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   Chapter 37 No.37

Dead Beckoning By Christina Engela Characters: 5505

Updated: 2018-06-30 12:02

"Okay then." He smiled, appreciating the worth of Dutch courage in the case of young Mr. Brenton. "One more of these for the road and then we'll put that to the test!"

* * *

The elite guard of the Black Palace Watch had a pretty impressive reputation as a fearsome group of warriors highly trained in martial arts, armed and unarmed combat. They were also supposedly well-versed in the cold, bloody arts of torture, interrogation and probably a few other things as well, up to and including cross-stitch, body-cavity searches, and yodeling. Of course they were not nice guys. Not even the average Corsair liked or had time for them. They were nice to watch at a distance, marching smartly in columns and strutting around the Black Palace like black, frilly, puffed-up turkeys. They kept to themselves, had no friends outside of their circle, and no master other than the reigning Patron himself. They followed no-one else, they obeyed no-one else – and they hated everyone else. At least, that was the myth. How close to the truth the myth was, Blachart and his companion had set off across the road from the tavern to find out.

Taking all this into consideration, Brenton was just thinking in a mad, terrified and simultaneously impressed-as-shit sort of way, imagine what skill – or luck – must have been required to see the two guards of the Black Watch lying dead at the foot of the ramp! He lingered and stood staring at the bodies for a moment, awe-struck. Both guards ended abruptly right above the neck guards of their body armor… Their heads, still in their helmets, had rolled a short distance away, like they were glad to be somewhe

interior of the ship looked like a prefab construct, which was likely, since the ship was also yet another converted loderunner. This would've all been cargo space before, Brenton thought, as he scampered after Blachart, like a little puppy carrying two awfully large and unwieldy bones, bringing up the rear. It seemed they were entering an administrative section, with doorways ahead on both sides of the corridor. An arrow on the wall pointed towards a turning. A sign beside it read "Ship Functions, Authorized Entry Only". Bowing to no authority other than his own, Blachart calmly went in.

"Where are we going?" Brenton asked in a low whisper, in one of the rare moments he actually caught up to him as he paused before entering an intersection.

"Engine room." Blachart said, cutting straight to the heart of the matter, noting the casual way that Brenton seemed to be sauntering behind him. "Keep watching our six please, Mr. Brenton – thank you."

"Roger that, boss!" Brenton grinned, giving a mock salute and nearly braining himself with the 440 in that hand. "Ow! Whoops! Sorry!"

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