Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God (Path of Transcendence Book 2)
Page 13
As Elan'fer'sha settles herself in the hippogryph's saddle, her eyes come to rest upon me. A dark mix of emotions seems to flicker momentarily over her face, before a slight hungry smile touches her lips. Then, her gaze move to the lump of muscle behind me.
“Smith, are you actually going to attend the games?” Her surprise infuses the tone of her voice.
A grim smile settles on Thrall's lips. “It has been too long since I last showed myself. Your DokkAlfar brethren have begun to forget that I am here.”
A touch of fear settles into Elan'fer'sha's eyes, but she does not say anything more. Turning her hippogryph, she heads toward the other end of the corridor.
“Gladiators, move out!” The Throd'nahk's voice echoes in the corridor. The sound filled with fierce pride.
Cheering and yelling war cries, the gladiators step out proudly, every one of them strutting like a peacock.
“It's a fucking parade.”
Tyrend's laugh is somewhere between humorous and morbid. “Everything is part of the entertainment. It's all a big spectacle. On game days, many of the businesses owned by second class citizens and non-citizens will shut down early. Sometimes there are riots surrounding the games, but they are always contained to the Third and Fourth layers.”
“What do you mean by third and fourth layers?”
“Gor'achen is divided into four main levels, five if you want to include the Slave Pens. The Top or First Layer is where the High Clans live. It's the only layer on the surface of the citadel. The Second Layer has the Lower Clans and the wealthy second class citizens. The Third Layer is a mix of second class citizens, wealthier non-citizens, and crime syndicates. The Great Arena is at the center of the Third Layer. That's where we'll be fighting today. The Fourth Layer is the poor and more criminals. The Slave Pens are on the Fifth Layer, along with military barracks. That place is hell.” Tyrend shudders slightly, when he mentions the Slave Pens.
“You've been in the Slave Pens?” Graham's voice has an odd note in it.
“When I was first captured, they threw me into the pens. I'm not huge and imposing like most gladiators, so they thought I was weak. After I killed a few bull orcs with my bare hands, the Slave Keepers noticed me. It was less than a day, before I was up on the blocks as a gladiatorial slave. The Mistress bought me, and I've been in the Blood Rose Stable ever since.” Tyrend's cocky grin is back in place, but there is still a dark shadow in his eyes.
Killing a bull orc with his bare hands is no small feat for a human. Orcs are bigger, stronger, and orders of magnitude tougher than any human ever born. Despite their crudity, they also have their own Power based abilities and combat abilities. You need strong Power, extraordinary skill, or both to kill one without weapons.
As we exit the corridor, a huge cityscape opens up in front of us. The cavern holding this city is at least five hundred feet high, and our corridor is a good hundred feet above the floor. Looking across the cavern, it is too big to be inside one of the Seven Great Citadels. The Great Citadels vary a bit in size, but all of them are around five miles in diameter. This cavern has to be at least ten miles in diameter.
Tyrend's face has a smirk on it, as he stares at me out of the corner of his eye. “You haven't seen this yet, eh?”
“No. It's a pocket dimension, inside of Gor'achen?”
“I'm not sure what a pocket dimension is, but all the interior layers are too big to possibly be inside Gor'achen, but they are. The space inside of this Citadel is larger than the outside of the Citadel.”
“How much fucking Power do the DokkAlfar have?”
Neither Tyrend nor Graham says anything in response to my mostly rhetorical question. Anyway, how could either of them know the answer? Thrall, who might know the answer, is a silent presence walking behind us, at the back of the pack of gladiators.
Another one of those yellowish-white light crystals is embedded in the center of the cavern's arched roof. I can even feel a slight warmth in the light emitted from it.
The city below is mostly filled with a mix of three and four story residential buildings, businesses, and warehouses. Broad avenues and narrow alleys follow winding paths among them, but everything in the Third Layer is centered on the massive arena in the center.
The arena's size dwarfs the Roman Colosseum, it must be over half a mile long and more than three hundred feet high. The architectural style is more Baroque than anything, with twelve square towers rising above the walls. The stones used in its construction appear to be obsidian and are polished to a glossy midnight sheen.
Before our parade has even reached the bottom of the ramp, hundreds and thousands of beings are gathering in the avenue we have to follow to the arena. I can see humans, Alfar, orcs, goblins, beastmen and even a pair of ogres. They are drinking, shouting, and arguing. Some are calling out gladiators by name and shouting encouragements or admonishments. Others are calling out advice on what to do to specific gladiators in the enemy stable. Listening to these fans, for them, this is not a competition, it is a war.
As we get closer to the arena, I cannot help but get worked up. The energy of the crowd is like a drug, as their aggression and hostility key my own emotions to a fever pitch.
*You are feeding off of the souls of the trash.*
I spin around, glaring at Thrall. The idea that appeared in my mind was not word, but it clearly “sounded” like his voice. That fucking asshole is still poking around inside my mind, where he has no business being.
Thrall laughs, causing the DokkAlfar guards and the nearer gladiators and fans to look at us.
*Do not try to reach out with your replies. Your mind and soul are still unhealed. This fucking asshole can read your words from the surface of your mind. You still have much to learn and more to accept. I have the Power to do this, and you do not yet have the Power to stop me. I can do as I please, until you are strong enough to stop me. That is the preeminent truth of this metaverse.*
The entirety of Thrall's statement appears full-blown in my mind in only a fraction of a second. I turn back toward the front and continue walking.
*What did you mean by saying I'm feeding off the trash?*
*The other gladiators are reacting to the emotions around them, but it does not feed their Power. You are drawing the trash's unfocused emotional energy into yourself, into your own psi. It is a good thing, and if you can consciously learn to do that with the traces of Power given off by others, you will be able to recover the Power you use more quickly.*
Fuck me. It sounds like he wants me to become some kind of psychic vampire.
Thrall's laugh echoes inside of my mind, but I ignore him.
As we get closer to the arena, the crowds grow thicker and more raucous. Some of the beings are carrying flags and banners for the Blood Rose Stable, and other beings are carrying them for another stable. Where the different groups meet up with one another, shouting matches and brawls are breaking out.
Being by yourself among these crowds is life-threatening. In numerous places, the supporters of one stable or another are brutally beating someone who is a supporter of a different stable or maybe just not a supporter of any stable.
“Mungo! Fuck them good! Don't become the bitch!”
The group of homosexual gladiators have their codpieces strapped to their heads and are jerking themselves off, while some of the followers shout encouragement. Broken-shoulder is sidling along next to the leader of the group.
“Want me to show you how I'll fuck 'em?” From his shout, I can guess the leader is named Mungo.
“SHOW US!” More than a dozen of his fans scream together.
“Here carry this cum bucket, so I can fuck him while I walk!” Mungo shoves Broken-shoulder to two of the others.
While the two of them carry Broken-shoulder with his ass facing backwards, Mungo half-skips along fucking him. His fans are pushing their way through the crowd laughing and yelling.
“Get your hands off me! Don't you touch me, you fucking pigs!”
“Put me down!”
Smack!
While two men hold her up spread-legged, a third viciously slaps her face, leaving her dazed and bleeding.
“He you stupid faggot! I'll show what you're supposed to use your dick for!”
The man who slapped the woman strokes his dick for a few moments, to make sure its hard enough, and starts fucking the woman.
She is not particularly attractive. Her tits are sagging. Her ass is flabby. Her legs look like cottage cheese. I would never fuck her, but I guess it takes all kinds to make up a race.
“Nnnooooo!”
The woman's screams elicit nothing but laughter and jeers from the onlookers. Both the males and females of multiple races that are watching are obviously enjoying her humiliation. The ones not enjoying the show are not paying it any attention. A little gang rape is apparently nothing worth taking note of in the lower layers of Gor'achen Citadel.
As he watches the rape, the emotions on Graham's face are a little conflicted, but then he touches his collar and looks ahead. If they are not enjoying the show, none of the gladiators glance twice in that direction.
As the avenue rounds a gentle curve, the base of the arena enters into view. Hundreds of legionnaires, probably more like thousands considering the size of the arena, are lined up along the walls. From their bearing, these guards are obviously from Gor'achen's regular military forces. Though they are carrying the ubiquitous glaives, they also have longswords at their sides and shields on their backs. In addition to their chainmail, they are also wearing breastplates, metal sabatons, and greaves.
The powers that rule Gor'achen Citadel obviously take security at these games seriously. To support the line troops, there are scattered casters, also armored in chainmail, mixed in with them. It would take more than a simple group of rioters to be a significant threat to a security force like this.
With the arena in front of us, Elan'fer'sha leads us to a gated arch in the shorter side of the oval. Through the arch, a tunnel leads down to the bowels of the arena. There are more arches visible as we approach the tunnel, but they all have stairs leading up, so they must be for the audience to reach their seats.
The gates are closed and locked behind our parade, as we descend to the prep area beneath the arena. The tunnel quickly opens into a large room with cells and tunnels leading off of it.
Dismounting, Elan'fer'sha gives the reins of her hippogryph to one of the DokkAlfar guards and saunters over to me. Just watching her walk is enough to cause my dick to start getting hard, but I use my body control skills and curb the flow of my blood.
Wearing riding boots instead of stiletto heeled boots, Elan'fer'sha stares directly into my eyes from only inches away.
“Kill them all. You will be first in line for the duel of champions. Kill them all, and then you will join Tyrend and Graham for the general melee. The three of you will again kill them all.”
“You're one bloodthirsty bitch.”
Elan'fer'sha smiles, a cruel, murderous, lascivious smile. “You are my Champion. Pave the road to my desires with blood.”
As Elan'fer'sha turns and saunters toward one of the tunnels exiting the room, all of the gladiators watch her in rapt fascination. Even the homosexual gladiators cannot take their eyes off of her, as their dicks start to get hard again. If there were any women or females of other races in the room, they would be so wet that they would be dripping.
“Fucking amazing.” Graham's whisper is so soft, he is probably talking to himself.
“I've never envied and hated anyone as much I envy and hate you right now.” Tyrend's words are only half-joking, as he rests his hand on my shoulder. “I like my women with huge tits and good childbearing hips, but right now, I would die happy, if I could die while fucking her.”
Elan'fer'sha told me that Wytches warp and twist the natural order, and her ability to inspire lust in anyone is completely outside the natural order. The amount of lust she can draw out of anything with a pulse is scary. Fuck, she would give a corpse a hardon.
Thrall follows Elan'fer'sha, with a slight smirk on his lips. It seems as though her ability to induce unnatural amounts of lust does not affect him in the least. That bastard has to be the calmest, most controlled mother fucker I have ever seen. Even when he was beating me around his ritual room, I do not think he was feeling any real emotion.
The Throd'nahk reflexively wipes his mouth. “Get your minds out of your dicks and remember where you are! Keep drooling after the Mistress, and you'll be staring at your dicks and balls on the sand of the arena!”
At the Throd'nahk's words, the other gladiators seem to return to some semblance of normalcy, but the energy they acquired from the parade is gone. Some of them seem to be a bit introspective, which is absolutely abnormal for most of them. The way pussy can fuck up a man's mind is fucking amazing.
“Mungo, the games start in about three hundredths. Get your . . . men . . . ready.”
The sheer disdain on the Throd'nahk's face does not faze any of the homosexuals, and they drag Broken-shoulder into one of the empty cells.
“Time to warm us up, cum bucket.” Mungo's laughter is the signal for the rest of them to start laughing with him.
I squat down, with my back to the wall, and close my eyes. I do not particularly feel like getting involved with any prebattle bullshit. Time passes slowly, while I hear the chatter of the other gladiators, without actually listening.
“Mungo! Your group is up!”
The Throd'nahk's yell refocuses my attention. Looking around, I see most of the gladiators huddled together in small groups. Tyrend and Graham are sitting near me talking quietly.
Seeing me looking around, Tyrend stands up. His face has a sardonic expression. “You should see the prematch games at least once. It's like nothing you've ever imagined.”
I follow Tyrend and Graham up the tunnel to the arena. An metal lattice grate with a gate in it blocks the entry to the arena. The Throd'nahk is standing there staring out onto the black sands.
Looking at the lattice, I cannot identify the metal. I think it is an iron based alloy, but it has a strange reddish tinge that has nothing to do with oxidation.
“Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain.”
I use the spell to see patterns on my left.
“What was that?” Tyrend glances at me, and his jaw drops open.
“That was stupid.” The Throd'nahk's voice is calm, as he looks around.
“Go fuck yourself, Mahkah.”
The Throd'nahk's hate-filled glare bores into me, but I just smile nastily at him.
“How?” Tyrend's shock is audible in his voice.
“It is Smith's doing. Forget what you have seen. It is for your own good.”
I look the Throd'nahk straight in the eyes. “What exactly is the relationship between the Smith and Elan'fer'sha?”
The Throd'nahk glares at the DokkAlfar guards in the tunnel. “Go watch the Gladiators in the ready room! Graham go with them.”
The guards indignantly walk down the tunnel, and Graham sullenly follows them. For gutter trash and a slave, they all have overly high opinions of themselves.
Even though he wears a collar, the Throd'nahk's position in the Blood Rose Stable seems to be higher than the guards. Just what is the value of a man in the Second Circle of Coalescence to Elan'fer'sha?
The Throd'nahk actually sighs heavily. “Smith's presence is known to the leaders of all the the High Clans, but they pretend that he is not here. He is the one that chooses each new owner of the Blood Rose Stable, and no one dares to interfere. Maybe, only the Jotun Lords themselves could sway him.
“Smith altered Brands collar. If you know what is best for your survival, do not ever speak of it. Neither I nor the Mistress is who you should fear if you speak. The High Clans would destroy you in an instant, if you mentioned the existence of an altered coll
ar that did not suppress Power.
“Watch the entertainment.”
Now that the spell is cast, only someone who can read patterns would be able to tell that I am using it. There is no longer any danger of others learning about the collar being a fake.
I almost smile, as I look at the metal in the bars. It is an iron alloy, but what it is alloyed with is Elemental. It has the same overbearing type of pattern as the broken Elemental sword.
Turning my attention to the arena, a sea of black sand covers the ground. Sheltered behind thirty foot high obsidian walls, forty levels of seating rise to the tops of the outer walls. Encircling the entire arena above the seating, a walkway is lined with more armed and armored legionnaires.
At the far end, the bench seating is replaced by lavish box seating, presumably for the Clans. On either side in the middle are two more sections of box seating. The box in the center on each side is by far the most lavish. Not all of the central boxes are occupied by DokkAlfar. To my right, I see Thrall standing in the center box, with Elan'fer'sha seated in a chair next to an almost throne-like chair. In the throne-like chair, there is another DokkAlfar female, with a naked female that looks to be a Half-Alfar standing next to her.
On the opposite side is a similar setup, with two DokkAlfar males seated in similar positions.
“On the left side, is that the other stable owner?”
The Throd'nahk looks. “Hakspar'eldek'char. He's the owner of the Diamond Empress Stable. That one and the Mistress hate each other.”
With the exception of the box seating, the stands are filled to capacity. People, human or otherwise, are betting, arguing, fighting and fucking. In the boxes, much the same is going on, with the addition of some gratuitous torture.
Seeing this brings back some more fragmentary flashes of Talon's memories. It gives me the impression that he was in this arena hundreds times, maybe even thousands. I can no longer remember how long he was a gladiatorial slave, if I ever knew in the first place, but I am certain that it was longer than I have been alive.