by John Marco
“I live!” he crowed. He flew a boastful somersault, then pointed his flaming sword toward the earth. “See me, Jorian! I live!”
Somewhere down below, the centaur Chieftain was staring skyward in disbelief—Artaios could almost feel it. With newfound confidence, he spied the dragonfly again and dove for it.
Rendor unstrapped himself from his command chair and hurried toward the riflemen on the bridge. A crewman tossed him a rifle and Rendor snatched it from the air, kneeling beside the others as they trained their weapons on the swarming tentacles. The Avatar’s nose guns chewed through the squirming, pink flesh, splashing blood across the sky. A pack of sooty-faced fairies charged toward the open bridge, deftly avoiding the ogilorn’s arms as they fought their way inside. Rendor drew a bead on the nearest one as it clawed against the Avatar, pulling its way through the gap. The blast from Rendor’s muzzle blew the tiny creature into oblivion.
But Rendor knew they couldn’t hold off the onslaught for long. Beyond the massive ogilorn flew Skylords and Redeemers, waiting for their own chance to board the Avatar. Rendor’s gunners filled the sky with tracers, cutting down their enemies like weeds. Yet wave after wave they came anew.
“Governor!” cried Bottling. He had his hand on the hidrenium lever, ready to swell the envelope. “Should I?”
Rendor’s eyes danced around the bridge, then back out at the ogilorn. They could still beat the thing. Maybe.
“Hold off!” he called back to Bottling. “This ugly beast can’t live forever!”
Fiona blinked up at the sky, as stunned as Jorian by what she saw. Through the melee of bodies and bullets she saw the gleaming Artaios again, streaking toward the unsuspecting dragonfly. The Skylord had taken Jorian’s arrow, shaking it off like rain.
“Still alive,” said the bewildered Jorian. He glanced down at his bow, almost oblivious to the battle raging around him.
“What happened?” asked Fiona.
Another Redeemer came screaming out of the sky. Jorian twisted and galloped away just as Tyrin leaped for it. Two flashing blades cut the creature down. Young Tyrin swiveled back toward Jorian. Behind him, Kyros was pumping the air full of arrows.
“Too many!” called Tyrin. Blood streaked his gasping chest. “Jorian, the girl . . .”
“Don’t worry about me!” said Fiona. She wrapped her arms around Jorian’s chest. “I’m okay!”
Jorian bolted toward clearer ground, then nocked another arrow to his bow. Once more he spied Artaios. “Let’s see how many he can take!”
Nausea sloshed over Moth as the dragonfly spiraled toward the ogilorn. The Avatar’s starboard guns halted as the crew spotted them approaching, streaking to their aid. Up ahead, Moth could see the bulbous eyes of the monster tracking them across the sky. He braced himself to crash, then heard the rat-a-tat of guns as Skyhigh squeezed the trigger. Bloody pinholes pocked the ogilorn. Tentacles flailed madly toward them. Skyhigh banked left, then right, then straight up high as a suckered arm whipped beneath them.
“Making another pass,” Skyhigh shouted. “We clear?”
Moth fought to stay concious as blood drained from his brain. His wobbly eyes searched the sky as the dragonfly leveled out. Skylords and Redeemers still beseiged the Avatar. The tenacious ogilorn—half its limbs shredded or limp—continued after the airship.
“I think so,” Moth replied.
“You think? C’mon, Moth, look!”
Skyhigh turned the craft hard, slamming Moth sideways. Moth peered through the filthy canopy for enemies. Something caught his bleary eyes.
“Wait . . .”
Coming at them from the left was a Skylord. Unlike the others, this one had broken free from the pack, homing in on them, an outstretched sword dripping fire as he flew.
“That’s Artaios!” Moth gasped. He twisted for a better look. Artaios’ sword was unmistakable, but now the Skylord wore a golden helmet and armor too. “He’s coming after us!”
Skyhigh throttled the engines and the dragonfly sprinted forward. “He’ll have to catch us, then,” he said, and slammed the craft into a steep dive, right through the storm of arrows.
“Why?” Moth wondered. He clutched his seat with white-knuckled hands. “Does he know I’m in here?”
“Keep a lookout!” ordered Skyhigh. “Where is he?”
Moth could barely turn his neck to see. Artaios and his burning sword were gaining like a meteor.
“He’s right on top of us!” he shrieked.
Skyhigh cursed and pulled up in a tight loop. For one quick second they glimpsed Artaios through the top—now bottom—of the canopy, changing course in a fluid arc and coming at them once more. Head to head, Skyhigh only had a moment. He lined up his guns and squeezed the trigger, spraying a fusillade of lead. Undeterred, Artaios kept on coming. He weaved through the bullets, raised his sword like a jousting lance, and put it through the dragonfly’s nose.
Metal screamed. Moth cried out. “Hold on!” Skyhigh shouted. “I got it!”
But he didn’t have it. They were going down.
Artois watched, stunned, as the dragonfly plummeted. For the briefest second he had seen something inside the craft, something he hadn’t expected.
Moth . . .
He hovered helplessly as the dragonfly went down, not even seeing the bolt until it struck him. Jorian’s glowing arrow slammed into his back, sending him tumbling through the sky. Artaios flexed his wings, shook off the shock, and spiraled down after Moth. Below him, another lightning bolt appeared.
Rendor tumbled, sliding across the floor as the ogilorn took hold of the Avatar. Men were firing their guns and shouting. A sliver of daylight shone through the open bridge as the ogilorn’s pink flesh pressed against the ship. Rendor kept hold of his rifle, managing to roll himself onto his belly. He fired off another shot, as ineffectual as all his others. The Avatar shook as the tentacles closed around her, the eerie noise of rubbery suckers pulling at her sheathing. Donnar stumbled across the deck, dropping down near Rendor.
“Order the swell!” he barked. “Now!”
Rendor looked at his friend, unable to speak. They stared at each other. Rendor nodded.
“Bottling, do it!” Donnar ordered.
Still at his station, Bottling steadily pushed the lever forward. A faint hissing noise filled the bridge as the Avatar’s envelope swelled with volatile hidrenium.
Jorian and Fiona had nowhere to run.
Overhead, the sky turned black with Redeemers. Fairies and cloud horses blotted out the sun, and the Skylords circled like buzzards over the battlefield. Jorian and Kyros bounded over bodies. Protected by Tyrin’s double blades, they fired endlessly into the sky. Around them, their fellow centaurs fought on, snatching Redeemers out of the air and crushing them beneath their hooves. But Fiona knew their cause was lost. The Skylords were just too many.
“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 t
he 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.
A Skylord!
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.”
FALLEN ANGEL
“MOTH?”
In the dark, bleary world of his mind, Moth barely heard his name.
“Moth?”
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 w
hite 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.”