’d designed some of Taurnoken’s grandest buildings. Varsilius, his son, was to follow in his work.

  “Ganomyrn, where’s Dreojen?” Merceron asked. “I know she’s here.”

  Before Ganomyrn could answer, Thurmwood stepped forward. “Of course she’s here,” he snapped. “She’s the one who led us here. She doesn’t want to see you, Merceron.”

  Merceron frowned. “Is that true, Ganomyrn?”

  Ganomyrn nodded. “I’m sorry, Merceron. Dreojen asked us to speak for her.”

  “Why are you here?” asked Thurmwood. Before the war, he’d been Merceron’s assistant. A very able librarian, but prickly.

  “Look closely,” said Merceron. He gestured to Esme. “Don’t you recognize her?”

  Young Varsilius cried out, “Esme!”

  Thurmwood put out his arm quickly, stopping Varsilius. “The humans brought her back here,” he snorted. “They must have.”

  Merceron looked at him, surprised. “You know about the humans?”

  “We hear things,” said Thurmwood. “The mermaids and fey have seen their airship.”

  “Airship?” gasped Merceron. “What airship?”

  “The black ship, near Pandera.” Thurmwood’s eyes narrowed on Merceron. “You didn’t know?”

  Merceron shook his head. An airship could only mean one thing—Rendor had come.

  “The Skylords have seen the humans, Merceron,” said Ganomyrn. “They’re massing to stop them.”

  “Already?” sputtered Merceron. He was quickly running out of time. “Thurmwood, I need to see Dreojen. I have to speak to her.”

  “Are you deaf? I told you—she doesn’t want to see you.” A bit of sympathy flickered in Thurmwood’s eyes. “Really, Merceron, can you blame her?”

  Blame. The word made Merceron wince.

  “There are others here with you,” said Merceron. “How many?”

  “Fifteen,” said Varsilius quickly.

  “What about everyone else? What happened at Taurnoken?”

  Thurmwood replied, “The war, Merceron. You remember the war, don’t you?”

  “But I left to end the war!”

  “Well, I guess that wasn’t good enough for the Skylords.”

  Old Ganomyrn said sadly, “We fled to save ourselves.”

  “We don’t have to explain anything to him,” sniffed Thurmwood.

  Merceron forced himself to stay calm. “Fine. If Dreojen won’t see me, then I’ll speak to you. I need your help, Thurmwood.”

  “My help?” Thurmwood chortled, his one, overgrown tooth making a whistling noise. “With what?”

  Merceron unbuttoned a pocket on his coat and reached inside. “With this.”

  He pulled out the Starfinder, holding it out in his upturned claw. The other dragons fell dumbstruck.

  “Are you mad?” hissed Thurmwood. “Are you stone? Do you care nothing for what might happen to us?”

  “I had to bring it,” said Merceron. “I had nowhere else to turn.”

  “That’s why the humans have come!” said Varsilius. “For the Starfinder! Are they after you, Merceron?”

  “Did you steal it from them?” asked Thurmwood. “Is that why they’re here?”

  “Just shut up and listen, will you?” Merceron stepped forward. “A boy gave me the Starfinder. A human, yes, but he’s on the run, too . . . from Rendor, Thurmwood. That ship you told me about is his.”

  “Rendor?” Thurmwood put up his claws. “Enough. I don’t want to know anything more.”

  Ganomyrn grimaced. “Merceron, if the Redeemers know you have the Sta
rfinder . . .”

  “They’ll follow you here!” spat Thurmwood. “You’ve led them right to us!”

  “Where else was I to go?” asked Merceron. “Would you rather I gave Rendor the Starfinder? Thurmwood, we were friends long before the war. I need your help! You’re right—the Redeemers are after me. They know I have the Starfinder. I need to figure out a way to destroy it.”

  Thurmwood shook his head. “Impossible. We’ve been through this already. We searched the library. No spells—”

  “But since then,” Merceron interrupted. “Surely you must have considered it.”

  “Merceron, we were too busy trying to stay alive.” Thurmwood waved his arm about the cavern. “Look around. Does this look like Taurnoken to you?”

  “What about Esme?” asked Merceron. “Have you thought of a way to help her, at least? While you were sitting around here in the dark . . .”

  “Esme and the Starfinder were gone!” cried Thurmwood. “We were rid of them, and we were glad for it! Now you bring them back to us? And humans too?” With a sweep of his wings, Thurmwood turned to go. “Leave, Merceron, please. Go back to wherever you were hiding. No one wants you here.”

  He slipped back into the darkness. Ganomyrn and Varsilius hesitated.

  “I’m sorry, Merceron,” said Ganomyrn. He put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “For everything. For . . . your loss. But Thurmwood’s right. We can’t help you this time.”

  As he and Varsilius followed after Thurmwood, the little flame in Merceron’s hand flickered.

  “Wait!” Merceron cried. “What about the Starfinder? What about Esme? Please, Thurmwood! There’s no one else who can help me!”

  Thurmwood paused in the shadows. Merceron seized his chance.

  “Thurmwood, if the Skylords get the Starfinder they’ll come after you,” he said. “You can’t hide. If they get it no one will be safe.”

  From out of the darkness, Thurmwood replied, “Then we will wait here for them. And when they get here, we’ll know who to thank for it.”

  Merceron slumped. “I came all this way . . .”

  “Then rest. You can stay until sunset. But be gone before the night comes.”

  Merceron watched Thurmwood’s tail disappear. On his shoulder, Lady Esme dipped her head in defeat.

  THE TREASURE

  EXHAUSTED FROM HIS LONG FLIGHT to the cliffs, Merceron slept. While he slept, he dreamed . . .

  He was back in Taurnoken. He stood on a ledge of a tall, grand tower, overlooking the city. Ganomyrn and his son Varsilius were with him. The two were laying bricks, building the tower higher and higher.

  Merceron knew Ganomyrn was an architect, not a builder. In his whole long life he had never seen Ganomryn lay bricks. Yet there he was, working with his son and cursing the Skylords.

  “We’ll build it as high as we want,” declared Ganomyrn. “We’ll build until we reach the moon!”

  Merceron stood on the ledge, afraid to fall.

  But I have wings, he told himself. Why am I afraid?

  As so often happens in dreams, his mind gave Varsilius a push. The young dragon screamed as he plummeted from the ledge, falling down, down toward the earth.

  Why doesn’t he fly? wondered Merceron. He looked at Ganomyrn.

  “Help him!” said Merceron. “Fly down and save him!”

  Ganomyrn watched calmly as his son disappeared into the abyss. He smiled at Merceron, then went back to work.

  Startled, Merceron awoke. But it wasn’t his dream that roused him. An unmistakable scent had roused his sleeping brain.

  He opened his eyes, lifted his head. In the corner of the cavern, she was waiting. He watched her, eager for her to come out of the shadows but afraid to frighten her away.

  “Thurmwood said you wouldn’t come,” he whispered.

  “I didn’t think you’d wake up,” said Dreojen softly.

  Merceron hoped she was lying. “Will you come closer?”

  Dreojen lingered in the shadows. Merceron put out his claw to make a fire. When the light struck his face, Dreojen grimaced.

  “You’ve changed,” she said, and dared to move a little closer.

  “Have I? I don’t think so. It’s only been fifty years.”

  Dreojen spied Esme perched on a nearby rock. “She hasn’t changed,” she said. “Skylord magic. Horrible.”

  Merceron was barely listening. Dreojen remained beautiful, her bronze scales shimmering, her feathered mane unfaded by time. He had always thought himself lucky to have such a magnificent mate. He pushed his spectacles against his face, struck stupid with adoration.

  “What about the others?” he asked. “Have they changed their minds about helping me?”

  Dreojen answered coolly, “Thurmwood wanted me to remind you there’s only an hour left until sundown.”

  “Coward,” Merceron snorted. The flame in his hand crackled. He made it flare to see her better. Around her shoulders and wings was draped a velvet cape. A silver necklace sparkled at her neck—a gift he had given her long ago. “We are mates, still,” he said gently. “If there’s anything you can tell me, anything that will help me destroy the Starfinder . . .”

  “Thurmwood wasn’t lying to you, Merceron,” said Dreojen. “After Taurnoken was abandoned, we all stopped trying to figure it out.”

  “Ah, so that you could live here,” rumbled Merceron. “In a hole, instead of the city of our ancestors. Instead of fighting for what belongs to you.”

  Dreojen turned away with chagrin. “Stop. I won’t have this argument again.”

  “Thurmwood is a coward, Dreojen. He just ran off like the rest of them!”

  “You mean like you?” said Dreojen.

  “That was different,” sniffed Merceron. “I had the Starfinder. I had to leave.”

  “And now you’re on the run again!” Dreojen chuckled mirthlessly. “I’m not heartless, Merceron. I came because I’m worried. Thurmwood told me the Redeemers are after you. They’ll find you this time.”

  “Which is why I wasted my time coming here,” growled Merceron. “I was stupid enough to think you’d all forgiven me by now. You especially, Dreojen.” He turned from her and went to Lady Esme, coaxing the bird onto his shoulder. “Since you all want me gone, let me oblige.”

  “Where, Merceron? Where can you go that the Skylords won’t find you?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “So you’ll just keep on running?”

  Merceron slumped. “If you could at least tell me something about the airship . . .”

  “Thurmwood says you think it’s Rendor.”

  “He told me it’s near Pandera,” said Merceron. “The children are in Pandera, the ones who stole the Starfinder from him.”

  Dreojen looked shocked. “You sent them to the centaurs?”

  “Why shouldn’t I have?” said Merceron. “Jorian and his people are braver than any of your lot here. They’ll take care of the children until I can get there.”

  “Oh, really?” Dreojen’s feathered mane bristled at his insult. “Before you go, there’s something you need to see.”

  The caverns were larger than Merceron remembered. As Dreojen led him through the torch-lit catacombs, Merceron recalled the time fifty years ago when they had first discovered them together. Still, he was unprepared for Dreojen’s surprise as she made him close his eyes.

  “Now?” he asked eagerly.

  She took him a few more paces, then released him. “All right,” she said. “Open them.”

  Merceron glanced around the chamber. Smoky candles glowed in iron holders in the rocks. A few rickety, dragon-sized chairs sat along the stone floor. A slant of waning sunlight struggled through a crack in the cavern, pointing like a finger to a wall stuffed full of . . .

  “Books!”

  Hundreds of them—maybe a thousand—lined the shelves dug from the rock. Merceron ran his claws over their spines, reciting their names. Books of poetry and history, tales once penned by mighty storytellers, ancient tomes
and hand-stitched diaries—dog-eared and yellow, yet lovingly preserved.

  “You rescued them,” said Merceron. “How?”

  “Thurmwood,” Dreojen explained. “He’s the one that saved them.”

  Merceron pulled a volume from the shelf. “Thurmwood? You’re joking.”

  “When he knew we’d have to abandon Taurnoken, he took whatever books he could. He asked me to take him to a place where they’d be safe. Look at them, Merceron—these are the most precious books we had in our library.”

  Merceron scanned the manuscripts. The very book in his hand had been penned by Jorjungen, a great dragon scholar.

  “You may think Thurmwood is a coward,” said Dreojen. “But he’s risked his life to protect these books. The Skylords took everything else in the library. Burned them, probably. You’re looking at all that’s left of our history.”

  “Thanks to Thurmwood,” sighed Merceron. He shelved the book. “I’ve been a fool.”

  “A small one, perhaps.” For the first time, Dreojen smiled. “There’s something else you should know. After you left, the Skylords demanded we leave Taurnoken. All of us. But no one would help them find you, Merceron. Maybe you won’t believe this, but most of us understood why you had to leave . . . after what happened.”

  Merceron steeled himself. “Do you still blame me for it?”

  Dreojen moved to stand beside a chair. “I did,” she said, propping herself up. “For a very long time I blamed you.”

  “And now?” Merceron searched her eyes. “What about now?”

  “Elaniel wasn’t a child. I think of him as a child, but he was grown enough to know what he was doing.”

  Merceron lowered his horned head. Why did parents always remember their offspring as children? Whenever he dreamed of Elaniel, it was always as a youngling, barely able to fly.

  “Dreojen, you didn’t answer my question. I need to know—do you still blame me for what happened to him?”

  Dreojen moved around the chair but would not look at him. “Sons follow their fathers. Elaniel followed you because he loved you.”