Storm Over Olysi (Book Two of the Nine Suns)

By Zackery Arbela

Nine Suns there are, nine watchers, nine masters. The worlds their children. The races their seed, the soul the shards of their intellect, the Empyrean the workshop of their divine labors. Who among us has the wisdom to hear their voices, to know their words written? Who can hear the Greater Voice beyond, the One who speaks to the Suns as they speak to us?

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The NINE SUNS continues in a new epic fantasy adventure!

It was supposed to be an easy job. Deliver a crate to the city of Iremnik, on Kuthir. Try not to get killed in the process.

But for Gaebrel Harrn and the crew of the Sparrow, things are never that simple. For inside that crate was a sleeping princess at the heart of a plot to use dark magic and twisted technology to overthrow a kingdom and ignite a war that would leave a world in flames.

Now they are on the run, chased across the Olysi system by their old enemy Ulzarad the Neverborn, who desires nothing more than to consume their souls. To restore a Princess to her rightful throne - and save their own necks - Gaebrel and his companions will do battle against a mighty warlord who has never known defeat, face certain death in the arena against creatures unknown even to legend and escape the soulless clutches of the Neverborn. They will infiltrate the homeworld of the lizard-like dzur, an secretive race known for their skill in creating magical artifacts...and their absolute hatred of outsiders. Those who enter their underground cities uninvited are never seen again.

Yet Gaebrel and his companions have never let the threat of utter annihilation stop them. With swords and gunpowder and reckless courage they will bring a storm over the worlds of Olysi...and the Suns and Spirits help those who get in their way!

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FROM THE AUTHOR
Thank you for checking out my book! This series is a labor of love, a work of fiction, fantasy and magic drawn from the depths of my imagination. If you like what you read, then by all means leave a review and tell the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zackery Arbela
• Release date: May 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301558445

Zackery Arbela

The physical body of Zackery Arbela lives somewhere in the wilds of Florida. The mind of Zackery Arbela can be found wandering the various planes and adornments of the temporal spheres, from whence he sometimes returns with new and fantasickal tales to tell.

Book preview

STORM OVER OLYSI

Book Two of the Nine Suns

Zackery Arbela

Copyright 2010 Zackery Arbela

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The Story So Far...

Gaebrel's Gamble

The Nine Suns...where empires rise and fall in a haze of gunpowder smoke, steel and magic, where fortune awaits those with courage to seize it. It is an age of adventure...and an easy place to die.

Gaebrel Haarn is a smuggler, thief and adventurer. Abandoned at an early age on the world of Cunerin, which orbits the Sun Doran, he grew to manhood living by his wits, with a silver tongue in his mouth and a rapier and pistol in his hands. When a scheme of his in the Cunerini kingdom of Tasevanya goes sideways he is forced to flee the planet on a merchantmen, which in turn is captured by the dreaded Zeghavian Corsairs. He is taken to Charulan, a desert world that is the closest to the Sun and sold to Ozir'al, owner of a ship-breaking yard, a man consumed by his own bitterness.

On Charulan, Gaebrel makes the acquaintance of the other members of his work gang:

Pohtoli Idannu, an exiled nobleman from a distant world turned would-be merchant prince.

Gerel udi Gerel, a native of Charulan, a proud warrior and mercenary yearning for vengeance against the Corsairs who have enslaved his world.

Yasinnic, an ilurei hunter and a man of few words.

Hurren urd Puluhiada, an ursuhli warrior seeking to avenge a personal disgrace through honorable death in battle.

Morrec Dheann, a former acolyte from the Theocracy of Crannen, whose addiction to gambling cost him a promising future.

After three days laboring in the hot sun, Gaebrel concludes life as a slave isn't for him. He tricks his master into trip to Charulan's moon Lenasi, home of the Corsairs. There he finesses a meeting with Yinyanni, First Captain of the Zeghavian's, where he promises to steal a mighty treasure being sent from the Tasevanyan's to the Arcanists of Wennata, a moon-realm of spellcasters known for their ability to hold a grudge, asking for his freedom and that of his comrades in return. Seeing no threat to the Corsairs, she agrees.

On Charulan, Gaebrel convinces the rest of the work gang to go along. They quickly agree and this crew of desperate men sets forth to steal the greatest treasure in the Universe. They are given a ship by the First Captain and a Corsair crew to watch over them. Ozir'al comes along as well, since he had been promised a share of the treasure as their rightful owner.

Meanwhile, a new force makes his presence felt; Ulzarad the Neverborn, emissary from the Agazin Hegemony from across the Universe. An immortal sorcerer who sustains himself by draining the souls of living creatures, he has ostensibly been sent to forge an alliance between the Corsairs and the Hegemony. His true, secret mission is to locate an ancient golden medallion, the source of a great power that his Masters desire. He is aware of Gaebrel and his comrades, indeed advised her to send them on this mission.

Gaebrel and his companions set sail on the boundless Empyrean. Through fair means and foul they locate the treasure ship (as well as tricking the Corsairs into murdering Ozir'al and his men...) The ship is in orbit above Wennata itself, a xenophobic world where outsiders are not welcome. They steal the ship, then betray the Corsairs to the Arcanists, seizing the loot for themselves. On a nearby nameless moonlet they inspect the haul, finding wealth beyond the wildest dreams of avarice. Among the gold, jewels, silks and spices is a medallion, a gaudy piece stamped with the face of an ape. Gaebrel picked it up and is immediately assailed by visions of an ancient war, of burning worlds and terrible battles. Try as he might, he cannot cast the medallion aside, the mere thought filling him with panic. He put into a pocket, a mystery for another day.

In addition, there is another ship held within the hold of the treasure ship, a swift-built cutter that once belonged to a Prince, which they take as their own, naming her the Sparrow. They leave the treasure ship behind, but not before insulting the Wennatan crew and the ursuhli mercenaries hired to protect both, (both of whom were taken prisoner without a shot being fired) claiming to be Zeghavian Corsairs who laugh at their weakness. Their trail suitably muddied, Gaebrel and his comrades flee on their newly stolen ship.

The Wennatan's and ursuhli clans declare war on the Corsairs. The largest fleet in history assembles to end their depredations once and for all. As every Corsair ship is recalled to defend their homeworld, the Sparrow lands on Farfrinda, where Pohtoli meets with a merchant of his acquaintance named Frinsani, who agrees to broker the sale of their plunder at an agreeable price. But because it is stolen and legally the property of the Wennatan's, the exchange must happen in secret a month hence on Tingydd, an icy world on the edge of the system.

A month passes. The world of Doran tremble at the imminent war. On Tingydd, Gaebrel and his comrades meet with a contingent of merchants from the world of Olysi, a distant Sun to the Celestial East. They show their wares, their minds filled with images of wealth beyond measure. But it is a trap; Frinsani has betrayed them! Ulzarad reveals himself and a fight breaks out. Gaebrel and his comrades manage to escape, but they leave behind the treasure and one of their own, Hurren, who is taken prisoner. Angered, Ulzarad returns to Lenasi.

The Sparrow retreats to an unnamed moon, where Gaebrel drowns his sorrows in drink. A message is sent by Ulzarad, offering to exchange Hurren for the medallion. Gaebrel resolves to rescue their ursuhli comrade. They join the fleet assembled to attack the Corsairs, lost amongst the mass of freebooters come for plunder. The invasion begins, Gaebrel and his companions using the cover of battle to land on Lenasi itself. Even as the Empyrean around the world filled with burned and broken ships, they make their way to the fortress where Ulzarad holds their comrade. There they face off against the Neverborn, who quickly proves their match. He seizes Gaebrel and prepares to drain his soul...but the medallion reacts to the presence of the Neverborn and blasts him back. Yasinnic then shoots Ulzarad with a cannon, knocking him into a wall.

Hurren is rescued and is greatly disgusted with himself for not dying in battle. Then Ulzarad stirs – to their great shock he still lives, his broken body healing before they eyes. They flee, even the battle-hungry Hurren. Ulzarad rises, maddened with rage, intent on slaying them all. He reaches the gate of the fortress...just as a burning ship falls from the sky. The ship of the First Captain, destroyed in battle, its burning hulk falling on the fortress and the Neverborn, seemingly killing him for good

The power of the Corsairs is broken forever. But Gaebrel and his comrades have caused so much trouble that they cannot stay in Doran; a dozen worlds have put high prices on their heads. So they raise sail and set off into the Empyrean, intent on seeking their fortunes around another Sun. Meanwhile, in the ruins of Lenasi, Ulzarad arises from the ruins of the fortress, draining the souls of scavengers who mistook him for another dead body. He laughs and resumes the hunt for the medallion...

Nine Suns there are, nine watchers, nine masters. The worlds their children. The races their seed, the soul the shards of their intellect, the Empyrean the workshop of their divine labors. Who among us has the wisdom to hear their voices, to know their words written? Who can hear the Greater Voice beyond, the One who speaks to the Suns as they speak to us?

Prologue

It was just after midnight. A gentle wind blew from the east, carrying away if only for a moment the eternal pall of coal smoke that hung over the city, bringing blessed relief from the soot and grime. The streets were still sweltering from the late summer heat, made only worse by the fires burning in countless manufactories and workshops filling this district. Day and night they toiled, rotating shifts of men working the forges and foundries, tying themselves to the various machines and devices that churned out a never-ending stream of goods. Giant signs and proclamations posted at every intersection and street corner urged those taking the time to read to work harder for the glory of the state, pictograms and glyphs that were the script of this place declaring the nobility of selfless labor.

This was the Ukutek Union, where men were nothing and the needs of the state were everything. Only through labor would the people be set free and everyone had to put in their share. Their perseverance, it was promised, would someday be met with the ultimate reward. For proof one need only look to the sky, to the blue and green orb dominating the heavens. Its continents were dark in the nighttime, but patches of light in the darkness marked cities on the surface, cities much like this one, but filled with people decidedly opposed to their way of life. They must be shown the error of their ways, so had declared generations of leaders. It was an old conflict, one that had gone on for so long none could imagine it ending.

In the western part of this district stood a block of warehouses along a wide street. During the day they were the scene of much activity, wagons coming back and forth loaded down with goods, laborers loading and unloading, clerks and officials of every sort checking and rechecking. A different place by night, the street and alleyways quiet, broken only by the hourly passage of the nightwatchman. Shortly after midnight he made yet another round, trudging down the way, a lantern swinging from his hand, yawning widely while keeping a lazy eye for anything untoward. There was little reason to expect trouble here, nothing but bulk goods in these buildings. Bales of cotton, reams of freshly made paper, stacks of timbers awaiting transport to the numerous building sites across the city. Nothing to tempt a thief. He whistled a nameless tune as he went, rounding a corner and disappearing into the darkness.

A minute passed, then a door opened in one of the warehouses. A head poked out, looking left and right, eyes alert for any sign of movement and finding none. He ducked back in, closing the door behind him. A moment later a wider set of doors beside it swung outward, letting out a single cart drawn by a pair of horses. Two men sat on the headboard, four more in the back, gathering around something covered by a tarp. The door closed as they turned to the right, headed away from the warehouses and into the city. The driver flicked the reins and the horses moved to a trot, the wheels rattling on the ground.

Left they turned, passing red-brick buildings that had turned gray from years of soot. More warehouses, then a line of workshops, something to do with metals from the coal carts rolling past, making deliveries for the morning's work. A common enough sight in this city and the reason for the never-ending gloom filling the skies, shovel loads feeding countless furnaces, forges and foundries, adding yet another layer of smoke and grime. The wagon kept to the center of the street. Not far now, muttered the driver, keeping an eye on the signs. His name was Naxal, and he was renowned for his phlegmatic nature.

Another turn, then another and they headed down a side street. Naxal reined in suddenly, one of the horses whickering in protest. A wagon was parked ahead, lying across the thoroughfare and blocking their path. No horse was in the yoke and no sign of any passengers.

I don't like this, said the man sitting next to Naxal. His name was Gaalmalik, and he was nervous by nature

Like it or not, the bloody thing is still there. Naxal looked to the back. Get out and move it, he ordered.

Two men dismounted and went to the abandoned wagon. One of them grabbed the yoke and pulled it. Brake is set, he said after a tug.

Wait a moment. The other yanked an iron lever on the side. A loud clang sounded and with a grunt they turned the wagon about. One of them looked over his shoulder, eyes widening in shock. It's a....

The bullet knocked his head back, one of his eyes disappearing in a reddish mist mingled with fragments of skull. Brilliant lanterns flared to life, illuminating the street, curls of powder smoke moving like spirits in the glare. The other man ran, even as men in the steel gray uniforms of the local garrison hustled forward, their muskets at the ready, directed by other men in dark clothing, bearing no insignia yet wreathed with menace.

One of them shot the fleeing man in the back with a pistol. Take the rest alive! he shouted. I want prisoners....

HYAH! Naxal snapped the reins, the horses breaking into a gallop. The wagon barreled towards the soldiers, men diving out of the way before they were run down. Shots rang out, bullets bouncing off bricks and slapping the side boards. Two of the lanterns crashed to the ground as the men holding them jumped out of the way, one of them bursting into flame as the oil reservoir cracked open.

Naxal made a sharp turn, the wheels kicking up sparks, the horses squealing as the wagon shifted about behind them. One of the men fell into the wagon bed as it slammed into a wall, the steel hub leaving sparks as it gouged a rut through the brick and mortar.

Cavalry! Gaalmalik warned, pointing behind. Riders galloped after them, men in dark cloaks, holding the reins with one hand and loaded pistols in the other.

Hold them off! Naxal ordered the remaining men in the back, urging the horses to even greater speed. Guns appeared in their hands. The pursuing riders ducked their heads as shots were fired, one of them grabbing the side of his head as a bullet grazed his ear. They fired back, white smoke blowing back into their faces, a window shattering as a ball went wide. Pistols spent, they drew their sabers and closed in.

Hang on! Naxal pulled the reins again, the wheels skittering about as they made another turn, headed onto a wide east-west street. Behind him, the men did their best to reload their weapons, juggling ball, powder and wadding while trying not to fall off a madly rocking wagon. One of them ripped open a cartridge with his teeth, then cursed as a jolt caused him to miss the barrel of his weapon entirely, pouring the gunpowder down the front of his coat.

Damn it! Hold steady!

Do you want to drive! Naxal shouted back. Another turn, the horses’ sides flecked with foam, one of them bleeding from the mouth. Oh Hell...

Another wagon was ahead, parked across the street. Standing before it were two ranks of soldiers, set up in a firing line, the front rank kneeling. An officer bawled out a command and they lowered their muskets.

It's been an honor, my friends! Naxal shouted. HYAH! HYAH!

FIRE! shouted the officer. The muskets roared, the streets filled with smoke. The horses screamed as lead shot scythed through their flesh, collapsing to the ground and sending the passengers flying. Two of them were dead before they hit the ground. Naxal crashed to the cobblestones, clutching a belly wound. He heard the sound of men approaching, tried to sit up, then fell back and breathed his last as a bayonet pointed at his face.

Gaalmalik survived, clutching a broken leg and screaming in pain as two of the soldiers hauled him up. The secret policemen in charge of the detachment approached him, a pistol in hand. Are there any others? he asked a sergeant.

No sir. Just this one.

The secret policeman gave the prisoner a quick look. Where were you going?

Gaalmalik only groaned, lost in a world of pain.

Answer him! said a soldier, giving him a rough shake and causing yet another screech of pain from the shattered limb.

Enough of that! The secret policeman slipped the pistol in a coat pocket. Bind that leg and take him to the Erixan Fortress for questioning...

Sir! A soldier standing by the toppled wagon called out. Come look at this.

The secret police walked over, glancing down at the dead driver. Dressed like a common laborer and likely was one. Treason...it came in so many different shapes and sizes, an insidious substance filling any number of molds. Constant vigilance was the price they had to pay for good order...his train of thought came to an abrupt end at the wagon. The cargo?

Still intact. The solder cut one of the ropes securing the tarp. A long wooden box tumbled onto the street.

Open it.

Orders were shrilled. Two more soldiers hurried over with crowbars. They jabbed the claw ends under the lid and ripped it open.

What the hell? one of them said. Sir...

Move! The secret policeman pushed forward, heaving the lid away and staring at the contents of the box with disbelief.

Sir?

We've been had. He picked up a moldy apple, one of hundreds filling the crate to the brim. A decoy, the clever bastards! Close the city gates, ground all ships. Seal this place tight as a drum! A decoy...they could be anywhere! Go!

Yes sir!

A few minutes earlier

Coal carts lined the boulevard, loaded to the brim, the men sitting in the front perpetually covered in grime despite their best efforts to the contrary. The coalmans day began well before dawn was even a hint on the horizon, gathering at one of the great stockpiles scattered throughout the the city, rolling through empty streets to make their deliveries, an unnoticed yet necessary component for the continued functioning of Ukutek industry...or so the Powers-That-Be declared on those rare occasions when they felt the labors of this particular batch of the lower orders merited notice. For most it was a decidedly unromantic way to earn one's daily bread. Dirty, backbreaking and low paying.

Hundreds of coal carts were out and about this morning, making their deliveries, a sight so commonplace that they practically faded into the background. More eyes were inclined to notice the wagon coming round a corner and making good time past the closed workshops. The men huddled in the back didn't even look over their shoulders at the coalmen, they may as well have been shadows on the walls.

The wagon disappeared around another bend, Naxal flicking the reins and picking up speed. A minute passed by, the only sound was that of men with shovels unloading their morning deliveries, the air suffused with clouds of coal dust that watered the eyes. Once they were emptied, the weary drivers climbed back up for the return trip to the stockpiles and their next load.

One of the carts began to roll, the lone driver clicking at the tired-looking horse hooked up in the front traces, urging it into a slow trot. Coal lumps rattled in the back as the wheels trundled over the cobblestones, the cart turning about and headed in the opposite direction from the wagon. The driver hunched down, keeping his eyes resolutely on the road, not turning when the distant sounds of gunshots drifted through the streets, mingled with the shouts of men. Other sights and sounds testified to an increased level of agitation among the keepers of law and order; platoons of watchmen rushing past, the ringing of alarm bells and blowing of whistles. Once he was forced to rein in as a batch of cavalrymen galloped by, men on tall horses wearing plumed helmets, the drawn swords in their hands a sign of dangerous intent.

And throughout it all, no one noticed the coalman and his cart. Part of the background they were, one of hundreds. Just a shadow on the wall.

There was a landing field on the edge of the district, used by the local factories and workshops. Goods rolled out on wagons and hand trucks, loaded into one of the many small traders for transshipment to other parts of this moon, to the world beyond, or out across the Empyrean to destinations exotic and unknown. The coal cart rolled through the gate, the lone watchmen on duty not even looking up as he passed. Down past parked lines of ships, crews were only now starting to stir.

Except on one vessel, located at the far end. A single lantern lit up as the coal cart approached, two men trod down the cargo ramp, one of them waving at the driver.

Right on time, he said as the coalman reined in, much to the relief of the horse. The plan worked?

Yes. The driver did not seem all that happy, thinking of the men whose lives were sacrificed. At a cost though. A hard price to pay.

The sailors nodded, giving a moment's silence for the fallen.

Then to work. The driver climbed into the back shovel in hand, planting his feet firmly in the coal, digging down and tossing the lumps over the side. The two men from the ship went around to the back with long wooden rakes. As they cleared away the coal, something else was revealed beneath it – a long bundle wrapped in layers of stiff canvas and bound tight with three leather belts. When enough of the coal was gone, the sailors grabbed hold of the bundle and pulled it free, carefully lying it down on the ground, one of them brushing away coal dust.

How does it look? asked the driver.

The bundle was quickly inspected. No punctures. The seal is intact.

Box it up. By now they'll have found the decoy. Every ship for a hundred miles will be grounded come dawn.

Way ahead of you, my friend. More men left the ship, carrying an empty wooden crate. They gently lifted up the bundle and placed it inside, one of them emptying a sackful of sawdust on top, which they packed around the sides for padding. A lid was placed on top and quickly nailed shut. They took the crate back aboard, moving through a cargo hold filled with similar boxes and containers, sticking it in a corner and piling several others on top then tying all of them down firmly with netting.

The job being done, the men went back on their ship with only the briefest of goodbyes. The coalman got back on his cart, nudged the grumbling horse back into some semblance of movement and left the landing field the same way he came, the back of the wagon now conspicuously empty of coal.

The cargo ramp closed, even as crewmen climbed into the rigging. A moment later every man aboard felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Down in the ascension locker, a length of red rexite crystal slid into the door of a glowing oven, half-burying itself in a bed of hot coals. The currents of the Aethyr, that ineffable, unknowable force permeating everything and everyone in all creation, were twisted and disrupted, releasing the ship from the effects of gravity. With the groan of wood and creak of rope and canvas, the merchantman ascended skywards, sails opening as soon as they cleared the rooftops of the surrounding city.

A stiff breeze blew from the west. The captain took full advantage of it and none too soon. For even as the ship rose skyward a rider galloped onto the landing field. He dismounted before the door of the field master, pounding repeatedly until that drowsy fellow tumbled from his bed, opening the door to be met by an official order grounding all ships until further notice. Similar orders were relayed across the city and soon across the entire moon of Ufilas. Houses would be searched, the usual suspects interrogated. Patrol vessels prowled the local Empyrean for weeks, harassing anything larger than a passenger lighter and causing no shortage of incidents.

In the meantime, the small trader cleared the atmosphere and set a course away from the moon, towards the wide expanses of the Empyrean.

Chapter One

The incoming fist rapidly grew in size, filling Gerel's vision to the point where it blotted out the light, before connecting with his jaw in an explosion of sparks.

He fell back, bouncing against the side of the fighting pit, breath knocked from his lungs by the impact. By pure instinct his forearms came up, protecting his face from the rain of blows and strikes, gritting his teeth at the pain. He skipped off to the side, dodging another strike that would have decked him for sure had it connected. Sand flew away from his bare feet, drops of sweat fell to the ground as he gained more room, his head still ringing. He waggled his jaw...no teeth fell out. A good sign. Best make sure it stayed that way.

The crowd packed the tiered seats above the fighting pit, the air raucous with shouts, curses and obscenities both at the fighters and each other. Strong drink spilled from clay cups, bottles clattered underfoot, a hazard to any and all making their way through the stands. A diverse crowd, well representing Pa'a and its populace, men from every world in the system and quite a few beyond. Human for the most part, though there were a few ilurei hanging around in the back, quiet like their kind generally were. Hanging from the wall on the highest level were four giant boards, painted black and marked with chalk numbers and symbols, erased and redrawn every few seconds. A steady stream of men went back and forth, taking note of the latest odds and laying down wagers with the four bookmakers who between them held the gambling franchise (not to mention the dozens of others operating on the sly.) The touts calling out the odds kept an eye on the two men in the pit. Gerel, lean, black-skinned, moving like a panther, up against Wursung the Dread (so he named himself) six feet tall, burly and so covered with tattoos that any hint of what his actual skin might look like was now a matter of guesswork. Both men were stripped to the waist, their hands wrapped with strips of cloth. Both circled about the pit, waiting for an opening, the mob of pugilistic enthusiasts howling for blood.

Gerel struck, fists lashing out, quickly as a snake struck, hitting Wursung once, twice in the chest, sending his foe back. Gerel saw his opening, and gave another blow, putting all his strength behind it. Wursung ducked to the side, moving with uncommon grace for a man of his size, leaving Gerel off balance.

Another hit, this time to Gerel's ribs. His arms raised again as another flurry of blows came down, more than a few ducking under his elbows to find his gut. He was fending off the worst of it, but not for much longer....

BONG! The timekeeper slammed a wooden mallet against the metal plate, raising a watch over his head with the other hand. Time! Fighters to your sides! Three minutes!

Wursung lowered his fists and sauntered back to the edge of the pit, seemingly unfazed by the blows he'd taken. Gerel stumbled the other way, setting himself down on a stool and spitting out a blood-flecked gobbet. Bastard can hit, he growled.

A slender, brown-skinned fellow knelt beside him. You good for the next round? Pohtoli asked, handing his comrade-in-arms a cup of water.

Bah! I've taken worse hits than that from my grandmother!

Was your grandmother the size of that monster?

Do you question my courage, Pohtoli?

Of course not! In case you haven't noticed, I'm not the one being knocked about, that privilege is all yours my friend...

Enough! A weary voice spoke above them, ending yet another incipient argument. Gaebrel Haarn glared at them both for a moment. He was tall, olive-skinned, lean and green-eyed, his brown hair ragged after months of self-barbering with a knife by lantern light. One minute left. Gerel, can you stand for another round?

Of course, who do you think....

How many fingers am I holding up?

Gerel frowned. Er...three?

Gaebrel waggled four, then shrugged, Eh...close enough. The gong rang again, accompanied by a roar from the crowd. Get out there and do some damage!

Gerel lurched to his feet, bellowing a war cry in his native tongue as he charged out, fists at the ready. A minute later he came stumbling back against the side of the pit as Wursung hurled down blows from above like lightning bolts from a vengeful and heavily tattooed god. A drop of sweat flew away from Gerel's head, arcing into the air to land somewhere in the crowd. A fitting metaphor, Gaebrel idly mused, that well explained the last four months.

The decision to leave the worlds of Doran behind was not difficult to make. Over a dozen realms on half as many worlds and moons had placed prices on all their heads, ranging from merely large to outrageously extravagant. There was no port, no settlement or remote field or barren stretch of rock that wouldn't be infested with bounty hunters clutching wanted posters in one hand and manacles in the other. Only two of their number were native to the system and neither had any desire to stay; Hurren the ursuhli was bound by his oath to die honorably in battle and could never return home. Gerel, on the other hand, yearned to see his native deserts on Charulan one last time...but was wise enough in the ways of human nature to realize that he wouldn't last more than three days before a rival tribe kidnapped him for the reward. The danger this would bring to his family was something that could not be countenanced.

So they raised sail for the Celestial East, leaving Doran behind for the cold winds of the open Empyrean. To the South, the light of the distant suns of the Bright Lands, to the North the impenetrable darkness of the Bittering, that trackless reach beyond the light of the Suns, a frigid, lightless hell where the cold winds that shivered them now would feel like the warmest of summer breezes. No ship that entered it ever returned and the crew of the Sparrow had no desire to try their luck. Ahead of them, growing brighter by the hour, was Olysi, that most exotic of the Suns, its worlds a byword for wealth, where their names were unknown. Where their fortunes might be restored (and this time kept firmly in their hands.)

Said fortunes took a turn for the better two months into their journey, when they came across a derelict ship floating on the wind. From the tattered nature of the sails and the thick beards of moss hanging from the spars and hull, it had been abandoned for years. No sign of the crew was aboard, nothing in the way of remains...and the hull was empty save for the desiccated remains of a few rats. Gaebrel ordered rope cables be fixed to the prow and the Sparrow's sails opened to the fullest. Towing the damnable hulk cut their speed in half, but it was worth it, once they breached the outer edges of the system and made for the moon of Pa'a, orbiting above the ocean world of Merusis. A salvage yard on the moon happily accepted the derelict, no questions asked, paying what Gaebrel considered an absurdly low price for a ship that, with a little work, could be restored fairly quickly...but they were in no position to complain. And it was still enough to pay the docking fees, restock the galley...and engage in the next scheme for quick riches and easy money. Which in Gerel's case was proving quite painful to achieve...

BONG!

Gerel stumbled back to his companions, weaving back and forth like a sapling in a strong wind. He sat down with a groan, blinking furiously at his feet. That last punch...hit like a mule, he muttered. Why do I have two right feet...

Can you make it one more round? Pohtoli asked.

Course I can....

You sure about that?

Before Gerel could come up with a suitable retort, Gaebrel handed him a cup of water. Drink, he said. He looked across the pit at Wursung, lounging on his stool as though this was a day in the sun. He met Gaebrel's gaze with a grin, revealing a mouth full of teeth filed to sharp points. Unpleasant fellow...

The gong struck again. Gerel lurched to his feet, spitting out a mouthful of water tinged red with blood, beaten but not yet broken. Immediately his arms were up again, fending off more blows, causing many in the audience to wonder if he still had feeling below his elbows.

A stocky, blond-haired man forced his way through the baying mob, leaving behind a trail of apologies for trodden-on toes and spilled drinks. Done! Morrec Dheann gasped out, bumping into the rise of the pit barrier beside Gaebrel and Pohtoli.

All of it? asked Gaebrel.

Every penny, spread out on all the bookmakers as you asked.

At what odds?

When I started they were giving out at four to two. By the end they were at ten to one. They might hit twenty if we wait a bit longer... Morrec winced as he saw the carnage in the pit.

I don't think Gerel will make it to eleven, the way he's going, Pohtoli observed.

Agreed. They all flinched as Gerel buckled under a powerful blow that would have knocked out a horse. Give the signal.

Fighting pit aficionados were not the most observant of individuals, being composed largely of men drunk on a potent mixture of liquor and blood lust. Violence was what they were after, the more brutal the better. Yet if anyone had taken a moment to analyze the fight from a rational standpoint, they would have noticed a few things off. First, the mere fact that a clearly outmatched Gerel was still standing, albeit just barely. Second, that every time he was knocked back against the edge of the pit, it was at a point where his opponent could see Gaebrel and Pohtoli. And finally, in between various punches and blows, Wursung glanced towards the two of them, as if waiting for something.

Pohtoli coughed, as if clearing his throat, then idly scratched his nose. A common enough gesture, unnoticed by the crowd (or so he hoped.) Wursung eyes flickered with recognition. At which point he ceased with the relentless pounding of Gerel, grabbed the other fighter by the shoulder and hurled him back out into the center of the pit. Enough of this! he bellowed. I will fight a man, not a cringing old woman!

Gerel flushed at that, even as the crowd laughed. Raising his fists, he flung a wild blow at Wursung, driven by equal parts rage, desperation and foggy-headedness. Given the relative difference in condition between the two, the punch should have had little chance of actually hitting and even less of causing damage. Wursung moved the moment it was thrown, Gerel's fist clipping along his cheek. He stumbled back, arms flailing, as if kicked in the chest by a mule. Shouts of dismay came from the crowd. Gerel followed up with another punch, and another. This time Wursung raised his arms in protection, even as the howling mob screamed down at their champion of moments before.

He's overselling it, Pohtoli muttered. A child would see through this.

Give them a moment.

Wursung shoved his way free, stumbling back into the center of the pit. He raised his fist, watching Gerel stalk towards him like a panther. He blinked, swaying back and forth, groggy to the point of blacking out, or so it seemed. He stumbled forward, a clumsy punch striking out, passing before Gerel's face and meeting only air. The crowd let out a collective groan as their wounded champion tried to straighten up, breathing heavily, his face a mask of pain.

Gerel delivered the killing blow, striking him in the face. Wursung let out a mighty groan and collapsed to the sand, struggling for a moment to rise on one quivering elbow before falling back with a sigh

The chorus of boos, curses and general outrage all but drowned out the sound of the gong being struck. What the hell is that! bellowed a bearded, greasy-faced gambler down by the pit edge.

Get up, you lead sack! shouted another.

Horseshit! Bullshit and horseshit! You dive-taking son of a bitch!

Bottles flew through the air, followed by mugs and fragments of bench wrenched from the floor. Gerel, raising his arms in victory, was forced to duck various pieces of debris aimed at his head. Wursung's friends dragged him away, his heels leaving giant ruts in the sand. With all the objects being hurled towards the pit, inevitably some of them came up short, hitting other men in the audience venting their spleen and more than willing to turn their wrath on the idiot two rows back who clipped them with a beer mug. Within a minute half a