“No,” Artaios lied. “Just anxious to have this over.”
“Tell me to and I will end it,” said Rakuiss. “All we await is your order.”
Suddenly it seemed like all the Skylords and Redeemers stopped what they were doing. Artaios glanced around, impressed by the fortress, sure that Rendor and the Starfinder couldn’t escape. Oddly, the notion saddened him.
“Soon,” he told Rakuiss. “Now, though, let me go and speak with Ivokor.”
Artaios picked his way through the giant, filthy cavern, his eyes tearing as he approached Ivokor’s workshop. The sound of hammers and chains rattled his skull as he passed bare-chested gargoyles sweating over anvils and urns of liquid metal. Tiny, soot-covered fairies darted through the sulfurous air, their tattered wings barely able to sustain them. Through the haze of smoke Artaios spotted Ivokor across the foundry, hunched over his giant workbench. Pincers and clamps hung from pegs driven into the rock wall. Flecks of metal covered his hairy arms and sparkled in his mane. Dirty-faced fairies fluttered around him, handing off tiny tools. Ivokor growled as he ordered them about, barely missing them with swipes of his meaty paw.
“Ivokor,” bellowed Artaios. As he approached, he kept his wings tucked carefully against his back, afraid to brush or damage them against anything. Ivokor raised his feline head in surprise, letting a jeweler’s loupe drop from his eye.
“Artaios,” he said, wiping his grimy paws against his heavy apron. “Why didn’t anyone tell me you were here?” he griped, batting at the fairies.
“You’re getting old, Ivokor,” said Artaios. “You should have been able to smell me.”
“Who can smell anything down here?” Ivokor tossed aside his tiny hammer and waved Artaios closer. “Come. It is done.”
The fairies scattered as Artaios approached. Ivokor stooped and pulled a large metal chest from beneath his workbench, squatting down beside it, his tail swaying excitedly. Ivokor had the head of a lion and the strength of one too. His golden arms bulged with muscles, the same arms that had hammered out Artaios’ magic sword.
“I finished it just last night,” he said proudly. He waited until Artaios was hovering over the chest. “This time, I know I got it right.”
“Open it,” said Artaios impatiently.
A flick of Ivokor’s fingernail snapped the latch. Slowly, he opened the lid, revealing its dazzling contents. Artaios drew back, his eyes stabbed by escaping light. A golden glow poured from the chest, bathing Ivokor’s feline face.
“Seven souls,” he said, his voice crackling with pride. “Seven lives, just for you.”
Artaios beheld the golden armor, his fingers reaching for it through the shimmering. The breastplate pulsed with life. He could feel its soft heat, like breath against his hand. As his fingers touched the enchanted metal, the seven souls encased within it called out to him, singing in his mind.
“I feel them,” he whispered. He closed his eyes as he listened to the ghostly chorus. “So strong…”
“They will protect you, Artaios,” said Ivokor. “Seven times. That’s all. Seven shots from Jorian’s bow is all you can withstand.”
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.”
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.