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

by Brian McGoldrick

  “You try to do something to my dick, and I'll show you what the meaning of 'exquisite pain' really is. I can guarantee you that I tolerate pain far better than you do.”

  Elan'fer'sha releases her hold on my dick, wrapping that arm around my neck. Pain and lust fill her eyes, and her voice is husky. “Fuck me! Fuck me, right now! Make me scream!”

  “Enough with your mating rituals. I still have business with you.” Smith's voice is cold, annoyance reverberating in his tone.

  Anger replacing lust, Elan'fer'sha looks over my shoulder at Smith. “We have an arrangement. What still needs to be discussed?”

  She is as twisted as Smith said she would be, but her warped nature arouses me even more than Perzey's insanity driven lust. After suffering the pain of Umbral spell and the agony of the Od driving it out of me, I want to make her suffer, when I fuck her.

  Releasing Elan'fer'sha, I turn towards Smith.

  “Tomorrow, I will have you brought to me. I will teach you how to hide your Power. Today, I will give you a present.”

  At a gesture from Smith, a forge-sized field of fire appears in midair. Each tongue of yellow flame has a blue-white core, and the base of the field is the same blue-white color. Standing more than thirty feet from the fire, I can feel its heat. I cannot repress a shiver, as the heat of that intense fire chills me.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Elan'fer'sha's narrowed eyes watching me. Her face has become an ivory mask, revealing nothing of the thoughts underneath, but her skin is still flushed and her breathing heavy.

  The shards of my collar, which were orbiting in front of Smith, float into the heart of the fire. Still spinning, the black metal swiftly turns into a deep violet slag. The red inlays turn into a glowing red slag. Once all the metal is molten, Smith keeps it spinning, increasing the rotational speed. The molten red metal slowly passes through the violet one, until there are two separate bands of metal in the flames. The outer red band is barely more than a thin wire and the inner violet one is a thick cable.

  Smith looks at me for a moment, and a silver-grey circle appears in the air between him and the fire. He gestures, and the violet metal condenses into a ball and flows into the silver-grey circle. As Smith carefully observes, the violet metal darkens until is nearly black again. Its shape is the same as the collar that the fragments came from.

  Materializing a silver-grey burin in his hand, Smith etches sigils into the still soft metal. After inspecting his work, he once again gestures, and the molten red metal flows into the newly etched sigils.

  Inspecting the collar yet another time, Smith sets it spinning in the air over his open hand. A cloud forms in the palm of his hand, before floating up to engulf the newly made collar.

  Hisssss!

  The cloud evaporates, revealing a dull black collar with red sigils inlaid in it.

  Smith makes a go away motion towards the fire, and it disappears, leaving behind only a heat shimmer in the air.

  Without tracing or chanting, Smith builds a pattern in the air. The silvery lines and arcs appear one after the next, as he stands motionless. The complexity of this pattern quickly dwarfs even something like the pattern contained in the party charms and continues to increase. The final stage is about the size of a softball and so dense that it appears almost solid. Smith carefully inspects his work as it slowly turns in front of his face.

  Seemingly satisfied, Smith points at the collar, and the pattern streaks into the collar while condensing. As the pattern disappears into the surface of the collar, the collar shines brightly for a few seconds.

  Smith garbs the floating collar and negligently tosses it to me. “This will give the appearance of being a fully functional slave collar, but will actually have no effect at all. Be careful not reveal your ability to use Power, before you master the techniques to hide it.”

  “So this is the present?”

  Smith smirks. “Did you expect something else?”

  I lock the collar around my own throat, and the runes glow with their telltale crimson light. What choice do I have? I cannot even begin to guess at the gap between Smith's Power and my own. I do not fear him, but I cannot conceive of any possible way to beat that man.

  Drawing on my ki, I do not feel any difference. There is no pain or hindrance to my using my Power. Mana proves to be the same. Smith does not seem to have lied about the collar.

  “I will take these things.” Smith gestures toward the altar, and all of my equipment on the floor around it floats toward Smith, only to disappear within a foot or so of his body. His belt must be a dimensional storage device. I suppose it could be the kilt or one of the sandals, but that would make it the strangest “something of holding” I have ever seen.

  Without another word, Smith turns around and walks toward the closed doors. He does not slow or pause and passes through the doors as though they are not even there. What the hell is that man?

  Elan'fer'sha caress the scars on my face. “Give me pain and pleasure.”

  Thrall, Son of Rig

  *** Gor'achen Citadel (Over Tallifer) - Battleground of the Damned ***

  Return: Day 141

  It is my second morning in the mess hall for the gladiatorial slaves. With everything that has happened, it feels like I have been here far longer than two days. The food is still trying to compete with hospital food, but as hungry as I am, I devour far more than yesterday.

  The other slaves are in their same general cliques, except that the one with the broken shoulder is in the middle of the homosexual rape group. His friends or relatives, whatever they may be, are completely ignoring the desperate looks he keeps throwing in their direction. This the Atran'ler Empire, where even more than in the Battleground of Slaves only strength and Power matter. As he is, Broken-Shoulder is a liability to his former compatriots.

  The gladiator who made an example out of the second slave during the welcoming party saunters over to my table. He is a little shorter than I am, maybe about 5'10”, and has a lean wiry build. Even if he is wiry, it does not mean he is weak. Every single muscle on his body is developed with perfect symmetry to the whole, and his every move screams of explosive speed and power. He was just playing around on the first day and danced rings around the newbie slave. His dark hair and swarthy skin resemble the Hispanics of Earth and offset his aquamarine eyes.

  As he sits down opposite me, the gladiator's grin is pure egotistical arrogance. “You're not exactly the friendly sort are you? Two whole days and you haven't said a word to any of us, except for the Throd'nahk.”

  The Gladiator calmly meets my gaze, as I stare at him. There is no sign of overt hostility, but there is no give in him either.

  “I don't play well with others.”

  The man snickers, as a smirk turn the corners of his lips upwards. “We're in the slave pits of Gor'achen. No one plays well with others here. I'm Tyrend.”

  “Brand.”

  Tyrend glances over his shoulder as the table where broken-shoulder is surrounded. “Those things grew up in the slave pits. They've never known life without a collar. The Masters keep the males and the females separate, except when they're breeding them.”

  Tyrend's words draw out some of the remaining fragments of Talon's memories. They are nothing more than flashes of brutality, beatings, and abuse. In the slave pits, the slaves have their own hierarchies. Just like their Masters, the strong step on and oppress the weak.

  “You don't act like a man who’s worn a collar for long. How did you wind up in our lovely little home of carnage and glory?” Tyrend's sardonic grin seems more directed inward than towards me.

  “Trusting the wrong man.”

  “Ha! I'm here for believing in the wrong woman. Our king died and his daughter led us into a disastrous war after taking the throne. At least, I survived. Too many of my brothers didn't.” His gaze seems to turn inward, as Tyrend remembers his past.

  A DokkAlfar guard enters the mess hall and comes straight to my table.

  “Bran
d, come with me.”

  Tyrend glances from the guard to me, his smirk firmly back in place. “Twice in two days. You must have really pleased the Mistress.”

  “Something like that.”

  The DokkAlfar guard leads me through the gate at the stairs leading up to Elan'fer'sha's part of the compound, but instead of going up the stairs, he takes me down the corridor next to them. There are a number of rooms with closed doors, and with the exception of a path down the middle, a thick layer of dust covers the floor. It seems like this part of the compound has been mostly unused for a very long time.

  Turning a corner, the guard leads me away from the direction of the arena. This corridor has more rooms with closed doors along it, and at the end, a doorless room is lit by flickering orange-yellow light can be seen.

  As I pass through the archway, I find myself in one corner of a large rectangular room, around a hundred feet by fifty feet. There are three other exits from the room: one in the same wall as the hall I entered from, two on the wall opposite this one, and one in the far shorter wall. All of the other exits have close doors, blocking any view of what lies beyond.

  Unlike the corridor leading to it, this room is spotlessly clean and well ordered. Meticulously laid out around the room are a smelter, a work area for Smithing, and a jeweler's work area with a lapidary's workbench. The smelter, forge, and small jeweler's furnace have hoods and flues that disappear into the stone of the ceiling.

  “Smith, I've brought the slave Brand!” The DokkAlfar guard's mellifluous voice rings out in the DokkAlfar tongue.

  Every time I hear a male DokkAlfar, or any Alfar male really, speaking, it is somewhat jarring. I know how arrogant, overbearing, derisive, and vicious the Alfar races are toward anything not Alfar, and Dragon or Jotun depending on which Alfar race they are from. Hearing such pleasant voices come out of their hatred-fueled mouths, I feel like I have just heard a shark singing a lullaby.

  Catty-corner from where we entered, the door opens and Smith enters the room. He closes the door, before turning his attention to us, and his eyes settle on the DokkAlfar guard, with a flat, cold stare.

  “You are dismissed.”

  The DokkAlfar's fear is obvious in his demeanor. Without saying another word, he turns and stalks out of the room. His manner says that he is trying to pretend that he is acting entirely of his own accord, but the shifting of his eyes belies that attempt.

  Smith does not acknowledge me and begins to draw a spell pattern in the air. The glowing lines of his pattern have the same yellowish-brown color as the Dvergar Transcendent I encountered in the Swamp of the Lost, but Smith's casting is nowhere near the speed of that Dvergar. Being able to clearly see the spell pattern, I can see nothing delicate or subtle about it. Its thick broad lines display the implacable strength and overbearing nature of the Power.

  Even though the Power in the spell pattern is palpable, Smith still gives of no sense of Power. If I had not witnessed him use Power, I would swear that he was a mundane.

  As Smith finishes his drawing the pattern, he snaps fingers and a wall of rock rises from the floor, sealing of the passage I entered through.

  “What kind of spell did you just use?”

  Smith looks at me. It feels like his eyes are probing for something deep within me, but I do not know what it is. After a few moments, his eyes narrow, and I am certain he is judging whatever he sought.

  “Follow me!” Smith walks toward the door he entered the room by.

  A short hall leads to another door, and beyond that door, I find a ritual chamber. Like Elan'fer'sha's ritual chamber, this one has a pattern inlaid into the floor, and also like Elan'fer'sha's, I cannot decipher the nature of this pattern either. However, unlike Elan'fer'sha's chamber, there is no altar in this one.

  A stand in the middle of the room supports a frame made of silvery metal. The frame is oval like the frames of those long mirrors you find mounted on standalone bases, but there is no glass inside of it. I can see straight through it to the opposite wall of the room.

  Smith gestures, and a pattern appears in the air in front of him. The speed of his casting is still slower than that greybeard Dvergar, but I have never seen anyone else weave a spell pattern as quickly. Unlike the other spell, this pattern is made from a silver-grey energy. Yesterday, I was too distracted by Elan'fer'sha and the pain that filled my body to carefully analyze the Power Smith used to reforge my collar, but this Power seems to have the same feel as some of it.

  As Smith snaps his fingers, the spell pattern streaks to the center of the silvery frame and expands to fill it. The shimmering silver-grey field of energy blocks my view of the wall behind it, and a subsonic hum seems to fill the room. After maybe ten or fifteen seconds, an image begins to replace the silver-grey energy inside the frame.

  The image resolves to an underground room and a figure that I am already familiar with.

  “Boran.” It is not a greeting, rather more of an acknowledgment of his identity.

  “Talon.” Boran's deep voice sounds as though he is standing in the room with me.

  “Talon's dead. You can call me Brand.”

  Boran stares at me without responding for a few moments. He has never revealed the depths of his knowledge and Power. Still, I know he is old, and his Power and knowledge are possibly greater than anyone else I have met. This includes the self-proclaimed Nameless God.

  The corners of Boran's lips turn fractionally upward, in a shadow of a smile. “True, Talon is dead, and Brand is not your given name or your NAME. Hiding your old name will be effective over time but be wary, if you try excise it. You will damage your patterns and your Power, and become weaker overall.”

  Boran's way of saying NAME hurts my head. I do not know what he does or how he does it, but the way he can say words includes meanings that can affect the world around him. He has never confirmed it, but I think that he could kill with words alone, if they were the right words.

  “You are the only one to survive the death of their possessed body. That was my doing.”

  Somehow, his words do not surprise me. Since waking up in the hospital, I have wondered why I am the only survivor. His intervention at least provides a reason.

  “Why?”

  “You are chosen by the Od, and I have a use for you. The Nameless and the Jotun Lords are playing with things they should not be. If do what I need done, you will compensated with knowledge and resources that will help you increase your Power.”

  I stare at Boran. He is completely opaque to me. I cannot even guess at how his mind works, or what motivates him. During the search for Haven, Thorrin would sometimes make odd references about the Dvergar and their history, but from what he said about the real Thorrin's history, I do not think he really knew all that much about the secrets of the Dvergar.

  “Does my being here have anything to do with your manipulations?”

  Despite not being able to read Boran, I have the feeling that his expression is showing a bit of sadness. “I would not manipulate events to send someone who is not my enemy into slavery. I asked Thrall to keep watch over you, but I did not arrange for your enslavement.”

  Thrall? In the Slave Tongue, just like in English and in at least a couple other Earth languages, thrall is a word that basically means slave. I assume that it is the name of the Smith.

  “Who is Thrall?”

  Boran's eyes turn toward Smith. “You have not told him your name?”

  Smith speaks in a language I do not know, saying what seems to be a hundred-forty or so words to Boran.

  “Thrall, tell Brand what you told me.”

  Smith, or I suppose I should call him Thrall, nods. “I am Thrall, Son of Rig. I am a triune, and I have been monitoring your thoughts.”

  I put up my hand. “Hold it. What the fuck is a Triune, and what the fuck do you mean by monitoring my thoughts?”

  Thrall half-smiles and half-frowns. “The culmination of a Trinary. It is what you could one day become. A Triune has merged
the aspects of the Trinity within himself back into a single Power, one that is more powerful than any three could ever be unmerged.

  “In the beginning, when you were brought here unconscious, yes. I used my Power to learn your history, your world's history, your language, and to get as much information as you possessed about The Nameless. Since you are so afraid of trusting anyone or anything, I thought it might be easier to reach you, if you talked to Boran first.”

  I look at Boran. “Was that language he used with you Dvergar?”

  Boran nods. “It is called Battle Cant, and it is the native language of we Dvergar.”

  “Your native language is called Battle Cant?”

  One thing I remember from what Thorrin told me is that the Dvergar only teach their language to those they truly trust. Does that mean that Boran trusts Thrall? What is their relationship?

  “The Dvergar race was created by the Dragons. The Dragons were not these little wyrms that call themselves Dragons now. The little wyrms were nothing but pets for the true Dragons. The first Dragons were born of the womb of Life herself, and their father was Death. They believed that all existence was theirs for the conquering and created many slave races to serve as soldiers and administrators. The Dvergar were one of those races. We were created to be soldiers, and the Dragons gave us Battle Cant as our language.” Boran pauses, looking at me.

  I do not know why, but I believe that Boran is telling me the truth. It bothers me that I am believing him so easily. I cannot afford to believe him. I especially cannot afford to trust him. Did I learn nothing from what happened with Jinmu? Does he know what I am thinking and feeling? Is this bastard Smith next to me telling him everything?

  “I cannot use my psi to bridge the dimensional gap between us and Boran.”

  I stare at Thrall. My bloodlust is too strong, and I am sure I cannot keep it off my face. That fuck can poke around in my mind, and I do not feel a thing. I cannot even sense, when he is using his Power.