“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.