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.

Lem moved with a smooth grace that belied his bulk. Someone had done good work on those grafted muscles. The extra mass did not slow him at all. But it was the black blade that commanded most of Ulrik’s attention.