Revenge of the Ancients: Crimson Worlds Refugees III

by Jay Allan

  Tragan turned, quivering with pain and rage as he faced Blackhawk again. Blackhawk knew the Ka’al’s champion had expected to dispatch him easily, as he had every adversary he’d fought before. But Tragan had never faced a foe as capable, as cold-blooded and deadly, as Arkarin Blackhawk.

  Blackhawk could smell his opponent’s fear, his astonishment at facing a foe he couldn’t defeat.. Tragan was a bully by nature, used to facing terrified and overmatched opponents. But now, Blackhawk knew the Ka’al’s hired thug was realizing he faced his own death. He paused, staring at Blackhawk, his arm covered with the bright red blood still pumping from his wound.

  Blackhawk watched his enemy approach, taking more care than he had on the first pass, holding the long spear in front of him, ready to strike at the first opening. Blackhawk’s eyes were on his foe. He saw Tragan’s chest expand, taking in the deep breath he knew would come before his adversary charged.

  Blackhawk stood ready, his gaze fixed on the giant, probing for weaknesses. He waited, his body tingling with anticipation, ready to lunge at just the right moment. He saw Tragan’s muscles tense, and he reacted instinctively, parrying the incoming spear thrust and swinging around quickly, stepping forward and shoving his blade hard into his foe’s chest.

  The crowd went silent as Tragan stood transfixed, his already-lifeless body standing in place for an instant before sliding off Blackhawk’s sword and falling to the ground.

  Blackhawk stood still, his enemy’s blood dripping from the tip of his blade. That was stupid, he thought, much too quick. He knew he should have played for time, but that wasn’t how he fought. It wasn’t how any veteran warrior fought. In a battle to the death, when you have an opening, you take your man down. Period. Ajax Tragan had been a dangerous opponent, one Blackhawk knew could have killed him given the chance.

  More to the point: what the hell was time going to change anyway? Whenever he finally dropped the bastard, he was still going to have to find a way out of this mess. Dancing Tragan around the pit for ten minutes wasn’t going to make a difference.

  Blackhawk’s eyes snapped upward, fixating on the Ka’al. Kalishar’s pirate king was staring out at the sands of the battle pit from his royal box, as stunned and silent as the thousands in the crowd. Tarn Belgaren had been one of the more ruthless and successful pirates to plague the Far Stars a generation past, before a freak series of events allowed him to seize control of Kalishar’s throne. He’d been a feared warrior in his pirate days, but he had become sodded and drunk on power. His once muscular frame had gone to fat, and his initially skillful rule had become ever more brutal and arbitrary.

  “Seize him!” The Ka’al’s sudden roar stunned even his own guards, who paused for an instant before drawing their weapons and rushing out onto the sand.

  Blackhawk tensed, preparing for the fight he knew would be his last. He was good, better than any of the Ka’al’s men, and he could take more punishment than any normal human. But there were at least a dozen guards, and they had guns as well as swords. They would obey the Ka’al’s orders to try to capture him, but after he dropped a few he had no doubt the guns would start blazing. He might get a handful of them before they riddled him with bullets and took him down. Maybe. Only one thing was certain: he wasn’t getting out of the arena alive.

  Then he heard something in the distance: a low-pitched whine, and it was coming closer. He felt a rush of excitement, and he let his sword hand relax, bringing the blade down from its ready position. He needed to play for time again.

  The Wolf’s Claw is approaching.

  Yes. He flashed the thought back to the AI. I’d know that sound anywhere, my helpful little friend. He frowned for an instant. He’d told Ace to get the hell off Kalishar and take the Claw back to Celtiboria. Apparently his number two didn’t take orders any better than he did. A feral smile replaced the grimace as the sound grew louder. Orders or no orders, it was time to get off this shithole.

  The crowd’s eyes moved upward as the Wolf’s Claw came right over the ancient, crumbling stone of the arena. The Ka’al’s men, who had been moving toward Blackhawk, stopped and stared up at the incoming vessel… then one of them was torn apart, his half-roasted body falling in two sections to the sand.

  Then another.

  And another.

  The crowd began screaming and rushing for the exits. The slower and weaker fell—or were pushed—to the ground and were trampled by the rest of the panicking mob. In the Ka’al’s booth, his guards were lifting his great bulk from his chair, pulling him toward the exit.

  Blackhawk saw it out of the corner of his eye. And then he saw something else: Tragan’s spear, lying in the sand a meter from the big man’s body. His eyes flashed to the guards – they were all staring at the fast-approaching Claw – and back to the forgotten weapon. He lunged forward in a textbook combat roll, grabbing the abandoned spear, and he fixed his eyes on his target. He loosed the weapon in a fluid motion, just as he rose to his feet. The heavy spear wasn’t built for throwing, but Blackhawk put all his strength behind the herculean toss. The weapon ripped through the air, heading right for the fleeing Ka’al.

  The guards were pushing their screaming ruler toward the box’s door. One of the men in the pit had seen Blackhawk grab the weapon and shouted a warning. The bodyguards responded, trying to push the Ka’al down, but they were too late. The spear hit Kalishar’s ruler in the thigh, slicing through the layers of fat and embedding itself deep in the muscle below. The Ka’al shrieked in pain, but the guards ignored it and pulled his enormous body through the door and out of the arena.

  Blackhawk didn’t care if the Ka’al lived or died—he had more pressing things to worry about. Wolf’s Claw was hovering just above the battle pit, its needle gun firing at any of the Ka’al’s people brave – or stupid – enough to show themselves. The lower hatch was open, and a series of lines dropped to the ground. Several black, shadowy figures slid down the nylon ropes, dropping into combat positions and pulling heavy assault rifles off their backs. Blackhawk recognized the Twins immediately. The brothers were just about the biggest men he’d ever seen, two giants standing half a meter above his own considerable height. They opened fire, shooting at the guards, but hitting more than one of the crowd as well. The Twins were killing machines: deadly, relentless, and totally loyal to Blackhawk. But no one ever called them discriminating. They were sledgehammers, not scalpels.

  “Let’s go, Cap.” The voice was low-pitched but identifiably female. Shira Tarkus was hanging about halfway down one of the lines, firing her trademark pistol over Blackhawk’s shoulder. She was the deadliest shot he’d ever met—except for himself, of course. “This place is crawling with unfriendlies.” Tarkus shared seniority with Ace as Blackhawk’s oldest companion. She was a cold fish, but her loyalty to the captain was absolute.

  Blackhawk jogged forward, reaching out and grabbing one of the lines. He began climbing and turned his head to look down at the Twins. “Let’s go, you big oafs! Time to get the fuck out of here.” He maintained his gaze until both of the Twins had grabbed hold of a rope and begun climbing. Then he hauled himself up and into the lower airlock of the Claw. He reached down, helping Shira, and then the Twins, into the ship. “Claw, close the hatch,” he shouted at the ship’s AI as he pushed himself up and onto his feet. “Now!” He stumbled over to the wall and slapped his hand on the intraship comlink. “Lucas, my man. Get us the hell out of here.

  “Fast.”

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