Blackjack Wayward (The Blackjack Series) Read Free

shoulders was a formation of eyestalks that gazed in every direction at once. For weapons he had the equivalent of a brass knuckle in each hand, which also doubled as his shoes. His arms were trunks, though, as wide as I was in my shoulders, and each fist was the size of a ripe pumpkin. Taking a punch from that guy was a bad idea, but I strolled down the hill and pointed at him then at myself.
    “Him and me,” I told the captain, hoping she would understand and welcome the fight. The secret I didn’t want to clue them into was that once their champion was down, once I got the blood rushing through my heart, I was going to take them all out, commandeer that skiff, and take the wheel of their pirate ship all for myself.
    Laughter broke through the contingent, a strange combination of wheezes, whistles, and guffaws.
    “You’re afraid I’m going to hurt your boy?” I taunted, hoping someone would understand my language. No one did, and the merriment continued at my expense. Stepping closer, I came right up to the captain and pointed at the big fellow again, then at myself. Then I smashed two fists together.
    “I fight him,” I said. “I win, you let me go.”
    There was no emotion from the green thing. It was more concerned with a small bit of moss at his feet.
    The captain smiled and cocked one eyebrow, revealing a playful streak. She spoke in a strange and melodic tongue, reminiscent of the French language in its fluid elegance. But I couldn’t understand anything she said. The crew laughed as she finished, then, explaining to me with physical gestures as one would a small child, she agreed, but she pointed at the big green bastard and shook her head, instead stepping aside to reveal the meanest sonofabitch I have ever seen in my life.

    The captain’s champion was a creature of death, its face stricken in a rictus grimace of partially denuded bone, lacking lips to cover his toothy maw, too little flesh spread over a massive skull, staring at me with a trio of emerald eyes that were like chiseled stone alit in flame. While not as imposing as the warrior I had chosen, this fellow was almost as tall as I was, with a long, stringy mane of oily hair spilling down his back like a cloak. His armor was more medieval than futuristic, unpolished and damaged, with shoulder spikes that jutted forth, rotting skulls impaled on them, trophies that boasted his prowess. His right arm was a vascular river delta wrapped around raw muscle with which he wielded a two-handed mace carved from heavy bone and adorned with bits of dried blood and flesh. The handle was wrapped with rotted skin, and a ten-inch spike projected from the working end. His other arm was vestigial, half the size of his muscled right, but with it my opponent wielded an armored claw that was almost camouflaged by his chest armor. He held back deceptively, as if inviting me to attack from that direction. But it was his lipless mouth that was most disturbing; a permanent drool of brownish pasty mass, like a mixture of peanut butter and crackers, spattered all over his beard, chin and chest. The congealed goo swayed in thick ropes as the creature attempted to talk with a hissing gruel, more like two rocks crushed against each other than a form of conversation. He had a stop-and-go gait, with an odd neck bob; his upper body was still every half-step, while his feet rushed to steady him.
    “This the guy I have to beat?” I asked the Captain, and she smiled, replying in her language with what I figured was an affirmative.
    They were an odd couple, the tall, elegant alien that led them standing beside the armored warrior, savage and feral. She was confident, and why shouldn’t she be? Her champion was a juggernaut, built low and strong, a veteran of countless battles, and undoubtedly undefeated in single-man combat.
    The Captain said something the others found hilarious, and it goaded them to start their terrible death chant again, inciting their warrior and trying to