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Entombed in floating caverns, hunted like rabid mice
Blossoms of blood and thrones of flesh were grown
As brother ate brother; sister ate sister
for a savior, Allfather groaned
Then came the Outlander to answer his plea
Mighty were the Lords of Ink, mightier was He.
Whores of their children, shards of their thrones
Made He, who crowned Himself with their bones
And fashioned Dark Wind of those not destroyed
To serve, to anoint, to proclaim:
He Who Walks the Void.
“May I present to the Volk of the heatlands: the Breaker of the Black Thrones of Ultima Thule, Master of the Fleshchain, Bonemaker of Charon, Overlord of the Kuiper Belt and Oort Cloud, Terror of Codovan and Raa, Taker of Makemake, Haumea, Xena, Eris. Volsung Great Fá of the Ascomanni, Emperor of the Obsidian, and Broodfather of Ragnar Volarus!”
Silence.
And then He comes.
THE FIRST SOUND IS three thousand Obsidian honor guards raising their ceremonial axes and taking the fighting stance to a warcry. The warjarls turn to see the threat. Behind their turned heads, Sefi looks no taller, no stronger, no more confident than a five-year-old child. Horror, hope, fear, and confusion all muddle together in a grotesque expression, then vanish, leaving only the icy, intelligent mask of Sefi the Quiet.
I just don’t think Sefi the Quiet will be enough.
The second sound is metal on stone. Two armored boots stomp down the corridor. Even from the side of the dais, I can see his huge helmet over the tallest guards. It is made of the skull of some exotic beast, triple-horned, fused with asteroid metal, and sparkling with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds.
The third sound is the scraping of a long metal chain that he drags in one hand. Dozens of abnormally large skulls hang from the metal—Ascomanni kings. In the other he hefts a bizarre spear-saw over his shoulder. Two dozen male jarls of the Alltribe follow him out of the shuttle, instead of the true face of the beastly horde he leads.
The fourth sound is an ululation from his metal throat, like the wail tin makes when it warps in windstorms. The song carries him to the end of the guard corridor, where a wall of Valkyrie bodyguards stand at the base of Sefi’s dais.
Whoever this man is, he could not be the father of Ragnar. It’s a lie. A Fear Knight trick. Kill him. Slag tradition. Slag what the warjarls think. “Ozgard. Ozgard, I need your help,” I whisper. He stares at Volsung in terror. “Ozgard, my heel. I need your hand.” Even the rootlike fingers of his right hand hold more strength than do mine. He does not listen. “Ozgard!”
Volsung’s entourage stops well shy of the throne, but Volsung carries on until Valkyrie block his way. He points his spear at Sefi’s throne. “Mine.” He points at her crown. “Mine.” He points at the Obsidian jarls. “Mine.” He waves his spear around to encompass Mars. “Mine.”
His spear’s spiked haft stomps into the stone, breaking Sefi from her trance. She signals her Valkyrie to take him. He rattles the long chain behind him like a snake.
“My father, Vagnar, is dead,” she says. “Cut off this imposter’s hands and feet, save his liver for the buzzards and his cock for the dogs.” I cheer inside as three women slip forward in a V to do the dirty work with their axes.
Volsung moves like a whip.
His spear separates. Its tip lurches forward and pierces through the face of the leftmost woman, coming out the back of her skull. Still connected to the haft by some sort of metal wire. Volsung leaves it in, and brings the back three-quarters of the spear around to smash into the axe-guard of the rightmost woman. Something in her shoulder breaks and she’s almost lifted off her feet as she stumbles into the woman in the middle. Bellowing like a maniac, Volsung overwhelms them with savagery. Small teeth on the spear’s length begin to saw, and he brings the huge spear down like a hammer in colossal overhand strikes, beating them to their knees, sawing through their armor, and then staving in their skulls in a traumatic display of brute strength. In ten seconds, the three women make a meat salad on the floor.
Oh, fuck.
The whole Valkyrie bodyguard raises their rifles to fire on the man.
More than sixty of Sefi’s warjarls, all men, step forward and make a human wall around Volsung. An ominous silence grips the room as all realize this was planned. Volsung is no stranger to these male chieftains.
He must have come to them in secret. When? Before Mars? When they landed? When Valdir, their idol, was arrested? Still, they pretend, and shout for him to prove his identity.
“I have lived three lives,” Volsung rumbles through that titanic helmet. “The last is that of Volsung Fá. The second that of Pale Horse, slaveknight to the Warlord of Ash. The first that of Vagnar Hefga, first broodmate to Alia Volarus, the Snowsparrow, Queen of the Valkyrie, broodfather to the god Ragnar Volarus and greedy little Sefi.”
