Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God (Path of Transcendence Book 2) (40 page)

The DokkAlfar tend to their wounds, while I look around.

The room we are in is downright medieval. It is carved out of raw grey stone, so it must be yet another pocket dimension; just how many dimensional pocket exist in the hunk of rock? Shackles and racks with implements of torture are affixed to the walls. Some of the have bits of blood, hair, and decaying flesh still on them. Besides my groups, the room is only occupied by the dead.

Four corridors exit this room. I spread my empathy through the area, but there are wards on what I assume are the cells in the corridors. I cannot tell which cells are occupied, let alone which one contains Elan'fer'sha.

“Spread out and search for Elan'fer'sha!”

Kanchek sends a DokkAlfar down each corridor and paces from corridor entry to corridor entry, while waiting for their return. I keep track of them with my empathy, but with their shields, I cannot tell more than their positions relative to myself.

After a few minutes, one of the DokkAlfar starts running back to the central room, and I meet him at the corridor entry.

“I found the Mistress! She's shackled to the wall, and the cell door is locked.”

After I begin searching the Vardne'tar DokkAlfar corpses for any keys, Kanchek and the other DokkAlfar quickly join me. None of us find any keys, and I pocket all the storage devices that I search.

After jogging down the corridor, I stand outside Elan'fer'sha's cell. As the DokkAlfar said, she is shackled to the wall, but he did not tell me her condition. Except for a slave collar inlaid with sigils, she is naked and covered with welts, cuts, and raw burns. The insides of her thighs are crusted with dried blood, and the shadow of fear is lurking beneath the shock in her eyes.

“How?” Elan'fer'sha's voice is hoarse.

“We invaded the castle.”

Elan'fer'sha stares at me with confusion blatantly obvious on her face.

“I thought that dyke was your friend. Why did she do this?”

Something else mixes with the confusion on Elan'fer'sha's face, maybe pain or loss. “My clan was a clan of assassins that served the Citadel Lord. They … we … were the ones that wiped out her Line of Provenance. With the rest of my clan dead, this is her revenge.”

I snort. “So, that's why the fucking dyke is rebelling against the Citadel Lord.”

Elan'fer'sha's confusion turns to anger. “Open the cell door! Get these chains off me! Hurry up, you fucking bastard!”

With my mouth safely hidden by my visor, I smile. The term Elan'fer'sha is using is not really the same as the English word bastard. While intended as an insult, it has a meaning that only matters to DokkAlfar, something to do with a lack of Provenance of a parent or the betrayal of Provenance by a parent, but I only vaguely understand its significance.

With a symbol of breaking, I turn the the cell's lock into metal fragments. Taking off my helm, I approach Elan'fer'sha and kiss her. Despite her anger, in spite of her abuse at Aluras'bektsh'tar's hands, she responds. As our lips separate, her face is blank, and confusion dulls her glare.

“You're my woman now. I came to take you back. I'm not letting some fucking dyke have you.”

“You fucking bastard! I'm not your woman! I'm a DokkAlfar female, not some lowly human slut!”

“You're my woman. Until the day you die, you're mine.”

“Who would want an ugly bastard like you?”

“Who else doesn't give a fuck that you're a Wytch? I know you're a twisted bitch, but I'm just as fucked up as you are. I want you with me.”

Something flickers in her eyes, and her teeth close over her lower lip.

“Get me out of these chains. I have to warn the Citadel Lord.”

The chains and shackles shatter, and the collar on Elan'fer'sha's neck snaps into pieces as I use symbols or breaking fueled by my braided Power.

My laugh is a cold nasty sound. “Aluras' rebellion is already underway. I'm sure he knows by now.”

“If you hate DokkAlfar so much, why do you want me?”

“I don't really hate DokkAlfar more than any other race. I hate almost everyone, especially people with wealth and power. Everyone I've ever dealt with that had one or both has been an ungrateful, traitorous fuck. DokkAlfar are no exception to that rule.”

Elan'fer'sha's brittle smile seems sad, more than anything. “No. We may be the rule itself.”

As I leave the cell, Elan'fer'sha follows, with Kanchek and the other DokkAlfar on either side of her. They both keep looking behind, as well as watching every cell that we pass. The rest of the DokkAlfar are scattered around the the torture chamber, and immediately, they form a cordon around Elan'fer'sha. Moving up the stairs, I keep the pace to a fast walk, and even though the walls seem solid, everyone is vigilant against attacks.

Reaching the top landing, we stop a dozen steps down. Most of the gladiators are lying low, beneath the level of the landing, with only the ones with crossbows sticking their heads out. Four more, armed with crossbows, are hiding behind the mostly open doors. Facing them in the corridor leading to the door and the side corridors are at least fifty Vardne'tar guards.

“You have never asked why Wytches are feared and ostracized in DokkAlfar society. Do you know the reason?” Elan'fer'sha has a malicious glint in her eyes.

“No.”

Her face grim and sad at the same time, Elan'fer'sha begins to weave a spell pattern with Umbral Power. The black Power, looking like oily soot, makes my skin craw, and several long minutes drag by as the weave grows larger and more complex. When she completes the weave, Elan'fer'sha bites her lower lip and sprays a mist of blood onto the pattern. From where the droplets of blood strike the pattern, foul red streaks spread though the sooty black veins of Umbral Power. When Elan'fer'sha blows on the spell pattern, after the coloration stabilizes, it turns into a reddish black mist, and flows up the stairs and through the door.

Once the mist is in their line of sight, the Vardne'tar guards immediately start to withdraw, but they are already too late. The farther the mist moves, the faster the mist moves. After sweeping over the Vardne'tar guards, it continues to spread, tendrils entering each side corridor.

“No!”

“Please!”

“I submit!”

“Make it stop!”

“AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!”

Elan'fer'sha's face is set in an expression of grim satisfaction. Her voice is a harsh whisper, as she seems to speak more to herself than to any of us. “Those bastards, with dicks the size of my pinkie, thought they could get away with putting their pathetic little things in a Wytch, because their Mistress told them they could. Fucking a Wytch without her consent means death!”

After several minutes the screams turn to whimpers and fade away. As Elan'fer'sha starts walking up the remaining stairs, I move out in front of her, and the DokkAlfar guards quickstep to maintain their cordon. The gladiators fall in around and behind the DokkAlfar, but there is really no need.

The sight that greets my eyes confirms what I sensed through my spatial awareness. Corpses of DokkAlfar lie in twisted positions. Their dead hands are clutching body parts and lumps under their armor. Slicing open the armor of a few reveals misshapen protrusions of bone tearing through their flesh.

“What the fuck?”

“Wytches pervert the natural order. Disease is one of our greatest weapons. My spell caused tumors to grow in any living thing touched by the mist. Their bone tumors grew more than ten thousand times faster than they would normally. They were lucky I do not have time the time to make them suffer, or their tumors would have grown over a period of days or weeks. If they did not end their own lives, they would have spent the time screaming in agony, until their bodies finally gave out. This why Wytches are feared.”

Returning to the room with our gate, Valcrit leads the way, blatantly using the main corridors. We pass dozens of corpses in the halls and see more though the open doors of rooms. Elan'fer'sha walks at my side, a faint smile on her lips.

Bodies are piled up in the door to the sitting room, many dead from the weapons of gladiator, but others from the bone tumors. Inside the room, the bodies of the gladiators lie on the floor, some of them bearing wounds but all of them dead from the bone tumors. Behind me the rest of the gladiators, even the Throd'nahk, are staring fearfully at Elan'fer'sha's back.

Mungo and his two faggots were among the gladiators left to hold the sitting room. They are among the corpses, with mishappen faces frozen in agony as they died. Even though they were faggots, I almost feel sorry for them. They grew up the slave pens, ass-raped until they could never get it up for a woman. The poor bastards spent their lives thinking that sticking their dicks in shit was heaven. Now, they died without even understanding why they were dying.

Thrall's mirror has the main entrance to the Gor'achen Auditorium at its center. The attackers are fighting a battle on two fronts, but the defenders have been pushed back into the lobby behind the doors. Hundreds of bodies are piled up to the sides of the doors or have been crushed underfoot into a red paste. New forces, presumably loyal to the Citadel Lord, are cutting into the cultists from several of the streets leading to the auditorium. All in all, the battle is a complete cluster fuck for both sides.

“Show me what is happening inside!” Elan'fer'sha's voice reveals her anger.

“That building is warded. If I move the focal point of the mirror inside, I'll have to break the wards. Whoever is in control of them will know it.

“Would your spell have killed everyone in the Castle Vardne'tar?”

Elan'fer'sha glances at me, her gaze showing confusion. “Yes. Unless they found their way into sealed or warded rooms before being touched by the mist, everyone is dead.”

“Do you know if the Warlord's Fist Legion was barracked in Castle Vardne'tar?”

Elan'fer'sha stares at me blankly.

Kanchek steps forward. “The Warlord's Fist is part of the Citadel military. Their barracks are on the Fifth Layer.”

I change the focus of the mirror to the Fifth Layer. “Where?”

Following Kanchek's directions, I find a barracks complex, brimming with a lot of activity. The legionnaires, fully armed and armored, are forming up into units on their drill field. Every one of them has white streamers attached to their helms. A group of casters, are preparing a large frame that is reminiscent of a tori. Not a single person on the drill field has any badge or insignia on their gear or clothing.

“It appears that Aluras'bektsh'tar has not actually made her move yet, but it should happen soon.”

“Open a gate inside the auditorium; we have to warn the Citadel Lord.” Elan's frustration is showing through in her tone.

“Not yet. I want the dyke bitch to reveal herself as a traitor. Then, I'm going to kill her, and let the Citadel Lord thank me for it.”

Kanchek looks at me askance. “He'll be more likely to sentence you to death by torture.”

“We'll see. Remember, I'm the Smith's disciple.”

Time passes, while we watch the Warlord's Fist Legion. Even after they are formed up, and the Tori is complete, they still do not move. More than an hour passes, before the legion's commander nods to the casters.

The entire group of casters begins working together to created a spell pattern. It is a standard mana based spell, but the level of Power being woven into it is extremely high. Once they are done with this spell, those casters will probably be useless for a while.

After a few minutes, the casters finish the spell and link it to the tori. A whirlpool of silver and gold energy forms inside the Tori, and after a few moments, an image replaces the whirlpool. The scene appears to be some kind of room, with a table in the middle and chairs lining the walls.

Elan'fer'sha's brow furrows. “I think that is a preparation room inside the auditorium.”

I release the current spell on Thrall's mirror and prepare a new one. It takes me a fraction of the time it took the DokkAlfar casters, but I am certain that Thrall's mirror is a much higher quality item than their tori.

After attaching my spell to the mirror, I focus it on the Second Layer's auditorium. The situation is still a mess, and the cultists have either retreated or been forced back from the roads entering the plaza around the auditorium. For many of them, their former ferocity and fanaticism seems to be turning into desperation. They probably did not expect to be facing as resistance so stiff as to allow them to be surrounded by the regular Citadel military.

Right at the center of the auditorium's domed roof, I drive the focal point of the mirror into the wards. The backlash is stronger than the one from the Castle Vardne'tar wards, but since I am already braced for it, it does not affect me much. After a few seconds resistance, the mirror's probe drives through the wards.

Inside the auditorium, rows of stadium seating surround a huge central stage. Built in six sections, the seating has access tunnels that open in the center of each section about a third of the way up from the bottom. In the center of the auditorium, the stage, made of stone, rises about ten feet above the floor level. At the base of two of the six sections, tunnels lead underground.

The interior of the auditorium is becoming as chaotic as the outside. The Warlord's Fist Legion is charging into the center from one of the underground tunnels and attacking the legionnaires already in the auditorium. While coming from the other underground tunnel, a force of rebels, led by the SvartAlfar, is pressing the Citadel Lord's bodyguards back. Since there are no attackers coming from the access tunnels for the audience to access the seating, the Citadel Lord's forces must still be holding defensive lines against the cultists.

The Warlord's Fist legionnaires are expert DokkAlfar warriors and the rebel assault force are gladiators. Both groups are on approximately equal footing with the Citadel Lord's bodyguards, and the battles are vicious.

“Why are you not opening a gate?” Elan'fer'sha seems to be a bit anxious and annoyed.

“Let Aluras'bektsh'tar make her move. When I kill her, I want the Citadel Lord to know he was about to be killed by her. From appearances, it doesn't seem like the Citadel Lord realizes the legionnaires are from her personal legion.”

Despite Elan'fer'sha's annoyance, I sense a faint, approving smile on Kanchek's lips. From his comments about his lack of Provenance sealing off any rank in the military, he has probably had his share of raw deals from DokkAlfar with Provenance. If you are going to make someone with wealth or power owe you, you make it as blatant as possible.

Aluras'bektsh'tar is fighting from range, casting her spear that the cultists, when she has a clear target. Each time she throws it, the spear automatically returns to her hand, but it does not appear to be a property of the spear.

“Is Aluras a telekinetic?”

Elan'fer'sha glances at me, surprise evident in her expression. “She is a strong telepath and a weak telekinetic.”

I nod, more to myself than to Elan'fer'sha. It makes sense. She is probably only using her telekinesis to retrieve the spear; slight as it is at those ranges, the spear seems to be following a normal parabolic arc.

As Aluras'bektsh'tar is circling, apparently looking for a good target among the gladiators, she is subtly using her changes in position, while lining up her throws, to move closer to the Citadel Lord's bodyguards. She almost bumps into the one of the bodyguards, and after glancing at the bodyguard, she continues scanning the battle and moves around behind the DokkAlfar. Since the bodyguard does not react, she must not be considered to be a threat to the Citadel Lord. If I did not know her plan to assassinate the Citadel Lord, I would never realize what she was doing. I have to give her credit, she is sneakier than most of the snakes I have dealt with.

The Citadel Lord looks only an inch or so taller than Aluras'bektsh'tar, making him decidedly on the short side for a DokkAlfar male. He is wearing a robe, what most caster types seem to wear for some reason, except that the skirt is split. Though, his really looks more like something halfway between caster's robe and a changshan.

The Citadel Lord says something, and Aluras'bektsh'tar turns toward him, before looking at the Warlord's Fist legionnaires fighting their way in from the tunnel. The two of them have a short conversation, and the Citadel Lord turns to stare at the Warlord's Fist legionnaires again.

“Brand, open the gate! If you don't,
Talchok'aveyka'tar will be killed by her.”

Drawing my short-swords, I take off a gauntlet and anoint the blades with my blood once more, before sheathing them again.

Moving the focal point to a part of the seating where no one is fighting, I open a gate and step through. Elan'fer'sha follows, with the DokkAlfar guards on her heels, and the gladiators bringing up the rear.

It takes a few moments for the combatant to notice us, and Aluras'bektsh'tar is among the first. Once she sees us, she says something to the Citadel Lord, and the Citadel Lord turns to stare at us, with a cold gaze. A staff appears in his hand, and strong Power begins to flow around him. A spell pattern emanates from the Citadel Lord's staff, and he pours mana and psi into it.

The Citadel Lord's eyes give me a cold feeling down my spine. and I draw a huge amount of braided Power, using it to reinforce my psychic shields, and expand them to cover my body. I am still not finished, when the spell hammers into me. I am barely able to shunt aside the brunt of that spell that seems to be targeting my mind, as though trying to overload it. There is no question that spell was meant to kill me.

Shockingly, while the Citadel Lord's spell seems to have been primarily a mix of mans and psi, there was a strong presence of ki. I have never encountered any Alfar that was capable of using ki before, let alone one that can so quickly cast such a powerful spell. What the fuck is he?

“Fuck You!” I have been attacked without cause time and again during my life, and now, this fucking DokkAlfar attacks me on the word of that dyke cunt. I am here to save his life, whether or not I am being magnanimous is immaterial. This bastard has a bitch looking to murder him standing at his side, and he attacks me. I consciously compound my rage and funnel it into a lance of psychic energy.

The psychic lance is clumsily made and not nearly condensed enough to penetrate decent psychic shields, but after all, it is still my first time doing it. As it hammers onto the Citadel Lord's shields, I see him grimace and feel a hint of satisfaction. Even if I was too clumsy in the formation of the lance to penetrate the Citadel Lord's powerful shields, my rage was brutal enough to surprise and shock him.

The Citadel Lord's eyes narrow, as he glares hostilely at me.

“How have you hidden the fact that you are a Transcendent Trinary?”

Transcendent? The DokkAlfar call Coalescence the Paths of Transcendence, but what the fuck is he talking about?

“I'm not a Coalescent, asshole.”

Despite having to look up toward me, the Citadel Lord still gives a clear impression that he is looking down his nose at me in contempt. “No matter how you concealed it before, showing your power in its conjoined state, you cannot hide the fact that you are walking the First Path of Transcendence.”

A second spell pattern emanates from the staff, and the Citadel Lord fills it with Power, before releasing it at me. Not waiting for it to hit my shields, I drive an empathic lance of rage into it, starting to break up the spell before it hits my shields. As my empathic lance tears into the spell, I notice that the Power in the spell pattern appears to be a braid of six strands of Power, two of each of the Trinity. Is that why the strength of one's Power increases as they begin to Coalesce?

“Talchok'aveyka'tar Lord! I am here to fulfill my Blood Oaths!” Elan'fer'sha's voice holds a note of desperation, as kneels down on one knee with her head bent. Her posture is one of pure submission.

Blood Oaths? A Blood Oaths is made with the swearer's blood, graven onto their soul, and enforced by Power. Why would Elan'fer'sha have Blood Oaths to the Citadel Lord?

The Citadel Lord stares at Elan'fer'sha for a few moments, with an unreadable expression. “Kill the animal at your side, the one called Brand.”

Elan'fer'sha looks at me, her face revealing uncertainty, before looking at the Citadel Lord again. “Talchok'aveyka'tar Lord, I don't understand. Why?”

Anger blackens the Citadel Lord's face. “HOW DARE YOU QUESTION ME! KILL HIM!”

Elan'fer'sha turns toward me, with her eyelids rapidly flutter and her lower lip faintly quivering, and slowly begins to raise her hand.

“Will you kill me at that piece of shit's word?”

Elan'fer'sha turns her eyes toward the ground. “You are already too strong for me to kill you, but I have to try. He owns me.”

Moving neither fast nor slow, I grab Elan'fer'sha by her throat, and she does nothing to resist or evade. A look of resignation or maybe acceptance mixes with fear in her eyes, and she smiles faintly. That beautiful face turns in to the twisting strands of energy and reality, as I brand the spell for pattern sight onto my right eye, as well as my left, and my entire visual world turns into patterns. She is waiting to be murdered by me. I cannot decide if I should be laughing or screaming curses at her.

The Throd'nahk takes a step forward, beginning to raise his spear, but stops dead, when the point of Tyrend's sword pierces the flesh over his kidney. As the Throd'nahk looks over his shoulder, Tyrend gins mockingly at him.

“You gave up any right you might have had to interfere between them long before they first met.”

The rebels and the traitors continue to battle the Citadel Lord's forces. The DokkAlfar female that is ready to murder the Citadel Lord stands next to him, in trust. Tyrend is ready to fight the Throd'nahk. I do not know what games he might be playing, but the Citadel Lord is simply watching, without attacking anymore. He seems completely unconcerned by the steady attrition in the ranks of his bodyguards.