Fá smiles.“The power of blood is like the power of a crown. It is an illusion. There are deeper truths you do not yet grasp. Sacrifices I have made to become what I am.”Again, he looks sad, and he touches her face.“You have led in war, but you are still like snow. Now is not the time for mercy, granddaughter. Now is the time for you to prove what you are. To them. To me. To yourself.”He pauses.“To the Allfather, most of all.”
Volga frowns in worry. “I don’t understand.”
A gong sounds, followed by several more. Ascomanni with strange helmets begin to drone from their place atop the acropolis’s roof. Fá glances up at them in annoyance.“Shamans. Ugh.”Jarls playing in the garden begin to find their way back to the table. The Ascomanni move with excitement, the Volk in annoyance.“First, another mythic feat for the small minded. The Holy Kill is upon us. To your seat, daughter. All will be made clear.”
Fá’s bodyguards take custody of me and drag me toward Sigurd as Volga takes a seat at the high table. When the jarls have all returned to their seats, Fá jumps onto the table. The added weight from all the jarls leaning forward on it has ended the misery of the Golds beneath it.
“My jarls of war! Invincible brothers! Sons of Kuthul! Brothers of Ragnar! For three hours we have feasted, ten more lie before us!”The Ascomanni roar. Some of the Core Obsidian join them.“Now the Allfather, who has delivered Europa’s bounty unto us, hungers for our sacrifice!”Ascomanni shamans drift down from the acropolis’s roof to cry out a song and fall to their knees shrieking prayers. Slaves file out carrying entire trees, which are stacked before the shamans. When their chanting reaches a crescendo, fire leaps up from the stacked trees. Like magic. The shamans’ chanting subsides, and a hush falls over the crowd. Fá has raised his palms, calling for quiet.
“On Io, Jarl Volarus claimed the honor of the hunt! We feasted on Abraxes, mightiest drake of the Raa herd. Yes, we ate of his heart and flesh, and pitched his organs in the volcano Prometheus in offering to the Allfather.”
He flourishes his scale cape and then thrusts the trident at a flat-nosed Ascomanni.
“On Callisto, the honor of the hunt was claimed by Ramanar the Ice Blood. And we feasted on the mighty ghost raptor Fenoracius and ate his heart and flesh and burned his organs in offering to the Allfather. On Europa, the honor has been claimed by Jarl Gherala of the Third Band.”
He turns to a lean Ascomanni of his own height.
“Jarl Gherala, I starve like a slave. But you, my most loyal jarl, you have brought me the fallen King of Europa to feast upon! You have wrested him from his ocean throne, dragged him up from his watery lair. Where is he? Where is Cyaxares?”
69
LYRIA
Hour of Hunger
Ifeel like I amwatching a Violet drama.
Jarl Gherala points his spear at the sea. Engines rumble and a gravskiff rises up from the sea, up and up toward the acropolis. It is an immense machine, maybe two hundred meters long and just as many wide. Its edges are gilded in gold and silver. Maybe the surface is too, but it’s hard to tell because a beast covers it end to end.
A leviathan thrashes beneath chains. Its body is black and gold and nearly too large for the altar. Its central face is like that of a shark. About ten meters behind its neck sprout fin-like appendages, each with their own eyes and mouths at the end—smaller than its central face and the mouths more like the beaks of squid. Its midsection is swollen like a whale’s and tapers to a long, thick tail with three dorsal fins. Lidless milky eyes stare out.
Even Sigurd flinches at the power of its thrashing.
Jarl Gherala watches it with cool satisfaction. He cries out in Nagal: “Only kings may kill kings. My lord Fá, the honor is yours.”
Fá twirls his new trident and heads for the gravskiff. As the shamans chant, he jumps the gap between the acropolis and the skiff. He may be old, but he’s as nimble as an acrobat. Using the chains that bind the beast, Fá climbs until he stands just behind its main head. He laughs and rides its bucking muscled body. Its smaller mouths snap at him.“Allfather! I offer you this stain!”Fá cries and brings the trident down.
The beast struggles so hard against its chains Fá nearly falls off. A link of chain snaps and hits the acropolis with a crack. Stone showers andthe Ascomanni bay. Fá plunges the trident down again and again in a terrible frenzy.
The leviathan wails so loudly even the carrion birds flee. It gives one last thrash and falls still. Its last sound is lonely and filled with three hundred years of sorrow. I look at Volga. She’s looking away. What is wrong with her? How can this be right to her?
I want to scream.
There are tears in my eyes. I don’t know why. Sevro told me Cyaxares was three centuries old and I thought it scary and horrible back in the ship, but part of me feels like Europa’s soul has died today. Fá doesn’t give a shit. Life doesn’t matter to him, only the taking.
Slick with ichor and blood, Fá slides down the dead beast’s side and returns to join his jarls. Anything that was kingly about him is gone for me. He took what he wanted, both the credit and the high of the kill. He doesn’t even harvest the meat himself. Coming from smaller secondary skiffs, hundreds of enslaved Reds rush onto the altar with spiked shoes, saws, and cleavers. Several Brown butchers direct their works. The Ascomanni shamans join them to oversee the butchering.
I feel ashamed even for watching.
Fá walks back across the table dripping blood and ichor behind him. He does not return to his throne. Instead, he stops in front of Volga as a dozen figures are led out from one of the acropolis’s buildings by his bodyguards. Captives. There are twelve. One from each Color, except Red and Obsidian. Sigurd and I look at each other at the same time.
“Shit,” he murmurs.
“What’s happening,” I say.
The bodyguards array the twelve captives before the high table. Sigurd and I are shoved out to join them. The heat of the bonfire sends sweat trickling down my spine.
“What’s happening?” I ask Sigurd.
