Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God (Path of Transcendence Book 2) (34 page)

The last two standing assassins look at each other, before rushing toward me. There is a sense of resignation about them, as though they have committed to a inescapably fatal action.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

My short-swords engage the assassin on my left, and I engage the one on my right. Amazingly, he actually turns aside five heavy slashes, before leaving an opening. I bury my left blade in his guts, and my right splits him from left shoulder to diaphragm. As the corpse collapses to the ground, I spin and take the other assassin's legs off at the knees.

The assassin does not make any sound beyond a soft grunt, as he slams face first into the ground. My short-swords bury themselves in his back destroying his heart and lungs. I pull off his leather helmet to verify what I already know, they are Alfar.

After beheading the dead and dying, I take their storage rings, all marked with the symbol of the eye. I do not have the time to dig though their possessions here, so I pull all the rings in my belt, and move to the secret door.

Channeling my mana into the correct section of the wall to turn it incorporeal, I step through and let it return to its normal state.

No one else ambushes or impedes me, and after reaching the ledge, I have no trouble opening the teleport gate and returning to Thrall's ritual room.

Every since I encountered the ambush by Aluras'bektsh'tar's legion, something has felt completely off. What is Aluras'bektsh'tar's purpose in setting up this assassination? That bitch commander recognized me from the arena but had no idea the target she was supposed to capture was me.

Why were Left Hand of Yggr assassins waiting for me at the entry to the tunnel? Did they know they were waiting for me? Their fanaticism is strong enough that even certain death will not sway them from their mission. Even the last two did not hesitate to attack, knowing I would almost certainly kill them.

DokkAlfar lust after power and domination like a glutton lusts after food. I can understand Aluras'bektsh'tar attempting a coup, but the plan seems to be too warped. It is predicated on the actions of others that she has no direct control over. Is something like that normal for a DokkAlfar scheme? Despite killing what has to be tens of thousands of them over the years, I really do not know much about how they think.

I would swear that I am being toyed with, but not by Aluras'bektsh'tar.

After checking the Smithy and the training hall, there is no sign of Thrall. Where did he go, and what is he doing? At the time when I need his knowledge the most, he is inconveniently missing.

Fuck me. When did I start turning into a bitch? This is not the me from the Great Fuck Over. If I lacked knowledge back then, I made up for it with underhandedness or raw force.

I take off the leather armor and repair it. I do not expect to ever wear it again, but that is no reason to let it remain damaged. The techniques for repairing a damaged pattern item are similar in many ways to the techniques used to Re-Pattern and item. After learning a couple basic ones from Roderick, I spent time damaging and repairing patter items to become comfortable with them. With the small amount of damage to the armor, it only takes a little more than half an hour to repair it, and I store it in my belt.

Once again wearing a loincloth and pteruges, I leave Thrall's domain and go looking for Elan'fer'sha. She is in none of the places I would expect to find her, and I spread out my empathic power, searching for her. When actively probing for the emotions of other, if you find a mind you can tell the sex of the being, at least for humans, orcs, and Alfar. Male and female have different emotional patterns and a different feel to them. For other species, I do not have enough experience to know. There are DokkAlfar guards at the entries to the residential section of the compound, and inside it, the only beings are a few slave girls that perform domestic chores, and Keratin. The only shielded minds are the DokkAlfar guards, and they are obviously not Elan'fer'sha.

Where is Elan'fer'sha? It is nearly the middle of the night, and she almost never leaves the compound in the evening, let alone being gone during the night.

Silently, I stalk the corridors of the compound, until I am outside Keratin's door. There are two minds inside, Keratin and one of the slave girls. The rhythmic slapping of flesh on flesh is clearly audible though the closed door. Keratin is exuding lust, and the girl's mind seems to be a mix of irritation and humiliation. A slave girl feeling humiliation over being fucked? Unless they are ugly, female slaves are repeatedly used for sex. You would think that they would get used to it after a while.

When I throw the door open, Keratin has the girl bent over a chair and is fucking her from behind. The girl turns her face away from the door and shame floods her mind.

Keratin looks up angrily, before his expression turns to shock. There is no longer a slave collar around his neck.

“You're supposed to be dead.” The words are barely more than a whisper, and he probably never meant to voice them aloud.

I smile, and fear fills Keratin. He pulls out and runs around the front of the girl, his dick going limp. Her asshole is gaping from Keratin fucking her in it.

“Get the fuck out of here, girl.”

The slave girls looks at me with a half terrified expression, and runs out of the room. She is tall and thin, not as thin as an Alfar, but damn skinny for a human. Her dark tilted eyes, long face, and narrow jawline give her face a cast reminiscent of an Alfar.

I turn back to Keratin and stare at for a few minutes. He does not say anything, but as the seconds drag by, he fidgets more and more. I find the lack of a collar on his neck interesting.

“So, I'm supposed to be dead? Where did you hear that?”

Keratin's eyes open wide, and his assumes an expression of innocent wonder. The snobbish, fake upper class tone is missing from his voice as well. “I…I don't know what you mean. I don't think you're dead. Why would I think you're dead?”

Keratin shivers, when I smile at him. As I move forward, he scuttles backward, until his back is pressed against the wall.

“What happened to your collar?”

Keratin's hand rises to his collarless neck, and his eyes somehow manage to open even wider. “The Mistress removed it, because I am more valuable to her as a free man than as a slave.”

Some people are so good at lying that it is almost impossible to tell when they lie. Keratin is absolutely not one of them.

“I'll ask one more time, and if you lie again, I'll tear off one of your fingers. What happened to you collar?”

The thoughts moving through Keratin's mind are visible in the rapid movements of his eyes, but there is no way for him to escape past me. His fear deepens, and desperation takes hold over him.

“The Clan Mistress … the Clan Mistress' factor removed it.”

“The Clan Mistress, that would be Aluras'bektsh'tar?”

Keratin nods spastically.

“So, why would her factor remove your collar?”

Keratin seems to shrink in on himself, shaking his head. “He told me to manage the Blood Rose Stable in the Clan Mistress' stead.”

My smile is colder than the empty void of space. “Unless the Smith removes her, the Blood Rose Stable is Elan'fer'sha's.”

Trembling with fear, Keratin hides his face with his hands. “It's not my fault! The Clan Mistress sent one of her guards to bring the Mistress to her this morning! The factor came this afternoon and made me the manager!”

“What else?” My voice is a vicious hiss. I can barely keep my rage in check, but I do not understand why I am so angered. Sure, I hate pissant little faggots like Keratin, but they do not matter enough to push my buttons. Have I really let that crazy DokkAlfar cunt get under my skin this badly?

“That's it! There's nothing else!”

Crack!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” Keratin screams like a bitch, while clasping his other hand of the stump of his missing pinkie in an attempt to stem the flow of blood.

I dangle the blood dripping finger in front of Keratin, before tossing it aside.

“What else?”

“There's nothing else! I swear by the Jotun Lords!”

Crack!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH! No! Please, no more. I can't tell you anything else. She would kill me, if I told you.”

I take a dagger out from my belt. It is one of the lesser pattern items that I claimed from the Thug Horde dead in the Swamp of the Lost.

Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain. The forge heats the steel. The steel remembers the forge. The heat of molten iron burns the foe and lights the dark.

The blade of the dagger begins to glow orangish-red from the heat.

“NO! PLEASE, NO!”

I grab Keratin's wrist, and dragging him with me, step back to avoid the yellow puddle forming under his feet. After a blast of ki leaves him dazed, I shake his mutilated hand free of the other, and slap the dagger over the ragged stumps, where his missing fingers used to be.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” With a single drawn out shriek, Keratin slumps into unconsciousness.

Putting the dagger on the stone floor, out of Keratin's reach, I slap him around. After moaning a few times, he opens his eyes. As the bleariness fades, he stares up at me, his face a twisted mask of horror and terror.

“If you don't talk, I'll keep ripping off and cauterizing your fingers. When I run out of finger, I'll start on your toes. After that, it will be your dick. What else?”

“No. Please, no more. I'll talk.”

“Five.”

“You can't let her get me!”

“Four.”

“Stop! I'll talk! I'll talk!”

“Three.” I grab another finger.”

“I'm her spy! I'm the Clan Mistress' spy! That must be why she made me the manager.”

Dragging Keratin, I stalk out of the room and through the corridors of the compound. Every time Keratin tries to rise to his feet, I kick him in one his ganglia, and falls to the ground with a scream. Being dragged down the stairs to the arena level, he yips, yells, and moans with each step.

As I drag Keratin past the guards, they do not say or do anything, pretending to not even see us. The gladiators in the mess hall stare at me incredulously, when I enter the room.

“Mungo! Get your faggot ass out here!”

Using empathic Power, the raw hostility and viciousness I can project in my voice is enough to make the gladiators in the mess hall shiver. Unconsciously, they shy away from me, while still sitting. The few that are standing back up, until they are against the walls.

There are no wards or dimensional divides in the gladiator barracks to stop me from using my empathy. Brimming with trepidation, Mungo dithers in his cell for more than a minute, before moving toward the mess hall. As he enters, his eyes are shadowed by the fear in his heart.

“What do you want?” Anger mixes with fear in Mungo's voice. Why is it that fear always leads to anger and hate in people? Is it a survival mechanism to keep the humans from becoming completely paralyzed by their fears?

On my shithole birthplace of a world, anger and hate are always condemned, if they are not directed at the approved politically incorrect villain of the day. Why do the rulers of the masses of sheep in human form fear anger and hate so much? Do they understand that anger and hate are a form of strength? Have they realized that anger and hate allow us to rise above our limitations? In the Labyrinth of Yggr, only the strong rise to the top, and only the thoroughly broken among the slave and serfs are lacking in anger and hate.

I do not like Mungo and his faggots. They violate the natural order, but they have still not been broken. They have their own form of strength.

I casually fling Keratin at Mungo. He flips end over end, as he flies more than thirty feet through the air, and gets brutally slapped to the ground by Mungo.

“He's yours. Use and abuse him. Make him envy Broken Shoulder.”

Mungo stares at me wide-eyed. His voice is soft, holding fear rather than hate or anger. “He's the Mistress' servant.”

“That piece of shit betrayed her. She's in the hands of her enemies.”

I turn and start to walk out of the mess hall.

“Hey! Wait!” Mungo's shout is loud and abrasive. Fear and anger are warring for dominance inside of him.

Half turning, I look back at Mungo.

“What are out talking about? What the fuck's going on?”

I glance around the room. Everyone is staring at me, including the DokkAlfar guards. More gladiators and guards are coming from all directions. Varying degrees of fear and anger are mixed within all of the gladiators, and I can feel faint traces of the same from the guards. Even with their natural shields, the DokkAlfar's emotions are so strong that they are bleeding out.

I wait for all the gladiators and guards that are coming to arrive. The Throd'nahk is among the last to arrive. He came from somewhere beyond the surgery, which seems to be where his quarters are located. They are all staring at me, with their fears, anger, and hatred mixed in their expressions.

“Elan'fer'sha has been betrayed and is Aluras'bektsh'tar's prisoner. Aluras'bektsh'tar is planning a coup against the Citadel Lord. I do not know the reasons for it, for either betrayal. It is probably just because she is DokkAlfar. She is lusting for Power, and the two of them are in her way.”