Drekki Flynt is infamous in Kharadron society, a swashbuckling rogue and daring captain who soars through the Skyshoals seeking adventure. At least, that’s what he’ll tell you. Others view him as a braggadocious huckster, an unscrupulous pirate, and many more besides will simply acknowledge his existence by saying he owes them a whole lot of money.
Whatever his reputation, Flynt continues to seek adventure across the Mortal Realms, and you’ll be able to help him by picking up Drekki’s Privateers, a Regiment of Renown in a box comprising the audacious captain, his personal Arkanaut Frigate – the Aelsling – and an Arkanaut Company crew.
It’s available for pre-order this weekend, but say you’re unfamiliar with Drekki… a whole book is a lot to get through when there are riches waiting to be claimed, so Black Library have furnished us with the first chapter of The Arkanaut’s Oath to whet your appetite.
A poet spoke. This is what he said:
‘Rain pounded. Cold gathered against the tops of the Fourth Air. Bavardia suffered bad weather as a matter of course. For those abroad on the street, atmosphere wrapped meagrely about the body, failing to warm, failing to nourish labouring lungs. Everything was thin there – air, prospects, life, love. Only the rain was thick, thicker than beards, thicker than oaths, thermals thrust up from the lower airs, flattened by the chill into thunderheads that lashed the town with oily, unpleasant waters.
‘Drekki Flynt, Kharadron privateer, came into port. His crew weathered the rain like rocks do, grey, silent and stoic. They were grim. Nobody liked Bavardia.
‘Bavardia was a young place, a lawless place, one of a dozen towns budded off great Bastion, the last remnant of ancient, shattered Achromia. If hope for the future had established Bavardia, despair of the present ruled it. Heirs to a venerable empire, the citizens brought ambitions with them that they could not fulfil. Their dreams were beyond their grasp. A young place with an old soul, Bavardia was filthy as infants are, soiling itself, unsure of its limits, creeping up one crag, then up another, always on the verge of catastrophic tumbles, never settled, uncoordinated, wild with the potential and vulnerabilities of youth. Built upon ruins, reminders of what had been, sad, lost, and yet full of hope. Bavardia! A town of–’
‘Oh put a sock in it, Evtorr Bjarnisson. On and on all the bloody time with the bloody poetry!’ Drekki Flynt said.
The flamboyant ancestor face that fronted Drekki’s helm was known across the Skyshoals. Then there was his drillbill, Trokwi, skulking head down on his shoulder. He usually gave the game away, and if the little automaton was still insufficient a clue, the massive axe Flynt carried on his shoulder was equally unmistakeable. For the truly unperceptive, the ogor plodding through the water in front of him cinched the deal. No one flew with Gord the Ogor but Drekki Flynt! Say Drekki’s name aloud of a night and astound a bar. ‘I’ve fared with Drekki Flynt!’ was a common enough boast. But just then, there was no one to see. No one to hail Drekki or to curse him.
To call the streets ‘streets’ was a generous lie; they were yellow streams pouring from the hills behind the town. The flood cut the earth of the unpaved roads, leaving hollows and rounded stones to take feet by surprise. Tall Gord was untroubled, the water foaming about his tree-trunk legs. For him this was fun. The others struggled on in his wake in varying levels of misery.
‘Do we really need the running saga about how filthy this weather is in this filthy town, when it’s all running down my bloody trouser leg?’ Drekki went on. Rain rattled so hard off his closed helm that he had to shout over the noise.
‘But, captain!’ Evtorr protested. ‘I’m chronicling your latest adventure. It helps to say the words out loud, so I’ll remember.’
‘Thanks, but no thanks. No amount of poet’s polish is going to put a shine on this bilge pit, so stow it in your deepest hold, Evtorr, and keep it there,’ said Drekki.
‘I’m supposed to be Unki-skold,’ protested Evtorr. ‘Couplets and rhymes is what I do, captain.’
‘You’re ship’s signaller, too. Stick to that. You’ve more talent there,’ chided Drekki.
The others in Drekki’s party chuckled. Evtorr’s verses were an acquired taste, one that no one had yet acquired. Evtorr’s helm drooped. He had spent good money having its moustaches inlaid with silver, so all would know he was a poet. Never had his metal mask looked so woebegone.
‘Yes, captain,’ he said.
‘Now now, don’t sulk, write it down later, and torture us with it when it’s finished,’ said Drekki. ‘You never know, you might pen a good one yet.’
‘Doubt it,’ piped up Evrokk Bjarnisson, ship’s helmsduardin, and Evtorr’s brother.
‘He’s been trying all his life. Not got there yet!’
‘He left me out and all,’ grumbled Gord. ‘All stout duardin. I’m stout.’ He slapped his massive ogor’s gut. ‘But I ain’t no duardin!’
He laughed at his joke alone. The crew were too busy avoiding being swept away to find it funny. Being duardin meant being shorter than a human, broad across the shoulder, with powerful, stocky limbs and large hands and feet. Beards. All the usual physiognomy of the children of Grungni. Their form was suited to life underground, as ancient history attested, and surprisingly well fitted to life in the sky, as the more recent Kharadron nations had proven, but rather poor for swimming. Heavy-boned duardin sank and drowned more often than not, and a duardin weighed down by aeronautical equipment most certainly did. It was a fate they were at some risk of just then.
‘Come on, stunties,’ Gord said cheerily. ‘Not that hard. Push on now.’
‘Not that hard!’ said Kedren Grunnsson, ship’s runesmith. A unique appointment on a sky-ship. He was no Kharadron. You could tell by the way he moved. The crew wore aeronautical suits of design so similar they were virtually indistinguishable, but Kedren stuck out. He walked stiffly, as someone who had become accustomed to the gear rather than born to it.
‘Over there! Way up’s on that side,’ said Gord. They waded to the side of the street.
‘Look at this. Ropes!’ Kedren said incredulously, tugging at the lines anchored to the buildings. They were at human height, for it was mostly humans who dwelled in Bavardia. ‘What good are ropes? What about paving? What about drains? What about choosing a better site for their town rather than this piss-filled bathtub!’ He grabbed hold just the same.
‘You’re no fun, ground pounder, too grumbaki by half,’ retorted Adrimm Adrimmsson, who was dragging himself along behind the smith.
‘Is that me you’re calling grumbaki, Adrimm? The grumbliest duardin alive? There’s a cheek!’
‘Now now, my lads,’ said their captain, who had it a bit easier, being safe in the ogor’s lee. ‘We’ll soon be out of the rain and into the dry. Ales all round. Some meat! That much I can promise.’
Adrimm didn’t take the hint to shut up – he rarely did – and continued to moan at Kedren.
‘I could have stayed on the ship,’ said Adrimm.
‘What, and miss all the fun in this sewer?’ said Kedren. ‘That’s the fourth turd that’s slapped into my gut.’
‘I keep telling you aeronautical gear has its benefits, Kedren,’ said Otherek Zhurafon, aether-khemist, and Kedren’s long-standing friend. ‘Sealed in. Turd proof.’ He rapped a knuckle on his chestplate.
‘Proof? Pah! It will take forever to get the stink out,’ said Kedren. ‘I hate this place. I hate this funti weather.’
‘Listen to the oldbeard,’ said Drekki. ‘Evtorr was right about one thing, at least – nobody likes Bavardia.’
Offended, the rain redoubled its efforts to wash them out, and they were forced to cease their grumbling for a while.
‘Keep on, stunties, keep on!’ bellowed Gord. ‘Nearly there.’
The crew reached a set of steps that led off the road to a raised pavement.
‘I suppose we’ll be dry now,’ said ‘Hrunki’ Tordis, who would have had a monopoly on optimism in the crew, were it not for Drekki.
‘Dry? Dry?! All this pavement is is a shoddy substitute for good civic planning,’ said Kedren.
Gord stepped aside to let the duardin up. Buffeted by the flow yet untroubled by it, he shepherded his crewmates with care. A good job too. Although Drekki mounted the steps all right, Gord was obliged to catch Kedren to stop him being whirled away.
‘Grungni-damned, Grimnir-cursed stupid umgak city,’ growled Kedren as Gord deposited him on the pavement. One after another the crew scrambled up, shedding filthy water. Buildings covered the pavement over, forming a sheltered area, though to duardin sensibilities it looked like it had been done by accident rather than by design. Buildings of stone leaned on buildings of wood, propped up over the pavement on wonky timber posts and rusty iron girders.
‘This place was surely built by grobi,’ said Evrokk. There was a sense of wonder in his voice. ‘You couldn’t design a collapse better than this if you tried.’
‘You say that every time we go to an umgi town!’ said Evtorr, still peevish at his brother.
‘Worth saying, that’s why. Unlike your verse, brother,’ said Evrokk.
‘Come on, come on, beards straight! Keep your aether shining,’ said Drekki. ‘Umgi build as they will, and bad weather we have, but good beer awaits.’ Even Drekki didn’t swallow his own bluster. His jollity was entirely forced.
There were a few folk around up above the flood but they hurried on by, heads down, eager to escape the weather, and not one recognised the captain, to his chagrin. The crew trudged into tottering alleys as water and shit surged down the streets below. A rat’s maze to be sure, but it could not defeat their beer-sense. A duardin can find his way to a pub all turned about and blindfolded.
Drommsson’s Refuge was the sole duardin-built place in town, with four square walls and a roof of precisely engineered bronze plates. Old Drommsson hadn’t trusted human foundations and had cut his own right through the clay until he hit rock. Old Drommsson didn’t like human beer, so served only the best duardin ales. Old Drommsson didn’t like humans at all, but always seemed to find himself among them. Old Drommsson was a host of contradictions. Old Drommsson was a lot of things, but most of all Old Drommsson was dead.
‘Fifty raadfathoms!’ Drekki said, recalling the old publican’s words. ‘Do you remember that?’ He elbowed Kedren. ‘He boasted long and hard about the depth of the pilings he had to put in. He always used to say that, remember? Fifty raadfathoms! Good old Drommsson. Eh, lads?’
He turned about. His duardin were subdued, aetherpacks steaming, rain plinking loudly from the brass. ‘Well, a more miserable line of skyfarers I never did see. Show some spirit! You’re Drekki Flynt’s swashbuckling crew, not a bunch of half-drowned skyrinx. I’ve got an image to think of!’
Nobody spoke.
Drekki sighed into his helm, a noise like a night wind teasing the rigging. For a moment, he wished he were back out at sky. ‘All right, lads. First round’s on me.’
The crew perked up remarkably.
Behind the Refuge’s roof the great copper sphere of the brewery vat swelled invitingly, not dissimilar in appearance to a Kharadron aether-endrin globe.
‘Now there’s a promise of beers to be drunk, eh, lads?’ said Drekki.
They reached the doors. They were sheathed in bronze, and decorated in beaten, geometric designs of the sort that once graced the gates of the ancient mountain karaks.8 Very inviting, but Drekki stopped, and turned to face his crew.
‘Hold it right there, lads,’ Drekki said. ‘Before we go in…’
‘Can we at least get out of the rain before you give us one of your interminable pep talks?’ Adrimm moaned.
‘Eh? Interminable? Pep talks? You stow it, Fair-weather,’ said Drekki, using the nickname Adrimm hated. ‘This is important. We’ve got our rivals. We have our friends. There might be either in here tonight. We’ve a delicate job ahead of us. Our client does not want a fuss, of any sort. Keep yourselves below the aethergauge. I don’t want a lot of notice. Certainly not like last time, right, Umherth? Umherth? Are you listening? That was embarrassing.’
‘If you say so, captain,’ said Umherth, not at all abashed. Hrunki, his constant companion, sniggered into her helm.
‘A low profile, right?’ said Drekki, wagging his finger. ‘All of you. Low profiles. So low, I don’t want to see your heads over the bar. Got that?’
A rain-sodden chorus of ‘aye, captain’ came back.
‘Right then,’ said Drekki. He rubbed his hands together. ‘Beer time.’ He took a step, stopped, and looked up at Gord.
‘Actually, you’d better go first, Gord. Just in case.’
‘Right you are, captain,’ said Gord. He covered three duardin strides in a single, decisive step, both hands out. They banged into the doors like battering rams, flinging them open with a metallic boom and revealing a big entrance hall, full of lockers for skyfarers’ kit. From the atrium, inner doors led into the common room. Gord strode right in and pushed those open too.
Warmth, light and laughter streamed out. Someone was playing an aether-gurdy. Badly.
Gord stopped in the middle of the bar.
‘Oi!’ the ogor bellowed. ‘Clear a table! Captain Drekki Flynt’s in town!’
The noise faltered. When the hubbub returned, it had a different flavour. Urgent, excited, somewhat annoyed.
Drekki grinned. ‘Say what you like about our ogor,’ he said, ‘he certainly knows how to make an entrance.’
‘I thought you said low profiles all round, captain?’ said Evtorr sharply. He could nurse a sulk like no one else.
‘Hush now,’ said Drekki. ‘You’re spoiling it.’
Now, per the Karadron Code, if you’ve read an extract from a book, you’re contractually obliged to purchase and read at least one of the tales… if you signed on the dotted line that is. Ah, you didn’t. Well, as strict adherents to the Code we’ll have to let you off.
Though lets say your interest has been piqued and you did want to learn more about Drekki Flynt, you could pick up a copy of The Arkanaut’s Oath or The Ghosts of Barak-Minoz by Guy Haley – each a perfect accompaniment to Drekki’s Privateers, which is available to pre-order on Saturday.
