Starfinder: A Novel of the Skylords

by John Marco

  “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.”

  THE MOON IS HIGH

  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.

  All day long centaurs had waited for the moon to rise, to call them out to the grassy plain and hear the words of their Chieftain. They watched Mount Oronor, the fortress of their enemies, jeering at it, casting curses. They lit their own fires and beat their drums and danced their strange centaur dances. And now they were ready for war.

  The drums were now silent; Moth could hear the wind rustling in the grass as he awaited Jorian’s call. Tonight, he and Fiona would be warriors. Skyhigh and Rendor, too. He glanced at his friends, saw their grave faces, and remembered Leroux. Alisaundra crouched nearby, fascinated by the spectacle. She had watched the dances, asking questions of the centaurs like a curious child, and when she saw Moth looking at her, she smiled a big-sister smile.

  “Tomorrow,” Jorian boomed, “our enemies will fly against us. They are many, but we too are many. They are strong, but we are stronger!”

  His voice carried over the crowd, chilling Moth with its power. His wife Nessa stood apart from Jorian, nodding proudly.

  “We fight to defend what is ours,” declared Jorian. “The Skylords fight only to take. They have slaves, but we have friends.” His gaze fell upon Moth and his fellow humans. The crowd cheered approvingly. “Now we invite our friends to join us, to share our blood and sacrifice.” He held up the little pot, the same red paint he’d used to stripe his own fierce face. “Are you ready?”

  Fiona was first on her feet, setting aside the bow Jorian had made her. “I’m ready,” she said, loud enough so all could hear her.

  In a strange, ancient tongue, Jorian spoke. Though Moth didn’t understand the words, they’d already been explained to him.

  “Come forth this way toward me, to the place where I stand. Come forth this way toward me. Come straight toward me.”

  The ritual words were the ones every centaur heard once they were old enough to fight. As Fiona stepped forward, Rendor stood to watch her, his expression unreadable. To Moth he looked like an Eldrin Knight suddenly. Moth and Skyhigh stood as well, waiting their turn. Alisaundra shuffled closer to stand beside them. No one made a sound.

  “Fiona, granddaughter of Rendor, friend to the centaurs of Pandera,” said Jorian, “do you declare yourself a warrior?”

  Fiona lifted her white face, catching the moonlight. “I do.”

  Jorian looked into her face, at the pattern the moon made on her, searching for the essence inside her. It might be a wolf, Nessa had told them, or it might be a river. It could be a tree, a butterfly, a flower, or a storm. The moon would reveal it. Fiona waited, never taking her eyes off Jorian, until at last the Chieftain saw the invisible spirit within her. He dipped his already stained finger into the pot, then traced it over Fiona’s face.

  “I see wisdom in you,” he said as he drew. “A great fire of knowledge. I see bigness. I see nobility.”

  When he was done he looked at his work. Satisfied, he turned Fiona toward the gathering. Moth looked closely, eager to see the thing Jorian had drawn. Two batlike wings framed her face, and over her eyes were another pair, cool and reptilian. Moth had seen eyes like them before.

  “A dragon,” he whispered, almost incredulous. He beamed at Fiona, who seemed as shocked as he was by what Jorian had seen.

  Now it was Moth’s turn. He went to Jorian and turned his face toward the moon, just as he’d seen Fiona do. When the Chieftain asked for his oath, he gave it proudly. He felt the moonlight on his face, the strange sensation of Jorian’s eyes boring deep into his soul. This wasn’t just a guessing game, he realized. Jorian had real magic, and would find whatever was inside him.

  “I see,” Jorian said, squinting as he studied Moth’s face. “I see . . .”

  What? Moth wanted to shout. What do you see?

  Jorian dipped his finger into the pot. As he raised it a horrible screech pealed overhead. Moth turned to see a large, misshapen bird fluttering above the crowd, its storm-gray wings beating the air. A shockingly human head bobbed out of its feathered collar. Part vulture, part woman, the thing gave a cackling laugh as it descended, hovering just out of reach.

  “Harpy!” spat Jorian.

  The centaurs rose, drawing weapons. Alisaundra sprung to her feet, and Rendor pulled his pistol. Old Kyros quickly drew a bead on the creature with his bow.

  “Dead you are!” laughed the creature. “Dead on the morrow!”

  Alisaundra was almost in the air, claws bared, when Jorian called out, “No!” He waved his arms to calm them. “This monster brings a message!”

  The harpy laughed. “The mercy of Artaios! That is what I bring!”

  Moth had never seen a thing so ugly. Huge, bulbous claws hung down from its mottled body. A hint of breasts rose beneath its feathers. Saliva threaded from its female lips as it spoke, mimicking a human voice. The head was nearly bald, hairy in spots, vulture pink in others.

  “Traitor!” it said, leering mockingly at Alisaundra. “Artaios has his vengeance planned for you. Unending suffering!”

  Alisaundra’s fangs sprang out. “Speak your message,” she hissed, “then die.”

  Her anger delighted the harpy. It fluttered higher, right over Moth and Fiona. Rendor aimed his pistol, ready to fire. “Jorian . . .”

  “No, she won’t harm them,” said Jorian. He glared up at the creature. “You’re nothing but an errand girl. Skylords send the foulest muck to speak for them.”

  The harpy flew closer to Rendor, taunting him with its talons. “You are the law breaker,” it said. “Human. Spreader of plagues. No mercy for you.”

  Rendor’s finger trembled on the trigger. “I know all about Skylord mercy, miscreant. Want to see mine?”

  Sky
high rushed forward. “Rendor, don’t!”

  The harpy bubbled, “Bring him the Starfinder! Artaios is kind. Give him what is his, and only the humans will die.”

  “Not only humans,” retorted Jorian. He patted the bow at his chest in warning. “Tomorrow, Skylords will fall.”

  “Spare yourselves this misery!” called the harpy. She hovered toward Jorian. “Give Artaios the Starfinder, and he will spare these children both! He gives his word on this, centaur. Surrender the Starfinder. For that you get your lives, and the lives of these worthless pups.”

  Moth saw a flash of weakness in Rendor’s eyes. Slowly he lowered his pistol.

  “No!” cried Moth. “If Artaios wants us, tell him to come and get us!”

  “Right,” Fiona echoed. She pointed at her painted face. “You see this? I’m a warrior of Pandera now. I’m like a dragon! Tell the Skylords the dragons aren’t finished yet. They aren’t beaten. Tell them Merceron is still alive . . . in me!”

  Rendor stepped toward her. “Fiona . . .”

  “She has spoken,” thundered Jorian. “Rendor, we are not slaves, any of us.” He looked up at the harpy, and with a snort of disgust said, “Go and tell your master Pandera is for free people. Tell him we are warriors. If he wants the Starfinder so badly, tell him to come and die for it.”

  The harpy beat its wings in frustration. “Tomorrow, then,” it spat. “Be ready for blood.”

  From the corner of his eye Moth saw Alisaundra spring skyward. Both hands shot out, grabbing the harpy by the neck.

  “You are done, messenger!” she growled.

  In a frenzy of wings she bore the harpy higher, throttling it until feathers fell like rain. The harpy screamed, bones popped, and the creature fell limp in Alis’ claws.

  “Alis!” Moth called, but it was too late. She was already flying off, carrying her victim with her.

  “Where’s she going?” asked Fiona.

  Rendor stuffed his pistol back beneath his coat. “To deliver a message of her own, probably.”

  Stunned, Moth watch her disappear into the darkness, winging her way toward Mount Oronor. He didn’t move until Jorian touched his shoulder. He held up his paint pot.

  “Say it again, boy. Do you declare yourself a warrior of Pandera?”

  Moth stiffened with resolve. “I do!”

  As the gathering watched, Jorian traced his cool finger over Moth’s face. Purposefully, quickly, the centaur drew, as if Moth’s essence was perfectly clear to him now. Moth didn’t move, not even to blink. He felt the presence of something inside him, rising up like a . . .

  Like a bird!

  Jorian stepped back. Fiona looked at Moth and smiled. Skyhigh grinned with a knowing nod.

  “What is it?” asked Moth. “It’s a bird, right?”

  “It is a bird,” said Rendor. He came in for a closer look. “Yes, absolutely.”

  “Ha! I knew it! What is it? An eagle? A hawk?”

  “I know that bird,” said Skyhigh.

  “Yeah?” Moth looked at each of them, puzzled. “Well? What is it?”

  Fiona took his hand. Her painted face glowed with warmth. “It’s a kestrel, Moth,” she said. “Just like Lady Esme.”

  BEAUTIFUL

  ARTAIOS PASSED THE TWO REDEEMERS on guard outside the prison cave, peering inside. Moonlight flooded through the entrance, seeping through the bars at the other side of the small chamber. As Artaios’ eyes adjusted to the darkness, he caught a glimpse of Alisaundra balled up in the corner of her cell, head buried in her knees, wings wrapped like a blanket around her body.

  Her return had shocked Artaios. So had the “gift” she’d dropped at Rakuiss’ feet. Rakuiss stood behind Artaios now, muttering in contempt.

  “Look at her. Still just human garbage.”

  The old General had begged for the honor to execute her. Artaios took a step into the prison cave, standing imperiously before the cell, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Alisaundra had been driven mad by her closeness to Moth. Artaios understood that, even blamed himself a little. He wondered what it was like for her, caged in such an ugly body.

  “Alisaundra,” he called softly.

  He waited for her to lift her head. She did so shyly, her eyes peeking out from her arms.

  “You murdered my messenger,” said Artaios. “Why?”

  Her voice quavered. “Because—”

  “Stand up!” barked Rakuiss. “You’re talking to the Prince of the Sky!”

  Alisaundra rose shakily. She hooked her claws onto the silver chain around her waist, lowering her eyes to the filthy floor.

  “Answer me,” said Artaios. “Why did you kill the harpy? Why did you betray me?”

  “The boy maddened me, Great One. My head filled with human thoughts!” Alis put her claws to her temples. “So many voices! But I came to my senses. When I saw the harpy . . .” She raised her eyes pleadingly, looking only at Artaios. “My lord should never have such a filthy beast speak for him. I am your messenger! Seeing the harpy broke the human spell. I belong to you, sweet Artaios.”

  Rakuiss snorted, unimpressed. “She betrayed you, Artaios. She has to die.”

  Alis didn’t flinch. “If that is your wish I will do it myself. Give me a dagger and I will slice open my guts for you!”

  “Lies,” hissed Rakuiss. “Kill her and be done with it, Artaios. We have work to do.”

  Artaios thought a moment, considering Alisaundra’s pitiful face, the depth of her words. For years he had favored her, the brightest of all his Redeemers. Despite her crimes, he was glad she had returned.

  “Do you wish to serve me, Alisaundra?” he asked. “Truly, is that the fondest dream of your heart?”

  “Oh, yes, my lord,” sighed Alisaundra. “It is all I wish!”

  “My lord, please! Don’t fall for this!”

  “Wait,” counseled Artaios, smiling at his friend. “Wait.” He stepped closer to the cell, looking at Alisaundra through the bars. “There is a breastplate of armor, made for me by Ivokor himself. Within its metal is held the souls of seven Redeemers. All true servants, Alisaundra. My best, most beloved slaves. If you are truly repentent . . .”

  “I will join them gladly, Master!” Alisaundra floated toward the bars. “Let me prove myself. Let me be your most devoted one!”

  “You’ll give yourself freely? To live forever in a prison of metal?”

  “Yes!”

  “Swear it, Alisaundra.”

  “I swear it, my lord!” Alisaundra grabbed hold of her chain again. “By this chain I swear it!”

  “On your knees,” Artaios commanded.

  Alisaundra dropped before the bars, bowing her head. “Tell me what I must do,” she begged. “Tell me how to please you forever.”

  Her golden hair caught Artaios’ notice. She had brushed it clean of dirt, probably to seem more human.

  “I am merciful,” he told her. “I can end your pain. All you must do is give me your soul.”

  Alisaundra began to weep. “My lord is gracious. My beautiful lord . . .”

  Artaios reached between the bars, gently kneading her hair. Her whole body shook with sobs. “Dear Alisaundra,” he sighed. “Soon this torment will be over.”

  “Yes,” she groaned, raising her tear-stained face. She took his hand and kissed it, rubbing his palm on her wet cheek. “Soon . . .”

  Artaios felt his arm wrenched from its socket. His face collided with the bars. Pain shot through his skull and shoulder. Rakuiss was screaming. With his eyes bulging, Artaios saw Alisaundra’s rising, hissing face.

  “I remember everything!” she rasped.

  Artaios fought to free himself. Alisaundra’s claws dug into his flesh, pinning him to the bars, forcing him through them. He screamed for help, his wings shooting out in panic.

  “Look at what you did to me!” she commanded. “Look! I was human once! I was beautiful and I had everything!”

  Her raging face filled Artaios’ vision. Pain overwhelmed him, his screa
ms bouncing wildly through the chamber. Rakuiss was cursing, pulling hard on his waist to free him. The Redeemers on guard bounded forward.

  “I had a daughter!” seethed Alisaundra. “She came with me into the Reach! What did you do with her? What did you do!”

  Artaios tried to talk but couldn’t. With a broken jaw, he could only scream. Half his shoulder was already in the cell, squeezed through the bars. Furiously he beat his wings, fighting to save himself.

  “I was beautiful,” she said again. Finally, she extended one claw. “Now it’s your turn to be ugly!”

  Like a razor she drew her claw down his face, down his eye, his cheek, and his chin. The skin opened up, gushing blood. With a great laugh she released him, falling away from the bars as the others pulled him to safety. Artaios crumpled, covering his face. Through his bloody fingers he saw Alisaundra through the bars, pleased with what she’d done.

  “For my daughter,” she spat at him. “For all of us!”

  The Redeemers flung open the gate, grabbing hold of her. Alisaundra didn’t fight them. As Rakuiss stalked toward her, she grinned.

  “Stop!”

  Through pain and blindness, Artaios struggled to his feet. His face burned, the open wound sluicing blood across his neck and white garments. He pulled his sword, staring hatefully at Alisaundra. The Redeemers pinned her arms, holding her, but she didn’t resist. Instead, her expression was serene.

  “Kill me,” she jeered. “You only send me to my daughter.”

  With one touch of his gleaming sword, Artaios granted her wish.

  ONE WAY OR ANOTHER

  IN THE PREDAWN DARKNESS outside the village, Moth, Fiona, and a thousand centaurs watched the airship Avatar start its noisy engines. The centaurs had worked throughout the night, moving their children and supplies out of the village, into the distant hills where they’d be safe from the invasion. Nessa, Jorian’s wife, would be in charge of them now, promising the Skylords a “death of thousand cuts” if they followed the young ones into the hills. Jorian said a proud good-bye to his wife as he watched Nessa and a handful of warriors disappear with the children, but Moth could tell he was worried. The Chieftain’s painted face lost all its tenderness as he turned to Rendor.