Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God (Path of Transcendence Book 2) (4 page)

The super speed boost almost catches me off-guard. Suddenly, Cletus reverses the swing of his flail, and pain flares in my right shoulder, as I duck my head and twist to only take the blow on that shoulder. The follow-up blow from the buckler slams into my crossed swords and lifts me off the ground.

As my left foot touches the ground, I move. Pushing my body to the limit, my single step carries me around and behind Cletus.

Pop! Pop!

In the fraction of second, it takes Cletus to find me, both of my swords slam into the side of his right knee. Before the pain has time to register, Cletus' leg starts to buckle under the force of his turn, and my fists hammer into his face, breaking his nose and jaw. As the impacts drive Cletus' body back in the opposite direction, my knee ruptures his testicles and shatters his pubic bone.

“Eeep!”

As Cletus crumples to the ground, feeling movement behind me, I spin around. The Throd'nahk, his body surrounded by blue ropes of electricity, is moving faster than Cletus' burst speed. His fist slams into the side of my bead, before I get my hand even halfway into position.

The ropes of electricity jump into my body, making it impossible for me to control my muscles, as I fly through the air. I am unconscious, before I ever hit the ground.

Like all of her compound, Elan'fer'sha's study had been carved out of the solid rock of a pocket dimension within Gor'achen Citadel. Rich wood paneling covered all the walls, so only the stone of the floor and ceiling were visible. The large window behind her desk looked out over her private arena, where her gladiatorial slaves trained. On the outside, spell sigils cloaked that window so that it was invisible to anyone within the arena.

Elan'fer'sha looked up from the report she was reading at the sound of a knock. Even though more than an eighth of the DokkAlfar race were active psi adepts, she was not and did not know who was outside her study. Since she was alone, Elan'fer'sha did not try to keep her irritation off her face.

“Who disturbs me?”

“Mistress, the Throd'nahk has requested an audience.” The voice belonged to Elan'fer'sha's butler, Keratin, another of her slaves.

Elan'fer'sha glanced out the window behind her, seeing the dark, empty arena, before she looked at the intricate clock on the credenza against the left-side wall. Seeing that the time was already after the eighth tenth, she frowned.

The DokkAlfar way of keeping time breaks time into base 10 divisions of the length of a Taereun day: tenth of a day, hundredth of a day, thousandth of day, etc. The absolute midpoint of the night is the beginning and ending of a day in DokkAlfar timekeeping. The DokkAlfar have an instinctive understanding of the difference between their base time and the current time based on the zone they are in. With the sometimes radical differences in the length of a day in some zones in the Labyrinth of Yggr, this is an invaluable ability for their race. The eighth tenth put the time well after sunset.

“Bring him to me.”

“As you command, Mistress.”

With her back to the door, Elan'fer'sha stared out the window at her darkened arena.
I was so caught up in the reports on the status of the Iron Slave Stable, that I did not notice the passage of time.

After a few minutes, there was another knock on the door. “Mistress, I have the Throd'nahk.”

“Send him in.”

The door opened and closed, but there was no sound of footsteps inside the room. The silence of the Throd'nahk's movements was not unusual, since he had been a hunter of men when Elan'fer'sha had captured him.

“Speak, Mahkah.”

Elan'fer'sha did not need to look to know that the Throd'nahk had dropped to one knee.

“Except for your special one, Brand, they are all trash. They will be useful for group battles and executing criminals at best.”

Elan'fer'sha frowned, even though the Throd'nahk could not see it, or perhaps because he could not see it.

“I expected no better. Tell me about Brand.”

There were several moments of silence, and when the Throd'nahk spoke, his voice was hesitant. “Is he really not a Transcendent, Mistress?”

Elan'fer'sha's frown deepened. “No, he is not.”

“Mistress, with his Power sealed by his collar, Brand destroyed Cletus, whose Power was unsealed. If I had not put Brand down, he probably would have killed Cletus.”

Elan'fer'sha spun her chair around to face the Throd'nahk. Unable to keep her hopes out of her demeanor, her face was a portrait of bloodthirsty hunger.

“What of his skills? Would he have a chance against the Iron Fist?”

The Throd'nahk's face betrayed his shock, as he stared blankly, seeming to not see the room in front of his face.

“I don't know. He went down with a single blow from me. Even with his Power sealed, the Iron Fist would never go down like that.” As his voice trailed off, the Throd'nahk again stared off into space.

“What are you thinking about, Mahkah?” Elan'fer'sha's voice held an odd note of intensity.

“Brand, his Power, what is it?”

“Ki. He is probably at what the humans call the Master level. He is also a Smith.”

“Brand is a Binary? A Binary. That makes things interesting.” Rubbing one of the scars on his chest, the Throd'nahk began to pace back and forth.

Elan'fer'sha did not say a word and only sat watching him. She had owned the Throd'nahk from first moment he was enslaved, and knew better than anyone his talent as a strategist and in the training of gladiators. Even though he was nothing but her property, she would give the Throd'nahk the time to properly work through the problem in his mind.

“His fighting style combined with the arts of a Smith may give him a chance. Even with his ki sealed, he was able to move his body in ways that it should not have been able to move. It must be a ki-based art, and with his ki at full strength, he will be more formidable. Normal ki adepts use their ki to enhance their weapons as well as their bodies and skills. As a smith, Brand will not need to use his ki in such a way, and have more ki to use for other things.”

The Throd'nahk stopped pacing and stared at his Mistress. “I cannot guarantee that Brand can win, but he will have a better chance than any other Gladiator in this stable. Cletus would not even be the Gor'achen Champion, if you did not keep him out of the bouts against the Eternal War and Fiend stables.”

Elan'fer'sha frowned. “If Cletus spent less time putting his dick in men's assholes and more time preparing himself, I would not need to.”

The Throd'nahk snorted. “His dick may never work right again according to the healer.”

Elan'fer'sha's smile was malicious. “Cletus no longer matters. If he does not show improvement, use him for menial labor in the pens.

“Get Brand ready for the arena, as quickly as possible. Do whatever you need to, to make him the equal of the SvartAlfar and the Ogre.”

The Throd'nahk dropped to one knee again.

“Yes, Mistress.”

Passing over the vast oceans of Tallifer, the Great Citadel of Gor'achen was a silent specter in the night sky. With the moon below the horizon, the only sign of the citadel from the waters below was the shadow it created as it blocked the light of the stars.

In the middle of the First Layer, the upper level of the citadel, the Temple of Yggr stood on one side of the Central Plaza of Gor'achen, with the Rulers Keep opposite it. Built in a baroque architectural style, tall towers rose from each corner of the temple, and a massive set of double doors with four guards from the Central Fane Guard gave access to the temple's nave.

The nave of the Temple of Yggr was empty. Softly flickering candlelight illuminated the gallows and spear behind the altar. The large rusty brown stain on the floor below the gallows and the miasma of coppery blood filling the air gave testament to the countless victims sacrificed to Yggr over the tens of millennia of that temple's existence.

Kra'cha'len stopped near the center of the nave and stared at the frescoes on the walls. Three of the ones that had always had the most impact on him were situated one next to the other:
The Destruction of Dragons
,
The Exile of Woden
, and
The Defeat of Boran
. The accounts of all three deeds were contained within
The Fifteenth Book of Yggr
and had taken place during the Jotun-Dragon War. In each of the frescoes, Yggr was pictured as a domineering tyrant.

Tyranny is the greatest aspect of Yggr, and though the worship of Yggr as its patron God, tyranny has become the unwritten law of the Atran'ler Empire. The Empire was founded and still ruled by the Atran'ler clan, with the current Emperor being the eleventh to sit on the throne.

Even though Yggr was the patron God of the Atran'ler Empire, he was not the only Jotun Lord worshiped by the Empire's citizens. Many other Jotun Lords and Jotun Champions were revered by the many clans and commoners of the Empire. For more than forty millennia, the Atran'ler Empire had dominated the Battleground of Slaves. Constant struggles for dominance among the clans and the factions of the Jotun Church kept the Empire strong.

Sighing to himself, Kra'cha'len turned from the frescoes and advanced to the open space before the altar. Dropping to one knee, he pressed he forehead to the stone floor fronting the altar.

“I submit to the Great God's dominance.”

After banging his forehead on the ground three times, Kra'cha'len stood and walked to a door in the left-side wall near the altar. Locked to anyone not attuned to it by magic, the door opened at his touch, and he entered the dimly lit corridor beyond.

In the ceiling of this corridor, the light crystals gave off a dim white light, reminiscent of light reflected from the surface of many airless moons. The tables with small artworks scattered along the passage were cast into stark relief against their shadows on the walls and floor below them.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The hard souls of Kra'cha'len's boots echoed softly, as he followed the corridor to its end and ascended the switchback stairs to the floor above the nave. A pair guards stood flanking this corridor, but they did not react to Kra'cha'len's passage. Only the Priests of the Central Fane of Yggr could enter the corridor from below, without triggering the alarm spells woven into the fabric of the stones making up its floor and walls.

Opposite the stairs by which Kra'cha'len ascended, another set of stairs ascended, but it did not provide an exit into the nave. Rather those stairs led to the offices of the Priest-Scribes whose job it was to maintain the records of the Central Fane of Yggr. Another pair of guards stood watch on that corridor, but like the other pair, they did not react to Kra'cha'len's presence.

To Kra'cha'len's right, the corridor gave access to the private office of the Priest-Lord of Gor'achen Citadel. At the end of the corridor, on Kra'cha'len's left, a door led to the offices of the Church's other ranking officials. Twelve guards were stationed along the length of this corridor in pairs, so that under the worst possible circumstances, it would be more difficult for all of them to be eliminated without giving voice to some kind of warning.

Turning to his right, Kra'cha'len followed the corridor to the front of the building, where the door was flanked by two guards. With him being dressed in the robes of a Priest-Wizard, the guards did not impede Kra'cha'len's passage. Inside the room, another pair of guards flanked the door in the opposite wall, and a Priest-Scribe that served as the Priest-Lord's secretary was seated behind a desk to the side.

Looking at Kra'cha'len, the Priest-Scribe bowed from his seated position. “The Priest-Lord is awaiting you arrival, Priest-Wizard. Go right in.”

Without acknowledging the secretary, Kra'cha'len advanced to the doors, which were opened by the guards.

Until the doors were closed behind Kra'cha'len, neither of the DokkAlfar in the office spoke, and Kra'cha'len was the first to break the silence. Dropping to one knee, he bowed to the Lord-Priest with his forehead touching the floor.

“Priest-Wizard Kra'cha'len reports as commanded, Your Eminence!” Despite his position, Kra'cha'len's voice held resolute pride.

“Rise, Kra. You do not need to stand on ceremony with me like this when we are alone. You are no longer the child I chose form the orphan barracks.” The Priest-Lord's voice was soft, but an aura of authority infused its very timbre.

Kra'cha'len grimaced slightly but schooled his face to banality, before rising to his feet. He hated being reminded of the fact that his Provenance was meaningless. The only survivor of a LjosAlfar raid, with his clan destroyed, Kra'cha'len had been placed in an Orphan Barracks. His enormous potential as a Medium having been noticed in passing by a Priest, Kra'cha'len was taken from the barracks on the direct orders of then Priest-Wizard Stegnar'shen'fal.

Putting a false smile on his lips, Kra'cha'len nodded to the Priest-Lord. “Everything was carried out without incident, Your Eminence. Jinmu is en route to the Tren'fon Array. The animal called Brand has been given to the Wytch Elan'fer'sha for her stable.”