Starfinder

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.

In a strange, ancient tongue, Jorian spoke. Though Moth didn’t understand the words, they’d already been explained to him.

“Come forth this way toward me, to the place where I stand. Come forth this way toward me. Come straight toward me.”

The ritual words were the ones every centaur heard once they were old enough to fight. As Fiona stepped forward, Rendor stood to watch her, his expression unreadable. To Moth he looked like an Eldrin Knight suddenly. Moth and Skyhigh stood as well, waiting their turn. Alisaundra shuffled closer to stand beside them. No one made a sound.

“Fiona, granddaughter of Rendor, friend to the centaurs of Pandera,” said Jorian, “do you declare yourself a warrior?”

Fiona lifted her white face, catching the moonlight. “I do.”

Jorian looked into her face, at the pattern the moon made on her, searching for the essence inside her. It might be a wolf, Nessa had told them, or it might be a river. It could be a tree, a butterfly, a flower, or a storm. The moon would reveal it. Fiona waited, never taking her eyes off Jorian, until at last the Chieftain saw the invisible spirit within her. He dipped his already stained finger into the pot, then traced it over Fiona’s face.

“I see wisdom in you,” he said as he drew. “A great fire of knowledge. I see bigness. I see nobility.”

When he was done he looked at his work. Satisfied, he turned Fiona toward the gathering. Moth looked closely, eager to see the thing Jorian had drawn. Two batlike wings framed her face, and over her eyes were another pair, cool and reptilian. Moth had seen eyes like them before.

“A dragon,” he whispered, almost incredulous. He beamed at Fiona, who seemed as shocked as he was by what Jorian had seen.

Now it was Moth’s turn. He went to Jorian and turned his face toward the moon, just as he’d seen Fiona do. When the Chieftain asked for his oath, he gave it proudly. He felt the moonlight on his face, the strange sensation of Jorian’s eyes boring deep into his soul. This wasn’t just a guessing game, he realized. Jorian had real magic, and would find whatever was inside him.

“I see,” Jorian said, squinting as he studied Moth’s face. “I see…”

What? Moth wanted to shout. What do you see?

Jorian dipped his finger into the pot. As he raised it a horrible screech pealed overhead. Moth turned to see a large, misshapen bird fluttering above the crowd, its storm-gray wings beating the air. A shockingly human head bobbed out of its feathered collar. Part vulture, part woman, the thing gave a cackling laugh as it descended, hovering just out of reach.

“Harpy!” spat Jorian.

The centaurs rose, drawing weapons. Alisaundra sprung to her feet, and Rendor pulled his pistol. Old Kyros quickly drew a bead on the creature with his bow.

“Dead you are!” laughed the creature. “Dead on the morrow!”

Alisaundra was almost in the air, claws bared, when Jorian called out, “No!” He waved his arms to calm them. “This monster brings a message!”

The harpy laughed. “The mercy of Artaios! That is what I bring!”

Moth had never seen a thing so ugly. Huge, bulbous claws hung down from its mottled body. A hint of breasts rose beneath its feathers. Saliva threaded from its female lips as it spoke, mimicking a human voice. The head was nearly bald, hairy in spots, vulture pink in others.

“Traitor!” it said, leering mockingly at Alisaundra. “Artaios has his vengeance planned for you. Unending suffering!”

Alisaundra’s fangs sprang out. “Speak your message,” she hissed, “then die.”

Her anger delighted the harpy. It fluttered higher, right over Moth and Fiona. Rendor aimed his pistol, ready to fire. “Jorian…”

“No, she won’t harm them,” said Jorian. He glared up at the creature. “You’re nothing but an errand girl. Skylords send the foulest muck to speak for them.”

The harpy flew closer to Rendor, taunting him with its talons. “You are the law breaker,” it said. “Human. Spreader of plagues. No mercy for you.”

Rendor’s finger trembled on the trigger. “I know all about Skylord mercy, miscreant. Want to see mine?”

Skyhigh rushed forward. “Rendor, don’t!”

The harpy bubbled, “Bring him the Starfinder! Artaios is kind. Give him what is his, and only the humans will die.”

“Not only humans,” retorted Jorian. He patted the bow at his chest in warning. “Tomorrow, Skylords will fall.”

“Spare yourselves this misery!” called the harpy. She hovered toward Jorian. “Give Artaios the Starfinder, and he will spare these children both! He gives his word on this, centaur. Surrender the Starfinder. For that you get your lives, and the lives of these worthless pups.”

Moth saw a flash of weakness in Rendor’s eyes. Slowly he lowered his pistol.

“No!” cried Moth. “If Artaios wants us, tell him to come and get us!”

“Right,” Fiona echoed. She pointed at her painted face. “You see this? I’m a warrior of Pandera now. I’m like a dragon! Tell the Skylords the dragons aren’t finished yet. They aren’t beaten. Tell them Merceron is still alive… in me!”

Rendor stepped toward her. “Fiona…”

“She has spoken,” thundered Jorian. “Rendor, we are not slaves, any of us.” He looked up at the harpy, and with a snort of disgust said, “Go and tell your master Pandera is for free people. Tell him we are warriors. If he wants the Starfinder so badly, tell him to come and die for it.”

The harpy beat its wings in frustration. “Tomorrow, then,” it spat. “Be ready for blood.”

From the corner of his eye Moth saw Alisaundra spring skyward. Both hands shot out, grabbing the harpy by the neck.

“You are done, messenger!” she growled.

In a frenzy of wings she bore the harpy higher, throttling it until feathers fell like rain. The harpy screamed, bones popped, and the creature fell limp in Alis’ claws.

“Alis!” Moth called, but it was too late. She was already flying off, carrying her victim with her.

“Where’s she going?” asked Fiona.

Rendor stuffed his pistol back beneath his coat. “To deliver a message of her own, probably.”

Stunned, Moth watch her disappear into the darkness, winging her way toward Mount Oronor. He didn’t move until Jorian touched his shoulder. He held up his paint pot.

“Say it again, boy. Do you declare yourself a warrior of Pandera?”

Moth stiffened with resolve. “I do!”

As the gathering watched, Jorian traced his cool finger over Moth’s face. Purposefully, quickly, the centaur drew, as if Moth’s essence was perfectly clear to him now. Moth didn’t move, not even to blink. He felt the presence of something inside him, rising up like a…

Like a bird!

Jorian stepped back. Fiona looked at Moth and smiled. Skyhigh grinned with a knowing nod.

“What is it?” asked Moth. “It’s a bird, right?”

“It is a bird,” said Rendor. He came in for a closer look. “Yes, absolutely.”

“Ha! I knew it! What is it? An eagle? A hawk?”

“I know that bird,” said Skyhigh.

“Yeah?” Moth looked at each of them, puzzled. “Well? What is it?”

Fiona took his hand. Her painted face glowed with warmth. “It’s a kestrel, Moth,” she said. “Just like Lady Esme.”