Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God (Path of Transcendence Book 2) (12 page)

Wrapping a fingernail with ki force, I slice open the ball of my thumb and dribble some blood on the blades of my swords.

“My heart is steel. My soul is the forge. My thoughts are life to my blade.”

After kissing the guard of each sword, it floats into the air to circle around me. The massive weight of the bastard swords makes them feel cumbersome compared with Perzey's short swords, but that weight still feels more natural to me.

“Dancing swords! You're actually a Master Smith!?” The Throd'nahk's demeanor is completely fractured and his face transforms into an expression of complete shock.

“Is this your doing Smith?” Elan'fer'sha's words are soft but accusatory.

Thrall chuckles. “Don't be insulting! If I had trained him, his control would be better.”

Despite my glare, the amusement never leaves Thrall's face. Arrogant fuck.

“How? He was trained in Tallifer for less than a hundred days.” Elan'fer'sha seems to be talking to herself more than Thrall.

“A true Maker is born not trained. It only takes a guide, and he will become what he was meant to be.” Thrall's words almost sound envious, but his face has become expressionless.

I do not know what the hell to make out of his comment. He is the man who melted down my collar, only using Power. Except for a Power wrought burin, without touching a single real tool, he reforged it into an item I cannot even attempt to duplicate.

Crack! Boom!

Stepping back, I launch my swords into the middle of the Throd'nahk's ball lightning. He must have thought he could get me, while I was distracted by Thrall and Elan'fer'sha. Too bad for him, I was still aware of every movement of his spear. If a Smith focuses his awareness on a weapon, he can follow every move that weapon make, whether he can react to those moves is a whole nother story.

Moving in accordance with my will, my swords streak towards the Throd'nahk. They are not as fast as Perzey's short swords were, but they still move as quickly as I could strike with them, while not moving in the Shadow of the Od. Splitting them up, I attack from underneath with one, while moving the other to attack from behind.

Between his lightning shield and his spear, the Throd'nahk manages to fend off both blades, but each time I attack, I change the angles of attack. The pressure of the swords dancing around him, while he never knows exactly where the attack will come from, is keeping him from launching any more lightning balls at me. The angles I am shifting my attacks to are slowly forcing him to move closer to the ground.

The drain on my mana to keep my heavy bastard swords in the air is not small, but it has to be much smaller than the price the Throd'nahk is paying to keep flying and using his lightning shield.

The Throd'nahk misses a block, as I catch him with attacks from behind with both blades at once. One sword hits him in the shoulder knocking him out of position. He blocks the next two attack, before I hit him again, and two of the next three attacks get through, while his is still off-balance.

Sweat is streaming off my body. Despite not moving an inch, I have put out more effort in the past twenty-odd seconds, than I would in five minutes of physical fighting. If I use my mana more, it should get easier. I need to practice with the techniques I learned from Smithing. Without having a better endurance while using mana, despite the effectiveness, this will be useless to me in anything other than a one on one duel.

As more attacks get past his defenses, the Throd'nahk snarls in frustration and dives toward me. His spear is writhing with thick ropes of blue lighting, as he stabs towards me.

I do not have time to recover my swords, and sheathe my fist in pure kinetic force, with my ki. As I slip past the point of the spear, the lighting arcs into me, causing my muscles to seize up momentarily. My fist misses the Throd'nahk's face, but I still hit his chest at an angle.

Crack.

Something breaks inside the Throd'nahk, probably a rib or two, as he careens off to the side. Out of control, he tumbles across the floor, lighting arcing and grounding into the stone.

Grinning like a hungry wolf, I launch myself at him, before he can recover.

“Enough!” Thrall's voices booms inside the training hall.

I watch the Throd'nahk, not trusting that he will stop, but he rises to his feet and releases his lightning.

Brad is strong! Perzey knows Brand will never lose!
Why am I hearing things again? Is it because of the strain of overusing my mana?

“Is he ready, Mahkah?” Elan'fer'sha's question is softly voiced, but still caries in the silence.

The Throd'nahk stares at me, with a complicated expression I cannot decipher. “He can defeat the Ogre. As for the SvartAlfar, I don't know. I still don't understand that one's Power well enough, but whoever wins, it will not be an easy fight.”

Elan'fer'sha smiles, and her eyes are filled with pure avarice, as she looks at me. “In five days, you will fight in the arena.”

She turns her attention to the Throd'nahk. “Come, Mahkah. We have a match order to arrange.”

“Wait here!” Thrall follows Elan'fer'sha and the Throd'nahk out of the training hall.

Mahkah. Is that the Throd'nahk's name? Throd'nahk is nothing but a title, but I have never heard the slaves address him as anything else.

The Throd'nahk did not seem to be holding back at all. He was using a lot more Power than he displayed when he tested me in the beginning. It feels like that day was in the distant past, even though it has been less than two months.

I look at the practice swords, circling above my head. Now that I am not pushing them to reach the fastest possible speeds, there is almost no effort in keeping them airborne. This would not even qualify as practice. Every day, from now on, I am going to have to push myself to the limit with controlling dancing weapons. If I do not do something at least as strenuous as attacking the Throd'nahk, I will never build up proper strength and endurance in using mana.

Thrall returns and stares at me for a few moments. “You are natural Maker, being able to become a Smith, while possessing two Secrets proves it. Most beings can never become a Maker, if they cannot refine their nature to find a single Secret. Your Secrets can be frighteningly strong, but they are possessed of a double, edge as dangerous to you as your enemies. If you are not careful, what you Make will often have a hidden dark side to it. The more powerful your works; the stronger their curse will be.”

As always, I whispered my Secrets under my breath. Thrall's hearing is freakishly good.

“The Smith who trained me never said anything about some Secrets of Steel being stronger than others, or being dangerous to the Smith who wielded them.”

Thrall frowns. “The mortal Makers in the Labyrinth have very limited knowledge. Over the millennia, they have been repressed by the Jotuns and their DokkAlfar followers. Too many Makers die in the endless wars, before passing on the entirety of their knowledge. Book, scrolls and even entire libraries are put to the torch. The more that is destroyed and lost; the tighter those beings and organizations that still have the knowledge hold it. Even in a trade hub as massive a Tallifer, very little is commonly known, and many secrets are held.

“While you are here, I will guide you toward the deeper mysteries of Making, but I cannot train you. My way of training is not compatible with your potential and way of learning. A Maker like yourself always has to find his own way.

“Come with me!” Thrall walks toward the corner of the training hall with the massive jungle gym erected in it.

A stack of rolls of rice paper appears on the ground in front of Thrall. He must have taken it from within his spatial storage device, but I still cannot tell which item that is. With a bag, it is blatantly obvious, and with other types of spatial storage devices, there is usually some sort of visual clue as to what the item is. With Thrall, I have yet to see any telltale signs.

At Thrall's gesture, one of the rolls of rice paper floats into the air. One end of the roll ties itself to an upright pole. Then, the roll begins to weave its way through the jungle gym. As the roll of rice paper runs out, the other end again ties itself to an upright pole. The end result is a three dimensional maze of rice paper strung throughout the jungle gym.

“I was originally going to rely on your affinity for force and kinetic energy to try and initiate a psi breakout in some variant of kinetics. After watching you sparring, I changed my mind. You have a natural awareness that probably results from your latent psi. I am going to use your continuing training in Shadow Fist to force a breakthrough in spatial awareness. It is arguably the highest form of physical psi awareness, and it has some similarities to kinetic abilities.”

Thrall stares at me for a few moments, perhaps waiting to see if I have any questions. “A true master of Shadow Fist can walk across a still pond of water, without leaving any traces. He can move without being seen. He can pass through solid stone, as if it were air. At the absolute peak of mastery, should a true master of Shadow Fist choose to exercise his skill, only another chosen by the Od will be able to see, hear, or sense him. In the mazes I create in this array of poles and bars, you will learn to move without leaving a trace.”

I gesture toward the rice paper maze in the jungle gym. “So, how will this awaken that spatial awareness thing?”

A leather helmet that resembles a World War II aviator's helmet appears in the Thrall's hand. “This will block out all of your normal senses. Channeling mana into it will block sight and hearing. Channeling ki into it will block touch, taste, and smell. You will be in a sensory void, until you stop channeling or begin to use some type of psi-based awareness.”

Taking the helmet, I feel a strange attraction from it. It fells almost like a magnet or a vacuum that is trying to draw in my Power.

“Before you put that on, try to walk the first length of rice paper without affecting it.”

From where it is tied to the upright, the first stretch of the rice paper goes under a horizontal bar that is only a fraction of an inch off the ground to another one at the same height. It is almost flat on the ground, but there still a slight gap between the paper and the ground in the first and last quarter of its length.

Using ki to stabilize my weight an position in relation to the paper, I step onto it.

Rip!

My ki tore through the paper, as I expected. Shadow Fist is not based on ki, but I wanted to verify that the way I have used ki in the past would not work.

I try walking across the first length, while moving in the Shadow of the Od. Looking back, I see a tear where my feet touched the paper on each step.

A slight smirk sits on Thrall's lips. “Ki is manipulated through the body, and your physical senses are of the body. Psi is manipulated through the soul, and the Od is touched through the soul. If you become aware of the surface of the paper in your soul, walking in the Shadow of the Od will let you step on its shadow instead of its reality. Put the helmet on and use it!”

Thrall turns and walks out of the training hall. That bastard likes to drop a few comments or give a quasi-explanation and let you sink or swim.

I put the helmet on and channel my ki and mana into it. The world disappears around me.

It takes time to adjust to the loss my normal senses, how much I cannot even begin to guess, but eventually I begin to be dimly aware of the world around me. For my normal senses, the world is an empty void, but now, I can tell up from down. I can sense the solid mass of stone beneath, and the uprights and crossbars of the jungle gym are less substantial shadows in my mind. However, the rice paper may as well not exist.

Unlike sight which is restricted to an arc in the direction my eyes are facing, this awareness is a full 360° globe. When I have fully mastered it, spatial awareness will give me a huge advantage

Tyrend is sitting opposite me. Since that first day, he has been eating with me morning and night, which are the two meals I eat in the mess hall. At lunch, I eat in the training hall.

The slaves that were in the same holding pen as me, are wearing loincloths now, at lest the survivors are. There are only five of them left, and they all have some fresh scars to add to the ones they arrived with. I still do not know any of their names. They are nobodies, who are not worth my time.

Broken-shoulder is still alive and kneeling behind one of the homosexual gladiators, with his good hand grabbing the back of the gladiator's loincloth. Broken-shoulder cannot raise his right arm past his diaphragm anymore. Since he never had his day in the arena, his dick is still hanging out like mine. Broken-shoulder's buddies are even making jokes about him, like they do every day.

Sensing my eyes on him, Broken-shoulder turns his head to glare at me. His lips are a mass of scars, and his snarl reveals his missing teeth. The gladiators knocked out all of Broken-shoulder's teeth so he cannot bite down on their dicks, while he sucks them. His life has become a living hell.

“Gladiators, present yourselves!” The Throd'nahk's voice carries clearly into the mess hall. He must have some more new meat.