Prologue

Titus Shiptaker

“I’ve been looking forward to this day for three hundred years,” Rom growled with pure malice at his twin brother Rem.

The identical twin brothers had been considered a marvel at their birth. Twin births were rare when the sire was as powerful as Titus, so identical babes were virtually unheard of, possibly even unique. It had afforded the boys many advantages over the years. Advantages they had utilised ruthlessly to push themselves to the top of the pecking order of Titus’ brood of Acheronian children.

However, somewhere along the line, a deep abiding hatred for one another had taken root. They turned against one another and that vice-like grip on the joint number one position floundered and flailed until it slipped from their fingers. Inevitably, each had blamed the other for their fall from grace. The enmity deepened until the memories of the days when they acted as one were irreconcilable to the reality of the present day.

“You’ve known where I was this whole time, Rom. I made no secret of it,” Rem taunted and circled his brother, passing his short blade from one hand to the other while he sought an opening. “Are you sure it was not cowardice that stayed your hand and not the lack of opportunity you claim?”

The last line acted as a trigger and the two Acheronian Corsairs slammed into one another with speed and ferocity, blades clashing. The onlookers screamed with unabashed delight as the blood and sweat dripped from the bodies of the two men locked in gladiatorial combat. It had been a lengthy contest, and many were excited to see who would emerge as the victor in the final.

Titus watched on with feigned interest. Unbeknownst to his sons, the proffered prize for victory, their sister Crynn, would never be returning to the fold. Not that Titus thought it would have mattered much if he had told them. Following the information provided by Carter, Titus chose to change tack and lifted the few restrictions he had placed on the competition. The gloves were off and the true bloodletting begun.

The contest had offered his rapacious progeny the chance to elevate themselves in his eyes and they had welcomed the opportunity with gusto. So far, the contest had claimed the lives of twenty-seven of his remaining sons and that number would rise in the coming days. Not least because whichever of the twins won this final would doubtlessly kill the other. No, those who lost and survived the later rounds were so badly wounded that they made far too tempting a target for their bitter brothers who were eliminated in the early rounds before the strictures were lifted.

The Admiral of the Dread Scourge didn’t care. He no longer had any need for them. Once the football player had scoured Ashli’s remnant from Earth, he would be truly free. And if Ashli had no more use for a God Body, it would be a terrible shame for all those resources to go to waste. Why not take it for himself and shrug off the limitations of generational immortality? Rebuilding his reputation and strength each time had grown tiresome.

To that end, Titus shifted his attention to the soft, fat orc sitting next to him. “Does the entertainment meet your high standards, Makrob?”

The sweating orc seemed startled that the attention had switched to him. Titus enjoyed watching the coin counter squirm as he tried to come up with an answer that he didn’t think would offend the feared pirate fleet master.

“I have witnessed many gladiatorial death fights, of course,” the Dominarius Consortium representative started slowly, hoping to pick up a clue as to what kind of answer Titus would prefer. “It comes as part of the job,” he forced a laugh at the poor joke. “But those were all between slaves, fighting on command or for the promise of freedom. Unwilling participants you might say. It is certainly novel to see such skilled combatants so willing to fight to the death, especially ones with such…close bonds to the host.”

“Yes, my children are a bloodthirsty lot, probably a good thing I had so many of them.”

Makrob looked up at the Acheronian who loomed over him from a gigantic chair made from an assortment of different items, all magical. Each piece would have been worth a small fortune on the open market. Weapons, armour, various accoutrements. It was rumoured that everything used to forge Titus’ throne was an artefact of Supreme quality that he couldn’t make use of. Rather than sell, he preferred to keep such things out of the hands of others. It was decorated with broaches, necklaces, and rings all sealed in cimmeric crystal. All the jewellery items were rumoured to be the keys to an imp or fairy helper and that was why they were sealed.

Titus let the orc sweat for a moment before he broke out into a deep belly laugh.

Makrob chuckled along but remained unnerved at his host’s bizarre behaviour.

The battle between the twins in the circle not far from them looked like it was drawing to a close. Both combatants had been cut to ribbons but had managed to knock the single knife they were allowed for the fight from the hand of their opponent. They were now grappling on the floor, their hands around each other’s throats. It was a race to see which of them could throttle the other to death fastest.

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A firm hand slapped Makrob on the back and almost sent him tumbling into the fight circle. “Let me tell you why I wanted to speak with the Dominarius Consortium today.”

The orc smiled, it was time for business, something that put him on a firmer footing. “Of course, we are always happy to listen and accommodate the needs of our most worthy partners.”

A little bit of honey never failed to sweeten a negotiation.

“Excellent, just what I wanted to hear.” Titus grinned in a manner that made Makrob gulp reflexively. “The contract you have out on Captain Torin Carter. I want you to cancel it with immediate effect.”

It hadn’t taken Titus very long to conclude that the one part of his deal with Carter that he should honour was getting the consortium off his back. If the football player was going to complete the task Titus had set him, it would be best if he didn’t have unnecessary complications like mercenary companies dogging his heels. Not until he was done, at least.

“Pardon me?” Makrob squeaked. This had been the last thing he expected to hear today. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“The Shattered Storm, the Corsair faction that usurped your prime markets in the Meenus cluster. Call off your dogs.”

“I know who you are talking about,” Makrob snapped, forgetting who he was talking to due to the surprise.

Titus’ eyebrow raised and his pupils zeroed in on the orc.

“My apologies,” Makrob gushed the second he realised what he’d just done. “But we can’t just call them off. The cost and reputational damage alone would be enormous. Not to mention how much the clan is losing every month because of that usurping son of a bitch. My hands are tied on this, the clan elders would never approve and therefore, so are the consortiums.”

“You won’t need to worry about Carter, his days are numbered. I intend to handle him personally. The Scourge is already on its way to the Meenus cluster if you get my meaning.”

The orc had been around long enough to acknowledge the implied threat that came as part of the promise to help. The Dread Scourge could do untold damage to their interests in Meenus and the surrounding clusters should Titus not get his way. Those newer, inner territories were not equipped to handle a menace on the scale that the Dread Scourge posed.

“That is gratifying to hear,” Makrob wheedled. “…and yet the cost…”

Titus grunted a laugh. “Traders are the same wherever you go, always trying to extort that little extra. Fine. How does one hundred million slaves sound? Free of charge. Will that be enough to compensate the consortium for their inconvenience?”

“Free?” The orc’s eyes bulged at the offer and his mind quickly tried to calculate the profit.

“They’ll be low-level, of course. You can’t expect a place like Earth to have developed its people much.”

Titus didn’t care what happened to the people once he had achieved his end of true immortality and godlike power. The consortium could have them all. They would all serve the new God-King one way or another.

“That’s not a problem,” Makrob agreed with glee.

The corsair grabbed the orc’s bald head and twisted it to face him. “My largesse is conditional on your prompt handling of this matter.”

The orc gulped. “Understood. With that in mind, do I have permission to withdraw? I need to contact my nephew Makror and give him fresh instructions.”

“Go, go.” Titus released his head.

Makrob bobbed in deference, rose from his chair and pushed his way through the throng of cheering pirates. The match had concluded just as the business deal had.

Rom rose unsteadily to his feet, severely wounded but filled with vigour. His verve fuelled by the adrenaline of victory. Blood dribbled from multiple knife wounds and from the eyes, many of his capillaries had been burst during the struggle with his brother. His throat was almost as red from bruising as the blood which flowed freely. His twin brother Rem lay motionless between his feet, purpled tongue protruding from his mouth. The man’s eyes had burst from the pressure and signalled the end of his resistance.

“Yeeeesssss!” Rom cawed, his voice raw and guttural from the damage that had been inlficted.

Titus blinked. His gaze flicked from one dead son to the one who killed him, and a small smile tugged at his lips. How easy it was to play them like a fiddle.

“My prize,” Rom gasped raggedly.

“As promised, Crynn is yours to discipline when she returns.”

“That is not enough. I want to end the entitled bitch; I killed my twin brother for this! You owe me more than a mere disciplining.”

The cheering crowd was silenced. They were not accustomed to people making demands of the Fleet Admiral in such a manner.

Titus pondered his response. It was difficult to see with all the blood on Rom’s face, but there were genuine tears in the mix. The fine line between love and hate. Perhaps the boy hadn’t understood how much Rem meant to him until he saw his dead body at his feet. The finality of it.

Under normal circumstances, Rom’s lapse of judgement would merit punishment, but if everything went according to plan, none of this would matter in a few months. For the time being, this ire could be used.

“Very well,” he answered. “But you will have to prise her out of hiding first. She has latched on to another fleet called the Shattered Storm.”

“Just tell me where and I will lay waste to any ship or Corsair that stands in my way.”

Titus smiled. He had promised not to go after Torin and his people, but he hadn’t said he would stand in the way of any family squabble between Crynn and Rom. If Carter had a lick of common sense, he would hand Crynn over the moment her brother showed up. But Titus believed he had a good read on the man’s character. He wouldn’t do that. The best kind of battle strategies were the ones where your opponents did all the work for you.

With a finger gesture, a gaggle of slaves rushed into the fight circle to drag away Rem’s body and clean the floor. Rom was carried away on the shoulders of his crew while the crew of Rem’s vessel slunk away and hoped everyone forgot they were on the losing side. The dumb ones would be afraid of possible repercussions, the smart ones would understand that after the last week, there were a lot of vessels in the fleet which now lacked captains.

And that meant opportunities for advancement. Opportunities were best taken while the victors were busy celebrating.

That should keep everyone distracted long enough that they didn’t question why most of the fleet was travelling to the inner clusters where the pickings were normally slimmer. All according to Titus’ plan.

He rose from his ornamental chair and retired to his chambers awaiting the confirmation that the Dominarius Consortium had done as he demanded.