The jarls form alarge circle and clear the ground before the high table. A world apart, Volsung Fá and I study one another as his Orange slaves equip him in his war gear. The spiked pulseArmor is the thickest kit I’ve ever seen. As soon as I saw it in person I knew my Godkiller armor wouldn’t win this for me. Cassius prattles in my ear while clearing my armor’s joints of leviathan guts, half-digested chum, and assorted gore. It wasn’t as clean an exit from our pod as the Kalibar’s marine biologist promised.
“In this gravity Fá’s mass won’t slow him much. He’ll use that mass to crowd you, especially under a dome. His armor is as thick as Sevro’s head. He’ll come close to put you on those spikes. It’ll be hard to get through his armor, so avoid the temptation to counter without power behind your blows. Don’t even bother slashing. Thrusts only.”
“He knows,” Sevro says.
“He’s stronger than you are, so don’t get pinned down.”
“He knows,” Sevro says.
“And whatever you do, don’t use your boots.”
I turn and look at him. “Why not? My boots are quicker.”
“It’s a trap. Whatever angle you take skyward, all he has to do is accelerate into you, then you hit the shield, and he smashes you until you are a stain.Do not go into the air. You are a razormaster. Not an acrobat.” He nods at me and I nod back.
Even in Europa’s paltry gravity, it takes three Oranges to ferry Fá’s giant weapon from his throne. The blade is almost as tall as I am. Skardeneeds both his hands to take it from the Oranges. He waits by his warlord, along with a cadre of Obsidian jarls I don’t recognize. Nine of them wearing ruby amulets shaped like shields. Gorgons, no doubt. They peer daggers into the back of Skarde’s head, and I know he will not live long after backing my challenge. Cassius is agog at Fá’s weapon.
“A warsaw? Gods. That saw will eat your razor if it catches the whip. Reel you to the spikes—”
I turn on him. Cassius quiets when he sees the look in my eyes. “Remember, a circle is unlimited ground. Don’t get pinned down. Don’t go into the air.” I nod. He slaps me on the shoulder and lets Sevro pull him away to join the circle. Oranges finish securing Fá’s cuirass and move on to his legs and arms. He is big. He’ll be the biggest man I’ve ever fought. A full head taller than Apollonius. At least a hundred kilograms of solid muscle and steel heavier. That warsaw is unlike any weapon I’ve ever faced. One good sweep will take a limb or my life despite my armor. Godkiller is built for range, speed, flexible use. His warsaw is meant to break things.
“I admired you in your early years, Slave King,”Fá calls to me and lifts his metal hand.“I too know the importance of taking more than nature gave me.”The Oranges finish fitting his legs and lock on his gravBoots—another armament he insisted upon.“Unlike you, I know nature cannot be changed. The strong will always prosper. The mighty will always conquer.”
I do not answer. Shamans come forward to paint our armor in the ritual bright blue of anashvarduel. They glaze it with paint wands, drawing runes in the leviathan’s blood.
I draw Bad Lass to duel-wield with Pyrphoros in my off-hand.I mean to keep Fá at a distance until I can deliver a sure blow.
“Here is my offer, dog,” I taunt. “Confess your crimes. Tell your jarls whom you serve, tell your ‘daughter’ there, and I’ll let you leave with your heart.”
He smiles, wily and confident within his castle-like armor. I summon my helmet up and bring my two blades together.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
“Confess,” I call.
Fá has no doubt killed too many men to count. For all those he’s killed, even more have tried to kill him and failed. But no man is the predator all the time. Even the best know there will come a day whenthey are the prey. I have been Atlas’s prey for years. I was Apollonius’s prey over Venus, and it terrified me. I will make Fá feel that same feeling for what he did to Sefi. For the perversion he has made of Ragnar’s dream.
“You serve Atlas au Raa. Confess.”
Clang. Clang. Clang.
“It will take more than your lies and needles to kill me.”
His armor powers on with a lion’s roar. He seizes his warsaw from Skarde and shoves him away. He hefts it with one hand and twirls its mass as if it were no heavier than a walking stick. The serrated edge of the warsaw becomes a liquid blur of vibrating teeth. He lifts his blade to the heavens and bellows,“In the name of my son Ragnar, Allfather, accept these stains!”
The Ascomanni roar. So do some of the Volk.
Fá and I watch the drone float between us and cast its shield. An iridescent dome glides down to meet the nexuses a few handspans from the ground. Fá wants it so we don’t end up dancing in the sky, and so that I can’t flee if the duel doesn’t go my way. A shaman shouts. The jarls outside beat on the dome with the flat of their axes. The Ascomanni slam the hafts of their spears. It thunders inside, and the duel is on.
Neither of us move.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
He circles to the right, measuring me, and then leaps into the air. Fueled by his gravBoots, he brushes the top of the dome, and accelerates down to bring a huge overhand onto the crown of my head. Only I am no longer there. I moved forward under the trajectory of his arc. He lands with a tremendous bang and accelerates straight back at me with startling speed.
I move out of the way of his charge. Only it’s not a charge. Heiswily. He swings after me as he turns, a sweeping horizontal blow. Instinctively, I rely on the Willow Way.
I block with both blades, intending to deflect it upward and lash back at him under it. Instead, the force is so strong I am sent reeling. I counterattack and land half a dozen slashes on his armor in the Summer Lash of the Way. None even come close to penetrating, and they cost me. Four more of his attacks pound my guard. Reverberations rattle my bones.
