Through a squall of dust, I see a Violet woman in a grove of silver-leafed trees. Her eyes are closed as she plays a harp. She is pale with long, elegant limbs. She wears a maroon silk tunic and headscarf. In her lap lies a long, dark knife.
We push on, accompanied for a little while by her song. The stone grottos and parks of the acropolis seem deposited from an older, grander age. Except for the music of birds and the shuffle of alien creatures in the trees, they are lifeless. The Brown growers have fled. So too have the guards of the acropolis, likely to help with the evacuation or the defense.
We pass a black stone building with ten sides. Its sides are open. Through the black columns, I glimpse a dozen white-bearded Golds sitting on the stone benches in its center. They are silent and still as statues. They watch the sky through the open roof, their razors in their laps, their dolphin rods leaning in the nooks between their shoulders and necks. Their white hair stirs in the breeze.
Then we are past and entering a grove of trees amidst which lie black stone shrines shaped like pyramids. Sigurd is still watching the sky. Cassius peers around. I pant for breath. “Where are they, Sigurd?” Cassius says.
In his Obsidian armor Sigurd no longer feels like a friend, but when he turns, his eyes are hard and focused. “Cassius, they are close. But you must leave now.”
Cassius pulls out his razor. “I think not.”
“Ascomanni have landed on the acropolis,” Sigurd says and taps his communication link. “Your armor. They will want it. They will know you are Gold. You will ruin the mission. They will not attack me. Go.”
Cassius looks at me in fear. “Your friends are close?” I ask Sigurd.
“Very.”
“Cassius, go,” I say. “Go.”
He strides to me, kisses the top of my head, and his armor turns dark as the night. Wind whips around us, and he’s gone into the sky. Sigurd sees something back near the black building with ten sides. I see it too, shadows descending through its open roof. He motions me back, and searches the sky. “Brothers, hurry,” he whispers into his com. Then to me, “Go to your knees. Say nothing. They come.”
His helmet slithers up to hide his face. He’s already cut off his Helm’s beautiful horns to hide his identity. He pulls the axe from the mag holster on his back. I go to my knees, trembling in fear. The leaves rustle. Thunder rumbles. Metal clinks toward us through the grove. I sense eyes on me. I twist my head. A small, almost childish figure watches me from the top of one of the black shrines. It wears light armor that drinks in the light and pulls something from its back to mark the pyramid with a symbol in white paint.
“They’re claiming loot,” Sigurd murmurs. “You are mine. Do not run. Do not speak. And whatever happens, do not look them in the eyes or they have to kill you.”
Lean warriors stride through the trees. They are tall, lanky, with long spears. Their skin and armor are painted dark red. I dart my eyes to the ground.
A frigid voice calls in broken Nagal. “You are lost…warm brave. Alone. Tribe? Name?”
“That’s for my brothers. My sisters. My jarl. Not for you.”
“You…Fifth Ring. We…First Ring. This city…claimed. Leave all treasure. Slave too. Or lose skin.”
“You can go have sex with a goat.”
“Skin it will be.”
Feet crunch dried leaves. Metal rasps.
“Sixteen on one? Fight me with honor,” Sigurd growls.
I resist the urge to glance up. My eyes almost meet one as he sniffs the ground where Cassius took off.
“Names fight Names. You have none…but thief.”
The sky whistles. I look up just as two mounds of metal land with a bang that almost knocks me over. “Oy, reptiles! You found our lost brother!” a big, happy voice bellows. He is a wide man and plants an axe on the stone. “Name’s Gudmund the Jolly. We’ll be taking our brother now. Unless you want to make a thing of it? What do you think, Fenrir? Should we make a thing of it?”
The Ascomanni turn to peer at the thinner, shorter Obsidian. Fenrir’s face is covered, but he wears a black Pegasus Legion helmet. The horse head slithers into his collar to reveal a long face bearing the skull tattoo of a Stained. The Ascomanni tap their spears on the ground. Respect?
Fenrir asks something softly in a strange language. No one replies. He says something again, and the Ascomanni melt away to loot the shrines. The Obsidians stare after them, their guard still up.
“What did you say?” I whisper in Nagal.
Fenrir looks down at me with little affection. One of his eyes is black, the other a green-hued techjob. His nose is flat. His lips scarred. He is terrifyingly calm.
“I asked if there was a Name here, or if anyone would like to make one,” he replies in Common. He looks to his brothers. “They’ll pass the word. We should flee, before one shows up.”
Gudmund bends to help me up with a jolly smile as a lean corvette approaches above. “Arms or back, lass,” he offers politely. I clamber onto his back, and he takes off toward the corvette.
* * *
—
I sit in the back of the corvette’s garage with my legs out the open door. The sea rolls beneath. Heraklion is already lost in the distance. At times I see the light of a passing ship on the horizon, a flare of atmospheric descent, or a flash from a bomb. I wonder about my friends. I don’t see how they can possibly stop this.
Sigurd approaches and squats beside me. “I must leave now. I thought my absence would not be noticed, but there is a mark on my head. Fá knows I surrendered to Darrow. Gudmund and Fenrir will take you straight to Volga’s ship. She is not far.” He sees me looking back at them in worry. “You can trust them.”
“It’s not them I’m worried about,” I say. “Thank you for helping.”
He cocks his head. “You help us,” he says. “It is our people who should thank you. Unnatural or not, Volga is the blood of Ragnar. The longer she is under Fá’s sway, the deeper we fall away from Ragnar’s dream. We must return to the sun, and the smiles of our mothers. We must have a queen. I tire of kings.”
“For the Republic,” I say and stick out my hand. He takes it.
“For the Volk too. Good luck, Lyria of Lagalos.” He says farewell to his brothers and flies out the back. I don’t know these men. They could deliver me wherever they want, or just dump me into the sea. Fenrir glares at me like I spat on his boots. Gudmund pops down beside me eating a sausage. He hands one to me. I pass, nauseous with dread.
“How long till Volga?” I ask.
“Forty minutes. She leads a hunting party.” I nod like I know what that means. “Cimmeria, huh?” he asks with his mouth full of sausage.
“South pole, huh?” I reply.
He thinks that’s funny. “This place is terrible. I cannot wait to go home.”
“What do you miss most from Mars?” I ask.
He scratches his beard and his plump face lights up. “The parades! I look so glamourous with ribbons in my hair.” He pulls out a long wire and winces. “I’m sorry, but we must deliver you like loot.”
“Of course you bloody do.”
67
LYRIA
Volga