Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God (Path of Transcendence Book 2)

by Brian McGoldrick

  After several minutes, while the DokkAlfar stare angrily at the man, the man reaches into his belt pouch and takes out a key. Unlocking the cell door, he opens it and walks in, to start kicking the sleeping men awake.

  The man's voice is deep and carries a menace that few can project with their voice alone. “Get up, you useless trash! On your feet! Now!”

  One of the slaves tries to swing on the man but gets casually slapped to the ground. The force of the blow is enormous, compared with its offhand nature. When the slave bounces off the floor, with the audible breaking of a few bones, the DokkAlfar outside the cell laugh.

  “The Throd'nahk knows how to cow the other slaves.” The one talking is closest to the cell, and has the airs of a petty bully.

  Throd'nahk is a DokkAlfar word. Depending on how it is used, it can mean teacher, torturer, and executioner, often all three at the same time. The main trainer in a DokkAlfar gladiatorial stable is always referred to as a Throd'nahk, though for the main trainer to be a human slave is nearly unheard of.

  The other three DokkAlfar laugh at his words. Their hunger for seeing others suppressed and dominated is obvious in how they stare at the slaves being abused. The other slaves do not give any indication of understanding the DokkAlfar's words.

  Slaves that is what these men are. A slave, that is all that I am now. This cell must be in Elan'fer'sha's gladiatorial stable.

  Huddling on the floor, while cradling his left shoulder, the burly slave moans in pain. The other slaves stare at the Throd'nahk with a mix of awe and fear, while inoffensively rising to their feet.

  “Get up!”

  The slave that was hit by the Throd'nahk rises unsteadily, with his right arm dangling from a broken collarbone. His face is marked by the fear in his heart.

  “Pathetic.” The Throd'nahk sweeps his eyes across the cowed slaves standing before him. Turning to me, his stare is clearly sizing me up again.

  “What are you waiting for?” The sheer menace in the Throd'nahk's voice makes several of the other slaves shiver, as they stare at his back.

  Shrugging, I rise to my feet. I do not push off the floor or move in any way that uses momentum to aid my movement. Pure muscle control focuses the force generated by my body into my toes and the balls of my feet.

  My action brings a frown to the Throd'nahk's face. After a moment or two, he turns back to the other slaves.

  “Follow me, trash.”

  The Throd'nahk walks out of the cell, his sandals not making even the slightest whisper of sound against the stone. Two of the DokkAlfar guards fall in behind him, while the other two wait for us to come out.

  I let the other slaves precede me and fall in at the back of the group. The DokkAlfar stay about eight or ten feet behind me. They probably think that they will have enough time to react, if I do something, but they have nothing to worry about. I do not know where I am or how to get of here, so I will not act, at least I will not act yet.

  There is also the problem of the collar. I do not know the full scope of its powers, but I am sure that it will have some deterrents to prevent attack the “Masters.” Since, I do not know how to remove it or circumvent it, I cannot risk having it used against me, until I figure out a way to deal with it.

  While the corridor is wide enough for three DokkAlfar to walk abreast, only two normal sized human males can comfortably fit side by side in it. The slaves in front of me can barely squeeze next to one another without scraping their shoulders against stone, and the Throd'nahk is another story altogether. That man is not even the smallest fraction of an inch under seven feet tall, and a DokkAlfar would have trouble squeezing into the corridor next to him.

  Even though it is inactive, the Throd'nahk is still wearing a collar, but the DokkAlfar guards seem to be following his orders. That collar means the Throd'nahk is a slave, and a DokkAlfar following the orders of a slave is unheard of as a human slave being a Throd'nahk. While Talon's memories have become thoroughly fragmented since my murder, I am still fairly certain that Talon never heard of, let alone encountered, a Throd'nahk who was a slave, when he was slave of the DokkAlfar.

  This corridor has three more cells between ours and its end, and appears to have ten or so in the other direction, before reaching a T intersection. One is on the same wall as ours, and two are on the opposite side. All of the other cells we pass are currently empty. This corridor seems to contain nothing but simple holding cells.

  The gate at the end is open and leads to a room about twice the size of the holding cells. Wooden benches line the walls, with chains affixed to the walls by metal staples. In the wall opposite the one we entered through, another gate stands open, showing an expanse of illuminated white sand. However, the light has an odd yellowish cast to it.

  The Throd'nahk continues on through the room, leading us out into a small arena. Apparently carved out of the surrounding rock, the walls turn into a dome of stone overhead, with a large crystal in the center radiating the slightly yellowish light. The roughly hundred and fifty foot long oval of sand is surrounded by thirty-odd foot high walls, with carved bench seating behind them and the outer wall. On one side instead of bench seating, there are seven box-seating areas with tables and chairs made from wood.

  The stands are filled with several thousand howling DokkAlfar. Many of them are naked or nearly naked, as they lick, suck, and fuck one another, while I fight for my life in the arena. Some of the DokkAlfar have bound slaves near them, that they are casually torturing, while eating, drinking, doing drugs, or masturbating.

  I do not have time to pay attention to the DokkAlfar. If I take my attention off my enemy, it could easily kill me. The troll is a giant of its species, more than twice my own height and powerfully built. Its thick hide and natural healing would make it hard enough to kill, but the DokkAlfar shits have clad it in enough plate armor to outfit a company of orcs.

  The abrupt onslaught of the memory causes me to miss a step, and I stumble slightly.

  “Ha! He's so overawed by this little arena, he can't even walk straight. Where did the Mistress find this worm?” The DokkAlfar's contempt is palpable in his tone of voice.

  I take a careful look around the arena, to make sure that I am not mistaken. The pells and weapons racks set up on one side do nothing to conceal it. This is definitely the arena in that flash of memory. I have lost many of Talon's memories, but he definitely fought here at least once. His memories were never really my memories, and seem to have been tied to his physical body. I only had access to those memories, because of The Nameless' manipulations. Now, I only have fragmentary pieces remaining.

  Did Talon have some connection to Elan'fer'sha? I have no memory of her at all, but with only bits and pieces of Talon's memory, I cannot know if Talon had contact with her. Elan'fer'sha looks to be in her early twenties in human terms, but since Alfar will retain that appearance for centuries, it means nothing.

  “Gladiators! Present yourselves!” The Throd'nahk's voice echoes in the arena.

  The Throd'nahk led us into the arena on one narrow ends of the oval, and on the other narrow end, there is another archway with an open gate. From inside that gate, a line of men enters the arena. Unlike us, they at least have loincloths on. Forty-two of them, in a variety of sizes and builds, file out one after the next.

  Swaggering like a schoolyard bully, the last one to enter the arena is different from the rest. A slave like all of us, this man is about 6'6” tall, with a solid but extremely well proportioned build. Not having a single visible scar, with long blonde hair and bronzed skin, his hairless face and body are almost the ideal of borderline androgynous good looks that has been pushed by Earth's movie industry for decades. His easy movements speak of his high level of physical training, but he does not have the aura of pure lethality that the Throd'nahk does.

  The blonde-haired gladiator moves to the center, while the rest of the pack spreads to either side of him as they advance to the center of the arena.

  I do not need the rem
aining fragmentary memories of Talon to know that these are gladiators. In my time, playing Taereun: Battleground of the Damned and fighting for survival in the Lands of Despair, after the Great Fuck Over, I saw my share of gladiators and fought in a few arenas myself.

  While glaring at us, the Throd'nahk gestures at the line of gladiators. “Look well, trash. These are REAL MEN! These are WARRIORS! THESE ARE GLADIATORS!”

  “Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” Except for the blonde pretty boy, all of the gladiators cheer, pumping their arms over their heads.

  I do not bother to keep the contemptuous smirk off of my face, and the Throd'nahk glares at me more fiercely than before.

  “You trash all think you are the equal of real men? Ha! Compared to you trash, orc whores are of more worth. You are not fit to lick the sweat from the balls of Gladiators!”

  Pausing for a few moments, the Throd'nahk pans his glare up and down our line. The other slaves are showing even more contempt than I am, but in their case, it is nothing but arrogance born of ignorance. The other slaves do not have training or physical abilities that are the equal of the gladiators in front of us.

  “Each of you will be given the chance to challenge one of these Gladiators! It does not matter which one you choose, you will all lose.”

  The Throd'nahk points to the slave farthest from me on the left. “You first.”

  That slave grins at the slave next to him, and they slam the backs of their wrists together. All of the other slaves are much bigger than I am, and they are bigger than most of the gladiators. As he steps forward, the chosen slave scratches his beard, then points at one of the larger gladiators. The two of them are close in height and bulk, but the slave is lacking the effortless motion and perfect muscle tone of the gladiator.

  The Throd'nahk points to the racks of practice weapons on the one side. “Choose whatever weapons suit you and move to the center of the arena.”

  The gladiator takes a long sword and a round shield, while the new slave picks up a large two-handed axe. Both the weapons and the shield are made entirely from hardwood, but that will not prevent them from breaking bones on impact.

  The Throd'nahk waits for both men to get ready.

  “Begin!”

  On both of their collars, the runes are lit with the telltale glow. Neither of them will be able to use their Power. This will be a battle of pure physical ability and skill.

  The gladiator stays in a relaxed posture, with his sword held loosely at his side. He makes a come-hither motion with the shield, while smirking at the slave.

  “Come on, pussy. Give me your best shot.”

  The slave is too easily provoked. He cannot keep the anger off his face, as he launches a huge overhand swing at the gladiator. Swaying to the side, the gladiator deflects the axe, with a tap of his shield. Unable to arrest the force of his swing, the slave buries the axe head in the sand. Using the flat of his practice sword, the gladiator smacks the slave in the mouth, spattering blood across the sand. As the slave recovers, the gladiator steps backward, leaving space between them.

  “Nah, you're not a pussy. You're not even tough enough to be a pussy's bitch.”

  “Fuck you!” Because the slave is so worked up, his face is already turning purple. With his buttons being so easily pushed, that slave must have never run into anyone with real skill.

  His face warped into an animalistic snarl, the slave launches himself at the gladiator. The axe lashes out in a heavy lateral sweep.

  The smirk never leaving his face, the gladiator drops to one knee. His shield smashes up into the axe head again, deflecting its trajectory, so it passes over his head. Swiftly rising to his feet, the gladiator snaps a kick into the slaves exposed dick and balls.

  The slave loses his grip on his axe, which goes flying, and crumples to the ground, while clasping his abused parts.

  Contempt plastered all over his face, the Throd'nahk points to the next slave in line. “You're next.”

  The next slave picks a gladiator smaller than himself and takes a greatsword for his weapon. Is he thinking to win with a reach advantage? No, he probably cannot think that far ahead. It is more likely he is thinking, “duh big beats man duh small man.”

  The smaller gladiator picks up a pair of swords similar to scimitars, except with a heavier curve to the blade than a normal scimitar. He is resting the backs of the blades on his shoulders as he takes his position.

  “Begin!”

  The remaining noob slaves are exchanging grins and whispering among themselves. I do not recognize the language they are using. It is not the Slave Tongue. While it has that odd rolling quality to the words that Swedish does, I doubt that it is Swedish.

  The slave opens up with a charging stab, using his greatsword more like a lance than an edged weapon, and the gladiator avoids it with a small side step. When the slave follows up by trying to hit the gladiator with the hilt, the gladiator dances out of range. As the slave lashes out with a vertical slash at waist height, the gladiator rolls under it and steps past him.

  Time and again the pattern is repeated. The slave attacks, and the gladiator makes him look completely incompetent.

  “Even an incompetent Gladiator will turn you into a meat bag, bleeding out all over the arena sands. The Masters will love you! Well, they'll love you for the one fight you'll die in. Time to end this.”

  The gladiator attacks for the first time. Jumping over a low slash, he hammers the hilts of both his swords into the slaves face. As the slave staggers back, the Gladiator begins to hammer his slashing blades into the vulnerable nerve clusters on the slave's body. It takes him less than thirty seconds to turn the slave into a quivering wretch, cowering on the sand.

  I have seldom seen the inhabitants of the Labyrinth or Yggr stripped of their Power. These slaves are moving as though they have virtually no training in actual combat skills. Could they have relied entirely on their Power fueled abilities, without ever learning the physical skills of combat?

  During the Great Fuck Over, the majority of the Damned were like that. Even after dozens or hundreds of battles, they had only limited skill and relied their mana driven abilities. The few who were ki adepts seemed to be different. They had a different mindset and studied martial styles that caught their interest. There were the ones like Thorrin as well, older men with experience in the US military before the changeover to drones or in foreign militaries that still used people. They always had real skill and worked hard to improve it. They were among the most lethal of the Damned.

  The next seven fights follow the same pattern. Other than the slave with the broken shoulder, I am the only one left.

  The Throd'nahk glares at me, and I meet it with a mocking smile. He turns his attention to the slave whose shoulder he broke.

  “You join the rest of your trash tribe. You aren't worth a Gladiator's time.”

  Shame, anger, and fear warring on his face, the slave sullenly moves over to the group of defeated slaves. Most of those slaves are staring at me with a mix of hate and mockery. They are expecting me to fare the same as or worse than themselves.

  I lock stares with the Throd'nahk again. He is big and filled with hate, but he is not dumb. His narrowed eyes reveal a cold, calculating intelligence.

  The Throd'nahk looks at the blond pretty boy and uses the DokkAlfar language. “Cletus, you are fighting this one.”

  Cletus stares at the Throd'nahk, his mouth hanging agape. “Why should I fight him? I'm the Champion of Gor'achen! He's nothing but new trash!”

  Gor'achen would be Gor'achen Citadel. I am in one of the Seven Great Citadels. With that citadel that was hanging over the ocean, it is not surprising that DokkAlfar slut is actually a resident of the Citadel. Escape is going to more difficult than I would like.

  The Throd'nahk's expression turns cold, and his lethal intent fills the arena. “I am Throd'nahk. You will do as I tell you.”

  Cletus bows his head, but his eyes are still filled with resentment. “Yes, Throd'nahk. I hear and o
bey.”

  The Throd'nahk turns to one of the DokkAlfar guards. “Release the Champion's Power.”

  The DokkAlfar's expression mirrors Cletus' from a few moments ago. “You want the Champion's Power released for a newbie trash? Are you insane?”

  “The Mistress has made me Throd'nahk of this stable. How Gladiators and trainees are handled is my choice. Are you going to release the Champion's Power, or do you want to explain why you interfere with my way of training to the Mistress?”

  The intensity in the Throd'nahk's glare forces the DokkAlfar to unconsciously take a few steps backwards. Whether or not the DokkAlfar is aware of it, real fear is showing in his eyes. Reaching into his belt pouch, the guard takes out a black metal rod, with what look like runes on it. Pointing the rod a Cletus, the DokkAlfar thumbs one of the runes, and the glow on Cletus' collar disappears. The runes have to be sigils that are tied to the magic of the collars.

  Is it this Throd'nahk or the threat of this Mistress that the DokkAlfar guard fears?

  With a grin, Cletus rubs his neck under the collar. Moving to the weapon racks, he straps a round buckler to his wrist and takes up a flail. Even the there are no spikes on the buckler and flail, they can both still do damage to a human body.

  It is not obvious how Cletus uses Power. Nor is it obvious what the nature of his Power is.

  I know how to use almost every single weapon in the weapon racks, but there are not that many weapons that I like. Looking at the available array of practice weaponry, I decide to use what I am most comfortable with at the moment and take a pair of swords. They are about the same length as the special alloy ones that I brought from Earth, but they are almost twice as wide. The difference in size is not enough to throw off my techniques.

  Taking a position opposite Cletus, I let my swords hang negligently at my side.

  “After I beat you bloody, I'm going to fuck you in the ass, while everyone enjoys the show. Ugly freaks like you make me hard.” Cletus' voice is loud enough to carry to the seating beyond arena wall, but there is no one there to hear his words.