Jaw
first, the defender hit the pitted steel floor of the fighting pit.
Rolling onto his back, he squinted down at the rent in his chestplate
and saw oozing gore. He looked up at the blocky figure standing over
him, framed by arena lumens: the challenger, flexing his arms and
kissing the bloodied blade of his renderizer. Already, the jagged
axehead had torn chunks out the defender's limbs, for the challenger
was expert at working deft, armour-splitting twists into the moment
of contact. The Slamdrome crowd loved the display, and roared their
savage acclaim.
The
defender tried to rise, but his old body spoke pain from a hundred
points, and he collapsed back to the pit floor with a groan. He was
done and he knew it. He let go his blade and, suppressing a tremor,
twisted his fingers into the Half-hand sign for surrender. So ended
the reign of Graav Fraggenstein, Big Boss-meyn of Sinkside, Lord of
the Core-korf, Palatine Alpha.
A
swathe of the crowd screamed for a deathblow, but Goliaths, for all
their brutality, will always show respect for a might-wrought name.
Bruizo the challenger – now Graav
Bruizo - stooped and offered an open hand to his fallen foe.
'Hey
up, old bron. Let's get you on foot.'
Fraggenstein
winced through the pain in his chest as he gripped Bruizo's wrist to
launch himself up and standing. Blood trickled into his boots. He
almost staggered. Almost.
Bruizo
reversed his grip on Fraggenstein's arm and raised it, calling out:
'The old boss-meyn!'
The
crowd went wild.
Fraggenstein
returned the courtesy, snarling through the pain: 'The new
boss-meyn!'
The
crowd went wilder.
Two
shifts later, there were no crowds in the great throne room of
Sinkside. Only Fraggenstein attended Graav Bruizo. With the public
ritual in the fighting pit done, there was no need to compound the
loser's humiliation. Another courtesy.
The
rites had been observed: formal word had been sent to the Overtyrant,
and Bruizo's heavy metal glyph now hung above the throne.
Fraggenstein's was relegated to the wall of once-lords. This work was
too important to to be entrusted to slaves, and the two men had
lugged and mounted the icons themselves - the new Graav with the easy
vigour of youth, the ex-Alpha wincing and muttering as the effort
strained the docs' hasty graft-job on his wounds.
Their
work done, they stood shoulder to shoulder at the open colonnade that
ran down one side of the chamber. The throne room was high up in the
Alpha-Fort and afforded a fine view of the cavernous domespace that
contained the settlement of Sinkside.
The
enclave nestled close to the central sink of Hive Primus, from which
it took both its name and the raw energy for its industry. Primal
heat discharge, direct from beneath the planet's crust, made the zone
uninhabitable to regular humans, a perfect Goliath dominion.
Everything was washed with infernal red light and shrouded in smoke
from the dome's dominant feature: the Scorch Works. These seven steel
production lines ran from the towering blast furnaces, through a
succession of lesser furnaces and colossal chain-hung ladles, to the
steam-shrouded finishing mills. Railtrack viaducts crisscrossed the
dome, with heavy, snub-faced engines hauling in loads of raw ore for
processing, or carting out fine steels of various grades to Guilder
warehouse holdings beyond the settlement's borders.
Between
the factorum works and the palace lay the Slamdrome, a sprawling
complex, constructed from rough scrap on the ruins of unknowable
archaeo-architecture. Each of its twelve arenas consisted of a
central fighting deck surrounded by raked terraces, open-topped so
that the crowds' roars might sound out across the domespace. One of
the arenas was larger than the others, reserved for the most
prestigious title fights and mass brawls – this was where
Fraggenstein had fought Bruizo. Some of the eleven satellite pits
were uniquely outfitted with specific environmental conditions –
carnage served in flavours to suit all palates.
It
was the turn of shift, and Sinksiders, no bigger than badzone
grime-ants from the vantage point of the throne room, were teeming to
the Slamdrome, having discharged their duties for the cycle. There
was similar changeover activity at the furnace lines, and likewise
beyond that, at the Hablocks – the container-crate shanty at the
dome edge, far from the crimson glow of the Works. Hundreds of
distant lumens danced like sparks as crowds of Goliaths emerged from
their crude hovels to clock on. From crib to forge to fighting pit –
a typical cycle in Sinkside.
This
was the final time Fraggenstein would cast his battleworn gaze on the
clanging, jostling korf he had ruled for half his life. His bones
ached and his armour hung heavy on his weary frame. Custom dictated
that the deposed leader be exiled.
'I'm
glad it was you who beat me,' said Fraggenstein, picking a fleck of
forge-ash from his brow. 'You are a fine fighter.'
'I
learned it from you, old bron,' said Bruizo solemnly. 'How many times
did you fight for this korf?'
'More
than I know,' said Fraggenstein, choking on the last word. His chest
was aching badly despite the docs' efforts. It took a lot to break
his steely skin, but he didn't heal like he used to. His vat-born
body was well past its prime. 'But it is the right time for my end.'
'You
are not dead yet. Where will you go?'
'The
Underhive. There's a good death down there if you look.'
'You
will take korf-brons with you.' It was as much a command as it was
advice.
'I
will. What they learn with me, they can use to serve you.'
Bruizo
nodded and stared out over the blood-red lights of his new domain.
Nothing was said for a few clicks. The forge hammers and harsh calls
of the work-gangs rose from below, mixing with the cheers from the
fighting pits as this shift's contenders were announced. Fraggenstein
rolled his shoulders and made to leave.
At
the threshold, he paused. Bruizo sensed this and turned to hear
Fraggenstein's last words in the throne room.
'Your
time as Alpha will end. Sooner than you think.'
Bruizo
considered this, and then nodded with a shrug.
Fraggenstein
turned away and set off to gather a crew for his downhive doom-quest.
At the time his exile began, he was thirteen terran years old.