“As am I.”
“It’s why I’m here, since that’s what you were wondering,” Mustang says. “My father was a titan.
But he was wrong. He was cruel. And if I can be something else”—her eyes meet mine—“I will be.”
By the time we wake, the storm has cleared. We bundle ourselves with insulation taken from the ship’s walls and set out into the bleakness. Not a cloud mars the marbled blue-black sky. We head toward the sun, which stains the horizon a cooling shade of molten iron. Autumn has few days left. We head for the Spires with plans of lighting fires as we go, in hopes of signaling the few Valkyrie scouts active in the area. But smoke will also bring the Eaters.
We scan the mountains as we pass, wary of the cannibal tribes and of the fact that somewhere ahead Cassius and maybe Aja trudge through the snow with a troop of special forces operators.
By midday we find evidence of their passing. Churned snow outside a rocky alcove large enough
for several dozen men. They camped there to wait out the storm. A cairn of stacked stones lies near the campsite. One of the stones has been carved with a razor and reads: per aspera ad astra.
“It’s Cassius’s handwriting,” Mustang says.
Pulling off the rocks, we find the corpses of two Blues and a Silver. Their weaker bodies froze in the night. Even here, Cassius had the decency to bury them. We replace the rocks as Ragnar lopes ahead, following the tracks at a speed we can’t match. We follow after. An hour later, manmade thunder rumbles in the distance, accompanied by the lonely shriek of distant pulseFists. Ragnar returns soon after, eyes shining with excitement.
“I followed the tracks,” he says.
“And?” Mustang asks.
“It is Aja and Cassius with a troop of Grays and three Peerless.”
“Aja is here?” I ask.
“Yes. They flee on foot through a mountain pass in the direction of Asgard. A tribe of Eaters
harries them. Bodies litter the way. Dozens. They sprang an ambush and failed. More come.”
“How much gear do they have?” Mustang asks.
“No gravBoots. ScarabSkin only. But they have packs. They left the pulseArmor behind just
two kilometers north. Out of energy.”
Holiday looks at the horizon and touches Trigg’s pistol on her hip. “Can we catch them?”
“They carry many supplies. Water. Food. Injured men now too. Yes. We can overtake them.”
“Why are we here?” Mustang interjects. “It’s not to hunt Aja and Cassius down. The only thing that matters is getting Ragnar to the Spires.”
“Aja killed my brother,” Holiday says.
Mustang’s taken aback. “Trigg? The one you mentioned? I didn’t know. But still, we can’t be pulled
to the side by vengeance. We can’t fight two dozen men.”
“What if they reach Asgard before we reach the Spires?” Holiday asks. “Then we’re cooked.”
Mustang’s not convinced.
“Can you kill Aja?” I ask Ragnar.
“Yes.”
“This is an opportunity,” I say to Mustang. “When else will they be so exposed? Without their Legions? Without the pride of Gold protecting them? These are champions. Like Sevro says, ‘When
you have the chance to waste your enemy, you do it.’ This is one time I’d agree with the mad bastard.
If we can take them off the board, the Sovereign loses two Furies in one week. And Cassius is Octavia’s link to Mars and the great families here. And if we expose her negotiations with you to him, we fracture that alliance. We sever Mars from the Society.”
“An enemy divided…” Mustang says slowly. “I like it.”
“And we owe them a debt,” Ragnar says. “For Lorn, Quinn, Trigg. They came here to hunt us.
Now we hunt them.”
—
The trail is unmistakable. Corpses litter the snow. Dozens of Eaters. Bodies still smoking from pulsefire near a narrow mountain pass where the Obsidians sprang an ambush on the Golds. They did
not understand the firepower the Golds could bring to bear. Huge craters pock the craggy slopes.
Deeper imprints in the snow mark the passing of aurochs. Huge steerlike animals with shaggy coats
that the Obsidian ride.
The pass widens into a thin alpine forest that skins an expanse of rolling hills. Gradually the craters decrease and we begin seeing discarded pulseFists and rifles and several Gray bodies with arrows or axes embedded in them. The Obsidian dead are closer to the Gold trail now and bear razor wounds.
There’s dozens with missing limbs, clean decapitations. Cassius’s band is running out of ammunition and now Olympic Knights are doing the work up close. Yet the wind still crackles with gunfire kilometers ahead.
We pass moaning Obsidian Eaters who lie dying from bullet wounds, but it’s only over a wounded