Golden Son (Red Rising Saga 2)

The Gold spits. “You send a dog to do your fighting?”

“I am a man!” Ragnar screams louder than the roaring engines of a passing ship. Spittle flying, face ragged with rage. Veins rise in his neck. He howls, rushing forward before I can even raise my blade. He picks up the corpse of the fallen Obsidian and uses it to deflect their razors. He punches Gaius. No weapon. Just his fist. He hits him so hard in the pulseShield that the man falls backward. Then he kills the other, hacking through his defenses with mad fury till he cuts him in half. He kicks the top of the corpse aside and batters down Gaius, who sinks into the dark mud as Ragnar thumps forward and, muscles twitching from having touched the pulseShield, holds the razor to Golden man’s throat.

“Yield to me and live,” Ragnar rumbles.

Gaius spits.

“Yield to me as a man yields to another man.”

“Never.” Gaius’s lips curl sourly. He speaks his last words clear and loud, with spite and courage. All that is good and all that is wicked in these extraordinary people. “I am the Peerless Legate Gaius au Carthus. I am the sum of humanity. So yield I do not. For a man cannot yield to a dog.”

“Then become dirt.” Rangar pushes the blade home.

We ferry our men from the bottom of the river. Fast as we can using stolen gravBoots, but not fast enough. Sevro is not dead, but he’s close. I find him buried headfirst in the riverbank. He’s cursing and spitting when I peel him out with the help of Clown and Pebble.

“The dead?” he asks quietly. “My Howlers?”

“Too many,” Clown says thinly.

“Did Mustang get through?”

They all look at me.

“I think so,” I say. “But I can’t hail her on any coms. We have to hurry either way. If she is alive and she blows the generators so our reinforcements can land, then the shield falls and the Sovereign has a wide window to escape. Right now, she’s bottled up.”

Sevro nods. Little Pebble gives him a hand up. Small Thistle, hardly coming to Ragnar’s solar plexus, sees him with a razor in his hand as he frees another Obsidian from a dead starShell. “Drop that,” she snaps.

Ragnar drops it and looks to me in a strange panic. I motion him to wait.

After we go through the suits of those who fell on the riverbank, we know the count, and it so devastating that Sevro walks away. Weed is dead. Rotback is dead. Harpy died before we hit the ground. And many of the new recruits are dead. Only Thistle, Clown, Screwface, and Pebble are left. Eleven of the original fifty Obsidians remain.

Pebble and Clown touch Weed’s face, their matching mohawks flat against their heads as the rain soaks us all. Pebble claws at his chest, her small hands hitting his heart as though that will bring him back. Thistle goes to pull her away as Clown uses mud to straighten Weed’s matching mohawk in death. Sevro cannot watch. I go stand beside him.

“I was wrong about war,” he says.

“I can’t do this without you.” After a desperate moment, “Are you with me? Sevro?”

He pulls back and wipes snot from his nose, muddying his face. Tears make lines in the mud as he looks up at me, voice cracking like a child’s. “Always, Darrow.”

41

Achilles

There’s no time to mourn. My force decimated, we must divide still further. My army outside the city hurls itself at impregnable walls, expecting help from the inside. They’ve received none. My Legates will be hailing my signal, wondering if I have died. Such a rumor could lose the battle.

I send Ragnar with the remnants of the Obsidians to open one of the wall’s gates for my Legates who wait for us with thousands of Grays and Obsidians in reserve.

“I give you no Golds,” I tell Ragnar. “Do you understand what that means?”

“I do.”

“This can be a beginning,” I say quietly. I bend, picking a discarded razor from the sucking mud. “It is a man’s duty to choose his own destiny. Choose yours.” I extend the razor to him.

Ragnar looks back to the Obsidians. Their armor is battered from extricating them from the suits. And they’re caked in mud. Smaller than he. Some lithe and quiet. Others huge and shifting foot to foot with eagerness. All with those black eyes and white hair. They arm themselves with weapons taken from the Grays and Obsidian I killed. Hardly enough to go around, and they’ll be little use if they run into Golds.

Ragnar chooses. He extends a hand. Howlers prepare themselves behind me, Thistle still eyeing him evilly. “I choose to follow you,” he says. “And I choose to lead them.”

I place the razor in his hand.