“My father has forsaken me. Volga has forsaken you,” he replies, his eyes sad and fixed on his father, Jarl Skarde. “And we are about to die. Badly.”
“In a world of chaos, where it is all against all, strength is not measured in the power of a body nor the numbers of your host. Strength is measured only in what the heart can bear to attain its goal.”He peers around at his jarls.“What we are willing to sacrifice is the test of our worth. I have sacrificedeverything!”He glares atthem as if he hates them. His voice quiets.“That is why you follow me. That is why I am favored by the Allfather. That is why my son Ragnar awoke the spirit of the Volk. As I anointed myself with stains, so did he, so will you.”He turns to Volga.“Volga Volarus. Tonight, you takeyourPassage of the Stains.”
He motions Volga to meet him before the captives, where two Pinks wait with an onyx box.
He pulls out a horrible gauntlet crusted brown with old blood. Twice the size of his own hand, its fingertips end in sharp talons. He pushes it into Volga’s hands.
“Now is the time to prove your lineage, to wash away the taint of weakness upon you. Anoint yourself with their lifeblood. For the Allfather, take their hearts.”
My heart pounds in terror. I try to retreat, but someone holds me from behind.
Stunned, Volga stares at the gauntlet in her hands, then at the captives, then at me. Her eyes flee mine. “Who are they?” she murmurs.
Fá walks before our line to touch us one by one on the head, starting with the Gold and carrying on down the hierarchy.“Slaver, war profiteer, murderer, arms manufacturer, rapist, murderer, child lover, liar for the state.”On and on he goes down the line until he comes to Sigurd.“Traitor to his people.”Then me.“Rat.”
His hand drips ichor down my forehead. I recoil from his touch.
Volga’s voice is quiet. “Grandfather…I have proven my loyalty. Is my vow not enough?”
“No. It is not.”
Her voice grows harsh. “She’s my only friend.”
“She and the Republic are your past. I am your future. Choose.”Her shoulders sag and all life seems to drain out of her. Gentle, he grips her head between his hands.“You have killed in battle, it is true. But there is another kind of killing. A difficult but necessary kind. The killing of a captive or a foe who is at your mercy. There is no honor in it. That is the point: to take an honorless, necessary action. One that helps your people, but blackens your heart. Your sacrifice to your people is bearing the guilt of what must be done.”
“My father did this?” she whispers.
“And more. Are you above this? Above him?”His voice grows wounded.“Are you above me?”
He fits her right hand into the gauntlet. Its motor wheezes alive. The powered finger joints twitch like the limbs of an awakening spider and the hand of the gauntlet ratchets back over its wrist. Cocked and loaded.
“Do it upward, to your right of their sternum. Grasp, wait for the click, then pull.”
Fá steps back from Volga. My knees shake. Or maybe they’ve been shaking the whole time. I’m numb with fear. Dark stains spread down the pants of several captives. Not Sigurd’s, though. He stares straight ahead. I find strength in that and mimic him. Volga is still. Pinned under the gaze of Fá, the expectant silence of the jarls, the crackle of the flames, and the cutting of the leviathan’s meat. She swallows, then closes her eyes as if to find her strength.
When she opens them, I know I’m well and truly slagged.
70
LYRIA
Passage of the Stains
As the Reds behindher carve up the leviathan atop the altar, Volga punches the Gold sacrifice in the chest, just to her right of their sternum. The gauntlet disappears up to its cuff. The Gold gasps and jerks. Volga’s face contorts from the effort and she pulls the gauntlet free with a sucking sound. A heart the size of a grapefruit beats out from between the mechanized fingers. She gives it to a shaman and the Gold crumples to the stone. Golden flames leap from the fire when the shaman casts the still-beating heart into it. The Ascomanni sing like coyote.
I think I’m gonna shit myself.
Volga approaches a dark-skinned Silver man with a widow’s peak and narrow eyes.
I look the other way. On the altar far behind Fá, a team of Reds saws off the fins of the leviathan. Another works on its tail with ion cleavers. Others load the meat onto sleighs or harvest its eyes and teeth. I’m trapped in the violence. Everywhere I look: sawing and hacking and slicing and sorting. The Silver screams. I feel one welling in my own chest. Volga hands the heart to the shaman and the flames leap silver. The Ascomanni chant deepens. Volga moves to the White and then the flames leap white. Fá’s smile grows as Volga moves down the line. Volga stares straight ahead as she works.
Reds laboring on the leviathan’s middle plunge in ion blades and split open one of the leviathan’s stomachs. White scales, black flesh, and yellow fat peel back. The altar tilts. The Reds hold fast. Offal and chains of half-digested bodies spill from the stomach into the gap between theacropolis and the altar. Down out of sight into the sea. The altar flattens out and the Reds go back to work.
My eyes return to Volga to see her jerk the gauntlet from the Copper’s chest. He wavers there and his grunt becomes a whimper as she hands his small heart to the shaman. She moves on to the Blue before the Copper even crumples down. Four of the leviathan’s fins are already gone. Something has made the Reds around the leviathan’s second stomach stop. Their blades lower and they lean forward, washed in the blue light that dances out from the bonfire. Soon it turns yellow, then green. When the light becomes violet, several of the workers step back. One drops his saw. The other crews work on in the orange light. But when the light turns pale gray, the Reds at the stomach turn and flee. The shaman supervising the harvesting atop the beast slides down its flank to investigate.
The firelight turns muddy pink and the leviathan twitches. Volga’s so close now I can smell the iron in the blood as it dribbles on the stone. I look up at Sigurd. There’s fear in his eyes now. “Brothers! Can you not see! We are slaves now yet again! Atlas’s chains are upon us! Are you blind! Father! Father, look at me!” Skarde looks at his son as Volga takes his heart. Sigurd falls to his knees where he rasps: “Hail…” and tips over.
My hands shake. I can’t look up at Volga. The belly of the leviathan moves again. Swelling locally just beneath its chest. Like a blister’s forming.
