I thought they would rise up and support my claim. Fjod because his conservative bloc must be chafing against Fá’s decadence. Glumnar because he served as my personal attaché for years. Skarde because Sigurd lies dead on the ground. To my dismay, they remain silent, even Skarde. The shame on his face is total. Is their fear of Fá so deep? Or is it their distrust of me? Have I fallen so far in their eyes?
I have.
Not one speaks for me. They look down at their plates or into their wine. Fear holds them in its grip. Sevro sneers. “Cowards! Does not one of you have any balls?”
“Should we run?” Cassius asks. “That’s always an option. I can snag Lyria and—”
“No,” I whisper, eyes on Skarde.
“Come now,” Fá coos, emboldened. “If there is a man here who claims the false prophet as their brother, let them speak. Let your voice ring clear so that I might hear you, and may you stand tall so that I might see your face and know you speak not just for yourself but for your kin and tribe down to the children amongst them.”
I seek Lyria’s eyes and see in them fear for me. Volga is unreadable. And then a man stands. Though he is a fine warrior, the only thing he is more famous for than his greed or his cleverness is his cowardice.
It is Skarde and his face is calm, his temper even.
“I have no kin left to speak for, but I will stand tall so you might see my face, great King. I will let my voice ring clear so that you might hear me, great King. When you sentenced my son to death, I did not object. When your granddaughter delivered the sentence, I did not object. For my son—whom I adored—broke the laws of our people and went against his king. But when I see that king disregard those very laws, the laws that bound a father to silence as his son had his heart ripped out, not five minutes later. To that, I fear I must object.”
Every single Obsidian jarl turns to look at Skarde. “A warrior must say what he knows to be true. Every jarl of the Volk here bore witness to or has heard of Darrow’s acceptance into the tribe of the Valkyrie Spires. We did call him brother for many years. And according to the laws we follow”—he points to his son’s body—“Darrow is afforded the same rights as any brave of the Volk. And any brave of the Volk, even if they be our enemy, may declare ashvar. You may choose a champion, my King. But you may not say no and keep your throne. And if your champion is beaten, we must kill you ourselves.” He splays out his hands as if he’s sorry, but it cannot be helped. “That is the law of the ice. That is the way of the Volk. You are above us, but not our people’s law.”
Then the man’s eyes twinkle, and I know he hates Fá with all his cunning heart. He’s not done yet.
“I am no shaman, but surely, my invincible King, this is a propitious sign. Tyr Morga came from the sacrifice. Is this not a sign that the Allfather blesses this fight? Surely his death at your hand will wash away all doubt held by your Volk as to the dangers of the attack on the Deep. Kill the past.” His lips twist and he spares a glance to Volga. “For the Allfather.”
To make sure the stiletto really goes in, he translates the last part in the Ascomanni tongue. At least I think so, because the Ascomanni go wild.
Skarde faced several courts-martial in my legions. He escaped every one without having to hire a Copper lawyer. His argument to the jarls is as shrewd and cynical as it is effective. He cannot betray Fá outright without losing face and undermining his own conclusion, so he used the very traditions that bind the Volk and the very weapon Fá uses to uphold his throne: religion.
Obsidians do not think it right to criticize their ruler unless they are willing to fight their ruler. It creates a cult of silence. By the heads nodding, I see to my joy that the Obsidians are not all lost in the darkness. Skarde speaks for many of them. Volga watches from the side with shame on her face, fear for Fá, and fear of me.
Fjod is the second to find his courage. The hirsute, semi-deranged jarl slams the heft of his hammer into the ground twice, and roars for Fá to fight. Then the whole bloc of conservative jarls joins the famous madman. Then Glumnar and Uther and many of the rest. The Ascomanni were just waiting to take up the call, cheering for their king to embrace the Allfather’s gift.
Trapped by the religion he fed to his subjects and the martial code he used to seize the throne, Fá has no choice but to acquiesce. The Ascomanni sing in joy. “I accept your ashvar,” Fá rumbles.
I nod to Sevro and the dart’s payload deactivates. Fá plucks out the dart and picks his teeth with it. “Since I have honored your right, you must honor mine.”
All quiet. The danger to a challenger is severe. It comes when the challenged chooses the terms of the fight. They always favor their strengths. “Weapons?” I ask.
“Honorable.”
“Field?”
“Dome.”
“Panoply?”
He smiles with freshly picked teeth. “Full-metal.”
72
DARROW
Full-Metal Panoply
THE JARLS FORM A large circle and clear the ground before the high table. A world apart, Volsung Fá and I study one another as his Orange slaves equip him in his war gear. The spiked pulseArmor is the thickest kit I’ve ever seen. As soon as I saw it in person I knew my Godkiller armor wouldn’t win this for me. Cassius prattles in my ear while clearing my armor’s joints of leviathan guts, half-digested chum, and assorted gore. It wasn’t as clean an exit from our pod as the Kalibar’s marine biologist promised.
“In this gravity Fá’s mass won’t slow him much. He’ll use that mass to crowd you, especially under a dome. His armor is as thick as Sevro’s head. He’ll come close to put you on those spikes. It’ll be hard to get through his armor, so avoid the temptation to counter without power behind your blows. Don’t even bother slashing. Thrusts only.”
“He knows,” Sevro says.
“He’s stronger than you are, so don’t get pinned down.”
“He knows,” Sevro says.
“And whatever you do, don’t use your boots.”
I turn and look at him. “Why not? My boots are quicker.”
“It’s a trap. Whatever angle you take skyward, all he has to do is accelerate into you, then you hit the shield, and he smashes you until you are a stain. Do not go into the air. You are a razormaster. Not an acrobat.” He nods at me and I nod back.
Even in Europa’s paltry gravity, it takes three Oranges to ferry Fá’s giant weapon from his throne. The blade is almost as tall as I am. Skarde needs both his hands to take it from the Oranges. He waits by his warlord, along with a cadre of Obsidian jarls I don’t recognize. Nine of them wearing ruby amulets shaped like shields. Gorgons, no doubt. They peer daggers into the back of Skarde’s head, and I know he will not live long after backing my challenge. Cassius is agog at Fá’s weapon.
“A warsaw? Gods. That saw will eat your razor if it catches the whip. Reel you to the spikes—”
I turn on him. Cassius quiets when he sees the look in my eyes. “Remember, a circle is unlimited ground. Don’t get pinned down. Don’t go into the air.” I nod. He slaps me on the shoulder and lets Sevro pull him away to join the circle. Oranges finish securing Fá’s cuirass and move on to his legs and arms. He is big. He’ll be the biggest man I’ve ever fought. A full head taller than Apollonius. At least a hundred kilograms of solid muscle and steel heavier. That warsaw is unlike any weapon I’ve ever faced. One good sweep will take a limb or my life despite my armor. Godkiller is built for range, speed, flexible use. His warsaw is meant to break things.