Warlord Of The Pit - James Axler

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fist whipping up fast, connecting with the underside of Book’s jaw. The uppercut snapped the man’s head back. Arms windmilling, he toppled off his feet, slamming against Captain Saragayn.

      Surging forward, Brigid snagged the barrel of her autopistol and gave it a vicious corkscrew twist, tearing it out of Saragayn’s hand and then slashing down with the butt against the crown of his head. Although cushioned by the turban, the blow still landed solidly enough to drive consciousness out of the man’s eyes with the suddenness of a candle being extinguished.

      Then Brigid turned and ran out into the corridor, leaping nimbly over the corpse of Daramurti.

      Chapter 5

      Oil lamps glowing from behind panes of yellow glass illuminated the corridor. Brigid considered breaking the glass and dousing the flames because she suspected Captain Saragayn watched her through a closed-circuit spy eye. She doubted he would stay unconscious for long—if he did nothing else for his host, Book would see to his revival.

      From outside she heard more explosions, but now they sounded more like thunderclaps. Woven faintly through the racket, she heard the staccato rattle of automatic gunfire. Behind her came the murmur of male voices and thump of running feet. Brigid plunged through the first open door she saw.

      She stood in a dim chamber, somewhat Asian in decor but with an Arabian Nights kind of furnishing. There were heaps of big satin and tasseled pillows, tapestries hung from the ceiling and several women of all sizes, shapes and colors stared at her. The only thing they shared in common was nudity. They stared at her silently, their overly made-up faces as immobile as masks.

      Brigid put a finger to her lips as she moved deeper into the room, toward an archway at the rear of the cabin. The women stared at her soberly. Astringent smoke curled from a brass brazier set before a multi-armed, many-breasted statue. She stifled a cough as she sidled past. Then the solemn, shivery boom of a gong pressed against her eardrums.

      Casting a startled glance behind her, she saw a naked black woman, her flesh glistening with oil, standing before a huge disk of bronze, a mallet in her hands. She struck it again and the heavy note reverberated throughout the chamber. Then three Malaysian men rushed through the door. They wore yellow head scarves like Daramurti and they swung the barrels of their pistols in short arcs. Judging by their bare-toothed grimaces and wild eyes, Brigid figured they were on the verge of panic.

      The beaded curtain clattered as Brigid bounded through the arch. The door on the other side swung open easily and she quickly closed it behind her, noting sourly it had no lock. She found herself in a very narrow passageway lit by overhead neon tubes. A small closet opened off to the left, holding cleaning and janitorial supplies.

      Grabbing a push broom and a heavy, long-handled mop, Brigid placed the wide head of the broom beneath the doorknob and jammed the blunt end of the handle against the wall, inside the angle where it joined with the floor.

      The mop was more difficult to affix, but she managed to brace it just above the knob. Fists and feet began hammering against the door. It shook under the repeated impacts, but the improvised barricades held. She heard a man cursing in Magindano, then the door spit dust and wood splinters as a triburst erupted.

      Brigid broke into a sprint down the passageway, navigating through a labyrinth of rusting pipes and wheel valves crisscrossing in all directions. She maneuvered around fuse boxes and cooling systems, all the machinery that kept the giant treasure ship alive. The bulkheads, coated with grease and layers of grime, told her she was very close to the engine room.

      When the passage terminated at a closed door, Brigid cursed under her breath, but she knew she could no longer afford to be cautious. Lifting the handle, she took a deep breath, threw the door open wide and plunged into a solid wall of wind- and rain-swept fury.

      Staggering on the wet deck, Brigid slammed the door behind her and leaned against it. Rain crashed down in a solid torrent from the dark sky. The downpour pounded her in sheets, virtually blinding her and making it difficult to breathe without inhaling water. In an instant, she was soaked to the skin. She cupped a hand over her nose and mouth so she could breathe without difficulty.

      Pressing herself against the superstructure, she found a little shelter beneath the overhang of the deck above. She squinted away from the great crooked fingers of lightning scorching their way across the sky and grimaced at the deafening claps of thunder. Brigid had been in wild weather before, but she had never encountered a monsoon. She wondered if the storm’s violence was common in this part of the world or due to the aftereffects of skydark.

      After a few minutes, the wind died down to no more than intermittent gusts. The rain slacked off to a steady drizzle. Lightning still arced across the sky, but the heart of the storm had moved away. The humidity rising in its wake was oppressive.

      Staring through the shifting sheets of water, she gazed toward the harbor front. She saw bursts of flame and tiny lights strobing in the shadows. Dimly she heard the crump of grenades and the chatter of subguns. A battle raged up and along the quayside. The insurrection was in full swing, proceeding despite the weather.

      A twisting thread of red fire streaked up from the darkness, rising into the sky in a wide arc, then lancing down toward the upper decks of the ship. Brigid crouched. Because of a thunderclap, she barely heard the rocket’s detonation, but the blaze of the explosion painted the shadows a flickering orange for a couple of seconds. The vessel shuddered. Men and women began screaming. She assumed the first rocket had either fallen short or struck an underpopulated section of the Juabal Hadiah.

      Brigid pushed herself away from the bulkhead and sprinted along the deck, looking over the railing at the murky water glimmering at least fifty feet below. A man yelled behind her, and she heard the sharp report of a pistol. A bullet thumped the air less than an inch from the right side of her head.

      Swiveling at the waist, Brigid squeezed off two rounds. She didn’t aim—the shots were fired strictly for effect. She saw no one, but she heard more men shouting in frantic Magindano.

      She sprinted along the slippery deck and reached a square hatch and a ladder stretching downward. A closed door was opposite it. She opened the door, set it to swinging on its hinges, then half climbed, half slid down the ladder, listening to the thump of running feet overhead.

      On the deck below Brigid scanned the vicinity for either a hiding place or adequate cover from bullets. She rounded a corner and saw a stack of crates. Without hesitation she threw herself behind them and crouched motionless, trying not to breathe too loudly. No one came by so she guessed she had divided her pursuers. She heard more scattered shots, but this time from the direction of the waterfront. A rocket exploded, filling the area with an eye-hurting brilliance. There were more stuttering shots, a series of screams and shouts. The ripping sounds of multiple subguns firing on full-auto came from somewhere nearby aboard the ship.

      A small sampan floating less than fifty yards away spit a tongue of flame. She caught a glimpse of a quick, fiery streak, and the ship shuddered under a blow that shook the deck violently. The harbor erupted astern, water rising in a column.

      Realizing that the rocket had most likely punched a deep hole in the Juabal Hadiah’s hull below the waterline, Brigid rose from her hiding place, made sure the zone was clear, then ran out along the deck again. She ran down a short flight of steps and ducked through a low archway onto a gallery overlooking the stern of the ship. The giant flag of Saragayn, bearing the image of a blazing skull superimposed over a crossed sword and a rifle, hung from a sturdy mast overhead.

      A pistol cracked and the sharp reports of an autorifle tore through the fabric of the air, but the shots were not aimed at her.

      Returning through the archway, she saw a dozen armed men ranged around the railings of the gallery. They exchanged a flurry of gunfire at point-blank range. Two of them clutched at themselves and folded over. The racket of the gunfire and the whine of ricochets stunned Brigid’s senses.

      Men rolled on the deck—keening, strangling with their hands, clubbing with empty revolvers, struggling hand-to-hand with knives. She could not differentiate between Captain Saragayn’s men and the insurrectionists,

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