FENRIR AND GUDMUND FLY out from the corvette into fog. I dangle beneath the duo hogtied to Gudmund by a wire. Wind gnaws through me. I flinch as a cliff of gray metal appears in front of us out of the fog. It takes a moment to realize it’s no cliff. It’s a warship, and a grand one at that. It flies low with its main lights off. Strange umbilicals connect it to the sea beneath.
Gudmund and Fenrir glide toward a hangar lit with red mission lights. Several hundred Gray captives stand at the hangar’s edge, all connected to a great chain with a hook at the end. A dozen wounded Golds stand to their left, also chained and guarded by Ascomanni.
Deeper in the hangar, Core Obsidians sprawl on looted purple couches. Their helmets are off, and like their armor, their faces are smeared with sweat and soot from battle. Passing around huge skeins of wine, they watch as a green globe floats over an Ascommani and a short Obsidian in brilliant black armor studded with gemstones.
Both seem important.
My eyes fix on the back of the short Obsidian. Their honortail is stubby. Their cape made of dragonscale. A dozen Ascomanni guards come to investigate our landing. Fenrir slips them a small pouch of gems and Gudmund eats a sausage while they assess the gems. Once the gems are approved, one of the guards returns with a very prim, very serious-looking Copper woman. Her head is shaved. She is branded with a winged symbol on her forehead.
“Lord Fenrir, you are out of position,” the Copper says in Nagal and references her datapad.
“Speak your own language, slave,” Fenrir replies in Common.
The Copper obliges. “Your assignment is north of the equator. What are you doing here?”
“We found something,” Gudmund says and waves down to me. “Lost property of your mistress. So she claims to be. We were going to sell her for labor, but we are conscientious men.”
“Ask your mistress if she’s missing a slave from Mars,” Fenrir demands.
The Copper scurries off toward the short Obsidian standing beneath the green globe. She whispers in the Obsidian’s ear, and the Obsidian turns.
For a moment I don’t recognize Volga. Her face is covered in war paint and her neck is tattooed with wings, but I know those eyes that follow the Copper’s finger. Though they are bitter and hard, they flinch when they see me. A shout of excitement comes from the Ascomanni at Volga’s side. A contact blinks on their sensor globe. The Ascomanni issue a low chant and somewhere in the hangar, drums begin to beat. Rolling their eyes, the Core Obsidians drink on.
Volga’s eyes harden as the Ascomanni beside her runs to the hangar’s edge toward the Gray and Gold captives. The Golds salute the Grays.
“Akari!” one of the Grays, a grizzled woman with a missing right eye shouts.
“Bear witness!” roar her men and salute the chained Golds as the Ascomanni reaches the edge of the hangar and kicks a huge metal hook over the side. Attached to the chain, the weight of the hook pulls the Grays along with it toward the sea. Long after they’ve disappeared, the Golds continue to salute in silence. Then the Ascomanni kicks their chain and they disappear one by one. Gleeful Ascomanni gather in droves to look down into the sea.
“What are they doing?” I murmur.
“Chumming the water for leviathan,” Fenrir replies. “Fá never lets a victory pass without a feast.”
“Nor do I,” Gudmund says and eats another sausage.
* * *
—
I am taken from the hangar by what seem to be Volga’s slaves—three heavyset Reds with collars on their necks. More slaves fill the innards of the ship. Blues, Oranges, Greens, Reds. All shuffling along in their collars to maintain the warship. Beneath the winged brands on their foreheads, their eyes are blank and refuse to meet mine. I wonder how long it would take here for my eyes to go blank like theirs.
I’m dumped in a stateroom. Inside is a trophy wall filled with a dozen razors and dragon’s teeth. The stress of the day has left me exhausted. I sit on one of the room’s couches and without meaning to, I fall fast asleep.
I dream of dark water and deep creatures until I hear a voice.
Sevro’s.
“—you don’t know me. I don’t know you. But the real tragedy is that you didn’t know your father.”
I wake to find a blanket has been draped over me. A voice comes from the table where, beside two leather sacks, Volga hunches over the holocube Darrow gave me. The message for Volga is not from him. It’s from Sevro. Volga focuses so intensely on the message that she does not see I am awake.
“You didn’t know him, so you have to listen to others tell you about him. You have to see him through their eyes. It’s a tainted picture. I’d know something about having a da like that.” He chews his lip. “I knew your father. Fought beside him as brothers. Volsung Fá didn’t. He knew Ragnar as well as you knew him. I was Ragnar’s family. His friend. So, figured I owed it to Ragnar to tell you who he was.
“Don’t buy the myth. He wasn’t a god. He wasn’t a messiah. Shit, he wasn’t even a good man for most of his life. He was a gladiator and slaveknight. A prized possession to one of the worst families out there. He did what he was made to do. He fought. He killed. He was a Stained. The butcher they send for the other butchers. And butcher he did, right up until Darrow chose to trust him. Darrow revealed his secret—the fact that he was a Red—to your father. Something he didn’t even do with me until I forced him into it. I was always raw about that. Darrow saw something in Ragnar. A latent goodness. A potential to lead. I don’t know. Whatever it was, he put his life in Ragnar’s hands long before that famous razor. It was the best bet he ever made.
“So, what did that butcher’s butcher do when his chains were broken? Did Ragnar make himself a crown from the shards? Try his hand at empire? Naw. That was beneath him. Your father built shields for the old, the small, the gentle, the low. That’s what he chose to be. A shield. Your da believed his people were part of a greater whole.
“Fá’s campaign spits on Ragnar’s name. Using power to enslave is the way of the Golds, Volga. Your father wasn’t great because he could kill. He was great because he dared to try and make a world where he didn’t have to. He was a protector, Volga. A builder.”
He stares awhile, away from the camera. I watch Volga. Her eyes are unreadable.
“I know Ragnar would be very sad to see the path his father has chosen for the Volk. Because it isn’t his father who has chosen it. It is Atlas au Raa. I’m sure you know the name. Your grandfather serves him. Maybe this is news to you. Maybe it is not. But either way, if you think you are making a kingdom for your people, you’re wrong. You’re just a tool of the Golds.” Volga frowns. “I know Ragnar would want this stopped. He’d want the Volk to return home to Mars and build something good. He’d have the Volk protect Mars. He’d have them led by a queen. You, Volga. Volsung has no right to lead, you do. You must throw off Atlas’s yoke. You must take your place as Queen of the Volk in the name of your father and protect the Republic.”
He sighs and scratches his goatee. “The Republic has not been good to you. I know it’s clumsy and ugly. I know you don’t trust Darrow. He’s a sinister shit at times. You’ve every right to be wary of him. But he was a better friend to your father than even I was. Bet on him, Volga. Bet on us. You stole our kids, and we’re willing to forgive. My wife made you an oath when she swam for Ulysses.” Volga swallows. “In the gens Barca, an oath given by one is an oath shared by the pack. If you choose to walk in your father’s footsteps, I’ve got your back till Vale come. But if you decide to walk in Fá’s shadow, Atlas’s shadow, it won’t just be Darrow you’ll have to worry about. The choice is yours.