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

by Brian McGoldrick

  Greenish-silver Power fills me. As a Half-Dvergar, I seldom used Light Od, unless it was in tandem with the Dark Od. Since returning to my human body, I have almost never used it. The Dark Od has always felt more natural to me, but I do not think Dark Od can be used for what I need to do.

  The Od can destroy the Blood Oath patterns, but it cannot restore the damage done to her by the Umbra. If it is tried, she will be purified of the Umbra, but she will die. The thought is not my own, but I am not sure whose it is.

  Elan'fer'sha's eyes open wide, as the thought flits through my consciousness. Did it enter her mind, as well?

  The Light Od is not as destructive and domineering at the Dark Od, but my body, mind, and soul are still strained from trying to contain it. I focus the Light Od into a lance of energy and drive it into the first of the patterns. If I am wrong, I may kill Elan'fer'sha, but being bound by Blood Oaths, she might be better off dead.

  The patterns barely lasts more than a few seconds under the touch of the Od.

  “One of the Oaths is gone.” Elan'fer'sha's voice is barely more than a whisper. With the destruction of the Blood Oath pattern, she does not show any adverse effects, and instead, she smiles giddily.

  A rapidly charged spell pattern, fired by the Citadel Lord, streaks toward me. Rather than take it on my shields, I drive the lance of Od through the spell patter, and it busts into a spray of prismatic light. The backlash from the destroyed spell rebounds on the Citadel Lord, and he drops to his knees clutching his head, while hissing in anger.

  Keeping the Citadel Lord in the periphery of my awareness, I drive the lance of Od through the second Blood Oath pattern, then the third. Releasing her neck, I put my arm around Elan'fer'sha, as she sways slightly, and drop the pattern sight from my right eye, so that I can gaze at her inhumanly beautiful face.

  Letting the Light Od recede from my body, I feel like I have been pushing myself to my limits for an extended period of time, but there is no sign of damage. Either I am getting considerably stronger than I realized, or the Light Od by itself is not as destructive to an Amalgamate form as the Dark Od.

  “AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!”

  The Citadel Lord slumps to the ground, as Aluras'bektsh'tar pulls her spear out of his back. With three quick steps, she makes a running leap that takes her over the heads of the legionnaires defending the Citadel Lord. Caught by surprise, the Citadel Lord's bodyguards react too slowly to stop her.

  Elan'fer'sha stares at the tableau, conflicting emotions playing across her face. She seems to settle on hostility as she watches Aluras'bektsh'tar, before schooling her face into an emotionless mask.

  One of the bodyguards kneels next to the fallen Citadel Lord and examines him.

  “The Lord still lives! Defend him with your lives!” The bodyguard's shout echoes in the auditorium, and he triggers a device that brings up a domed shield covering himself and the fallen Citadel Lord's body.

  Aluras'bektsh'tar's face turns so ugly from her rage that is almost impossible to recognize it as being the face of an Alfar.

  “Are you going to back your friend?”

  Elan'fer'sha looks at me for a moment. “I am going to kill her. Defend me, while I cast my spell!”

  At my gesture, with the exception of the Throd'nahk, the guards and gladiators for a defensive line in front of us. The Throd'nahk deliberately stands next o Elan'fer'sha, almost as though he is trying to stake his territorial rights. After watching their actions, Elan'fer'sha stares at me for a few moments. Her gaze seems to be appraising me, as though I have suddenly become something she does not recognize.

  Deliberately turning away from me, Elan'fer'sha begins to weave a spell pattern. I do not remember exactly what the spell she used in Castle Vardne'tar looked like, but I clearly remember large sections of it. This one is similar to that one, but there are some definitive differences.

  The battle in the center of the auditorium is spreading, as the wings of the defenders are being eroded by the rebel forces following the SvartAlfar. Seeing the spell pattern being woven by Elan'fer'sha, the SvartAlfar's eyes widen slightly, and he steps out of the battle line with the Citadel Lord's defenders. Quickly slipping through the mass of his own forces, he engages the thinning defenders on the wing closest to our group.

  There are no signs of Umbral Power in The SvartAlfar's pattern, but he seems to know enough about Umbral Power or Umbral casting to be aware of the threat in Elan'fer'sha's spell.

  The SvartAlfar does not hold back in the least, revealing his strength as Coalescent being. With him adding his skill and Power to the attack on the Citadel Lord's defenders' flank, they quickly begin to fall apart. As the rebels force their way through, the SvartAlfar orders most of them to keep the Citadel Lord's forces tied up, while he advances on my group.

  My heart is steel. My soul is the forge. My thoughts are life to my blade. Even though I activate the dancing weapons spell on my short-swords, I keep them in their sheaths and draw my bastard swords. As much as I love the axe, the SvartAlfar is too fast, and I am still to match his speed if I use it.

  “Keep the trash off Elan'fer'sha. I'm going after that SvartAlfar.”

  As I move down toward the SvartAlfar, my feet barely touch the stone benches of the auditorium seating.

  “Kill the Wytch! Brand is mine!”

  The SvartAlfar's movements are smother and faster than my own. He is using a mana based ability that allows him to run on the air, his feet always a few inches off the ground. As he charges toward me, the area dims and shadows close in around him. His inky black skin and soot black armor seem to blend into the lack of light. There is something strange about those shadows, making even his pattern nearly impossible to see within them. If it were darker, he might become impossible to detect.

  Behind the SvartAlfar the cultist forces are splitting into two wings, so they can move past without interfering in our imminent battle. They outnumber the Blood Rose gladiators and guards three to one, but they lack the aura of strength and competence that the Blood Rose defenders have.

  The SvartAlfar is using a pair of swords that are too long to be short-swords and too short to be long swords. The blades are about thirty inches long, with a width of almost three inches at the hilt that tapers along a perfectly straight edge to a needle point. Their shape and probable balance would them almost useless for edge work, so they are almost strictly stabbing weapons. If I had not already seen the SvartAlfar's formidable fighting skills with them, I would think that the lack of blade length would make them awkward for fighting on a battlefield.

  As we come within striking range, our swords begin to clash violently. The SvartAlfar is faster, but I have an advantage in reach. For an Alfar, the SvartAlfar is decidedly short, barely an inch or so taller than myself. With the slightly more than forty inch long blades of my swords, my reach exceeds the SvartAlfar's by a solid six inches. It may not seem like much, but in a contest of almost pure point work, it borders on overbearing. The SvartAlfar's slight speed advantage is not enough to overcome it, and he ins continually forced to abort his attacks, as I parry and riposte with smooth motions.

  Despite his beanpole build, the SvartAlfar does not lose to me in strength and is probably a fair bit stronger. I do not know exactly how strong I am now, since I have had more important things to do than testing lifting ability, but I have easily lifted objects that should be more than seven hundred pounds, if I weighed them. In the Labyrinth of Yggr, even your common trash humans are usually twice the strength of your average Earthling.

  Dancing up and down on the uneven footing of the steps and benches, we circle one another, lunging and withdrawing. When the SvartAlfar jumps to move up several levels in a single move, my short-swords fly out of their sheathes, attacking his calves. Defying gravity and momentum, the SvartAlfar twists in midair and deflect my short-swords away, before finishing a complete somersault and landing on his feet.

  The smile on the SvartAlfar's face is a challenge, not an expression of pleasur
e. “You are a Smith. I was beginning to wonder if my information was in error.”

  “And you're an orc fucking backstabber. So, what's your point?”

  The smile disappears from the SvartAlfar's lips. “Pathetic human, I told you to understand your targets better. I am a Chosen of Kah Lee, Mistress of Murder.”

  We never stop attacking, even while talking. Our fight taking us farther and farther up the the stands, as the SvartAlfar keep springing back out of my reach to deal with my dancing swords.

  “Oh! So, sorry! You bend over while Kally shoves her fist up your ass! Got it!”

  The SvartAlfar stiffens momentarily, before wiping all expression from his face. I smile behind the visor of my helm and press my attack. The SvartAlfar stops retreating when my dancing swords strike and starts circling. We are done feeling each other out and are looking for the kill. With four blades against two, we are evenly matched.

  Below and to my right, the Blood Rose defenders are decimating their attackers. Kanchek and his guards formed the center of their line, and the gladiators had taken the wings without arguing. I had thought that the only thing really keeping the gladiators in check was their collars, but the fighting skills and ability of these seven DokkAlfar is several steps above the gladiators. Every one of them would easily be able to stand in a battle line with the elite among the DokkAlfar forces.

  Below, to the side of the stage, Aluras'bektsh'tar's legionnaires are still penned by the Citadel Lord's force, but with the Citadel Lord down, his defenders are wavering. It is just a matter of time before Aluras' legionnaires break through.

  As I remain caught in a stalemate with the SvartAlfar, Elan'fer'sha's spell pattern dissolves into a cloud of purple blotched black gas. It flows down the stands and into the battle line between the Citadel Lord's and Aluras'bektsh'tar's legionnaires. For a few moments, nothing appears to happen, but then Aluras'bektsh'tar's legionnaires begin to visibly slow and weaken. The Citadel Lord's troops rally and begin to press their attacks, striking down their enemies one after another.

  With a parting glare at Elan'fer'sha, Aluras'bektsh'tar spins on her toes and stalks down the tunnel behind her, as her forces scramble to make a path for her. The gas does not appear to be affecting Aluras'bektsh'tar or the Citadel Lord's forces in the least, but I cannot tell why.

  The SvartAlfar springs to the side, covering more than thirty feet in a single step.

  “Tens of thousands of pawns, and a single Wytch can turn the tide of a battle with a sing spell. But a single assassin with a single stroke of a knife can change the course or an Empire. Your life or death is irrelevant.” The SvartAlfar glides down the stands toward the rebels.

  “It that how a worm of Kally says I'm a loser?”

  I just watch the SvartAlfar disappear into the mass of cultist rebels. There are too many of them down there, and no matter how good I might be, I would be overwhelmed trying to bring him down with all of them attacking me.

  The end of the battle is anticlimactic, as the black gas weakens the forces rebelling against the Citadel Lord, and his troops cut them down like a field of wheat at harvest time. With the energy dome covering him, I cannot see the Citadel Lord's pattern. It is impossible to tell whether or not he really is alive, but in the end, I suppose it does not matter for us.

  I return to Elan'fer'sha's side and wait for her to terminate her spell. None of the Citadel Lord's guards attempt to approach us. For all the attention they pay us, we might as well not exist.

  Finally, Elan'fer'sha's spell ends, and she releases the Umbra. As she turns toward me, I catch her, when her legs give out, and she begins to collapse like a puppet with its strings cut. Picking her up, I turn toward the gate, with her unconscious body in my arms.

  “We're leaving.”

  Everyone from the Blood Rose Stable follows me through the gate, while some of the Citadel Lord's legionnaires and bodyguards watch. As soon as Kanchek, the last one through, is back in the ritual chamber, I close the gate.

  While Kanchek and the Throd'nahk disperse the gladiators and guards, I retrieve some blanket from one of my storage devices to make a bed for Elan'fer'sha. It seems to be convenient that I never did get around to disposing of all the trash loot that I accumulated from the Thug Horde massacre.

  After I have Elan'fer'sha safely ensconced in her makeshift bed in one corner of the ritual chamber, Kanchek, the Throd'nahk, and Tyrend are the only ones left in the room with us. The Throd'nahk's worry is obvious in his face and posture, but Kanchek and Tyrend seem more curious and confused than worried.

  “What is wrong with the Mistress?” Kanchek does not seem like the type to equivocate, and he does not surprise me getting right to the point.

  “Umbral corruption.”

  Kanchek nods fractionally, more to himself than anything. Tyrend stares blankly at me, but the Throd'nahk appears to be close to becoming distraught. Being DokkAlfar, it is not surprising that Kanchek would have some awareness of the meaning of the term. The Throd'nahk seems to have spent enough time in Gor'achen Citadel to know it is not good, but for Tyrend, there is no reason to expect him to understand. Outside of the DokkAlfar, Umbra users are extremely uncommon, and more often than not normal people would have no real knowledge about the side effects of the Umbra.

  “What do you plan to do?”

  I shrug. “Hole up here, until the Smith gets back. After that, it will depend on what's happening. Once the Smith is back, if you or anyone else decides that they want out of here, I'll open a gate to someplace suitable. I can't open gates anywhere and everywhere, but I can do it in a lot locations in the Battleground of the Damned and the Lands of Despair.”

  Kanchek nod in acknowledgment and leaves.

  “Will the Mistress be okay?” The Throd'nahk's eyes are locked on Elan'fer'sha's recumbent form.

  “Do you understand what Umbral corruption is?”

  The Throd'nahk turns a challenging glare on me. “No.”

  I look at Elan'fer'sha. “The Umbra is inimical to life. Over time, it twists and destroys the patterns of living things. Even Transcendent beings can be damaged or killed if they use too much of it. Elan has used far too much for far too long.”

  “How long until she recovers?”

  Rage and anger flare up in me, and I turn to glare at the Throd'nahk. “There's no fucking recovery. She's dying and what she did today chipped away at what time she has left. Get the fuck out of here, so she can at least rest in peace.”

  I do not know why I am so angry, but I am ready to break the Throd'nahk and throw him out of Thrall's territory. He seems to sense how close I am to fucking his world and makes the wise choice, he leaves.

  “You've changed.”

  I look at Tyrend. “What do you mean?”

  Tyrend scratches his jaw, while not looking quite straight at me. “The Brand I saw that first day you arrived wouldn't care if the Mistress lived or died. He was death looking for something to land into. You're still death looking for something to kill, but the Mistress matters to you, now.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  I do not think I have changed, but maybe, he is right. I can only see myself from a subjective perspective. Even with all the Power I have at my disposal, I cannot separate my consciousness from itself and evaluate myself from a completely detached point of view. Those who claim to have an objective view of themselves are all morons and lying fucking hypocrites.

  “Go check on Mikumi, but don't let her leave. We're probably being watched from within the Third Layer.”

  Tyrend nods, with normal cocky grin in place. “Some padding to fill her out, and Mikumi would be a pretty good fuck.”

  “You have disgusting tastes in women's physiques.”

  Tyrend's laughter drifts back into the ritual chamber as he leaves.

  Elan'fer'sha sits up using the wall for a backrest. She has been awake since the mass of the gladiators and guards left the room.

  “Why did you tell them?”

  “D
epending on how the act, I'll have a better idea of how far I can use them without being stabbed in the back.”

  “You would be well suited for the Left Hand Order. You could rise high among them.”

  “Except for the dead, everyone I ever trusted has betrayed me.”

  Elan'fer'sha's smile is bitter. “There is no who will not betray you, if they find a reason to.”

  “Why did Aluras betray you? What was the point?”

  Elan'fer'sha closes her eyes. “Who else could she take vengeance on? My clan was the tool used to destroy her Line of Provenance and make it look like a LjosAlfar attack. It was masterminded by Sinla'aveyka'tar on the orders of the orders of Talchok'aveyka'tar.”

  “Did you learn who killed your clan?”

  Elan'fer'sha shakes her head, her chin falling to her chest. The air of despondency around her is so heavy it feels like I should be able to see it. If she were not what she is, I would expect her to cry.

  “PEOPLE OF GOR'ACHEN CITADEL I AM THRALL, SON OF RIG. YOU KNOW OF ME AS THE SMITH.” The booming voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, and it certainly sounds like Thrall.

  I quickly weave an activation spell for the mirror, with Thrall as my intended focal point. As soon as I bind it to the mirror the scene resolves to Thrall on a castle parapet, lit by the sanguine light of the dimension of the Life and Death Furnace. He looks at the focal point for a moment before continuing.

  “I HAVE COME TO AN ACCORD WITH YGGR, AND FROM THIS MOMENT ONWARD, THE GOR'ACHEN CITADEL BELONGS TO ME. IT IS NO LONGER PART OF THE ATRAN'LER EMPIRE.

  “THIS CITADEL WAS BUILT FOR WAR, AND IT WILL BE GOING INTO BATTLE WITH THE FORCES OF WODEN, WHO NOW CALLS HIMSELF THE NAMELESS GOD.”

  Elan'fer'sha climbs unsteadily to her feet and moves over to me. Leaning on my shoulder, she stares at Thrall's image in the mirror.

  “I WILL ALLOW THOSE WHO CHOSE TO LEAVE THIS CITADEL DISEMBARK TO THE OTHER CITADELS THAT ARE ARE HERE NOW. YOU HAVE A SINGLE TEN-DAY TO DECIDE AND DEPART, IF YOU CHOOSE TO DO SO.”

  A storm is coming, and there is going to be even more chaos in the Gor'achen Citadel. The rats and the vipers are going to be scrambling and backstabbing one another right and left in their struggle to grasp a little more status and power. I wonder how Thrall plans to handle it?