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.