The biggest man at the table then adds, “Fá is their catharsis. Their rage on the worlds.” He opens his hands as if all I need to do is look out the window.
“The Ascomanni are simple,” Fergarus says. “They demand victory, food, and loot. Usually human. Managing the Volk takes up the majority of our time. They miss the sun. They are skeptical about Fá’s claims of making this their new kingdom. Not to mention, they are arrogant. They think moons are small potatoes compared with the planets they used to conquer under Tyr Morga.” They roll their eyes at each other, as if exhausted by that arrogance. “They say secret prayers to the Allmother, fearing their betrayal of Sefi will bring a terrible judgment upon them. And worst of all…” He looks at Atlas. “Many wonder if they should ever have left the host of Tyr Morga. The jarls would never dare slander their king, but the braves whisper and pout like guilty children who chose the wrong parents after a divorce.”
“And how do you combat that?” I ask.
“A mixture of fear, momentum, loot, division, lies, bribery, public killings, but most important, spectacle and invoking their love of Ragnar Volarus.”
I sit back, overwhelmed at the complexity of the army I just assumed was a mindless host. I have also never seen Atlas so warm. What Ajax would have done for half the smile he readily gives any one of these Obsidians. But how could Atlas ever respect Ajax, who had everything and gave nothing to the Society when Atlas lived amongst these patriots who have given everything for a Society that would give them nothing in return?
“Well said, goodmen,” Atlas says. “As you can see, Lysander, the duty I set upon these Gorgons required them to be far more than mere soldiers.”
“Far more,” I murmur. “And they all get along. For a table of Golds like this…”
“We will make you one,” Atlas says and touches my arm. “When we get home, that is our first priority. And what of Volga, my friends? Does the Kinshield have thoughts?” The men grow quiet. “Come now, brothers. Young Lune and I have heard your opinions on everyone else.”
They are spared from answering when a roar comes from outside.
Volsung Fá has returned from Sungrave, victorious, and he’s apparently brought a dragon.
* * *
—
Atlas and I witness Fá’s return with his Kinshield from the steps of the Arbor. Ensnared by a huge net, the dragon dangles from the belly of the Pandora. Its scales are iridescent black and purple. Its wings nearly translucent. It thrashes against the net in vain and lets out a mournful howl. It feels to me as if it is calling to its masters or its children. It sounds like it is weeping.
Fá descends from his flagship upon a giant floating altar loaded with chained Gold captives. Not one of the bloodied, chained Peerless draw the eyes more than the king sitting on his throne in his black, spiked armor, with his unshorn honortail, and his gold crown. The crown grows in size with every victory: purportedly, when Ascomanni shaman tear the sigils from the hands of his Gold captives, they melt them onto the crown, or onto his throne or even the altar itself.
A figure stands to the right of Fá’s throne throughout this performance—a shorter Obsidian woman, one of the only women I’ve yet seen in Fá’s host. Atlas informs me this is the object of the question that silenced Fá’s friends: Volga, the biological daughter of Ragnar Volarus, newly acquired from Mars. What must she make of all this? I wonder.
Fá’s affection for her is plain, and I watch the two with interest until I spot three Golds who are spared the violation of having their sigils scalped like the others.
They are all women—one old, one of middling age, and one a young girl. They are kept on leashes by Fá’s bodyguards. A cloud settles over Atlas when he sees them. One that deepens when the procession takes on spiritual overtones and the dragon is brought down from the Pandora to be butchered by Fá. Using his barbaric weapon, a great saw, he climbs atop the dragon and excises its man-sized heart. He lifts that mass over his head and casts it into a bonfire. Then the dragon is butchered, roasted, and fed to the braves. Spectacle, they said.
* * *
—
As the feast rages beneath, Fá meets us in his stateroom aboard the Pandora. I am shocked by the change in his appearance. He has traded his armor, his entourage of Ascomanni and Volk jarls, and the façade of a barbarian king for a beautiful purple silk kimono, bandages, and a glass of cognac. The glass is tiny and would be hilarious in his huge hands if not for his terrifying stature and appearance.
It is no wonder the Grimmuses once used this man as a stud bull. He is the pinnacle of Obsidian genetics. Gargantuan in size, but ropey with usable muscle, like an albino python. Nearly two heads taller than I am, with scars in shapes I’ve never seen before. One of his hands is metal with clawed fingers that he wears little caps on. His jaw is made entirely of metal too. A terrible burn has claimed one of his eyes, and the eye replaced with a tech mod. He sets his cognac down on a jade table, delicately.
He takes in Atlas’s Obsidian face with a smile. His voice is the deepest I’ve ever heard. “Allfather, you look positively barbarous.”
They laugh and embrace. Atlas pulls back to hold the man’s giant head between his hands.
“A brilliant show, old friend. You are the pride of cohors nihil. Your brothers and sister send their compliments. They miss you and the Kinshield dearly. You should hear them chant you on.”
“And I miss them. More than I can say. The Kinshield is always so busy putting out fires. A host just shy of a million, and not one genteel conversation to be had.”
When they part, they clap each other on the shoulders and laugh. Atlas notes Fá’s many bandages. “You’re wounded. Do you need any anti-toxins?”
“Not like on Mars. Sefi’s pestilence was itchy. These wounds are not grievous. My armor is thick for a reason. Sungrave is broken, of course, as you commanded. The Ascomanni are loading what remains of its populace onto transports. In three days, the city will be a tomb.”
“Well done. Well done indeed. But really, will you take that out? You sound insane.”
Fá detaches a device from his throat and sets it on the table.
“Ah, that’s far better. Hard to enunciate with that baritone.” The warlord’s natural voice is shockingly soft and sensitive. He’s a fraud. A consummate fraud. The only thing not fraudulent is his physical menace, which I think is actually enhanced by his obvious cleverness.
Fá’s eyes finally wander to me, curious and sparkling with intelligence. “Your bodyguard is not Obsidian either.”
“How can you tell?” I ask.
“Obsidians don’t lean in doorways,” he replies and nods to my shoulder against the doorframe. “Bad luck.”
I stand straight, and file that away. “I am not his bodyguard, at any rate. I am Lysander au Lune,” I reply.
“Are you? Are you really?” Fá asks, very intrigued. He squints at my Obsidian prosthetics, dubious, then laughs in delight. “So you are. Xanthus has outdone herself yet again.” Fá bows but does not kneel. “Dominus Lune. An honor to meet one of the Blood.” He raises an eyebrow at Atlas. “Am I to understand there has been a change of plans regarding the beneficiary of this endeavor, then?” He smirks. “Or has the new Lune come to banish us like the last Lune?”