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Shadow star
Claremont, Chris, 1950-
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Publication Information:
New York : Bantam Books, 1999.
Physical Description:
467 pages : illustrations, 1 map ; 25 cm.
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In Shadow Moon and Shadow Dawn, George Lucas, creator of Star Wars, and Chris Claremont, author of the bestselling X-Men adventures, created a new world of myth, magic, and legend unlike any before. Now they bring their epic trilogy to an unforgettable conclusion in a novel of blazing imaginative brilliance... Elora Danan has done the unthinkable. She has slain the dragons that were the embodiment of the soul of Creation. It was a desperate act--the only way to save the dragons from the Deceiver, who would have used them to rule the Realms. Yet in Elora's possession are two last dragon eggs. To protect them, Elora spellbinds herself to her faithful companions Thorn Drumheller, the Nelwyn sorcerer and her sworn guardian, and Khory Bannefin, the long-dead woman warrior whose body is inhabited by a demon's offspring. It is a dire spell that ensures none of them will betray their cause...even at the cost of their lives. And if one of them dies, the magic of the eggs is lost forever. Pursued through a land of shadow predators by the dreaded Black Rose, the Deceiver's commando assassins, Elora and her allies must reach the free city-state of Sandeni. There they will be reunited with old friends: the brownies Franjean and Rool, the eagles Anele and Bastian, and the young warrior-scribe Luc-Jon. But Sandeni is besieged by mighty armies fueled by the Deceiver's sorcery, warrior wizards, and engines of evil magic. With defeat all but certain, Elora must convince the Sandeni people to continue the fight. What she doesn't tell them is that the greatest enemy lies within her. For the Deceiver is her own dark twin from a potential future of unimaginable evil that lies dormant in Elora's soul. And the only way Elora can stop the future is to befriend an enemy whose insatiable appetite for destruction could destroy all of Creation. Or is that, too, part of the Deceiver's plan? Seamlessly weaving together the many strands of this rich tapestry, Shadow Star is guaranteed to satisfy its many fans...and leave them breathless.

Author Notes

George Walton Lucas, Jr. (born May 14, 1944) is an American film director, screenwriter, producer, and entrepreneur. He founded Lucasfilm and led the company as chairman and chief executive before selling it to The Walt Disney Company on October 30, 2012. As a graduate of the prestigious Cinema Studies program of the University of Southern California, George Lucas represents the movie-educated generation of American filmmakers, which emerged in the 1970's, including Francis Ford Coppola, Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorsese, and Brian DePalma. Lucas's award-winning 20-minute student science fiction film, "THX-1138," and a student fellowship to work with Coppola, launched a career of unprecedented financial success. Backed by Coppola, he made a feature-length version of "THX-1138" (1971), then gained wide recognition with the release of "American Graffiti" (1973), a look at high school in 1962 whose rock-and-roll soundtrack set off a wave of 1950's nostalgia. Made for $750,000, "American Graffiti" grossed nearly $50 million. However, Lucas's "Star Wars" (1977) broke all box-office records and defined the basic terms of Lucas's legacy: Spectacular technical effects and a comic-book sense of adventure.

Lucas wrote the scenarios for the "Star Wars" sequels, "The Empire Strikes Back" (1980) and "Return of the Jedi" (1983), and later for the "Indiana Jones" films, but he handed over directing to others.

The American Film Institute awarded Lucas its Life Achievement Award on June 9, 2005. He has been nominated for four Academy Awards: Best Directing and Writing for American Graffiti, and Best Directing and Writing for Star Wars. He received the Academy's Irving G. Thalberg Award in 1991. The Discovery Channel named him one of the 100 "Greatest Americans" in September 2008. In July 2013, Lucas was awarded the National Medal of Arts by President Barack Obama for his contributions to American cinema.

(Bowker Author Biography)

Reviews 2

Booklist Review

The third, apparently concluding volume of the Chronicles of the Shadow Wars begins after Elora Danan has adopted dire scorched-earth tactics by killing the dragons that embodied the soul of Creation to keep them from being exploited by the Deceiver to rule the Realms. Now she has to guard the last two dragon eggs (losing either means disaster), lead her companions Thorn Drumheller and Khory Banefin (demon and all), assemble other allies into an effective coalition, and come to terms with the fact that the Deceiver may be her own evil twin. The power of the good-and-evil-twins concept has been proven in hundreds of tales, including a certain film project of coauthor Lucas'. Much of Shadow Wars' success, however, depends on seasoned sf, fantasy, and comic book writer Claremont's sure hand at turning archetypes into characters and realizing worlds of compelling power. --Roland Green

Library Journal Review

To prevent the great dragons from falling into the hands of the Deceiver, Elora DananÄwarrior, mage, and savior of the Twelve KingdomsÄcommitted a desperate act, slaying the great creatures over the objections of her trusted companions. Spellbound to her friends in order to preserve the two remaining dragon eggs and guarantee their future survival, Elora discovers that she has opened herself to an unexpected evil and placed herself in danger of becoming that which she most fears. The conclusion to Claremont and Lucas's fantasy epic, based on the events first popularized in Lucas's film Willow, serves up a wealth of sword and sorcery as well as a host of memorable, larger-than-life characters. Along with its predecessors (Shadow Moon, Shadow Dawn), this grand-scale saga belongs in most fantasy collections. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.



Thorn Drumheller stood in the heart of glory, yet all about him was desolation. "Elora Danan," he breathed, in a voice so faint and broken it wouldn't have done justice to a ghost, "what have you done? What have you done?" The air was still, but not with any absence of wind. To Thorn it was as if all life, all vitality, had been torn from it. The same held true for its scent. When he had arrived in this most sacred place there had been an edge to every breath, so keen a sensation he feared it would sear his lungs. He had never tasted air so pure, and yet so richly textured. It was a pale comparison, he knew, but he was most strongly reminded of wandering through a stand of old-growth forest, amongst trees whose lives were measured more in centuries than simple years. All that those venerable trunks had seen, all the earth that sustained them had felt, all the history of the beings that called that grove home, was wrapped up in that heady mixture. Here, was nothing. So simple a word, nothing. He never imagined it could be so terrible. The sand beneath his feet had sparkled before, its grains scattered thick with shards of crystalline fire that glittered with a radiance all their own, like the embers left from a celestial hearth. The same held for the rock of the escarpment that ringed the caldera, this bowl of a volcano as ancient as it was huge. The crater was more than Thorn could grasp. He simply didn't know numbers big enough. It would take him days to walk from where he knelt to the wall of jagged, saw-toothed peaks that surrounded him, yet even so the ridgeline towered higher than most of the mountain ranges he had seen, including the fabled Stairs to Heaven. There had been fire in that stone, pulsing as fiercely as the blood did through his own body. Now, nothing. Atop every summit of that promontory had stood a dragon and the memory of that sight sent chills along Thorn's spine. He was a Nelwyn, born to one of the lesser races of the Realm of Lesser Faery, whose role in the scheme of things was said to be as modest as their stature. For most of his days he'd been a farmer, a simple, structured life for what seemed a simple, structured man. He had a wife he loved, two children he adored, and believed himself content. Dragons were the stuff of legends and adventures and that had no truck with Nelwyns. Until one came to him fifteen years ago in the dead of night, in what he thought then was no more than a dream--for that was how dragons, creatures wholly of the Circle of the Spirit, visited those races who lived on the more physical planes of existence--to steal him from hearth and home and set his feet upon the path that ultimately brought him to this place. He had never ridden the back of a dragon before that night. Now he wondered if he ever would again. Here was where they lived, the seat of wonder and imagination. Here, according to all the stories and beliefs of all the races of all the Twelve Great Realms, anything was possible. If Creation had a soul, this was said to be its home, and the dragons were its embodiment. Only the dragons were no more. Thorn had seen them slain. And now, the killer was walking straight toward him. She didn't look the part, and that had nothing to do with her dancer's costume. Her skirt hung low on her hips, generously cut to allow the fullest range of movement, while a bandeau top covered her breasts; both were dyed a scarlet so dark it seemed almost black, the color of night-washed blood spilled in passion, that formed a stark and dramatic contrast to the gleaming silver of her skin. There was no outward warmth to her appearance. She resembled none of the races he knew, not her own Daikini nor any of the myriad tribes of Faery. It was as though someone had captured the essence of moonlight, wrapped it in human form, and given it life. She moved with the sleek and arrogant ease of youth, propelled by muscles that had yet to suffer the touch of time or injury. Despite all she had endured in her sixteen years, there remained an air of innocence about her, the same sense of renewed hope and possibilities to be found in a highland meadow washed by the first gentle rains of spring. There was pride to her step as she approached, and such a look of joy and wonder on her face that Thorn questioned if she was mad, or hoped in some small and hidden part of himself that he was instead, that this would turn out to be no more than the most awful of nightmares. By his side, Khory Bannefin stirred, the timbre of each breath making plain to him how badly she'd been hurt. They had come to this hallowed ground--the Princess, the Warrior, and the Mage--to try to save the dragons from a sorcerer who'd sought to claim their power for his own and through it dominion over all the Realms, who'd set himself as Elora's sworn enemy almost from the moment of her birth. In that, they had succeeded. The Deceiver had been driven from the field without his prize. But to Thorn, the terrible cost had made their struggle and sacrifice a mockery. Victory had burned to bitter ashes in his grasp. A battle had been won, and as a consequence perhaps all the world lost. "Elora Danan," he called again in a hoarse cry whose passion flogged him to his feet to face her, "what have you done?" "What was necessary," she replied. "You killed them. You killed them all." His words described the act but they could not do justice to the enormity of the crime. Neither language, nor even emotions, existed that could properly do so. "It was that, Drumheller, or let the Deceiver claim their souls and power." "You were born to be the Savior of our world." The accusation tumbled from him in a torrent, like water from a burst dam, and he had neither strength nor will to stop it. "Why is it all you do is harm?" She blinked, and staggered stiff-legged to a stop, as though he'd physically struck her. In the whole catalog of responses he expected to his indictment, there was no listing for tears. They came suddenly, without preamble, a stark reminder of just how young the Sacred Princess was, still far more girl than woman. Her eyes grew round and the cords of her neck stood out from the effort it took to keep from bursting into sobs. She stood very straight, to her full height, like a sapling that had taken a terrible shock but was determined not to be uprooted, no matter what. When she spoke at last, her voice was low, its cadence measured. "You're hurt, the both of you," she said quietly, ignoring both his words and the tone of voice that sharpened their cutting edge. "Let me help." "Works for me," Khory said before Thorn could speak. "I could use some." A belt of tooled leather decorated with intertwined knotwork encircled the waist of Elora's skirt, fastened by a buckle that blended iron and silver and chips of lapis lazuli in a design that Thorn for all his knowledge didn't recognize. From the belt on either side of her hung a pair of well-worn leather pouches. Elora had made the bags themselves under Thorn's tutelage, the first things the young Princess had ever produced by her own hands. The magic in them came later. She knelt beside Khory, moving gentle hands across the older woman's body to determine the scale and scope of her injuries. Thorn remained standing, a body's length distant, leaning heavily on his quarterstaff. Khory and their foe had gone toe-to-toe in single combat, a display of swordfighting skill that even memory couldn't do proper justice to. It was no duel of finesse or elegance. Neither gave the slightest ground, the one found wanting would be the one to fall. It should have been the Deceiver. Khory managed to disarm him but before she could follow up that advantage with any kind of killing stroke, their foe struck out with a casual sideswipe of the arm that struck Khory like a hammerblow, sending her crashing into this jumble of rocks hard enough to break bones. Then, it had been Thorn's turn to enter the fray. Where Khory fought with steel, he used magic, lashing out with all the sorcery at his command. He clapped fire from his hands and when that didn't work summoned the sand to life beneath the Deceiver's feet to entomb the fiend. He called lightning and hurled all the raw elements of nature into the fray, mixing spells with a madcap invention that defied sanity and had no regard for the consequences. In this haven where dreams could be made real, for good and ill, Thorn found no limit to his abilities. He gave full vent to a lifetime's rage, to grief, to hatred. He conjured lances of solid air and laced their cores with poison, before handing them over to creatures so foul and vile that the sight of them alone would have been sufficient to shrivel the souls of ordinary folk. He summoned forth the darkest aspects of himself and sent them forth to battle, without restraint, without mercy. He went willingly to the place within himself where no decent, moral, sane man would go and let loose the parts of him that could do evil. All for nothing. The Deceiver could not be killed, could not even be harmed, with his own weapons. That left Elora alone to face him. The dragons cheered her as their champion. And then, by her hand, they all died. Excerpted from The Shadow Star by Chris Claremont, George Lucas All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.