Sky Pirates

  Sky Pirates

  Copyright © William King 2012

  Website: www.williamking.me

  Contact: bill@williamking.me

  E-books By The Same Author

  THE TERRARCH CHRONICLES

  Death’s Angels

  The Serpent Tower

  The Queen’s Assassin

  Shadowblood

  Chapter One

  No matter how many times Ulrik went into the Pit it never got any better. His stomach churned. His limbs felt weak. Visions of his own death filled his mind.

  His surroundings did not inspire hope. The walls were mortared blocks of damp ancient stone. Near-exhausted glowglobes flickered in the ceiling. Rusting fetters held huddled prisoners waiting to die. He took a deep breath of air that stank of urine and stale sweat and listened to the low murmur of whispered conversation, of prayer, insults and flat jokes.

  He dilated the pupils of his magically altered eyes; the faces of the other fighters leapt out at him, some scared, some blank, some mad with drug-crazed anticipation.

  “What are you looking at, slit-eye?” said a shaven-headed stranger, his skin marked with the blue dragon tattoos of some street gang. His nose was broken, one of his ears had been half-bitten off. His right hand had been removed and replaced with a demon claw, the product of some fleshgrafter’s transformation vats. It was leathery, four times the size of a normal man’s and ended in razor sharp talons. The weight of it had forced the man’s arm muscles to overdevelop. His left arm looked scrawny and wasted in comparison. His whole body had a lopsided, hunch-backed look.

  “I don’t know,” Ulrik said, “but it’s looking back.”

  “You don’t scare me.”

  “I could change that.”

  “Enough, the pair of you,” said Old Moth, the trainer. Sparks flickered as his painwand clattered against the bars. “Save it for when you hit the sand.”

  It took all Ulrik’s willpower not to flinch. He knew what that innocuous stick of rune-embossed metal could do and he did not want to be suffering from its effects when he stepped into the Pit. The stranger felt the same way. When Ulrik glanced at him again, he was studying the ceiling above his head, his hands balled into fists.

  The roar of the crowd echoed down the dark tunnel that led to the arena. A bell tolled. Two burly handlers rose from their stools, lifted their painwands and dragged another captive from the holding pen. Moth looked on, his ancient pockmarked face as cold as the surface of the lesser moon. The prisoner was only a boy, half-trained. He screamed as he was hauled out, fighting the handlers. Skin sizzled as painwands bit flesh.

  A fool and a coward, Ulrik thought. In his stunned condition the boy would be easy meat.

  The handlers returned, blood specking their black leather tunics and boots. Things were going quickly tonight which did not surprise Ulrik. This ancient, decayed building was not a normal Pit. It was buried in the ruins at the edge of the city, a secret shameful place. This was not an official contest but an illegal one, with no rules, nothing forbidden. The decadent aristocracy of Typhon paid well for such things.

  Tonight men fought with monsters, demons, all the products of the darkest sorcery. Under the circumstances swift, spectacular deaths were not only to be expected but savoured.

  Nervousness tingled in his gut. The only thing he had to look forward to was survival and that meant only another fight. For him the Pit was a death sentence. His right to a portion of the victor’s purse had been denied him as part of his sentence. Those who had pronounced the verdict had intended that he would have no chance to buy freedom for himself. He would fight until he died.

  Ulrik clenched his fists tight. His lips twisted into a hard sneer. Screw the bastards; the magistrate who had sold him into slavery, the whole corrupt system that had condemned him. His real crime was never mentioned, and that was being born poor and hungry and not wanting to stay that way, and taking the only way out available to him. He glared around, a trapped animal searching for a way out it would never find.

  He raised his heavily muscled arms and inspected his shackles. No change! The slavestone still glowed a gentle green. If he moved too far away from the master stone blazing agony would reduce him to a mewling wreck. He had learned that lesson in the early days after his capture.

  The bell sounded again. The handlers dragged out three more prisoners in quick succession, including the man with the demon claw. Something bestial greeted them with a growl like subdued thunder. A minute later there were screams of pain and the roar of a crowd unable to contain its excitement. Over the last year Ulrik had learned to hate that sound.

  A shadow fell through the bars.

  “Master Valerius,” said Moth in tones respectful enough to make Ulrik look round. A cloaked aristocrat and his cat-girl paramour stared back. Behind them were four purple robed bodyguards. Masks and cowls hid the strong-arms’ faces. Stormlances were slung over their backs. They had swords and painwands on their belts.

  The nobleman wore a red scarf wrapped around his forearm marking him as being of the same faction as Moth. His family might even be sponsors of Moth’s fighters so he could expect the privilege of inspecting his champions. His cloak showed a pattern of flickering flames within it. Sometimes the flames formed the face of an elemental that leered or grimaced. The garment had cost more than Ulrik’s life was worth.

  Ulrik looked into the aristo’s soft face and was surprised when he did not flinch. There was something disconcerting about the man’s gaze. It seemed to weigh his very soul. Old man’s eyes in a young man’s face, Ulrik thought, and suppressed a shudder at the thought of all the ways a man could acquire a look like that.

  The aristocrat’s companion was vat-bred for pleasure by the look of her, her figure perfect and perfectly human save that tawny fur covered her whole body. Her eyes were huge and slit like a cat’s, her ears were pointed and tufted, her teeth were small and sharp. Her only clothing was a leather belt from which hung a few pouches. Her every movement was graceful, languorous and erotic. He was not the only man there staring at her. Slowly and deliberately she rubbed herself against her master’s side. He paid her not the slightest bit of attention. All the while her eyes were fixed on Ulrik’s.

  “So this is the famous Ulrik,” the aristocrat said. His voice was light and clear. His finger pointed at Ulrik. The nail had a small rune inscribed on it that radiated magic. Ulrik would have noticed the glow even without his altered eyes. He suppressed another shiver. The man was a wizard. They were always bad news. “He does not look as bad as they say.”

  “He’s a bad one all right, Master Valerius, sir,” said Moth, in his tired huckster’s voice. “A mad dog is our Ulrik. You don’t want to get too close to him. A wastelander and a pirate. Taken by the Cobalt Ravager. Bonded without right of prize, that’s how bad he is. Guess the insurance brokers wanted back some of the money he cost them so they sold him instead of making him burn. He’s killed more than thirty men since he was put in the Pits.”

  “He looks like he’s been modified by a fleshcrafter.”

  Moth ran his knobbly fingers through his white hair. “Eyes changed, reflexes improved, pain-dampening glands implanted, bunch of other things.”

  “I thought he was debarred from receiving prize money. Did you pay for these enhancements yourself?”

  “No, sir. He had those when he came to us. Paid for them himself, or to be more accurate, they was paid for by all the poor bastards he robbed.”

  “At least he was successful at it.”

  “They caught him in the end, sir. Took him and all his crew. He’s killed a few of his own men himself in the Pit since then.”

  “His crew?”

  “You would never guess it to look at that low forehead, but he was the captain.�
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  “Good with a sword?”

  “You’ll see when he hits the sand, sir.”

  “I doubt he’ll beat Lem.”

  “You never know, sir,” said Moth. His words were loyal as ever to the Crimson Sky faction. His tone of voice said he agreed with the wizard.

  Ulrik spat on the floor to cover his fear. Lem, he thought. It was a name he had heard before. Lem had fought in the Pit nearly a hundred times, and had used the money to augment himself in many ways. “Lem’s getting old.”

  “Lem’s got a new weapon or so I hear,” said the wizard. His gaze measured Ulrik. “Something special cooked up by the wizards of the Black Crab in commemoration of his soon-to-be hundredth victory.”

  “He dies tonight,” said Ulrik. Even to himself his voice did not sound very convincing. The roar of the crowd echoed down the access tunnels. The bell sounded again. Moth got to his feet and gestured to the handlers. They stood by the door, standing with their painwands ready, as Moth fumbled with the bunch of keys at his belt.

  “Best be going if you want to watch the big fight, Master Valerius. Sounds like we’ll be hitting the sand soon.”

  “What’s the cost of this man’s bond,” the wizard asked, as he turned to leave. It looked like an afterthought or idle curiosity.

  “Nine hundred and seventy-four denarii , sir,” said Moth. “You wouldn’t want to buy him though. His sort is only good for the Pit. Like I said, sir, a mad dog.”

  “You must have a lot of crimes staining your soul,” said Valerius.

  Ulrik glared at him. “So must you.”

  The wizard unsheathed the blade on his belt. It was made of crystal. Light flickered along its length. “You know how to use one of these?” the wizard asked.

  Valerius’s sword was not Ulrik’s usual scimitar, a weapon forged from steel scavenged from the old dead cities of the wastelands. This was a product of sophisticated wizardry. “An elemental blade? I’ve handled one,” Ulrik replied.

  “Use this one,” Valerius said. “You’re going to need it.”

  Moth tilted his head to one side. He looked puzzled.

  “It’s all right,” said Valerius. “It’s already been blessed by the Master of Ceremonies. He wants a good fight as much as we do. And this is the only way we are going to get one.”

  Ulrik was tempted to refuse but he feared that the wizard knew something he did not, and was only trying to do him a favour. He nodded. He was not sure why the man wanted to help him but he would take any aid he could get.

  “Good luck,” said the cat-girl as they headed off out of sight. Her voice was low and throaty. It sounded like a purr.

  Moth limped ahead just outside Ulrik’s reach. You did not get to be Moth’s age by taking unnecessary risks. The handlers flanked Ulrik, keeping just behind him where they could strike without exposing themselves and prod him into the pit with their painwands should he prove reluctant.

  As they neared the mouth of the tunnel, Ulrik could feel the voice of the crowd as much as he heard it. The air vibrated like the hawsers of an airship moored in a storm. They were expecting something special. Both Lem and he had a long track record of kills. Both were the First Blades of their factions. He squinted as they exited to the tunnel mouth and entered the lighted circle of the arena. Glowglobes rotated in the air overhead. Beyond them he could see the cracked crystal of the ancient dome that roofed this Pit. Drummers thrashed their instruments. Pipes shrieked. Cymbals clashed.

  The ash-covered sand crunched beneath his boots as he entered the battle circle. This Pit was not big, only about thirty strides across. The crowd were all richly dressed, watched over by bodyguards. They were not the normal sort of mob you saw at a public arena. A lot of money had changed hands to purchase entrance tonight. All eyes looked at him for a moment. The faces held the curiously slack look of people not yet quite sated with blood lust. He spat on the sand and shook his fist at them. They laughed, amused by his defiance.

  The two fighter entrances were open to the north and south. The Gate of Victory in the East and the Gate of the Dead through which the loser would be dragged westwards were still locked.

  Horns sounded and the drums beat louder followed by a moment of dramatic silence. A massive figure stood silhouetted in the entranceway across from them.

  Ulrik licked his lips. Perhaps he had only a few more minutes to live. He paused to consider for a moment. He had not had the best of lives, but it was the only one he was ever going to get. And there had been good times too- the feel of an airship deck beneath his feet and the sun setting over the wastelands. Anna’s arms around him in the heat of the night. The sight of his first born son cradled in her arms. The evenings he had spent with his children under the glow of the Arch, watching the airships come and go across the ancient ruins of his home port of Hydra. At least soon he might join his family in death.

  He pushed such thoughts from his mind, knowing that they were a weakness he could not afford if he were going to come through the next few minutes alive. All of that was gone so far into the past that it might as well have never happened. Now his only reality was this Pit and his only task to live through the next five minutes.

  The Master of Ceremonies waited, a great toad of a man. His robes were thick and red as blood. Mystical rings covered his pale chubby fingers. His eyes were those of an ancient lizard, cold and inhuman. The shimmer of a discrete protective enchantment hovered around him.

  He spoke, the balloon-like sacs on his throat expanding and contracting as his fleshcraft augmented voice boomed through the building, telling the crowd about Ulrik, his piracy and the names of the famous gladiators he had killed. He commended Ulrik’s soul to the spirits of the Pit according to the old religious rites and then began to speak of Lem.

  It had the sound of an ancient epic, a tale of unbroken victories over mighty foes and unstoppable monsters, of courage overcoming all enemies. Ulrik realised that in this tale, he was cast as the monster and Lem was the one who was going to vanquish him. The crowd roared their approval. They always had more sympathy with a proven winner. It was the Typhonian way.

  The Master of Ceremonies drifted closer to begin the ritual inspections, his waddling steps made dainty by the suspensor spells that let him carry his weight easily. He smelled of money and blood and sweat.

  The handlers forced Ulrik to his knees in the prescribed fashion, holding him there in the dust before the Master of Ceremonies. He did not fight them. He would need all his strength for the combat to come. The Master of Ceremonies’ flabby hands touched his face. Enchantments flowed from his rings, deactivating the slavestone so that all suspicion of interference might be removed from the fight.

  The shackles fell away.

  Moth stepped forward and presented the Master of Ceremonies with the elemental blade. He inspected it, sliding it from the scabbard. Runes glowed along the crystal, lit by sparks of the universal fire. The fat man nodded and raised his hand. The crowd shouted with pleasure, knowing they were going to see something special, when fighters clashed with magical weapons.

  The blade was placed in the dust three paces in front of Ulrik. The handlers held him in position as the Master of Ceremonies waddled over to where Lem stood.

  He had his first good view of his opponent now. Lem was even bigger than Ulrik. His upper body had the inverted pyramid shape of one augmented by muscle grafts. His hair was dyed black. His skin was marked by the black patches of dermal armour grafted to flesh. A bronze demon mask covered his face. He fell to one knee before the Master of Ceremonies before he could be forced down, making it a grand gesture, a courtier presenting himself to a king. The crowd murmured their approval. From the red section came some hissing and some jeers but it was subdued. Even the people who were supposed to be on Ulrik’s side were impressed.

  Ulrik caught sight of the wizard Valerius and his cat-girl. They were seated in the front row elevated booths reserved for the wealthiest and most well-born. The cat-girl gave him a wink. A g
asp from Moth brought Ulrik’s attention back to Lem’s sword which the Master of Ceremonies held before him, holding it at arm’s length, between two fingers, as if afraid of being contaminated by holding it closer.

  Dread kicked Ulrik in the pit of the stomach. The sword was of black steel. Red runes glowed along its length. It was a thing of dark legend, a demon weapon, a soul-eater. It would feed on the spirit of any man it killed. No one had seen such a blade in decades. They were banned in all civilised nations.

  “Bastard’s got a black blade,” said Moth.

  Ulrik tried to surge to his feet but the handlers kept him down

  Moth strode forward to protest. Ulrik could see him exchanging angry words with the Master of Ceremonies. He could hear only what the toad-man said. “There is no rule here against their use.”

  The crowd too saw what was going on. From the Crimson Sky section came more booing. Some people got up to leave, but over most of the crowd fell an awful and curious hush. They wanted to see what this weapon could do. They were jaded with mere death. They wanted to see something worse.

  Moth limped back over to him. In his eyes was the first trace of sympathy Ulrik had ever seen. He spat on the sand as he limped past. “I’m sorry,” he said. “No man should die this way. Take my advice -- when you pick up your sword drive it into your belly.”

  The Master of Ceremonies drove the black blade into the ground at the prescribed three paces and then withdrew from the sand. The handlers let Ulrik go and sprinted for the exits. The great gong sounded. The steel gates dropped into place. The crowd screamed in frenzy.

  Ulrik sprang forward towards his blade.

  Chapter Two

  Ulrik’s fingers tightened around the grip of the blade. He forgot about the crowd. He forgot about his fear. His awareness narrowed until it was focused on Lem. He studied his foe with his altered eyes, searching for weakness, for something he could exploit, for any advantage that would mean life.