Even Fá looks surprised by the exultation and the joy on the Ascomanni faces. His surprise turns to anger as he realizes the bind he is in. Volga has shed the gauntlet. She pulls Lyria to the side, distancing herself from Fá. He frowns after her and lifts his hand. His bodyguards shout for silence. It does not fall at once. Many of the Ascomanni finish their prayers to their Allfather before heeding their mortal ruler.
“Only an Obsidian can claimashvar,”Fá says.“You are no Obsidian. You are not even a Red any longer, Darrow. The Gold in your eyes has leaked into your heart. False prophet. Even your tongue is rotted. I know why you are here.Youare the thief. Come here to steal the power of the Volk for your own selfish aims.”He gestures to the dart.“You are lower than an assassin. Ragnar would weep to see how far you have fallen.”
“Glumnar, Fjod, Skarde!” I call to jarls I recognize. “You were there when I was made a son of the Volk beneath the Valkyrie Spires and the high stables. You saw the blood of Sefi meet mine. You saw the blood the griffin offered to stain the snow. You called me brother and gave me the touch of life. Do you deny me now?”
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. Formy 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. Andanybrave of the Volk, even if they be our enemy, may declareashvar. 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-derangedjarl 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 yourashvar,”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
