Chapter 1

Beatrice plods across the Salt, her long, evening shadow gliding over the white, crystalline earth behind her. Farther back, the brick structures of Victoria Temple jut up into a purple sky. The squat towers match the color of the Great White, and reflective glass windows further obscure the oasis. Before long, the Temple disappears in a shimmer of heat. If Storyteller and I get separated, I might never be able to find the place again. But at least Trace will be well-hidden. Soon, I hope I'll be able to say the same for Ann. If we can't find her, if she's dead, how will I be able to face Sasha? He won't cry, he won't get angry; he'll calmly state his sorrow and tell me it isn't my fault. But it'll be my fault all the same, and I'll have to live with more guilt. My missing ear itches, but I ignore it.

Storyteller's cheerful, booming voice interrupts my thoughts. "Say, Roman! I recognize that axe you got on you from a story I picked up. And my man Sasha did confirm that you indeed killed Vates."

I face the Historyman seated on my right. "He tell you I'm the Aesircide?"

Storyteller grins and nods. I hum with less enthusiasm and struggle to get comfortable in my seat without bothering the stitches in my gut. Five days ago, I was a Road Warrior looking for work in a new place. Now I have a title and, with it, a reputation as an Asgardian-killer. It's gotten me into trouble once already; I never would've had to prove myself to the God of War if I hadn't called myself the Aesircide. Then again, Ares might not have given Sasha permission to leave with just any Road Warrior. Like most things in the Wasteland, it's a blessing and a curse.

Storyteller runs tattooed fingers through his long, brown beard. "I happen to know several stories about Vates, but I don't know how he died. Would you care to swap tales to pass the time?"

"Uh, yeah, all right."

"Wonderful! You're up first." Storyteller rests his hands behind his head and gives me his full attention.

I tell a condensed version of Vates's Road War: his rig, the ravens, his visions, Khopesh, the fight in my car. "Then he said I was Max reincarnated, and I cut his throat."

Storyteller stares at me through the dark lenses on his goggles. "Go on."

"That's the end."

Storyteller blinks, then shakes his head and smiles. "Well, Roman, you suck at storytelling. But don't worry! I'll tell it better next time." He pulls up one pant leg to reveal more skin covered in tattooed text. He points to a small bare spot on his inner calf. "Look. Here's where that story is going. You're going to be immortalized. How does that feel? I'm going to write 'Aesircide birth' right here."

"You don't have to do that. Save that spot for something more important, yeah?"

"Nah, mate. This is what I do. I keep and tell stories, big and small. And if you ever become a great legend to people out here, I'll have your origins." Storyteller rolls his pant leg back down and laughs. "We can leave the storytelling to ol' Storyteller and the Asgardian-killing to the Aesircide!"

"Fine by me," I say, hoping I don't become anything close to a great legend. If I lie low long enough, maybe the Empire will forget about me. All the madmen and cultists will have to find someone else to be their savior.

Storyteller claps his hands once. "Now it's my turn! I'll tell you a story about Vates. I have three of 'em. Which would you like to hear?"

"Any of them have to do with his brother? The one who left across the Salt?"

Storyteller grins. "Sounds like you want Vates and the Axe." He pulls his jacket open and points to a cluster of tattoos on his ribs. Then he takes a deep breath and his entire demeanor changes. He speaks slowly, savoring each word. Behind the goggles, his eyes glow, and I find myself unable to look away. The Great White vanishes, replaced by the world of the story.

Over 7000 days ago, the Skald took Vates to a far off mountain to teach him how to be a man. It was a lovely day. The open-roofed, chromatic interceptor, the Vorpal, raced down the worn highway of a civilization past. Dirge the Albino tapped a War tune on the steering wheel as he guided the vehicle around countless potholes.

A cheerful voice called from the Vorpal's backseat, "Isn't that right, Dirge?"

"Hmm?" Dirge grunted. He'd tuned out Fiann's chattering a long time ago. "You say something?"

Fiann rolled her eyes. "I was saying that Vates is going to make an excellent husband, isn't he? He doesn't think so."

Beside the girl, Vates pushed his raven-colored hair out of his face. "I'm a warrior, Fiann."

The boy was right. He'd recently won his first battle against a small band of raiders from Ashtown. Under Asgardian law, he was to choose a wife, and, of course, he picked Fiann. The two had met when Vates was but a pup, and they'd been inseparable since. No one really knew why. Aside from their sparkling blue eyes, the two of them were polar opposites. Fiann was tall and graceful with long, blonde hair worn in elaborate braids. Vates was raven-haired and small for a boy of nearly 5000 days. What he lacked in size, he more than made up for with scrappiness. More than one War pup had been killed for slighting him. Fiann was prone to excitement, always smiling and chatting when she wasn't busy showering her fiancé with affection. Vates loved her dearly, but he was not a happy child. He only smiled when Fiann asked, and he gave off an aura of awkwardness and discomfort - head down, hands stuffed in the pockets of the oversized coat he insisted on wearing despite the heat. Fiann wore a lightweight, grey dress with no decoration - fairly modest attire for the bride of an Asgardian. Even their jobs differed. Fiann was training to be a Valkyrie - an Organic, a saver of lives. Vates wanted to be an elite War Boy - a killer like his brother.

Before Dirge could answer, Skald turned around in the passenger seat to face Vates. Even sitting down, he towered over his younger brother. Skald was like no Asgardian the Wasteland had ever seen. He tied his long, feathery hair in a loose ponytail just to keep it out of his face, completely uninterested in hairstyle as an artform. His clothing was simple, too: denim pants, button-up shirt, red sneakers. Beneath the outfit was a deceptively thin and wiry frame that hid his true strength.

"You are not a warrior yet, brother," Skald said.

"I am by the laws of the Asgardian order!"

"Laws mean nothing on the Fury Road, Little Raven."

Vates scowled at the nickname, but he knew better than to protest further. All Asgardians knew how little Skald cared for laws. The elder brother picked fights unprovoked, killed whenever it suited him, and he refused to marry after his first battle.

"You need to prove to me that your new title is deserved," Skald said. "If it makes you feel any better, little brother, I think you will make an excellent husband. You've always been more of a lover than a fighter."

"See, Vates, nothing to worry about!" Fiann said. She hugged her fiancé, completely unaware of the deep, emotional cut he had just received from his older brother.

Skald cringed at the sound of Fiann's voice, but Dirge piped up before the Asgardian could retort. "I think you'd really be something special if you were both a lover and a fighter." Dirge glanced with pink eyes at the glowering boy in the backseat. "Most people are barely able to be just one, y'know."

Vates stared at his lap. Skald smiled coldly and faced forward, putting his feet up on the dash. Dirge sighed, glad the argument was over. Anyone else who tried to play peacekeeper between the brothers was a deadman, but the albino had special privileges. Instead of marrying, Skald had chosen Dirge, a failed Asgardian-in-training, to keep his weapons and vehicles maintained. Some assumed it was because he saw Dirge's potential as a driver; others surmised Skald wanted another excuse to get into brawls. Dirge had been regularly attacked for his hemophobia, the reason he'd failed to become a warrior, but the bullying ceased after Skald killed a few of the instigators. Now Dirge was completely devoted to the man who had given him a second chance at life. Still, he tried his best to keep Skald's temper in check around Vates and Fiann - not because he had any fondness for the pair, but because he feared the mess he'd have to clean up if Skald went too far.

Vates sunk into his seat, almost disappearing into his coat. The garment was far too heavy for the desert heat, but he liked the way it moved when he walked. "So, Skald," he said.

"Hm?"

"Where exactly are we going?"

"Yeah, Skald, you haven't mentioned anything about it yet!" Fiann said. Once again, Skald recoiled, but the girl didn't notice.

"He'll tell you when he's ready," Dirge said.

"That's all right, Dirge. I suppose it's about time I tell you. Can't keep a secret forever now, can I?" A smile spread across Skald's thin face. "Stop the car and pop the trunk."

"You got it, boss." Dirge shot the Asgardian a curious glance. Skald getting excited meant trouble, but Dirge didn't much mind; he liked to see that smile.

Skald vaulted over the door and opened the trunk of the Vorpal while the others hurried to join him. He pulled out a navy blue duffel bag with six silver javelins hanging from the side.

"You brought your War gear, Skald?" Fiann asked.

Skald snarled, "Of course I did."

Vates's frown deepened. On Skald's order, he hadn't brought any weapons or gear. But he dared not question.

Skald shut the trunk and pulled a large piece of old paper from one of the bag's inner pockets. He flattened it on the car. "Do any of you know what this is?"

Everyone crowded around and squinted at the crude map drawn on the yellow paper. Dirge shook his head. Vates and Fiann contorted their faces in thought but remained silent.

Skald placed a finger daintily on the skull symbol in the center. "This is called the Citadel, the seat of power for a dead Warlord named" —he paused for effect, and the others leaned forward— "the Immortan Joe."

Dirge's eyes went wide, and he peered closer at the map over Skald's shoulder. He'd heard of Immortan Joe, they all had, but only in rumors and tales. "So he's real, then?"

Skald flashed a smile and reached up to pat Dirge's cheek. "Yes, Immortan Joe is real - was real. He was an early success story here in the Wastes. The de facto ruler of the Triumvirate: water, bullets, oil. He was eventually defeated and killed by one of his own Imperators and an escaped slave who freed his wives."

"What's so important about them?" Vates asked.

"Excellent question, Little Raven! That Imperator was Furiosa."

Fiann gasped. The legendary Imperator Furiosa was a Saint within the church. Her all-female followers were wildly fanatic and dangerous. Recently, the Gemini Bitches, a set of identical twins who worshipped the Imperator, had caused all sorts of problems for the Asgardians and Valkyries.

Skald lowered his voice and spoke like he was cursing. "And that slave was Mad Max."

The others gulped. Mad Max was the Saint of all Road Warriors, though few bothered to actually worship him. The only cultists dedicated to him hid in the shadows like cowards, and nobody knew anything about them. A recently disbanded gang of Road Warriors calling themselves the MFP had actively denounced Max's divinity. Still, his name had power, and tales of his deeds inspired War pups and Road Warriors alike.

"And finally, one of the wives was the Dag, otherwise known as Thor's mother." Skald shut his mouth and smiled, reveling in the shocked expressions around him.

Vates surveyed the map with newfound wonder. "This is an incredibly holy place, brother." He turned to Skald and frowned. "What are we going to do?"

"We're going to storm it, kill everyone in it, and reclaim it for Midgard."

"What?! Why would we do that? How would we do that?"

Skald sneered down at the boy. "Watch your tone! We're going to attack it because it has become home to Historymen squatters. All of them are going to die. 'How' is something you'll find out, Little Raven."

Vates slunk back and crossed his arms. "So this is a test?"

"You could say that. I have a plan, but you're just going to need to wait and put some faith in me. Now, any more questions before we keep moving?"

Fiann stared at the ground and shook her head.

"No, boss," Dirge said.

Vates wasn't convinced they'd make it out alive, but Dirge had seen Skald walk away from the corpses of men who by all rights should've killed him, and he'd seen that enough times to believe his master could win any fight he set his mind to. Warfare was Skald's passion. That was why he chose not to marry or even fuck: as soon as one battle was over, Skald was already training for the next. Dirge had undying faith in Skald, even if Vates didn't. Still, the Albino wasn't thrilled at the idea of slaughtering an entire mountain full of people. Not because he thought they should live, of course. If Skald said they should die, then they should die. But he knew he'd have to work hard to keep his phobia from getting in the way of Skald's plan.

As the Vorpal sped across the Wasteland once again, Dirge tapped his fingers on the wheel, drumming out Skald's favorite War tune. The Asgardian hummed along. In the backseat, Vates pulled a small notebook from his sleeve. During the brief moments between training sessions, Vates managed to have his own hobbies. Of particular interest to him was poetry; he enjoyed writing in the runic language of the Asgardians. He wrote and read exclusively in Asgardian with no desire to learn the common script. What his poems said, only Vates and Fiann knew.

Dirge's drumming intensified, and Skald broke out in song - a talent for which he was well-known. His powerful tenor voice carried over the Vorpal's engine as the quartet sped toward the Citadel.