“I knew you would.Crafty sod. What is it then? Did you bring another of Portobello’s friends?”
“Bring me the heads of the men you killed. Now.”
“Prime.”He hurries into the transport and returns carrying the heads of the Obsidians he killed.“What now?”I spear them both onto my razor like olives.“Well. That’s grotesque.”
“We killed their war brothers. Best thing we can do is rub their noses in it, so they don’t just waste us with their assault ships.”
“Some plan,”he mutters.“These maniacs were in your army?”
“Compared to Gorgons they’re cuddly. They’re scoping us now, seeing the heads of their brothers on my blade. Once they get closer, they’ll see how good our gear is. They love gear, and they’ve never seen armor like this. That’s when I’ll reveal myself.”
He grows quiet.“Reveal yourself?”
“Yes. I’m something of a demigod to them.”
“Like Perseus?”
“More like Heracles.”
He turns on me.“And they callmearrogant.”
I shrug. “Have you ever had three hundred thousand Obsidian warriors chanting your name before falling in an Iron Rain?” He says nothing. “Then get behind me if you want to live.”
He gets behind me. I step forward with my razor held in my righthand. Distorted by the heat rising off the streams of magma, the warriors form a single, hundred-headed beast made of glinting armor and flapping fur. The beast dissolves as they envelope us and hammer down like half-ton nails until we’re surrounded by a dome of huge killers. Their warhelms are fused with gold sigil trophies. Their weapons are comically large. Axes and spears and rifles not even a Gold could wield with ease.
They are extremely displeased about the heads on my razor.
“Da Guffan und Trolnjr!”a berserker shouts. He points his long axe at two of the heads in my possession. He follows with a song-like requiem in Nagal. “Here have fallen Guffan and Tolnjr, Horns of the Pale Ram that broke Sungrave, and fell in the Wolf Rain upon Terra. Avenge them!”
That is as articulate as it will get.
A dozen of the braves howl curses, but their leader holds them back. Skarde is spindly for an Obsidian. He wears heavily battered green armor with a Boetian ram’s black horns bursting from his greathelm. He floats above us with the grace of a mermaid. His cape is grander than the ram cloaks of his men. It is purple and white. Dragon scale. The scales are still iridescent. Which means fresh. Very fresh.
Skarde was one of my old special forces centurions. He was not my favorite Obsidian leader. In fact, even Sevro found him a little creepy. While not as famous or terrifying as Valdir the Unshorn, Skarde is a tricky warrior and a solid tactician. Though callow at heart, he has the sort of low cunning that makes certain contemptible men utterly indispensable in war. Decisive, brutal, his greatest weakness has always been his dragon-sized greed and his planet-sized pride.
“The fact that he is here scavenging is good news. It means, in likelihood, that he’s off-grid,” I tell Cassius.
“Yes. Such good news.”
Skarde finally lands and calls out in a mixture of Nagal and Common, which more or less means: “By Brokkr’s bulbous cock, look at that armor! I need it. I want it. I’ll have it. True kin may have the first Gold, who killed your brothers. War kin may have the second Gold, who hides behind the first like a beaten whore. Do not damage the armor. No blunt weapons or plasma. Be not messy, my lads. The artificers must have something to work with.”
A dozen spear-wielders separate from the rest and come toward me. They’re not hurried in the least.
“Nak sada tjr na fan!”I shout before they are halfway.
They stop and look at one another, confused to hear their own language from a Gold, especially spoken in the accent of the Valkyrie Spires.
“Nan fada hyr kan. Du van sombrjn schleppen fan dag, Skarde.The one who touches me shall be castrated, if not first then you last, Skarde,” I add in Common. “You always were a slutty carrion dog sniffing about for extra vitals. Should have expected to find you squatting over Sungrave’s corpse. But abducting children? That’s new.”
Skarde is taken aback and puzzled by so specific an insult. He laughs, but it comes out like more of a titter. I imagine his piercing eyes narrowing, collecting, scheming from within his humid helm. He holds up a hand to halt his men. “Your armor is heavy. Of the Core, like your razor.” His eyes linger on the razor, thinking he recognizes it. “Do you know me from its battlefields, Gold? And how is it the accent of the Spires graces your slippery tongue?”
I laugh at him. He does not hate that. In fact, it intrigues him.
“When you sold your phalera for the Wolf Rain, I knew you weren’t sentimental, Skarde. Didn’t think you had a shit memory too,” I say.
Skarde releases his great spear from its back magnet, extends it to its full three-meter length and sets it on his shoulder. “Name yourself or I’ll stick this so far up your piss eye your father will feel the tickle in his bum.”
“Something like the Fear Knight did on Mercury then, eh, Skarde? To the Free Legions? To the men and women you once called kin in arms? Oh no. I forgot. You weren’t there, because you’re a faithless oathbreaking cur.”
