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

by Brian McGoldrick

  As the minutes pass, it feels like they are dragging on for hours each. The sounds of Vardne'tar patrols searching for us echo from all directions, sometime louder and sometimes softer. The Vardne'tar guard I am holding up by his harness whimpers and twitches, but he seems unable to even put out anything resembling a real struggle.

  After about three to four minutes, Valcrit blinks a few times. He slits the guards throat, with a dagger pulled from his belt, and looks at me. “I have found the location of the dungeon entrance, and the least used paths to reach it. This one has not seen her, but he has heard that the Mistress is in the dungeon.”

  “You lead.”

  Valcrit nods and moves out at a fast jog. I remember seeing him guarding the entry to the Blood Rose arena complex, when I was leaving with the parade for my gladiatorial battles. The distance covered by his smooth easy strides reveals his extreme level of physical enhancement, but because of the nature of physical enhancement, it is difficult to gauge the strength of his actual mana.

  Mostly following back passages obviously meant for servants, we reach a point where the one we are in opens on a wide corridor with a heavy double door at the end. Four guards, two on either side, are stationed in front of the door, and their alert eyes are constantly roving between the mouths of the other corridors that open on the one with the doors. If it were not for the fact that my spatial awareness allows my body receive impressions through every square millimeter of its surface, I would be exposed by sticking my head out to look.

  It could be considered strange the way so many Power based abilities include or ignore clothing, armor, and gear, but when you consider that there is an aura or periphery to patterns that generally extends beyond the physical body it might not be so odd. The aura has Power, or maybe you could say it is Power that is radiated by the pattern, almost like light from a star. Once you are aware of the aura, you can consciously keep it within the bounds of the body, but that requires the constant expenditure of some level of concentration.

  I take my endless quiver out from my belt and attach it to my harness, before taking out Stone Feather Death and stringing it. Because of it being a Legendary Weapon, its pattern would probably keep it from being damaged, if it remained strung, but even with a stone bow, it is a bad and sloppy habit to leave it strung forever.

  “There are four guards at the door, and we are a bit over a hundred feet from the door. All four of them have heavy repeating crossbows. Stay on the right side of the corridor as you charge, so I have a clear line of fire.”

  Nocking an arrow, I step out into the draw and shoot.

  Crack-boom!

  The arrow punches through one of the guards chests and pins him to the door.

  Boom! Boom! Boom!

  As I drop to one knee, crossbow bolts fly over my head, punching holes into the stone walls behind me. As stone fragment rattle off my back, the guards and gladiators charge out in the wake of the impacts. Valcrit is in the lead, and one of the Vardne'tar guard's limbs go slack, and he drops his crossbow to the ground.

  Crackle-BOOM!

  A massive bolt of blue-white lightning streaks over my head, and a third guard is hurled backward, with a smoking hole in his what is left of his chest.

  I set another arrow to my bowstring, but there is no clear line of fire. The faster DokkAlfar guards are already on the last Vardne'tar guard, and he slumps to the ground minus an arm, with his chest caved in like a soup bowl.

  Finding the double doors locked, Kanchek searches the corpses for the key, but comes up empty handed. He looks at me shrugging, with his hands full of storage devices.

  After putting Stone Feather Death away, I place my hands on the door and close my eyes. There are wards on the door, but I can still feel its pattern and the patterns of the the latch and lock. The metal is another Elemental alloy, but the Elemental metal used in it is not one that I have encountered before. Kanchek orders men to the nearest corridor entries to keep watch, while I feel out the pattern of the lock and bolt, searching for weaknesses.

  My first attempt with a symbol of breaking is a failure, and Power backlashes on me. Silently snarling, I braid my power and drive home a different symbol.

  Pop! Clatter.

  The door opens under my shove, and fragments of the shattered bolt fall to the stone. Beyond the door, six more hostile guards are waiting with readied crossbows.

  “Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!”

  One of the gladiators falls, with a crossbow bolt buried in his chest. I deflect another into the ceiling, with the back of my wrist, and the last two are knocked aside by other gladiators.

  A second or two later the corpses of the guards fall to the ground, missing multiple limbs and a couple heads. Swathes of fresh blood paint the walls and floor of the landing crimson. The sounds of running metal shod feet is getting steadily more audible, but from below, there is only silence.

  “Throd'nahk stay here with the gladiators and guard this door. If we lose control of these stairs, we'll be fucked getting back to the gate.”

  For a few seconds, I can see the internal battle raging in the Throd'nahk's eyes and feel the rapid shift in his emotions. Then, he calms down and a hard coldness suppresses his emotions.

  “Don't you dare come back without the Mistress!” His blatant jealousy is so clear that most of the gladiators and guards have to be aware of it.

  I cannot keep a shit-eating grin off my face, but the visor of my helm keeps it hidden. I turn and descend the stairs, taking them a dozen at a step. Behind me, the DokkAlfar guards are in hot pursuit.

  At the bottom of the stairs another set of double doors bars our way, but these doors have barred windows for viewing the apron in front of it and stairs we are on. From a hundred stairs up, we can see a good twenty DokkAlfar guards, two squads at least, through those small windows. A caster is waiting at each window, and two ball balls of flame streak toward us. We split up, scrambling up and down the stairs to avoid the explosions, when the fireballs strike the stone.

  A wave of powerful psi flows past me and one of the casters freezes, but another more powerful wave of psi clashes with the Valcrit's. The caster starts to move again, anger and fear burning in his eyes.

  I hurl both my bastard swords at the door and the casters duck down.

  Thunk! Thunk!

  The windows and the casters were never my targets, and my swords stand quivering in the faces of the doors. I pull my short-swords. Flipping up my visor, I slash my cheeks and let my blood anoint the blades. With my face, it is not like a couple more scars will matter.

  My heart is steel. My soul is the forge. My thoughts are life to my blade. As my braided Power flows into the short-swords, they begin to dance in the air. Their movements are faster and more agile than ever before, but it is more difficult to control my Power, when I use it braided like this. The short-swords fly to the windows and begin stabbing repeatedly at anything the sticks its face too close. Without being under fire from the casters, I am at the door in a couple seconds.

  The lock on this door has the same structure as the one on the door above. The symbol of breaking I use on it turns the bolt into shards.

  The DokkAlfar reach the door, and without pausing, two of them slam the doors wide open. In a wedge shaped formation they charge into the room beyond. Kanchek is at the point of their wedge, with Valcrit on his right. Despite the differences in weapons used by the Blood Rose guards, they are a well coordinated fighting unit.

  While taking out Stone Feather Death, I send my short-swords after one of the casters, and their keen edges nearly sever his head, before he can put up a fight.

  Crack-Boom!

  My arrow ends the life of the other caster, and I begin scanning the Vardne'tar DokkAlfar, looking for their psi. As my psi probe brushes across the shields of one of the Vardne'tar guards, a burning knife of psi lances into my mind. My shields only hold up for a few seconds, before shattering under the DokkAlfar's attack.

  The DokkAlfar psi has driven my awar
eness back inside of my own mind. With pain drowning my consciousness, I cannot feel my body. I do not know if my hate fueled growl is audible or only inside my head. Even though my shields are broken, the Vardne'tar DokkAlfar does not seem to be making much headway. He keeps trying to thrust deeper into my mind, but I refuse to give ground and keep repelling him. I am a stubborn, vicious, hate-filled mother fucker, and I hate losing or giving in more than anything. The only question is what do I do, now?

  Empathic assaults are extremely destructive, if the wielders emotions are strong enough. Hate and rage are good weapons. I remember Thrall's words, but I never took the time to learn how to use my emotions as weapons, there were always other things I needed to do. Even if my will is strong enough to hold off the DokkAlfar for now, how long can I last? Will the Blood Rose DokkAlfar be able to win with eighteen to seven odds?

  Dark Od flows into me, and I have no way to stop it, my strength of mind is completely occupied with holding back the DokkAlfar's psi. More than just a little strangely, the Od is not burning and tearing me up with the strain of its too strong and too real existence. Why?

  *You are pathetically weak beyond measure, but as she said, you are one of mine. Frail as it may be, your greatest strength comes from unbridled hate and rage; calm and control are the tools of the weak. Learn from your pain. If you survive to Transcend, you will have to make a choice, and no matter how you choose, there will be prices. That which does not kill you will make you stronger; a stupid and false saying for most, but for you, it is truth.* The voice is deep and has the feel of danger. It seems to come for the Od, but there is no sense of any presence other than the Od itself.

  The Dark Od recedes, but it leaves something behind, a piece of knowledge. I understand how to use my emotions as weapon and armor. What was that voice? Who was that voice? Od exists between Life and Death, made of both and neither. I remember those words of Boran from more than a decade past. The girl looked like Boran's statue and said that she was Life. Could that voice have been Death? I remember their statues, as clear as day. That man's, Death's, huge build would rival most Dvergar for mass. I could easily believe that voice was his.

  This knowledge he left, I should have already understood it; I have been using my psi in a half-assed manner since I first created the aura in Bogwater. Instinctively, I had been using my stubbornness and hatred to create a half-assed shield against the DokkAlfar's psi, but there are more efficient ways to do so. I change how I am defending myself and fuse my hate into a Power backed wall. Pushing outward, I force the DokkAlfar out of my mind, and my awareness reconnects with the world around me.

  Two of the Blood Rose DokkAlfar are injured too badly to continue fighting, but the remaining five are only facing eight. Nine more of the Vardne'tar have joined their casters, as corpses on the ground.

  Crack-Boom! Crack-Boom! Crack-Boom! Crack-Boom! Crack-Boom!

  The DokkAlfar psi's head explodes, when my arrow punched through his helm. Four more Vardne'tar DokkAlfar quickly follow him into the realm of the dead, as the Blood Rose guards finish off the other Vardne'tar guards.

  The DokkAlfar tend to their wounds, while I look around.

  The room we are in is downright medieval. It is carved out of raw grey stone, so it must be yet another pocket dimension; just how many dimensional pocket exist in the hunk of rock? Shackles and racks with implements of torture are affixed to the walls. Some of the have bits of blood, hair, and decaying flesh still on them. Besides my groups, the room is only occupied by the dead.

  Four corridors exit this room. I spread my empathy through the area, but there are wards on what I assume are the cells in the corridors. I cannot tell which cells are occupied, let alone which one contains Elan'fer'sha.

  “Spread out and search for Elan'fer'sha!”

  Kanchek sends a DokkAlfar down each corridor and paces from corridor entry to corridor entry, while waiting for their return. I keep track of them with my empathy, but with their shields, I cannot tell more than their positions relative to myself.

  After a few minutes, one of the DokkAlfar starts running back to the central room, and I meet him at the corridor entry.

  “I found the Mistress! She's shackled to the wall, and the cell door is locked.”

  After I begin searching the Vardne'tar DokkAlfar corpses for any keys, Kanchek and the other DokkAlfar quickly join me. None of us find any keys, and I pocket all the storage devices that I search.

  After jogging down the corridor, I stand outside Elan'fer'sha's cell. As the DokkAlfar said, she is shackled to the wall, but he did not tell me her condition. Except for a slave collar inlaid with sigils, she is naked and covered with welts, cuts, and raw burns. The insides of her thighs are crusted with dried blood, and the shadow of fear is lurking beneath the shock in her eyes.

  “How?” Elan'fer'sha's voice is hoarse.

  “We invaded the castle.”

  Elan'fer'sha stares at me with confusion blatantly obvious on her face.

  “I thought that dyke was your friend. Why did she do this?”

  Something else mixes with the confusion on Elan'fer'sha's face, maybe pain or loss. “My clan was a clan of assassins that served the Citadel Lord. They … we … were the ones that wiped out her Line of Provenance. With the rest of my clan dead, this is her revenge.”

  I snort. “So, that's why the fucking dyke is rebelling against the Citadel Lord.”

  Elan'fer'sha's confusion turns to anger. “Open the cell door! Get these chains off me! Hurry up, you fucking bastard!”

  With my mouth safely hidden by my visor, I smile. The term Elan'fer'sha is using is not really the same as the English word bastard. While intended as an insult, it has a meaning that only matters to DokkAlfar, something to do with a lack of Provenance of a parent or the betrayal of Provenance by a parent, but I only vaguely understand its significance.

  With a symbol of breaking, I turn the the cell's lock into metal fragments. Taking off my helm, I approach Elan'fer'sha and kiss her. Despite her anger, in spite of her abuse at Aluras'bektsh'tar's hands, she responds. As our lips separate, her face is blank, and confusion dulls her glare.

  “You're my woman now. I came to take you back. I'm not letting some fucking dyke have you.”

  “You fucking bastard! I'm not your woman! I'm a DokkAlfar female, not some lowly human slut!”

  “You're my woman. Until the day you die, you're mine.”

  “Who would want an ugly bastard like you?”

  “Who else doesn't give a fuck that you're a Wytch? I know you're a twisted bitch, but I'm just as fucked up as you are. I want you with me.”

  Something flickers in her eyes, and her teeth close over her lower lip.

  “Get me out of these chains. I have to warn the Citadel Lord.”

  The chains and shackles shatter, and the collar on Elan'fer'sha's neck snaps into pieces as I use symbols or breaking fueled by my braided Power.

  My laugh is a cold nasty sound. “Aluras' rebellion is already underway. I'm sure he knows by now.”

  “If you hate DokkAlfar so much, why do you want me?”

  “I don't really hate DokkAlfar more than any other race. I hate almost everyone, especially people with wealth and power. Everyone I've ever dealt with that had one or both has been an ungrateful, traitorous fuck. DokkAlfar are no exception to that rule.”

  Elan'fer'sha's brittle smile seems sad, more than anything. “No. We may be the rule itself.”

  As I leave the cell, Elan'fer'sha follows, with Kanchek and the other DokkAlfar on either side of her. They both keep looking behind, as well as watching every cell that we pass. The rest of the DokkAlfar are scattered around the the torture chamber, and immediately, they form a cordon around Elan'fer'sha. Moving up the stairs, I keep the pace to a fast walk, and even though the walls seem solid, everyone is vigilant against attacks.

  Reaching the top landing, we stop a dozen steps down. Most of the gladiators are lying low, beneath the level of the landing, with only th
e ones with crossbows sticking their heads out. Four more, armed with crossbows, are hiding behind the mostly open doors. Facing them in the corridor leading to the door and the side corridors are at least fifty Vardne'tar guards.

  “You have never asked why Wytches are feared and ostracized in DokkAlfar society. Do you know the reason?” Elan'fer'sha has a malicious glint in her eyes.

  “No.”

  Her face grim and sad at the same time, Elan'fer'sha begins to weave a spell pattern with Umbral Power. The black Power, looking like oily soot, makes my skin craw, and several long minutes drag by as the weave grows larger and more complex. When she completes the weave, Elan'fer'sha bites her lower lip and sprays a mist of blood onto the pattern. From where the droplets of blood strike the pattern, foul red streaks spread though the sooty black veins of Umbral Power. When Elan'fer'sha blows on the spell pattern, after the coloration stabilizes, it turns into a reddish black mist, and flows up the stairs and through the door.

  Once the mist is in their line of sight, the Vardne'tar guards immediately start to withdraw, but they are already too late. The farther the mist moves, the faster the mist moves. After sweeping over the Vardne'tar guards, it continues to spread, tendrils entering each side corridor.

  “No!”

  “Please!”

  “I submit!”

  “Make it stop!”

  “AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!”

  Elan'fer'sha's face is set in an expression of grim satisfaction. Her voice is a harsh whisper, as she seems to speak more to herself than to any of us. “Those bastards, with dicks the size of my pinkie, thought they could get away with putting their pathetic little things in a Wytch, because their Mistress told them they could. Fucking a Wytch without her consent means death!”

  After several minutes the screams turn to whimpers and fade away. As Elan'fer'sha starts walking up the remaining stairs, I move out in front of her, and the DokkAlfar guards quickstep to maintain their cordon. The gladiators fall in around and behind the DokkAlfar, but there is really no need.