Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God (Path of Transcendence Book 2) (14 page)

“Where's my armor?” Graham's voice projects his confusion.

The Throd'nahk grins nastily at him. “You fight your first battle naked in this stable. If you live, you get to cover your dick and wear armor in the arena.”

As the Throd'nahk hands out the last of the weapons and armor I am still unarmed. I look around at the other gladiators. A number of those weapons and armor are lesser Items of Power. They were given to the gladiators that they were already bound to. The variety of styles in their gear spans a huge swath of the polities in the Battleground, including styles that I do not recognize.

The homosexual gladiators are only wearing codpieces shaped in the form of oversized erect dicks and balls. Also, they seem to be extremely cheerful, considering that they are about to face a life and death competition.

“They are not part of the real battle. They're just part of the entertainment, before the real matches start.” Tyrend's voice sounds like he is ready to burst out laughing.

“Entertainment?”

“I'm not saying. I want to see your expressions, when you see it for the first time.”

I feel Thrall's massive presence behind me, but I do not turn around. “You said there was no training today. So, what do you want?”

Graham's jaw hangs slightly open, as he rapidly looks around. He must be expecting more assholes to be popping out of thin air.

“Don't you want your swords?” A harness with two swords hanging from it appears in his hand.

I turn around and take my weapons.

With my spatial awareness, I can sense the faces of most of the gladiators that are turned in my direction. Apparently, Thrall is more interesting to the gladiators that I would have ever expected.

“Gladiators, follow!” The Throd'nahk does not wait to see if we obey or not. He turns and strides directly towards the gate opposite our facilities.

There are enough DokkAlfar guards in the arena to police any stragglers, but none of the gladiators seem to be dallying. Now that they are armed and armored, there is an air of excitement and energy about them.

Inside the opposite tunnels, the Throd'nahk leads us through a half-dozen corridors, before exiting into a corridor at least a hundred and fifty feet wide. There are two more gates besides our own that should be entries into the arena complex.

Six DokkAlfar guards are stationed in pairs next to the gates. Unlike the guards watching over us in the barracks, they are dressed in the oily black chain worn by DokkAlfar legionnaires and carrying polearms. Their bearing gives me the impression they are real soldiers and not bully-boys like our guards.

Its reins held by a DokkAlfar guard, a hippogryph minces nervously, while staring hostilely at our group. The hippogryph's wings have been amputated, so the mutilated beast will never take to the skies again.

After a few minutes, Elan'fer'sha exits from the smaller of the other two entries. The butler, Keratin, is following at her heels, with his white-knuckled hands clasping a belt pouch situated in front of his balls.

As usual, Elan'fer'sha is wearing the leathers that leave her small tits and pierced cunt hanging out for everyone to see. Even with the Umbral tattoos, her beauty is enough to cause my heart to stutter on seeing her. Of all the Alfar I have seen, she is near the peak, but I am beginning to understand that her beauty is hiding a soul-deep emptiness.

As Elan'fer'sha settles herself in the hippogryph's saddle, her eyes come to rest upon me. A dark mix of emotions seems to flicker momentarily over her face, before a slight hungry smile touches her lips. Then, her gaze move to the lump of muscle behind me.

“Smith, are you actually going to attend the games?” Her surprise infuses the tone of her voice.

A grim smile settles on Thrall's lips. “It has been too long since I last showed myself. Your DokkAlfar brethren have begun to forget that I am here.”

A touch of fear settles into Elan'fer'sha's eyes, but she does not say anything more. Turning her hippogryph, she heads toward the other end of the corridor.

“Gladiators, move out!” The Throd'nahk's voice echoes in the corridor. The sound filled with fierce pride.

Cheering and yelling war cries, the gladiators step out proudly, every one of them strutting like a peacock.

“It's a fucking parade.”

Tyrend's laugh is somewhere between humorous and morbid. “Everything is part of the entertainment. It's all a big spectacle. On game days, many of the businesses owned by second class citizens and non-citizens will shut down early. Sometimes there are riots surrounding the games, but they are always contained to the Third and Fourth layers.”

“What do you mean by third and fourth layers?”

“Gor'achen is divided into four main levels, five if you want to include the Slave Pens. The Top or First Layer is where the High Clans live. It's the only layer on the surface of the citadel. The Second Layer has the Lower Clans and the wealthy second class citizens. The Third Layer is a mix of second class citizens, wealthier non-citizens, and crime syndicates. The Great Arena is at the center of the Third Layer. That's where we'll be fighting today. The Fourth Layer is the poor and more criminals. The Slave Pens are on the Fifth Layer, along with military barracks. That place is hell.” Tyrend shudders slightly, when he mentions the Slave Pens.

“You've been in the Slave Pens?” Graham's voice has an odd note in it.

“When I was first captured, they threw me into the pens. I'm not huge and imposing like most gladiators, so they thought I was weak. After I killed a few bull orcs with my bare hands, the Slave Keepers noticed me. It was less than a day, before I was up on the blocks as a gladiatorial slave. The Mistress bought me, and I've been in the Blood Rose Stable ever since.” Tyrend's cocky grin is back in place, but there is still a dark shadow in his eyes.

Killing a bull orc with his bare hands is no small feat for a human. Orcs are bigger, stronger, and orders of magnitude tougher than any human ever born. Despite their crudity, they also have their own Power based abilities and combat abilities. You need strong Power, extraordinary skill, or both to kill one without weapons.

As we exit the corridor, a huge cityscape opens up in front of us. The cavern holding this city is at least five hundred feet high, and our corridor is a good hundred feet above the floor. Looking across the cavern, it is too big to be inside one of the Seven Great Citadels. The Great Citadels vary a bit in size, but all of them are around five miles in diameter. This cavern has to be at least ten miles in diameter.

Tyrend's face has a smirk on it, as he stares at me out of the corner of his eye. “You haven't seen this yet, eh?”

“No. It's a pocket dimension, inside of Gor'achen?”

“I'm not sure what a pocket dimension is, but all the interior layers are too big to possibly be inside Gor'achen, but they are. The space inside of this Citadel is larger than the outside of the Citadel.”

“How much fucking Power do the DokkAlfar have?”

Neither Tyrend nor Graham says anything in response to my mostly rhetorical question. Anyway, how could either of them know the answer? Thrall, who might know the answer, is a silent presence walking behind us, at the back of the pack of gladiators.

Another one of those yellowish-white light crystals is embedded in the center of the cavern's arched roof. I can even feel a slight warmth in the light emitted from it.

The city below is mostly filled with a mix of three and four story residential buildings, businesses, and warehouses. Broad avenues and narrow alleys follow winding paths among them, but everything in the Third Layer is centered on the massive arena in the center.

The arena's size dwarfs the Roman Colosseum, it must be over half a mile long and more than three hundred feet high. The architectural style is more Baroque than anything, with twelve square towers rising above the walls. The stones used in its construction appear to be obsidian and are polished to a glossy midnight sheen.

Before our parade has even reached the bottom of the ramp, hundreds and thousands of beings are gathering in the avenue we have to follow to the arena. I can see humans, Alfar, orcs, goblins, beastmen and even a pair of ogres. They are drinking, shouting, and arguing. Some are calling out gladiators by name and shouting encouragements or admonishments. Others are calling out advice on what to do to specific gladiators in the enemy stable. Listening to these fans, for them, this is not a competition, it is a war.

As we get closer to the arena, I cannot help but get worked up. The energy of the crowd is like a drug, as their aggression and hostility key my own emotions to a fever pitch.

*You are feeding off of the souls of the trash.*

I spin around, glaring at Thrall. The idea that appeared in my mind was not word, but it clearly “sounded” like his voice. That fucking asshole is still poking around inside my mind, where he has no business being.

Thrall laughs, causing the DokkAlfar guards and the nearer gladiators and fans to look at us.

*Do not try to reach out with your replies. Your mind and soul are still unhealed. This fucking asshole can read your words from the surface of your mind. You still have much to learn and more to accept. I have the Power to do this, and you do not yet have the Power to stop me. I can do as I please, until you are strong enough to stop me. That is the preeminent truth of this metaverse.*

The entirety of Thrall's statement appears full-blown in my mind in only a fraction of a second. I turn back toward the front and continue walking.

*What did you mean by saying I'm feeding off the trash?*

*The other gladiators are reacting to the emotions around them, but it does not feed their Power. You are drawing the trash's unfocused emotional energy into yourself, into your own psi. It is a good thing, and if you can consciously learn to do that with the traces of Power given off by others, you will be able to recover the Power you use more quickly.*

Fuck me. It sounds like he wants me to become some kind of psychic vampire.

Thrall's laugh echoes inside of my mind, but I ignore him.

As we get closer to the arena, the crowds grow thicker and more raucous. Some of the beings are carrying flags and banners for the Blood Rose Stable, and other beings are carrying them for another stable. Where the different groups meet up with one another, shouting matches and brawls are breaking out.

Being by yourself among these crowds is life-threatening. In numerous places, the supporters of one stable or another are brutally beating someone who is a supporter of a different stable or maybe just not a supporter of any stable.

“Mungo! Fuck them good! Don't become the bitch!”

The group of homosexual gladiators have their codpieces strapped to their heads and are jerking themselves off, while some of the followers shout encouragement. Broken-shoulder is sidling along next to the leader of the group.

“Want me to show you how I'll fuck 'em?” From his shout, I can guess the leader is named Mungo.

“SHOW US!” More than a dozen of his fans scream together.

“Here carry this cum bucket, so I can fuck him while I walk!” Mungo shoves Broken-shoulder to two of the others.

While the two of them carry Broken-shoulder with his ass facing backwards, Mungo half-skips along fucking him. His fans are pushing their way through the crowd laughing and yelling.

“Get your hands off me! Don't you touch me, you fucking pigs!”

A woman is grabbed by several men and stripped, while the rest of the crowd laughs or ignores what is happening.

“Put me down!”

Smack!

While two men hold her up spread-legged, a third viciously slaps her face, leaving her dazed and bleeding.

“He you stupid faggot! I'll show what you're supposed to use your dick for!”

The man who slapped the woman strokes his dick for a few moments, to make sure its hard enough, and starts fucking the woman.

She is not particularly attractive. Her tits are sagging. Her ass is flabby. Her legs look like cottage cheese. I would never fuck her, but I guess it takes all kinds to make up a race.

“Nnnooooo!”

The woman's screams elicit nothing but laughter and jeers from the onlookers. Both the males and females of multiple races that are watching are obviously enjoying her humiliation. The ones not enjoying the show are not paying it any attention. A little gang rape is apparently nothing worth taking note of in the lower layers of Gor'achen Citadel.

As he watches the rape, the emotions on Graham's face are a little conflicted, but then he touches his collar and looks ahead. If they are not enjoying the show, none of the gladiators glance twice in that direction.

As the avenue rounds a gentle curve, the base of the arena enters into view. Hundreds of legionnaires, probably more like thousands considering the size of the arena, are lined up along the walls. From their bearing, these guards are obviously from Gor'achen's regular military forces. Though they are carrying the ubiquitous glaives, they also have longswords at their sides and shields on their backs. In addition to their chainmail, they are also wearing breastplates, metal sabatons, and greaves.

The powers that rule Gor'achen Citadel obviously take security at these games seriously. To support the line troops, there are scattered casters, also armored in chainmail, mixed in with them. It would take more than a simple group of rioters to be a significant threat to a security force like this.