John Marco: Starfinder

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.”

“No!” railed Artaios. “They go!”

Rakuiss relented, pushing Moth aside. “All right, my lord,” he said. “Yes.”

He scooped Artaios gently into his arms, then winged skyward toward his waiting chariot. Without a word, his fellow Skylords followed.

LADY ESME CARRIED FIONA far from the fighting, setting her down on a hillside overlooking the battlefield. The flight left Fiona breathless as she tumbled into the dandelions, then watched Esme drop soundlessly to the ground. The beautiful Skylord said nothing as she observed the unfolding battle. She sat down among the flowers like a child, wrapping her arms around her knees and her delicate wings around her shoulders. Fiona approached her carefully, wondering why she didn’t speak.

“Esme?”

The Skylord tilted her golden head. Her brilliant eyes flicked toward Fiona, then back to the battle. The strangeness of her unnerved Fiona.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” asked Fiona.

Esme smiled. “You are Fiona.”

“That’s right.” Fiona knelt down beside her in the dandelions and buttercups. “You saved me. You brought the dragons to help us, didn’t you?”

Esme’s gaze tracked upward, toward the dragons burning up the sky. Out on the field, the centaurs had regrouped. Fiona heard the keen of Jorian’s horn, but could not make him out among the throng. The remaining Skylords flew in confused circles, some of them abandoning the fight. Her uncle’s airship pursued them, joining the dragons in the hunt.

“Who are they?” Fiona asked, gesturing toward the dragons. “Are they Merceron’s friends?”

Esme looked unhappy. Frail, too. The garments she wore were haphazard, obviously thrown together just for modesty. But she really was beautiful, and Fiona had no trouble understanding why Leroux had loved her.

“Dreojen?”

Esme pointed toward one of the distant dragons. Fiona smiled. Merceron’s mate was smaller than the others, but still a powerful, magnificent sight. Suddenly she remembered the mask Jorian had drawn on her face.

“Esme, you have to take me back,” she said. “I can’t stay here. I belong with the others.”

Esme grimaced as she watched her fellow Skylords tumbling from the sky. “You will stay here,” she said. “Safe.”

Fiona couldn’t understand. “Hey, you brought them here,” she said. “What did you think would happen? You should be down there fighting with the dragons. We both should.”

“I am a Skylord,” said Esme. “I could never harm another.”

“After what they did to you? Huh. I’d be glad to fight them if they did that to me.”

Esme had no answer for her, or if she did she didn’t speak it. For Esme, speaking came with effort. Fiona supposed it was from being a bird for so long.

“Okay,” said Fiona, standing. “You can sit here and watch if you want, but I have to go.”

Esme reached up and seized her hand. “No.”

Fiona pulled free. “Esme, I have to! I promised I’d fight with them. I can’t just run away.”

“The battle is done,” said Esme. “You will stay here. Stay safe.” Her eyes fixed on Fiona, determined. “I will protect you.”

With a sigh Fiona collapsed back into the flowers. If she tried to flee, she was sure Esme would just scoop her up again.

“Moth’s out there too, you know,” she said. “Why don’t you go and find him?”

“Moth is safe.”

“How do you know?”

“He is special to Artaios. He will not be harmed.”

Puzzled, Fiona tried to locate Moth on the field, but they were too far away to see much of anything. Up in the sky she saw the Avatar , but no dragonfly, and wondered if Moth and Skyhigh were dead.

“What will happen now?” she asked. “What will you do, Esme?”

The lady lowered her chin to her knees. “I do not know.”

“Can’t you go back to the other Skylords?”

“I am an outcast now. Artaios proclaimed me so.”

“Then you can stay here, with the centaurs,” said Fiona. “I’m sure they’ll take you, just like they did me. You’ll be a hero, Esme.”

“Hero?” Esme’s expression darkened. “I am a traitor, child. If I am ever remembered for anything, it will be that.”

BY THE TIME MOTH AND SKYHIGH had trudged back to the battlefield, the fighting was done. The dragons had chased off the two remaining ogilorns with the help of the Avatar , and Artaios’ leaderless army scattered like birds after a gunshot. Moth stopped at the edge of the field, horror-stricken by the sight. Centaurs and Skylords lay dead atop each other, frozen in combat, their bent limbs intertwined. Redeemers and fairies lay among them, wings twitching as they tried to reach the sky. Lost feathers tumbled across the grass.

Overhead, he watched the Skylords flocking back to Mount Oronor. The dragons broke off from the ogilorns. The trio circled high above the battlefield but did not descend.

“Why don’t they come down?” Moth wondered.

Skyhigh watched them with a shrug. “Dragons and centaurs don’t like each other much,” he said. He gestured out toward the middle of the field. “Look.”

Amid the carnage stood Jorian. He too stared up at the dragons. But he did not wave at them or call to them or blow his horn in thanks, and that baffled Moth. Jorian merely watched them, looking bemused. Finally, the dragons made one more circuit over the valley, then headed off the way they’d come.

“Oh…”

Moth felt himself deflate. He wanted to cry out to them, to beg them to come back.

“We should help,” said Skyhigh. He gazed exhaustedly at the bloody field. Moth straightened, determined not to be sick. He was a man now, surely. Facing so much misery, there was no way he could ever be a kid again.

Throughout the day Moth worked with the centaurs, bringing water to the thirsty and dragging the wounded away from the dead. Moth went where Jorian directed him, even offering aid to the Redeemers and fairies, all of whom rejected him. Those that could manage it pulled themselves from the field, beginning the long walk home to the Skylords, while others simply closed their eyes and died. Their sick devotion frightened Moth, because he knew the Skylords had abandoned them.

The Avatar limped back toward the village and did not return. As for Fiona, there were rumors that Lady Esme had returned, and that she had taken Fiona to safety. Moth worried about her but did not stop working, determined to remain on the field. He worked through the afternoon without a break, then into nightfall. Then, when he could barely stand any longer, he went to Jorian again. The Chieftain stood at the edge of the field. Moonlight blanketed the numerous dead.

“What else?” asked Moth as he slumped toward Jorian. His eyes were heavy, his back aching.

Jorian studied him. His stern face nodded. “On to me.”

“Huh?”

“We’re going,” said Jorian. “You have done a centaur’s work today, boy.”

He reached down his hand. Reluctantly, Moth took it and let Jorian pull him onto his back. As the Chieftain headed back toward the village, the rocking of his gait lulled Moth to sleep.

It might have been an hour or two or a day or two—Moth couldn’t say how long he’d slept. He awoke with the kind of heaviness that comes after being very ill, or very, very tired. He remembered riding on Jorian’s back. He remembered the battlefield and dreaming about all the dead. He dreamed about Artaios, too, but when he opened his eyes, the dream disappeared.