by John Marco
“When you are high enough, we will follow,” said Jorian.
Fiona stood beside him, watching her grandfather with wide, troubled eyes. “I can come with you,” she said. “I’m not afraid.”
Rendor stooped down, taking her hand. The wash from the Avatar’s engines stirred his silver hair. “Remember what Merceron did for Moth?” he said. “He lived a good life and no one needed to cry for him. That’s what I want, Fiona—no tears.”
“I’m smart,” said Fiona, “and I’m tougher than you think. I can help you up there.”
“Your mother died in an airship, Fiona.” Rendor struggled with his words. “I’ve already lost a daughter. If I lost a granddaughter too . . .” He shook his head. “You can’t follow me, Fiona. Not where I’m going.” He pointed toward the mountains. “Right into their heart,” he declared, so everyone could hear. “We’ll punch a hole right through them. One way or another.”
They all knew what he meant. No one dared a single word, except for Fiona.
“You’ll come back,” she said. “I know you will.”
Old Rendor frowned. “To promise you that would be an insult, Fiona. A lie. Don’t make me say that.”
Fiona looked up at him. “Promise to try, at least?”
Rendor bent to kiss her forehead. Moth watched as Fiona’s face twisted, forcing herself not to cry. Skyhigh waited anxiously beside Moth, eager to get airborne. This time, at last, Moth would join him in the air.
“There’ll be plenty for you to do up there,” Skyhigh had told him. “I’m gonna need help once the shooting starts.”
Like Fiona, Moth didn’t hesitate in joining the battle. With the image of the kestrel still splashed across his face, he was as eager as the rest of them to take on the Skylords. The centaurs had gathered and the Avatar was ready to fly. Artaios and his airborne army had yet to appear over the mountain, but dawn was coming quickly now. The centaurs stood in the tall grass, waiting for their Chieftain Jorian to lead their bloody charge. Over the mountains hung the Skylords and their countless slaves—Redeemers and dark fairies and the unspeakable ogilorns.
And there stood the Avatar, damaged but graceful, her committed crew ready to blow themselves to bits, and the Starfinder with them. Moth felt a lump settle in his throat, vowing never to forget the feeling and the way it made his skin tingle.
“Skyhigh,” said Rendor. He dug into his coat and pulled out his pistol, handing it over.
“What this for?” Skyhigh asked.
“Take it,” Rendor urged. “If you get shot down, you’ll need more than your knife to fend them off.”
Skyhigh nodded, understanding. “Thanks,” he said, tucking the pistol into his belt. He turned to Moth. “You ready?”
Moth nodded quickly. Skyknights never said good-bye when they took off, so he didn’t. He simply followed Skyhigh to their dragonfly, cracking his knuckles and trying hard to keep from turning around and seeing Fiona’s heartbroken face.
At three thousand feet the Avatar leveled off above Pandera, just as the sun clawed over the mountains. Rendor strapped himself into his chair and stared out the open bridge, now stripped of its useless tarp. The dark world greeted him with a chilly wind and the ominous sight of Mount Oronor. Just behind Rendor sat Donnar with the rest of the bridge crew, busily checking gauges and delivering orders into a speaking tube. Tinny voices replied from every section of the ship. Bottling sat at his engine console, a single, steady hand lingering over the hidrenium lever. Lieutenants Stringfellow and Gann worked the Avatar’s flight controls.
The Starfinder rested in a lockbox near Rendor’s feet. After all his years of coveting it, Rendor could barely look at it now. Once it had been beautiful to him. Now it was just an ugly reminder of all the troubles he’d brought his family. He realized he was full of regrets, but there wasn’t time to explore any of them. And at least there was one thing he’d done perfectly—building the Avatar.
She was bristling with weapons, stripped of everything but guns and ammunition. Riflemen waited in her nose and viewing platforms, on the catwalks flanking her envelope and in the vents near her tailfins. She was no longer a ship of ambition and exploration. Now she was a warship. Her metal skin could take blow after blow and still she would fly. Even with one damaged engine, she would sail like a dagger into the black heart of the Skylords.
One way or another, thought Rendor as he gazed at Mount Oronor.
Finally, he turned away from the mountains and regarded his crew. Hand-picked, they had all known the odds the moment they’d come on board.
“Airmen,” he said, “we’re going straight at ’em. And if our guns don’t take them out, we’ve got a nasty surprise for them. We won’t be heroes and we won’t be martyrs. Unless and until it’s hopeless, we fight on.”
Old Donnar nodded. Young Stringfellow did the same. Bottling’s face turned hard like cement, and Gann held his breath. Rendor knew they were ready. Now, at last, he’d find out what a bullet could do to a Skylord.
“Commander Donnar,” he said, “make your speed fifteen knots.”
As she looked up at her distant grandfather, Fiona felt like she was stuck at the bottom of the world. For the first time ever, she wanted to be with him. Around her the centaurs formed their marching hordes, each one fifty strong and shaped like an arrowhead. Jorian himself stood in the middle of his warriors. Bow in hand, flanked by Kyros and Tyrin, he observed his brothers and sisters with a prideful gaze. Around his neck hung a horn of carved ivory. Seeing the Avatar depart, he put the horn to his lips and blew a loud and forceful call. The thousand centaurs clapped their hooves to the ground.
“Centaurs!” cried Jorian, raising both fists like a wrestler. “Pull our enemies from the sky! From this day on, let it be known that the Skylords are mortal!”
The cheers from the centaurs shredded the air. Fiona clutched the bow Jorian had made her, the one she had practiced with for days.
“I’m ready,” she declared. “Tell me where to go and I’ll follow.”
Jorian reached down, offering his powerful hand. “You ride with me, Little Queen.”
She looked at him, stunned. “You mean on you?”
He opened his palm insistently. Fiona grabbed hold, and Jorian tossed her onto his back. He shook his black mane, squaring his shoulders at the sensation of Fiona’s weight. Tyrin smiled but did not laugh. Old Kyros snorted. Fiona quickly pulled her bow over her shoulder, then wrapped her arms around Jorian’s torso. In all the world, Fiona knew, there was no safer place than on the mighty centaur’s back.
“Thank you, Jorian,” she whispered in his ear, then squeezed him with a little hug. The affection made the Chieftain bridle.
“Hold on to me tightly,” he warned. “When a centaur charges, even the mountains cower.”
From a tower on Mount Oronor, Artaios looked upon the rising sun, his heart filled with melancholy. The human airship was aloft now, the tiniest of dots on the horizon. Around him flew his army, culled from every corner of the Realm. Three enormous, hideous ogilorns floated out beyond the mountains, their soft, bloated bodies a sickening shade of pink. Skylords and Redeemers perched on the balconies and ridges of the fortress, and dark fairies fluttered like starlings across the dawn, released from their prison in the foundry, their tiny, needlelike swords swishing in their dainty fists.
Artaios gazed through the eyeslits in his helmet. The sun rose with the color of blood.
Ivokor’s armor wrapped his torso like a steel cage, holding together his fractured bones. Beneath his helmet his face burned with the scar Alisaundra had given him, and his eye stung with the damage, swollen and drooping. His right shoulder, dislocated, could barely wield his sword, and his right wing was fractured too, almost enough to keep him grounded. He was, he knew, lucky to be alive, and if Alisaundra had wanted to kill him she could have done so easily. But she did not. She had wanted to maim him, to destroy that part of him that was uniquely Skylord.
A figure dropped from the air b
ehind him. General Rakuiss waited a moment before speaking. Artaios did not turn around. Even with the helmet to hide him, Artaios found facing anyone difficult.
“My lord? The airship . . .”
“I see it,” Artaios sighed. His gaze shifted toward the ship as it floated ever closer. Artaios rested his hand on his sword. “I haven’t the stomach for this, Rakuiss,” he confessed. “Centaurs aren’t dragons. This will be a slaughter. And the humans . . .”
“The humans have the Starfinder, my lord.” Rakuiss came closer, putting his lips to Artaios’ ear. “It’s your father’s wish, remember. End it here, before they come again.”
“It won’t end here, Rakuiss. Even if we kill them all, there will be others. They’ll keep on coming through the Reach, or we’ll go to their world to destroy them. And it will go on endlessly. Forever.”
Rakuiss put a hand a hand upon his wounded shoulder. “You are the Sword of Korace,” he reminded.
Artaios smiled. “Of course. And like a sword I will cut them down. I’ll make my father proud today, Rakuiss. After all, that’s what matters, right? My father’s pride?”
Rakuiss looked suspicious. “Yes, my lord. We must all remember that.”
“Rakuiss, how could I ever forget?”
He turned away from his general, took one last look at the rising sun, then lifted himself into the sky, his wounded wing and shoulder on fire with pain. One way or another, he would lead his army to victory. First, though, he would find the one called Skyhigh Coralin. That one, he decided, would be the first to die.
BATTLE
RENDOR WATCHED THROUGH the open bridge as a wave of feathers and scales rushed at them. He hunched over his chair, pulled a speaking tube to his lips, and waited for their chance to fire. One gigantic ogilorn had been unleashed against them, floating toward them and surrounded by Skylords and Redeemers. The small fairies with the tiny swords flocked like birds behind the ogilorn, urging it forward. A mass of tentacles reached across the sky, ready to grab the Avatar. The riflemen stationed on the bridge brought up their guns, choosing their marks.
“One good shot is all we’re going to get before they swarm us,” said Rendor into the tube. “Hold for my order.”
His voice echoed through the airship. In the nose and on the platforms, airmen trained their weapons on the monster. Past its many, outstretched arms, Rendor saw the creature’s toothy beak.
“Not yet . . .”
The Avatar continued forward, its engines whining. Rendor remembered the stories Merceron had told him, how the ogilorns were vicious but stupid. The thing came mindlessly toward them, proving Merceron’s theory.
“Hold . . .”
The sky ahead filled with flailing arms. The Skylords veered away, knowing what was coming.
“Fire!”
All at once a hundred fingers squeezed their triggers. The Avatar shook as the sky filled with lead and tracers. The ogilorn instantly drew back, screeching, its tentacles recoiling, sieved with bloody holes. On the bridge the crouching riflemen pulled their smoking bolts, loaded up new rounds, and fired again.
“Keep firing!” Rendor cried into the tube. He swiveled his chair toward Bottling. “All ahead! Keep after it!”
Bottling pushed the throttles and the Avatar lurched forward, hunting the wounded ogilorn. Skylords and Redeemers wheeled, arcing away from the deadly bullets.
Beneath the Avatar, the centaurs tilted a thousand arrows skyward. Sitting astride Jorian’s back, Fiona drew hard on her own bowstring, aiming toward the center of the swirling mass of Skylords. She had watched the Avatar open fire on the ogilorn, sending the creature retreating in a hail of gunfire. The Skylords and Redeemers spread out across the sky, massing to decend upon the valley. Fiery chariots wheeled high above the fray, drawn by cloud horses and carrying the Skylord generals.
Jorian searched the sky for Artaios, a magic arrow sparkling in his fist. Next to him, Kyros took control of their horde, ordering the centaurs to hold their fire.
“Wait!” cried the old centaur. “Not until you can put one in their hearts!”
Fiona didn’t know how long she could hold back her bowstring. The fingers of her hand ached as she pulled back, determined to send the arrow as high as it could go. Somewhere in the sky a trumpet sounded. The Skylords broke formation, screaming down from heaven like a flock of deadly angels. Fiona closed one eye, focused on a single mass of streaking feathers, and waited for Kyros’ order. Jorian held still beneath her, choosing his own, unlucky target.
“I’m ready,” said Fiona desperately. “I can’t hold it . . .”
“Now!” cried Kyros.
Arrows rocketed up from the valley. Fiona loosed her bowstring.
Moth kept watch through the dragonfly’s canopy, holding tight as the craft nosedived after the Skylords. An eruption of arrows rose up, whistling past their delicate glass wings. Over Skyhigh’s shoulder, Moth could see the Skylords and Redeemers starting to fall, tumbling earthward. The ground was quickly rising to meet them, filled with shouting centaurs. Moth swiveled about, looking out for anything that had broken away to attack them.
“You’re clear!” he shouted.
Skyhigh had his finger on the trigger. About to fire, he hesitated.
“What are you doing?” Moth pressed. “Shoot!”
“Moth, listen. You’re gonna see some stuff you’re not going to like. It’s not like Leroux told you. There’s gonna be blood . . .”
“Skyhigh, you’re telling me this now? C’mon, shoot ’em!”
Almost in a full dive, Skyhigh caught a flock of Skylords in his gunsights. “Guess you’ll just have to see for yourself.” He pulled the trigger, and the Skylords exploded. Blood and feathers struck the canopy as the dragonfly corkscrewed away. Above Moth’s head, a crimson smear stained the canopy. He stared at it, stricken.
“Do I have your attention now?”
“Oh, god, I’m gonna be sick!”
“You’re a kid, Moth,” said Skyhigh. “I wish you didn’t have to see any of this. Now keep a lookout, will ya? Or we’ll be the ones in pieces.”
Artaios circled high above the battlefield, safe from the arrows and bullets, searching the ground for Jorian. Even with his spectacular vision, it was hard for him to make out the Chieftain from so far away. The centaurs had spread across the field like berserkers, pumping the sky with arrows and leaping up to snatch low-flying Redeemers. The airship drove madly toward Mount Oronor, ripping holes in the soft flesh of the ogilorn. In all his years and all his battles, Artaios had never seen such carnage. He’d expected the airship to be no more difficult to stop than a dragon.
He knew now he was wrong.
Too stupid to understand its impending death, the ogilorn stopped retreating, absorbing the airship’s onslaught. To the south and east, the remaining ogilorns decended toward the centaurs. Without the airship and its weapons, Artaios knew the centaurs had no chance at all. As he wheeled above the fray, his eyes searched frantically for Jorian. Below, the thing Moth called a dragonfly chased his fellow Skylords, slaughtering them with its guns.
Artaios’ cracked ribs throbbed inside his bewitched armor. His eyes tracked the dragonfly over the battlefield, careful not to drop too low and be sighted by Jorian. Wind pulled the golden hair under his helmet. The rush of air against his wings reminded him he was a god.
“I am the Sword of Korace,” he told himself. “I am not afraid of anything.”
Like a hunting raptor, he tucked his wings and dove for the dragonfly.
Fiona held tight to Jorian’s mane as the centaur galloped out to clearer ground. Overhead the sky buzzed with dirty-faced fairies, swooping down upon the centaurs with their icicle-like swords. Tyrin ran furiously alongside his Chieftain. The young warrior had cast aside his bow and shield, slicing up the air with a pair of curved swords, cutting fairies in half as they tried to reach Fiona. Old Kyros followed close behind, covering their run with arrows. Fiona watched as a brown-cloaked Redeemer plunged toward
them. From the corner of her eye she saw another centaur gallop forward, spring like a jack rabbit into the air, and smash the Redeemer unconcious with his shield.
“Jorian, where are we going?” Fiona shouted. “Don’t take me away! I’m not afraid!”
Jorian laughed. “You fear nothing, Little Queen, I know! Look at the sky! Do you see?”
Fiona searched the battle above. She saw Skyhigh’s dragonfly arcing through the sky, spurts of gunfire cutting down Skylords. And then another object caught her eye, making a meteoric dive toward the dragonfly. Before Fiona could ask what it was, Jorian pulled an arrow from his quiver. He nocked the bolt and drew back, turning it to lightning.
“Watch, Fiona,” he crowed. “The fall of Artaios!”
Artaios passed Rakuiss’ chariot, plummeting through a flock of fairies and the mist of cloud horses as he headed toward the dragonfly. Closer, closer he came, falling from the sky, homing in on the craft and unsheathing his flaming sword. Today, there was only one thing Artaios wanted, and it wasn’t the Starfinder.
“Coralin!”
Coralin, Moth’s hero. Coralin, who’d refused to take Moth home to safety. Without remorse, Artaios steeled himself for the killing blow. The human had been warned.
Then from the ground rose a sudden burst of light. Artaios veered quickly, glimpsed the thing as it screamed toward him.
Nowhere to hide . . .
He closed his eyes, hanging in the air, bracing for Jorian’s arrow. It slammed into his breastplate with a shower of hot sparks. Artaios tumbled, nearly dropping his sword. The agonized wail of a Redeemer’s soul tore from his armor.
One gone!
Artaios fanned his wings to right himself. One gone, but he was still alive. Astonished, he ran his hands over his breastplate. Except for the impact, there’d been no pain at all.