Dark Age (Red Rising Saga 5)

“Did you know there were once fifty thousand griffin on Mars?” he asks as he strokes the mare’s forehead. “Poachers sell their talons and feathers to new money on Luna. Now there are less than five hundred.” The horse jerks as Rhone’s pulseKnife sinks into her brain. “Nothing beautiful survives the mob.”

The flies continue their feast as he stands.

They will have found Seraphina by now.

Who will they find next?

By the look in Rhone’s flinty eyes, I know I am not the only witness to the horror. “It’s just a wild mare. There’re thousands out here,” Cicero says. “My stallion, Blood of Empire, makes that one look like a pony.”

I turn to him until he leaves, muttering about the Lunese. I look back at the horse, seeing Seraphina in its place for some reason.

“Did you know her well, the Raa?” Rhone asks.

“Not as well as she deserved, I believe. She thought little of me, truth be told.”

Kalindora marches up. She looks at the sky. “Ajax is late. Praetorian, report.”

By Rhone’s count, our casualties were ninety-four. Thirty dead, the rest missing or injured. Of the nine hundred Praetorians left, only thirty starShells are still operational. Cicero’s force is slightly larger, but bore more of the casualties.

“Shell cannibalized the pulseArmor power,” Rhone continues as I walk with him amongst the Praetorians. “Over seventeen hours of sustained engagement, and that wind.” He shakes his head. “Only thirty-three have juice for boot liftoff. It’ll be a hike.” The Gray Praetorian squints south. Few features interrupt the arid playa. “We can make it.”

Cicero laughs from the nearby dune. He slides down it like a child to come to a sitting posture in front of us.

“My goodman, loath though I am to contradict a soldier of your stature, this is my desert. Any man whose boots are dead will die here unless the shuttles come. Without cooling, your pulseArmor will become an oven. How much is left in your water reserves? A third? We are kitted for heavy combat in the north, not the fucking Ladon.” He sighs. “But do you really suspect something they call the Eater of A

rmies is to be anything less than an eater of fucking armies?” He glares at me and stands. “Where the hell is that reprobate Ajax anyhow?” Manmade thunder rumbles to the south. “Ah, so he’s begun without us. That muscled, walking penis.”

I ask Rhone if the coms are still down.

He nods. “Orbit’s no go.” He gestures to a group of Praetorians atop the Storm God. “But we’re boosting our signal with a field array. Should be able to reach Iron Leopard command in a few minutes.”

“What the devil is she doing over there?” Cicero squints at Kalindora. She stands on a dune to the west, looking out at the dust-veiled deep desert. “Composing poetry?”

I use precious suit energy to join her.

I call her name as I land. She motions me to be quiet and cocks her head to the wind. Dust sprays as Cicero lands as well. “Do you hear that?” she asks.

“No,” he says. “Is it the planet asking why House Lune hid the Storm God from their vaunted ally?”

“Shut up, Cicero.”

“Only because I’m thirsty.”

I join her on a knee and listen. Granules of sand clink against my armor. A lizard’s tiny claws crackle as he moves shadow to shadow. Thunder rumbles in the north. Wind whispers around me, whistling through the boulders, through my armor. It carries the sounds of distant machines.

I bolt to my feet.

Someone moves within the storm.

“Those are Drachenjäger footfalls,” Kalindora says.

“Oh dear,” Cicero says. He backs up. “Time to go.”

Searching the waste around us, I don’t know how we can. Dunes and the storm to north and east. Flat hardpan to the south. The eastern mountains are the closest cover, but the machines move between us and them. Except for the downed Storm God, there is no refuge for our men on foot. Nor can we bear the weight of all their armor. It would take ten minutes to get everyone out of their suits. Far too long.

We burst back to the Praetorians and land where Rhone has set up his coms tower on the hull of the Storm God.

There’s a gargling sound as the signal connects. Ajax’s voice is washed in static. His face warps in and out.