—
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
Fenrir and Gudmund flyout 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.
