John Marco - Starfinder

Artaios held the breastplate up to his face, studying himself in its polished surface. The metal swirled with golden hues, the very essence of the sacrificed Redeemers. They were loyal, he realized, and none of them had been forced to give their lives for him. They had done so willingly.

Loyal , thought Artaios. Not like Alisaundra.

“Seven souls,” he said softly. “Seven shots.”

“That’s right, and not a single one more,” said Ivokor. “Let the others do the fighting for you, Artaios. Stay as far away from Jorian as you can.”

“What?” Artaios glared at Ivokor. “Perhaps I should just go home to the palace. Would that be cowardly enough for you?”

“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.”

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!”