“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 the 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.