“Yes, Your Eminence.”
Kra'cha'len exited the room, closing the doors behind himself.
What Is Your Connection To Talon?
*** Gor'achen Citadel (Over Tallifer) - Battleground of the Damned ***
Return: Day 140
Elan'fer'sha stood naked in the center of her ritual chamber. With the exception of her face and hands, her entire body was marked with the midnight lines of tattoos. Forming ritual patterns meant to channel and hold the Umbra, the tattoos were intended to help her to handle the dangerous Elemental Power, without falling victim to its insidious corruption.
Her stare was focused on the items laid out on the alter in front of her: two swords, one belt, one belt pouch, four rings, one bracelet, and one charm encrusted with rubies and yellow diamonds. The swords have no patterns. The bracelet and charm are unbound, but they have the remnants of soul threads still clinging to them. The rest are bound to Brand. It is strange for one person to use so many dimensional holding devices at one time. It is time to sever those threads and find out what secrets are stored inside.
A ball of ebon Umbral Power began to coalesce on the tip of Elan'fer'sha's finger, and her body began to sway and writhe seductively, as she started to draw a spell pattern in the air. While time passed slowly, traces of Umbral Power flowed over her body, appearing to follow the design of her tattoos. As the spell pattern built, its complexity continued to increase, and it took on a three dimensional shape.
With the completed spell pattern rotating in front of her, Elan'fer'sha critically inspected it. If there is a single flaw, I will have start over. Breaking a soul thread is entirely too difficult, requiring near perfect precision. How something so ephemeral can be so close to impervious is beyond my understanding.
A wave of Elan'fer'sha's hand sent the spell pattern toward the belt on the altar. The nearer it moved, the more condensed the pattern became, until it appeared to be a solid ball of Umbral Power. As the dark power expanded into a line and rotated in a circle, Elan'fer'sha smiled.
One is done, and five remain.
Instead of binding and examining the contents of the belt, Elan'fer'sha began work on the next spell pattern, a duplicate of the first. After repeating the process five more times, she leaned on the altar, dripping sweat. Reaching behind her head, she pulled at her long silver hair that was matted with sweat and stuck to her back.
I feel more like having fought a battle than having cast a mere six spells.
Tying a soul thread to one of the rings, Elan'fer'sha inspected the contents.
“More storage devices! What kind of crazy monkey collects so many storage devices?!” Her shriek was loud enough to echo off the stone walls of her ritual chamber.
Even knowing she was the only person in the ritual chamber, Elan'fer'sha still glanced around, with a hint of embarrassment on her face. Turning back to the altar, she examined the storage devices stored within the ring. A least these do not already have soul threads tied to them.
Elan'fer'sha began to inspect the contents of the other storage devices. Piles of armor, weapons, tools, coins, jewels, metal bars, food supplies, and camping equipment appeared on the altar, before disappearing back into the storage devices.
As she was inspecting the last storage device, the belt pouch, Elan'fer'sha laid a suit of armor on the altar. As the sight of the mask attached to the helm, her face froze and a shiver passed through her body. For a long time, she did nothing but stare at the face molded into the mask.
“Talon! What connection does this monkey have to fucking Talon?!”
Elan'fer'sha's fingers dug at her chest, as though she was trying to claw out something that she despised. If it weren't for that Half-Dvergar freak, I would not be in this position! Damn him to the frozen pits of Hel.
*** Gor'achen Citadel (Over Tallifer) - Battleground of the Damned ***
Return: Day 140
Pain wakes me. My entire body hurts. It feels as if all of the muscles and joints in my body have been strained, but the worst pain is in my right shoulder. It is badly bruised, and it feels like there may be hairline fractures in the bones. The impact of Cletus' last shield strike was not small.
I am in a cell by myself this time, a different cell from the one I woke in last time. This time the cell is much smaller, and has a stone platform on one side to sleep on. In the back corner, on the opposite side from the slab, there is a hole about eight inches in diameter. The stench makes its purpose obvious.
There is a cell across the corridor from mine, with one of the slaves that was with me in the holding cell occupying it. From the sounds of snoring, there are other cells, with more sleeping slaves to either side.
Even though my body is covered in bruises, the pain in my muscles and joints has to be from the electricity in the Throd'nahk's attack. My muscles must have been afflicted with wild spasms, to do so much damage. I am used to pain. It is my oldest friend, whether I acknowledge it or not. This pain is not even intense enough to distract me, but the stiffness will impede my movements. While it is still quiet in the slave pens, I take the time to stretch out my body. Without being able to use my ki, it is the best I am capable of.
Once I am done stretching, I try to circulate my ki though my body but fail miserably. No matter how small the amount of ki I try to use, the debilitating pain flares through me. The more ki I use or the longer I use it, the more intense the pain is. As inured to pain as I may be, this pain is at a level that I cannot endure.
With nothing else to do, I sink into a meditative trance. Even though I am not practicing my ki manipulation, the trance still serves the purpose of allowing my body to rest more effectively than sleeping would. Moreover, in this meditative state, I am still aware of the world around me.
The passage of time is neither fast nor slow, it just is. Several hours later, the sound of multiple sets of footsteps rouses me to full awareness. Those footsteps are not loud, but my hearing seems to have become exceptional since returning to this body. It is not at the level of my Half-Dvergar body, but it is still above the normal human level. I look toward the right side of my cell's barred front, waiting for the arrival of the sources of those footsteps.
Four DokkAlfar guards walk past the front of my cell, and the back one on my side of the hall happens to glance in. Surprise momentarily flickers across his face, before it returns to its impassive mien. His eyes face forward again, as he disappears down the hall to the left of my cell.
Less than thirty seconds later, the rattle of metal on metal reaches my ears.
“Up and out! Go to the end of the corridor and wait!” Even though the voice is speaking the Slave Tongue, its musical quality does not belong any human. Only Alfar have such naturally pleasant voices, no matter how unpleasant the language they are speaking might be.
Preceded and followed by the sound of his footsteps, one of the slaves walks past my cell.
The sounds repeat six times before the DokkAlfar are again in front of my cell. With the rattling of metal on metal, one of them uses a large steel key to open the lock in my cell door, and pull it open.
“Up and out! Go to the end of the corridor and wait!” The DokkAlfar who opened my cell is the one giving the orders.
I rise and exit my cell, moving to the end of the hall. As I reach the seven men already clustered there, I notice the one whose shoulder was broken by the Throd'nahk in the cell to my left. His shoulder has been bandaged, and his arm is tied tightly to his chest.
The group of slaves is silent and sullen. They have all had their hair and beards cut, so that they are standing up like short bristles. My own rather short hair and second day shave were left untouched.
Outside this corridor, another is running perpendicular to it, and voices can be heard from both directions. Most of their chatter is nothing more than grumbling. They are bitching about the low quality of the food and the sore muscles resulting from the day's training. A few of them seem to be openly plotting the sexual assault of one or
more of the new slaves.
I look at the slaves around me, and from their lack of reaction, they must not be able to hear the gladiators plotting their upcoming sexual humiliation. As long as none of the gladiators is stupid enough to come after me, it is none of my affair. These idiots can take care of themselves or get ass raped.
After the guards open the cell of the broken-shouldered slave, they push through the middle of us and stand in the cross corridor.
“All right slaves, move out!” The DokkAlfar voice comes from the right side of the cross corridor.
The DokkAlfar that was opening our cells points in the direction of the new voice, and the other slaves begin filing out. I wait for all the slaves to pass my cell's corridor and go last. As they pass me, the gladiator slaves have a variety of expressions, when looking at me. Not a one is friendly, but not all of them are hostile.
Five other corridors exit off the cross corridor. All the cell corridors are on the same wall, three to one side and two to the other of the corridor where my cell is. To the right from my corridor, the side with three more corridors, another short corridor opens form the wall opposite the side where the cell corridors are.
In total, there are fourteen DokkAlfar guards. With the exception of my corridor, each corridor had two DokkAlfar opening the cells. These DokkAlfar guards give me unpleasant looks but do not say or do anything to provoke me.
Exiting the short corridor, we enter a mess hall. A few other corridors besides the one we entered by exit from this room. There are enough tables and benches to seat over a hundred slaves, but there are only fifty-two of us in total. Cletus is not among the gladiators.
On one wall, there are tables with bowls, mugs, spoons, and food. Being the last to exit from the corridor, I am the last in line for the food. The other slaves are not being rowdy or jostling for position, so I assume the DokkAlfar are ruthless toward anyone disturbing the order.
I do not know what the followers of The Nameless are like, but the followers of Yggr I have encountered are merciless in terms of power and hierarchy. Everyone and everything has its place and should remain in it. At least, that is the case for as long as the ones above can keep those below themselves suppressed. Every DokkAlfar's dream is to tear down those above himself or herself and rise to a position of higher status and power. The greater the status and power, the greater the hedonistic pleasures the DokkAlfar can enjoy.
Reaching the tables, I take a plate that appears to be roughly shaped from stone, not ceramic but stone. The bread is a bit hard, as though it is two or three days old. A pot contains a lumpy substance reminiscent of oatmeal. There is nothing but plain water in the pitchers. It is a thoroughly unappetizing meal. I feel like I am back in the hospital.
From what I can see, the groups of gladiators are arranged in cliques, clustered together at separate tables. The new slaves who arrived with me are clustered together at a table as far from the gladiators as they can get. One group of gladiators is still talking about ass raping the new slaves, while eyeing them up. This time, the new slaves can clearly hear the gladiators, and fear is visible in the their eyes.
I take a seat at an empty table, where I can keep my back to the wall. All of the slaves, both the gladiators and the new ones, take an interest in me. After what I did to Cletus, their so-called Champion, they cannot treat me like another piece of newbie trash. I am an anomaly, and they do not know how to deal with me yet. Most of them look away, when I do not bother to keep the malicious smile off of my face.
“Gladiators, assemble!” The Throd'nahk's voice comes from the hall opposite the one leading to our cells.
As the gladiators rise and file out of the room, the new slaves follow them in a cluster, and I follow the new slaves. The hall is over a hundred feet long and leads into a ready room for the arena fights. An open gate can close this hall off, just like the two other small halls that lead into this room.
Opposite the small corridor we entered from, a wide passage leads up to the arena. The Throd'nahk is standing in the mouth of that passage. His critical gaze pans across the gladiators and the new slaves, before resting on me.
“Hossen, take the new trash and put them through strength drills. Sado, start everyone working on basic and intermediate sword drills. There was too much sloppiness in the handling of the new trash. Brand, you come with me.”
At the Throd'nahk's words, everyone's eyes turn toward me. The new slaves' eyes are filled with self-pity. The gladiators' eyes are filled with mockery and condescension.
I keep my face impassive, as I walk over to the Throd'nahk.
The Throd'nahk's cold stare is sizing me up once more. He has an extreme interest in me, but the reason is not clear. It cannot be because I trashed Cletus, since the Throd'nahk was already weighing me in the cell where I woke up.
Turning to the hall to my left, the Throd'nahk walks away without a word. I trail after him, like a good newbie slave. I do not know where I am, and with the collar on my neck, I do not have a hope in hell of beating the Throd'nahk. For now, I can only follow his commands.
This corridor runs for about seventy-five feet before opening into another room about the same size as the mess hall. Ten stained stone slabs line each wall, with chains and shackles bolted into in them. On the one farthest from the door we entered though, a recumbent figure is visible. Secured by the shackles, its hips and groin are wrapped with bandages.
As the Throd'nahk leads me closer, I see Cletus' blonde hair and former pretty boy face. His nose is smashed flat, and he has missing teeth in his upper jaw.
“Without healing magic, he will never be a while man again. Even with strong healing magic, he might never be a whole man. Our healer is low class, and the Mistress will not spend money on a weak Champion like Cletus. Even if he was the Blood Rose Stable's Champion, and the current Gor'achen Champion, he's useless.”
The Throd'nahk stares coldly at me.
“So, what does that mean for me?”
I feel the chill of the Throd'nahk's cold smile. Even though not much of anything causes me to really feel fear anymore, this Throd'nahk has enough Power and presence to make me uneasy.
“You will become the new Champion of the Blood Rose Stable.”
The Throd'nahk pauses for a few moments, but I do not say anything. The driving force behind this has to be Elan'fer'sha. Blood Rose Stable has to be her gladiatorial stable. Fighting and killing have been part of life for years now. If becoming their Champion will keep me alive until I can escape, I will become their Champion.
“You're rather passive for someone who reeks of bloodshed.”
I shrug. “For now, I'm nothing but a collared slave.”
The Throd'nahk's grin is nasty. “Now and forever. Even if it's not actively blocking your Power, that collar will keep you a slave forever. If you attacked one of the Masters or Mistresses, it would turn you into a useless sack of flesh. You'd be pissing, shitting, and puking all over yourself, until one of the Masters shut it down. If no one shut it down, you would die.”
I do not respond to the Throd'nahk and stare at him with a bored expression on my face. He is not one of the Masters. There is nothing to stop me from killing him, if I have the opportunity.
From the way that the Throd'nahk looks back at me, I have the impression that he knows exactly what I am thinking.
“Come!”
As I follow the Throd'nahk, leads me out into the arena.
The light crystal in the cavern roof is emitting the same yellowish light as last time. It feels similar to sunlight, even to the point of having some warmth, but there is something not right. I do not feel like I am under the sun of the Earth, but that different feel does not mean anything, since so many of the zones in the Battleground of the Damned have suns that feel different from Earth. If I were told that the crystal was designed to mimic the light of a sun I have not yet seen, I would take those words as truth.
The gladiators are paired up, performing sword drills at somewhere around
half speed. This is not sparring, but instead, they are training what is often called muscle memory. Almost all of the attacks in their drills are ones that will cause wounds but probably not kill. The constant repetitions are designed to make it so they can use the attacks and defenses instinctually, while hurt and distracted by the roaring crowds lusting after more of their blood.
The new slaves, except for the one with the broken shoulder, are in a circle. They are doing squats, while tossing boulders that probably weigh in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds to the man next to them. As much as training their physical strength, the exercise is training their timing and judgment. If they make a single mistake, it could easily result in broken bones.
“Choose your weapons!” The Throd'nahk takes a spear from the racks filled with practice weapons. It is a huge weapon, almost a foot longer than he is tall.
Following the Throd'nahk's command, I find the practice swords I used against Cletus. Swords are not the best choice against the spear, but dual weapons are what I am most comfortable with. In the hands of experts with both weapons, with all Power based abilities ignored, the spear has the advantage over the sword. Using dual weapons slightly offsets the advantage but does not eliminate it.
Without any preamble or warning, the Throd'nahk attacks. The tyrannical domination of his first few attacks would do any master I have ever seen proud. Every attack challenges the weak points in my defense left by the preceding attack; he changes the angle and height enough to keep me off-balance, slowly driving me back. I am unable to do anything but defend desperately, as I retreat. This man is a true expert with the spear.
As the Throd'nahk shifts position, a slight change in the timing of his attacks gives me a chance to start circling him. As skilled as he is, when I am already moving perpendicularly to his lines of attack, the Throd'nahk cannot force me into a retreat like he did with his opening attack. Without being driven back by the force of his attacks, I am maintaining a better defense, but still have no opportunity to initiate any attacks of my own. Every time I try to break open his defense, he can suppress my attack before I am in range.
Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God (Path of Transcendence Book 2) Page 4