Dark Age

by Pierce Brown

  Pax is amongst the new batch. I trace the monsters he’s supposed to fight. It’s not just the size difference that worries me for the more sensitive of the two Gold spawn. It’s muscular development. Shy of puberty, Pax isn’t yet the man he’ll become. Though his bare calves do look more sculpted than’s right for a boy, the Obsidians are already giants.

  The three opponents take their places in a triangle and receive their order from Freihild. Pax’s crew form together around their skull, not yet knowing their enemy’s intent. Pax seems uninterested. “That’s a trillion-credit skull you’re about to let those goons crack,” I say.

  Ozgard examines me. “You care about boy. Warmth still in your stone heart. This is good.”

  “It’s not a bloody marriage. He’s just my meal ticket. But he ain’t like the other one.”

  “No. She is better fighter. He is more dangerous human. I warned Queen. He will refuse lesson this time. Rage festers inside. Watch.”

  The Obsidians bellow a war challenge, which Ozgard says is a Season of Wind. Their intent is to sweep Pax’s crew from the square to show their valor. As Pax’s wingmen move to the center, he separates and stands on the very edge of the square. The three enemy don’t chase him. They use their numbers to drive his wingmen back and off the square. Then all three come for Pax in a V. As soon as they are in striking range, Pax steps out. The veteran warriors watching howl in condemnation. Pax’s enemies declare victory, and spurn his cowardice by turning their backs on him. He steps back into the square. Only Valdir smiles.

  What follows is appalling.

  Not the violence itself, but its tone of boredom and clinical cruelty. Crack. The sound of femur on skull rattles the training square. One of the Obsidians teeters sideways. The other two brutes wheel around to fight Pax. He silently deconstructs them. He’s slower than Electra, and almost looks asleep, but every movement is like part of a dance. As if he’s seen this all happen before, and must bore himself and mock the Obsidians by going through the motions. He doesn’t need to, but he collapses the kneecap of one of the older boys and then cracks his skull with a sweep of the stave. As he spins out of the movement, I see his eyes were closed. The other brings his stave down in a diagonal downward strike at Pax’s head. Pax falls flat on his back. The stave strikes the ground and shatters. Pax grabs the Obsidian’s ankle, pulls himself between the Obsidian’s legs, flips around him, ends up on the Obsidian’s back, and brings his hand down on the Obsidian’s neck. Somehow he grabbed a shard from the Obsidian’s broken stave and buried it two fingers deep in his neck.

  “Do not move,” Pax says. “The bone is two millimeters from your carotid artery.” The Obsidian’s eyes widen; he goes very still. Pax slides from his back. The watching warriors are disgusted; not one has moved, not even the instructor. Pax turns to Sefi.

  “You mock us?” Sefi asks in a quiet voice. “It was the Season of Wind, not Ash.”

  “Mock? No, Your Majesty. I understand the purpose is to instruct me in the old ways of the Obsidian.” He points at Ozgard, somehow noticing his arrival. “Your shaman teaches the children of the Ice that war is the first language of all peoples, but not every war need be the last. As a child, I am to be impressed with your wisdom. As hostage, I am to be convinced by inclusion in your tribal rites that I am an ally. As ward, I am to impart this lesson upon my own people. To be friend of the Obsidians, who showed me their sacred rituals and treated me with respect. What a pity it is that there will be no Obsidians left.”

  The braves stand at this insult. Not rising to the insult himself, Valdir watches the reactions of his fellows with careful consideration. So he’s a thinking monster. Rather handsome too, if you can get over the batwing ears.

  “Gods forbid I insult your pride,” Pax crows. “A wonder you have any left. If you still think war is a dialogue, allow me to remind you the Golds of the Core do not believe you are human beings. You are cattle. They created the Seasons of War so the tribes would be locked in eternal strife. They did not want their herd culled. They wanted it honed to better wage their wars.

  “From the crib the children of Peerless Scarred are now raised to know one truth. War is not for pride or for land. War is for extermination. Valdir the Unshorn knows this. He served beside Ragnar’s father, Pale Horse, as a slaveknight in the Grimmus Legions, then beside my father and Ragnar, who put the razor in his hand. Many of your bloodbraves have seen this in their service. Never has it been more evident than upon Mercury, where my father faces atomic annihilation.”

  So the Red prick ended up back on Mercury. Must have been a Gold counterattack. Is he still a fugitive?

  “But you. You scurrilous lot. You hide from that truth behind tradition. You abdicate oaths to feign wisdom. There is no wisdom in the company of deserters. There is only shame. You left your Morning Star to face your common enemy alone. But do not fret.” His grin is the nasty sort I did not know he had in him. “It will be short-lived when the engines of doom kill my father and arrive on Mars to chase even the oathbreakers to their graves. Make no mistake, Sefi, Queen of the Obsidians, this is no war of Wind or Fire.” He gestures to the dismantled Obsidian youth around him, with pity to the one holding the bone fragment in his neck. “This is a war of annihilation, and you are outmatched by the darker breed of my kind.

  “I am the son of the Morning Star. The flesh and blood of the man who broke your chains. Yet you hold Electra and me as insurance and to bargain for ships and information. So I look upon you with my father’s eyes to ask: what do your old ways say of honor?”

  He drops the femur and walks out, leaving the Obsidians in stony silence.

  “Damn, son.” I scratch my leg, remembering what an idiot I was at his age. Electra rushes to catch up to Pax. Sefi watches them go, and signals their guards to follow. But the accusations Pax made remain in his wake. All is not well in the warbands of the Obsidian host. “Talk about a guilt trip.”

  “Yes, he is…precocious,” Ozgard murmurs, clearly disagreeing with Pax. Oddly, Valdir does not. His eyes watch Pax with something like sorrow, and when he marches down to meet his Queen, it is as if the weight of ten worlds were on his shoulders. His anxiety evaporates only when he passes by the instructor Freihild. She takes pains not to meet his eyes. She is a pretty young thing. Lithe instead of muscular, without the hirsute appearance so common in her people. File that one away for later.

  I am led down to Sefi. Despite just being dressed down by a prepubescent plutocrat, she is more impressive than her reputation. And it is a colossal reputation. Warlord, Gold killer, hero of the Rat War, sister of the demigod Ragnar Volarus, Queen of the Obsidians. She is not barbarically handsome like Valdir, or lively like Freihild. Instead she’s a cold fusion between worlds. A horizontal iron bar punctures her nose at the bridge, even as a cochlear implant blinks in her ear. Astral runes mark the shaved sides of her head. A datapad is embedded in her left forearm. Her eyes are large black marbles, but in the right light show fibers of optic implants. A second set of blue eyes are tattooed on her eyelids. Fourteen long, heavy-knuckled fingers fold together in her lap, stroking her valor tail.

  And then I see the weapon she wears. The inert blade of the razor that punched through Trigg’s chest ten years ago is coiled around the long leather glove that reaches up to the elbow. The same blade that killed her brother, Ragnar. I blink like a dumb blacktooth addict. Thought Barca owned Aja’s blade.

  Valdir kneels before his mate and bares his throat before announcing me and stepping to the side. Sefi raises an eyebrow at my bloody feet and knees. “He is guest, Valdir.”

  “He dressed himself while falling out a window.”

  “Climbing gracefully,” I correct. “Njar ga hae, skati,” I say to Sefi, baring my throat in respect and submission. Valdir is shocked I know any Nagal.

  Sefi is not surprised. She accepts my respect with an open palm to show she holds no weapon agai
nst me. “Njar ga hir, grár. Hir ganga ni hallr.” She nods to the White who stands behind her clutch of Valkyrie. “Xenophon said you knew our ways. Fótr heill?”

  “Sorry? Nagal’s a little rusty.”

  “Limb is healthy?”

  “Seems like.” I wiggle the appendage. “Surprised you sprung for fleshtech. Not cheap. Suppose I should thank you for that.”

  “It is a gift.” She shrugs. “My court is large from long war. I welcome all. Including you, Scarhunter.” She says the title fondly and tilts her head. “Your body wanted death. Your heart is not pure. It became silent three times. Narcotics weakness.”

  Valdir makes a sound of disgust and lies down on the ground beside his mate to comb his hair. He looks like a bloody Frankish painting.

  “Valdir thinks you are stupid to use zoladone.”

  “He is stupid,” Valdir says.

  Sefi sets a hand on his shoulder. “He thinks that I am stupid to waste wind on you.” She spares a smile for Ozgard. “But I know weakness in your kind does not mean broken. So tell me, why kill passions with zoladone?”

  I glance at Aja’s razor.

  “Makes life’s flow a bit smoother.”

  “Poor little man,” she mocks. “Life is meant to be felt. Else why live? Valleys make the mountains.”

  I nod to Ozgard, who has strayed back to the training square to examine the blood on the stone. “That fellow right there’s high as a cloud. He seems to be living just fine.”

  “Fool’s comparison. God’s Bread fills warrior with heat of gods. Spirit Berry opens mind. Lets one hear Aesir. Zoladone makes warrior cold, narrows mind. Makes machine man. Vile.”

  “And Fever Cloud?” I ask. “Your berserkers love that.”

  Her face darkens. “Berserkers are no more. Fever is an evil I do not accept. It makes men savages. We are not savages.” The only other Color on the knoll besides Obsidian is a lean White in midnight robes. It’s a logos. I thought they were all killed by lynch mobs. Bald, childish of face, the White could be thirty or eighty years old. You never can tell. Their skin is the color of raw chicken. Their eyes the color of milk. A large diamond is embedded between the eyes to signify their class. If anyone’s on a permanent zoladone high, it’s that mammalian computer. I don’t point out the hypocrisy.

  “With Spirit Berry, Ozgard sees god’s hand upon your shoulder,” Sefi continues. “He is responsible for the breath you draw. You crashed in a scrapland. Scavengers found you. There were Brothers of the Ice amongst them. They are known to Ozgard and offered you to me.”

  Well, that’s a turn. “And the wee warlords. Must have cost you a fortune to outbid the Sovereign.”

  “My respect was payment enough to them.”

  “Syndicate must have loved that.”

  “They attempted to substantiate their claim,” the White says. “The Unshorn disabused them of that notion.” Whatever malice Valdir Unshorn feels for Ozgard, he seems to trust the White. He nods to the advisor like an old friend.

  “So if the kids are your hostages, and we’re here…” I murmur.

  “Wards,” Sefi corrects.

  “Sure. Then I take it to mean I’m not on Barca’s menu…”

  “Why would we fix you to kill you? That would waste money. You have not hurt Alltribe.”

  “I completely agree. But…ain’t you allies with the Sovereign and House Barca?” I’ve never heard of the term “Alltribe” before, but one thing at a time. “Hell, till that kid started talking, I thought you were still the Reaper’s heavy air cav.” By glancing around at the faces of her warriors, I can tell that’s old news, but still raw, particularly for the males. World changes fast. Was it Wulfgar’s death? Or something else? If they aren’t allies, then my errand for the Sovereign has probably been perceived as a double cross. Which means Volga is likely dead back on Luna. I need zoladone. The ache inside nearly makes the knees buckle.

  “So I’m thinking I’m alive for a reason,” I say. “It ain’t gratitude for this little boon. It ain’t fidelity for an old Scarhunter. I’ve been thoroughly reminded what you lot do to thieves.” I glance at Valdir. “So maybe tell me what this is all about.”

  Sefi surprises me by standing.

  “Come, Mr. Horn. There is something I would like to show you.”

  * * *

  —

  Sefi leads me from the training ludus through hangars that once held Bellona warcraft. Within the stone caverns, a nation of people is set to one industry: knowledge. Obsidian youths labor beside old women, young men, war-tested braves, learning skills that ten years ago were forbidden to them under pain of liquidation. They study under Orange master mechanics, Blue navigators mapping astral trajectories and training in flight simulators. They work with Green coders, Yellow doctors, and Red builders. It is an odd sight.

  Sefi says nothing as we walk, and by the time we end our little tour in another garden of broken Bellona statues, my head is full, my eyes are struggling to stay narrowed in contempt, and my bare feet ache like hell. Sefi gestures for me to sit at a long table set for two. Pale faces marked with black runes watch from the shadows of the garden. Skuggi. A chill goes down my spine as I sit. The spirit assassins. Valdir’s eyes linger on them before he sits on the rubble of a statue.

  The chair is a relief for my leg. A bowl of warm water filled with black flowers is brought for my feet by a stunning Pink servant. I sigh as I dip my feet in and feeling returns to them along with a peculiar tingling that must be from the flowers. Ozgard murmurs there is nightgaze in the water before wandering to the garden.

  Night is coming. The sun ebbs in the sky. Battered Olympia sulks beneath Eagle Rest toward Loch Esmeralda like a centurion’s wet cape and I sit with the queen.

  “You’re breaking with the Republic,” I say, tightening my fur coat. “That’s what you mean by Alltribe.” She says nothing. “You already united Obsidians in war, promising them a homeland, didn’t you? Looks like you found one.” I glance down at Olympia, but Sefi’s eyes are on the horizon beyond. That’s trouble.

  “On the ice, when a limb is sick, it is cut away to save the body. The Republic rots from inside with weakness, like you before we cured you. My people must prosper. This is the burden my brother set upon me. To prosper, we must become one tribe. So I will found a kingdom for my people, for all Obsidians.”

  “Volkland,” her Valkyrie whisper, rattling their torcs at the holy word. I begin to laugh. First the Reds, now the coldbloods.

  From his seat at the base of a statue, Valdir pulls his axe.

  “He does not mock me, Valdir,” Sefi says. “He mocks life. Is that not right, Mr. Horn?”

  “Close enough. You’re buying yourself another war.”

  “We know war,” Valdir says in dismissal.

  “With your old pal the Reaper?” I ask, causing him to stand up. “Ask Gold how fun that is.”

  “Valdir is a warrior. Honest and proud,” Sefi says, waving her mate down. Valdir simmers in discontent, and I don’t think it’s just aimed at me. “He speaks truth, because he lives true. We know war. But it is not all we know or will know. Seven centuries, they say kill. So we kill. Seven centuries, they say send sons to stars. So we send sons. Republic says we are free. Then Senate says obey. Send sons and daughters to stars. Kill for us. Die for us.

  “We ask only for homeland, they give rocky islands on Earth. We ask for city, because we are not savages who want to fish all day.” She waves at Eagle Rest and Olympia. “They give broken ruins, and say be satisfied. What is there for us on Mercury? We cannot live under weight of sun. We are hated there. So now we say the word Ragnar taught us: no. Now we embrace the truth Morning Star taught us: destiny is not given, destiny is taken.”

  So much for Sefi the Quiet.

  I look for Ozgard. I wonder if it was this destiny he saw in the bones of a fire, as he claims
to have seen mine. I find him climbing a tree toward an owl’s nest. Fitting.

  I sigh. “What do you need me to steal? Come on, you don’t have to butter me up.” Not feeling very masculine with my feet in the little bowl of water, I slap my leg. “Call in your debt.”

  Sefi remains quiet as the slender Pink now brings a bottle of wine. He shows her the seal to prove it has not been tampered with and pours it into three golden goblets. “Thank you, Amel,” Sefi says.

  The White logos steps forward to sip the wine, swishes it in its mouth, swallows, and nods as it detects no pathogens. Straight eerie logos shit. Even Arbiters like Oslo, my Ophion Guild contact, are wary of logos. They’re null as a doll down below and on a permanent zoladone high. Only the richest Golds could afford them for trophies.

  It seems Sefi collects rare creatures. And rare wine. She sniffs the wine in her goblet.

  “What do you want me to steal?” I repeat as she takes a sip.

  She looks both insulted and mildly amused by my tone. How long since anyone’s had the guts to give her lip when she’s got men like Valdir by the balls? “Of all the words in Common, do you know my favorite?” she asks.

  Jove on high. “Destiny? Voluble? Captive audience?”

  She leans forward. “Practical. Nagal is the superior language to Common. It conveys the soul better and has more beautiful words. Weldschmer. The pain in discovering the world fails to fulfill expectation. Fenwehr. The longing to be somewhere else. But we have no word for practical. Only honorable or shameful.”

  Her eyes look through me. “You are this way. I need practical men. As master mechanics teach our lame and weak, as Blues teach our small and bright, you will teach my skuggi.” She makes a clicking sound, and Freihild, the instructor from the training, steps from the shadows of the garden along with several other skuggi.