My friends are with me. What would they mean by that? Which friends? The Sons of Ares? Or was the mystery friend being more general, al- luding to those who support my chances at the Institute? Do they know the significance of the Pegasus? Or were they simply reuniting me with something they thought I might miss?
So many questions; none of them matter. They are outside the game. The game. What else iS there but the game? A the true things in the world, all my relationships, all my aspira- tions and needs, are wrapped up in this game, wrapped up in me winning. To win, Ill need an army, but it cannot be made of slaves. Not again. I now need, as I'll need at the head of a rebellion, followers, not slaves.
Man cannot be freed by the same injustice that enslaved it.
A week after I inject Mustang and her fever fades, we set off to the north. Her strength grows the more we move. Her cough is gone and her quick smile returns. Sometimes she needs a rest, but soon she comes close to outpacing me. She lets me know it too. We make as much noise as possible when we move to draw our prey to us.
On the sixth night of setting obnoxiously large fires, we get our first nibble.
The Oathbreakers come along a stream, using its sounds to mask their approach. I like them immediately. Were our fire not a trap, they would have caught us unawares. But it is a trap, and when two step into the light, we almost spring it. Yet if they are smart enough to come along the stream, they are smart enough to leave someone in the dark. I hear an arrow nock on a bowstring. Then there's a yelp. Mustang takes the one in the dark. I take the other two. I stand up from my snowpile, my wolfcloak shedding snow, and knock them down from behind with the flat of my bow.
Afterward, the one Mustang struck nurses his swollen eye by our fire as I speak with their leader. Her name is Milia. She's a tall willow with a long horseface and a slight hunch to her shoul- ders. Rags and stolen furs cover her bony frame. The other uninjured one is Dax. Short, comely, with three frostbitten fingers. We give them extra furs and I think that makes all the differ- ence in the conversation.
"You understand we could make you slaves, yes?" Mustang asks, brandishing her standard. "So you'd be twice Oathbreakers and twice shunned once this game is over."
Milia doesn't seem to care. Dax does. The other ust follows Milia.
"Could give a rat's prick. No difference between once and twice," Milia says. They all bear the slave mark of Mars. I don't recognize them but their rings say they are from Juno. "Rather bear shame than bruise my knees. Do you know my father?"
"I don't care about your father." "My father," she persists, "is Gauis au Trachus, Justiciar of the southern Martian hemisphere.'" "I still don't care."
"And his father was "
"I don't care."
"Then you are a fool," she drawls. "Twice a fool if you think to make me your slave. I will cut you in the night."
I nod to Mustang. She stands suddenly with the standard and puts it to Milia's head. The mark of Mars becomes that of Minerva. Then she erases the Minerva mark. Dax's eyes widen.
"Even if I free you?" ask Milia. "Youre still going to cut me?"
She doesn't know what to say.
"Mily," Dax says quietly. "What are you think-
ing?"
"No slavery," I elaborate. "No beatings. If you dig a shit pit, I dig two shit pits for the camp. If someone cuts you, I rip them apart. So, will you join our army?"
"His army," Mustang corrects. I look over at her with a frown.
"And who's he?" Milia asks, her eyes not leaving face.
my
"He's the Reaper."
It takes a week to gather ten Oathbreakers. The way I look at it is those ten already made it clear they don't want to be slaves. So they might like the first person who will give them purpose, food, furs, who is not demanding that they lick a bootheel. Most of them have heard of me, but all are disappointed that I don't have the famous slingBlade I used to beat Pax. Apparently he's be- come quite the legend. They say he picked up and threw a horse and rider into the Argos as Mars's slaves fought Jupiter's.
As we grow, we hide from the larger armies. Mars may be my House, but with Roque dead and Cassius an enemy, only Quinn and Sevro are left as friends. Pollux perhaps, but he'll go whatever way the wind blows. Rat bastard.
I cannot be with my House. There's no place for me there. I may have been their leader, but I remember how they looked at me. And now it is crucial they know I am alive.
Despite the war between Mars and Jupiter, stal- wart Ceres stands unconquered by the riverside. Behind their high walls, bread smoke still rises. Mounted warbands from both armies roam the plains around Ceres, crossing the frozen Argos at will. They carry low-charged ionSwords now, so they can electrocute and maim one another with a brush of metal. MedBots scream over the battlefield when skirmishes break into pitched frays, healing wounded students as they bleed or moan from broken bones. The champions of each army wear ionArmor to protect them- selves against the new weapons. Horses smash together. IonArrows fly. Slaves mill about hitting each other with older, simple weapons across the wide plain that separates the highlands from the great river Argos. It is a spectacular thing to see --but foolish, so foolish.
I watch with Mustang and Milia as two ar- mored warbands of Mars and Jupiter streak to- ward each other across the plains in front of Phobos Tower. Pennants flap. Horses trample the deep snow. It's a clash of armored glory when the two metal tides collapse into one another. Lances spark with stunning electricity on broad shields and armor. Dazzling swords slam other blades like their own. HighDrafts battling high- Drafts. Slaves run in scores to smash into each other, pawns in this giant chess match.
I see Pax in a rusty bulk of crimson armor so ancient it looks like a frysuit. I laugh as he tack- les a horse and rider. But if ever there was a pic- ture of a perfect knight, it would not be Pax. No, it'd be Cassius. I see him now. His armor glows as he stuns opponent after opponent, galloping through the enemy, his sword humming left and right,flickering like a tongue of fire. He can fight, but I'm shocked at how foolishly he chooses to- diving nobly into the enemy's gut with a force of lancers, capturing enemies. And then the surviv- ing troops regroup and do the same to him. Over and over, neither side taking substantial advan- tage.