Starfinder

JORIAN’S LIGHTNING

EACH MORNING FIONA AWOKE in Pandera, she fought to stay asleep just a little bit longer. The comfortable bed of straw and the peace of the valley gave her a happiness she hadn’t known since her parents were alive, and her dreams were sweet with images of meadows and tall, protective mountains. Under Nessa’s care she had healed quickly, her bumps and bruises soothed by the unhurried days. As the wife of a Chieftain, Nessa’s responsibilities were many, but she always found time to involve Fiona, teaching her to hay the beds and mend cloth and to make the traditional bread each dawn.

Fiona, who was accustomed to having servants cook her food, found an undiscovered talent for bread-making. She loved the way flour powdered her hands and the way the dough felt as it rose, like the soft belly of a baby. Mostly, though, she loved the closeness she felt to Nessa. To Fiona, Nessa wasn’t just a centaur. She was also a strikingly beautiful woman, the kind Fiona had always wished to be. The kind her mother had been. Even covered in flour, Nessa was beautiful.

This morning, as Fiona struggled to open her eyes, she reminded herself of her bread-baking duty. Nessa would be expecting her. She dressed quickly, washed in a basin, and proceeded outside to the cooking hearth where Nessa was already kneading dough. A handful of others had gathered to help, mostly young males and females. Fiona knew them all by name now. They greeted her excitedly, still amused about having a human in their village.

“Sorry I’m late,” said Fiona as she sidled up to Nessa. “I overslept again.”

Nessa, who never got angry, merely grinned. “Don’t get your hands dirty,” she said. “You won’t be helping us this morning.”

“Huh?”

A shadow fell over Fiona’s shoulder. She turned to see Jorian towering over her.

“Today you’re coming with me,” the chieftain announced.

Fiona looked up, confused. “I am?”

“Don’t be afraid of him,” laughed Nessa. “It’s time.”

“Time for what?” asked Fiona.

“For you to learn how to defend yourself,” said Jorian. His dark, humorless face didn’t even crack a smile. He reached into a leather sack hanging from his torso. “I made you this.”

The young centaurs gasped when they saw Jorian’s gift—a bow, roughly half Fiona’s size, made of shiny, knotty wood. A string of sinew stretched between its ends, giving it a taut bend. Fiona took the bow, surprised by the present.

“Thank you,” she said, “but I don’t know how to shoot a bow.”

“You didn’t know how to bake bread, either,” Nessa reminded her.

“I will teach you,” said Jorian. He patted his own bow, a much longer weapon looped over his shoulder. “Come.”

Jorian led Fiona to the outskirts of the village, then beyond the shallow wall surrounding it. Fiona followed a few paces behind, confused but trusting. They climbed a gentle hill where the wildflowers rose to Fiona’s knees. Jorian looked about, satisfied with the place. The sunlight shadowed his muscular arms. Fiona caught herself staring. The bow felt wobbly in her hand.

“You see the eagle?” said Jorian suddenly, his face turned skyward. Fiona snapped out of her daydream.

“What?”

Jorian pointed into the sun. “An eagle—do you see?”

Fiona squinted, catching a glimpse of the great bird wheeling high above the valley. “I do!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen any birds flying so high here. Merceron says they’re afraid to fly. He says the Skylords have forbidden it.”

“Birds are safe here,” said Jorian. His smile was proud, almost arrogant. “I rule Pandera, not the Skylords.” He looked down at Fiona. “Raise your bow.”

Fiona hesitated. “Jorian, I really appreciate you making this for me, but—”

“Listen to me, Little Queen—the birds know they can fly here. They know that I will fight for them. And I will fight for you if the Skylords come, and you will fight with me. Female or male, it doesn’t matter. All centaurs know how to use a bow. Now, raise your weapon.”

Fiona nodded, shaken by his words. She raised the bow up as she imagined she should, stretching out her arm. “Like this?”

Jorian crouched behind her, sizing up her stance. “Be comfortable. Keep your back straight but not stiff. I strung your bow lightly, but it will still kick back at you.” He wrapped his arms around her, gently manipulating her. “That tree is your target,” he told her, choosing the closest pine. “Stand in line with it, both feet.”

Fiona did as he directed, trying to find a comfortable stance. “Back straight,” she repeated. “All right.”

“Now your draw arm,” said Jorian. “Elbow up. Everything in line with the target.”

This was a bit more awkward. Fiona imagined drawing back the string, keeping all her gangly limbs as straight as possible. She closed one eye and targeted the tree. “Now an arrow?”

Jorian dipped into the quiver at his side. Instead of pulling out one of the long arrows for his own bow, he chose a smaller one. “You should always nock an arrow at the same spot on your string every time,” he said. “Lay the arrow in the rest…”

Fiona set the arrow onto the little bump in the bow. “Okay.”

“Now nock it in the string.”

“Okay.”

She started drawing back. Jorian stopped her, adjusting her fingers with his own, then told her to continue. Fiona slowly pulled back the arrow, trying to keep form.

“Push with your bow arm and pull with your draw arm,” said Jorian. “That’s it… good and straight.”

Fiona felt the tautness of the bow, the arrow’s eagerness to fly.

“Aim…”

The tree was only a few yards away. Fiona lined up perfectly. “I got it.”

“Relax your fingers,” Jorian coached, “then let go.”

Fiona held her breath and loosed the arrow. The bowstring twanged and the recoil pushed her into Jorian’s arms. “Whoa!”

She hurried toward the tree, expecting to see the arrow dead center in its trunk. Instead she saw a gash mark along its left side. And no arrow at all.

“I missed,” she groaned. “Where’d it go?”

“We’ll find it,” Jorian assured her. He rose up, looking pleased despite her failure. “Practice. You’ll get better fast. You have an excellent teacher.”

Fiona smiled but didn’t laugh. “Jorian?”

Jorian was already pulling another arrow from his quiver. “Yes?”

“If the Skylords come, you’ll have to give me up,” said Fiona. “No one can beat them. The dragons couldn’t beat them…”

“Centaurs are not dragons,” boasted Jorian. “Have I not told you I would defend you?”

“Merceron told us all about the Skylords,” Fiona argued. “They hate humans. They’re not going to let you keep me here.” She shook her head. “They’ll kill you if you try.”

Jorian handed her the arrow. “Take it,” he said, then un-looped his own bow from his shoulders. “I want to show you something.”

He retrieved another arrow, this one long enough for his own weapon. He set it into his bowstring, holding it all with one hand.

“I have no fear of the Skylords,” he said. “The Skylords fear me. Ready your arrow the way I told you. Aim into the sky.”

“All right,” agreed Fiona, not knowing why. She nocked the arrow, got herself back into her shooting stance, and pointed the shaft skyward, waiting for instructions.

“Good,” said Jorian. “Now watch.”

He nocked his own arrow, tilted his bow skyward like Fiona, and began to pull back. As he did his draw hand started to glow, first a faint yellow, then a burning orange encasing his entire fist. Fiona watched in shock as the fire ran from his hand into the arrow, setting it alight, turning its wood into something else, something more like lightning.

Jorian closed his eyes. “Shoot your arrow.”

Fiona pulled back her bowstring, aimed for the sky, and fired. The arrow whistled into the air, higher and higher against the blue sky.

“Watch it,” said Jorian. “Don’t lose it.” He waited, waited, then he let his own shaft fly, not opening his eyes until the lightning shot from his bow.

It moved impossibly fast, catching up to Fiona’s arrow, hunting it down like a hawk to a sparrow. High over the valley the two collided in a burst of fire. Little flaming bits of wood showered down, then disappeared.

“What was that?” Fiona shrieked.

“That,” said Jorian, “is why the Skylords fear me.”

The Skylords called it “Jorian’s Lightning,” a term that delighted Jorian. He explained the gift as a magic his father and grandfather had held before him, an ability of his blood-line to call down the fire of heaven. There was nothing an arrow shot from Jorian’s hand could not hit, he told Fiona, and no living thing that could withstand it. Fiona imagined the Skylords swooping down on Pandera and how easily Jorian could pick them off—one, two, three bolts of fire, all with his eyes closed.

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon she and Jorian practiced with her bow, sharing stories about their families and the places they called home. Gradually, Fiona got better with her bow. By the middle of the day she could hit a nearby tree every time. They walked deeper into Jorian’s valley, he pointing out places he’d explored as a child, she enthralled by every word.

Finally, when the time came for them to return to the village, Fiona didn’t want to go.

“It’s a long way back,” she said. She sighed dramatically. “A very long walk. I’ve been so sick lately…”

Jorian looked concerned. “You feel poorly?”

“Well, no, not really. It’s just a very long walk.”

She smiled, hoping he’d get her hint.

“You mean you want to ride me?” thundered Jorian.

“Can I? I rode horses a lot back home. I know I can do it.”

“I am not a horse!”

“I’ve ridden dragons, too,” countered Fiona. “Maybe me and Moth are the only people ever to ride a dragon.”

“Ugh,” scoffed Jorian. “What a disgusting idea. No wonder the dragons lost their war. You will walk, Little Queen. I’m not a donkey.”

Fiona shrank back, sorry she’d asked. She wasn’t really too tired to walk; she just wanted to climb upon such a noble beast, to really be a part of him. Like a real centaur.

“I won’t ask again,” she promised. “You’re right, you’re not a—”

She paused, sighting something over Jorian’s shoulder, a small black mass coming toward them from the mountains. At first she thought it was a bird, or maybe a Redeemer come to find her. Then, a moment later, she realized it was something far worse.

“Oh, no…”

Jorian followed her gaze. “What is it?” he asked, spotting the object.

Fiona felt her old world crashing with her new. Any second now, they’d hear the two big engines.

“The Avatar,” she said, barely able to get the word out. “My grandfather.”