Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God (Path of Transcendence Book 2) (26 page)

“No!” Gabriel shrugged off the support of Simon and Yoh. “We would all be dead with Talon's warning. He had no reason to help us, but he did.”

“Fuck him! You might die because of him drawing the undead to us!”

“Sandor, don't lie to yourself. We drew the undead on ourselves. Without Talon, we would all be dead already. Go get him. Don't leave him behind.”

“FUCK!” Sandor's face was tuned upward, with his eyes closed, as he struggled with his choice. After glaring at Gabriel for a moment, Sandor started up the tunnel again, only to stop dead in his tracks. The rim of the tunnel above him was surrounded by undead.

There are no surprises. The rest of the Fiend gladiators in the Duel of Champions are nothing much. As the last one leaves the tunnel, I begin to smile. His around six-foot-ten, with a build as big as the biggest of the gladiators in Gor'achen . His grey enameled plate is formed in the outlines of flexed muscles, and his axe and shield he would be too heavy most humans to us one-handed. As he moves close, the face visible inside his helm is one I have seen a number of times in the past. When he gets closer, his eyes squint up, as though he is trying to scrutinize my appearance.

“Sandor, you're a piece of shit.” My words are in English.

Sandor's eyes widen momentarily, before narrowing as he stares at me. Confusion mixed with semi-recognition slowly settles on his face.

Sandor's English sounds a bit awkward, as though he is remembering a half-forgotten language. “You speak English, and you know my name. But I can't figure out who you are.”

I smile with my mouth. “You and your ass fucking friends stabbed me in the back at the gates to the Chamber of Transition.”

Sandor's eyes open so wide, the whites are visible all around the irises. “No fucking way! You can't be Talon!”

“Oh, I'm Talon alright. Did you think you could betray me and not suffer?”

“We can go back to our real bodies? That fucking Nameless was lying?”

I laugh mockingly. “You can't. You and everyone else, you're fucked. Your bodies are gone. Dead. No pass go. No collect two hundred dollars. I'm the only survivor.”

Sandor frowned, while snarling his words. “You look vaguely familiar but I don't remember who the fuck you are. You can't have been anyone important.”

I smile with my mouth, again. “Don't worry. The only thing I know about you is that you're one of Jonny and Jenny's ass licking friends. I never bothered to figure out who was in what body. Can't really tell one piece of shit form another, after all.”

The facilitator looks irritated by our conversation in a language he cannot understand. “Stop yapping in your animal tongues and start fighting.”

Sandor sneers, as he stalks toward me. “You're not a Half-Dvergar monster, anymore. Looks like you're in your Earth body. I'm going to enjoy torturing you, before I kill you.”

“Moron.”

Clang!

“AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

Sandor drops his axe and cradles his deformed gauntlet against his chest. Smashing it with the flat of my axes must have shattered every bone in his hand. The gauntlet is less than half as thick as it was before.

“What's the matter? It's just a little pain. You're a fucking pussy. I can't believe you're so fucking slow. You might want to start telling me about what happened after you murdered me.”

“Fuck you!” Sandor's shield lights up with a greyish light, and he hurtles toward me.

Clang! Thump!

I wait, while Sandor forces himself to his feet again. I smile faintly, looking at the dent in the backplate of his armor, more or less in the shape of my axe head.

Sandor's eyes reveal his uncertainty, as he stares at me. He is beginning to realize the truth. Just because I am in my original body, it does not mean that he is stronger than me. His strength is okay for a common gladiator, but he would never be a match for a stable champion.

“I won't let you die, until you tell me what I want to know. If you try lying to me, I will hurt you, until you tell me the truth.”

My kick lifts Sandor off the ground, leaving a dent in his breastplate that digs into the shattered ribs underneath. He hits the ground coughing up blood.

“You're going to die today. The only question is how much you will suffer, before you die. I don't know how a faggot like you didn't get killed in the arena, before I got to you. It must be fate smiling on me.”

“Go to hell. I finally remember you. You're that loser orphan that Mei hated.”

“That's one way to describe me. Another one is the vicious fuck that would lure bullies stupid enough to target him into places where he could hurt them. I don't need to lure you anywhere and look how much the crowd is enjoying watching you suffer.”

“AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!”

My axe rips open Sandor's backplate, leaving a bloody gash down the right side of his back. As I hold my blood-dripping axe up, the crowd roars.

I smile at Sandor, and he shivers at the sight.

Piece by piece, I destroy his armor, until only a few broken fragments are left hanging from his body. Blood from the tears and gashes left by my axe paint his skin scarlet. Where the skin is not dyed by blood, it is pale white.

“AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

Sandor falls to the ground, when I shatter his kneecaps. He is too weak. He has no concept of what real pain is.

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 head of my glows cherry red from, and heat shimmer distort the air around it.

Hiss!

“AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

Sweet smelling smoke wafts into the air from the sole of Sandor's charred foot. He crawls across the sand, trying to escape from me.

I pull the searing metal away from his foot stroke the back of his leg with it.

“AAAARRRR! No! Please ! I'll talk! I'll talk!”

Crack!

My kick breaks Sandor's pelvis and flips him over onto his back. Squatting down, I hold the head of my axe close enough to his groin for the heat to turn the skin red.

“No! No! Don't! Please, don't! I'll talk.”

I smile. “Tell me one lie, and I won't stop until you're skin is nothing but one huge burn. What happened after you murdered me? Where are the rest of the Bohemian Cats?”

“The orcs panicked without the Masters giving them orders. Their lines collapsed, and they ran. All of the surviving Damned left the Labyrinth, but a few days later, we were attacked by an orc horde. There must have been over a million of them. I don't know how many died or what happened to most people. I was made a slave by the orcs, and they eventually sold me to some of the Masters from Gor'achen. I don't even know how long I've been here anymore. It must be twenty years now.”

He does not seem to be lying, but he is as useless now as he was when I was a Half-Dvergar.

“What happened to the rest of the Bohemian Cats?”

“Yoh and Galadria were brought here, when I was. I don't know what happened to any of the others. It's the truth! I swear!”

I smile. “You're going to die quickly.”

Sandor sighs in relief and half-smiles.

“But it's going to be painful.”

I jam the red-hot head of my axe on Sandor's lower abdomen and groin, holding him in place.

“NOOOOO! AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR! NO! PLEASE!” Sandor's shrieks are so loud, they echo over the cacophony of the crowd. He has completely lost his composure. He is flailing about wildly, not even trying to make a coherent effort to escape.

“I swear! I swear! I swear! I swear! I swear! I swear! I swear!”

I have no idea why he keeps swearing, unless he think I will end his agony sooner. With his dick and balls sizzling like frying bacon, it only takes about thirty seconds for my axe to burn a hole through Sandor's abdomen and come to rest against his bones. His horrified gaze is locked on my own, as his flailing and flopping slowly winds down to nothing, and the light in his eyes fades.

“BRAND! BRAND! BRAND! BRAND! BRAND! BRAND!”

The masses of trash chanting my name is barely more than background noise, as I stare at the corpse. I am more than a little irritated. There was no satisfaction in killing the piece of shit. Was it because he was too weak to fight back? Will I get any satisfaction or feeling of closure when I kill The Lord of Jet and The Lady of God or will it just be more empty killing? Would it be better if I torture them for days, before letting them die?

I raise my still glowing axe over my head, and the crowds chanting turns to an incomprehensible roar.

A twenty foot tall translucent image forms near the center of the arena, but it is completely imperceptible to my spatial awareness. It appears to be a man dressed in grey leathers, with a hooded cloak that is concealing all but his mouth and chin. His mouth is barely visible, and the corners are turned up in wry amusement. Clutched in his left hand, he has an iron-shod staff, covered with blood-red runes. The Nameless.

“I accept your oath, and you are now one of mine. Rise again, Sandor!” The words are in the slave tongue, and arena shakes faintly, as they are spoken.

Just like when a player revived after fighting their way back from the Land of the Dead, Sandor's corpse turns into grey smoke, and he appears next to The Nameless. With his armor destroyed, he is all but naked. However, all of his wounds are gone, without even leaving a scar.

“I'm going to get you, you ugly bastard! I'm going to keep you alive and screaming for months, for years!”

I smile, while giving Sandor the middle finger. “Now, I can torture you as many times as I want.”

“Brand, serve me! I will forgive you, and let you have this one, if you do.”

Sandor's eyes go wide with terror, and his jaw falls open.

“Go fuck yourself.”

The Nameless frowns. Even though he does not show any visible signs, I am certain that I can feel a boiling rage inside of him.

“I am curious, why do the DokkAlfar tolerate your presence, when you are the servant of Dvergar god?” The tone is pensive, as though he is considering an academic question.

The facilitator is staring at me, but he keeps face a complete mask that does not reveal what thoughts might be inside his head. Most of the audience is staring in stunned silence, but there are still scattered pockets of conversation. Whether their subject is myself, The Nameless, my connections to the Dvergar, or something else, I am certain that many of those conversations will lead to difficulties.

“You're one petty ass fuck for someone who calls himself a god.”

“Woden!” Thrall appears out of thin air. His expression is nothing short of thunderous anger and unmitigated hate.

Woden? Is that The Nameless' real identity?

“Thrall. So, this is where you have been hiding? That means you must be the mysterious Smith. I am surprised you dare to remain in the Labyrinth, but then you never lacked for rashness.”

“Take your new dog and leave Gor'achen. As a projecting spirit, you have no chance against me.”

The Nameless, maybe should I call him Woden, smiles. “Alva and Graham. You are both of Earth. Swear your lives and souls to me, and I will take you with me.”

Alva is in the same box as last, standing next to Aluras'bektsh'tar, who has brought her to orgasm multiple times since I started fighting. Till now, she had not even looked up to see what was happening in the arena, but she raises her head slowly. A fearful hope lights her eyes.

“If you dare to speak, I will give you to the bull orcs for a week.” Aluras'bektsh'tar's tone of voice is cold and merciless.

“Be silent DokkAlfar cunt! Your adherence to a practice as idiotic as female love is a pathetic joke in the eyes of nature and the gods. The imbeciles like you espousing homosexuality will doom your Empire, if you are allowed to continue propagating their inane ideologies.”

The scorn in The Nameless' voice seems to put Aluras'bektsh'tar on the level of pond scum or worse in his eyes. Despite the anger in her own eyes, she does not say another word.

“Make your choice woman. Swear yourself to me or remain the plaything of the homosexual.”

Alva lick her lips. “I swear.”

Both Alva and Graham appear next to The Nameless, and a moment later, Yoh and Galadria appear, in collars as well. Yoh is naked and filthy, his body covered with scars, mostly whip scars. He must have been in the general slave pens. Galadria is is naked as well, while not as badly scarred as Yoh, she has her share of scars from being whipped. Besides the scars, her lower abdomen has so many stretch marks that she must have kicked out at least a dozen kids. It looks like she was in the breeding pens. Both of them have a haunted look and a general aura of being broken.

Yoh looks around, and his eyes widen, as they settle on me.

“Mark McGuinness?”

The Nameless smirks at Thrall. A shimmering silver circle appears under the humans, and they sink through it.