Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God

Brian McGoldrick

Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God

Brian McGoldrick

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2016 by Brian McGoldrick

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.

Edition: February 2016

Contents

Title Page

Book Summary

The Dragon God's Pawn

A Slave's Welcome

What Is Your Connection To Talon

You Cannot Kill Her

Thrall, Son of Rig

Awakening Psi

The Gor'achen Arena

The Clan Mistress' Request

Assassin

The Ogre

A Little Revenge?

Power, Pain, and Prices

Another Assassination

Prey or Predator?

Purpose

Window and Door

Jailbreak

Unrest

Boran Second Father

Book Summary: Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God

Betrayed by the person he trusted most, Brand, formerly Mark McGuinness of Earth, has been enslaved and given to a DokkAlfar Wytch, Elan'fer'sha. Trapped deep within the heart of the Great Citadel of Gor'achen, he is thrown into a gladiatorial stable and marked to be the new Champion for the stable.

In the gladiatorial stable of Elan'fer'sha, Brand meets a mysterious human Smith, with Power far beyond anything he has ever seen used before. Given no alternative by the Smith, Brand forms a compact with Elan'fer'sha. Somewhere within Gor'achen lie partial answers in Brand's quest for vengeance. If he can truly become Gor'achen's Champion, he may open a road to the Wytch's future.

While learning from the Smith, Brand works with and against Elan'fer'sha, as he tries to move farther along the Path to Power. Will Brand achieve his goals or will he fall in the blood drenched arenas of a DokkAlfar empire?

The Dragon God's Pawn

*** Palace of the Dragon Gods - Taereun ***

Centuries in the Past

As the thick gold doors swung silently open, the only sound in the ancient hall was a bellows-like breathing. Shadows concealed the far end of the room, which stretched more than three hundred yards in length. Running down each side of the hall's sixty yard wide expanse, massive pillars, covered in gold foil, reached upward toward the gloom-shrouded ceiling. The floor of the room was paved with green marble, so polished that even the dim light from the open door caused it to shine.

*For what purpose do you disturb my slumber?*

The “voice” thundering in his mind caused the LjosAlfar in the open door to drop to his knees and bang his forehead on the marble floor.

“Apologies, My God! I did not mean to disturb your rest, but you commanded that we inform you when the child was ready for implantation and the target for replacement would be accessible.”

Dressed in jewel encrusted robes made from cloth of gold, the LjosAlfar banging his head on the floor could have sent thousands to their death with a gesture. Normally, he was the lord of all he surveyed, but before the being at the far end of the throne hall, he was of no more import than a gnat.

Light filled the audience hall, brilliant, actinic, merciless, and uncompromising. The being who rested on the revealed dais at the far end of the great hall was one of the Dragon Gods worshiped by the LjosAlfar. Over a hundred and fifty feet in length, its serpentine tail was wrapped around its powerful body. Enormous golden wings lay atop its body, like a blanket covered with delicate fish scales. The head that rose into the air atop a sinuous neck had a mouth large enough to swallow the LjosAlfar whole. In a mix of red, bronze, and gold colors, thick scales, harder than diamonds, covered the Dragon God from nose to tail.

*Bring the child to me.*

“At once, My God!”

The LjosAlfar made a come-hither motion with his left hand, and a guard dressed in silver chainmail escorted a young LjosAlfar child into the hall. Staring in wide-eyed awe at the Dragon God, the child fell to its knees. Behind the child, the guard fell to his knees as well, banging his head on the ground like the cloth of gold clad LjosAlfar.

The child was less than twenty-five years of age, similar to a nine or ten year old human child in physical development. The child's simple white smock did not conceal its androgynous beauty. For non-Alfar, it is difficult to determine the sex of an Alfar child at a glance, and this one's more than average beauty would make it nearly impossible.

*Are you ready to begin your task, child?*

The child prostrated itself on the floor.

“This one lives only to serve the mighty Dragon Gods.” The child's high pitched voice held a firmness that would not be expected from one of its youth. From the fanaticism in its eyes, one could believe the child would give its life for the Dragon God without hesitation.

*Come forward, child. I will make the final preparations to you.*

A brilliant smile lit the child's face, and it scrambled to its feet. Unable to restrain itself, the child practically ran toward the front of the hall.

Narrowing its eyes, the Dragon God watched the child's approach, and its rigid scaled mouth almost seemed to smile. Though the Dragon God appeared pleased, one who could read the minimal facial expressions of Dragons would know that it was not a contentment that contained any beneficence toward the child.

Reaching the foot of the dais, the child again dropped to its knees, with its hands clasped in front of its chest. Its upturned worshipful eyes were glued to the head of the Dragon God that looked down on it from above.

*Prepare yourself, child. You will suffer pain.*

The Dragon God growled a Word in a language that could never be safely spoken by mortal mouths and tongues. With the Word, a shimmering silver-blue spell pattern appeared in the air between the Dragon God and the child. After carefully inspecting the pattern, a tension appeared in the Dragon God's neck and head. While shrinking as it moved, the pattern streaked into the child's body.

“AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRR!” The child's already high-pitched voice rose three octaves as its agonized shriek filled the hall. It kept screaming, until its lungs were empty. Gasping for more air, its scream continued, until unconsciousness claimed the small body.

Several hours later, the unconscious body of the child floated into the air and down the length of the hall, to be deposited at the feet of the LjosAlfar in the cloth of gold robes.

*Commence the plan.*

The LjosAlfar knelt again, once more banging its head on the ground.

“As you command, My God!”

*** Plains of Gethrand - Taereun ***

Centuries in the Past

A small stone airship fled before three pursuing crystal airships. While armed, the stone airship was not a warship, but its pursuers were all built for combat. The hopeless flight of the stone airship began in the mountains visible on the western horizon, but three crystal airships forced it out over the barren plains.

Volleys of fireballs were being launched from the crystal airships, but at that point, none had yet done any significant damage to the stone airship.

“Lord Elder, our scouts report a squadron of seven DokkAlfar cutters on an intercept course with the target.” Like all the officers of the LjosAlfar Sky Navy, the airship's Captain wore a silver breastplate over a sky blue uniform.

The Lord Elder, the LjosAlfar who had woken the Dragon God, turned to the airship's captain. Unlike his subservient demeanor, when facing the Dragon God, the Lord Elder's face was then a portrait of righteous domination.

“Perfect. Bring down that DokkAlfar scow.”

Standing silently at the Lord Elder's side, the child who was prepared by the Dragon God watched the flight of the stone airship, without the slightest hint of any emotions crossing its face.

The three crystal airships began to fire on the larger stone airship, but they were no longer missing or merely singeing the hull. Shards of stone were blown off the DokkAlfar airship, with every concussive detonation of the fireballs. Within only a short time, the stone airship became unstable in its flight and began to angle towards the ground.

With the DokkAlfar ship already nearly crippled, the fire from the crystal airships became far more discriminatory. The fireballs judiciously destroyed the sails and the control surfaces for maneuvering the stone airship in flight.

As the stone airship impacted the ground, control vanes and masts broke away, and huge fractures appeared in the hull. Miraculously, or maybe not so miraculously considering the amount Power used in the construction of an airship, despite the damage, the hull did not break up.

The Lord Elder's voice matched the chill in his face. “Take landing parties down there and kill everything that lives, except for the designated child.”

“Yes, Lord Elder!”

As the crystal airships circled the wreckage, the ship's Captain personally led the assault team that jumped over the ships railings. Teams from the other crystal airships followed.

The Lord Elder listened impassively to the clamor of combat rising from below, as he stared off into the distance.

“Father …”

Smack!

The Lord Elder spun toward the child, his vicious slap sending the child sprawling to the deck.

Its jaw laid open to the bone by the large diamond in the Lord Elder's ring, the child stared up at the Lord Elder, still without any sign of expression.

“We are no longer parent and child! We can never be parent and child again! If you even think such thoughts among the DokkAlfar, you will be exposed and tortured for information!”

“Yes, Lord Elder.”

The child rose to its feet, without ever voicing the question it had begun to ask.

“You were chosen because you can utilize the Umbra. From this day forward, until the Day of Reclamation, you are DokkAlfar. Do not think otherwise. Do not act otherwise.”

“Yes, Lord Elder.”

After a time, when the sounds of battle had died, the Captain returned to the airship, with a sack slung over his shoulder. He stood at attention before the Lord Elder on the quarterdeck, with the sack at his feet.

“As you commanded, I have the designated child.”

“Open the sack.”

As the sack was pulled down, the face of a DokkAlfar child was revealed. Except for the expression of hostile arrogance, it could have been the twin of the child standing at the Lord Elder's side.

The child spat out sentences in the DokkAlfar language, but none of the LjosAlfar present could understand the tongue.

“Silence that filth!”

At the Lord Elder's command, the Captain struck the DokkAlfar child a vicious blow, with the back of his hand.

The DokkAlfar child bounced off the deck with the sound of breaking bones. Its already shattered jaw flopped around like a slab of meat. In shock and barely conscious from the force of the blow, the DokkAlfar child did not resist when the Lord Elder placed a golden net over its head.

After placing a similar on the head of the LjosAlfar child, the Lord Elder knelt between them, and exercised his powerful psi. As the massive amount of information, comprising the entire life of the DokkAlfar child passed through his mind, the Lord Elder's lips drew back from his teeth in a rictus.

The LjosAlfar child's fists and jaw were tightly clenched, as it vainly sought to remain stoically silent under the painful impact of a life and mind not his own. After few moments, the LjosAlfar child began to scream like a damned soul, until it finally fell into unconsciousness. If not for the Lord Elder's hand tightly grasping its skull, the LjosAlfar child would have fallen to the deck.

As he finished the transfer of knowledge, the Lord Elder looked down on the corpse of the DokkAlfar child.

“We will throw this refuse into the Troll Jungles on our return to Mount Tian.”

“As you command, Lord Elder.”

“Take the implant and place it appropriately in the wreckage. Break its bones, but do not leave any life threatening injuries.”

“As you command, Lord Elder.”

After the Captain took the LjosAlfar child, the Lord Elder stared out toward the south, where the Pangu Citadel rested. The Jotun called it The Labyrinth of Yggr, but in truth, it was the property of the Dragon Gods.

A Slave's Welcome

*** Gor'achen Citadel (Over Tallifer) - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 137

Pain greets me along with consciousness. I am naked, laying on hard stone; my favorite way to wake up in the morning, if it even is morning.

Nearby, I can hear the sound of multiple people breathing, the deep even sound of people breathing in their sleep. A few people, men from the sounds moan or grunt in their sleep. In the distance, I can hear the sounds of shouting and wood clattering on wood.

Cracking my eyes open, I carefully scan the area in my field of view. I can see three other men in front of me, all human. Like me, they are sprawled unnaturally on the reddish stone floor. There are still five or six more outside my line of sight. So, there are nine or ten of us total. We are all in a cell with a passageway in front of it. On the other side of the men in front me, a grate of thick iron bars separates us from the corridor. Looking behind me, I find six sleeping men and a wall of the reddish stone.

Ten naked men in a barred stone cell is anything but my idea of paradise. Not to mention, every man in this cell is obviously bigger and heavier than I am. These men would put the bodybuilders of the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries to shame, and their beards are almost long and thick enough to make Dvergar appreciate them. I wonder where they are all from.

I do not remember anything after that DokkAlfar cunt told me she would use me. Whatever happened, it must have rendered me instantly unconscious.

As I try to circulate ki through my battered body, the pain that flares outward from my neck is almost enough to bring me to my knees. Stopping, I grab the collar that is still secured there, but it is too strong for me to force it open.

“Steel is pain. Steel is cruelty.”

I try to form the spell pattern to alter my vision, but the same kind of pain as I had trying to use ki tears through my body.

My Power is being hijacked and turned against me by this collar. I do not have any clear idea on how it is being done. From what I learned in the Lands of Despair, I know a few ways to do it in theory, but I doubt any of those are related to the method being used by the collar.

With this collar on my neck, I am virtually powerless. This is the price of trust. Of all the people in existence, I never would have believed that Jinmu would betray me. Looking back it is obvious. I knew he was acting differently.

There are none so blind as those who will not see. The most deluded people are those who choose to ignore what they already know. I should have never forgotten that quote for a second. I burned it into my mind when I was twelve years old, and I willfully ignored it where Jinmu was concerned. I am an idiot who deserves to be exactly where I am.

Fucking Jinmu. Fucking DokkAlfar. Fucking DokkAlfar Priest-Wizard. Fucking DokkAlfar bondage cunt. I am going to kill all of them. They are going to suffer for my willful idiocy.

I cannot keep myself from laughing morbidly, as I sit with my back to the wall near the bars of the cell. Even if I cannot use my ki, I can still meditate, which will let me rest more while staying aware of my surroundings.

After a time, perhaps a few hours, the sounds of wood battering wood and shouting quiet down, and I hear the sound of footsteps drawing closer. Opening my eyes, I see five males moving down the corridor, four DokkAlfar and one human.

The DokkAlfar are wearing black leather boots, pants, and shirts with a silk-like sheen, and breastplates over their shirts. They are probably adepts, but they do not have the air of soldiers. They strike me more as security guards or jailers. Instead of swords or other weapons designed to be killing weapons, they are carrying heavy truncheons.

The human is different. That man is a killer, with oceans of blood at his feet. He has numerous scars, and several of them appear to be from wounds that should have killed him. I do not what his style might be, but he moves like a man who has lived his life submersed in martial arts. Besides his obvious level of training in his movements, the man has a herculean physique and stands half a head taller than the DokkAlfar in front of him.

Wearing a pteruges, the leather skirts worn by Roman and Greek warriors, over a loincloth, his only other clothing consists of sandals and a vest. He has a collar around his neck like all of us in this cell, but there is no telltale glow from its sigils. His Power should not be closed off to him, as mine is.

After sweeping his eyes over the others still sleeping in the cell, the man focuses his attention on me. Our stares lock together. His eyes are like cold empty obsidian pits that soak up all the life and warmth that lies before them. Even for me, the weight of his gaze is not negligible. Merely human as I am, I do not know if I could beat that man.

After several minutes, while the DokkAlfar stare angrily at the man, the man reaches into his belt pouch and takes out a key. Unlocking the cell door, he opens it and walks in, to start kicking the sleeping men awake.

The man's voice is deep and carries a menace that few can project with their voice alone. “Get up, you useless trash! On your feet! Now!”

One of the slaves tries to swing on the man but gets casually slapped to the ground. The force of the blow is enormous, compared with its offhand nature. When the slave bounces off the floor, with the audible breaking of a few bones, the DokkAlfar outside the cell laugh.

“The Throd'nahk knows how to cow the other slaves.” The one talking is closest to the cell, and has the airs of a petty bully.

Throd'nahk is a DokkAlfar word. Depending on how it is used, it can mean teacher, torturer, and executioner, often all three at the same time. The main trainer in a DokkAlfar gladiatorial stable is always referred to as a Throd'nahk, though for the main trainer to be a human slave is nearly unheard of.

The other three DokkAlfar laugh at his words. Their hunger for seeing others suppressed and dominated is obvious in how they stare at the slaves being abused. The other slaves do not give any indication of understanding the DokkAlfar's words.

Slaves that is what these men are. A slave, that is all that I am now. This cell must be in Elan'fer'sha's gladiatorial stable.

Huddling on the floor, while cradling his left shoulder, the burly slave moans in pain. The other slaves stare at the Throd'nahk with a mix of awe and fear, while inoffensively rising to their feet.

“Get up!”

The slave that was hit by the Throd'nahk rises unsteadily, with his right arm dangling from a broken collarbone. His face is marked by the fear in his heart.

“Pathetic.” The Throd'nahk sweeps his eyes across the cowed slaves standing before him. Turning to me, his stare is clearly sizing me up again.

“What are you waiting for?” The sheer menace in the Throd'nahk's voice makes several of the other slaves shiver, as they stare at his back.

Shrugging, I rise to my feet. I do not push off the floor or move in any way that uses momentum to aid my movement. Pure muscle control focuses the force generated by my body into my toes and the balls of my feet.

My action brings a frown to the Throd'nahk's face. After a moment or two, he turns back to the other slaves.

“Follow me, trash.”

The Throd'nahk walks out of the cell, his sandals not making even the slightest whisper of sound against the stone. Two of the DokkAlfar guards fall in behind him, while the other two wait for us to come out.

I let the other slaves precede me and fall in at the back of the group. The DokkAlfar stay about eight or ten feet behind me. They probably think that they will have enough time to react, if I do something, but they have nothing to worry about. I do not know where I am or how to get of here, so I will not act, at least I will not act yet.

There is also the problem of the collar. I do not know the full scope of its powers, but I am sure that it will have some deterrents to prevent attack the “Masters.” Since, I do not know how to remove it or circumvent it, I cannot risk having it used against me, until I figure out a way to deal with it.

While the corridor is wide enough for three DokkAlfar to walk abreast, only two normal sized human males can comfortably fit side by side in it. The slaves in front of me can barely squeeze next to one another without scraping their shoulders against stone, and the Throd'nahk is another story altogether. That man is not even the smallest fraction of an inch under seven feet tall, and a DokkAlfar would have trouble squeezing into the corridor next to him.

Even though it is inactive, the Throd'nahk is still wearing a collar, but the DokkAlfar guards seem to be following his orders. That collar means the Throd'nahk is a slave, and a DokkAlfar following the orders of a slave is unheard of as a human slave being a Throd'nahk. While Talon's memories have become thoroughly fragmented since my murder, I am still fairly certain that Talon never heard of, let alone encountered, a Throd'nahk who was a slave, when he was slave of the DokkAlfar.

This corridor has three more cells between ours and its end, and appears to have ten or so in the other direction, before reaching a T intersection. One is on the same wall as ours, and two are on the opposite side. All of the other cells we pass are currently empty. This corridor seems to contain nothing but simple holding cells.

The gate at the end is open and leads to a room about twice the size of the holding cells. Wooden benches line the walls, with chains affixed to the walls by metal staples. In the wall opposite the one we entered through, another gate stands open, showing an expanse of illuminated white sand. However, the light has an odd yellowish cast to it.

The Throd'nahk continues on through the room, leading us out into a small arena. Apparently carved out of the surrounding rock, the walls turn into a dome of stone overhead, with a large crystal in the center radiating the slightly yellowish light. The roughly hundred and fifty foot long oval of sand is surrounded by thirty-odd foot high walls, with carved bench seating behind them and the outer wall. On one side instead of bench seating, there are seven box-seating areas with tables and chairs made from wood.

The stands are filled with several thousand howling DokkAlfar. Many of them are naked or nearly naked, as they lick, suck, and fuck one another, while I fight for my life in the arena. Some of the DokkAlfar have bound slaves near them, that they are casually torturing, while eating, drinking, doing drugs, or masturbating.

I do not have time to pay attention to the DokkAlfar. If I take my attention off my enemy, it could easily kill me. The troll is a giant of its species, more than twice my own height and powerfully built. Its thick hide and natural healing would make it hard enough to kill, but the DokkAlfar shits have clad it in enough plate armor to outfit a company of orcs.

The abrupt onslaught of the memory causes me to miss a step, and I stumble slightly.

“Ha! He's so overawed by this little arena, he can't even walk straight. Where did the Mistress find this worm?” The DokkAlfar's contempt is palpable in his tone of voice.

I take a careful look around the arena, to make sure that I am not mistaken. The pells and weapons racks set up on one side do nothing to conceal it. This is definitely the arena in that flash of memory. I have lost many of Talon's memories, but he definitely fought here at least once. His memories were never really my memories, and seem to have been tied to his physical body. I only had access to those memories, because of The Nameless' manipulations. Now, I only have fragmentary pieces remaining.

Did Talon have some connection to Elan'fer'sha? I have no memory of her at all, but with only bits and pieces of Talon's memory, I cannot know if Talon had contact with her. Elan'fer'sha looks to be in her early twenties in human terms, but since Alfar will retain that appearance for centuries, it means nothing.

“Gladiators! Present yourselves!” The Throd'nahk's voice echoes in the arena.

The Throd'nahk led us into the arena on one narrow ends of the oval, and on the other narrow end, there is another archway with an open gate. From inside that gate, a line of men enters the arena. Unlike us, they at least have loincloths on. Forty-two of them, in a variety of sizes and builds, file out one after the next.

Swaggering like a schoolyard bully, the last one to enter the arena is different from the rest. A slave like all of us, this man is about 6'6” tall, with a solid but extremely well proportioned build. Not having a single visible scar, with long blonde hair and bronzed skin, his hairless face and body are almost the ideal of borderline androgynous good looks that has been pushed by Earth's movie industry for decades. His easy movements speak of his high level of physical training, but he does not have the aura of pure lethality that the Throd'nahk does.

The blonde-haired gladiator moves to the center, while the rest of the pack spreads to either side of him as they advance to the center of the arena.

I do not need the remaining fragmentary memories of Talon to know that these are gladiators. In my time, playing Taereun: Battleground of the Damned and fighting for survival in the Lands of Despair, after the Great Fuck Over, I saw my share of gladiators and fought in a few arenas myself.

While glaring at us, the Throd'nahk gestures at the line of gladiators. “Look well, trash. These are REAL MEN! These are WARRIORS! THESE ARE GLADIATORS!”

“Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!” Except for the blonde pretty boy, all of the gladiators cheer, pumping their arms over their heads.

I do not bother to keep the contemptuous smirk off of my face, and the Throd'nahk glares at me more fiercely than before.

“You trash all think you are the equal of real men? Ha! Compared to you trash, orc whores are of more worth. You are not fit to lick the sweat from the balls of Gladiators!”

Pausing for a few moments, the Throd'nahk pans his glare up and down our line. The other slaves are showing even more contempt than I am, but in their case, it is nothing but arrogance born of ignorance. The other slaves do not have training or physical abilities that are the equal of the gladiators in front of us.

“Each of you will be given the chance to challenge one of these Gladiators! It does not matter which one you choose, you will all lose.”

The Throd'nahk points to the slave farthest from me on the left. “You first.”

That slave grins at the slave next to him, and they slam the backs of their wrists together. All of the other slaves are much bigger than I am, and they are bigger than most of the gladiators. As he steps forward, the chosen slave scratches his beard, then points at one of the larger gladiators. The two of them are close in height and bulk, but the slave is lacking the effortless motion and perfect muscle tone of the gladiator.

The Throd'nahk points to the racks of practice weapons on the one side. “Choose whatever weapons suit you and move to the center of the arena.”

The gladiator takes a long sword and a round shield, while the new slave picks up a large two-handed axe. Both the weapons and the shield are made entirely from hardwood, but that will not prevent them from breaking bones on impact.

The Throd'nahk waits for both men to get ready.

“Begin!”

On both of their collars, the runes are lit with the telltale glow. Neither of them will be able to use their Power. This will be a battle of pure physical ability and skill.

The gladiator stays in a relaxed posture, with his sword held loosely at his side. He makes a come-hither motion with the shield, while smirking at the slave.

“Come on, pussy. Give me your best shot.”

The slave is too easily provoked. He cannot keep the anger off his face, as he launches a huge overhand swing at the gladiator. Swaying to the side, the gladiator deflects the axe, with a tap of his shield. Unable to arrest the force of his swing, the slave buries the axe head in the sand. Using the flat of his practice sword, the gladiator smacks the slave in the mouth, spattering blood across the sand. As the slave recovers, the gladiator steps backward, leaving space between them.

“Nah, you're not a pussy. You're not even tough enough to be a pussy's bitch.”

“Fuck you!” Because the slave is so worked up, his face is already turning purple. With his buttons being so easily pushed, that slave must have never run into anyone with real skill.

His face warped into an animalistic snarl, the slave launches himself at the gladiator. The axe lashes out in a heavy lateral sweep.

The smirk never leaving his face, the gladiator drops to one knee. His shield smashes up into the axe head again, deflecting its trajectory, so it passes over his head. Swiftly rising to his feet, the gladiator snaps a kick into the slaves exposed dick and balls.

The slave loses his grip on his axe, which goes flying, and crumples to the ground, while clasping his abused parts.

Contempt plastered all over his face, the Throd'nahk points to the next slave in line. “You're next.”

The next slave picks a gladiator smaller than himself and takes a greatsword for his weapon. Is he thinking to win with a reach advantage? No, he probably cannot think that far ahead. It is more likely he is thinking, “duh big beats man duh small man.”

The smaller gladiator picks up a pair of swords similar to scimitars, except with a heavier curve to the blade than a normal scimitar. He is resting the backs of the blades on his shoulders as he takes his position.

“Begin!”

The remaining noob slaves are exchanging grins and whispering among themselves. I do not recognize the language they are using. It is not the Slave Tongue. While it has that odd rolling quality to the words that Swedish does, I doubt that it is Swedish.

The slave opens up with a charging stab, using his greatsword more like a lance than an edged weapon, and the gladiator avoids it with a small side step. When the slave follows up by trying to hit the gladiator with the hilt, the gladiator dances out of range. As the slave lashes out with a vertical slash at waist height, the gladiator rolls under it and steps past him.

Time and again the pattern is repeated. The slave attacks, and the gladiator makes him look completely incompetent.

“Even an incompetent Gladiator will turn you into a meat bag, bleeding out all over the arena sands. The Masters will love you! Well, they'll love you for the one fight you'll die in. Time to end this.”

The gladiator attacks for the first time. Jumping over a low slash, he hammers the hilts of both his swords into the slaves face. As the slave staggers back, the Gladiator begins to hammer his slashing blades into the vulnerable nerve clusters on the slave's body. It takes him less than thirty seconds to turn the slave into a quivering wretch, cowering on the sand.

I have seldom seen the inhabitants of the Labyrinth or Yggr stripped of their Power. These slaves are moving as though they have virtually no training in actual combat skills. Could they have relied entirely on their Power fueled abilities, without ever learning the physical skills of combat?

During the Great Fuck Over, the majority of the Damned were like that. Even after dozens or hundreds of battles, they had only limited skill and relied their mana driven abilities. The few who were ki adepts seemed to be different. They had a different mindset and studied martial styles that caught their interest. There were the ones like Thorrin as well, older men with experience in the US military before the changeover to drones or in foreign militaries that still used people. They always had real skill and worked hard to improve it. They were among the most lethal of the Damned.

The next seven fights follow the same pattern. Other than the slave with the broken shoulder, I am the only one left.

The Throd'nahk glares at me, and I meet it with a mocking smile. He turns his attention to the slave whose shoulder he broke.

“You join the rest of your trash tribe. You aren't worth a Gladiator's time.”

Shame, anger, and fear warring on his face, the slave sullenly moves over to the group of defeated slaves. Most of those slaves are staring at me with a mix of hate and mockery. They are expecting me to fare the same as or worse than themselves.

I lock stares with the Throd'nahk again. He is big and filled with hate, but he is not dumb. His narrowed eyes reveal a cold, calculating intelligence.

The Throd'nahk looks at the blond pretty boy and uses the DokkAlfar language. “Cletus, you are fighting this one.”

Cletus stares at the Throd'nahk, his mouth hanging agape. “Why should I fight him? I'm the Champion of Gor'achen! He's nothing but new trash!”

Gor'achen would be Gor'achen Citadel. I am in one of the Seven Great Citadels. With that citadel that was hanging over the ocean, it is not surprising that DokkAlfar slut is actually a resident of the Citadel. Escape is going to more difficult than I would like.

The Throd'nahk's expression turns cold, and his lethal intent fills the arena. “I am Throd'nahk. You will do as I tell you.”

Cletus bows his head, but his eyes are still filled with resentment. “Yes, Throd'nahk. I hear and obey.”

The Throd'nahk turns to one of the DokkAlfar guards. “Release the Champion's Power.”

The DokkAlfar's expression mirrors Cletus' from a few moments ago. “You want the Champion's Power released for a newbie trash? Are you insane?”

“The Mistress has made me Throd'nahk of this stable. How Gladiators and trainees are handled is my choice. Are you going to release the Champion's Power, or do you want to explain why you interfere with my way of training to the Mistress?”

The intensity in the Throd'nahk's glare forces the DokkAlfar to unconsciously take a few steps backwards. Whether or not the DokkAlfar is aware of it, real fear is showing in his eyes. Reaching into his belt pouch, the guard takes out a black metal rod, with what look like runes on it. Pointing the rod a Cletus, the DokkAlfar thumbs one of the runes, and the glow on Cletus' collar disappears. The runes have to be sigils that are tied to the magic of the collars.

Is it this Throd'nahk or the threat of this Mistress that the DokkAlfar guard fears?

With a grin, Cletus rubs his neck under the collar. Moving to the weapon racks, he straps a round buckler to his wrist and takes up a flail. Even the there are no spikes on the buckler and flail, they can both still do damage to a human body.

It is not obvious how Cletus uses Power. Nor is it obvious what the nature of his Power is.

I know how to use almost every single weapon in the weapon racks, but there are not that many weapons that I like. Looking at the available array of practice weaponry, I decide to use what I am most comfortable with at the moment and take a pair of swords. They are about the same length as the special alloy ones that I brought from Earth, but they are almost twice as wide. The difference in size is not enough to throw off my techniques.

Taking a position opposite Cletus, I let my swords hang negligently at my side.

“After I beat you bloody, I'm going to fuck you in the ass, while everyone enjoys the show. Ugly freaks like you make me hard.” Cletus' voice is loud enough to carry to the seating beyond arena wall, but there is no one there to hear his words.

The way that Cletus is looking me, while licking his lips, I do not think he is that type to have ever met a woman he was interested in. If I were girl, his unnatural stare would probably make me shriek in horror.

I smile at Cletus. “I'm going to squash your balls into jelly . . . if I can hit a target that small.”

Cletus does not show any reaction. Even if he is an idiot, he is trained well enough to not give in to provocation.

“Begin!” The Throd'nahk's command is much louder and more authoritative than when he started the other demonstrations.

Cletus' form blurs, as he crosses the dozen feet between us. I am barely able to duck and spin out of his flail's line of attack. He easily moves out of range of my attacks on his leg and back.

As Cletus pauses for a few seconds, we stare at each other.

Licking his lips, Cletus begins to move again. His speed is fast, but not at the same level as his first attack. A faint blue shimmer is surrounding Cletus' body, as he unleashes continuous sweeping attacks at me. His movement speed is faster than I can more without the flow of ki enhancing my body.

I do not want to expose the movement capabilities of Shadow Fist yet. I circle, using my swords to deflect the attacks I cannot avoid. Every time I move carelessly, the edge of the buckler strapped on Cletus' wrist lashes out at me.

Considering Cletus' precise attacks and movements, his reaction speed is probably a little better than my own unenhanced speed. As long as I stay defensive, I can just barely deal with the difference in our speeds. Even so, I do not think he is showing me his best.

I start testing Cletus' defenses, using only one sword at a time to attack. I have the feeling that if I use double weapon attack patterns, Cletus will be able to get past my own defenses.

We go on like this for several minutes, before Cletus suddenly erupts in another burst of speed. I just barely see the flash of motion, as his buckler streaks toward my face. I am not able to avoid the blow, but I still get my arm up between the buckler and my head.

Pain explodes in my arm as the rim of the buckler compresses muscle against bone. If not for my years of body conditioning in the Urehara Style, the bones in my left forearm would have been shattered. Still, the impact is enough to send me flying back over ten feet. I could have resisted the force and mitigated the knock back, but I want to gain the distance from Cletus.

As my feet touch the sand, Cletus is already charging toward me, but I twist aside, to avoid his flail. I do not press any attack as Cletus passes, and he is back to his normal fast speed when he turns around.

I do not think he can use that super speed at will, but I doubt that the time he waited to use it is as long as it takes to be ready again.

Cletus' eyes narrow slightly, as he looks at my left arm still holding my sword. He did not expect my arm to still be usable after that blow. He changes his attack pattern and begins to use small bursts of speed that only affect a single action: a step or a strike. I cannot stop all of Cletus' attacks anymore, and his strikes start to land periodically. My own return attacks are being consistently avoided.

I work to take all of Cletus' attacks on my muscles instead of my bones, but the small bruises start to accumulate all over my upper body. The damage is not significant, but given enough time, Cletus will wear me down. At least, he would be able to, if I did not know Shadow Fist.

I am only going to get one real chance to use Shadow Fist. With his movement and reaction speed, Cletus will only be caught blind once.

The super speed boost almost catches me off-guard. Suddenly, Cletus reverses the swing of his flail, and pain flares in my right shoulder, as I duck my head and twist to only take the blow on that shoulder. The follow-up blow from the buckler slams into my crossed swords and lifts me off the ground.

As my left foot touches the ground, I move. Pushing my body to the limit, my single step carries me around and behind Cletus.

Pop! Pop!

In the fraction of second, it takes Cletus to find me, both of my swords slam into the side of his right knee. Before the pain has time to register, Cletus' leg starts to buckle under the force of his turn, and my fists hammer into his face, breaking his nose and jaw. As the impacts drive Cletus' body back in the opposite direction, my knee ruptures his testicles and shatters his pubic bone.

“Eeep!”

As Cletus crumples to the ground, feeling movement behind me, I spin around. The Throd'nahk, his body surrounded by blue ropes of electricity, is moving faster than Cletus' burst speed. His fist slams into the side of my bead, before I get my hand even halfway into position.

The ropes of electricity jump into my body, making it impossible for me to control my muscles, as I fly through the air. I am unconscious, before I ever hit the ground.

*** Gor'achen Citadel (Over Tallifer) - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 139

Like all of her compound, Elan'fer'sha's study had been carved out of the solid rock of a pocket dimension within Gor'achen Citadel. Rich wood paneling covered all the walls, so only the stone of the floor and ceiling were visible. The large window behind her desk looked out over her private arena, where her gladiatorial slaves trained. On the outside, spell sigils cloaked that window so that it was invisible to anyone within the arena.

Elan'fer'sha looked up from the report she was reading at the sound of a knock. Even though more than an eighth of the DokkAlfar race were active psi adepts, she was not and did not know who was outside her study. Since she was alone, Elan'fer'sha did not try to keep her irritation off her face.

“Who disturbs me?”

“Mistress, the Throd'nahk has requested an audience.” The voice belonged to Elan'fer'sha's butler, Keratin, another of her slaves.

Elan'fer'sha glanced out the window behind her, seeing the dark, empty arena, before she looked at the intricate clock on the credenza against the left-side wall. Seeing that the time was already after the eighth tenth, she frowned.

The DokkAlfar way of keeping time breaks time into base 10 divisions of the length of a Taereun day: tenth of a day, hundredth of a day, thousandth of day, etc. The absolute midpoint of the night is the beginning and ending of a day in DokkAlfar timekeeping. The DokkAlfar have an instinctive understanding of the difference between their base time and the current time based on the zone they are in. With the sometimes radical differences in the length of a day in some zones in the Labyrinth of Yggr, this is an invaluable ability for their race. The eighth tenth put the time well after sunset.

“Bring him to me.”

“As you command, Mistress.”

With her back to the door, Elan'fer'sha stared out the window at her darkened arena. I was so caught up in the reports on the status of the Iron Slave Stable, that I did not notice the passage of time.

After a few minutes, there was another knock on the door. “Mistress, I have the Throd'nahk.”

“Send him in.”

The door opened and closed, but there was no sound of footsteps inside the room. The silence of the Throd'nahk's movements was not unusual, since he had been a hunter of men when Elan'fer'sha had captured him.

“Speak, Mahkah.”

Elan'fer'sha did not need to look to know that the Throd'nahk had dropped to one knee.

“Except for your special one, Brand, they are all trash. They will be useful for group battles and executing criminals at best.”

Elan'fer'sha frowned, even though the Throd'nahk could not see it, or perhaps because he could not see it.

“I expected no better. Tell me about Brand.”

There were several moments of silence, and when the Throd'nahk spoke, his voice was hesitant. “Is he really not a Transcendent, Mistress?”

Elan'fer'sha's frown deepened. “No, he is not.”

“Mistress, with his Power sealed by his collar, Brand destroyed Cletus, whose Power was unsealed. If I had not put Brand down, he probably would have killed Cletus.”

Elan'fer'sha spun her chair around to face the Throd'nahk. Unable to keep her hopes out of her demeanor, her face was a portrait of bloodthirsty hunger.

“What of his skills? Would he have a chance against the Iron Fist?”

The Throd'nahk's face betrayed his shock, as he stared blankly, seeming to not see the room in front of his face.

“I don't know. He went down with a single blow from me. Even with his Power sealed, the Iron Fist would never go down like that.” As his voice trailed off, the Throd'nahk again stared off into space.

“What are you thinking about, Mahkah?” Elan'fer'sha's voice held an odd note of intensity.

“Brand, his Power, what is it?”

“Ki. He is probably at what the humans call the Master level. He is also a Smith.”

“Brand is a Binary? A Binary. That makes things interesting.” Rubbing one of the scars on his chest, the Throd'nahk began to pace back and forth.

Elan'fer'sha did not say a word and only sat watching him. She had owned the Throd'nahk from first moment he was enslaved, and knew better than anyone his talent as a strategist and in the training of gladiators. Even though he was nothing but her property, she would give the Throd'nahk the time to properly work through the problem in his mind.

“His fighting style combined with the arts of a Smith may give him a chance. Even with his ki sealed, he was able to move his body in ways that it should not have been able to move. It must be a ki-based art, and with his ki at full strength, he will be more formidable. Normal ki adepts use their ki to enhance their weapons as well as their bodies and skills. As a smith, Brand will not need to use his ki in such a way, and have more ki to use for other things.”

The Throd'nahk stopped pacing and stared at his Mistress. “I cannot guarantee that Brand can win, but he will have a better chance than any other Gladiator in this stable. Cletus would not even be the Gor'achen Champion, if you did not keep him out of the bouts against the Eternal War and Fiend stables.”

Elan'fer'sha frowned. “If Cletus spent less time putting his dick in men's assholes and more time preparing himself, I would not need to.”

The Throd'nahk snorted. “His dick may never work right again according to the healer.”

Elan'fer'sha's smile was malicious. “Cletus no longer matters. If he does not show improvement, use him for menial labor in the pens.

“Get Brand ready for the arena, as quickly as possible. Do whatever you need to, to make him the equal of the SvartAlfar and the Ogre.”

The Throd'nahk dropped to one knee again.

“Yes, Mistress.”

*** Gor'achen Citadel (Over Tallifer) - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 139

Passing over the vast oceans of Tallifer, the Great Citadel of Gor'achen was a silent specter in the night sky. With the moon below the horizon, the only sign of the citadel from the waters below was the shadow it created as it blocked the light of the stars.

In the middle of the First Layer, the upper level of the citadel, the Temple of Yggr stood on one side of the Central Plaza of Gor'achen, with the Rulers Keep opposite it. Built in a baroque architectural style, tall towers rose from each corner of the temple, and a massive set of double doors with four guards from the Central Fane Guard gave access to the temple's nave.

The nave of the Temple of Yggr was empty. Softly flickering candlelight illuminated the gallows and spear behind the altar. The large rusty brown stain on the floor below the gallows and the miasma of coppery blood filling the air gave testament to the countless victims sacrificed to Yggr over the tens of millennia of that temple's existence.

Kra'cha'len stopped near the center of the nave and stared at the frescoes on the walls. Three of the ones that had always had the most impact on him were situated one next to the other: The Destruction of Dragons, The Exile of Woden, and The Defeat of Boran. The accounts of all three deeds were contained within The Fifteenth Book of Yggr and had taken place during the Jotun-Dragon War. In each of the frescoes, Yggr was pictured as a domineering tyrant.

Tyranny is the greatest aspect of Yggr, and though the worship of Yggr as its patron God, tyranny has become the unwritten law of the Atran'ler Empire. The Empire was founded and still ruled by the Atran'ler clan, with the current Emperor being the eleventh to sit on the throne.

Even though Yggr was the patron God of the Atran'ler Empire, he was not the only Jotun Lord worshiped by the Empire's citizens. Many other Jotun Lords and Jotun Champions were revered by the many clans and commoners of the Empire. For more than forty millennia, the Atran'ler Empire had dominated the Battleground of Slaves. Constant struggles for dominance among the clans and the factions of the Jotun Church kept the Empire strong.

Sighing to himself, Kra'cha'len turned from the frescoes and advanced to the open space before the altar. Dropping to one knee, he pressed he forehead to the stone floor fronting the altar.

“I submit to the Great God's dominance.”

After banging his forehead on the ground three times, Kra'cha'len stood and walked to a door in the left-side wall near the altar. Locked to anyone not attuned to it by magic, the door opened at his touch, and he entered the dimly lit corridor beyond.

In the ceiling of this corridor, the light crystals gave off a dim white light, reminiscent of light reflected from the surface of many airless moons. The tables with small artworks scattered along the passage were cast into stark relief against their shadows on the walls and floor below them.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The hard souls of Kra'cha'len's boots echoed softly, as he followed the corridor to its end and ascended the switchback stairs to the floor above the nave. A pair guards stood flanking this corridor, but they did not react to Kra'cha'len's passage. Only the Priests of the Central Fane of Yggr could enter the corridor from below, without triggering the alarm spells woven into the fabric of the stones making up its floor and walls.

Opposite the stairs by which Kra'cha'len ascended, another set of stairs ascended, but it did not provide an exit into the nave. Rather those stairs led to the offices of the Priest-Scribes whose job it was to maintain the records of the Central Fane of Yggr. Another pair of guards stood watch on that corridor, but like the other pair, they did not react to Kra'cha'len's presence.

To Kra'cha'len's right, the corridor gave access to the private office of the Priest-Lord of Gor'achen Citadel. At the end of the corridor, on Kra'cha'len's left, a door led to the offices of the Church's other ranking officials. Twelve guards were stationed along the length of this corridor in pairs, so that under the worst possible circumstances, it would be more difficult for all of them to be eliminated without giving voice to some kind of warning.

Turning to his right, Kra'cha'len followed the corridor to the front of the building, where the door was flanked by two guards. With him being dressed in the robes of a Priest-Wizard, the guards did not impede Kra'cha'len's passage. Inside the room, another pair of guards flanked the door in the opposite wall, and a Priest-Scribe that served as the Priest-Lord's secretary was seated behind a desk to the side.

Looking at Kra'cha'len, the Priest-Scribe bowed from his seated position. “The Priest-Lord is awaiting you arrival, Priest-Wizard. Go right in.”

Without acknowledging the secretary, Kra'cha'len advanced to the doors, which were opened by the guards.

Until the doors were closed behind Kra'cha'len, neither of the DokkAlfar in the office spoke, and Kra'cha'len was the first to break the silence. Dropping to one knee, he bowed to the Lord-Priest with his forehead touching the floor.

“Priest-Wizard Kra'cha'len reports as commanded, Your Eminence!” Despite his position, Kra'cha'len's voice held resolute pride.

“Rise, Kra. You do not need to stand on ceremony with me like this when we are alone. You are no longer the child I chose form the orphan barracks.” The Priest-Lord's voice was soft, but an aura of authority infused its very timbre.

Kra'cha'len grimaced slightly but schooled his face to banality, before rising to his feet. He hated being reminded of the fact that his Provenance was meaningless. The only survivor of a LjosAlfar raid, with his clan destroyed, Kra'cha'len had been placed in an Orphan Barracks. His enormous potential as a Medium having been noticed in passing by a Priest, Kra'cha'len was taken from the barracks on the direct orders of then Priest-Wizard Stegnar'shen'fal.

Putting a false smile on his lips, Kra'cha'len nodded to the Priest-Lord. “Everything was carried out without incident, Your Eminence. Jinmu is en route to the Tren'fon Array. The animal called Brand has been given to the Wytch Elan'fer'sha for her stable.”

Stegnar'shen'fal steepled his fingers, as he sat back in his throne-like chair. “Killing off an entire raider force from the Left Hand Order single-handed is impressive. Can we make any use of this Brand as a resource?”

Kra'cha'len frowned slightly, while he pretended to think the matter over. “I am not sure, Your Eminence. He is a ki master, so it is difficult to judge his true level of Power, but it is certain that has never Transcended.”

Stegnar'shen'fal frowned as well. “A non-Transecended human is unfortunately useless. Has the Left Hand Order fallen so low?”

The smile on Kra'cha'len's face was pure malice. “The Great God had clearly cast them aside at the end.”

“Monitor the animal Brand. If it shows potential, we can possibly use it as an expendable assassin and let Elan'fer'sha be the scapegoat. What of your attempts to infiltrate the Stoics?”

Kra'cha'len frowned, wearing an expression of frustration. “They do not trust me enough to let me any farther into the organization than the general meetings. Since we cannot ascertain who the leaders are, I do not know what it will require to gain their trust.”

Stegnar'shen'fal sighed, as he rose to his feet. Walking to a window that did not have any furniture in front of it, he looked out over the night covered Great Citadel. “Do your best. I will try to find someone who can successfully track one of the Stoic leaders to his or her point of origin. You had best leave, before anyone can become suspicious your true position.”

“Yes, Your Eminence.”

Kra'cha'len exited the room, closing the doors behind himself.

What Is Your Connection To Talon?

*** Gor'achen Citadel (Over Tallifer) - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 140

Elan'fer'sha stood naked in the center of her ritual chamber. With the exception of her face and hands, her entire body was marked with the midnight lines of tattoos. Forming ritual patterns meant to channel and hold the Umbra, the tattoos were intended to help her to handle the dangerous Elemental Power, without falling victim to its insidious corruption.

Her stare was focused on the items laid out on the alter in front of her: two swords, one belt, one belt pouch, four rings, one bracelet, and one charm encrusted with rubies and yellow diamonds. The swords have no patterns. The bracelet and charm are unbound, but they have the remnants of soul threads still clinging to them. The rest are bound to Brand. It is strange for one person to use so many dimensional holding devices at one time. It is time to sever those threads and find out what secrets are stored inside.

A ball of ebon Umbral Power began to coalesce on the tip of Elan'fer'sha's finger, and her body began to sway and writhe seductively, as she started to draw a spell pattern in the air. While time passed slowly, traces of Umbral Power flowed over her body, appearing to follow the design of her tattoos. As the spell pattern built, its complexity continued to increase, and it took on a three dimensional shape.

With the completed spell pattern rotating in front of her, Elan'fer'sha critically inspected it. If there is a single flaw, I will have start over. Breaking a soul thread is entirely too difficult, requiring near perfect precision. How something so ephemeral can be so close to impervious is beyond my understanding.

A wave of Elan'fer'sha's hand sent the spell pattern toward the belt on the altar. The nearer it moved, the more condensed the pattern became, until it appeared to be a solid ball of Umbral Power. As the dark power expanded into a line and rotated in a circle, Elan'fer'sha smiled.

One is done, and five remain.

Instead of binding and examining the contents of the belt, Elan'fer'sha began work on the next spell pattern, a duplicate of the first. After repeating the process five more times, she leaned on the altar, dripping sweat. Reaching behind her head, she pulled at her long silver hair that was matted with sweat and stuck to her back.

I feel more like having fought a battle than having cast a mere six spells.

Tying a soul thread to one of the rings, Elan'fer'sha inspected the contents.

“More storage devices! What kind of crazy monkey collects so many storage devices?!” Her shriek was loud enough to echo off the stone walls of her ritual chamber.

Even knowing she was the only person in the ritual chamber, Elan'fer'sha still glanced around, with a hint of embarrassment on her face. Turning back to the altar, she examined the storage devices stored within the ring. A least these do not already have soul threads tied to them.

Elan'fer'sha began to inspect the contents of the other storage devices. Piles of armor, weapons, tools, coins, jewels, metal bars, food supplies, and camping equipment appeared on the altar, before disappearing back into the storage devices.

As she was inspecting the last storage device, the belt pouch, Elan'fer'sha laid a suit of armor on the altar. As the sight of the mask attached to the helm, her face froze and a shiver passed through her body. For a long time, she did nothing but stare at the face molded into the mask.

“Talon! What connection does this monkey have to fucking Talon?!”

Elan'fer'sha's fingers dug at her chest, as though she was trying to claw out something that she despised. If it weren't for that Half-Dvergar freak, I would not be in this position! Damn him to the frozen pits of Hel.

*** Gor'achen Citadel (Over Tallifer) - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 140

Pain wakes me. My entire body hurts. It feels as if all of the muscles and joints in my body have been strained, but the worst pain is in my right shoulder. It is badly bruised, and it feels like there may be hairline fractures in the bones. The impact of Cletus' last shield strike was not small.

I am in a cell by myself this time, a different cell from the one I woke in last time. This time the cell is much smaller, and has a stone platform on one side to sleep on. In the back corner, on the opposite side from the slab, there is a hole about eight inches in diameter. The stench makes its purpose obvious.

There is a cell across the corridor from mine, with one of the slaves that was with me in the holding cell occupying it. From the sounds of snoring, there are other cells, with more sleeping slaves to either side.

Even though my body is covered in bruises, the pain in my muscles and joints has to be from the electricity in the Throd'nahk's attack. My muscles must have been afflicted with wild spasms, to do so much damage. I am used to pain. It is my oldest friend, whether I acknowledge it or not. This pain is not even intense enough to distract me, but the stiffness will impede my movements. While it is still quiet in the slave pens, I take the time to stretch out my body. Without being able to use my ki, it is the best I am capable of.

Once I am done stretching, I try to circulate my ki though my body but fail miserably. No matter how small the amount of ki I try to use, the debilitating pain flares through me. The more ki I use or the longer I use it, the more intense the pain is. As inured to pain as I may be, this pain is at a level that I cannot endure.

With nothing else to do, I sink into a meditative trance. Even though I am not practicing my ki manipulation, the trance still serves the purpose of allowing my body to rest more effectively than sleeping would. Moreover, in this meditative state, I am still aware of the world around me.

The passage of time is neither fast nor slow, it just is. Several hours later, the sound of multiple sets of footsteps rouses me to full awareness. Those footsteps are not loud, but my hearing seems to have become exceptional since returning to this body. It is not at the level of my Half-Dvergar body, but it is still above the normal human level. I look toward the right side of my cell's barred front, waiting for the arrival of the sources of those footsteps.

Four DokkAlfar guards walk past the front of my cell, and the back one on my side of the hall happens to glance in. Surprise momentarily flickers across his face, before it returns to its impassive mien. His eyes face forward again, as he disappears down the hall to the left of my cell.

Less than thirty seconds later, the rattle of metal on metal reaches my ears.

“Up and out! Go to the end of the corridor and wait!” Even though the voice is speaking the Slave Tongue, its musical quality does not belong any human. Only Alfar have such naturally pleasant voices, no matter how unpleasant the language they are speaking might be.

Preceded and followed by the sound of his footsteps, one of the slaves walks past my cell.

The sounds repeat six times before the DokkAlfar are again in front of my cell. With the rattling of metal on metal, one of them uses a large steel key to open the lock in my cell door, and pull it open.

“Up and out! Go to the end of the corridor and wait!” The DokkAlfar who opened my cell is the one giving the orders.

I rise and exit my cell, moving to the end of the hall. As I reach the seven men already clustered there, I notice the one whose shoulder was broken by the Throd'nahk in the cell to my left. His shoulder has been bandaged, and his arm is tied tightly to his chest.

The group of slaves is silent and sullen. They have all had their hair and beards cut, so that they are standing up like short bristles. My own rather short hair and second day shave were left untouched.

Outside this corridor, another is running perpendicular to it, and voices can be heard from both directions. Most of their chatter is nothing more than grumbling. They are bitching about the low quality of the food and the sore muscles resulting from the day's training. A few of them seem to be openly plotting the sexual assault of one or more of the new slaves.

I look at the slaves around me, and from their lack of reaction, they must not be able to hear the gladiators plotting their upcoming sexual humiliation. As long as none of the gladiators is stupid enough to come after me, it is none of my affair. These idiots can take care of themselves or get ass raped.

After the guards open the cell of the broken-shouldered slave, they push through the middle of us and stand in the cross corridor.

“All right slaves, move out!” The DokkAlfar voice comes from the right side of the cross corridor.

The DokkAlfar that was opening our cells points in the direction of the new voice, and the other slaves begin filing out. I wait for all the slaves to pass my cell's corridor and go last. As they pass me, the gladiator slaves have a variety of expressions, when looking at me. Not a one is friendly, but not all of them are hostile.

Five other corridors exit off the cross corridor. All the cell corridors are on the same wall, three to one side and two to the other of the corridor where my cell is. To the right from my corridor, the side with three more corridors, another short corridor opens form the wall opposite the side where the cell corridors are.

In total, there are fourteen DokkAlfar guards. With the exception of my corridor, each corridor had two DokkAlfar opening the cells. These DokkAlfar guards give me unpleasant looks but do not say or do anything to provoke me.

Exiting the short corridor, we enter a mess hall. A few other corridors besides the one we entered by exit from this room. There are enough tables and benches to seat over a hundred slaves, but there are only fifty-two of us in total. Cletus is not among the gladiators.

On one wall, there are tables with bowls, mugs, spoons, and food. Being the last to exit from the corridor, I am the last in line for the food. The other slaves are not being rowdy or jostling for position, so I assume the DokkAlfar are ruthless toward anyone disturbing the order.

I do not know what the followers of The Nameless are like, but the followers of Yggr I have encountered are merciless in terms of power and hierarchy. Everyone and everything has its place and should remain in it. At least, that is the case for as long as the ones above can keep those below themselves suppressed. Every DokkAlfar's dream is to tear down those above himself or herself and rise to a position of higher status and power. The greater the status and power, the greater the hedonistic pleasures the DokkAlfar can enjoy.

Reaching the tables, I take a plate that appears to be roughly shaped from stone, not ceramic but stone. The bread is a bit hard, as though it is two or three days old. A pot contains a lumpy substance reminiscent of oatmeal. There is nothing but plain water in the pitchers. It is a thoroughly unappetizing meal. I feel like I am back in the hospital.

From what I can see, the groups of gladiators are arranged in cliques, clustered together at separate tables. The new slaves who arrived with me are clustered together at a table as far from the gladiators as they can get. One group of gladiators is still talking about ass raping the new slaves, while eyeing them up. This time, the new slaves can clearly hear the gladiators, and fear is visible in the their eyes.

I take a seat at an empty table, where I can keep my back to the wall. All of the slaves, both the gladiators and the new ones, take an interest in me. After what I did to Cletus, their so-called Champion, they cannot treat me like another piece of newbie trash. I am an anomaly, and they do not know how to deal with me yet. Most of them look away, when I do not bother to keep the malicious smile off of my face.

“Gladiators, assemble!” The Throd'nahk's voice comes from the hall opposite the one leading to our cells.

As the gladiators rise and file out of the room, the new slaves follow them in a cluster, and I follow the new slaves. The hall is over a hundred feet long and leads into a ready room for the arena fights. An open gate can close this hall off, just like the two other small halls that lead into this room.

Opposite the small corridor we entered from, a wide passage leads up to the arena. The Throd'nahk is standing in the mouth of that passage. His critical gaze pans across the gladiators and the new slaves, before resting on me.

“Hossen, take the new trash and put them through strength drills. Sado, start everyone working on basic and intermediate sword drills. There was too much sloppiness in the handling of the new trash. Brand, you come with me.”

At the Throd'nahk's words, everyone's eyes turn toward me. The new slaves' eyes are filled with self-pity. The gladiators' eyes are filled with mockery and condescension.

I keep my face impassive, as I walk over to the Throd'nahk.

The Throd'nahk's cold stare is sizing me up once more. He has an extreme interest in me, but the reason is not clear. It cannot be because I trashed Cletus, since the Throd'nahk was already weighing me in the cell where I woke up.

Turning to the hall to my left, the Throd'nahk walks away without a word. I trail after him, like a good newbie slave. I do not know where I am, and with the collar on my neck, I do not have a hope in hell of beating the Throd'nahk. For now, I can only follow his commands.

This corridor runs for about seventy-five feet before opening into another room about the same size as the mess hall. Ten stained stone slabs line each wall, with chains and shackles bolted into in them. On the one farthest from the door we entered though, a recumbent figure is visible. Secured by the shackles, its hips and groin are wrapped with bandages.

As the Throd'nahk leads me closer, I see Cletus' blonde hair and former pretty boy face. His nose is smashed flat, and he has missing teeth in his upper jaw.

“Without healing magic, he will never be a while man again. Even with strong healing magic, he might never be a whole man. Our healer is low class, and the Mistress will not spend money on a weak Champion like Cletus. Even if he was the Blood Rose Stable's Champion, and the current Gor'achen Champion, he's useless.”

The Throd'nahk stares coldly at me.

“So, what does that mean for me?”

I feel the chill of the Throd'nahk's cold smile. Even though not much of anything causes me to really feel fear anymore, this Throd'nahk has enough Power and presence to make me uneasy.

“You will become the new Champion of the Blood Rose Stable.”

The Throd'nahk pauses for a few moments, but I do not say anything. The driving force behind this has to be Elan'fer'sha. Blood Rose Stable has to be her gladiatorial stable. Fighting and killing have been part of life for years now. If becoming their Champion will keep me alive until I can escape, I will become their Champion.

“You're rather passive for someone who reeks of bloodshed.”

I shrug. “For now, I'm nothing but a collared slave.”

The Throd'nahk's grin is nasty. “Now and forever. Even if it's not actively blocking your Power, that collar will keep you a slave forever. If you attacked one of the Masters or Mistresses, it would turn you into a useless sack of flesh. You'd be pissing, shitting, and puking all over yourself, until one of the Masters shut it down. If no one shut it down, you would die.”

I do not respond to the Throd'nahk and stare at him with a bored expression on my face. He is not one of the Masters. There is nothing to stop me from killing him, if I have the opportunity.

From the way that the Throd'nahk looks back at me, I have the impression that he knows exactly what I am thinking.

“Come!”

As I follow the Throd'nahk, leads me out into the arena.

The light crystal in the cavern roof is emitting the same yellowish light as last time. It feels similar to sunlight, even to the point of having some warmth, but there is something not right. I do not feel like I am under the sun of the Earth, but that different feel does not mean anything, since so many of the zones in the Battleground of the Damned have suns that feel different from Earth. If I were told that the crystal was designed to mimic the light of a sun I have not yet seen, I would take those words as truth.

The gladiators are paired up, performing sword drills at somewhere around half speed. This is not sparring, but instead, they are training what is often called muscle memory. Almost all of the attacks in their drills are ones that will cause wounds but probably not kill. The constant repetitions are designed to make it so they can use the attacks and defenses instinctually, while hurt and distracted by the roaring crowds lusting after more of their blood.

The new slaves, except for the one with the broken shoulder, are in a circle. They are doing squats, while tossing boulders that probably weigh in the neighborhood of two hundred pounds to the man next to them. As much as training their physical strength, the exercise is training their timing and judgment. If they make a single mistake, it could easily result in broken bones.

“Choose your weapons!” The Throd'nahk takes a spear from the racks filled with practice weapons. It is a huge weapon, almost a foot longer than he is tall.

Following the Throd'nahk's command, I find the practice swords I used against Cletus. Swords are not the best choice against the spear, but dual weapons are what I am most comfortable with. In the hands of experts with both weapons, with all Power based abilities ignored, the spear has the advantage over the sword. Using dual weapons slightly offsets the advantage but does not eliminate it.

Without any preamble or warning, the Throd'nahk attacks. The tyrannical domination of his first few attacks would do any master I have ever seen proud. Every attack challenges the weak points in my defense left by the preceding attack; he changes the angle and height enough to keep me off-balance, slowly driving me back. I am unable to do anything but defend desperately, as I retreat. This man is a true expert with the spear.

As the Throd'nahk shifts position, a slight change in the timing of his attacks gives me a chance to start circling him. As skilled as he is, when I am already moving perpendicularly to his lines of attack, the Throd'nahk cannot force me into a retreat like he did with his opening attack. Without being driven back by the force of his attacks, I am maintaining a better defense, but still have no opportunity to initiate any attacks of my own. Every time I try to break open his defense, he can suppress my attack before I am in range.

The Throd'nahk is not using Power, but his skill with a spear exceeds my skill with the sword by enough of a margin that I am helpless before him. Without using Shadow Fist, I will not stand a chance against him, but I do not want to reveal too much about Shadow Fist.

“If you don't us the martial style you used against Cletus, I'm going to put you on the slab next to him.” There is no threat or hostility in the Throd'nahk's voice. It is so flat that it is more threatening than enraged screaming would ever be.

Now, I understand what this little session is about. After seeing me use Shadow Fist's movement capabilities to get the best of Cletus with his Power released, the Throd'nahk wants to see for himself what I am capable of.

I feel my face go flat and expressionless. For some reason, the Throd'nahk's little test is pissing me the fuck off a lot more than it should. I must be under too much stress, with everything that has happened in the last few days.

As the Throd'nahk lunges with his spear, I advance into his attack and move underneath his weapon. My joints practically scream under the burden of force my action puts on them. Even as I stab toward his balls, the Throd'nahk twists the haft of his spear to deflect the blade. My left hand sword coming from low to high in an oblique stab gives him no chance to retaliate, as he is forced to block again.

My attacks keep coming, and the Throd'nahk keeps backing away while defending. His eyes are fully open. The squinting glare that seemed to be the natural set of his face is gone. His basic skill is probably two or three notches above my own, but my ferocious Shadow Fist based attacks, delivered from angles and positions I should not be able to reach is keeping him on the defensive.

“Look over there!”

“Greatest God!”

“That scarred fucker is pushing the Throd'nahk around!”

“I don't believe this!”

Something flickers in the Throd'nahk's visage. It might be pride, but there is anger there, as well.

Fuck me! Blue light flares in my vision, and I dive past the Throd'nahk's knees.

Boom!

I hit the ground rolling, and as soon as my feet touch the ground again, launch myself at an angle to my left.

Boom!

After another roll, I rise to my feet spinning to face the Throd'nahk. Ropes of blue lighting are coiling around his spear, and his face is filled with a mix of anger and something else.

His face turning into a mask of pure rage, the Throd'nahk turns toward the gladiators. “Who ordered you to halt your practice?! Resume your training or you will doing be strength drills with the new meat all night!”

Wiping the expressions of shock and amazement off their faces, the gladiators hastily return to their training. Their overzealously energetic practice is almost comical to watch.

When the Throd'nahk turns back to me, the rage is gone from his face. Once again, the squint-eyed, glaring mask is back in place.

“What is that martial style that you use?”

I stare at the Throd'nahk for a moment. Is there any harm in telling him? Just the name will mean nothing to almost everyone everywhere.

“Shadow Fist.”

The Throd'nahk appears to think for several long moments. “I have never heard of a style like it.”

I shrug. “I'm the only living practitioner as far as I know.”

“The way you move seems half-crippled. That style is dependent on Power. If your Power is released, how much more effective will it become.”

Sudden pain flares through me, but I keep it off my face. The pain came from my soul, as one of my soul threads was severed. It was connected to one of the dimensional storage rings. Even though I have heard of techniques to sever soul threads, I have never encountered them directly. The quickest and most efficient way to sever a soul thread is to kill the bearer of the thread.

“It's hard to say. I only use the movement techniques from Shadow Fist, when I am forced to, but they have never failed me.” No, that is not true, but this Throd'nahk has no need to know that. I could not even use Shadow Fist, when Jinmu called on Yggr to Judge me. I may as well not have even known Shadow Fist for all that it helped me against the Judgment.

The Throd'nahk stares at me for several moments. His manner gives the impression that he is weighing something in his mind.

Looking to one of the DokkAlfar guards, the Throd'nahk points to me. “Guard, release his Power.”

The guard just stares at the Throd'nahk for a moment, before reaching into his belt pouch. Taking out one of those black metal rods, he points it at me, and I feel the collar's retaliation turn off. Even though I was not consciously aware of the energy field, its lack is now obvious.

At first, I circulate just a trickle of ki, making sure there is no backlash. As I flood ki through my body, I feel like I am coming to life.

Putting ki into my practice swords, I find that they are capable of handling a surprising amount of ki. As I wrap them with kinetic force, I attack the Throd'nahk, but I do not catch him off guard. From his reaction, it seems as if he was waiting for my assault. His spear blocks both of my thrusts, and ropes of blue lightning snake across his entire body. His retaliation is even faster than my own strikes.

Our first exchange makes it clear that that Throd'nahk is faster than I am. Whether reaction speed or movement speed, he is ahead of me by a good margin.

I move under one of the Throd'nahk's thrusts. As I circle behind his back, I feel the fabric of reality around me almost warping. Spinning around wide-eyed, the Throd'nahk blocks my thrusts and slashes, with a series of rapid strikes from his spear's shaft. Springing back, he puts close to twenty feet between us. His stare seems to burn a hole in me, while he appears to be trying to understand how I performed that move.

“Do that to me again!”

I attack again, waiting for an opening. After a few minutes, it comes, when the Throd'nahk tries to club me in the head with a lateral sweep from his spear's shaft. Stepping behind him, I lunge forward, as the Throd'nahk leaps away from me.

“Again!”

As soon as I am within range of the Throd'nahk's spear, I move forward. Using attacks from Shadow Fist, that have the same near warping effect on space, I launch a thrust at his leg and another at his neck, before my movement is complete. The strain of so many Shadow Fist techniques at once on my body is painful enough to make me want to scream. Only a body strong enough to channel the Od is strong enough to truly use Shadow Fist.

The Throd'nahk still manages to knock both my blades aside, and I barely duck under his elbow aimed at my face. Stepping behind the Throd'nahk, I strike at both his kidneys with the hilts of my swords, but he is already turning to intercept me. His speed is inhuman, and he stops both attacks, slightly numbing my forearms in the process.

For the next few minutes, we exchange rapid attacks, until I stumble. Another of my soul threads has been severed, and the sudden pain sweeping through my body disrupted my balance.

The Throd'nahk uses the opportunity to push his assault, and I am driven fully on the defensive again. However, my continued use of Shadow Fist prevents him from pinning me down, and I have the chance to regain my equilibrium.

Even with ki fueling my techniques, Shadow Fist is still taking its toll on my body, and the severing of my soul threads took a toll on my soul. With intervals of a little more than twenty minutes between the severing of threads, except for the endless quiver, all of my bindings to my storage devices are gone.

Even though the Throd'nahk is not driving his attack home, I am still in bad shape. Combined with the fatigue and damage from using Shadow Fist, the severing of my soul threads has taken its toll on me. I am filled with both physical and non-physical pain. My soul feels like it has been abraded with a rasp, and my body feels like I tried to body surf the rapids of a wild river.

The Throd'nahk has been carefully observing me. Despite my self-control and tolerance for pain, I must be showing some of the damage.

“Enough for now. We will continue after the midday meal.”

I stare at the Throd'nahk. “So, are you going to give me a loincloth like the rest of the gladiators, or is walking around with around with my dick hanging out all the time some kind of ritual hazing?”

The Throd'nahk almost looks like he going to smile. “Clothes are for men, not trash. When you survive your first bout in the arena you will be a gladiator and earn clothing.”

Turning his back on me, the Throd'nahk goes to inspect the training of the gladiator and the new slaves.

I sit down cross-legged on the sand and start circulating ki through my body, mind, and soul. Using the ki to drag mana and psi along with it, I try to heal as much of the accumulated damage as can be done quickly. Still, it takes more than half an hour for the pain to start to recede from my soul.

“Gladiators! Break for the midday meal.”

The thump of boulders hitting the ground is followed by the grunts and moans of the new slaves.

“TRASH! Who told you to stop! You don't eat until the training day is over!” The raw violence in the Throd'nahk's voice would probably make a bull orc hesitate.

“Brand! You eat with the Gladiators!”

Rising to my feet, I head toward the passage leading to the ready room and the mess hall beyond it.

“Throd'nahk, what about the slaves collar?” The DokkAlfar's voice sounds nervous.

The Throd'nahk's sneer is audibly reflected in his voice. “What's the matter guard? Are you afraid a naked human, who does not even know where the exit from this stable is, will escape? Leave him as is. He will be training with me again after his meal.”

Seeing the guards fear, as he looks at me, I understand what type of creatures these stable guards are. They are almost certainly from the bottom of DokkAlfar society. They are nothing but bullies, given power over the lives and deaths of the gladiatorial slaves. If they had to face us with our Power released, they would probably shit themselves.

Sitting in the same place as I ate breakfast, I eat my lunch. It consists of soup made of mostly vegetables and a little meat, with more of the two or three day old bread. This time it is a step or two above hospital food, but that is not saying much.

A thin, drab, supercilious human male enters from the passage opposite the one leading to the infirmary. He is wearing a grey, sleeveless tunic, with a patch on the left breast. The patch has a blood red rose, with silver shackles over it, on a black field. He walks up to the nearest guard.

“The Mistress has summoned the slave called Brand.” The man's nasal voice has an affectation of gentility, at least as much of one as the Slave Tongue can convey.

“Brand, come here!” Even though he has to be nothing more than the gutter trash of the DokkAlfar society, the DokkAlfar's voice still sounds far more cultured and noble than the little man's.

I rise and walk over to the two.

The little bitch of a human looks like he is ready to piss all over himself, as he stumbles back against the wall. His shaking hand is pointing at me.

“His collar! His collar! It's not working! He's dangerous!” The man's cultured airs are gone, replaced by the whininess of a low class menial.

The DokkAlfar guards are all snickering. Whatever this human's position, he seems to have earned the guards' enmity.

Taking out the black metal rod, the guard points it at my collar. There is no noise and no sensation of any Power that I can recognize, but my collar's runes flare to life again.

This time I am close enough to get a good look at the rod. It is about eight inches long, tapering so that it is narrower on one end. A little more than half way from the large end, a line of three small characters run along lit. I do not know the language, but the characters appear to be the same as the ones in the book from the house of the priest on Earth. Perhaps, it is the written form of the DokkAlfar language.

Trying to recover his dignity and take an imposing air with me, the man stands up to his full height, about 5'5”, and tilts his head back to look down his nose at me.

“Come with me, slave. The Mistress has summoned you.” The man starts walking toward the hall he came from, without waiting for any response.

“Hey, guard. Who's the little worm?”

Hostility and surprise on his face, the guard stares at me for a couple seconds. His expression changing to a nasty smile, the guard looks at the little worm's back.

“That little worm is Keratin. He's what the Mistress uses for a butler. He thinks that his position makes him immune to the dangers of Gor'achen, but with his attitude, he's going to offend the wrong DokkAlfar and wake up in a blood pit one day.”

I wonder what the little worm would think, if he knew what his meant in English.

Keratin leads me down the hall to a locked gate, with DokkAlfar guards on both sides of it. The ones on the far side unlock it, and Keratin leads me up the stairs beyond the gate. At the base of the stairs, another passage heads off to the right.

Doors close off the landing at the top of the stairs, and when Keratin opens them, a lavishly decorated hall is revealed. While only about ten feet wide and twenty long, the quality of the floor tiles and the detail of frescoes decorating the walls catch me by surprise. Nothing I have encountered in the Battleground of the Damned or the Lands of Despair has been close to this level of craftsmanship.

Keratin turns right at the end of the hall and follows it to the end. There are few closed doors along this hall, but there is no indication of what might be behind them. Turning right again, Keratin leads me down a hall about a hundred feet long. There are closed doors on both sides of the dead end, and he knocks on the left side doors.

“Mistress, I have brought the slave, Brand.”

The doors open without anyone touching them. Elan'fer'sha is near the middle of the room, stark naked. She is standing next to an obsidian alter, set in the center of complex pattern, made of gold inlaid into the black marble floor. My armor is laid out on top of the altar.

“You are dismissed, Keratin.”

As the little worm walks past me, I can see him trying to keep his eyes on Elan'fer'sha's naked body as long as possible.

“Come to me.”

As I walk into the room, the door close behind me again, but I cannot determine how Elan'fer'sha closed them.

Without her boots, Elan'fer'sha is about an inch shorter than I am, if that. Her silver ponytail is disarrayed and stuck to her shoulders and back in places. Except for her face and hands, her entire body is covered with intricate black tattoos, and their complexity makes Menton's tattoos look downright crude in comparison. Her tits are so small, she could almost be called flat chested, but with inhumanely slender build, they look just right on her, and her pale pink nipples are exquisite. There is not an ounce of fat on that body, and even though you can see every one of her ribs under her skin, her the perfect tone of her musculature makes it look natural. Right now, her hair is tied up in a pony tail and matted to her back. Despite being skewered by more than a dozen piercings, her ears, with their slightly pointed shape, are so delicately shaped that they are nearly perfect in proportion to her head. A wide brow and tapering jawline give her face an almost fragile appearance. Her large almond shaped eyes are like amber gems set in her snowy skin.

Elan'fer'sha is not human and is inhumanly sultry. She is probably the most beautiful Alfar, the most beautiful female, that I have ever seen. She has something about her that makes me want to fuck her brains out and not be gentle about it. I am starting to get hard just looking at her, and without being able to manipulate my ki, I cannot control it.

With a lurid smile, Elan'fer'sha raises her hand and traces a black pattern in the air. The murky Umbral Power is nauseatingly gut-wrenching, but Elan'fer'sha does not seem in the least affected by it. As she languidly draws the pattern, more Umbral Power flows erotically along her tattoos. When she completes the spell pattern, Elan'fer'sha launches it at me with a flick of her wrist.

I do not know whether or not the Throd'nahk was lying about the collar debilitating me if I attack a DokkAlfar, and this is not the time to test it. I try to dodge the spell pattern, but the Umbral Power is faster than it appears and follows my movements. As it hits my chest, tendrils spread out encircling my chest and throat. I can still move my head, but for all the feeling I have of them, my arms and legs may as well not exist.

Elan'fer'sha's lurid smile turns into a snarl, and she clenches her fist.

Everywhere the Umbral Power is touching me, it feels like acid is burning into my body. My chest and neck are filled with agonizing pain. It is worse than being burned alive, but I clench my teeth refusing to scream.

As Elan'fer'sha whips her arm toward the altar, I am slammed against it. I have no control over my body and cannot resist in any way. It feels like three of my ribs crack on impact with the altar, but the pain is nothing compared to what the Umbral Power is doing to me.

Stalking over to the altar, Elan'fer'sha picks up the helm of my armor, with the mask attached to it, and smashes it into my face a half-dozen times. Her strength is nothing compared to a combat adept, but she still breaks my nose and tears up the skin of my face.

Her voice is an enraged shriek, but still beautiful. “You are the Maker of this! Why is Talon's face cast into your helm? What is your connection to Talon?”

Talon? Oh, Fuck! That vision of Talon fighting in the arena. Was this cunt his owner?

“A memorial for the dead.”

Shrieking wordlessly, Elan'fer'sha pounds my face with the mask some more, until the mask has turned red with my blood.

My head is ringing, and dizziness is making it hard to focus.

“What is your connection to Talon? Why did you make a memorial for him?”

I stare at Elan'fer'sha dazedly, trying to think of a coherent lie. I have slipped up too many times, and too many people have already figured out that I was Talon. I do not want this psychotic cunt to know it too.

“He saved my life. More times than I can count, he saved my life.”

Elan'fer'sha's eyes narrow coldly. “I had agents keeping track of Talon. There was never a report of a scarred freak like you around him. Unless . . . the Possessed. Talon became a Possessed. You are not a Possessed, but you are connected to them. How are you connected to the Possessed?”

Fuck me. This cunt is smart and knows too many things for my own good. What do I tell her? How do I lie my way out of this?

“I am right. You know about the Possessed. I can see it in your eyes.”

Elan'fer'sha shoves my armor off the altar, and with a wave of her hand, she lifts me into the air and drops me on the altar. After she moves out of my line of sight, the sound of stone grinding on stone reaches my ears twice.

When she comes back into my field of view, Elan'fer'sha has two vials held negligently between her fingers. Her lurid smile is back on her face. She pokes her finger into one of the cuts on my face and paints her pale lips crimson, with my blood.

“You are going to tell me what I want to know. You will tell me everything I want to know.” She unstoppers the two vials. Forcing my jaws open with the Umbral spell that is controlling my body, she pours the contents of both vials down my throat.

Searing pain fills my face and my broken ribs, forcing me to clench my teeth.

“One of those is a healing potion. It is far more effective than the trash you monkeys make in the Battleground of Slaves. The other is an aphrodisiac. With pleasure and pain, I will learn all that you know.”

You Cannot Kill Her

*** Gor'achen Citadel (Over Tallifer) - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 140

“It will only require ten or so thousandths for the aphrodisiac to take effect. When that happens, your senses will be focused to razor's edge. Pleasure will become so intense it will be pain, and pain will become unbearable.” Elan'fer'sha's voice is a lustful, mellifluous, susurrus in my ear, as her hot breath washes over the side of face.

A thousandth is a thousandth of a day, in the method DokkAlfar use to keep time. Usually it is about 1.4 minutes, but it is actually fluid depending on the zone they are in. The LjosAlfar I encountered in the Lands of Despair use the same method.

“Did you know that every time a male ejaculates he gives up some of his life and some of his Power? They are only minuscule amounts, but you still give them up. It is a completely natural process. It is part of the cycle of life, part of procreation. A female gives up far more when she bears a child, but that is just as natural. Over time, those small amounts of life and Power will naturally replenish themselves.”

Elan'fer'sha disappears from my line of vision again, only to return after the sounds of more stone grinding on stone. In her hands, she is carrying a black metal tripod and milky white crystal. The crystal is cut in the shape of a stellated dodecahedron. I cannot tell why, but that crystal gives off an unpleasant chill.

“I am a Wytch. I use mana and the Umbra to manipulate the cycles of the world around me, to pervert them outside of their natural bounds and order. When I make you cum, I can steal from you far more than just the minuscule amount of life and Power you would naturally release. I can steal your physical prowess, your abilities, your skills . . . even your most closely guarded secrets.

“Kra'cha'len wants your Power, and I have a bargain with him to take it. I want to know everything about your connection to Talon, and I will take everything from you to get it. Even if you are left useless to me in the arena, I will have that knowledge.”

Elan'fer'sha disappears behind my head, and metal clatters on stone. Following a soft clink, she approaches the side of the altar on my left. A cruel, lustful smile twists her lips, as her fingertips brush over the burn scars on my body. Her breathing is heavy, and her skin starting to become flushed.

With lust, cruelty, and avarice filling her eyes, Elan'fer'sha stares into my eyes. I do not know what she is looking for, but her eyes are mesmerizing. The rich honey amber orbs are half again as large as human eyes. Epicanthic folds and the sharp tilt of those almond shaped eyes clearly distinguish the non-human cast of her face and skull.

My arms and legs may as well not exist, with that Umbral spell wrapped around my chest and throat, but it is not affecting my dick at all. Even with without the aphrodisiac, she is more than enough to give me a hardon, but with it, I feel like an iron pole standing up above my balls. I cannot control myself. With the drugs driving my sense of touch to an extreme level of sensitivity, I want to scream. I want to throw Elan'fer'sha on the altar and fuck her brains out.

“You have felt pain, and I will make you feel so much more pain, exquisite pain that will make you scream in agony while you cum inside of me.”

“Fuck off, bitch!”

Elan'fer'sha's smile broadens. “No. I will fuck you.”

Climbing on the altar, she mounts me, with a moan of pleasure. Her body feels hot like she has a raging fever, but Alfar have naturally higher body temperatures than humans. I cannot stop myself from shivering with pleasure from the touch of soft skin against mine and her hot cunt wrapped around my dick.

My lips pull back in an enraged snarl. I want to kill her! She is using me like a sex toy. I am actually being raped by fucking female!

As she rides me, Elan'fer'sha pants and moans, as she draws a complex three-dimensional pattern in the air.

The proximity of the Umbral Power makes me want to puke, and the raw physical ecstasy of Elan'fer'sha fucking me makes to howl.

Looking down at me with half lidded eyes, Elan'fer'sha smiles cruelly. “Bestiality is the finest form of pleasure. Alfar dicks are just pathetic. Animals like you humans are much more satisfying.”

The revolting Umbral pattern sinks into my chest. Somehow, I keep from screaming in agony, but I still growl like an enraged animal. The pain worse than anything I ever imagined. Even the mind-numbingly pleasurable sensation of her cunt riding up and down my dick becomes torturous. It feels like I am being kicked in the balls when I cum.

“Can you feel it? Your own body is being turned against you. The natural process for procreation is being used to take the very Power that makes you what you are. Oh, Frija! Yes! Oh, the Power! Give me your Power!”

It feels like all the energy and stamina is draining out of me, as a torrent of silver-gray Power flows from Elan'fer'sha to the crystal behind my head. As the Umbral Power burrows through my body, drawing out more and more Power, something else stirs inside of me.

“AAAARRRRRRRRR!”

My scream of agony fills the room, as Power floods outward. Rising from somewhere deep within me, the Od drives outwards. Light and Dark, the merciless Power destroys everything alien to my body it encounters. The Umbral spells are shredded and torn. The aphrodisiac is burned out of my blood. Od streams out through my skin, the same as when it burned the drugs out of me, after Perzey's death.

“NNNNOOOOOOO!”

Elan'fer'sha screams as she is hurled across the room. She hits the floor rolling, until the wall stops her cold.

“AAAARRRRRRRRR!”

More of the Od floods out of me, attacking the collar around my neck. The light of the sigils tint the air around me with a brilliant sanguine glow for a few seconds before the collar shatters.

Springing to my feet, I charge toward Elan'fer'sha. As she precariously turns over and rises to her feet, the fear in her eyes inflames the malicious anger in my heart. Before she has the chance to weave any spell patterns, I grab her by the throat and slam her against the wall.

As Elan'fer'sha struggles, her raw physical strength surprises me. In a contest of pure strength, I am not sure which of us would win. How can such a skinny delicate looking body contain so much brute power?

Slapping her in the face hard enough to twist her head to the side, I shift my grip to her wrist and pull her off the wall. She stumbles forward as the resistance she was fighting against disappears, and I twist her arm into a wrist and elbow lock. Using the pain and pressure of the lock to force her onto her toes, I kick her feet out from under her and slam her onto her ass.

“Ow!” The pain of her slender ass hitting the floor makes her squawk out in pain.

Pushing her back onto the ground, I sit on her belly, pinning her legs with my feet. As she tries to free herself, Elan'fer'sha's squirming is rubbing her soft, smooth skin against my dick, making me hard again. I want to fuck her almost as much as I want to kill her.

“Get off me, you bastard monkey!” Elan'fer'sha's voice is shrill from fear, but she probably does not recognize her own fear. Even high-pitched and harsh, her voice is still one of the most beautiful I have ever heard in my life.

“NNNOOOOO!” Struggling to free herself, Elan'fer'sha bucks and twists wildly underneath me.

My hand closes around her throat, cutting off her air supply.

“Oh, this is good, bitch! I'm really going to enjoy this! Seeing the horror in your eyes, while your lips turn blue, and you struggle for air. You're going to die. It'll be slow and painful, and the last thing you'll see is my face.”

No matter how she struggles, Elan'fer'sha has no hope of escaping. Even though her strength is surprising, she is not a trained fighter. Her fingernails claws furrows in my arm, but I ignore them, keeping my death grip on her throat. Only when she tries to claw out my eyes, do I slap her hands aside.

“You cannot kill her. For now, you still need her alive.”

The deep bass voice shocks me. I never noticed anyone else in the room with us. Turning my head, I see a man standing in front of the closed doors to the room. There was never any sound of the doors opening or closing, so how did he get in here?

The man is probably not a tall as the Throd'nahk, but his massive build out-masses the Throd'nahk's by a considerable amount. There is no collar on his neck, but he has the scars from long years of wearing one. His arms are covered with hundreds of burn scars, the sign of a blacksmith or a Smith, and his wrists and ankles have thick scars from manacles. With this man's presence, he is probably a Smith, but there is no sense of Power about him. His broad, hard face could be that of a man anywhere from thirty to fifty years of age, but his thick hair and beard are still dark brown, without any sign of greying. His only clothing consists of sandals, a kilt-like garment around his waist, and a wide leather belt.

As we stare at one another, I do not get any impression of hostility, but the man's blue eyes are hard and unyielding.

“You have no chance against me. Your Shadow Fist is incomplete, and your mastery of it is pathetic. If you cannot even crush the Throd'nahk, you are less than nothing before me.”

He knows how to recognize Shadow Fist? He was watching me fighting the Throd'nahk?

“Who are you?”

“Release the Alfar slut. You would have more fun tying her up than killing her. She is twisted by the DokkAlfar ways and will become a wanton whore begging for you to use her, if you dominate her.”

Elan'fer'sha's hands are uselessly clamped around my wrist, but her murderous glare is focused on the man. As I release the pressure on her neck, she draws in a huge lungful of air.

“Damn you, Smith! Why didn't you stop this animal sooner?! We have a bargain! Are you thinking to escape from your end, by letting me be killed?!” The venom in Elan'fer'sha's voice is strong to kill someone with a weak heart.

When I turn my eyes back to the door, Smith is still looking at me. As I surmised, the man is a Smith. Smith seems more like a title than a name.

Smith stares expressionlessly at Elan'fer'sha. “I warned you not use your Umbral arts on this man. He has been chosen by the Od. It will respond to his emotions, whether he consciously wills it or not. Your spells are not strong enough to overcome the Od. You have more to gain from working with him than he does from helping you.”

The look on Elan'fer'sha's face is venomous. “Do you really think I would make a deal with something I own?”

Smith sneers at her. “Are you certain you own him? You're naked on your back, and he's straddling you with a hardon, ready to choke you.”

Elan'fer'sha turns her glare on me. “Get off me, animal.”

I grin at her, but she does not flinch or show any signs of disgust. The only thing in her eyes is pure contempt.

“I think I'll just sit here a little longer. I haven't decided, if I'm going to kill you or not.”

Smith chuckles grimly. “You cannot afford to kill her yet. Do you know the way out this compound? Do you know how escape from Gor'achen? If you stay, you will advance some of your goals. She also needs you. Her plans revolve around claiming the Gladiatorial Championship for the Atran'ler Empire. Without you, she has no hope of claiming the Championship. I will even train you in the full art of Shadow Fist.”

No matter how hard I stare at Smith, I cannot see any hint as to whether he is saying what he believes or lying. At the very least, he at least knows Shadow Fist by sight. No, I told the Throd'nahk the name. He may have just overheard or been told by the Throd'nahk. Whether or not he really knows Shadow Fist, I will find out quickly enough.

I look down at Elan'fer'sha. She is still glaring up at me, but at least, she is not haranguing me any longer. Her face is clearly not human, but it is still beautiful beyond belief. Though, the needle through her nose does nothing for her.

With a twist of my wrist, I free it from Elan'fer'sha's grip, and snake my hand around her wrist, grabbing it tightly. As I rise to my feet, I pull her up with me. Forcing her arm behind her back, I use my hold on it to pin her against me. If she tries to move or attack, I will feel the tension in her body long before she becomes a threat.

Smith makes a come-hither motion, and the fragments of my collar float into the air and hover in front of him. Orbiting an empty center point, the shards of metal form into a ring of debris.

“There is no collar in the Atran'ler Empire, let alone Gor'achen that can hold this man. If he uses the Od, he can shatter any tool you attempt to bind him with. If the two of you work together, you can both come closer to your goals.”

I stare at Smith. “You seem pretty insistent on bringing us together, but what's in it for you?”

Smith frowns. He suddenly gives the impression of being much older than he appears. “If one or both of you succeed in your goals, it may jar the balance of power that has kept the factions inside the Labyrinth of Yggr in a stalemate for fifty thousand years. For good or ill, the balance must be broken so that events can move again.”

Elan'fer'sha cannot be trusted. She is DokkAlfar. Whether or not I can believe Smith is immaterial. I cannot trust him, but I am in no position to refuse him. Even without the collar, I am still a prisoner, until I can find a way to escape from this Great Citadel.

“What is you proposal?”

Smith does not smile, nor frown. He simply stares at me for a few moments. He has an air about him that suggests he is using Power, but I do not feel anything.

“You fight in the arena for Elan'fer'sha. There are three slaves here in Gor'achen that will be of interest to you, and two of them are gladiators. Once you mater the real Shadow Fist, all gladiators will fall before you, even the Iron Fist.”

Elan'fer'sha tenses in my grip. Looking at her, I see the gleam of pure avarice in her eyes. The honey amber of her irises almost appears to be glowing, but the avidity dims, as she glances at the crystal next to the altar.

That crystal, which was originally milky white, has become silver-grey and is emitting a soft radiance. Now that I am paying attention to it, I feel the thick rich Power contained within the crystal. Is that really my Power?

“I really don't have any choices, do I?” I let the bitterness and anger inside me fill my voice.

“If you do not use the Umbra, this man has more than enough Power to fill the crystals that you owe to the priest. What is the price he extracted from you?” Smith's words are flat, a simple statement of fact.

“Twenty-three Power crystals.” Elan'fer'sha's face is shadowed with bitterness.

Smith laughs at her. “You would kill a normal adept if you tried to fill that many crystals in a two year period. With this man, you can fill them all and not impact his fighting ability, but that will mean taking his Power slowly, a little bit every day. One crystal every three ten-days should be the perfect rate. Give the priest his crystals one every three ten-days.”

Elan'fer'sha turns to face me, even though I keep her pinned in the same hold, without releasing the pressure on it. For her, it must feel like her elbow and shoulder are about to be torn apart, but the only sign is slightly deepened breathing and a flush on her cheeks. A shiver passes through her, as she moves close enough to pin my still hard dick between our bodies.

“I do not know what you seek, animal, but if your plans do not interfere with mine, I will work with you.”

I do not like this arrangement, but what alternatives do I have? Before acting, I need to wait and learn enough to escape. Besides, there may be some side benefits. Even after everything that has happened in the past couple of days, I still want to fuck Elan'fer'sha's brains out. Her attitude does not put me off. It makes me want to force her into submission. Even if I have not figured out what I feel about Perzey, I am certain of what I feel about the DokkAlfar. There are only a few people I hate more than her. Wanting to fuck her has nothing to with love, it about possessing her and making her serve under me.

“What's my name, arrogant cunt?”

Elan'fer'sha's face turns into a mask of nonplussed incomprehension. Smith laughs loudly.

“Say my name, whore. I have many more endearments for you that sound much better than Elan'fer'sha.”

Elan'fer'sha's anger surfaces, replacing the confusion. “Brand, and you may call me Mistress.”

Elan'fer'sha smiles broadly and snakes her free hand between our bodies, to grab my dick.

“I prefer blowjobs to handjobs, Elan.”

“AAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

Elan'fer'sha screams, as I crank up the pressure on her arm, when she viciously clamps down on my dick. I slam her into the wall at her back, with my body weight pressing against her. My grip on her arm has it nearly at the point of destroying her shoulder and elbow.

“You try to do something to my dick, and I'll show you what the meaning of 'exquisite pain' really is. I can guarantee you that I tolerate pain far better than you do.”

Elan'fer'sha releases her hold on my dick, wrapping that arm around my neck. Pain and lust fill her eyes, and her voice is husky. “Fuck me! Fuck me, right now! Make me scream!”

“Enough with your mating rituals. I still have business with you.” Smith's voice is cold, annoyance reverberating in his tone.

Anger replacing lust, Elan'fer'sha looks over my shoulder at Smith. “We have an arrangement. What still needs to be discussed?”

She is as twisted as Smith said she would be, but her warped nature arouses me even more than Perzey's insanity driven lust. After suffering the pain of Umbral spell and the agony of the Od driving it out of me, I want to make her suffer, when I fuck her.

Releasing Elan'fer'sha, I turn towards Smith.

“Tomorrow, I will have you brought to me. I will teach you how to hide your Power. Today, I will give you a present.”

At a gesture from Smith, a forge-sized field of fire appears in midair. Each tongue of yellow flame has a blue-white core, and the base of the field is the same blue-white color. Standing more than thirty feet from the fire, I can feel its heat. I cannot repress a shiver, as the heat of that intense fire chills me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Elan'fer'sha's narrowed eyes watching me. Her face has become an ivory mask, revealing nothing of the thoughts underneath, but her skin is still flushed and her breathing heavy.

The shards of my collar, which were orbiting in front of Smith, float into the heart of the fire. Still spinning, the black metal swiftly turns into a deep violet slag. The red inlays turn into a glowing red slag. Once all the metal is molten, Smith keeps it spinning, increasing the rotational speed. The molten red metal slowly passes through the violet one, until there are two separate bands of metal in the flames. The outer red band is barely more than a thin wire and the inner violet one is a thick cable.

Smith looks at me for a moment, and a silver-grey circle appears in the air between him and the fire. He gestures, and the violet metal condenses into a ball and flows into the silver-grey circle. As Smith carefully observes, the violet metal darkens until is nearly black again. Its shape is the same as the collar that the fragments came from.

Materializing a silver-grey burin in his hand, Smith etches sigils into the still soft metal. After inspecting his work, he once again gestures, and the molten red metal flows into the newly etched sigils.

Inspecting the collar yet another time, Smith sets it spinning in the air over his open hand. A cloud forms in the palm of his hand, before floating up to engulf the newly made collar.

Hisssss!

The cloud evaporates, revealing a dull black collar with red sigils inlaid in it.

Smith makes a go away motion towards the fire, and it disappears, leaving behind only a heat shimmer in the air.

Without tracing or chanting, Smith builds a pattern in the air. The silvery lines and arcs appear one after the next, as he stands motionless. The complexity of this pattern quickly dwarfs even something like the pattern contained in the party charms and continues to increase. The final stage is about the size of a softball and so dense that it appears almost solid. Smith carefully inspects his work as it slowly turns in front of his face.

Seemingly satisfied, Smith points at the collar, and the pattern streaks into the collar while condensing. As the pattern disappears into the surface of the collar, the collar shines brightly for a few seconds.

Smith garbs the floating collar and negligently tosses it to me. “This will give the appearance of being a fully functional slave collar, but will actually have no effect at all. Be careful not reveal your ability to use Power, before you master the techniques to hide it.”

“So this is the present?”

Smith smirks. “Did you expect something else?”

I lock the collar around my own throat, and the runes glow with their telltale crimson light. What choice do I have? I cannot even begin to guess at the gap between Smith's Power and my own. I do not fear him, but I cannot conceive of any possible way to beat that man.

Drawing on my ki, I do not feel any difference. There is no pain or hindrance to my using my Power. Mana proves to be the same. Smith does not seem to have lied about the collar.

“I will take these things.” Smith gestures toward the altar, and all of my equipment on the floor around it floats toward Smith, only to disappear within a foot or so of his body. His belt must be a dimensional storage device. I suppose it could be the kilt or one of the sandals, but that would make it the strangest “something of holding” I have ever seen.

Without another word, Smith turns around and walks toward the closed doors. He does not slow or pause and passes through the doors as though they are not even there. What the hell is that man?

Elan'fer'sha caress the scars on my face. “Give me pain and pleasure.”

Thrall, Son of Rig

*** Gor'achen Citadel (Over Tallifer) - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 141

It is my second morning in the mess hall for the gladiatorial slaves. With everything that has happened, it feels like I have been here far longer than two days. The food is still trying to compete with hospital food, but as hungry as I am, I devour far more than yesterday.

The other slaves are in their same general cliques, except that the one with the broken shoulder is in the middle of the homosexual rape group. His friends or relatives, whatever they may be, are completely ignoring the desperate looks he keeps throwing in their direction. This the Atran'ler Empire, where even more than in the Battleground of Slaves only strength and Power matter. As he is, Broken-Shoulder is a liability to his former compatriots.

The gladiator who made an example out of the second slave during the welcoming party saunters over to my table. He is a little shorter than I am, maybe about 5'10”, and has a lean wiry build. Even if he is wiry, it does not mean he is weak. Every single muscle on his body is developed with perfect symmetry to the whole, and his every move screams of explosive speed and power. He was just playing around on the first day and danced rings around the newbie slave. His dark hair and swarthy skin resemble the Hispanics of Earth and offset his aquamarine eyes.

As he sits down opposite me, the gladiator's grin is pure egotistical arrogance. “You're not exactly the friendly sort are you? Two whole days and you haven't said a word to any of us, except for the Throd'nahk.”

The Gladiator calmly meets my gaze, as I stare at him. There is no sign of overt hostility, but there is no give in him either.

“I don't play well with others.”

The man snickers, as a smirk turn the corners of his lips upwards. “We're in the slave pits of Gor'achen. No one plays well with others here. I'm Tyrend.”

“Brand.”

Tyrend glances over his shoulder as the table where broken-shoulder is surrounded. “Those things grew up in the slave pits. They've never known life without a collar. The Masters keep the males and the females separate, except when they're breeding them.”

Tyrend's words draw out some of the remaining fragments of Talon's memories. They are nothing more than flashes of brutality, beatings, and abuse. In the slave pits, the slaves have their own hierarchies. Just like their Masters, the strong step on and oppress the weak.

“You don't act like a man who’s worn a collar for long. How did you wind up in our lovely little home of carnage and glory?” Tyrend's sardonic grin seems more directed inward than towards me.

“Trusting the wrong man.”

“Ha! I'm here for believing in the wrong woman. Our king died and his daughter led us into a disastrous war after taking the throne. At least, I survived. Too many of my brothers didn't.” His gaze seems to turn inward, as Tyrend remembers his past.

A DokkAlfar guard enters the mess hall and comes straight to my table.

“Brand, come with me.”

Tyrend glances from the guard to me, his smirk firmly back in place. “Twice in two days. You must have really pleased the Mistress.”

“Something like that.”

The DokkAlfar guard leads me through the gate at the stairs leading up to Elan'fer'sha's part of the compound, but instead of going up the stairs, he takes me down the corridor next to them. There are a number of rooms with closed doors, and with the exception of a path down the middle, a thick layer of dust covers the floor. It seems like this part of the compound has been mostly unused for a very long time.

Turning a corner, the guard leads me away from the direction of the arena. This corridor has more rooms with closed doors along it, and at the end, a doorless room is lit by flickering orange-yellow light can be seen.

As I pass through the archway, I find myself in one corner of a large rectangular room, around a hundred feet by fifty feet. There are three other exits from the room: one in the same wall as the hall I entered from, two on the wall opposite this one, and one in the far shorter wall. All of the other exits have close doors, blocking any view of what lies beyond.

Unlike the corridor leading to it, this room is spotlessly clean and well ordered. Meticulously laid out around the room are a smelter, a work area for Smithing, and a jeweler's work area with a lapidary's workbench. The smelter, forge, and small jeweler's furnace have hoods and flues that disappear into the stone of the ceiling.

“Smith, I've brought the slave Brand!” The DokkAlfar guard's mellifluous voice rings out in the DokkAlfar tongue.

Every time I hear a male DokkAlfar, or any Alfar male really, speaking, it is somewhat jarring. I know how arrogant, overbearing, derisive, and vicious the Alfar races are toward anything not Alfar, and Dragon or Jotun depending on which Alfar race they are from. Hearing such pleasant voices come out of their hatred-fueled mouths, I feel like I have just heard a shark singing a lullaby.

Catty-corner from where we entered, the door opens and Smith enters the room. He closes the door, before turning his attention to us, and his eyes settle on the DokkAlfar guard, with a flat, cold stare.

“You are dismissed.”

The DokkAlfar's fear is obvious in his demeanor. Without saying another word, he turns and stalks out of the room. His manner says that he is trying to pretend that he is acting entirely of his own accord, but the shifting of his eyes belies that attempt.

Smith does not acknowledge me and begins to draw a spell pattern in the air. The glowing lines of his pattern have the same yellowish-brown color as the Dvergar Transcendent I encountered in the Swamp of the Lost, but Smith's casting is nowhere near the speed of that Dvergar. Being able to clearly see the spell pattern, I can see nothing delicate or subtle about it. Its thick broad lines display the implacable strength and overbearing nature of the Power.

Even though the Power in the spell pattern is palpable, Smith still gives of no sense of Power. If I had not witnessed him use Power, I would swear that he was a mundane.

As Smith finishes his drawing the pattern, he snaps fingers and a wall of rock rises from the floor, sealing of the passage I entered through.

“What kind of spell did you just use?”

Smith looks at me. It feels like his eyes are probing for something deep within me, but I do not know what it is. After a few moments, his eyes narrow, and I am certain he is judging whatever he sought.

“Follow me!” Smith walks toward the door he entered the room by.

A short hall leads to another door, and beyond that door, I find a ritual chamber. Like Elan'fer'sha's ritual chamber, this one has a pattern inlaid into the floor, and also like Elan'fer'sha's, I cannot decipher the nature of this pattern either. However, unlike Elan'fer'sha's chamber, there is no altar in this one.

A stand in the middle of the room supports a frame made of silvery metal. The frame is oval like the frames of those long mirrors you find mounted on standalone bases, but there is no glass inside of it. I can see straight through it to the opposite wall of the room.

Smith gestures, and a pattern appears in the air in front of him. The speed of his casting is still slower than that greybeard Dvergar, but I have never seen anyone else weave a spell pattern as quickly. Unlike the other spell, this pattern is made from a silver-grey energy. Yesterday, I was too distracted by Elan'fer'sha and the pain that filled my body to carefully analyze the Power Smith used to reforge my collar, but this Power seems to have the same feel as some of it.

As Smith snaps his fingers, the spell pattern streaks to the center of the silvery frame and expands to fill it. The shimmering silver-grey field of energy blocks my view of the wall behind it, and a subsonic hum seems to fill the room. After maybe ten or fifteen seconds, an image begins to replace the silver-grey energy inside the frame.

The image resolves to an underground room and a figure that I am already familiar with.

“Boran.” It is not a greeting, rather more of an acknowledgment of his identity.

“Talon.” Boran's deep voice sounds as though he is standing in the room with me.

“Talon's dead. You can call me Brand.”

Boran stares at me without responding for a few moments. He has never revealed the depths of his knowledge and Power. Still, I know he is old, and his Power and knowledge are possibly greater than anyone else I have met. This includes the self-proclaimed Nameless God.

The corners of Boran's lips turn fractionally upward, in a shadow of a smile. “True, Talon is dead, and Brand is not your given name or your NAME. Hiding your old name will be effective over time but be wary, if you try excise it. You will damage your patterns and your Power, and become weaker overall.”

Boran's way of saying NAME hurts my head. I do not know what he does or how he does it, but the way he can say words includes meanings that can affect the world around him. He has never confirmed it, but I think that he could kill with words alone, if they were the right words.

“You are the only one to survive the death of their possessed body. That was my doing.”

Somehow, his words do not surprise me. Since waking up in the hospital, I have wondered why I am the only survivor. His intervention at least provides a reason.

“Why?”

“You are chosen by the Od, and I have a use for you. The Nameless and the Jotun Lords are playing with things they should not be. If do what I need done, you will compensated with knowledge and resources that will help you increase your Power.”

I stare at Boran. He is completely opaque to me. I cannot even guess at how his mind works, or what motivates him. During the search for Haven, Thorrin would sometimes make odd references about the Dvergar and their history, but from what he said about the real Thorrin's history, I do not think he really knew all that much about the secrets of the Dvergar.

“Does my being here have anything to do with your manipulations?”

Despite not being able to read Boran, I have the feeling that his expression is showing a bit of sadness. “I would not manipulate events to send someone who is not my enemy into slavery. I asked Thrall to keep watch over you, but I did not arrange for your enslavement.”

Thrall? In the Slave Tongue, just like in English and in at least a couple other Earth languages, thrall is a word that basically means slave. I assume that it is the name of the Smith.

“Who is Thrall?”

Boran's eyes turn toward Smith. “You have not told him your name?”

Smith speaks in a language I do not know, saying what seems to be a hundred-forty or so words to Boran.

“Thrall, tell Brand what you told me.”

Smith, or I suppose I should call him Thrall, nods. “I am Thrall, Son of Rig. I am a triune, and I have been monitoring your thoughts.”

I put up my hand. “Hold it. What the fuck is a Triune, and what the fuck do you mean by monitoring my thoughts?”

Thrall half-smiles and half-frowns. “The culmination of a Trinary. It is what you could one day become. A Triune has merged the aspects of the Trinity within himself back into a single Power, one that is more powerful than any three could ever be unmerged.

“In the beginning, when you were brought here unconscious, yes. I used my Power to learn your history, your world's history, your language, and to get as much information as you possessed about The Nameless. Since you are so afraid of trusting anyone or anything, I thought it might be easier to reach you, if you talked to Boran first.”

I look at Boran. “Was that language he used with you Dvergar?”

Boran nods. “It is called Battle Cant, and it is the native language of we Dvergar.”

“Your native language is called Battle Cant?”

One thing I remember from what Thorrin told me is that the Dvergar only teach their language to those they truly trust. Does that mean that Boran trusts Thrall? What is their relationship?

“The Dvergar race was created by the Dragons. The Dragons were not these little wyrms that call themselves Dragons now. The little wyrms were nothing but pets for the true Dragons. The first Dragons were born of the womb of Life herself, and their father was Death. They believed that all existence was theirs for the conquering and created many slave races to serve as soldiers and administrators. The Dvergar were one of those races. We were created to be soldiers, and the Dragons gave us Battle Cant as our language.” Boran pauses, looking at me.

I do not know why, but I believe that Boran is telling me the truth. It bothers me that I am believing him so easily. I cannot afford to believe him. I especially cannot afford to trust him. Did I learn nothing from what happened with Jinmu? Does he know what I am thinking and feeling? Is this bastard Smith next to me telling him everything?

“I cannot use my psi to bridge the dimensional gap between us and Boran.”

I stare at Thrall. My bloodlust is too strong, and I am sure I cannot keep it off my face. That fuck can poke around in my mind, and I do not feel a thing. I cannot even sense, when he is using his Power.

“Stay out his mind, Thrall. You are only making things worse.”

Thrall looks at Boran. “I am not in his mind. His thoughts and concerns are just obvious. With his latent talent, he would be able to feel me in his mind. His collar is not impeding his Power. It is not a real slave collar.”

Looking back at me, Thrall appears exasperated. “This would much easier, if you were not caught up in your fixations on the wrongs done to you. I know you have no reason to trust us, but there is no reason to distrust us either. I understand betrayal. I was betrayed and enslaved by my brothers, and I took vengeance, but in the end, I did not let it consume me. I chose to let them live. Letting the betrayals of the past cloud your mind, you will never move forward. I can see that you refuse to trust us, but we are not your enemies. We hope to have you as an ally. Working with us, you will come closer to your own vengeance.”

I look at Boran again. “Keep talking.”

“The Labyrinth of Yggr is one of the dimensional battle fortresses of the true Dragons. The source of its Power is a Life and Death furnace. We Dvergar had thought it destroyed long ages ago, but somehow it survived and fell into the hands of the Jotun. Though we crushed them at the time of the Jotun-Dragon War, we were never able to wrest control of this fortress from them.

“This fortress has the Power to destroy universes. Used improperly, it can destabilize multiverses and perhaps the metaverse as well. The Nameless is using it improperly and the Jotun Lords are preparing to do the same. They will destroy Taereun and probably all the dimensions contained within the Labyrinth. You and nearly all other living things within the Labyrinth will be destroyed. I am going to wrest control of this fortress from them and render it useless. I have a task I need you to perform to accomplish that goal.”

I scratch my chin, feeling the stubble under my fingers. I need to shave the right side of my face. The left never needs shaving; no hair grows from the scar tissue.

“How long do we have before they wreck everything?”

Boran shrugs slightly. “Several hundred years at the least. Probably, a thousand or so.”

My jaw hangs open for several seconds. “Several hundred? A thousand? I doubt I'll even be alive in a hundred years, let alone a thousand. Why the fuck would you think I want to get involved? I'm not as altruistic as you are.”

Boran's single bark of laughter contains nothing resembling humor. “Altruistic? I am a Dvergar. We are not an altruistic race. I have unfinished business where this fortress is concerned, and I will not surrender what I have nurtured to the Nameless or the Jotun. They seek Power and are endangering what is mine, so they will be crushed. If they are lucky, they will die.”

Boran stares at me for a moment. “Do you know the preeminent truth of the universe?”

“Strength.”

Boran shakes his head slightly. “Not exactly. The preeminent truth is Power. Right, wrong, morals, laws, everything is subordinate to Power. Power is the only real truth of existence. With enough Power, you can do whatever you choose. You can defy everything except Life and Death. I have that much Power. You are already walking the path toward Power. You are on the Path of Transcendence. Keep walking until you become Transcendent or are destroyed.

“If you do not leave the Path of Transcendence, in a thousand years, in ten thousand years, you will still be alive. You will be affected by what the Jotun and the Nameless do. If you do not choose to grant my request, I will find another way to do what I need done. Using you is just the most efficient option. Thrall will still help you and train you. Not everything is in place, and certain events still need to unfold, before the time to act will be right. You are not yet ready, and there might be time for you to become ready.”

Perhaps because he is deliberately showing it, I see an earnest intensity in Boran. Looking toward Thrall, his face is more impassive. He gives the impression of a man ready to carry out a task that needs to be done, but one he would rather not do.

“I'll think about it.”

Boran smiles slightly. “That is all that I ask.”

After glancing at Boran, Thrall turns back to me. “You are a latent Trinary. You have the potential to become a Triune. I recommend that you do so. Your Power will be several fold stronger, if you become a Triune, but you will have a more difficult time reaching Transcendence. The choice is yours.”

I purse my lips but do not respond at first. “What is involved in becoming a Triune?”

“You have to fuse your ki, mana, and psi into a single Power: Trinity.”

His words do not quite make sense to me. “What do you mean when you say a single Power, Trinity? Aren't the three of them already the Trinity?”

Thrall smirks slightly. “Many many beings have used the term Trinity in such a way as to obfuscate much of the truth in it. Ki, mana, and psi are separate Powers, but they are not separate Powers. All are born of the Trinity, and within a living being, all can be fused back into Trinity. It is not easily done, because of the amount of raw Power necessary, but you have enough raw Power to do it. If you do, the volume of Power you can wield in a single aspect will tripled, and the strength of Power wielded in each aspect will be tripled. Be warned, once you start to fuse the three into Trinity, you either complete the fusion or forever give up the chance to Transcend.”

All or nothing, eh? Putting everything on the line for the chance to be stronger? I do not need to think about it. I like that idea. Thrall could be lying to me, but I will take that chance.

“I'll do it. Show me how to become a Triune.”

Thrall nods. “Good. The first step is to fix your abomination of Shadow Fist, and the second step will be to awaken your psi.”

My face twists in to a confused expression. “Huh? What does Shadow Fist have to do with becoming a Triune?”

Thrall looks down his nose in a condescending manner. “Nothing. Your half-learned version of Shadow Fist simply offends me. I am Thrall, Son of Rig, Second Generation Master of Shadow Fist.”

Second Generation Master? Does he really know the origins of Shadow Fist?

“There's an old saying in one of the states in my world. Show me!”

The ceiling is made of stone, just like the floor under my back. My face feels like I used it to stop an armored car, and most of the bones in my body feel like they are ready to turn into dust. I have no clue what the fuck just happened. I must have been hit, but I never saw Thrall move. I never heard anything or had even an inkling of warning.

Sitting up, I see Thrall staring at me. He is standing exactly where I remember him being.

“How can I show you, when you are too pathetic to see me move?”

“Fuck you.”

Yep. The stone the wall is made of is hard. Everything is tinged red out of my right eye, and the blood from my broken nose is mixing with blood from my forehead and dripping from my chin.

Thrall's face is dark with anger. “Watch your tongue around me. I am not the trash you normally associate with. If you want something to stick its dick in your shit, find a troll or a beastman.”

“Fucking bastard.” My lips part in a snarl. Flooding my body with all the ki I can summon, I hurtle to my feet. Space almost warps as I close on Thrall. I try to turn and attack the flash of movement on my right side, but a crushing force hammers into my chest.

The wall stops my flight, driving what is left of the air out of my lungs.

“Do not kill him. He is still only human.” Boran's soft words fill the room.

“Ha! I won't kill him, but I will show him pain. You've seen his pattern. The more he suffers, the faster he grows. When it comes to learning, pain is like meat and drink to this one. There is nothing wrong with teaching him a few manners along with my Shadow Fist.”

Boran's laugh is grim, as his image fades from the silver oval.

“Get up!”

Gritting my teeth, I clamber to my feet. Thrall controlled his strength. Nothing is broken, but everything already hurts. The pain is not a problem, but the dizziness is going to make fighting difficult.

“Now, why don't you show me what you call Shadow Fist?”

There is no point in trying to outmaneuver Thrall. He is so much faster than me that I cannot even tell how much of an advantage he has. I charge straight in, attacking with everything I have.

Thrall does not retreat, using only his hands or feet to deflect my attacks. No matter where I strike, he has no weakness in his defense. Space starts to warp around hands and feet, as I use the movement techniques from Shadow Fist to increase the speed my attacks, but it is still useless. Thrall looks like he is moving slowly, but no matter where or how I strike, his block is always there.

Brand is stronger than this. Why is Brand losing?

I must have been daydreaming about Perzey. This is one hell of time to be dreaming about her. I am staring at the ceiling again. I do not even know when or how Thrall hit me.

Sitting up, I stare at Thrall. His face is an impassive mask. Even though he is taller and much heavier, his speed so outclasses my own, it is obvious we are in completely different realms of ability.

“Teach me the real Shadow Fist.”

Thrall smiles, but it is not a friendly expression. “You will suffer.”

“I'm not afraid of pain. It's my only friend.”

“Follow me.”

We go back through the Smithy, to the door opposite the sealed entry. The corridor is over a hundred feet long., with several doors along its length. The door at the end opens into a dojo.

Looking around the dojo, I am not sure how it can fit in the Blood Rose Stable compound. If I am right about where we are, the ceiling is too high, and the room is too wide. No matter how I look at it, this room should be impinging on the gladiator cells and the second floor rooms used by Elan'fer'sha.

“This training hall does not exist in the same dimension as the rest of Gor'achen Citadel. It is a dimensional pocket that I created.”

The training hall is huge, easily a thousand feet long and five hundred wide. The walls are lined with weapon racks filled with thousands upon thousands of weapons. An area in the near-right corner from where we entered has training equipment made from wood, stone, and metal. The far-right corner has what looks like a jungle gym designed by an insane amusement park builder.

I would say I am amazed by this training hall, but my brain has not caught up enough to reach amazed yet.

“First, you need to learn how to think, feel, move, breathe, and exist properly”

*** Gor'achen Citadel (Over Tallifer) - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 149

Five bull orcs faced off against a single DokkAlfar female, and more than a dozen bull orc corpses littered the floor around them. Though outnumbering the DokkAlfar, the orcs looked at her with fear in their eyes. The DokkAlfar female was faster and stronger than each of them.

Before being enslaved by the DokkAlfar, each of the orcs had been an alpha ruling over more orcs than they could count. Each alpha's horde consisted of more than a double fist of warbands, each having more than a double-hand of marches, with each march made up of a double-hand of double-hands of fists. In orc math, a hand is five, a double-hand is ten, a fist is twenty-five and a double-fist is fifty. All of those numbers are approximate, since orcs do not like to be bothered with learning math, when they can learn to kill instead. The crude orc counting methods totaled roughly one and a quarter million bull orcs in each horde, with the bitches and brats increasing that size to at least eight to ten million orcs in the horde.

The DokkAlfar female was dressed in chainmail so thin and so formfitting that it looked more like a leotard than armor. If it did not have a pattern containing a massive amount of Power, it would have offered no protection whatsoever. Instead of the glaive, which was the most common polearm used by the DokkAlfar, she was using a spear that was more than a foot longer than she was tall.

“Mistress. The human animals are here. I have them in one of the lesser supplicants waiting salon.” Dressed in black pants and shirt that had been considered proper formal clothing over eight millennia in the past, A DokkAlfar male stood near one of the bull orcs.

Jerking around in shock, the bull orc growled at the tall lean DokkAlfar, until the DokkAlfar turned a cold stare on it. In a few seconds, the bull orc went from angry hostility to cowering and pissing down its own leg.

The DokkAlfar female named Aluras'bektsh'tar, was the Clan Mistress of Clan Vardne'tar. She turned to look at the DokkAlfar male, with a slight hint of a frown on her lips.

“That orc will now be useless for a practice dummy.”

“Apologies, Mistress.” The DokkAlfar male half-bowed to Aluras'bektsh'tar.

Aluras'bektsh'tar's slight frown turned to a slight smile, and the power of her psi uncoiled from within her mental shields. *Canth, you need not apologize. I understand how difficult it is for you to suppress your bloodlust, and you are the only retainer I can ever trust implicitly.*

*Thank you, Mistress.*

The cold touch of Canth's psi had once chilled Aluras'bektsh'tar to her very soul, but long centuries of association had numbed her to the killing intensity of the male's mind. In all the Atran'ler Empire there are few as deadly as Canth. I still do not understand his fanatical loyalty to my Line of Provenance, but without it, I could never have risen so high as to reclaim control of Clan Vardne'tar for the Bektsh'tar provenance. Even if I am now the last of the Provenance, with the threat that Canth embodies, I can easily retain control of the clan.

The delicate platinum bracelet on Aluras'bektsh'tar left wrist was dimensional storage device, and the spear in her hand disappeared into it, to be replaced with a scabbarded short sword. After she fastened the short sword to her belt, Aluras'bektsh'tar negligently waved her hand in the direction of the orcs.

“Put the animals back in their cages! Canth, accompany me!”

“Yes, Mistress.”

As Aluras'bektsh'tar and Canth left the room, over twenty DokkAlfar guards stepped out of hidden recesses in the walls of the practice hall, and began to herd the orcs out though a different door.

Stalking through the near-silent halls of the Vardne'tar Manor, Aluras'bektsh'tar used secondary halls to reach the salon. Only a few slaves of the clan witnessed her passage, and she reached out with her powerful mind, destroying their memories.

The door to the salon that Aluras'bektsh'tar silently opened was a servant's entry. From her position at the back of the room, she had a clear view of the five people waiting for her. Even though there were chairs in the salon, all of the waiting supplicants were standing. They all had their attention fixed on the main door to the room, and their conversation was being conducted non-verbally. With the nature of the spell construct they were using, Aluras'bektsh'tar could listen in on their words without alerting them to her presence.

*The sigils developed by these Possessed animals to make up for their lack of psi are very interesting.*

*They are poorly designed, Mistress. The holes in the spell webs leave the animals excessively vulnerable to a number of psi assaults that their minds should be better protected against naturally.* Canth's disdain was clearly projected in the tenor of his thought.

*True, but for animals like them, it is still amazing they even developed something with this level of efficacy. I will have to probe their memories and understand what led these Possessed to think of such interesting spell constructs.*

Canth's lack of a reply did not surprise Aluras'bektsh'tar. She often used the near silent male as a sounding board for her thoughts, and he would only give voice a reply, when he found fault with something she stated.

Aluras'bektsh'tar turned her gaze toward Canth, considering his elegant profile. The Clan Elders are making too much noise about continuing my Line of Provenance. They fear that it will extinguished should I meet with an accident. I do not understand, how the pathetic fools think I would allow one of the disgusting males they keep advancing to stick his pathetic little male-thing in me. If only Canth had a recognized provenance, I would use him for impregnating myself, before casting him aside again. A progeny sired by a male of his prowess have much better prospects for being of use to me.

Turning her attention back to the supplicants, Aluras'bektsh'tar stepped into the room and paused, watching The Postmen. More silent than a ghost, Canth moved in next to her, while she calmly and coldly evaluated them.

All but one of them were Possessed, their minds and souls not matching with their bodies. The female Half-Alfar with a human on either side of her would be the one called Alva. From their positioning, she was the obvious leader of the group, but her relationship with the human male at her right was not a simple superior to subordinate relationship. Judging by his appearance the male should be the one called Graham. The pair of them were the founders of the Possessed guild called The Postmen.

The human female on Alva's left was clearly subordinate to the other two and was extremely nervous. She was not someone that fit any of the descriptions or images that Aluras'bektsh'tar's spies had collected.

The other two were a middle-aged adult human male and an early teenage human male. The middle-aged man was Herodotus, and he was the one who had arranged the meeting on behalf of The Postmen. Herodotus was holding the the teenage human male close to his body while stroking his cheek the way one would stroke a pet's head.

Aluras'bektsh'tar gently touched Alva's mind with her psi. There was no sign of the Half-Alfar being aware of her probe, and she inserted it deeper, enabling her to more easily listen to their conversation though Alva's perceptions.

Graham stiffened for an instant, before turning to look behind himself.

*Alva, behind us.*

Alva turned, her eyes widening at the sight of the two DokkAlfar watching her party. The rest of the humans turned a few seconds after.

*When did they come in?* Alva's nervousness was obviousness, her voice held a slight tremor.

*I don't know. I had a feeling like there were predators behind us, and when I turned, they were standing there.*

Canth's cold eyes, as black as his midnight hair, raked over The Postmen. “You dare to remain standing? Kneel before the Clan Mistress of Clan Vardne'tar!”

Herodotus immediately fell to his knees and dragged the teenager with him. The other three Postmen looked from one to another.

Graham nodded. *We'd best do as he says. These DokkAlfar are vicious savages. You never know how they will react, if they think you are being disrespectful to them.*

Following Graham's example, the two females knelt on one knee, with the other leg bent.

*This is ridiculous. Bowing to a pair of medieval savages like this is embarrassing. Even if we are trapped in this world, we are from Earth, a civilized world.* The corners of Alva's mouth turned slightly downward, as her eyes squinted with her irritation.

*Alva, be careful! I warned you to watch your temper in here! You don't understand what kind of people we're dealing with. You spent almost all your time in the Empire of Ar. They're more or less urbane and have become so dependent on our information network that they treated you like a princess. These are DokkAlfar, the real power in the Battleground. No matter how strong it is in the Central Reaches, the Empire of Ar would never dare to offend them.*

*I KNOW, GRAHAM! This bitch's arrogant manner just annoys me. We have doctorates in engineering. We built real technology in this world, technology that applies sound scientific principles to their magic based mumbo jumbo. Even the Emperor of Ar doesn't dare try to make us kneel to him.*

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

The Postmen were driven to the floor by blows that they never saw. Looking toward the black clothed DokkAlfar in their midst, they tried to focus their bleary consciousness on him.

“Do not kill them, Canth. I still have a use for them.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

Aluras'bektsh'tar took a seat in a large arm chair, and Canth moved to stand at her right side.

“It is very rude to go on with your private conversations in my presence. Do you think that your little spell web is hidden from one such as I? Every time you speak, your little spell lights up like a lighting bolt in a midnight sky.”

Alva's self-righteous anger was plain to see on her face. Her clenched fists were shaking as she pushed herself onto her knees again. As she started to rise to her feet, she froze. Even though his face bore no expression, having Canth's eyes locked upon her, she was too terrified to move.

*Alva! Don't push our luck! I couldn't even see that bastard in black move.*

“Alva, my sweet, if you attempt to rise from your knees without permission, Canth will leave you crippled.” Aluras'bektsh'tar's voice was soft and friendly.

“What do you want?” Alva's voice was a low his.

SMACK!

Again, the black-clad Canth viciously struck Alva to the ground, without any of The Postmen seeing him move.

“Mistress! What do you want Mistress!?” Alva's voice was shaking, and unshed tears were pooling in the corners of her eyes.

Aluras'bektsh'tar smiled serenely. “Explain your plea to me.”

“My plea?” Alva voice mirrored the confusion in her eyes.

*Alva, she doesn't see us as potential business partners. In her eyes, we're nothing but beggars. Enumerate the deal for her.*

*Damn you, Graham. Damn her! We're engineers and business people, not some uneducated Battleground beggars!* Despite her profanities, Alva's voice sounded, as though she was ready to cry.

*Get over your pride and do what she tells you to. We're in way over our heads this time. There's no way we can fight our way past that bodyguard of hers, let alone escape from a citadel teaming with tens of thousands of DokkAlfar.*

Alva stared at Aluras'bektsh'tar for several long moments, before resignation settled into her eyes. “As you probably know, we Postmen have created a network for sending letters and small packages anywhere in the Battleground of the Damned that we have terminals. As yet, we do not have any terminals in DokkAlfar territory. We would like to remedy that, but your government does not allow outsiders to own property within your territory. We are willing to offer you an interest in our operations inside DokkAlfar territory, in exchange for being our backer, so that we can acquire property and set up the necessary facilities.”

Aluras'bektsh'tar's serene smile did not change in the slightest. “You are too late. I have already received a more interesting offer. Herodotus, come kneel next to Canth.”

Herodotus rose to his feet, dragging the shivering teenager with him by his grip on the teenager's biceps. He looked towards the rest of The Postmen, a supercilious smile plastered on his face, until the teenager's body fell to the floor in bloody pieces.

Feeling the extra weight dragging in his hand, Herodotus held the severed arm up in front of his face. Staring at the blood dripping down from the cleanly cut biceps onto his hand, his face paled and he swallowed heavily.

“M-M-Mistress?” Herodotus' fear was obvious in his stuttering voice.

If anything, Aluras'bektsh'tar's smile became more serene. “I never gave you permission to bring your catamite with you. That was very bad manners Herodotus.”

Herodotus fell to his knees in the spreading pool of blood and other bodily fluids. The severed arm was still clutched in his shaking hand, as he slammed his forehead on the floor. “I apologize, Mistress. I did not mean to offend.”

Aluras'bektsh'tar laughed softly, the merry sound tinkling like bells. “This time, your catamite has paid for your offense.”

She turned her gaze upon Alva. “I can barely understand how most human animals think, but you spirits riding the Possessed are well nigh incomprehensible. You were thoroughly disgusted by this human's taking the catamite as his sex toy, while he was only eight years old, but you still tolerated it because of the social pressures of your world to accept the differences of others and embrace diversity. Because Herodotus was homosexual, you put him like others of his kind in positions of high authority in The Postmen, undermining your own authority, while rationalizing to yourself that you were doing the right thing, the politically correct thing.

“Since being trapped here by the traitor with no name, you have mercilessly wielded the power of your guild to enforce your will upon the Battleground of Slaves. With this human Graham as your second, the pair of you have the strength to defeat any group of five or more within The Postmen. Still, yet, you would always quail away from exercising your authority to enforce your beliefs and solidify your position within The Postmen.

“I cannot understand you.”

Alva glared at Aluras'bektsh'tar. “There's nothing wrong with educating the ass-backwards cultures in this place. You're nothing but uncivilized savages! Earth's first world nations have fair and equitable societies that respect the rights and values of everyone. The Postmen are real people from Earth. Even if we're trapped in these bodies, we can't give up on real culture, ethics, and morals.”

“Ha ha ha ha.” Aluras'bektsh'tar rose and moved to where Alva knelt. Squatting in front of the Half-Alfar, Aluras'bektsh'tar stroked Alva's cheek gently.

“I can see everything within your mind. You are an open book. You understand well the hypocrisy of your own words, but you still desperately spew them forth like they are the universal truth. I will tell you what the truth is: Power. The more Power you have; the more Power you can use to enforce your will upon the multiverse around you. Your pathetic little societies would fall in a few ten-thousandths, if they were ever faced with real Power.

“You will become my personal slave, little Alva. I will show you the truth of Power, the truth of the multiverse. I will crush your beliefs in your artificial morals and make you embrace the truth and glory of Power.”

BONG! BONG!

The Postmen grabbed their heads moaning, as a sound like a giant bell seemed to resonate inside of their skulls. Looking around, their faces were filled with pain and confusion.

*What just happened?* The second woman's voice was rather high-pitched, and her tone was closer to whining that talking.

*I don't know. We never included anything like that in the design for the party charms.* Alva's confused expression was turning into absolute bewilderment.

*You are very entertaining little animals.*

The soft voice was too melodious to have come from a human. It belonged to the DokkAlfar Aluras'bektsh'tar, but it was in their party chat-room. The Postmen's stares were drawn to the DokkAlfar's face, seeing the cold smile that did not touch her eyes.

*How the hell did she do that?* Alva's voice was filled with a mix of confusion and anger.

*I already told you, little Alva. Power lets you enforce your will on the multiverse around you. I did this, because I have Power, and I do not have self-destructive moral beliefs that keep me from using it. Now and forever, you are all my slaves.*

*** Gor'achen Citadel (Over Tallifer) - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 157

Aluras'bektsh'tar looked up from the reports on her desk. A robed and hooded DokkAlfar stood silently in middle of her office. She was not sure when the DokkAlfar had arrived, nor how long it had been there for.

“Third Spymaster, announce yourself, when you enter my presence.” Aluras'bektsh'tar's voice did not show any sign of her hidden irritation.

“Yes, Clan Mistress.” The Third Spymaster's voice was completely flat and emotionless. Its lack of intonation made each word sound as if it was being stated separate from the rest.

“What do you have to report?”

Aluras'bektsh'tar picked up the sheaf of papers the Third Spymaster place on the edge of desk and began to read. As she placed each page face down on her desk, the expression on her face changed, until it became a mask of venomous hatred.

“Is this accurate?”

The Third Spymaster's hooded head nodded. “The historical events are absolutely verifiable. The connections are based on my own records and understanding of the political motivations of the enumerated parties at that time.”

“Acquire a complete profile of Sinla'aveyka'tar and blueprint of the Aveyka'tar Tower. Also determine if she was acting independently or if the Citadel Lord was involved.”

“Yes, Clan Mistress.”

Dropping the last of the pages on her desk, Aluras'bektsh'tar rose from her desk and stood staring out the window of her study. At the top of the page as single name was written in a script so perfect that it could have been generated by a machine, Kalberak'fer'sha.

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 172

Kra'cha'len stepped through the teleportation gate and entered a stone walled room. Behind him another teleportation gate hummed softly. Each time he came to one of the Stoics' meetings, the entry and return gates led to different locations, and several dozen were set up for each of the meetings. He knew that the complex he was in was located in a pocket dimension, but there was no easy way to locate that pocket.

Two guards flanked the door leading from this small room with the teleportation gate. Like Kra'cha'len, they were both hooded and masked. The Stoics did not reveal their identities to those outside of their own small cells. In the nearly two years that he had been a nominal member of the Stoics, he had only seen the faces of seven other members, and one of those was the Low Clan wizard that recruited him.

Walking through the door, Kra'cha'len followed a roundabout path through the twisting maze of passageways in the pocket dimension. This part of the complex where the regular member of the Stoics arrived was separated from the part of the complex where the leaders arrived. No matter where he looked, he was unable to find anything useful for identifying and controlling the Stoics.

Entering the main meeting hall, Kra'cha'len looked around at the thousands of Stoics and felt a sullen anger in his heart. Why does the Priest-Lord insist on having me perform this task? I am not skilled at infiltration and have made no headway at all. This type of operation should be carried out by the Left Hand of Yggr.

The room is huge and trapezoidal in shape. Irregularly scattered along the walls, there are more than a dozen other entries, besides the one Kra'cha'len used. On the short side of the trapezoid, about sixty feet above the floor level, a group or cloaked and masked figures looks down on the gathering from a porticoed promenade made of stone.

“No matter our race, we are all brothers and sisters in the service of the Great Conqueror. Only together can we extend his rule to all living things!” The speaker is clearly an Alfar. Despite being hidden beneath his cloak, his obviously slender body could not possibly be human, let alone an orc.

“The decadence and depravity of the Atran'ler Empire is a disgrace to the Great Conqueror's name and purpose. Only by giving up on the endless pursuits of lust and pleasure, can our empire become strong again. If we allow the clans to continue wallowing in orgies of bloodlust, homosexuality, and bestiality, the empire will continue to decline!”

As Kra'cha'len watches the Stoics roar and cheer, he has to restrain himself from shaking his head in consternation. The clans do as they will, because they have the Power. How can these fools not understand that Power gives one the right to do as one chooses? The very tenets of Yggr are based around those with the Power crushing those without Power beneath their fee and using the weak in any manner they see fit. Whatever the real beliefs of these Stoics, they are not true followers of Yggr or any of the Jotun Lords.

The common members around Kra'cha'len were of no interest to him, and he kept his stare on the Stoic leaders on the portico. With their bodies hidden by robes and cloaks and their patterns hidden by wards, he was unable to ascertain their identities. He was looking for any clue that could be used to find their identities, but as with every previous meeting he could find none.

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 193

I slip to the side, avoiding Thrall's fist. He is not using Shadow Fist, nor is he using Power, but he is still far superior to me by any measure. Just using his base physical abilities, Thrall could destroy me without any trouble.

My return kick is a shadow that passes through space as though it not there. Even though I am not using ki, and I dare not attempt to use Od, I am moving in the shadow of the Od. Every move, whether attack or defense, embodies vicious cruelty, seeking to cause the maximum amount of pain and destruction.

Under Thrall's tutelage, I have already developed a much better understanding of martial skills, Power, and the nature of the metaverse.

Thought, it comes from the mind. Mind is part of all existence, just like body and soul. Even inanimate matter might have thoughts, but because they are too alien to us, we cannot recognize them. Thought is part of existence, but it also clouds our perceptions of the truth behind what we see as reality. Feelings come from the soul. As thoughts impede our ability to perceive the truth, feelings impede out ability to experience the truth. Breathing, it is tantamount to the expression of our physical life, but it is so much a part of the body, that it can block our ability to understand.

Our existence has three parts to it. Each part is a piece of the whole, and each part can interfere with the other parts. Only when the three aspects of the Trinity are in aligned, only when a being is true to itself can it reach its full potential.

The monk Tae Sun, who taught Talon Shadow Fist, did not understand or maybe he refused to accept the truth of Power. To attain Power you do not have to be peaceful, centered, in harmony with the world, or any other zen-like bullshit. You have to understand yourself and be true to yourself. Each being is different and each being will walk a different path to Power, even when studying the exact same art.

Earth martial arts were almost all based around a zen type of philosophy. You work to find a calm center, where you remain unaffected by your thoughts, emotions, physical condition, and the conditions imposed by the world around you.

Because of Tae Sun's misunderstanding about Power and the nature of Shadow Fist, Talon hamstrung himself, and never reached his full potential. Because I learned Shadow Fist from Talon's memories of misunderstood training, I was the same. I tried to master Shadow Fist the same way I would have trained in some kind of Earth martial art.

I should have already realized it from Smithing. Each Smith has his own Secrets of Steel, and probably every Maker has his own Secrets. A Smith's Secrets reflect the nature of the Smith. The same truth applies to martial arts. I am not peaceful or anything close to it. I am a cruel, vicious fucker, driven by hate, anger, disdain, and intolerance. With my unnatural tolerance for pain, I push myself to the point where most men would give up rather than continue.

I never needed to achieve a centered state. Zen style meditation can serve to replace sleep for me, or be used when I need to focus on something without distraction, but it was always a method that hid the truth. I needed to accept my true nature and use my meditation to hone it.

All existence comes from Life and Death, and the Od is the Power the exists between Life and Death. The metaverse exists in a constant cycle of Life and Death. Life creates and Death destroys. Death gives the energy of what has been destroyed to Life and it is used to create again.

The metaverse exists in the confluence of Life and Death, with the Elemental Powers surrounding the Amalgamate universes. The Amalgamate universes are where Earth and Taereun exist. They are the universes of the Trinity. The Trinity, both the universes and the Powers, are themselves an amalgamation of all the Elemental Powers into a single whole, but Od is still at its core. The real meaning behind the name Shadow Fist is that you learn to move in the Shadow of the Od. You do not need to use the Od to exist in its shadow, but you have to at least be acknowledged by the Od.

Though I can see Thrall's image in the line of my kick's focus, I know he has already moved. My kick hits nothing but empty air. The blades of my hands blocks the punches I can barely see, as I shift my weight while my kicking foot returns to the ground. I can perceive the attacks that are faster than my natural perception, because I am not entirely restricted by the realms of the mind and the soul. Every move is faster than my physical capabilities, because I am not entirely restricted by the realm of the body.

“Good. You are truly using Shadow Fist.”

I snort. “I should have already known how to use it, but I blinded myself.”

Thrall nods. “True. You fell into the trap that has evolved in almost all universes, where martial arts are practiced. Inner peace and harmony do not put you in tune with the metaverse. I do not know why most sentient beings fall into the same philosophical traps. They seek some greater reason for being, some grand harmonious plan, but there is none.

“The only real truth is Power, and the unending cycle of Lire and Death. Power allows for survival. Before Life and Death, there were only the Primals. Those Powers exist only to exist. They try to make everything into themselves. Life and Death exist because they chose to exist, and continue to exist because they have the Power to defy the Primals. Life and Death are in a continuous, vicious, and unending battle for survival.

“Philosophy, ethics, morality, laws, codes. They are all the creations of sentient beings trying to justify themselves. They are not the creations of Life and Death. Power is the only truth of Life and Death, and Shadow Fist is about the accumulation of Power. The Path of Transcendence is also the Path of Power. You survive or you are destroyed.”

My grin is fierce and cruel. “What's next?”

Thrall smirks slightly. “It is almost time for events to start moving again. Tomorrow, you will fight the Throd'nahk. You need to understand your level of improvement, and Elan'fer'sha needs to see that you are ready for the next stage of her plans. If you do not enter the arena, you will not encounter the people who will lead you toward your own goals. Afterwards, I will show you how to open your psi.”

Awakening Psi

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 194

Elan'fer'sha enters the training hall with the Throd'nahk at her side. She is wearing her bondage leather outfit, so she is not as interesting to look at as when she milks my Power to fill the Power Crystals for the priest. Even though her tits and cunt are hanging out, I prefer seeing her completely naked. Big, small, or even almost flat like Elan'fer'sha, as long as they do not sag, tits are one of the finest parts of a woman, but as nice as they are, they are still only part of the package. Unfortunately right now, I do not have time to enjoy staring at her.

The Throd'nahk is what I need to pay attention to. The Throd'nahk is not exactly human. Well, he was born human, but now, I am certain he is something more. Even though I do not really understand the reason, I simply know that he has become something other than just human. He is probably already walking down the Path of Transcendence, but I do not think he is very far along it. He is not a monster like Thrall.

The Throd'nahk's eyes are locked onto me. He is weighing me, just like he did on that first day. I do not know why, but he seems to have been tasked with judging my worth for Elan'fer'sha.

After removing the slight smirk from his face, Thrall turns toward Elan'fer'sha. “You explained to the Throd'nahk what his purpose here is?”

Elan'fer'sha glances toward the Throd'nahk for a second. “He understands.”

“Choose any weapon you like.”

After swallowing his irritation, the Throd'nahk looks around the training hall, a puzzled expression on his face. It seems he is not familiar with this room and its nature. Schooling his expression to blankness, he looks at the swords I am holding loosely at my side. My practice swords have blunted edges, wrapped with leather. The weights are close, but I think they weigh more than the swords I brought from Earth.

Moving to a section of weapon racks with spears, the Throd'nahk takes a spear similar in size to the practice spear he was using in the arena. After bouncing the spear on his palm a couple times, he spends a few minutes walking through an elaborate spear drill.

Holding the spear point down under his armpit, the Throd'nahk returns. “This one will do.”

Thrall nods. “Do not hold back. If you do not use your Thunderbird Style, you will be crushed.”

Thrall's words visible prick the Throd'nahk's pride, and he sneers at Thrall. “You should already know that I am on the Second Path of Transcension. Do you think this one is my match?”

Thrall's grin is filled with pure condescension. “You may have been forced out of the arena for starting to Transcend, but that does not mean you are unbeatable by those who have not Transcended. Even as you are now, you are still not the equal of the Iron Fist or Talon.”

What exactly is the Second Path of Transcension? I know that the supposed gods are Transcendent beings, but I do not know much about how the process. It might mean he is in the first stage of becoming a real Transcendent, but how many stages are there?

“Half-Dvergar aren't human. Brand is only a human.”

Why does Thrall have to bring up Talon's name? At his mention of Talon, Elan'fer'sha begins to stare at me narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. Since that first time, she has not dug into my connection with Talon, but she has obviously not forgotten about it either. Her mind wandering in that direction is the last thing I need.

“Enough with your talking shit, let's fight. Unless, you don't have the balls for it.” My tone of voice is as nasty as I can make it.

The Throd'nahk stares at me, with anger and confusion mixed on his face. He can guess that I am after something, but it is doubtful that he knows what happened between myself an Elan'fer'sha.

“Yes, let's fight.” The Throd'nahk nods slightly, before stalking onto the training floor. He holds his spear at about a third of the way from the bottom, with the point aimed toward the ceiling. As he takes a deep breath, a static charge seems to accumulate on his skin, and when he releases the breath, snake-like ropes of blue electrical energy explodes outward, wrapping his body and weapon.

I move toward the Throd'nahk and stand stop twenty yards away from him.

“Bring it on!”

The Throd'nahk frowns. “You are too arrogant.”

Before I see it, I feel the Throd'nahk begin to move, and start to move at a slight tangent to his line of attack. The Throd'nahk is fast, but my single step crosses ten yards. To those looking at my movement, I would appear to be as insubstantial as ghost, while moving. As the Throd'nahk turns to intercept me, my second step takes me behind him. With his eyes slightly widening in surprise, the Throd'nahk spins around, and a shield of blue lighting springs up between us.

Boom!

Wild electrical energy sprays out from where my sword impacts the lightning shield.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

I follow the first thrust with four more, from the same sword, and the Throd'nahk does not try to retaliate in the gaps created by withdrawing my blade for each following strike. His narrowed eyes remain focused the arm wielding the blade.

As I move to step to his right side, the Throd'nahk launches himself forward. His speed seems slower than the last time we fought, but that perception could be because of the degree my own speed has improved by.

Spinning to face me, the Throd'nahk stabs forward with his spear, even though there is more than fifteen yards between us. A huge ball of lightning flashes toward me at a speed too fast to avoid, even though I can perceive it.

Hurriedly forcing a huge amount of my ki into the practice sword, I slash through the middle of the lightning ball.

Crack-Crack-Crack! BOOM!

The lightning scatters in all directions, grounding into the stone making up the wall, ceiling, and floors of the training hall. However, not all the electrical energy is dissipated, and some of it arcs through my body. All the hair on my body stands on end, and I feel the sparking of static electricity running across my skin.

The Throd'nahk glances toward Thrall, for a second. “That collar appears to be working. I cannot feel his power, so how is he using it?”

Thrall smirks fractionally. “That collar was made by me and just appears to be working. Brand can conceal his Power, and with your awareness at the Second Circle of Coalescence, you will never be able to detect it.”

The first things that Thrall taught me were several ways to hide my Power, when I need to. I have become used to inverting my power inside so to speak, and while fighting the Throd'nahk, have been doing it out of habit. It takes probably half again as much effort as using my ki normally, but it seems that the Throd'nahk really cannot detect my Power, when I do this.

The Throd'nahk charges, and I advance to meet him. This time his spear strikes directly toward my line of movement, forcing me to block it His followup attacks use the length of his weapon to put pressure on me. Trying to move past it is a risk, and I keep deflecting the attacks. One. Two. Five. Ten. Twenty-thee.

I get an opening, as he launches an overhand thrust. With the Throd'nahk 's height, his spear is coming down at a sharp angle, and instead of moving, I put all my strength into an attack on the shaft of the spear. My attack drives the head of the spear into the floor, and shards of broken stone spray out from the impact. Stepping in, I thrust low with my left-hand blade, but the Throd'nahk spins the butt of his spear around to block. I let the spear shaft slide along my blade, until it catches against the guard. Quickly trapping the other end of the shaft with my right hand sword's guard, I lock both our weapons up in a bind.

“Don't get into a contest of strength with a bigger, stronger man.” The Throd'nahk grins nastily at me. He is a bit more than a foot taller and close to twice my mass, none of it fat.

“Are you sure your stronger?”

Crackle. Boom!

Thread-like strands of blue lighting rise up all over the Throd'nahk's body, and in an instant a peal of thunder echoes in the training hall. As the lightning is absorbed back into the Throd'nahk's body, his muscles visible swell with strength and power.

In response, I stop inverting my ki and let it flood my body, and I feel my own strength increase exponentially. However, there is no visible effect, and the Throd'nahk sneers as his mass pushes me back, while my bare feet slide over the slick stone.

Adjusting the flow of my ki, I adhere my feet to the stone, and the Throd'nahk's forward momentum is stopped cold. His muscles bunch and quiver, as he tries to force me back further, and his eyes flash in annoyance. My own muscles are standing out like heavy slabs of steel, as I resist his more than human strength.

Even if the Throd'nahk cannot force me back, it does not mean I can overpower him either. We are too closely matched in strength for there to be a clear victor. Now that I have learned about where my physical strength is in relation to the Throd'nahk, I do not want to waste more time. I step back and away from the engagement. Slipping through the Shadow of the Od, I disappear like a ghost in front of the Throd'nahk.

The Throd'nahk's strength, dexterity, and reaction speed only require him to take a couple of steps, before he dissipates his sudden burst of forward momentum. As he turns, his spear snakes out in a brutal attack aimed at my knees. His face is filled with a mix of anger and animosity. This fight is becoming personal for the Throd'nahk.

Up until now, I have been fighting in a calm, mostly defensive manner, but this is not the best way for me to fight. I know who I am. I have known the truth about myself for a long time, and now, I know the truth about Power and combat arts. I am a cruel mother fucker. I enjoy hurting people. Pain is my oldest friend, and giving is the greatest joy.

The malicious grin that settles on my face warns the Throd'nahk. He dodges my attack, as I lunge though the Shadow of the Od. I have to give it to him, that bastard has some of the best fighting instincts of anyone I have ever faced.

I step across his front, and launch more attacks from his left side, but he brings up that lightning shield again. Even though they deform the shield, my attacks do not penetrate it, but the force of the blows is still transmitted to the Throd'nahk. He is forced back step by step, as I batter his lighting shield.

With three steps, I put more than thirty yards between us. The Throd'nahk spins to stare at me, but he does not follow. Moving through the Shadow of the Od, I cover ground much faster than I have seen him move so far.

“Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain.”

I only use the pattern sight spell on my left eye, allowing me to see the real world and patterns at the same time. I already knew it, but now, I see that the Throd'nahk's martial style is based on mana. It almost looks like he has spell patterns imprinted in his body, but I do not think that is what he has done. He must somehow be maintaining the spell patterns with his combat style.

“My heart is steel. Steel is the blood and bone of the Smith. While the flame of my soul burns, the steel of my sword will never break and never dull.”

A faint silver aura shimmers around my swords.

“The hammer falls, shaping the steel. The steel remembers the force. The steel releases the force.”

Threads of dark grey mix in with the silver aura.

I charge the Throd'nahk my lunging steps closing the distance in just two strides.

Bang! Bang!

The Throd'nahk blocks my thrusts, but with just deflecting those attacks, the force from the impacts drives him back one step for each attack. Jumping back, he brings up the lighting shield again, which is just what I wanted him to do. I am already following him before his feet touch the ground again.

Crackle! BOOM!

Delivered with all the force my body can generate, my thrust pierces the lightning shield. More electrical energy than the lighting ball contained spatters all around us. The Throd'nahk seems unaffected by the discharge, but it leaves me with a tingling feeling throughout my entire body.

Shock evident on his face, the Throd'nahk leaps more than fifteen feet into the air. Made of electrical energy, a huge pair of raptor wings spread out from his back. With the flapping of those electric wings, he gains more altitude, before hovering around forty feet above the floor.

Martial styles that have the ability to grant flight are rare, to the point of being legendary. Even after all my years playing Taereun: Battleground of the Damned and fighting through The Great Fuck Over, this is only the third one I have personally encountered. Most styles that have an affinity with air or flying creatures only give the ability to glide at the most, similar to what Perzey was able to do near the time of her death.

The Throd'nahk begins to generate a ball of lighting on the tip of his spear. As he launches it toward me, I move a dozen yards to the side in a single step, and the electricity grounds out harmlessly, where I was standing.

With the size of the training hall, the Throd'nahk has more than enough room, as he begins to circle above my reach. Using the safety provided by his height, he fires a number of lightning balls at me, while trying to predict my movement, but they all miss.

Glancing at Thrall, I see him stare back at me with a faintly amused expression. That bastard seems to be enjoying the show, so I will give him something to really enjoy.

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

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 197

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.

The gladiators rise from their seats, stuffing the last of their breakfasts in their mouths. Some take the hard bread with them, as the file out of the mess hall.

I follow them but do not exit the tunnel into the arena.

The Throd'nahk has a group of fifteen newbies in the arena this time.

“Steel is pain. Steel is cruelty.” As has become my habit, I only cast the spell on my left eye.

One of the new slaves looks familiar from when I thought Taereun was a game. A tall man with brown hair looks like someone who was running with the Explorer's Guild, when I was active in the southern part of the Western Reaches. He is a Possessed, and the man I remember was a player. This could be the same person. Considering he is here, he must be a victim of The Nameless' second harvest. I do not remember ever hearing the man's name, but I think he was one of the higher-ups in The Postmen. How he managed to get himself collared in Gor'achen?

I almost jump, when a huge man suddenly enters my awareness. Thrall has the ability to just appear, as if out of thin air. Even though I have at least the basic ability to use spatial awareness, I have yet to spot him walking up to me. He is just suddenly there in my awareness, when does the pop out of thin air act.

“That's seriously fucking annoying.”

Thrall chuckles briefly. “That Possessed is interesting. He is another Maker.”

“Oh? I've seen him before. He's in The Postmen, but I don't know his name.”

“Graham.”

I laugh, but it is not humorous sound.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Graham is one of the co-founders of The Postmen. He was Alva's buddy, maybe her lover. The two of them started The Postmen together, but Graham built the Troubleshooter organization all by himself. He was also responsible for the close ties between The Postmen and the Explorer's Guild.

The new slaves get the same beat down as the slaves that arrived with me. Graham is the last one to take to the sand.

The Throd'nahk gestures at Graham. “Choose your opponent!”

After scanning the line of gladiators, Graham points at Tyrend. “Him.”

With a grin, Tyrend struts over to a weapon rack and picks up the heavily curved scimitar-like swords he used the day I arrived.

“Before you arrived, that one could have been the champion, whenever he chose to claim the position.”

During the time of Taereun as a game, I saw Graham fighting a few times, but while I remember he was effective, I never paid to much attention to him. If he is a Maker, most of his Power will be tied up in abilities that will support his combat skill, and he will likely have very little in the way of active combat abilities. The combat abilities of Makers are more along the line of my dancing swords, abilities that manipulate the items they can craft in an offensive fashion.

When I faced that frog's golems, he was almost certainly using his Power to enhance them, and it may have even required his direct control to turn the one into a martial arts facsimile. If I had known that at the time, I would have just gone straight after that damned frog and dealt with the golems after he was down.

Graham takes up a sword and shield. The sword is bit longer than a common long sword, around the length of a bastard sword with a narrower blade. It is an odd blade that seems to be exclusively made for point work. The shield is nothing special, just a large, round shield.

With the way he holds his sword, while testing its weight and balance, Graham obviously knows what he is doing. The question is, without any Power to support him, how well can he do against a master of the blade like Tyrend.

“Begin!”

Graham closes with Tyrend, but his movements are not reckless. He does not reveal any large openings, when the point of his sword lashes out. As Tyrend sidesteps, he lunges in with a shield bash, for Tyrend to step back.

Tyrend's grin is wider than his normal cocky expression, as his scimitars turn into a whiling tsunami of hard wood. His slashes come from constantly varying angles, but Graham blocks all of them cleanly with either his shield or his sword. Every time Tyrend leaves a gap in his wall of steel, he is forced to dodge or block the point of Graham's sword.

Tyrend is better than I realized, but Graham is nearly his equal. Tyrend is whirling dervish putting out a near continuous stream of attacks. Graham is a heavily defensive fighter, who shuts down his enemy's attacks while launching his own attacks into the openings he creates. This match is going to come down to a battle of endurance if one of them does not make a fatal mistake.

The Throd'nahk's face is a stiff mask as he watches the combat. This is the second batch of new meat in a row that is screwing up his plans. Slowly, his mask cracks, and something resembling malicious glee fills his face. He glances towards the tunnel, and seeing Thrall and myself, he schools his expression into his normal imperturbable lack of expression.

As for the rest of the gladiators, most of them could clean their lower jaws off the sand with a shovel. By most standards, all of them are masters of their chosen weapons, but they are not even close to Tyrend and Graham's levels of skill.

The end of the fight is almost anticlimactic. Graham leans back slightly to let one of Tyrend's scimitars pass by his face and smashes the second with his shield. As he thrusts his long sword at Tyrend's stomach, he stops cold. The point of Tyrend's other scimitar is already at his throat.

“You used that trick on too many times. If you had saved it for a sure kill, you would have had me.” Tyrend's grins is cockier than normal.

“I thought I had you the first two times, and the way you moved made it look like you never noticed the setup.” Graham's voice has a bit of a sullen air to it. His breathing is also a bit heavy. His endurance is not a match for his skill.

Tyrend claps Graham genially on the shoulder. “Be proud! You're one of the top hundred fighters I've ever faced or seen. Learn everything the Throd'nahk has to teach you, and you might have a long life in the arena.”

“Come with me.” Thrall leads me to the training hall.

“You are progressing too slowly. I'm going to try something different. Put the helmet on and channel your Power into it.”

After doing as Thrall says, my entire perception of the world around me is from my spatial awareness. Thrall is a blazing beacon compared with the inanimate matter. A sudden brilliance lances out from him and hits me.

This pain is one of the worst I have ever felt. Just like when my soul threads were severed, this pain is not in my body.

“AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR!” My scream echoes in my own ears as I lose control over my channeling, and the sensory blocking from the helmet ends.

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?”

As I step through the Shadow of the Od and begin to attack Thrall, he does not defend himself from my strikes, but I do no damage to him. Hitting Thrall is akin to hitting a Thrall-sized block of iron.

“AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR!”

My nearly unending screams echo in the training hall, as I futilely attack Thrall. It feels like my mind and soul are being torn apart, until something gives way inside of me and Power floods through my fists. The pain eases, and the impact of my punches drives Thrall back slightly.

Thrall hits me with a casual backhand I cannot avoid, and I fly through the air, before tumbling across the floor.

Shakily rising to my feet, I tear off the helmet.

“What the fuck did you do that for?” I want to kill the fucking bastard, not scream at him, but I already know I am not strong enough to do it.

Thrall begins to speak in a flat emotionless tone. “Your mind and soul are covered with scars, just like your body. While you have torn open the scars in your soul to let your ki flow, the scars in your mind were sealing most of your psi inside of you. I thought that having you train your awareness would loosen the psychic scars and let you wield your psi, but it was having no effect. I used my own Power to tear open the scars in you mind.”

When he finishes his statement, Thrall stares at me. He gives the impression that he is pondering something.

After a few moments, he frowns. “Your scars cannot be self-inflicted.”

Now, I stare a him blankly for a few moments. I never told him about what Galen said to me, but I have the feeling that very few secrets can be hidden from him. It is not really like what Galen said was a secret to begin with, but I am still uncomfortable talking about it.

“What do you mean?”

“That priest does not fully understand what he is talking about. Scars and other injuries can be burned into the patterns by the belief of the individual, but there are certain visible signs that self-inflicted scars leave behind. You have none of the signs.”

Thrall frowns, looking away. “The damage in your patterns was inflicted in such a way as to seal your Power. I do not know by who or why. There is nothing in your memories that gives an indication of that. It must have happened while you were unconscious after the accident.”

My Power was deliberately sealed by someone? Why? It makes no sense. Who on Earth would know enough about Power and have a reason to seal my Power?

“Okay. Now what?”

“Wait until after the gladiatorial match, before you start practicing with psi again. If you try to use it now, you might cause more damage.”

The Gor'achen Arena

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 197

“Brand, this is Graham.” Tyrend points his thumb at Graham as he sits down.

“Greetings, Brand.”

Graham is about 6'4” tall, with a solid build. He does not have the massive bulk that most of the gladiators do, but he is not even close to a lean or athletic build. A number of old scars are scattered across his body, but none of the wounds would have been life-threatening. His brown hair was already cut short, which is uncommon in the Battleground, and is even shorter now. His brown eyes have a hard glint to them. He could pass for anywhere from late twenties to late thirties, but in the Battleground, you can almost never tell a person's age based on his appearance. Being Possessed and a founder of The Postmen, he has to be decades older than he appears.

I nod, without saying anything, and turn my attention back to my dinner. While not particularly appetizing, at least the nightly meal contains some overcooked meat. I cannot tell what kind of meat it is, but I do not suppose it matters. As long as I get enough food every day, I will survive until, I find the opportunity to escape.

“If we win the games in two days, the Blood Rose Stable should rise to third place in the league. The Mistress always brings in slave girls for us after a win, but if we get back into the top three, she will probably give us something special.”

“So, this really is a sports competition between stables for points?” Graham's voice has an introspective tone to it.

I know about the gladiatorial combats and the gryphon races, but with Talon's memories being fragmentary, I do not know the particulars of how they are run. Since being in this stable, from time to time, I would hear the gladiators talking about battles and points, but I did not pay much attention to it.

“Can you describe how this gladiatorial league operates?”

Tyrend glances at me, with a hint of surprise in his gaze. “You really don't pay attention to anything except whatever training you're getting and servicing the Mistress do you?”

My eyes narrow slightly, but I am not sure why his words annoyed me. “It's hard to find pussy as good as Elan'fer'sha.”

Tyrend grins. “Bastard. You get laid every night, and I get to listen to the twists fucking no-teeth in the ass.”

“Getting three girls to yourself every time you win in the arena isn't good enough?”

Tyrend shrugs, as his grins turns into a smirk. “I like my girls with some proper padding and big tits, but every time I the Mistress, I get hard. I don't know why such a skinny woman makes me want to fuck her so much.”

“The league.”

Graham is looking at us with his nose so far in the air, he is lucky he does not fall over backwards. In his eyes, we are a pair of uneducated barbarians with no respect for proper standards of political correctness and social justice.

Fuck him. Now that he is trapped in the Battleground, sooner or later, he will learn that Earth's rules are nothing more than a reeking pile of goblin shit. Being a slave in a DokkAlfar's stable should give him a good boost along the path.

Tyrend gets his smirk under control. “Well, there are gladiatorial leagues in each of the Great Citadels, another in the imperial capital, and some others for the provinces. Other than the gryphon races, the leagues are about the only thing that second-class citizens and non-citizens care about. They argue, bet, and fight about whose team is better. When we enter the arena, they scream our names, or curse us for being too good.

“Each league has two seasons of twelve ten-days each year. The stable with the most points at the end, becomes the top stable. Then, at the end of the season, there is a tournament between the sixteen gladiators with the most points for the league champion. Here, the winner becomes the Gor'achen Champion. Every five years, there is a big tournament in the capital. The provinces and the citadels all send their top three stables and their league champion.”

I cannot keep from smiling. The true power of blood sports. Since at least the latter half of the twentieth century, Earth nations have used blood sports to keep their populations dissolute. Even today, the blood sports still exist, with most of the real violence and danger sanitized from them. At least, the team blood sports still exist. Boxing, wrestling, mixed martial arts, and all other sports that focus on individual achievement have been eliminated. Even the team sports no longer have MVP awards, they have been replaced with Most Helpful Player awards, the player who sacrifices the most for other team members to score.

Media idols and politicians are the only places where the cult of personality still exists, but the media idols at least are regulated and policed by the government. The ones who step outside the undeclared lines of political correctness soon disappear.

I wonder how being in the Battleground will affect the Earth. How will they deal with the arrival of a god who demands worship? What will they do when the bad people that do not respect their political correctness bullshit world come?

The arena teams are a true blood sport that makes the Roman's use of their gladiatorial games look completely amateurish. It sounds like their second-class citizens and non-citizens have the fanaticism of European soccer fans. If they are so focused on their teams that they do not get riled up enough for any kind of organized dissent, it is one of the ultimate pressure valves for a culture that exist with top dogs crushing those beneath themselves and the ones being crushed in turn crushing those beneath them. Only the slaves at the very bottom of the food chain have no one to step on, but they do not matter, because if they are on the bottom of the slave pile, they are too weak to be a threat to anything.

Graham looks at me with a mix of curiosity and disgust on his face. “You actually find it entertaining to be in this situation?”

When I turn my stare on Graham, he flinches slightly, before locking his stare with my own. His eyes are filled with disdain and animosity.

I do not know what he is thinking, but I can make a few guesses. Considering what The Postmen developed and Alva's reputation as being an Earth communications engineer, he is almost certainly college educated and possibly an engineer. With that background, he is probably fully inculcated in Earth's politically correct culture. Whether or not he believes in it, he should be used to secretly looking down on third world cultures, while publicly pandering to their differences and uniqueness. So, the DokkAlfar's complete disregard for anything resembling his values should classify them as pure barbarians in his eyes. As nothing more than a slave of the DokkAlfar, I should be even less than a barbarian in his eyes.

“Isn't it better to be amused, than to so scared my dick is shriveling up … like you?” My voice is pitched to carry clearly to everyone in the room.

“Is the new meat scared?”

“New meat, I'll put my stiff rod in your ass. That will put some steel in your cock, even if it won't do much for your spine.”

Tyrend laughs and claps Graham on the shoulder. “You should go hurt a few of them.”

“That's not how I operate.”

“That wouldn't be politically correct would it?”

Graham's head snaps around, surprise and anger clear on his face. “You're a player!”

“Do I look like a fucking Possessed to you? You're the only Possessed here.” I school my own expression into one of pure disdain.

“The new meat's a Possessed?”

“A Possessed? One of them freaks that don't die?”

“What the fuck did you do that for?” Graham's hate filled snarl matches his glare.

“Because you're from Earth.” My words are in English.

“Nah, I heard you can kill Possessed now, and they stay dead.” One of the other pieces of new meat that came in with Graham is staring at him with a hate filled look. He may have lost friends or family to the Possessed in the past.

“How does that ugly fucker know that the new meat is a Possessed. You think that he's one too.”

“If any of you faggots think I'm a Possessed, you can try to kill me, but I'll take that as an offer to cripple you and leave you alive. Imagine life in the slave pens with no women and all those stiff dicks needing a hole. It'll be real fun, just ask Broken-shoulder.” I point at the wretch, where he is squatting next to one of the homosexual gladiators, with his hand grabbing the faggot's loincloth.

I cannot stop from ginning like the Cheshire Cat, as I rake my stare across the gladiators. I want at least one of them to step up, but none of them are willing to make a move. They all turn away from me, looking at one another, waiting for someone else to make the first move.

The DokkAlfar guards are watching the show with smirks on their faces. They are pretty much safe from any of the other slaves attacking them, and they do not know that I am free kill them at my leisure. If the slaves are fighting amongst themselves, their job becomes easier. So, they can just sit back and enjoy the show.

Tyrend smirks at me. “You really know how to make friends.”

“Fuck all of them.”

“Graham, sit down. Brand is the only person here you don't want to fight. He forced the Throd'nahk to use his Power in a spar.”

Graham looks from Tyrend to myself and back to Tyrend again, before sitting on Tyrend's side of the table.

“I've seen the Throd'nahk's Power. There's not a single one of you that compare to him. So, why doesn't he fight in the arena? Do you know?”

Tyrend looks at me, slightly wide-eyed. “Transcendents aren't allowed to fight in league matches.”

“He's only in the Second Circle of Coalescence.”

All the DokkAlfar hostilely glare at me, their hands reaching for their weapons,.

Tyrend's eyes open so wide the whites are visible all around the irises. “Don't fucking phrase it that way. That's rock ape talk.”

I smile at one of the closer DokkAlfar, and he shivers slightly. Confusion passes across his face, before his glare redoubles in intensity.

“Elan'fer'sha needs me for now. These pissants won't dare to touch me without her permission, and she won't give it just because I use Dvergar terminology.”

After glancing at each other, the DokkAlfar studiously pretend to not hear anything I say. They have no delusions about who is more valuable.

“How are the league battles organized?” Graham is just as studious as the DokkAlfar in ignoring me.

“There are two parts: a battle of champions and a general melee. In the battle of champions, each stable puts up ten champions. If a champion wins, he continues fighting. The side that wins can put any remaining champions into the general melee. The side that lost all its champions has to use only the designated general melee gladiators. Some put only their weakest gladiators up in the battle of champions, and stack the general melee. Others stack the battle of champions. Others distribute their strength evenly. You can never be sure what you'll be facing. Even the losing stable in the battle of champions can walk away with nine points, while the wining team gets fifteen, ten for the victories and five for being the overall winner. The same applies to the general melee.”

It sounds like the stable owners probably play a lot of strategy games with the lineups for the league matches. They play head games with one another to get the most points, and the gladiators pay for those points with their bodies and their lives.

In two days, things will get interesting.

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 199

Thrall told me not to come to his domain today, because I am going to be fighting in the arena this afternoon. Without any training or anything pressing to do, I am bored. If any of the gladiators was strong enough to give me a decent challenge, I would probably start a fight. Tyrend and Graham together could probably get me to work up a sweat, but only Graham is in the mess hall. Besides, I am not sure that Tyrend would want to spar, and I do not want to alienate such a useful source of information.

Graham is sitting by himself near another corner, while watching me out of the corner of his eye. Without Tyrend around, he has done his best to avoid me, but he seems to be constantly observing me. He probably does not know what to make of me. I speak English, but I claim to not be Possessed. Most Earthlings could never conceive of another Earthling wanting to come to the Battleground of the Damned in their Earth body.

“Gladiators, assemble!” The Throd'nahk's voice is clearly audible in the mess hall, where I am idling.

The other gladiators rise to their feet and start filing through the tunnel to the arena. Some are grinning. Others are frowning. Some are calm. Others are antsy. Graham looks like he is nervous and trying to hide it, as he rises to his feet.

In the arena, there is a cart filled with weapons and armor. After gathering all of us who would be fighting, the Throd'nahk begins handing out the weapons and armor.

Graham is given a sword that has a blade close to four feet long but only about an inch wide. He slings the baldric for the sword over his shoulder and takes a shield. His shield is kite shaped and lacquered with The Postmen's logo. In the center two pigeons in flight are separated by an upright sword. Over the sword a single word is etched in all Roman capital letters: POSTMEN. On the bottom of the shield, the guild motto is also etched in Roman script: We Always Deliver. Both the sword and shield are clearly Items of Power.

“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.

With the arena in front of us, Elan'fer'sha leads us to a gated arch in the shorter side of the oval. Through the arch, a tunnel leads down to the bowels of the arena. There are more arches visible as we approach the tunnel, but they all have stairs leading up, so they must be for the audience to reach their seats.

The gates are closed and locked behind our parade, as we descend to the prep area beneath the arena. The tunnel quickly opens into a large room with cells and tunnels leading off of it.

Dismounting, Elan'fer'sha gives the reins of her hippogryph to one of the DokkAlfar guards and saunters over to me. Just watching her walk is enough to cause my dick to start getting hard, but I use my body control skills and curb the flow of my blood.

Wearing riding boots instead of stiletto heeled boots, Elan'fer'sha stares directly into my eyes from only inches away.

“Kill them all. You will be first in line for the duel of champions. Kill them all, and then you will join Tyrend and Graham for the general melee. The three of you will again kill them all.”

“You're one bloodthirsty bitch.”

Elan'fer'sha smiles, a cruel, murderous, lascivious smile. “You are my Champion. Pave the road to my desires with blood.”

As Elan'fer'sha turns and saunters toward one of the tunnels exiting the room, all of the gladiators watch her in rapt fascination. Even the homosexual gladiators cannot take their eyes off of her, as their dicks start to get hard again. If there were any women or females of other races in the room, they would be so wet that they would be dripping.

“Fucking amazing.” Graham's whisper is so soft, he is probably talking to himself.

“I've never envied and hated anyone as much I envy and hate you right now.” Tyrend's words are only half-joking, as he rests his hand on my shoulder. “I like my women with huge tits and good childbearing hips, but right now, I would die happy, if I could die while fucking her.”

Elan'fer'sha told me that Wytches warp and twist the natural order, and her ability to inspire lust in anyone is completely outside the natural order. The amount of lust she can draw out of anything with a pulse is scary. Fuck, she would give a corpse a hardon.

Thrall follows Elan'fer'sha, with a slight smirk on his lips. It seems as though her ability to induce unnatural amounts of lust does not affect him in the least. That bastard has to be the calmest, most controlled mother fucker I have ever seen. Even when he was beating me around his ritual room, I do not think he was feeling any real emotion.

The Throd'nahk reflexively wipes his mouth. “Get your minds out of your dicks and remember where you are! Keep drooling after the Mistress, and you'll be staring at your dicks and balls on the sand of the arena!”

At the Throd'nahk's words, the other gladiators seem to return to some semblance of normalcy, but the energy they acquired from the parade is gone. Some of them seem to be a bit introspective, which is absolutely abnormal for most of them. The way pussy can fuck up a man's mind is fucking amazing.

“Mungo, the games start in about three hundredths. Get your . . . men . . . ready.”

The sheer disdain on the Throd'nahk's face does not faze any of the homosexuals, and they drag Broken-shoulder into one of the empty cells.

“Time to warm us up, cum bucket.” Mungo's laughter is the signal for the rest of them to start laughing with him.

I squat down, with my back to the wall, and close my eyes. I do not particularly feel like getting involved with any prebattle bullshit. Time passes slowly, while I hear the chatter of the other gladiators, without actually listening.

“Mungo! Your group is up!”

The Throd'nahk's yell refocuses my attention. Looking around, I see most of the gladiators huddled together in small groups. Tyrend and Graham are sitting near me talking quietly.

Seeing me looking around, Tyrend stands up. His face has a sardonic expression. “You should see the prematch games at least once. It's like nothing you've ever imagined.”

I follow Tyrend and Graham up the tunnel to the arena. An metal lattice grate with a gate in it blocks the entry to the arena. The Throd'nahk is standing there staring out onto the black sands.

Looking at the lattice, I cannot identify the metal. I think it is an iron based alloy, but it has a strange reddish tinge that has nothing to do with oxidation.

“Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain.”

I use the spell to see patterns on my left.

“What was that?” Tyrend glances at me, and his jaw drops open.

“That was stupid.” The Throd'nahk's voice is calm, as he looks around.

“Go fuck yourself, Mahkah.”

The Throd'nahk's hate-filled glare bores into me, but I just smile nastily at him.

“How?” Tyrend's shock is audible in his voice.

“It is Smith's doing. Forget what you have seen. It is for your own good.”

I look the Throd'nahk straight in the eyes. “What exactly is the relationship between the Smith and Elan'fer'sha?”

The Throd'nahk glares at the DokkAlfar guards in the tunnel. “Go watch the Gladiators in the ready room! Graham go with them.”

The guards indignantly walk down the tunnel, and Graham sullenly follows them. For gutter trash and a slave, they all have overly high opinions of themselves.

Even though he wears a collar, the Throd'nahk's position in the Blood Rose Stable seems to be higher than the guards. Just what is the value of a man in the Second Circle of Coalescence to Elan'fer'sha?

The Throd'nahk actually sighs heavily. “Smith's presence is known to the leaders of all the the High Clans, but they pretend that he is not here. He is the one that chooses each new owner of the Blood Rose Stable, and no one dares to interfere. Maybe, only the Jotun Lords themselves could sway him.

“Smith altered Brands collar. If you know what is best for your survival, do not ever speak of it. Neither I nor the Mistress is who you should fear if you speak. The High Clans would destroy you in an instant, if you mentioned the existence of an altered collar that did not suppress Power.

“Watch the entertainment.”

Now that the spell is cast, only someone who can read patterns would be able to tell that I am using it. There is no longer any danger of others learning about the collar being a fake.

I almost smile, as I look at the metal in the bars. It is an iron alloy, but what it is alloyed with is Elemental. It has the same overbearing type of pattern as the broken Elemental sword.

Turning my attention to the arena, a sea of black sand covers the ground. Sheltered behind thirty foot high obsidian walls, forty levels of seating rise to the tops of the outer walls. Encircling the entire arena above the seating, a walkway is lined with more armed and armored legionnaires.

At the far end, the bench seating is replaced by lavish box seating, presumably for the Clans. On either side in the middle are two more sections of box seating. The box in the center on each side is by far the most lavish. Not all of the central boxes are occupied by DokkAlfar. To my right, I see Thrall standing in the center box, with Elan'fer'sha seated in a chair next to an almost throne-like chair. In the throne-like chair, there is another DokkAlfar female, with a naked female that looks to be a Half-Alfar standing next to her.

On the opposite side is a similar setup, with two DokkAlfar males seated in similar positions.

“On the left side, is that the other stable owner?”

The Throd'nahk looks. “Hakspar'eldek'char. He's the owner of the Diamond Empress Stable. That one and the Mistress hate each other.”

With the exception of the box seating, the stands are filled to capacity. People, human or otherwise, are betting, arguing, fighting and fucking. In the boxes, much the same is going on, with the addition of some gratuitous torture.

Seeing this brings back some more fragmentary flashes of Talon's memories. It gives me the impression that he was in this arena hundreds times, maybe even thousands. I can no longer remember how long he was a gladiatorial slave, if I ever knew in the first place, but I am certain that it was longer than I have been alive.

A massive spell pattern stretches over the entire arena, and there are dozens of translucent images hanging above the walls. The images are showing scenes of the action on the arena sands, from at least ten different angles. The DokkAlfar's setup may be better than the current video coverage in Earth's sports stadiums.

Graham looks down on this as a barbarian culture. Probably, most Earthlings would as well, but seeing this makes me want to laugh in their faces.

In the middle of the arena, Mungo and his butt buddies are facing off against another group of gladiators, but they all seem more interested in disabling rather than killing each other. They are battering away at on another, but not really making any life-threatening assaults.

A single DokkAlfar in rich robes, surrounded by spell auras, walks around the edges of their battle. He ordered the start of the battle, but I am not sure what else he does. I have a few vague memories of DokkAlfar like him from Talon's remaining memories, but no clear memory of them doing anything other than starting the battles.

After over five minutes, Mungo's group finally wins, with four of them still standing. The DokkAlfar in the robes throws some ropes to Mungo, which the Blood Rose gladiators use to tie up the other gladiators.

With their opponents stripped and hogtied, Mungo and his faggot buddies start strutting around and mocking them. It almost looks like something out of old time professional wrestling. The spectators are going wild in the stands, screaming and yelling incoherently.

As Mungo turns in a circle, with his hands in the air, the crowd slowly quiets down.

“DO YOU WANT TO SEE IT?!”

The crowd roars out what sounds like a dozen different responses.

“I CAN'T HEAR YOU! DO YOU WANT TO SEE IT?!”

“YES!” The response is ragged, but understandable.

“DO YOU WANT US TO FUCK THEM?!”

“YES!”

As Mungo and the other gladiators take off their codpieces and strap them on their heads, the roars from the crowd go even more wild. The cheering does not stop, until they have ass-raped all the losers multiple times.

After Mungo's group and the losers are cleared out of the arena, two teams, all humans, are brought in from gates under the side boxes. Each team has four men and four women, and they are all unarmed. While the women are completely naked, the men are wearing codpieces like Mungo's group.

Once this battle ends, the winning men rape the losing women, and the winning women use the phallic codpieces to ass-rape the losing men. Compared with the homosexual rape, this group is driving the crowd into an even wilder frenzy.

Between Earth's fucked up culture and what I saw during the my years in the Lands of Despair, I have seen a lot of fucked up shit. This is more fucked up than most of what I have seen, but I am not surprised to see people fighting for the chance rape other people.

Another two groups are sent out, all women this time. Once the winners have the losers tied up, the winner are given some of the phallic codpieces, and again, they rape the losers.

“So, that's the prematch entertainment.” My voice is flat.

“The rape matches are just the finale. It started hours ago, with feeding criminals to beasts or having them tortured to death by gladiators. You don't seem to have enjoyed it much.”

“I've never been too interested in watching other people fuck.”

“You'll be sent out in about a hundredth.” The Throd'nahk's voice is emotionless.

Until the call comes, the Throd'nahk waits with his back to the bars, as he looks us over. Behind me are nine gladiators, who are neither exceptional nor terrible. They are nothing but filler. Elan'fer'sha does not expect me to lose, and I do not expect to lose either.

“Brand, do not let the Mistress down. You are one of the most dangerous Gladiators in all of Gor'achen. Kill all of them!”

When I walk toward the gate, the Throd'nahk points at me. “Free his Power!”

One of the DokkAlfar guards takes out one of the black rods and points it at my collar. The glow disappears from the sigils, but that has no effect, since this collar has never sealed my power.

The Throd'nahk opens the gate, and I step out onto the black sand. I feel tens of thousands of eyes focus on me. I do not like being the center of attention. Too many years of chickenshit little ass fuckers staring and mocking me have made me dislike the feeling of being watched.

The crowd seems a little surprised seeing me walk out naked. There are a lot of conversations and arguments taking place, as they point in my direction. Probably, they are not used to seeing new meat come up first in the battle of champions part of an arena match.

As I slowly walk to the center of the arena, a rash of new betting seems to be taking place. My guess would be that they are betting against me, but I could be wrong. They may be taking a chance on a long shot.

The enemy champions are all dressed in Power infused armor and wielding Power infused weapons that are of a standardized design. Unlike Elan'fer'sha, this Hakspar'Eldek'char seems to spend gold on equipping his gladiators. All of them seem to be mana users, but then there are not many ki users in the Battleground of the Damned.

Stopping near the center of the arena, I take a better look at the box where Elan'fer'sha is sitting next to the other DokkAlfar. That other DokkAlfar female is dressed in chainmail made from the standard oily black metal. Like all Alfar, she is more than humanly beautiful, but she falls short of Elan'fer'sha's beauty. It may be the harsh domineering lines of her face that lessen her appearance, or she may just not be as naturally attractive.

Whoever that DokkAlfar is, she seems to be quite close to Elan'fer'sha, and the two are chatting together like a pair of old friends.

Standing behind the DokkAlfar female is a DokkAlfar male that I did not notice from the tunnel. He is tall, around 6'6” or average for a DokkAlfar male. Dressed in odd black clothing, he reminds me of the stereotypical butler image from video programming. His jet black hair and eyes just as black give him a sinister impression, and his predatory features dispel any illusions of femininity or androgyny that DokkAlfar males normally have.

The Half-Alfar is not as beautiful as either of the DokkAlfar females. Even bare ass naked and writhing, while being finger fucked by the other DokkAlfar female, she pales next to a clothed, if you can call it that, Elan'fer'sha, but she does have bigger tits. They are almost big enough to be a C cup, which is massive for any female with Alfar blood. Her pale pink nipples are engorged with blood, and a trickle of blood is running down her chin from where she is biting her lip. More interesting than watching her get finger fucked is the fact that she is a Possessed.

Elan'fer'sha and the other DokkAlfar female notice me watching them and turn their eyes toward me. The soft smile on Elan'fer'sha's lips is cold and sultry at the same time. Her manner toward me has changed over the last few days, but I am not sure what the change portends.

The other DokkAlfar's intense interest pierces me almost like a weapon. No that is a weapon. It is her psi, trying to probe my mind, but I do not know how to stop her.

*Stay out of his mind, Aluras'bektsh'tar!*

The force of Thrall's psi slapping the DokkAlfar's psi out of my mind rattles my own mind painfully.

*Smith, what are you doing? You dare to attack the Mistress!* That blast of anger comes from the DokkAlfar dressed in black.

*Brand is my disciple. If you who are already striding through the Circles of Coalescence attack him, I will retaliate.*

*Canth, be at ease. We are no match for the Smith.*

The murderous expression directed at Thrall by Canth would be enough to kill someone with a weak constitution. While Thrall seems to be indifferent, there is clearly no love lost for him on the part of the DokkAlfar.

From the other end of the arena, ten gladiators form the Diamond Empress Stable approach, and one struts ahead to stand opposite me. He has about six inches and close to a hundred pounds on me, but his mana is weak compared to my own. He seems a bit annoyed that I am watching Elan'fer'sha's box and not paying attention to him.

The DokkAlfar in robes stays between us, so that we cannot begin before he is ready.

“Staring at the Wytch won't save you new meat. You had the bad luck to wind up in her stable. Most stables will start you out in the fuck fights. Less chance of dying there.”

“You sound jealous that I get to fuck her every night.”

The other gladiator bristles, and I smirk. Even with me looking at Elan'fer'sha, he can clearly see my smirk in my profile.

The DokkAlfar in robes seems more annoyed than the gladiator. He glances over his shoulder at Elan'fer'sha's box, where Aluras'bektsh'tar nods to him.

“Begin!” The DokkAlfar steps back as he issues the command.

My left hand sword is out of its sheathe, its point lined up with the other gladiator's throat, before he even has his hand on the hilt of his own sword. He is a sword and board fighter, but his shield is not even half way up, before my slide toward him is complete. My sword pierces his throat and comes out the back of his neck, severing his spine in passing.

The DokkAlfar in robes immediately begins casting a spell and his eyes glow with a faint silvery sheen, as he stares at me.

I smirk. “I haven't begun to Coalesce my Power. You're just to used to seeing shitty fighters that suck.”

“Watch your mouth, animal. Unless, you want to end your arena career right here.”

My smirk gets ever broader, as I gesture toward Elan'fer'sha's box with my chin . “If you attack me, you'll just piss of the Smith.”

I can feel the DokkAlfar's burning hatred. It almost feels like having a blow drier blowing in my face. Is this a side effect of my spatial awareness training? Or is it because of what Thrall did to the scars on my patterns?

“Next gladiator! Begin!”

The next fighter is nowhere near close enough to begin an exchange. Like almost ever gladiator I have seen, he is taller and more heavily built that I am. His style is axe and shield, and the axe is surrounded by a field of Power that looks like a heat shimmer.

Since activating my mana, I have not released it. Instead, I have kept if flowing through my body, mind, and soul like I would with my ki. It feels a little odd, but this way, I can use it at will.

“My heart is steel. Steel is the blood and bone of the Smith. While the flame of my soul burns, the steel of my sword will never break and never dull.”

“The hammer falls, shaping the steel. The steel remembers the force. The steel releases the force.”

As the two glowing fields surround my blades, the axe-man's eyes narrow. He is almost certainly trying to identify the nature of my style by its appearance. Does he understand the Power of a Smith?

There are less than thirty yards between us, and I charge forward. Moving in the Shadow of the Od, I have a semi-incorporeal appearance, as I appear to float across the sand.

The axe-man catches my first strike on his shield. With a thunderous rumble, his axe deflects the trajectory or my second sword enough to avoid any injury. Considering the volume is loud enough to hurt my ears, even if my armor can withstand the impact, it could be devastating to take a blow from that weapon. Sonics have a nasty habit of bypassing everything but energy based defenses.

My fifth strike draws his shield out of position and my sixth goes through his left knee.

“AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!” His howl of pain fills the arena.

As I move past the axe-man, my lips part in a death's-head grin, and his face pales. With one good leg, he cannot turn to counter me, and my slash severs the muscles in his axe arm. As the arm drops, unable to hold the weight of the axe, my lateral strike sends his head flying.

“Next gladiator! Begin!”

This one is wielding dual short swords, but his skill is abominable. He barely stops my first thrust, and the second pierces his heart.

“Next gladiator! Begin!” The DokkAlfar seems to be more irritated by my continuing survival than anything.

A gladiator with a weapon that is somewhere between a glaive and a guandao in size and shape moves forward. He is different from the others. His smooth movements are those of someone who has spent long years honing his skills not his Power based combat abilities. The way his steps cover several yards with each one is a sure sign that he uses his mana for physical enhancement.

As soon as he is in range, the polearm wielder attack with a thrust. As I dodge, he follows the thrust with a slash, forcing me to block. Alternating attacks between thrusts and slashes, with the length of his polearm, he keeps me from getting close enough to retaliate. His speed is around Cletus' level, without having to do it in bursts, but without having the reach advantage of the polearm he would never be able to keep me at bay.

In less than thirty seconds, he attacks over a hundred times, but I cannot see any exploitable patterns. I wait for a strong thrust and block it with both blades, as I step past him and spin. He tries to get clear of me in the direction I came from, but I keep close on him. As I attack, he spins and starts blocking my attacks. By alternating between the blade and the butt, he manages to hold me off for more than fifty blows.

Drawing his attention high, with strikes aimed at his head, I snap a kick into his knee. He pulls his shin up to block, and my toe warps his greave, staggering him. As he steps back to regain his balance, I slash high with both swords, and when he blocks, I kick his other leg.

The impact causes the polearm wielder to stumble, and I slide my swords down the haft of his weapon, shearing off two fingers on one hand.

“AAAARRRR! You fucking bastard!”

He cannot control his polearm properly with the missing fingers, and I batter it aside, before stabbing him in the biceps of the same arm.

He growls and jumps backwards, trying to escape me. If it was not for my training my body with ki, I would be forced to step through the Shadow of the Od to keep up with him. As my own jump closes the distance with him, his eyes narrow, and he swings the polearm in a sweeping slash, with his one good hand.

Blocking the slash with both swords, I drive a thrust kick into his stomach. As he staggers back, spitting up a mouthful of blood, I slash both of my swords into his arm in staggered strikes, severing his forearm.

Seeing his hand and weapon fall to the ground, the former polearm wielder's eyes widen from surprise, before the pain hits him.

“AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR!” He clumsily grabs his forearm with his mangled hand, trying to stem the blood flow.

My kick to his balls drops him to his knees, and my kick to his chin shatters it, while flipping him onto his back. Stabbing both swords into his groin, I twist the blades as pull them out.

“AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

“My parents were together until the day they died, eunuch.”

After destroying the former polearm wielders knees, I turn to look at the remaining champion for the Diamond Quest Stable. “Which one of you faggots is next?”

Stupid faggots think they are better than Brand. Brand should cut all their balls off!

Be quiet, Perzey. You are dead, but I am not going insane yet. At least, I do not think I am going insane, but if you are insane, can you actually tell you are insane?

The remaining gladiators' eyes move between the ruined body of the still moaning polearm wielder and myself. The fear in their eyes gives me a warm fuzzy feeling, as I grin viciously.

“Diamond Empress Stable concedes the duel of champions.” The condescending DokkAlfar voice coming from my left is obviously enhanced by Power.

As I look at the box where the Hakspar'eldek'char is sitting next to another DokkAlfar in their throne-like chairs, they are both glaring at me. Their hate is even more intense than the DokkAlfar referee or whatever the hell the robed DokkAlfar is supposed to be.

“Blood Rose Stable is only sending out three gladiators for the general melee. We do not need any more to deal with Diamond Empress Stable.” Elan'fer'sha's beautiful voice sounds soft, even while being amplified by Power.

The hate and rage filled glares of the Hakspar'eldek'char and his patron fixate on Elan'fer'sha's box, but they do not say anything.

The robed DokkAlfar referee stares at Elan'fer'sha's box for a moment. “If one your chosen three falls, Diamond Empress stable earns four points. If two fall, Diamond Empress Stable earns eight points. If all three fall, Diamond Empress earn the full ten points.”

Elan'fer'sha smiles coldly at the DokkAlfar. “My gladiators will not fall.”

The nine other gladiators return to the ready room, while Tyrend and Graham join me. Tyrend is grinning like fiend, but Graham looks nervous and embarrassed. He is probably still not used to running around with his dick hanging out, while tens of thousands of people stare at it.

While waiting for them to reach me, I watch the DokkAlfar with Elan'fer'sha finger fucking the Half-Alfar. I never understood wanting to fuck around sexually with the same sex. There is something completely unnatural about it, but I have to admit that DokkAlfar bitch is persistent.

“What's so interest . . . not bad for such a skinny Half-Alfar.” Tyrend's grin becomes purely lecherous.

“Alva?” Graham sound thoroughly incredulous. His face is flushed, when I look at him.

“She's not a bad piece of ass, nice tits too. Is she a good fuck?”

From the way Graham glares at me, I do not think he has fucked her yet. I guess they are not lovers.

Tyrend gestures negligently in the direction of the Diamond Empress Stable's gate. “We should kill them, before you kill Graham.”

“So what do with the weak link here?” I point at Graham.

Tyrend smirks. “We could put him in the middle and let him be defensive.”

I shrug. “That works. You take left and I'll take right. Get in between us, Graham.”

Graham looks from one of us to the other, before drawing his sword and standing in the middle.

The Diamond Empress gladiators are advancing toward us in a line. The six in the middle are sword and board, with the ones on the outside using two-handed weapons, two greatswords and two great axes. Not one of them is a dual-wielder.

The DokkAlfar referee is looking at us like we are dogshit that he scraped off his shoes. “You three stay where you are. Diamond Empress gladiators form a circle around them.”

“Facilitator, what do you think are you doing?” That intensely hostile voice belongs to Aluras'bektsh'tar.

As the facilitator turns to look at the box where she is sitting, his features become even more bloodless than his natural pallor.

“Clan Mistress?”

“Line them up normally.”

The facilitator bows. “Yes, Clan Mistress.”

His eyes are filled with hate, when he turns back to us. “Form two lines at thirty paces distance.”

“Begin!” As soon as we are in position, the command comes.

The six in the middle begin to advance in a tight formation, only the tips of their blades sticking out from between their shields. The two on each wing spread out to give themselves room to swing their massive weapons.

“This isn't the time to hide your real skill Tyrend.”

Tyrend laughs. “You are actually talking about someone else hiding their real skill? You have not even touched your real Power today.”

Pushing off the side instead of forward, I attack the great axe wielder on the outside. As his axe swings down at me, I slip to the side in the Shadow of the Od. When it hits the ground, a seismic wave radiates outward from the point of impact, causing me to misstep. The axe wielder is already hacking toward me in an upward oblique angle, when both my swords' points pierce his chainmail and transfix his chest.

As I pull my swords from his body, the axe wielder falls to his knees, with a look of blank incomprehension on his face. Trying to stand again, using his axe like a crutch, he tumbles forward, face down in the black sand.

The tableau seems frozen for a moment, while the other Diamond Empress gladiators stare at us without advancing further. Then, without any voiced commands or coordination, the two sword and board users on my side of the line separate to support the greatsword wielder. At the same time one sword and board user on the other side separates to support the two great weapon users on his side, and the three remaining sword and board users advance on Graham.

Tyrend's scimitar-like blades burst into flame and he charges the axe wielder on the outside. His speed is nearly the equal of Cletus, when he was using his speed burst, but for Tyrend it does not have the feel of a short duration ability.

I step clockwise around the greatsword user, putting him between myself and the other two. He immediately attacks with a series of thrusts, intended to keep me at bay, and the other two split to either side of him.

I reverse my direction, moving to the outside of the sword and board user on my left, and thrust over the top of his shield. Even though he does not move his shield, a shimmering field of Power generated force stops my sword. There is a matrix similar to a spell pattern backing the shimmering field, which is visible only with my left eye. As I continue to circle, three more of my thrusts are blocked by the shimmering Power.

As the other sword and board user moves to shut down my movement, I flood my body with ki and lunge at the throat of the one in front of me with both blades.

BOOM!

A brilliant glow flares from the shield, before a detonation of uncontrolled force knocks both of us backwards. My entire body feels like it has been slapped hard, but I am not really injured. The sword and board user is dazed, with blood running from his nose and eyes. He must have suffered a heavy backlash, when he lost control of his Power.

Tyrend has already left the axe wielder as nothing more than a corpse, with dozens of cauterized wounds all over his body. Even his heavy chainmail seems to have melted, where Tyrend's scimitar-like blades sliced through it.

Graham is retreating to avoid being flanked and seems to a lack a technique to penetrate the shimmering force fields of the three facing him.

As my other sword and board opponent charges me, I slip past the edge of his Power shield and drive a kick into the shield of the first one. With a muffled grunt, he flies at Graham's opponent that is closest to me.

Crunch!

As Graham's opponent turns and shield slams his stablemate, the sound of multiple breaking bones fills the air. Taking advantage of his opponent's distraction, Graham lunges, his sword briefly sinking into his opponent's exposed neck. As Graham returns to his guard position, blood fountain's from the hole in the sword and board user's neck.

Swoosh!

I dive and roll back to my feet. Spinning, I parry the followup slash form the greatsword wielder, as he chases me. Anger, frustration, and fear turn the gladiator's face into an ugly mask, as he desperately chases after me. He probably thought his first slash at my unprotected back would finish me, but with my new spatial awareness, my back is no longer truly unprotected. At least, I am always watching my back.

His continuous series of stabs and slashes are too fast for me to easily slip between them. As his thick muscles contract and extend, he begins swinging the greatsword faster. I slide around the outer edge of his attack range, keeping him focused on trying to chase me down. The second sword and board opponent is using the pressure the greatsword wielder is putting on me to give himself the chance to maneuver around behind me.

As soon as my sword and board opponent is between myself and Graham's two remaining opponents, I attack. When I turn almost translucent to his eyes, he halts reinforcing the Power in his spell-like shield.

BOOM!

The point of my lead sword hits his shield with even greater force than I used against the other one, causing an even larger detonation of raw force. Black sand showers outward from the epicenter, leaving a ten foot diameter depression in the arena.

This time I am not driven back by the uncontrolled force and lunge forward with my left-hand sword. The gladiator is still in midair, when my flickering sword catches him and pierces his chest.

“AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!” His horrified scream of pain seems to echo for a second, before the bloodthirsty roars of the crowd drown it out.

Even though the wound is not instantly fatal, he will not last another minute. As I pull my sword out, fountains or rich red blood spurt from his chest in time with his heartbeat.

Both of Graham's opponents are half turned, as I continue my line of attack. Using the distraction, Graham shield charges one, knocking him off balance. Even if he does not have enough focused power to break the shimmering shields, the force of the impact is enough to cause his opponent to stagger. Graham has more than enough strength to knock one of them around, if he does not have to worry about being flanked by the other two.

I do not meet the other sword and board user head on. Relying on the speed of Shadow Fist, I slip to his side, as he tries to spin around and stop the lunge I never attack with. Still on his flank, my sword lashes out, opening the veins in his neck.

Tyrend used the momentary distraction of the explosion to emasculate his greatsword wielder, and he has started toying with his sword and board user.

Graham is taking out some frustration on his last opponent, battering him around despite his Power based shield.

With my greatsword wielder watching me, I sheathe my swords and walk over to the great axe lying on the sand. Picking it up, I examine it. Including the haft, the entire weapon is made from steel. Though, it was forged as two pieces: head and haft. It has been Patterned, but it is still only a common Item of Power.

I love axes. They are terror weapons. Strong men see an axe-man coming after them, and their bowels turn to water, especially when the axe is as big as this one. The haft of this axe is over five feet long, and the double-bitted head has two foot long cutting edges.

SWOOSH! SWOOSH! SWOOSH!

As I swing the axe one-handed, testing its heft and balance, my swings are faster and heavier than the greatsword wielders were two-handed.

“Common wisdom says that if an axe-man and a swordsman meet, if the axe-man can't end the fight quickly, the swordsman has the advantage. Why don't we put that to the test?”

I advance on the greatsword wielder, with the axe lightly held in a two-handed grip. Watching me stalk forward, his face is shadowed with fear.

“YYYAAARRR!”

Yarr? What is he? A fucking pirate?

The gladiator launches an overhand strike, from his high right toward his low left, trying to advantage of his greater height and mass. My axe rises from low right to high left. Its appearance is more like a shadow than a solid object, as it ruthlessly batters the sword aside. My counterattack cleaves the swordsman from right shoulder to left waist, separating his body into two halves.

“You were a stupid fuck. You could have made a good fight of this, but you panicked, like some bitch faggot.” He probably cannot hear my words anymore, but I say them anyway.

Except for the sounds of battle between Tyrend, Graham, and their opponents, the arena is dead silent for a good ten second. Tens of thousands of beings stare raptly at the two halves of the gladiator's corpse, with the pool of blood and reeking viscera between them.

“His name is Brand, Champion of the Blood Rose Stable.” The soft, beautiful, malicious voice belongs to Elan'fer'sha, and her Power has projected it so the entire arena can hear the words.

A few voices start to cheer, and the sound spreads until tens of the thousands of beings are cheering. It does not matter what stable they support, the way I killed the last greatsword wielder was the kind of brutal, tyrannical kill that will stir their passions.

“BRAND! BRAND! BRAND! BRAND! BRAND! BRAND! BRAND! BRAND!” Tens of thousands of living beings are chanting my name.

Having finished off their opponents, Tyrend and Graham walk over next to me. Tyrend puts his hand on my shoulder.

“How does it feel?” Tyrend has to shout to be heard.

“If I was weak-willed, my dick would be getting hard.”

Tyrend laughs, and grabbing my wrist, he raises my hand over my head.

The chant devolves into a cacophonous roar, before another chant slowly takes over the arena.

“BLOOD! ROSE! BLOOD! ROSE! BLOOD! ROSE! BLOOD! ROSE! BLOOD! ROSE!”

The Clan Mistress' Request

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 199

We gladiators are being kept in the ready room, while waiting for Elan'fer'sha to arrive. Most of the gladiators from the Blood Rose Stable were nothing more than filler, but they are still jubilant over the victory.

Tyrend laughs derisively. “We fight, but all of them will still get to fuck the slave-girls along with us.”

“Besides us, only Mungo and his butt buddies fought today. It feels like we've been insulted.”

After staring at me for a few seconds, Tyrend laughs, before looking toward the cell where Mungo and his faggots are celebrating, with broken-shoulder as the party favor.

“They're unnatural, but the Masters accept any unnatural practices, as long as you are strong. I've seen gladiators fuck the wounds of the fallen or fuck corpses in the middle of the arena, while the crowds roared and cheered them on. Faggots are twists, but at least, they aren't that twisted.

“You should be happier, after this victory the Mistress will certainly provide us with a good supply of pussy and wine tonight.”

“What's so special about today's win?”

Tyrend is looking at the tunnel leading to the arena, and his perpetual grin has turned vicious. “The gladiatorial stables are an ugly place, but many of us still have friends here. The six shield adepts were the last the Diamond Empress Stable's shield wall. Before running afoul of the Ogre, there were sixteen of them. They wiped out our strongest team for the general melee last season, along with a dozen or more other stables. It wasn't until the Ogre killed off ten of them that they lost.”

Tyrend looks at, with a flat expression. “You're going to have to face the Ogre, before this season is over. Worse than the Ogre, you're going to be facing the SvartAlfar. No gladiator has even put a scratch either of them. Their owners seems to have an agreement and do not use those two against each other, but they've been gutting every stable they face. The Mistress kept Cletus out of the lineup when we fought them last season, but I doubt she'll do that with you.”

I look toward the Throd'nahk. He mentioned both of those names, after I beat him. He thinks I can beat the Ogre but is unsure about the SvartAlfar. Why are they so dangerous? If no one who has reached the First Circle of Coalescence or above is allowed in the arena, they cannot be unbeatable. I beat the Throd'nahk, who is at the Second Circle of Coalescence. Since I beat him and he does not know if I can beat the SvartAlfar, that must mean he does not think he can beat the SvartAlfar.

The Throd'nahk himself is in the opposite corner of the ready room from where I am. He is standing with his arms folded and his head half-turned away from me, but he is watching me from the corner of his eyes.

As Elan'fer'sha enters the ready room, her smile reflects a warped mix of beneficence, malice, and bloodlust. She has one of the most twisted personalities I have ever encountered. Without a word, she takes the reins of her crippled hippogryph and mounts.

“Gladiators! Form up!” The Throd'nahk's yell prompts everyone into action, and the parade forms up again.

“Brand, come walk next to my stirrup. The next Gladiator Champion of the Atran'ler Empire should not be hiding in the back.” Elan'fer'sha's soft voice cuts through the commotion in the ready room.

I feel multiple sets of eyes focused on me, as I walk over to her mount. Surprisingly, there is not much hostility in those stares. My performance in the arena seems to have made an impression, but what the long term results will be remains to be seen.

Without any other words, Elan'fer'sha sets heels to her mount and begins to leave the ready room.

“Gladiators! Move out!” The Throd'nahk's command sets the rest of the parade in motion.

A different feel to the other eyes gazing upon me draws my attention to a corner of the ready room. Thrall is standing there, with his arms crossed upon his chest. With all the people moving around in the ready room, he managed do his appear out of thin air routine without alerting me to his presence. A slight smirk lifts the corners of his mouth, with inordinate self-satisfaction. His stare never leaves me, until the tunnel blocks me from his view.

It seems like a simple little event, but I will have to always remember it. No matter how all-perceiving my spatial awareness may seem to be, it is quite possible to still avoid being detected by it.

The crowds of supporters for the different stables are even thicker than before the match. The volume of both the cheers and the insults has become near-deafening. Their hostility toward opposing factions is more intense as well. The Third Layer has become an orgy or sex, violence and rape.

A company from the regular military forces surrounds our stable's parade, keeping the commoners from getting too close. If they were not doing this, our stable would probably be at the center of a full scale riot. Even with their cordon, it takes close to three times as long to reach the ramp leading up to the Blood Rose Stable's entry tunnel, as it did to go from the ramp to the arena.

A group of human women are gathered at the base of the ramp, wearing little to nothing but some jewelry. Most of them are average at best. Though, several of them are attractive, and a few are close to beautiful. I have seen enough of their kind in the Battleground of the Damned and the Lands of Despair to recognize whores when I see them.

“I told you it would be something special. This time we get some proper whores, instead of some overly used slave-girls.” Tyrend's voice is barely audible over the noise of the still thick crowds.

The leader of the groups is wearing a translucent red gown and appears to be in her late forties, even if you can never be sure about ages in the Labyrinth or Yggr. Unfortunately, the gown is revealing too much of already sagging tits and wrinkled leg and ass. Her long straight black hair has the flat tint of hair dye, and her makeup is caked on like cement. I do not understand how anyone could be so desperate that they would want to fuck her.

The one in the red gown curtsies to Elan'fer'sha. “Mistress, congratulations on a masterful victory.”

“Lavinia, your sluts may join the procession.” From Elan'fer'sha's expression, one would think she is staring at an interesting pet. That is probably the general DokkAlfar opinion of humans. In their eyes, humans are pets at best and vermin otherwise.

“Thank you, Mistress.”

The whores spread out, mixing in with the gladiators.

“Tyrend, my love, you've survived again.” The whore is as tall as Tyrend, with huge tits that are sagging under their own weight, like three-quarters full water bladders. Her hips and legs are thick enough to make two normal sized women, and her belly looks like she has a beach ball inside of it.

From the grin on Tyrend's face, you would think that whore was the sexiest thing going, and he does not hesitate to fondle and lick her sagging tits. Sensing my eyes on him, Tyrend looks at me, while still grinning.

“A woman has to have some padding to be worth fucking. Those bony little things just dig into you with their hard protruding edges.”

I cannot help but shake my head, as the whore glares at me.

One of the whores approaching me draws my attention back to the front. She is young, maybe fifteen or sixteen. In most of the cultures in the Labyrinth of Yggr, girls her age are married with a kid or two. The ones who are not married are generally considered to be spoiled goods or out of control bitches. Many of the ones considered to be spoiled goods become whores. Some girls who are whores this young were born into it, the daughters of other whores.

Because of Taereun: Battleground of the Damned's general lack of strong female role models, The Nameless Entertainment, Inc. came under fire numerous times for their so-called “sexist game design” from the political correctness zombies. It turns out the game was sexist, because survival in warring medieval societies does not conform to the rules and mores of modern society. Families need a lot of kids, if they want to survive in the harsh conditions of the Labyrinth. When you need as stable a society as you can manage with a lot of kids, unimportant things like feminism get thrown away.

My train of thought brings a cruel smile to my lips. The more I think about the nature of the societies here, the more I prefer them to the Earth's shithole societies.

This whore in front of me is an odd one. She feels more like an adept than a prostitute, and she is one of the few that come close to being beautiful, and her brilliant green eyes are staring at me with mischievous intent. Her straight honey blonde hair is cut at shoulder length. The style is almost like a helmet of hair, but it suits her. Her skin is deep bronze, like she has a permanent tan. With only a diaphanous scarf and some jewelry for clothing, there is nothing to conceal her lack of any tan lines. Like Tyrend's whore, this girls has wide hips and huge tits, but she is built like a fitness model with fake tits instead of a cow.

“You wouldn't be too bad looking without those scars.” The girls voice is both husky and sultry.

The whore's comment irritates me. After becoming inured to the insults, her simple comment should not bother me, but it still does.

“You wouldn't look too bad with my dick in you.”

The whore smiles and laughs. There is no anger or irritation in her manner. “I watched you in the arena. You're the best fighter in the stable, and I'm the best whore in the brothel. I'm getting paid to fuck you all night long, if you want.”

I step right up to the whore, so her tits are pressed up against me, and she looks up at me. She is only about 5'6” tall and does not resist, when I grab her ass and lift her into the air.

Her tongue thrusts hungrily into my mouth, as she wraps her arms around my neck and her legs around my hips. If I did not know she was a paid whore, I would think that she really wanted me. If I did not have such a strong level of control over my body, I would already be getting hard.

“I don't mind fucking right here, but the Mistress would probably be angry over the delay.” The girl gestures toward Elan'fer'sha with her eyes.

As I glance at Elan'fer'sha, she is glaring at me. When I grin, it just make her glare more intense.

Fear shadows the girl's eyes. “Are you trying to get me killed along with you?”

“Don't worry, she's not going to kill us. I'm still too useful to her.”

“Hmph!” Elan'fer'sha snaps her head around to the front, ignoring us.

The girl stares at me wide-eyed for a few seconds, before kissing me more passionately than the first time.

“Move out!”

The Throd'nahk's shout galvanizes the stalled parade into motion.

Looking around, almost everyone within my line of sight has expressions ranging between surprise and outright shock. It gives me the urge to laugh, but there is no point in provoking Elan'fer'sha further.

“What's your name?”

“Mikumi.”

Her name sounds Japanese, even though she is not of an Oriental type of race. Her eyes have a little bit of an epicanthic fold, but she is clearly what passes for a Caucasian type species in the Labyrinth of Yggr.

“How does such an ugly bastard like him get such a hot girl hanging all over him? Even if she's just a whore, it's not natural.” Graham is a low pitched voice to talk to Tyrend. He has no clue how sensitive my hearing is and thinks he cannot be overheard by me.

Tyrend chuckles, before speaking softly. “He's strong. Why wouldn't women lust after him?”

From the corner of my eye, I can see the nonplussed expression on Graham's face.

“Even the Mistress uses him to satisfy her lusts. Brand's been servicing her every night since he arrived.”

As he bounces his stare between Elan'fer'sha and myself, the incredulousness plastered on Graham's face is almost comedic. Though, when he looks at Elan'fer'sha, the raw lust in his eyes pisses me off.

Once we are back in the Blood Rose arena, all the other gladiators return their weapons to the wagons, but Thrall takes my swords again.

*You're not really one of them. You're my disciple, the one who will become the first true third generation master of Shadow Fist.* Thrall disappears, as soon as he sends those thoughts.

Mikumi clutches my upper arm tightly between her tits. “Is he really The Smith?”

I snort. “I don't what you mean by The Smith, but he is a Smith. He's the most incredibly skilled Smith I've ever seen or heard of.”

Mikumi is silent for a few moments. “The Smith is a god. He's the legendary protector of the Blood Rose Stable. I've heard stories about him, but he hasn't been seen in decades.”

“Gods are myths.”

The more I learn, the more I believe those words. The beings that call themselves gods simply have enough Power to enforce their desires to be called gods.

Inside our mess hall, there are casks of wine and good food set out on the service tables. The slaves that cook and clean up for us gladiators are waiting behind the tables, ready to fill our plates with food and our mugs with wine. Cletus is not among them, but he has usually been kept laboring in the kitchens, since I ruined his face and destroyed his balls.

This is not the first victory party since I have been a slave here, but it is the one I have been included in. Every other time, I was training under Thrall or servicing Elan'fer'sha's needs, so she could milk my Power and fill the Power crystals for the Priest-Wizard Kra'cha'len.

The other gladiators are not wasting any time. Some are already fucking the whores on the tables and others are chugging wine like its water.

While Mikumi saunters over to the service table, I sit at my usual table against the wall. Except for Tyrend and Graham, none of the other gladiators ever come near this table while I am sitting here.

Graham enters the mess hall with one of the whores. She is almost thin enough to pass for a Half-Alfar. Even though, her hair is a ginger color similar to Alva, her face is and body proportions are completely human. She is not bad looking, but she is still nowhere near the best looking woman among these whores.

“Is that more your type?”

The flat emotionless tone to Mikumi's words almost makes me chuckle. Why do females always seem to get jealous when any male pays attention to another female?

“Her tits are too small.”

“If you serve the Mistress ever night, small tits can't matter that much to you.” Her petulance is showing through in her voice. Whether or not it is intentional, I have no way to tell.

“Elan'fer'sha is special. I've never met a female as erotically bewitching as her.”

“Hmph. She's a Wytch. What do you expect? Wytches aren't the only ones who can use Power to enhance their fucking you know.”

I hide my eyes with hand, while pretending to rub them.

“Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain.”

With the spell in place on my left eye, I take a good look at Mikumi. She actually is an adept. She is a mana user, but I cannot tell what might be the nature or affinity of her Power.

“What kind of an adept are you?”

Mikumi smiles. “You can tell I'm an adept. How interesting.”

She caresses my right cheek softly. “I suppose you could say I'm a practitioner of physical enhancement.”

“So, that's why those huge tits don't sag.”

“Tits that don't have some sag aren't proper tits.” Tyrend sounds amused.

“You have strange tastes. I've never been able to get it up for fat chicks.”

Tyrend's whore glares at me again. My smirk only seems to irritate her more. If she wants to think of herself as sexy, she should take better care of herself, so she does not look like a sausage with tits.

The gladiators and whores more aside, as the Throd'nahk makes his way to my table. With a flick of his wrist, he throws a bundle on the table in front of me.

“So, your finally going let me stop having my dick hanging out all the time?”

The Throd'nahk ignores the sarcasm in my tone. “Except for Mungo and his . . . men, no one particularly wants to see your dick.”

“I think he has nice dick.”

Mikumi's blasé comment causes the Throd'nahk's face to settle into a scowl, before he turns and walks away.

Mikumi starts to stroke my cock, and her breath tickles my ear. “You should wait till tomorrow to put that on. It will just get in the way of the fun tonight.”

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 200

Mikumi is softly snoring in my arms, when I wake up. We are both in need of a bath. The residue of saliva and other more or less dried bodily fluids has left us both as sticky messes.

This girl knows how to to fuck. I guess her being a whore is to my benefit. Since coming back to the Battleground in my real body, I have been getting nothing but top quality pussy to fuck: first Perzey, then Elan'fer'sha, now Mikumi. Though, Mikumi is nothing but a one night stand, because of Elan'fer'sha's habit of throwing a fuck party for her gladiators, after a victory.

Hell, Elan'fer'sha is only fucking me because she wants my Power, so she can pay off the Priest-Wizard. If not for my Power, I doubt she would ever be fucking me. Everything comes down to Power. If you have Power, you can acquire wealth, political power, sex, or anything else that takes your fancy. Whatever her reasons, I will enjoy her while I can.

Mikumi's breathing changes. She starts watching me through slit eyelids, while pretending to still be asleep.

It is morning and later than I normally get up, but the stable is quiet. There have been three other arena battles, since I first arrived here, and each time, the morning after was quiet like this. The other gladiators will have a three day rest, before they are put back on their training schedule.

I slap Mikumi on the ass. It is firm and smooth, shaped by her musculature an not a lump of flabby fat.

“Stop pretending to be asleep.”

“That's not a nice way to wake a lady.”

“You're a whore, and I'm a slave. What do you expect?”

Mikumi sniffs. “I've never met a slave with an attitude like yours. You're more arrogant than most Clan Masters.”

“Time to get up. I need a bath. I don't get rest days like the other gladiators.”

* * * * *

The bundle the Throd'nahk left for me contained a linen loincloth and a pteruges. As I walk into Thrall's area, I cannot keep a slight swagger out of my steps. For the first time since I started training with him, I am walking around without my dick hanging out. Not being bothered by being bareassed is not the same as being comfortable training in combat arts without anything to keep your dick and balls in place.

Thrall is not in the training hall, but that is not unusual. Ofttimes, he is not around when I first arrive. With the exception of the training hall and the forge, the rest of his complex is restricted territory for me. I am curious what secrets it might hold, but not curious enough to try exploring. I have enough of my own secrets that I will not fault another for having theirs. At least, I will not another for having secrets, if I do not see them as an enemy.

Since Thrall is not here, and it is after the gladiatorial match, it is time to see if there is any change in my ability to use my psi. Putting on the leather helmet, I channel my ki and mana into it, and the world disappears around me.

I stop breathing for a moment in shock. Even though the spatial awareness has become one of my senses, and I am constantly sensing the world around myself through it, its impact is somewhat muted, in the same way my five normal senses are always somewhat muted by one another. Now that it is my only functioning sense, the clarity of my awareness of my environs is near mind-numbing. The amount of data I am being flooded with is almost like I am using all of my five physical senses at the same time to perceive everything around me. I am aware not only of the smooth surface of the stone beneath my feet but also its hardness, and coolness. I am aware of the grain in the wood posts and crossbeams in the jungle gym.

I can feel the texture, thickness, and tension in the rice paper woven throughout the jungle gym, but more importantly, I can feel the pull of gravity on it, nearly causing it to tear under its own weight. More softly than a falling feather, I step onto the rice paper. I do not try counterbalance my weight with my ki. My mass does not change, but I slip outside of the pull of the world's gravity. In the Shadow of the Od, the pull of the gravity passes around or maybe through my body, leaving only the the minuscule attraction of the rice paper itself against the soles of my feet. The pressure I am putting on the rice paper is infinitesimally small, as I being to walk forward. No sound marks my passage, and the paper does not tear.

By staying within the Shadow of the Od, I do not necessarily follow all the laws of the world around me. Reaching the first vertical run of rice paper, I step onto it, and with my second step, my orientation to the ground changes from perpendicular to parallel. Gravity still exists, but I do not feel its pull, or rather, I only feel a minute pull of the rice paper's own gravity toward its surface.

I am laughing, even though the sound does not reach my ears. My problem was so simple, I could not perceive. Now that I can perceive, I can feel the paper and forces of gravity attracting me to it, and I can pass across it. My steps are so soft I can walk without damaging it.

Across a level surface. Up a vertical surface. Inverted on a horizontal surface. As long as I can stay within the Shadow of the Od, I can move outside instead of within the gravitational field.

Thrall appears in the training hall, next to the jungle gym.

Jumping off the rice paper, I perform a triple somersault in the air and land without a sound. My mass has no force behind it as I touch upon the ground.

Taking off the leather helmet, I meet Thrall's gaze. My awareness did not deceive me, Thrall's lips are parted in a fierce grin.

“You are several steps closer to mastering my Shadow Fist. For nearly fifty millennia, I have sought a disciple who could fully master Shadow Fist. All of the previous third generation disciples were lacking in one or more ways. They called themselves masters, but not one of them ever improved upon Shadow Fist, as a proper successor should. They are all dead now, and their disciples of the fourth, fifth and sixth generations were worse than the third generation.”

I cannot keep from returning Thrall's grin. I know he has his own agenda, but I have no clues as to what it really is. As much as I want to distrust him, his desire for me to master his art seems genuine. I am an imbecile for lowering my guard towards him, but I want to truly master Shadow Fist. From what I have learned so far, the secrets buried with this art are worth almost any risk to acquire.

“Keep practicing the movement techniques with your spatial awareness, but do not use the helmet. You must learn to fully integrate all of your senses and be able to react to the conditions and forces around you naturally. When you are further along the path, I will teach how to fight for real. Your spar with the Throd'nahk and your arena battle were embarrassing.”

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 206

Rip.

The rice paper tears beneath force of my step again. With the input from my other senses mixed in, I am having problems fully understanding and using the information from my spatial awareness. I can walk on the rice paper, but I too often I misjudge, and gravity pulls me, or I step with too much force. I want to scream and curse. More than that, I want to hurt someone and work off my frustration.

I turn to Thrall, as he appears in the training hall. His demeanor gives me the impression that he is ambivalent.

“Come with me.”

“What's happening?”

Thrall glances at me as we leave the training hall. This is the first time he has had even a hint of uncertainty about him.

“Forces are in motion that may start events moving again, but those forces are not the ones I expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone or something that was not in my expectations is acting. You will need to be careful. You are going to be given a task by Elan'fer'sha's patron. I would recommend you do it. It will lead to another task that will probably be to your benefit in time, but there will be danger. You will need to keep an eye out for who or what may be behind her taking action.”

For the first time, I feel like I am being played by Thrall. I am certain he is doing this to manipulate me, but I do not understand why he is being so obvious. The guards at the gate to the gladiator's cells are in hearing range already, so I do not want to ask him anything else for now. Even though I have an agreement with Elan'fer'sha, I do not trust her or her guards.

Thrall leads me to the hall where the room with Elan'fer'sha's ritual altar is located, but he opens the doors in the opposite wall. This is the first time I have seen the inside of any room other than the ritual room. My only dealings with Elan'fer'sha have been fucking her on that altar, so that she can channel my Power into those crystals.

I have no problems with fucking Elan'fer'sha. She is probably crazier than Perzey, even if she is more functional. She is a twisted bitch that gets off on pain. More than when she is hurting someone, she goes wild when she is the one being hurt. I guess she is a natural masochist, or maybe, she became a masochist because she is a Wytch.

I suppose I am just as twisted Elan'fer'sha. The more I fuck her, the more I get off on hurting her, while I fuck her. I never would have thought that causing someone else pain would be so sexually exhilarating. When I tortured people during the Great Fuck Over, it was nothing more than a mechanical act. I was repulsed by it at first, but I reached the point, where hurting other people did not even cause me to blink. Hurting Elan'fer'sha while fucking her is different from torture. It is personal and intimate. Even though we barely know anything about one another, through sex and pain, we have connection more intimate and intense than any connection I have ever had with another living being.

Beside Elan'fer'sha, there are two other DokkAlfar and one Half-Alfar in the room, and I recognize all of them from the arena. The Half-Alfar is Alva. The female DokkAlfar is Aluras'bektsh'tar, the one who was finger fucking Alva. The male DokkAlfar is Canth, the one that was dressed in black. Standing next to Aluras'bektsh'tar's chair, he is still dressed in the exact same style of black clothing.

As I enter the room, my eyes lock with Elan'fer'sha's. We do not need to speak to communicate. I can feel that she wants me to comply with her patron's demands. I can feel her intense longing to be fucked and hurt. In the slight change in her expression, she shows her satisfaction from knowing I want to fuck and hurt her, right here and right now. We really are so fucking twisted.

“Brand, this Aluras'bektsh'tar Clan Mistress of Clan Vardne'tar. She is the patron of the Blood Rose Stable. She has a task for you, and I want you to help her.”

Still naked, Alva is kneeling on the floor. There is not even a shred of pride or defiance visible in her demeanor. She has the appearance of a marionette waiting for her puppeteer to move her, but I do not think she is quite broken yet. If she were given a chance to fight or run, it would be interesting to see what would happen.

Canth's eyes are filled with contempt and derision, but Aluras'bektsh'tar is staring at me with intense interest. Like so many others in this citadel, she seems to be weighing and measuring me, as though she is looking for what use or value I might provide for her. She is clearly accustomed to using other people, and since she is Elan'fer'sha's patron, her station in DokkAlfar society has to be fairly high.

I shift my gaze to Canth. He is a killer. No matter what else he might be or what role he might serve, Canth is first and foremost a killer. It was not obvious when he was in the box and I was on the arena sands, but never before in my life have I seen anyone who radiates such a murderous aura. His body may be alive, but his soul is dead and discarded. How many lives does one have to take to become like him? How many centuries or millennia does one have to spend killing to take so many lives?

Thrall saunters between Canth and myself, moving to a sideboard with glasses and bottles of alcohol. Even at a distance of thirty feet, I can smell the strong odor of the exotic liquors. I acquired a taste for ales, beers and malt liquors in general, when I had my Half-Dvergar body, but I still do not particularly like hard alcohol.

Glancing around the room, I see that it is filled with heavy wood furniture. Desk, chairs, cabinets, and bookshelves, they are all made from the same mahogany colored wood. The style does not seem to fit Elan'fer'sha, and everything has an air of age about it. This room feels like it is out of time and place.

I sit down in an empty armchair.

Thrall chuckles nastily. Aluras'bektsh'tar's eyes narrow slightly as she continues to stare at me. Canth's glare becomes more hostile, but he does not say anything. Elan'fer'sha seems like she cannot decide whether she wants to smirk or frown.

In the eyes of Canth and Aluras'bektsh'tar, I should be nothing but a slave. It seems unlikely that they are aware of the Od shattering my collar and Thrall reforging it into a fake. If neither of these DokkAlfar is objecting to my simply sitting down in their presence, Aluras'bektsh'tar wants something from me that she cannot compel me to give.

I learned patience over the years. Hunting and killing humans, Alfar, grey-skins, beast races, beasts and other things, I learned to wait and watch. Even Canth's cold hate is not enough to spur me into voicing words or acting.

My wait is rather short. Only a few minutes lapse, before Aluras'bektsh'tar opens her mouth. “You are rather impertinent for a human.”

I am curious to see where she is going to go with her words and do not respond.

“Your skill with swords is very advanced, but even though I only saw a few swings, it looked like you are much more skilled with and axe. Why do you not use an axe?”

I glance at Thrall, but his attention appears to be focused on the alcohol in his glass.

“Shadow Fist is not well-disposed to axes.”

Aluras'bektsh'tar frowns slightly. “Shadow Fist is not well-disposed to anything except that human god you follow. All of his students have died as miserable failures.”

I shrug, not bothering to say anything.

After a few moments Aluras'bektsh'tar smiles faintly. “The more I see of you, the more you intrigue me. You have no fear of my race. No matter where they come from, or how powerful they are, all humans have an inborn fear of DokkAlfar.”

I do not think you could call the expression on my face a smile, despite its appearance. “If something lives, it can die. DokkAlfar are no exception. I've killed enough to know. Why should I fear you?”

Aluras'bektsh'tar tilts her head slightly to the side, and schools her face back into smoothness, so I cannot tell what expression was beginning to appear. “Are you deliberately trying to anger me?”

“Does my killing DokkAlfar anger you?”

“Not particularly. I have killed many of my race myself.”

“You are too arrogant, Aluras. The human tribes and races that have been ground under DokkAlfar empires may fear you, but the Aesir and Vanir have never feared your kind.” At Thrall's words, Canth glares in his direction, but Thrall ignores him.

Aluras'bektsh'tar frowns and introspectively looks toward Thrall. “Both those tribes are part of the Jotun Lords' hegemony. They cannot be considered mere humans.”

Thrall chuckles. “Were the Vangrade Empire also part of the Jotuns' hegemony?”

Aluras'bektsh'tar's frown deepens. “The High Men? Do you truly think to call them humans?”

Probably aware of my confusion, Thrall looks at me. “The Jotuns, the Aesir, and the Vanir are separate races, but they are all under the domination of the Jotun Lords. While the Aesir and Vanir are human tribes, the Jotuns are not human.

“The High Men of the Vangrade Empire were completely human, but every one of them wielded strong Power. They conquered a large section of the Norgat continent on Taereun. The strongest of them were the Dread Reavers, an order of knights that were all Triunes. They crushed two LjosAlfar kingdoms and a DokkAlfar empire.”

“Enough of your lies!”

“Canth!”

As Canth's head snaps around towards Aluras'bektsh'tar, I briefly see contempt and disgust in his eyes, before it is masked. Aluras'bektsh'tar does not give any indication that she aware of Canth's emotions. Canth seems to be Aluras'bektsh'tar's servant, but what exactly is the relationship between them?

Thrall's nasty laugh draws Canth's attention back onto himself. “Watch yourself, servant. Unless, you want me to teach you manners.”

Thrall looks at Aluras'bektsh'tar. “You, stop wasting time and tell my disciple what you want.”

Aluras'bektsh'tar's eyes widen fractionally, before narrowing, as she turns her attention toward me. The obvious air of weighing and judging is back in her demeanor.

“I need someone killed, and I need it to be done by someone with no direct connection to my clan. I have chosen you to do the killing.”

“What's in it for me?”

Aluras'bektsh'tar smiles, though the smile never reaches her eyes. “I will compensate Elan and free you from slavery.”

I look at Thrall, and he shrugs slightly.

Releasing the collar around my neck, I take it off and close again. Spinning the collar around my index finger, I smile at Aluras'bektsh'tar. My smile does not reach my eyes either.

“Brand is my disciple. He aids Elan'fer'sha of his own will.”

After glancing at Thrall, Aluras'bektsh'tar's gaze settles on me again. “What do you want?”

I look at Elan'fer'sha. She has remained silent, but there is something in her eyes. As much as Aluras'bektsh'tar, she is watching and evaluating me.

“I want a status that will allow me to move around Gor'achen Citadel more or less freely, and I want information. I want to know the reason the target must die.” I gesture at Elan'fer'sha and Aluras'bektsh'tar. “I want to know what the connection is between you two females, and I want to know what both of you are after.”

With her head slightly tilted, Aluras'bektsh'tar stares at me for a few moments. From her face, there is no telling what is going on inside her mine.

“The status is simple to provide, but you will only get it after you make the kill. You will perform the assassination, if we tell you the things you want to know?”

Again, the smile I show her does not reach my eyes. “As long as I believe you are telling me the truth.”

Aluras'bektsh'tar nods slightly. “The target is a member of my clan. He has betrayed the clan by joining a dissident group that calls itself the Stoics. Because of clan politics, I cannot directly move against him.”

“What are these Stoics?”

Aluras'bektsh'tar snorts in decidedly unfeminine manner. “Fools and idiots who think that our empire has lost sight of the Will of Yggr. They believe that by refraining from bestiality, orgies, and homosexuality we will be stronger. They blame the lack of expansion of the Atran'ler Empire on our culture and our pleasures.

“During the Jotun-Dragon War, enough of the Atran'ler Empire's population was killed that barely one in five DokkAlfar remained at the end. Our pathetic system that allows other races to have limited citizen status was created, because there were not enough DokkAlfar remaining to continue dominating all the Empire's territory.

“The Stoics are fools that cannot understand or refuse to accept the true meaning of Yggr's Will. Those who have greater strength and Power will dominate over and use those who have lesser strength and Power.”

Over the year, I picked up a little bit of knowledge about the Church of the Jotun Lords. Like any religion, the Church has its dogma and religious theory. There must be tens of thousands of books and scrolls locked away in Church libraries. They contain a myriad of stories, philosophies, and legends about the Jotun Lords. Aluras'bektsh'tar is reciting the generally accepted tenets of the Central Fane of Yggr. There are almost certainly other beliefs about Yggr, with the only commonality possibly being dominance.

It is not like I care about their internal political and religious conflicts. I do not care about killing off a few extra DokkAlfar either, but I still need information about the Gor'achen's current status, to figure out where and what my own target may be. Thrall said I will encounter slaves that will help facilitate my own plans by entering the arena, but he never said I would meet them in the arena. I enjoyed killing those stupid fucks in the arena, but I need to make some headway. If I am going to keep moving forward, I need get out and about, to learn more.

“So what's the ties between you and Elan, and what are your goals?”

Aluras'bektsh'tar glances at Elan'fer'sha, before answering. “Her clan and my line of provenance were both exterminated. We are the last survivors, and we met in an orphans barracks. We became friends, because we both have the same goal, revenge.”

There is a lot being left unsaid, but that is fine. I understand the desire for revenge. I have been getting revenge for most of my life, and I still have a lot of vengeance left to take. Assassinating her clan member will be another good test of my skills.

“Alright, I'll do it. Give me the details.”

Surprise flashes in Aluras'bektsh'tar's eyes momentarily, before it is replaced with hate and fierce satisfaction. “The target is Orton'vardne'tar. He is a descendant of the founding line of Clan Vardne'tar. You will be provide with maps of the clan's manor and information on his habits.”

“Brand's temperament and habits are not suitable for an assassin.”

Aluras'bektsh'tar turns to stare at Thrall. “Why did you not tell me this before? Are you going to interfere in this matter?”

The smile Thrall gives to Aluras'bektsh'tar is cold, before he turns his stare on me. “Brand, your choices are your own, but if you try to play the part of an assassin, you will most likely be killed.”

Without elaborating, Thrall simply watches me.

“Why?”

“An assassin's purpose is to kill. Using all the skills and Power at his disposal, he kills as quickly and efficiently as possible. You have a problem with just killing. Every time you fight, you pass up opportunities to finish your opponents off quickly. When you fight, you fixate on beating your opponent down. You fight like you are playing a game to see who is stronger. If you do that during an assassination, you will give yourself away and probably be faced with odds you cannot overcome.”

I fixate on beating my opponents down? I guess I do. I have been that way for almost my entire life. It started with the bullies that targeted me because I was fat and had both a father and mother. They came after me, and I set them up and crushed them. I became even nastier about it after the accident. I began to cripple them whenever possible. They always attacked me in packs outside of the range of the social cameras, and I turned that against them. Because I was a minor, the authorities held off on pressing charges.

By the time they stopped attacking me, I only had to wait a little more than a year to start playing Taereun. I did not simple kill inside of what I thought was a game. I crippled. I tortured. I mutilated. Most of all, I always wanted to destroy my victims, while not using all of my strengths.

“As long as I do not hold back, I will kill the target with a single attack.”

Thrall stares at me for a moment before nodding. “See that you do not hold back.”

Thrall looks at Aluras'bektsh'tar. “I will have him ready in three ten-days.”

Aluras'bektsh'tar nods. “I would prefer it to be sooner, but if that is what you need, the assassination will take place in forty three days. If the target keeps his pattern, he should be going to the Stoics' regular meeting on that day.

“Canth.” Despite the casual tone, Aluras'bektsh'tar's statement of Canth's name is clearly a command.

Canth takes a bag similar to a duffel bag out of a storage device and throws it to me. His actions do not give any indication of what the storage device is. If my pattern sight spell was active, I might have bean able to tell where he pulled it form.

Catching the bag, I look in side. There are two short-swords, suit of leather armor, and six scroll cases.

“When you make the kill, drop this next to the body.” Aluras'bektsh'tar holds out a broken half of one of they Yggr's eye badges.

Taking it, I drop it inside the bag.

Aluras'bektsh'tar rises to her feet. “I know the way out. I will contact you in a few days, Elan.”

Elan'fer'sha rises to her feet walking to the door of the room with Aluras'bektsh'tar's group. “Be wary Aluras, I do not like the speed with which the Stoics are increasing in numbers.”

Elan'fer'sha stiffens fractionally, as Aluras'bektsh'tar pulls her into a firm embrace and kisses her, probing Elan'fer'sha's mouth with her tongue. A more than slightly predatory smile is on Aluras'bektsh'tar's lips, as they separate.

“When will you stop with your games, Aluras?”

“The day will come, when I teach you the only true sexual pleasures are female love.”

Elan'fer'sha's eyes flicker momentarily in my direction. “I am Wytch. I am well versed in homosexuality, but I have no interest in it. Homosexuality is an aberration, it is not the perversion of the natural order. There is no exchange of life between females, because there is not true intercourse. There is no way to claim Power from a female with sexual play. Homosexuality is nothing more than a mental defect. To take Power and life a Wytch must use a male.”

There is a faint sheen of hostility in Aluras'bektsh'tar's eyes, as she stares at me. “The only purpose for males is procreation, and to do that you must mate with your own race not with animals.”

“Enough, Aluras. We have had this conversation thousands of times.”

Aluras'bektsh'tar looks back to Elan'fer'sha, with a sad smile. “I will see you soon, Elan.”

As Elan'fer'sha closes the door, I am hit with the skin crawling sensation of active Umbral Power being used.

“The room is warded.”

Elan'fer'sha returns to her chair behind her desk. Her expression is mixed between annoyance and petulance. “I cannot understand how you managed to make Aluras upset with you. What is it about that continually angers people, even when you are not being insulting or obnoxious?”

“You're fucking me.”

Thrall chuckles. His sense of humor is annoyingly warped.

Elan'fer'sha glares at me. “What would possibly make you think my engaging in bestiality upset her?”

“She's a fucking dyke who wants to eat your pussy, and my dick is inside you every night. What the fuck do you think is upsetting her? You might think I'm an animal, but that cunt thinks I'm competition for your love or lusts or something!”

“You are delusional. No DokkAlfar would ever become jealous of an animal!”

“Silence! The pair of you can continue your pre-fuck banter after I am gone.” In contrast with his voice's enhanced volume, Thrall's demeanor is calm.

Elan'fer'sha's face flushes slightly, as though from embarrassment. Despite her lust for getting fucked by me, in her DokkAlfar centric worldview I am human, therefor nothing by an animal. It must be galling for her to be called out for arguing with an animal.

My storage belt appears in Thrall's hand, and he throws it to me.

“I have modified it. As long as you do not give away its function, the thread point will be almost impossible to detect.”

How did he do this? I can only fell the thread point, because I have my hands on the belt.

“Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain.” With the whispered words, I apply the pattern sight spell to my left eye.

My jaw drops open. Even looking at the belt's pattern, I am still unable to see the thread point. It is also impossible to tell the that belt is an Item of Power. I have no clue what Thrall did this belt.

“How? Why?”

Thrall grins faintly. “There is too much you do not know about Smithing. Virtually no mortal Smith in the Labyrinth is more than an apprentice.

“As for why, you are my disciple. If you die, it could be another fifty thousand years before I find another with the potential to truly master Shadow Fist. You need to have access to your gear, but others do not need to know that you have access to your gear.”

I am not sure how to react to Thrall's statements. I do not know if I should believe him, or if everything is an elaborate setup. If it is a setup, what does he hope to achieve?

After attaching a soul thread to the belt, I look inside and find all of my other storage devices, as well as my weapons and armor.

As I raise eyes back to Thall, a great axe appears in his hand. Even with my pattern sight spell active, I still cannot see what his storage device is, but at least now, I have an idea of why I cannot identify it.

When Thrall throws the axe to me, I catch it, but nearly let the butt of the haft hit the floor. This axe weighs over three hundred pounds, and it is probably closer to four hundred pounds. The metal has the same reddish color as the bars in the arena. It is an Elemental metal alloyed with some type of steel.

“From now on, you will use that axe in the arena. It has not been patterned, but the Blood Iron mixed with the steel makes it stronger than virtually any weapon you might encounter in the hand of a gladiator slave. The beings living in Gor'achen Citadel need to forget that you are dual-wielder, so it will be less likely that you will be connected with the assassinations you are going to be involved in.”

“Axes are not a suitable weapon for Shadow Fist.”

Thrall stares at me without any discernible expression. “You are to become the only true Third Generation Master of Shadow Fist. Improve my Shadow Fist. The basic movements of circular punches and kicks exist, even if they are not strongly developed. The spear techniques include several sweeping attacks, as opposed to linear point work. Develop a complete understanding of those movements and techniques, and expand on that base to properly use the axe.”

Assassin

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 249

The leather armor provided by Aluras'bektsh'tar is a high quality item of power. Even though it is not a named item, it has spell patterns bound into it that make it fit whoever binds it like a second skin. There are also straps for securing weapons and equipment, and I have the two short-swords secured to my back upside down. This allows them to be drawn from beneath a cloak instead of over the shoulder.

I do not particularly like short-swords. I never have. That said, these weapons are well crafted and patterned. The metal of the blades has a naturally sooty black color that will not reflect light, and the edges are many times keener than my bastard swords. I cannot identify the metal used in their crafting, but it does not have the signs of being Elemental. When I asked Thrall about it, he told me to research it myself.

Since I agreed to perform the assassination for Aluras'bektsh'tar, Thrall has been focused on training me in my use of the Shadow of the Od and the arts of stealth, but his stealth arts are different from what I have encountered in the past. In Thrall's worldview, the Shadow of the Od is the ultimate source of stealth, and he may be right. Without even using the Od, I can still shift partially outside of my current dimension, becoming nearly invisible. This technique is a subtle version of a brute force Dark Od technique I used in my Half-Dvergar body.

Thrall appears in the doorway to the training hall. “A message has been delivered. Tonight, Orton'vardne'tar will be going out. The assassination is confirmed.”

Taking my black leather cloak from the storage belt I am wearing over my armor, I wrap it around my shoulders.

“Come with me. There is a secret way out of my territory.”

A secret way? I follow Thrall, who leads me to the ritual chamber where he contacted Boran.

“Take this.” Thrall holds out a pendant made of silvery metal. Its oval surface contains an extremely delicate and intricate pattern.

As I take the pendant, I feel the energies throbbing within it. Their feel reminds of when Thrall used his psi to tear open the scars on my mind and soul patterns. That Power felt completely different from Aluras'bektsh'tar's or Canth's Power, when I was in the arena. Considering Thrall claims to be a Triune, could this be because it is Trinity?

When Thrall touches a place one the wall that looks no different from any other, a silver-grey pattern becomes visible. Reaching from floor to ceiling and spanning six feet in width, it is as intricate as the one on the pendant and seems similar in nature, but I have no clue what either pattern's purpose is.

As Thrall touches the pattern in several places, a view of a shelf or ledge made of red stone becomes visible. The shadow of a tunnel can be seen at the far end of the ledge, but the angle of the tunnel makes it impossible to see inside. Clouds and what appears to be water are visible off the side of the ledge, both tinged with an apocalyptic red color.

After touching two pieces on the patter still visible on the sides of the image, Thrall glances toward me.

“Come!”

Thrall steps through the image on the wall and appears on the shelf. Being familiar enough with teleport gates, I follow him.

This teleport gate does not look or feel like any I have seen before, but with the variances I have seen in how Power is used in the Battleground of the Damned and the Plains of Despair, I am not particularly surprised. If the Power in the pendant really is Trinity, that alone would be enough to make it clear why this teleport gate is different.

The howling of the gale force winds was not audible from inside Thrall's ritual chamber. My cloak snaps and pops, as the wind tries to drag it from my shoulders. Not too unexpectedly, Thrall seems to be completely untouched by the wind clawing at me. Not even a single hair on his head is moving.

Brilliant greenish-silver and lambent purplish-black light draws my attention. Turning my head, I see a ball of roiling energies, with the exact same coloring as the light they are emitting. Slowly spinning in midair, the ball looks remarkably like a yin-yang symbol.

“What the fuck . . .” The words are involuntarily drawn from my mouth, as my jaw hangs slightly open.

The Power from that ball of energy is blasting against me like a noontime sun in an equatorial desert. It reminds me of the Od, but it is not. If I was just a little less hard-headed, the sheer intensity and immense sense portent embodied in the ball would make me want to bow down and worship it.

“That is what Boran calls the Furnace of Life and Death, but I do not really understand what he means. I am incapable of saying the words in the way he does, so all the meaning to them is lost. I can feel the reflections of that Power in the Od, but beyond that, I cannot understand the connection. It is supposedly the Power source that allows the Labyrinth of Yggr to contain all of the hundreds of thousands of pocket dimensions that exist within it.”

Dragging my eyes away from the Furnace of Life and Death, I intently examine Thrall's features, but I cannot see any sign that he is lying to me. With what Boran taught me while I was in my Half-Dvergar body, I may know more about what that ball is than Thrall.

According to Boran, the Od is a Power exists between Life and Death, but could Thrall not know that? What does this mean about the relationship between Boran and Thrall? What does it mean about my own relationship with Boran? What does each of them want from the other? What does each of them want from me? I have too many questions, and not enough answers.

Thrall just stares at the Furnace of Life and Death for a few minutes, without saying anything.

“According to Boran, this dimension is the core, the center, of the Labyrinth of Yggr. Below us is a sea of pure Trinity. In over fifty thousand years of life, I have never seen another place like this.

“I exposed you to it now, so that you would not be caught blind by it when you emerged on the surface level. Take as long as you need to accustom yourself, so that you do not give yourself away. All the normal residents of Gor'achen have seen this place before, and most do their best to ignore it, when Gor'achen is here.”

“Why is the citadel here now?”

“This is where the Citadel Lords come to meet, when the citadels are on patrol. This dimension can be directly accessed from a great number of places in the Battleground, if you know how. As long as you can fly for the entire time you are here, there is generally little danger. Anything that touches the sea is dissolved in a short period of time. Even Elemental matter and entities will be destroyed by that much raw Trinity.”

After a while, Thrall turns toward the tunnel. “Come.”

A thick layer of dust and dirt covers the floor of the tunnel. No one has come this way in a very long time. Barely a hundred yards from the entry, we reach a fork.

“The right tunnel leads to a deserted part of the Third Layer. The left leads to the sewers under the First Layer. When you are ready to return, the charm will allow you to activate the teleport gate from the ledge. Without the charm, you will not even be able to find the gate.”

Thrall disappears as soon as he finishes speaking. It looks like I am on my own from here, but I prefer it this way.

Taking a deep breath, I hold it for a count of three hundred. As I release it, all the built-up tension from living in Elan'fer'sha's slave pens leaves my body. There is no one riding herd on me. If I wanted to, I am sure I could find a way to leave Gor'achen, but I have no reason to leave for the moment.

I do not know what the protocols are for moving between the Layers in Gor'achen. Looking at the two tunnels, I take the left hand one. There are no other branches, and after walking for over an hour, I reach a square room with a carving etched into the wall opposite the tunnel entry.

In the carving a massively built human is fighting a giant, while being stabbed in the back by another human. The faces of all three fighters are hidden by their helms, but the human being back-stabbed has a build as massive as Thrall. He has a huge war hammer in one hand and a massive shield on his other arm. The human stabbing him in the back is about the same height but much more slightly built.

Thrall has a scar on his back in about the same place, where the man in the carving is being stabbed.

Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain. I do not voice the words. In the past month, I have learned how to focus Smithing with the thought and intent of the mantra.

As my spell shifts the vision in my left eye, I see the spell pattern laid into the carving. Some but not all of the lines used in the carving are the lines of the pattern. Even though the spell pattern is there, it has no Power tied to it. It is a spell formation, not a sigil. Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, it is a pattern based on spell principles similar to Smithing. While it is not a Smith's pattern, it is still a Maker's pattern.

Thrall said that this tunnel led to the sewers of the First Layer, so this cannot be a dead end. The starting point for the pattern seems to be where the sword enters the larger human's back. With my hand on the head of the hammer, I channel my mana into the formation. It takes a ridiculous amount of mana to fully power the pattern, priming the formation. The level of my development in using mana is much less than my ability to channel ki, but it is no longer even close to weak. Sill, I must be pushing more than three quarter of the mana I am capable of channeling into it.

With the pattern fully powered, it is obvious how complex the formation is. However, despite its complexity, the is no way that this formation should take so much mana to power it. So exactly why that the case?

Even though it should be the sewers on the other side of this wall, it does not mean that there is no one there. As unlikely as the case may be, there could be sewer slaves cleaning the sewer tunnels in range of this section of the wall. If I could, I would like to see what is there, before activating the formation. Unfortunately, I have no abilities that can see through solid objects. If there is anyone there, I will just have to kill them.

When I active the spell formation, the wall becomes transparent and insubstantial. Even seeing the result, I still do not understand how this spell pattern works. There is entirely too much knowledge about patterns in general and Smithing in particular that I am lacking.

The reeking stench of the sewers hits me in the face. It is not the worst smell I have ever encountered, but it is pretty well up there on the stomach turning scale. Stepping through the insubstantial wall, I enter the sewers. There is no one that I can detect within range of my sight or spatial awareness, and there are no sounds that are likely to have been made by humans or other intelligent beings.

The sewers are lit by greenish crystals embedded in the roof of the tunnel. I almost laugh at the scene I have walked into. The tunnel is about fifteen feet wide, and the roof of the tunnel is more that fifteen feet over the walkway I am standing on. The walls are decorated with a series of constantly repeating arches, with a carving of a battle scene inside of each arch. Each scene is unique, without a single repeat visible from where I am standing. What kind of mentality does it take to decorate your sewers with artwork of this quality? It is not like any of the elite among the DokkAlfar will ever see it.

I feel my mana in the spell formation dissipate, and the wall behind me returns to solidity. This side of the wall has the mirror image of the carvings on the opposite side. Looking at it, I cannot see any signs of the spell formation. Even with my hand on the head of the war hammer, I still cannot feel its existence. Only by channeling my mana into the carving, I am able to feel the spell formation. Now, I can understand how the tunnel could remain secret. The likelihood of someone going around the sewers and channeling mana into all the carvings is rather minuscule.

While I may be in the sewers, I do not know where I am in the First Layer. None of the maps provided by Aluras'bektsh'tar contained the layout of the sewers. The first thing I need to do is to find one of the access stairs that are used by repair crews.

Turning right, I follow the tunnel, until I find a short side passage with no sewage channel in it. At the end of the passage a flight of stairs leads up.

Stopping halfway up the stairs, I listen for any sounds from above. It seems the wind screens maintained over the Seven Great Citadels are as effective as they are reputed to be. The soughing of the wind is only a soft background sound, and there is not the slightest hint of the noise of voices or footsteps.

Advancing to the top of the stairs, I find a locked gate blocking the exit. The metal used in this gate is the same Blood Iron and steel alloy that was used to make the gates in the arena. Despite its enormous weight, its strength seems to be fully equal to its weight. If I were to break the lock by force, the noise would be audible for miles around. Other than than the great axe Thrall gave me, I do not have a weapon with the strength sheer through Blood Irons, but there is not enough room to swing that huge axe properly. My kicks could probably do the job, but with the Blood Iron alloy, I am not certain I can hit with enough force. Not that it matters, since I am a Smith.

Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain. I draw up my still weakened mana and cast the pattern sight spell on my eye again.

I do not have any specific spell patterns to deal with locks, but Roderick did teach me the symbols of metal breaking. I have the feeling there are probably more symbols than I know, the pattern progression feels like there gaps in the sequence. No matter how well forged, all metal has flaws and sheer points that can be used to break it. Making those flaws vulnerable is the purpose of the symbols of metal breaking. Because of the techniques Makers use to create their works, they know best how to destroy what they create.

Filling the lock with my mana, I feel out the shapes of the tumblers and bolt. If a Smith is given enough time to examine anything made from metal, it cannot possibly hide its secrets from him. This gate is not patterned, but I knew that just from looking at it. The Smith that forged it was sloppy in his work, probably not caring about the quality of something as mundane as a gate. Or maybe, the Smith was a slave. A slave would be completely lacking in the motivation to make his work top quality. There are multiple flaws strewn throughout the tumblers and bolt.

Focusing on the symbol that seems the most appropriate, I imprint it into the flaws metal of the bolt.

Clink. Pop. Clink. Clink. Clink. Screech.

With a palm strike against the face of the lock, the shattered fragments of the bolt clatter softly on the stone of the pavement. The soft screech of the unlubricated hinges is clearly audible over the soughing of the wind.

I wait again, listening for the sounds of anyone who might have been attracted to the noise. After a minute or so, no one has come to investigate, and I take the next flight of stairs from the well where the gate is up to the street level.

The maps Aluras'bektsh'tar provided of the First Level were extremely detailed. With only one exception, the sewer entries are all in the back alleys, between the compounds of the clans and the government buildings. The high and mighty DokkAlfar clans have no desire to be offended by the presence of sewer entries where they can see them.

Reaching the point where the alley exits onto the street, I still cannot tell where in the First Layer I am. Moving into the Shadow of the Od, I move as quickly as possible from shadow to shadow along the main avenue, until I reach a corner with a stele that is inscribed with the names of the roads. Now, I know where I am.

Outside of the back alleys, there are dozens of DokkAlfar wandering the streets. The Front gates of many of the mansions and compounds are brightly lit, with liveried servants obsequiously greeting arriving guests. According to Thrall, carousing, orgies, and torture parties are part of the daily life of the clans in Gor'achen. I already knew that Alfar as a species are extremely social, and the DokkAlfar here are no exception. Elan'fer'sha, living as a near outcast, because she is a Wytch, is an exception to the norm.

In places there are crews of slaves working under the watchful stares of whip masters. Most of the whip masters in charge of the slave labor gangs in Gor'achen Citadel are themselves technically slaves, but they have risen to a position, where they have greater status than most non-citizens. Some of them use their hard earned power to abuse the nominally free non-citizens, when the chance arises, but most of them confine their brutality to the slaves under their charge.

The slaves in the work gangs are a sorry lot. Naked except for their collars, their bodies are covered in whip scars. Many have scars from being tortured with open fire or burning hot metal, as punishments for the smallest infractions. Some have missing fingers, toes, eyes, ears, noses, or even entire limbs, and many have been castrated.

After a few minutes I reach the compound of Clan Vardne'tar. I already know that there are three entries to the compound, but the question is which one will that Orton'vardne'tar uses to leave. All of the gates are currently closed, so there should be at least some noise when he leaves the compound. I have no choice but to patrol around the Vardne'tar compound, until I spot him leaving.

The information given to me stated the Stoics' meeting would take place at the exact midpoint of the night. I do not think that this plane has a true day and night cycle, but the DokkAlfar have no trouble keeping track of time. While I am not a DokkAlfar, I can still keep track of the general time, and it is still a couple hours before what should be the middle of the night.

These stoics are far from the first secret society I have hunted, and I cannot imagine they will be the last. Why is it that secret societies and conspiracies almost always seem to have their meetings at night? Does the dark give them some feeling of safety from being spied upon? If nothing else, it makes it easier to identify and follow the conspirators.

There is only a little more than an hour left before midnight, when I finally see Orton'vardne'tar come out of the side gate. He was not the first Vardne'tar clan member to leave the compound since I arrived, but the others are none of my concern. Orton'vardne'tar does not appear to be paying attention to anything around himself, and walks off in a casual manner.

Despite the time, there are still plenty of DokkAlfar wandering the streets. The nightly social activities will not end, until the morning. Their activity makes it much easier to follow my prey. Even walking in the Shadow of the Od, I am not completely invisible, and the general activity makes it easier to blend into the shadows, without being noticed.

If my body was strong enough to channel the Od, without being ripped apart by the Power, I would probably be able to move deep enough into the Shadow of the Od to become completely invisible. Unfortunately, I am still a long way away from the inhuman capabilities of Thrall or my old Half-Dvergar body.

Orton'vardne'tar seems to just be wandering around at random, but every turn takes him onto a street with lesser numbers of DokkAlfar. When he turns onto a street with no DokkAlfar looking toward him, he abruptly steps into one of the alleys between the compounds.

His move is so abrupt that it catches me by surprise. That may be his intention to throw off any possible pursuers or get them to revel themselves. Despite their social tendencies, the DokkAlfar never lose their hunger for domination over others, and all the clans have their spies watching other clans and their own clan members. For a DokkAlfar to assume that no one is spying on him or her at any time would be the height of foolishness.

I stay in the shadows on the opposite side of the street from the alley, where Orton'vardne'tar disappeared, and look down it while passing. Another benefit of walking in the Shadow of the Od is that the shadows of the normal world, or even complete darkness, are nothing more than patches of dimer greyish light to my eyes.

Orton'vardne'tar is about thirty feet or so down the alley. He is hiding in the shadow of a stack of crates, while watching for anyone entering the all alley in his wake. Despite none of the compound entries near this alley being lit up, there are no good hiding places with a view of the alley.

I keep walking until Orton'vardne'tar no longer has a line of sight toward me and cross back to the alley side of the avenue. There are no obvious wards on the compound wall for the first twenty feet of its height, and I climb the wall to just below the beginning of those wards. Outside the grip of the dimension's normal gravity, I am moving on all fours. The infinitesimal gravity of the wall itself allows me to cling to to its surface like a lizard or an insect.

Reaching the corner, I peek around, and Orton'vardne'tar does not seem to notice me. For a few more minutes, he watches the entry to the alley, before moving again. He keeps glancing over his shoulder, until he reaches a stairwell leading down to a sewer access gate.

As Orton'vardne'tar's head disappears from sight, I scamper along the wall covering more than twenty feet with each step. Still, I hear the rattling of a key in the lock and the screech of the gate opening, before I reach the stairwell. Leaping from the wall, my feet make no sound, as they touch the ground.

Clank.

The gate is already closed, when I look over the wall, and the key is rattling in the lock again.

Once the soft sound of Orton'vardne'tar's steps fade, I drop into the stairwell.

Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain. My mana flows into the lock, as I search out the metal's weaknesses, and I drive the most appropriate symbols of breaking into them.

Clunk.

I catch the falling fragments of metal before they can clatter on the ground and drop into the dimensional storage in my belt. There is nothing I can do about the squeaking for the gate, as it opens, but I cannot give Orton'vardne'tar too much time to open the distance between us.

I leave the gate open, so as to not make more noise, and quickly move down the stairs. Pausing at the bottom, I soak up the input from all of my senses, seeking any hint of Orton'vardne'tar waiting in ambush.

Orton'vardne'tar is supposed to be in the First Circle of Coalescence, but he is a DokkAlfar. Being in the First or Second Circle of Coalescence does not mean that someone will automatically be stronger than me. According to Thrall, Coalescence does not make someone magically transform by moronically superhuman amounts, it enhances their base. Each Circle of Coalescence roughly triples a persons Power and physical abilities, and that does not magically happen at once. As you progress through each Circle of Coalescence, you slowly grow stronger. At the low circles, the differences in strength can still be more or less dealt with depending on your own base levels.

For all his size and mass, the Throd'nahk's base is apparently only a fraction of my own. My use of ki has strengthened my body to a ridiculous degree in an even more ridiculously short period of time, and actively using ki to further boost my physical capabilities puts me considerably above the normal ranges of physical ability that mana based combat adepts have.

Orton'vardne'tar is a DokkAlfar. His base Power should not be less than my own, even though his physical abilities probably do not equal mine. Overall, he has the advantage. As much as I want to fight him, I cannot do it. I am here to murder Orton'vardne'tar in such a way that it will look like an execution performed by the Left Hand Order of Yggr's assassins.

I catch sound of the faint tapping of footsteps moving away and exit the tunnel form the access stairs. In the distance to my left, I see Orton'vardne'tar rapidly moving down the walkway next to the sewage channel. A plain brown robes conceals his body, and a hooded cloak hides his head. Secret societies can be so fucking predictable in their actions.

Covering twenty feet at a stride, I rush down the sewer in Orton'vardne'tar's wake. Before I can close the distance, he has already reached a shimmering teleport gate in one the arches on the wall and disappears.

Fuck me! According to the information provided by Aluras'bektsh'tar, the stoics never return through the gates they use to reach their meetings. If I want to kill Orton'vardne'tar, I will have to follow him to the Stoics' meeting place.

I do not hesitate and chase him into the portal. The energies of the spell swirl around me without fully taking hold. It feels like the teleport spell is trying to rip me apart. What the hell is happening? Is it the Shadow of the Od?

As I let myself drop back completely into the dimension around me, the Power in the gate takes hold of me. With a wrenching sensation, I appear in the a small room.

Orton'vardne'tar and two other DokkAlfar are inside the room. While Orton'vardne'tar has his back to me, the other two are facing me. Both of them are wearing the exact same armor as I am, right down to the patterning to make it form fitting. They are probably real Left Hand of Yggr assassins.

Drawing both my short-swords, I drive them into the left side of Orton'vardne'tar's back, as he starts to turn around. He was probably not expecting and attack from behind and did not react in time. While the tableau is frozen, Orton'vardne'tar stares at me over his shoulder in shock, as blood begins to flow from the corners of his mouth.

As Orton'vardne'tar begins to crumple, the two real assassins begin to lunge toward me, while drawing their own short-swords. I sheer my swords through Orton'vardne'tar 's body, tearing up his organs at the same time as I rip the blades out.

The assassin to my right has to move a bit further than the one on the left to attack me. I step past the one on the left and thrust at his back, with my right blade. As he turns and parries with his own right sword, I slice his right wrist, but the blade barely gets through his armor. I did not realize how tough this armor actually is. What kind of leather is it made from?

As the assassin keeps spinning, his left hand sword stabs towards my neck. Neither of my blades is in position to block his, and the second assassin is coming at me with a lunge over the corpse of Orton'vardne'tar. I shift toward the left about ten feet.

This room is too small to maneuver much, less than twenty-five feet square. The Left Hand Order or Yggr uses any sentient race that will serve Yggr, but these two are human. They are not ki users, but their speed is equal to or better than my own, when I am not actively using my ki. If it was not for almost instantaneous movement over twenty to thirty foot ranges the using the Shadow of the Od allows, their movement speed would be equal to my own. They are probably already within the Circles of Coalescence, but not too far along. I need to engage and drop one of them quickly.

My ki floods through my body, enhancing my strength, agility, and speed. The second assassin continued the movement he started with his lunge, and I step to the side of the first. In barely more than a second, we exchange over a dozen strikes and parries each. Neither of us has the advantage, his skill is similar to my own.

I can feel the energies of the active teleport gate behind me and shift backwards. The gate is not directly against the wall, and I use it to shield my right side, while the wall prevents them from attacking me on that side. Both of them pause, staring at me from outside my reach. They are well within my attack range, but to attack them I will have to move from this position.

What the hell are Left Hand of Yggr assassins doing here to begin with? Are they here to guard or to kill the Stoics? Listening carefully, I can here the faint sounds of metal on metal and the echoes of detonating energies. So, it must be an attack. Orton'vardne'tar would probably have been dead whether I followed him or not.

Two versus one, and they are both Coalescent. They should have no way to know who I am, but they instantly knew I was not one of them. The assassination is already completed. While I could leave through the teleportation gate, I want to fight and kill them.

I attack the one with the cut on his forearm. My step virtually warping me next to his left side, I aim a left thrust at his heart. As he blocks the attack, I slip past, the edge or my right blade opening up a proper slash in his right forearm. This time I feel the blade hit the bone, but it does not slow his attacks down in the slightest. We exchange another seven thrusts and parries, as we separate.

The unwounded one is already coming after me, and I move to the wall on my right. He spins toward me, but he does not press his attack. Even though my movement have reached the point where they are close to teleportation, these assassins immediately pick up on where I will end up. Their awareness and powers of observation are impressive, to say the least.

The two assassins are close enough that they will easily be able to cover one another. The wounded one is close to my height and build, but there is still no sign of the wounds slowing him down. The unwounded one is taller, with longer limbs, and he has more reach.

Even though the assassins cannot see it, my teeth are bared in a predator's grins. I move to the side of the tall assassin with his body blocking the wounded one. I have a second, maybe a fraction longer.

This assassin is a better swordsman than the other one. He is stopping my attacks before they get close, while I am catching his just before they strike home. But that is fine. My right foot snaps toward his knee, but he raises his leg enough to block my kick.

Crack!

“Aaargh!”

My right toe shatters the assassin's left shin bone. He is a fool. He should have tried avoid or parry my kick, not take it head on with a shin block. His body is not even close to tough enough to withstand strikes from my hands or feet. There are very few places in the Battleground of the Damned where they train their bodies to be weapon and armor. Most places are focused around weapon based styles of fighting. They use Power and armor to defend themselves.

I move away, without trying to finish the assassin off. The shorter assassin is already between me and his partner, but the taller one is pretty much disabled. The bone did not break clean through, and the greenstick fracture has his shin bent near the middle. It looks painful, but other than the one yell, he has not made a sound.

Stepping forward, I engage the shorter assassin. He is actually helping me by trying to stay between me and his partner. I almost laugh, as I circle around keeping the taller assassin from being in a position to attack me. With my ki filling my body, enhancing my speed and strength, the shorter assassin is no longer my equal. Unhindered by attacks from his hobbling partner, my swords find the holes in the shorter assassin's defenses, and the wounds on his arms pile up in seconds.

When I sever the muscles in the assassin's biceps and his forearm drops limply, I batter his good hand aside and bury my second blade in the side of his neck. As I tear my blade back out and shift back toward the wall, I watch the blood fountain from his severed artery.

Even though he is already dying, the assassin still tries to attack, lunging toward me with a sliding step that crosses nearly fifteen feet. I parry his sword with one blade and sever his hand at the wrist with the other.

The assassin hisses with pain, as his eyes flicker toward his falling hand, before glaring at me. With the masks in these suits of armor, the only thing we can see are each other's eyes. I match the assassin's hate filled eyes with eyes full of disdain and contempt.

As the shorter assassin collapses to the ground dead, the taller one is coldly appraising me. He is resigned to his death, but he has not given up. He is looking for a way to take me with him.

I do not give him the time. As I move to his left side, I tie up his left hand blade with my right and stab him in the kidney with left hand blade. Despite the toughness of the leather, the point of my blade easily pierces it, and the assassin stiffens from the sudden agonizing pain. His leg begin to collapse, as he turns his head to stare into my eyes.

“Who are you?” The words are barely more than a hissing whisper.

“A soul of the Damned.”

My right hand blade pierces the assassin's chest rupturing his heart. The life fades from his eyes, and he slides off my blades to fall face down on the floor.

I can still hear the sounds of conflict, but they are fainter. Even in the bare couple dozen seconds that our fight lasted, one side or the other has started to achieve supremacy.

Grabbing Orton'vardne'tar's corpse by its collar, I step into the still active teleport gate. With the same wrenching sensation as when I arrived, the room disappears from my sight, and I find myself in a back alley. The walls are not those of the compounds of the First Layer and there is no red-tinged light. Looking up, there is a cavern roof over my head. Where am I? Which Layer is this?

Dropping Orton'vardne'tar's corpse on the ground, I put the broken Yggr signet next to it.

The only dimensional storage device on the body appears to the belt. I take it and drop it into my own belt.

Before anyone else has a chance to follow me through the teleport gate, I quickly move away from where I appeared, and slip into the Shadow of the Od. Climbing to the top of a building with a view of where I teleported to, I wait and watch. After about twenty minutes, there is no sign of any pursuit. Did I get away cleanly? I do not think that it could be this easy.

Moving to a main road, I look around for some clue as to where I am. This is not the Third Layer, the buildings do not resemble those outside the Blood Rose Stable. The surrounding buildings and road are too well maintained for this to be the Fourth Layer, and the Fifth Layer is the slave pens and the breeding aeries for the gryphons and hippogryphs. It has to be the Second Layer.

If I find the access to the Third Layer, I can make my way back to the Blood Rose Stable. Thrall should become aware of my presence, once I reach the entry.

With the exception of the First Layer, each layer inside Gor'achen is its own pocket dimensional space. The access ramps between the layers must warp space to be able connect these individual dimensional pockets. On the entry on the First Layer, the entry to the ramp is near the central plaza, but there are no structures leading down from the roof of this cavern. So, where does the tunnel from the First Layer connect to this one, and where is the tunnel entry connecting to the Third Layer? Asking Thrall about how the access tunnels are situated never crossed my mind. I suppose I never really cared much about them. I need to find their location on this layer.

Near the middle of the layer, there are two tunnels situated side by side. Both slope downward, but one leads to a higher layer and the other to a lower layer. The tunnel that leads to the First Layer is guarded by DokkAlfar soldiers. The tunnel leading to the Third Layer is guarded by human soldiers. Although both are armed and armored with what appear to be the same armor and weapons, the difference in quality is blatantly obvious to a Smith. The DokkAlfar equipment is made from a high grade alloy of the oily black metal, and the humans are in a low grade alloy of the oily black metal.

The humans standing watch on the tunnel to the Third Layer are doing no more than cursorily glancing at those passing through the tunnel, while the DokkAlfar guarding the tunnel to the First Layer are rigorously checking the papers of every DokkAlfar that does not appear to be a noble. No one who is not a DokkAlfar is attempting to enter the tunnel to the First Layer.

The actual mouths for both tunnels are about twenty feet below the road, and ramps slope downward from the guard posts. By using the Shadow of the Od, I slip and over the low wall surrounding the tunnel to the Third Layer and enter the tunnel unnoticed.

The tunnel itself is only dimly lit, and there are not many people crossing between the layers at this time of the night. After about a hundred and fifty feet, I reach the exit to the Third Layer and climb out the same way as I entered.

Once I get my bearings, I see that the tunnel entries are on the far side of the arena from the Blood Rose Stable. The streets here are much more crowded than those on the First Layer or the Second Layer, and the crowds are much more hostile and predatory than in the better class layers.

Even though I stay in the Shadow of the Od, some of the predators and prey notice me. Unlike the DokkAlfar above, the denizens of the Third Layer are used to living on the edge, where missing the wrong clue could cost them their lives. The ones who notice me shudder and look away, pretending that they never saw me.

Once I am near the ramp leading up to the Blood Rose Stable, I disappear into the back alleys again. As near as I can tell, no one sees me enter the tunnel leading to the stable gates. As I draw near, the gate Elan'fer'sha used when we were taken out for the match opens, and I see Thrall's bulky shadow in the dark corridor beyond it. He closes and locks the gate behind me, without ever laying a finger on it.

“Did you watch me?”

Thrall shakes his head. “There are too many wards and barriers inside the Great Citadels. Even someone with my Power cannot easily track or observe what takes place in too many places.”

“The target entered the portal to the meeting, before I could make the kill. The Left Hand Order of Yggr had assassins at the meeting place, and I could hear the sounds of combat. Something very wrong is going on.”

Thrall smiles. “Events are starting to move again. Soon, the Transcendents will be forced into acting.”

“Is that what you are hoping for?”

Thrall stares at me for a few moments. “When you have the chance, you should find a way into the Fifth Layer slave pens. There are two slaves there you should want to talk to.”

The Ogre

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 251

Elan'fer'sha stares at me coldly from behind her desk, simmering anger visible in her eyes. Her emotional states seem to be shifting radically. When we were doing nothing but fucking so she could drain off my Power, I did not notice it, but now that I am interacting with outside the realm of pain and pleasure, it is becoming obvious. Her sometimes radical mood swings remind of Menton's, just not as extreme. She uses the Umbra just as Menton does, and even if she was properly trained in its use instead of absorbing the knowledge from the memories of someone else, the Umbra is probably corrupting and consuming her.

“Aluras was not happy with how you handled the assassination. You actually entered the Stoics' meeting place, and you failed to leave the item with the body.”

“She doesn't care that I killed two Left Hand Order assassin's?”

Elan'fer'sha laughs nastily. “The clans and the Left Hand Order have been in a covert conflict for millennia. As long as you do not link the killings to her, you can kill every single member of the Left Hand Order you encounter.

“The real problem is that you did not carry out the assassination as instructed.”

I shrug. “Shit happens, and I had to improvise or give up.”

Elan'fer'sha smirks. “Unfortunately for you, until you perform an assassination as prescribed, Aluras wants me to keep you confined within the stable.”

I am pissed, but I do not let it show. Again, I shrug. “It doesn't really matter. After that little jaunt, I found some things that I need to get guidance from the Smith to work on. I'll be occupied for a time with new training.”

Irritation flashes in Elan'fer'sha's eyes. It seems she really cannot control her emotions. How much physical and mental damage has she done to herself by using the Umbra?

Elemental Powers were never meant to be controlled by mortals. During the Great Fuck Over, time after time, I learned first hand how destructive Elemental Powers are to mortals. Also, the Umbra and the Radiance seemed to be orders of magnitude more destructive than other Elemental Powers.

“Is there anything else?”

Elan'fer'sha frowns. “In twelve days, we will face the Fiend Stable in the arena. Fiend Stable's champion is the Ogre. You will be the first up, and the Ogre will certainly be the first up for the Fiend Stable. Do not lose.”

I snort and stand up. “I'm not going to die in the arena. I'm going to find the people the Smith said I should find, and learn what I need to from them. Along the way, I'll open up your path to vengeance.”

Something other than anger or irritation fills Elan'fer'sha's eyes, but I am not sure what it is. Maybe because of her mercurial emotional swings, her emotions can be hard to understand. I have a strong suspicion that other than anger or hate, Elan'fer'sha's apparent emotions do not match what she is really feeling.

After I turn toward the door, her face changes again. She seems filled with a soul deep sadness and longing, but I cannot even guess what is from of for.

* * * * *

Thrall is working at his forge, when I return to his domain. Since I have been here, I have seen him forge and destroy dozens of weapons and pieces of armor. It almost seems like an obsession with him, but I do not know what he is after. The times that I tried to ask him about it, he ignored my questions and changed the subject.

Physically, Thrall's proportions are a dead ringer for the larger man in the carving, but I have the feeling that it is not a subject I should broach with him. At least, I should not yet broach the subject.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang

Thrall's skill is superlative. He uses the hammer in pure single strikes. There is no secondary dropping of the hammer head on the anvil. There is no pattern of swings to slowly beat the metal into shape. The force contained in the his swing is all focused into the head of the hammer, and the air is visibly distorted the around the hammer's head. Each blow of his hammer achieves the desired result, and he moves to the next section of the metal he is working.

With the speed at which Thrall shapes the metal, it has barely cooled, before he holds it up to inspect it. Nodding to himself, puts the now blade shaped piece of metal back in the forge.

Thrall turns to look at me. “There is something you want to talk about.”

“I think I already know the answer, but you are Transcendent, aren't you?”

Thrall nods but does not speak.

“Can a Transcendent use the Umbra without being corrupted by it?”

Thrall's eyes narrow and a deep frown settles on his face. “Transcendents can wield Elemental Powers without suffering harm, but the Umbra and the Radiance are special. They are not like other Elemental Powers, and even a normal Transcendent will be destroyed by them over time. The only way to use one of them without fear is to walk the Paths of Elemental Transcendence and forever bind yourself to one or the other.”

At Thrall's words, a frown settles on my own face. “How long can a non-Transcendent use something like the Umbra, before it destroys them?”

Thrall's eyes narrow slightly, and his glance flickers in the direction of Elan'fer'sha's study. “You mean how much longer can Elan survive?”

“Yeah.”

Pursing his lips, Thrall scratches his chin for a few moments, without meeting my eyes. “The tattoos on the DokkAlfar's Umbral casters are a similar to sigils. They allow them use the Umbra, while reducing the damage to their patterns, but they are still slowly warped and corroded over time.

“Elan has been overusing the Umbra for too long now and is running out of time. If she never touches the Umbra again, she might last a decade or two. With the way she is going, she will be dead in three years, at the most. Even if she were to miraculously Transcend today, she probably still would not survive long enough to achieve Elemental Transcendence. The Umbra and the Radiance are Powers that are inimical to all life, and Transcendents are still among the living.”

Elan'fer'sha has to be pushing herself in her quest for vengeance. I understand the desire for revenge. I have indulged in it more than a few times, but I have never let it completely consume me. Even now, I will have my revenge on Jinmu, on Mei, on her friends, and on The Nameless, but I do not intend to obsessively hunt them down. As for Elan'fer'sha, I no longer want to kill her. I would rather fuck her some more.

“Do you know who she is looking for?”

Thrall shrugs, slightly. “I have several suspicions, but I have no way to be certain, without tearing their minds apart. DokkAlfar have incredibly strong innate psychic shields, and even with my Power, it is difficult to read more than their surface thoughts.”

“How hard would it be to kill all of you suspects?”

“You have changed. Elan has changed. The pair of you feed off one another, each twisting the other. How you continue to change is still in your hands, but she has already sealed her fate.”

Thrall turns back to his forge and stares at the heating metal. “They all hold high positions in clans or the Jotun Church. Killing them all would be almost impossible. You do not have the talents necessary to become a skilled enough assassin.”

My laughter is morbid. “You're right. I don't like sneaking up on someone and stabbing him in the back. I want to face him head on and destroy him. I'm not cut out to be an assassin, but I still need to function as a half-assed one for a while longer.”

I take out my Blood Iron axe. “I need to practice. I'm still not comfortable with the mass of this thing, and I have to face the Ogre in twelve days.”

“The Ogre is stronger than the Throd'nahk. It is not an ordinary ogre. Among the ogres, there are four bloodlines that are their equivalent of nobility. Each bloodline has Power that is based on one of the Four Prime Elements: Air, Earth, Fire, and Water. It is not an Elemental Power, just an Elemental affinity. This ogre is from the water bloodline. Its martial style is ice based, and its physical strength will far exceed your own.”

I cannot help but grin. “That only makes it more interesting.”

“The Ogre uses a giant axe. Your armor will barely mitigate the impact of its blows. If you fight without its weight, you might get just enough of an advantage in agility to make a difference. What you know of Shadow Fist will give you an absolute advantage in movement.”

Thrall take the white-hot metal out of the forge again.

Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang.

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 263

“PUNY HUMAN, THE OGRE IS GONNA EAT YA!” The screaming harridan is an orc bitch, an ugly one, but then they are all ugly. She must be a supporter of the Fiend Stable, which owns the Ogre.

The crowds are even wilder and more vicious than before the first battle I participated in. There have been two matches since then, but Elan'fer'sha did not have me fight in either of them. Tyrend said the supporters had become almost crazed, after our performance in my first battle. But this is completely beyond what I expected.

“Grab that fucking bitch! This swinging dick gonna shut her mouth good!”

At the bull orcs words, a half-dozen orcs surrounding him lay into the crows around the loudmouthed orc bitch. There seem to be more than a hundred others, both orcs and humans, with the orc bitch, but the surrounding sea of Blood Rose Stable supporters join in the brawl. By the time our procession is passing the orc bitch, the fight is over and the Fiend supporters are being thoroughly stomped.

While two of his cronies hold the orc bitch, the bull orc brutally slaps her on both sides of her face. Blood and broken teeth fly out of the bitch's mouth, and it looks like her jaw is broken in multiple places.

The bull orc pulls out a knife that makes a Bowie knife look like a pen knife. “Get me hard in a double-fist of heartbeats, or me gonna fuck you with me knife, instead of me swinging dick.”

While the crowd laughs and jeers, the orc bitch quickly starts to suck the bull orc's dick, with a strange sheen in her eye. Less than thirty seconds later the orc bitch's howls of pleasure are audible over the general cacophony.

I cannot stop grinning. The crowds energy and bloodlust are hyping me up. When I raise the Blood Iron axe over my head, the crowds roars get even louder.

“BRAND! BRAND! BRAND! BRAND! BRAND!”

“You made an impression in your last match.” Tyrend laughs, as he moves up next to me. “This time it won't be so easy, but the bigger the mess you make out of the Ogre, the better they will love it.”

My own laugh is nasty and cruel. “I'm going to love it more than they do. Going toe to toe with an ogre is going to be a thrill. I want to see how long it takes me to break the fucker.”

“At least your confident.”

“What? Don't you think I'll win?”

Tyrend laughs again. “No, I expect you to win, but I doubt it'll be easy.”

“I hope it's not. I don't know what my limits are anymore. I want to find out how far I've come.”

Tyrend looks at me slightly askance. “Our lives are on the line, and you want to test yourself?”

“We're not dying here. At least, we're not dying today.”

Tyrend falls back and starts talking with Graham, but I cannot make out the words. They are probably both worried about this battle. The Fiend Stable acquired the Ogre near the end of the last arena season, and the Blood Rose Stable sent out trash to face them after that. Because it lacked points the Ogre could not be put up in the championship battles, but it had crippled or killed a couple of the other contenders that would have given Cletus a hard time. If Elan'fer'sha had not acquired me, this might have been a suicide match for the Blood Rose gladiators.

As we enter the tunnel to the arena's underground ready room, the noise of the crowd dies out to a dull background murmur. The smell of old blood, piss, and shit is almost comforting. After I spent so much time mired in the foul stench of battlefields as Talon, these odors are almost more normal to me than fresh air.

Even though I pay little attention to them, Elan'fer'sha always keeps broadsheets regarding the arena leagues available in the gladiators' mess hall. Their resemblance to a modern Earth sports magazine is rather amusing. Since learning about my fight with the Ogre, I took the time to look through them for information about the Ogre and the Fiend Stable.

In every match since acquiring the Ogre, Fiend Stable has put it up first in the duel of champions and used all of its other strong gladiators in the general melee. At the end of the last season, after three stables had their main fighting strength destroyed, the last two used throw away lineups in their matches with the Fiend Stable. The same pattern has continued this season, until now. Elan'fer'sha is putting her prime lineup of gladiators in the arena. After the prematch entertainment, I will be the first one to fight.

As a Half-Dvergar, I have fought and killed thousands and thousands of ogres. I have also fought and killed the four Elemental types of ogres, but they pushed me to the limits of my superhuman abilities. Every single battle against an Elemental type ogre was as brutal as anything I ever faced. Their strength was greater than my own, and their control over their Element gave them incredible flexibility in their attacks and defenses. Since I am no longer a Half-Dvergar, will my new understanding of Shadow Fist be enough to win?

“...and! Brand!”

Surprised, I look at the Throd'nahk. He is standing in the door of the holding cell, where I have been focused on my past. There is a look of something resembling concern on his face.

“It's time.”

How could I left myself become so caught up in the my reveries that I lost track of the world around me?

Standing up, I shoulder the Blood Iron axe and walk out of the cell.

Silence spreads through the main area of the ready room. The other gladiators stop talking, and all or them stare at me. I can feel the tension in the air and see the fear and uneasiness in their eyes. If I fall, the rest of them are as good as dead, and they know it.

“Free the Champion's collar.”

In response to the Throd'nahk's words, one of the DokkAlfar guards uses his control rod, and the phony sigils in my collar dim.

Without a word, I continue through the ready room and up the tunnel to the arena. As I step out onto the black sands, the roars or the spectators are almost overwhelming. Whether for or against me, they are screaming their lungs out. More than a few brawls break out between the Blood Rose and the Fiend supporters. Similar to my last time here, there are scenes of torture, fucking, and rape scattered through the stands.

My chest feels tight, and my breathing is a bit off from its normal rhythm. I think I am actually nervous. Despite my displays of confidence or arrogance, I am not sure I can win this time. A normal ogre would be no big deal, but this a magic using ogre that should be smarter than most humans. Even as a Half-Dvergar these ogre lords were never easy fights, and I am no longer a Half-Dvergar.

As I start advancing to the center of the arena, the Ogre emerges from the tunnel on the opposite side of the arena. It has to duck to pass through the gate that is almost eight feet high. At this distance, I cannot make out the details of his features, but I can still tell that it must have better than four times my mass. That thing is a real monster.

When we are about fifty yards apart, and the Facilitator gestures for us to stop. the Ogre stops, and resting the butt of it axe on the ground, rests his crossed arms on the top of the blade like it is a railing or chair back. The head of that axe is more than twice the size of my own and has a pale greenish-blue glow.

The Ogre's face is not handsome, but he is honestly better looking than I am. Even with the fangs sticking up from his lower jaw, the strong hard lines of his face project a powerful air of nobility. In his cold grey eyes, a mixture of iron resolution, hate, chagrin, and contempt are mixed together. This is a lord among monsters that has been trapped and imprisoned by what he considers to be lesser creatures.

With his entire body wrapped in chainmail, with armor plates strapped on top, the only part of the Ogre's skin that is visible is his face. Having a pebbly texture like sharkskin, his skin is a greenish-blue color, similar to the glow from his axe, and his hair is midnight black. The two horns rising from his forehead, curved and striated like a ram's horns, are milky white.

“Damn my eyes, you are one ugly fucking human.” The quiet bass voice has even deeper tone than a Dvergar's and is clearly audible over the cacophony from the stands.

“Fuck me sideways, either the dumb animal can speak, or I've gone insane.”

Irritation mixes in with the other emotions on the Ogre's face. “Small dogs should not start yapping in front of their masters. Your death will be slow and painful, human.”

“Then, why did you open your mouth?”

The Ogre tilts his head back and opens its mouth wide, as huge guffaws of laughter ring out over the noise of the spectators. The laughter brings down a curious silence on the crows, as their attention fully focuses on the spectacle taking place in the center of the arena.

“It is too bad for you that we are meeting here. If we were elsewhere, I would makes you a slave, instead of kill you, and let you be my jester.”

Letting the head of my axe rest on the black sand, I reach up and remove the collar on my neck. Closing it, with a soft click, I start to spin it around my finger.

“Who is a slave? I see a collar locked on your faggot-ass neck, but I've only been wearing mine as camouflage, so the DokkAlfar would generally ignore me. I'm the disciple of The Smith. I can leave anytime I want.”

Finally! The Ogre's face twists in rage, and he growls angrily. His own hand grabs the collar that is still firmly locked on his neck.

“You should feel honored. You're enough of a badass that I'm going to use you as the next stepping stone to increase my Power.”

I do need to look to verify that Aluras'bektsh'tar has risen to her feet in a cold rage. The force of her outrage is beating against my mind.

I have no clue how to project my thoughts, but if I make them clear enough, I am sure Aluras'bektsh'tar will be able to read them. Sorry, cunt. I have no reason to worry about any implications this might have for you. You went back on our deal, and payback is a fucking bitch, just like you. Elan'fer'sha is under Thrall's protection, so she should be safe, but this a slap to your face isn't it?

*Your pathetic little shields will not save you, when I come for you, human!* Canth's hatred is like a sword thrusting against my mind. I could understand him being angry, but there is no anger, only raw unmitigated hatred. Other than being Thrall's disciple, I have no idea why he has such a personal hatred for me. What kind of history does he have with Thrall?

From dead silent, the crowd abruptly burst into pandemonium. Arguments, fights, and celebrations spread through the stands.

Looking around the arena, I feel strangely at peace. The nervousness is gone. I have an urge to laugh, but I do not. My gaze settles on Elan'fer'sha, and we stare at one another. Using my ki, I sharpen my vision, so I can clearly see those eyes.

Surprisingly, there is no anger visible in those honey-amber eyes. There is regret and a soul-deep emptiness that I have seen more than just a few times. She smiles faintly, sadly, and says some words I cannot hear, but I do not need to hear them to know what she says.

Kill them all!

I turn back to the Ogre. “Today, you die.”

The Ogre sneers at me. “You don't have the strength to kill me.”

Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain.

My left eye glows with silvery radiance for a moment, as the pattern sight spell alters my vision.

My heart is steel. Steel is the blood and bone of the Smith. While the flame of my soul burns, the steel of my sword will never break and never dull.

A silver aura surrounds my axe.

The hammer falls, shaping the steel. The steel remembers the force. The steel releases the force.

A second dark grey aura mixes with the silver one.

“You really are The Smith's disciple.” The Facilitator glances from the Ogre to me, and starts backing away.

“Begin!”

A heavier blue-green aura surrounds the Ogre's own axe, and he charges toward me. I cross thirty yards in three flickering steps, and the Ogre's eyes widen in surprise. His axe streaks towards my shoulder from high overhead, at an oblique angle. As I slip to the side, frost enshrouded particles of black sand explode outward from the axe's impact.

With a low strike, my own axe streaks towards the Ogre's knee, like a pendulum. A curtain of frozen sand flies at me, as the Ogre's axe sweeps up to intercept my own.

BOOM!

The thunder of the colliding weapons echoes in the arena, and battered by the concussive force, both of us stagger backward. My hands are numbed from the impact, and I can barely feel my axe's haft within my grip. The Ogre holds up one hand clenching and releasing a fist a few times, as he stares at me.

Despite the odd angle, I had nearly my full strength behind my blow, but the Ogre's counter was thrown in a way that would never have allowed it to use all its strength. Neither of us was using our Power to enhance our strength. Even though we would appear to be more or less evenly matched to the crowds, the Ogre has the implicit advantage in strength. With ki I might equal it, but that depends on whether or not he can use his own Power to enhance his own strength further.

In terms of speed and reaction times, we are probably so close that the difference is immaterial. My only real advantage is absolute movement speed. There should be nothing that the Ogre can do to compensate for my ability to move in the Shadow of the Od.

Moving to the Ogre's right side, I launch a short chop toward his waist. Ki floods through my body, enhancing my strength and speed. the Ogre hammers his own into mine, stopping the chop cold. Expecting the force of the impact, we both hold our ground and begin launching short fast attacks at one another.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!

The deafening thunder of axe head against axe head and axe haft fills the air around us. Seconds stretch into long minutes, with neither of us giving ground. Neither of us moves more than a step or two in any direction, just enough to launch our attacks and defend. the Ogre's advantage in strength allows him stop my attacks cold, while I am forced to deflect his attacks. Even using the maximum amount of ki I can force through my body, the Ogre still must be more than twice my strength.

This is how I want to fight. Instead of sneak attacks on someones back, I want to face off against enemies strong enough to make use everything I have. My mouth stretches into a death's-head grin, just like it did in my most intense battles during the Great Fuck Over.

Maybe it should not be surprising, but I know the Ogre's fighting style. I used parts of the martial style he is using, when I hybridized Shadow Fist. Four Ogres on a Mountain Top is not a common style, and I only encountered one of its practitioners by chance. The style is designed for great weapon user, and I always tended toward dual-wielding, so most of it was useless to me. But I was still fascinated by the style.

The Ogre suddenly steps backward, and caught off-guard, I am half a beat behind. He raises his axe into a high posting position that I never understood, and I have a chill run down my spine. With the butt of his axe held in two hands just over his shoulder, the axe stands straight upright over his head, like a flag or sashimono, and a cloud of greenish-blue energy swirls around it.

The Ogre's axe drops, and a wave of cold grey water rushes toward me.. It takes the shape of a wave, as it crashes down on me. Releasing the haft of my axe with my left hand, I drop into a deep horse stance and launch a palm strike toward the wave.

BOOM!

In a roughly circular shape, my ki smashes into the center of the wave. As the center of the wave turns into a mist, the rest of the wave passes around me, drenching the black sands of the arena.

“Ki! You're a shit eating Binary!?” Surprise and anger fill the Ogre's roar.

“Ain't it a bitch, dick breath?”

I move next to the Ogre, and my axe streaks toward his left shoulder, in a powerful overhand blow. Twisting and sliding to his right, he barely gets the haft of his axe in position to intercept mine, and the force of the impact staggers him backward.

Not giving him time to recover, I move to the Ogre's left side, striking at his hip with a lateral swing. While still off balance, he manages to hammer his axe into the flat of my own, burying both our axe heads in the sand.

“Aaargh!” The Ogre roars in pain, as the my toe drills into his thigh.

Dropping to one knee, the Ogre hammers the haft of his axe into the ground.

Boom!

Blue-green light flares from the axe head, and shards of ice explode outward from the Ogre in all directions. Even though I pulse my ki outward, it is too little, too late. I avoid being shredded alive, but the razor-like edges of the ice splinters leave me with dozens, maybe hundreds, of cuts, all over my body. A cloud of blood mist surrounds me.

The Ogre staggers as it rises to its feet again. The armor plate on its right thigh is completely deformed, with a two inch deep dent in the center. If he had not been wearing cuisses, my kick would have probably shattered its femur. I feel like I have been flayed alive, and probably, I look about that way.

Not daring to give the Ogre time to recover, I slip around to its back and hammer a strike at it from behind. The Ogre's axe is spinning in a circle over his head, but there is no way he will be able to hit me or intercept my strike.

BOOM!

My axe jars to a halt, as it hits a dome of ice that appears out of thin air. Is the Ogre using a martial style, or is he a fucking aberrant caster?

The Ogre rips the cuisse from his thigh and hurls it to the sand. Except for where my axe has left a spiderweb of cracks on its surface, the ice dome is transparent, and the Ogre glares at me through it.

“Your way of moving annoys me, human. Everything about you annoys me. Before I let you die, you will beg and whimper for your pain to end.”

I tap on the dome with my index finger. “You won't kill shit, hiding behind this ice like a faggot.”

CRACK! BOOM!

The dome of ice explodes outward. I move backward two steps, putting over thirty yards between us. From my palm strike, a hand-shaped wall of ki hammers, pulverizing the ice fragments flying toward me.

The Ogre charges, his axe held in the same high position he used to launch the wave attack. I move to the side, as the Ogre's axe hammers into the sand where I was standing.

I drive a short heavy chop at the Ogre's head, but he drags his axe's haft into position to catch mine haft to haft. With a rippling of his muscles, starting at his feet, he hurls me backward. My feet slide through the sand for five or six yards, leaving furrows behind.

No two ways about it, I am outmatched in both strength and mass. The Ogre is not an enemy I can batter my way past with brute force. Combined with his water magic, his brute physical power and marital skills make him the most dangerous enemy I have faced since returning to the Battleground of the Damned.

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 axe begins to glow and waves of heat cause a heat shimmer in the air. Unlike when I burned up Perzey's swords, this heat is controlled and is doing no damage to my axe.

I move next to the Ogre and chop at his head. As expected, he blocks it, and the glowing edge of my axe leave a nick in his.

“Goblin-fucking Smiths!” Hate and venom fill the Ogre's voice.

Back and forth, we chop at one another and block the other's attacks. The Ogre's attacks are weaker than before. He is worried about my kicks and is trying to not leave me any openings. As fast as I move, my movement is not beyond the Ogre's ability to perceive, and he blocks or dodges everything I throw at him.

When I move to attack from his rear flank, the Ogre leaps forward. Spinning his axe over his head again, he keeps distance between. Thin white mist billows down and outward from his axe. As it thickens, it begins rapidly filling the center of the arena.

I do not close with the Ogre again. Until I ascertain what the purpose of the mist is, I do not want to get too close to him. The mist continues to spread, covering more and more of the arena and obscuring my view of the Ogre. An odd haze of mana carrying a hint of psi fills the mist. Like his other attacks, there is no real spell pattern in the mist. If he is a caster, he is definitely an aberrant caster. Just what is this mist's purpose?

As I stand watching, the Ogre continues to swing his axe and the mist spreads farther with each revolution, until most of the central area of the arena is filled with it. Is it just a camouflage?

I move toward the Ogre, and he jumps to the side, disappearing in a particularly thick billow of the mist. The mist begins to swirl in the same clockwise direction that the Ogre was swinging his axe, and a loud moaning sound fills the arena.

I was too cautious. I should have just attacked. Even though I can neither see nor hear the Ogre, I can still tell exactly where he is. He moved backward after jumping into the billow of mist. He must think I cannot see or hear him. I will use that misconception against him.

Moving to where the Ogre initially jumped, I swing my axe in a huge slashing arc. After not hitting anything, I stop and turn slowly in a circle as though trying to ascertain the Ogre's position, while holding my axe ready over my head.

A nasty smile on his face, the Ogre moves around to my back, but does not close the distance between us. After raising his axe, while holding it out behind himself, he executes a huge swing, parallel to the ground, in the empty air between us. Six icicle-like shards of ice, each one over an inch thick at its base, hurtle through the air at my back.

With my ki condensed in my back as a layer of force, I do not even try to dodge. Blood spatters in all directions, turning the cyclonic white mist pink, as the ice shards penetrate about a quarter of an inch into my body.

“Aaargh!” I drop to my knees, pretending to be far more seriously injured than I am. The actual damage is minor, and I can easily ignore this little bit of pain.

The Ogre takes two steps toward me, before stopping. He seems to be displeased, his face scrunched up in a frown.

Using my body control, I increase the small amount of blood flowing from my wounds. The swirling mists scour it from my body, increasing the volume of the pink tint.

Using my axe like a crutch, I pretend to force myself back to my feet, and turn around. Cocking my head to the side, I act like I am trying to search for the Ogre by sound. Walking in his general direction but not directly toward him, I keep making short probing slashes.

The Ogre moves away from my line of advancement but does not attack. His face and stance give off a definite air of his being perturbed. He begins to swing that axe around his head again, and a single icicle begins to rapidly form. It quickly becomes as long as I am tall.

After another dozen steps, I pause and pretend to try looking and listening for the Ogre. One of the holes dug in the sand by out battle is right in front of me, and as the Ogre launches the icicle spear, I stumble in the hole. The sound of its passage is audible over the howling of the cyclonic mist, and I turn in the Ogre's direction.

Rage and irritation twisting its face into an vicious mask, the Ogre moves to close in from my left side. His massive axe sweeps toward the middle of my chest, in a chop that will bisect me if it lands. When I hammer my axe into the flat of his in an upward strike and duck under the blade, the Ogre lets out a bellow of pure rage.

The Ogre's armor plates include a massive code piece, and uncoiling from my crouch, I drive a side kick into it. My ki explodes into his body from the point of impact, wreaking havoc on his internal organs.

Pop! Pop!

“AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

The sound of the Ogre's balls rupturing is audible, and his scream is loud enough to be painful.

As my foot touches the ground again, my axe cleaves into the back of the Ogre's knees. The incredibly hard and keen blade cleaves through his armor like tissue paper, severing the joint. With the flat of the blade, as he topples toward me, I smash him in the face, flipping him into the air. Before his body hits the ground, my downward slash carves through the armor, flesh, and bone of his arm, removing the hand still holding onto his axe.

As the cyclonic motion of the mist wanes, the water in the air settles to the ground, tinges the black sand with a faint pinkish highlight. The eyes of the spectators slowly turn from the images displayed on the spell formation based viewing system, to the center of the arena, where I am standing over the Ogre.

“You were aware of what I what I was doing the entire time. You're a Trinary, aren't you?” Despite his obvious pain, the calm resignation on the Ogre's face carries an air of nobility.

I nod. “I had the feeling you thought something was off, with the way you kept your distance.”

“You are not a very good actor, but when you didn't come after me, I ignored my instincts. You're nothing but a goblin-shit human.”

“Go fuck yourself.” My axe splits the Ogre's skull open, splattering his brain matter all over the sand.

It takes a few moments for the crowds to process events and react.

“Brand! Brand! Brand! Brand! BRAND! BRAND! BRAND! BRAND!” Starting with just few voices, the chant quickly spreads to more than half the spectators.

With on hand, I raise my blood-dripping axe high over my head, and the chant breaks down into wild roaring.

A Little Revenge?

*** First Landing -The Lands of Despair ***

The Great Fuck Over: Day 572

The sanguine light of the setting sun makes the white stone of the dead city appear to be covered in blood. That may not be such an inappropriate facade. Before its destruction, the history of First Landing was one of continuous bloody conflict with the inhabitants of the Labyrinth of Yggr. Its inhabitants had come from outside the Labyrinth, following the direction of their priests. The prophecies of The Nameless Gods had promised them untold riches and an endless supply of slaves in the land beyond the rift.

Even though they took control over the Nexus tower and built their city-state, they never found their riches and endless supply of slaves. After a bit less than five millennium of endless warfare, one of the Seven Great Citadels of the DokkAlfar arrived in the skies above their city, and in the space of a day and night, the city of First Landing became a city of the dead and the living dead.

Thinking that the city was nothing but a dead ruin, the six person scouting party from the Bohemian Cats did nothing to conceal their tracks. Their trail could be followed by anyone with a little scouting lore from the the breach in the curtain wall nearest to the bay, as it wended its way through the seemingly deserted and decaying buildings. The signs of their passage were intermittent, hard stone does not give much away, but there was no sign of them having entered any of the buildings.

Even though they were paying attention to their surrounding, none of the Bohemian Cats noticed the gaze of the unseen watcher who was tracking their movements. They did notice anything other than the strong sense of oppression hanging over First Landing.

The sanguine light faded, as the sun dropped beneath the horizon. Even though it had not started to rain, the air felt pregnant with the coming of a storm. Heavy cloud cover moving in from the south hid the light of the rising moon. The wind picked up and was soon whistling through First Landing. Soon, the unliving would start to stalk the streets.

Some of the warehouses fronting the docks had windows, more accurately the holes that were once windows, that appeared to have been living quarters. From the empty holes in one of those warehouses the flickering, orange light of a fire was visible. The Bohemian Cats had set out a clear beacon for anyone or anything that might be looking for them.

Simon was one of the Bohemian Cats' scouts, who called himself a ranger. His skills were best suited to a wilderness environment, but his personality was better suited to an urban environment. Even though the concept of classes did not exist in Taereun: Battleground of the Damned, the players still kept using it. It was easier to mash people into their pigeonholes, if you put a convenient label on them. Like most of the players, he had constantly limited himself based on his class. Because of his nature and attitude, he had been having a hard time adjusting to actually living and acting in a manner best suited to exploit the skills he acquired when he was given possession of his new body.

Simon was a barely visible shadow in the empty doorway of the warehouse. His position never changed, and he never noticed the stalker closing on the building from outside his line of sight, until the the stalker jumped through an empty window frame. A choke hold cut off his attempted shout and his oxygen, and his struggles were pointless against his attacker's inhuman strength.

“You should be happy. Tonight, I am not here to kill you.”

Simon stiffened at the sound of the voice in his ear, but stopped trying to break free. He had recognized the voice. It was someone he never wanted to run into under the noonday sun, let alone in a darkened warehouse in a dead city, Talon the Half-Dvergar. Simon had seen Talon in action a few times but had never spoken with him.

A hand clamped tightly over Simon's mouth, and the the pressure on his neck relaxed.

“I won't kill you, if you don't act like an imbecile. When I release you, we are both going upstairs nice and calm. No one will get hurt if you do not provoke me. Understand?”

Simon nodded his head. He did not try to shout or escape, when Talon released him, and turned to look at the Half-Dvergar. The fear in Simon's eyes, as they widened at the sight of his attacker, brought a faint smile to Talon's lips.

Talon gestured towards the wall, where the stairs were. “You go first.”

Simon ascended the stairs, followed by Talon like a ghost. The sounds of people moving and drawing weapons was audible, after Simon's upper body has passed the level of the floor.

“Simon, what's wrong?” The voice belonged to Sandor, one of the Bohemian Cat's heavy plate wearing fighters.

Simon tried to make a break for it but fell, when Talon tripped him.

“What the hell?”

“Yoh!”

“Gala, come here!”

Talon grabbed Simon by the collar of his leather jacket and continued into the loft. The outer wall of the warehouse was at his back, when he turned to face the Bohemian Cats. For a few moments, no one said a word as they stared at one another. Simon was squatting next to Talon, unable to break free from the strength of the Half-Dvergar's grip.

The loft was brightly lit by a large campfire, burning in a ring of rubble on the floor. There were no walls to divide it into separate rooms, and it ran the entire length and width of the ancient warehouse. Anything not made from stone had long since crumbled into ruin. Standing more than thirty feet from the fire, Simon could feel its warmth. Even with the open gaps where windows once were, the temperature was fifteen degrees higher than outside.

Loosely scattered around the fire, the other five people that made up the scouting party were sitting silently. The difference in their demeanors since the beginning of the Great Fuck Over was obvious. They all seemed more tightly wound, ready to explode at any moment.

The leader of this party was Sandor. Standing six-foot-ten, he had a build that would make the few remaining professional body builders on Earth jealous. His grey enameled plate armour was forged to match the outlines of flexed muscles, and the axe and shield he was carrying would be too heavy most humans to use.

“Put that fucking fire out, unless you want to draw every undead in the city here. There are enough powerful spirit type undead to kill everyone in this place a dozen times over.”

Sandor sneered at Talon. “Don't you dare attempt to order us around, you damned asshole! You're nothing but a loser, who cannot function in a group with others.”

Talon smiled nastily at Sandor. “You can all go to hell for all I care. Since you're so eager to get there, why don't I send you all myself. Right now.”

“No! Don't!” Selestra's scream echoed in the empty loft. Her eyes were wide, not hiding the fear in her heart.

“Selestra knows I can destroy all of you as easily as breathing. You should listen to her. If I decide to kill you, you're dead. If I leave you, you will be food for the living dead. If you want to live, put out that fucking fire and follow me!”

“We're not taking your orders, and we're not following you.” Sandor's face twisted in rage.

“You moron's are fucking up my hunt. Until you came in here like a fucking parade, the undead were laying low. I was able to scout around, without them interfering, but now the undead are coming. A lot of undead are coming.” Talon's voice was a harsh angry growl, that cuts through both Selestra's tirade and the whining and complaints that some of the others were starting to give voice to.

“That will be enough of your attempts at scare tactics. If this city is so dangerous, why are you here alone.” Gabriel was the other heavy plate fighter in the Bohemian Cats, and he was generally the voice of reason among the Bohemian Cats. Standing six-foot-two, he was much less heavily built than Sandor, but he was still not small. His red and gold enameled plate armour was not as thick and heavy as Connell's, and his sword and shield were meant for more normal humans to use.

Despite The Lord of Jet's grandstanding, the pair of Sandor and Gabriel were the ones who performed as the real tanks, when the Bohemian Cats were fighting. On Earth, their families were inextricably intertwined through business dealings and marriages, and they were the best of friends.

Talon's grin was more of a snarl than a grin. “I'm always alone. I've been out front of you since the battle for Cobyrne, but most of you shits were too fucking caught up in your games of who is putting the sausage in whose asshole to ever notice what was really happening.”

Gabriel did his best to hide his anger, but he was not sure how successful he was. “So you're here to scout this city for the Confederation's assault?”

“No, I'm here to kill the head undead in charge, but now, the whole place is like a hornets nest that's been hit with a stick.”

Sandor laughed mockingly. “You kill the leader of this place alone? What a joke. But I guess considering the city is dead and empty, you could go back and claim anything you want.”

Talon's smile turned nasty, as he pointed at the stairway. “There are plenty of undead here. If you don't believe me, then you can be the first one to look down those stairs.”

Gabriel smiled faintly and walked to the head of the stairs. As he looked down, his face paled, and his body shivered slightly. The look he turned on Talon was filled with suspicion, but there was also something else that might have been fear.

“Too late to put out the fire, so you better get ready to fight. There are thousands of undead, both corporeal and incorporeal in this city. There is also some kind of lich or something similar that seems to be in charge of them all, so we could be facing a horde. If we stay here, we'll die. Like the last couple of Nexus cities, I didn't see a single undead in the sewers, so you might survive if we get into them.”

Six pairs of eyes stared at Talon, filled with a mix of distrust and outright fear. For the first time, since entering the ruined city, it was really sinking in that this is not even close to being a smart move.

“The nearest sewer entry I know of is several blocks from here. We're going to have to move fast and kill fast.”

Sandor's face twisted into an ugly anger-filled mask. “SHUT UP! This is my party not yours! I am the one who makes the decisions, and I am the one who give the orders. If you want to stay with us, you'll take your orders from me, like everyone else.”

The first of the undead came up from the stairwell. It was some kind of an amorphous blob of dark energy, and Talon launched a spinning kick at it. His foot was sheathed in a field of black energy, shot through with veins of maleficent purple. It punched through the blob, but the undead was not destroyed. Even though it lacked a mouth, the undead blob screamed, both physically and psychically, and threw a bolt of electricity at Talon. He twisted and spun, avoiding most of the damage. He launched a flurry of energy sheathed punches, and after six hits, the undead dissipated with a fading shriek. Behind it, several more incorporeal forms were already on their way up the stairs.

“Stop gawking like tourists and get ready to fight!” Talon's voice had a sharp pitch that seemed to command and instill obedience.

Before they realized that they are responding to Talon's vocal projection, the Bohemian Cats formed up in a semicircle facing the stairs. They were in a bad location, and it would only get worse. Even though they were blocking the stairway, there was nothing to stop incorporeal undead from flying up and coming through an empty window. Incorporeal undead would even be able to pass through the floor of the loft.

Three more undead came up the stairs, another of the amorphous blobs and two ghosts or spirits. Talon immediately attacked the blob, and it created an icy cloud around him. The temperature was so low that hoarfrost instantly formed on his body and the stone underneath his feet. If his body did not have its superhuman resilience, he would have probably been afflicted with instant frostbite. Even so, he almost immediately started to shiver from the extreme cold. After only a few more strikes, the undead was destroyed like the last. With its destruction, the temperature started to rise again.

While Talon was fighting the blob, Sandor and Gabriel engaged the other two, and destroyed them as well, but more were already coming out of the stairway

“If we stay here, we die. Get your shit and your guild together and follow me, if you want to live.”

Sandor stared at Talon for a moment, his eyes filled with simmering anger. Then, he looked at his guild members to either side of him. They were all looking to him, with fear and uncertainty on their faces. A complex series of emotions played across his face, before he straightened his posture and puffed out his chest.

Sandor gave Talon another nasty look. “Fine, you're the tank. You take point. Gabriel and I will back you up.”

“You casters stay in the center. Selestra and Simon, you guard the rear Everyone, follow Talon.” Sandor glared at Talon, when he finished ordering Sandor's guild members.

Yoh, the Bohemian Cats' main healer, and his real-life sister Galadria, an Earth affinity caster, moved up behind Sandor and Gabriel. Selestra and Simon glanced at each other and took up the rear.

Talon's lips twisted into fierce death's head grin, and he charge down the stairs. His fists wrapped in black energy, he tore into the spirits, wraiths and ghosts that were swarming up towards him. Even though they did not have corporeal bodies, they did not come close to the speed of the Half-Dvergar. Without corporeal bodies, it was impossible for them to block his strikes, but every time his arm or leg passed through their bodies, they drained small amounts of his life energy.

Sandor and Gabriel pushed forward on either side of Talon. Sandor's axe has a lambent green glow, the outward sign of the Power bound into it. Micheal's sword was wrapped in fire, but it did not come from the weapon itself. Michael was actually a caster specializing in fire magic, but almost all of his spells were personal or point blank in their range. Neither of their weapons were as effective against the incorporeal undead as Talon's black energy, but they were still effective enough to do real damage.

Glancing over his shoulder, Talon saw the rest of the Bohemian Cats forming a square behind him. Yoh and one Galadria were drawing spell patterns in the air.

Talon ignored Galadria but narrowed his eyes, as he stared at Yoh's spell.

There were over a hundred of the undead in the warehouse, and more are still coming though the empty doorway.

“Fuck. We are already in deep shit. There are too many undead coming for us to fight our way to the sewer entry.”

Sandor glared at Talon. “You fucking bastard. You're the one that got us into the this, so get us out of it!”

Talon stared at Sandor, while accurately targeting the heads of the undead in front of him. The coldness in Talon's eyes sent chills downs Sandor's spine, and he flinched when Galadria's spell destroyed several undead that were about to tear him apart. Quickly looking around himself, he hammered his shield into a couple of the nearest undead, forcing them back into the packed mass building up behind them.

“I thought you were the fucking legendary Talon. Are giving up already, asshole?” Despite his hard mocking words, Sandor's voice was weaker than he would have liked.

Talon glanced around, as he fought through the undead toward the door. “I never give up. Don't worry, I'll get out of this alive. Though, I might walk over your corpses to do it.”

A cone of fire burst outward from Gabriel, setting more than a dozen undead ablaze. Ignoring the flames, Talon grabbed two of the burning bodies and hurled them into more undead that were still undamaged. Pushing into the gap, Talon continued to fight his way to the warehouse door.

An explosion of Power filled the air for more than twenty feet in all directions around Yoh, as he unleashed the spell he had been preparing. With the howls of the damned, the corporeal undead touched by the light withered and fell to the ground decaying. The incorporeal undead shrieked, as the faded away.

Talon looked around quickly, after the light passed over him, and launched himself into the last of the undead blocking his way to the warehouse doorway. Sandor and Gabriel quickly closed in behind him, effectively blocking the warehouse door against the undead.

“Clean up what's left of the undead in here!” Talon's command was directed at the Bohemian Cats behind himself, while he continued fighting the undead trying to get into the warehouse.

“Fuck. How do we get through that mass.” Sandor's mumbled question was not really meant for anyone else, as he stared at the hundreds of undead outside the warehouse.

“The only chance for you is if we can get into the sewers.” Talon's comment was made in an emotionless tone of voice.

“Um . . . if all we need to do is get into the sewers, I can help.” Galadria's words were delivered in a hesitant voice.

Talon looked over his shoulder, while still unerringly hammering undead with his fists and feet. “How can you help?”

“No, Galadria! It would be too much of stain on you!” Yoh's shout was filled with fear.

Talon turned his glare on Yoh. “Shut the fuck up, unless you think it's better for her to die.”

Galadria's face had paled, when Talon looked at her again. “How can you help?”

Galadria glanced at her brother, before replying. “I'm an Earth mage. If there are sewer tunnels, I can find them, because they will be empty spaces. I should be able to dig a hole to one too.”

“Galadria, your Power isn't strong enough. You could cripple yourself, if you try to dig too deep. Remember what happened last time you overexerted yourself.”

Galadria stared resolutely at Yoh. “If I can't do this, we're all going to die. How can I just do nothing and watch everyone die?”

“If you can do what you said girl, you had better get started. There are more undead coming, and they're a lot stronger that what's already here.” Talon was staring toward the left side wall of the warehouse, as he spoke.

“You can't know that. You're just trying to manipulate her.” Yoh's stare was full of anger and hostility.

“I can feel the Umbral Power in them. None of these in front of us are Umbral users, but the ones coming are.” Talon continued killing the undead in front of his face, while staring in the direction of the coming danger. “If you have any wards that are meant to keep the living dead at bay, you better start casting them.”

Both Yoh and Galadria began tracing new spell patterns in the air, while Talon, Sandor and Gabriel held the door against the coming mass. Having finished off the last of the undead in the warehouse, Selestra and Simon were looking around nervously, waiting for more incorporeal undead to pass through the solid stone walls.

In less than thirty seconds, Galadria pointed to the back corner of the warehouse. “There should be sewer tunnel over there, right outside the warehouse. It's about ten feet deep, but it might be mostly filled with water.”

“We're close to twenty feet above the high tide mark, so there will be air. You will have to swim, if you can't stand.”

At the looks of disgust crossed the Bohemian Cats' faces, Talon laughed. “What are you worried about? There hasn't been anyone taking a crap in this city in a long time.”

Brilliant symbols made of silver-white light flared outward from Yoh. They filled the door of the warehouse for a few seconds, before fading. The undead inside its boundaries howled in agony, as they tried to forced their way out the wards boundaries, against the pressure of the other undead behind them.

“That's the best I can do without an elaborate ritual.” Yoh's expression looked more worried than satisfied.

Unleashing a whirlwind of attacks on the unattentive undead, Talon destroyed the ones still inside the wards. He grimaced in irritation, as he looked around.

“The rest of you go with Galadria and guard her, while she does whatever she has to. I'll stay here and take care of anything that gets past these fucking wards.”

“Talon, let me guard the door. Without you and Sandor here, I can use my full power. With my fire, I can block this entire door.”

“Gabriel, let this asshole guard the door.” Sandor did not bother trying to hide the animosity in his voice.

Gabriel shook his head. “Talon's not one of us. We have to take some responsibility for our actions and not try to use him like a sacrifice.”

Talon stared at Gabriel for a moment. “Fine. You guard the door. I'll go with the rest. It doesn't matter where I am. Even if you all die, I'm walking out of this city alive.”

Gabriel smiled. “You're not as heartless as you try to pretend. God bless you.”

Talon turned his back and started walking toward the back of the warehouse. “Gods are myths.”

Gabriel laughed. “There is only one God, and He is no myth.”

The rest of the Bohemian Cats paid no attention to Gabriel's words. Even in the modern era where it was politically incorrect, his family kept to their Christian faith, and the rest of the Bohemian Cats were used to him.

Galadria began tracing a far more elaborate spell than the last one she had cast, and Yoh started to cast his wards again. The rest of the Bohemian Cats and Talon spread out in a circle around them, watching for incorporeal undead. All of the Bohemian Cats had weapons which could harm and destroy those undead, but Talon's black energy was the most effective against them.

It was only a few seconds, before a conflagration of orangish-red fire sprang up outside the door of the warehouse. The clash of metal on metal almost immediately follow the flames. Gabriel was a few feet outside of the warehouse, fighting with some of the undead.

Talon frowned, while he looked in that direction, but stayed where he was.

Ten seconds later, a new set of symbols flared outward from Yoh, and he looked toward the warehouse doorway. “Something out there broke through my wards. Gabriel's fire is the only thing keeping them out.”

Sandor immediately ran back to the doorway, but just like most of the undead, Gabriel's fire kept him at bay.

The incorporeal undead that came though the walls were quickly dispatched, while Galadria continued drawing her spell pattern. A little more than a minute later, she looked around.

“Everyone move back, this is going to be a little violent.”

Galadria waited waited for the others to move away from her, before activating her spell and running away herself. As the spell hit the ground, rubble began to fly in all directions, pelting her in the back as she ran.

“Argh!”

“Gabriel!”

Talon crossed the distance between himself and the warehouse doorway so quickly that the watching Bohemian Cats were astonished.

“Damn. He's not human.”

Selestra's laugh was morbid. “He's a fucking monster.”

Selestra stared at Talon's back, with a mix of hate and disgust turning her beautiful face into an ugly mask. Simon and Yoh looked at Selestra, with something more than curiosity, but did not say anything else. The Lord of Jet and The Lady of Gold were the only ones in the Bohemian Cats that were really close with Selestra. To the rest of the guild, she was more of an outsider than anything.

Outside the warehouse, Gabriel was facing three huge plate mail clad skeletons. Each of the skeletons stood nearly seven feet tall, and their armor seemed to hover over their bones, as though it was riding on invisible flesh. Black auras protected them from the flames, and their heavy swords and shields made Gabriel's look more like a child's toys than weapons.

The rerebrace on Gabriel's shield arm was rent, and he was having trouble maneuvering his shield into position to block the blows on that side. Still, he fought on doggedly, brighter flames on his sword with each strike.

“Back up and kill those flames!”

Gabriel glanced back at Talon's snarl, and one of the skeleton's blades pierced the right side o his chest.

“Gabriel! No!” Sandor's voice was filled with horror.

“I hate fucking FIRE!” Talon's shout echoed in the warehouse, as he lept into the middle of the conflagration. Grabbing Gabriel by the shoulder, Talon hurled him backward into the warehouse, before advancing on the skeletons. Pulling a pair of axes from the sheath strapped to his back, he hacked into them with short vicious chops. The black energies from his hands enwrapped his axes and dispersed the auras around the skeletons. The heavy axe blades cleaved through the armor and severed the heads of two of the skeletons.

As Talon dodged the slash from the third skeleton, one axe took off an arm, and the other axe took off a leg. With the skeleton falling toward the ground, he chopped off its head and jumped backwards into the doorway of the warehouse.

“How much fucking longer?” Talon's snarl projected his annoyance.

Galadria started, her eyes filling with temerity. “Less than a minute.”

“Take your buddy and get over with the rest. I'll hold them here.”

Sandor's hate-filled stare burned into Talon's back, as he hauled the barely conscious Gabriel onto his shoulders and ran to the back of the warehouse. To his rear, he heard the sound of Talon's axes tearing into desiccated flesh and bone.

Selestra and Simon were double teaming some type of incorporeal undead, that Sandor did not recognize. As soon as the undead dissipated, Simon ran over helping Sandor lower Gabriel to the ground. Yoh had already started tracing a new spell pattern, and in a few seconds, it streaked into Gabriel's chest.

Gabriel groaned, and his eye opened wide. He clamped his hand over the hole in his breastplate, looking at Yoh.

“It feels like you poured acid into my chest.”

Yoh frowned. “There is some kind Power in your chest that's destroying my spell. Let me try a different one.”

Yoh quickly drew a new spell pattern and cast that spell into Gabriel's wound. The muscles at the back of Gabriel's jaw bunched up, as he clenched his teeth to avoid screaming.

“That was even worse than the last one.”

Yoh's eyes glowed faintly as he stared at the hole in Gabriel's armor, and his face paled. “This isn't good. There is an active spell that I don't recognize in your chest. It looks like it's attacking your heart. I don't even know what is, let alone how to stop it.”

Gabriel's attempt to smile looked more like a grimace. “Don't worry, Yoh. Everyone has to die sometime. If this is mine, so be it, but I'm not giving up while I still have breath. You have to promise that if I die you'll help Sandor look out for everyone. Keep as many as you can alive, until you can return to your real bodies.”

“It's open! The tunnel's open to the sewer!” Galadria stared down the hole, while she excitedly called to her friends.

Simon and Yoh grabbed Gabriel's arms and helped him down the steep slope. The rest of the Bohemian Cat's followed without calling out Talon.

“Galadria, collapse the tunnel!” Sandor glared in the direction of Talon, who he could no longer see.

“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.

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 251

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.

“Your time will come soon. After I deal with Yggr, The Labyrinth will be mine. If you do not grovel at my feet, I will destroy you.” The Nameless' translucent projection disappears with his words.

Thrall stares at the facilitator. “These games are over. Blood Rose Stable wins. Without the Ogre, there are no five gladiators that could overcome Brand.”

Fear plain to see in his eyes, the facilitator bows to Thrall “Victory goes to Blood Rose Stable! Full points!”

Thrall looks at me. “You spent too much time toying with the Ogre. You are lucky you did not die while you were playing games. When you return to the stable, come to my forge.”

After Thrall disappears, I start walking back to the ready room.

I know what The Nameless' purpose is, but how does he plan to accomplish it? Boran said that the Labyrinth is actually a dimensional battle fortress. So is there a control center that The Nameless can use to take it over?

I have been idling here too long now. Sandor, Yoh, and Galadria have to be the people Thrall said I would want to talk to. Now, they will know I am alive and coming for them. I really fucked up.

Looking around, the arena has lost its lustre for me. I was letting myself get distracted with learning from Thrall, and the adulation of the crowds seduced me. It was such a powerful drug, all it took was one time and I was hooked. It was something that I never experienced. I had my head up my ass, because it felt good to be cheered instead of reviled. This is not reality. It is no different from a movie. I am scarred ugly freak. That is all that people ever see. They never look past the surface, but if they could see past the surface, my mind and soul would probably terrify most people.

I suppose I am no different from normal people. I know I judge on appearances. The only women that attract me are good looking, but I do not trust them. The better looking a guy is, the more I dislike and distrust him on sight. In the end, I do not think I care what lies under the surface any longer. It must be the way humans are hardwired to think.

Buoyed by my Power, my laughter fills the arena. It is a mad cackling, but I cannot control myself. The crowd stares down at me, with incomprehension clearly written on their faces. Fuck them.

I have to find out what Thrall has to say. After that, I will decide what to do next.

Power, Pain, and Prices

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 251

Thrall is staring into his forge, with his arms crossed over his chest. The scar that matches where the figure was being stabbed in the carving is clearly visible. It is obviously an old wound from being stabbed by a sword or spear.

“The five that Woden took were all Possessed. Three of them are three of the people you were looking for. They were the ones I said you would find here. It seems you were slow to act, but I think the end result would have been the same no matter what your course of actions had been.”

“After The Nameless' proclamation when he brought Earth into the Battleground, how could you not know that The Nameless was Woden?”

Thrall sighs, giving the impression that aeons and mountains are weighing him down. “I thought The Nameless and Woden might be one and the same, but the proclamation was made through a spell. Until I came into contact with that spirit projection, I had no way of knowing if that was actually Woden, or another portraying an image similar to Woden, as a means to cause confusion. The internal politics of the Three Divine Tribes are labyrinthine. Jotun, Aesir and Vanir are all joined together into a single nation with the Jotun at the top, but the constant struggling and maneuvering for position and prestige never ends. One day the Jotun will be knocked down and another tribe will rise to the top.

“Woden and Yggr are twin brothers. They deposed Tyr who ruled over the Aesir for tens of thousands of years, but could not kill him. When Tyr returned with Vanir allies backing him, the war between their forces escalated, and Yggr drew in his Jotun allies. Somehow, Yggr became ruler of the Jotun. He and Woden used the combined might of the Jotun and their faction of the Aesir to crush the rest of the Aesir and subjugate the Vanir. In the end Midgard, the original home of the Three Divine Tribes was destroyed in the war.

“After millennia of wandering, the Three Divine Tribes found Taereun and settled there. Many of the non-Transcendent humans tribes worshiped them as gods, and soon, they thought of themselves as gods. They came into conflict with Umbral Dragons, and it was the beginning of the Jotun-Dragon War. In the aftermath, the Umbral Dragons were destroyed or scattered, Yggr, as the Jotun Emperor ruled over the Three Divine Tribe, many of the DokkAlfar began to worship the Jotun instead of the Dragons, and Woden had disappeared.

“Woden was driven out by Yggr, during the Jotun-Dragon War. He disappeared, and it was only about twenty or thirty thousand years ago that The Nameless appeared. The Three Divine Tribes have been aware of him, but I never heard of any significant action being taken against him. They probably never knew where to find him, so they did not waste resources on him. Until he took near complete control over the Battleground a few hundred years ago, he was more or less not worth their time.”

“You seem to be well acquainted with these Three Divine Tribes, you but speak of them, as though you are not a part of them.”

Thrall lets out a single bark of vicious laughter. “I am a half-blood Aesir. My mother's race was barely able to be called human. I was born near the end of their wandering. Let alone an Aesir, most of the Jotun Empire does not even consider me to be more than a half animal, but because of my father's power and prestige and my own accomplishments, they now leave me alone and do not interfere with my plans, as long I do not involved myself with the Three Divine Tribes.”

Thrall turns to stare at me. “I do not know why Woden is so interested in you, but if anyone other mortal told him fuck himself like you did, he would kill that mortal on the spot. Have no illusions, for that insult if nothing else, Woden is certainly your enemy, but he seems to need something from you. I cannot think of any other reason for him not destroying you, before I had a chance to intervene.

“I contacted Boran, but he has no idea why Woden would be interested in you either. Now that he knows who The Nameless is, Boran will begin to act. He will not let Woden interfere with his plans. Events that have been trapped in a stasis will soon start to move again.

“Come.” Thrall leads me into his training hall. After reaching the middle of the hall, he stops and turns to me.

Abruptly, the hall disappears. We are standing in the middle of a space looking down at the Earth. No, it is not the Earth that I know. The continental coast lines are almost an exact match, but there are differences. In places there is damage that appears to be result of massive impact or explosions on the scale of nuclear weapons. The planet spins beneath us, and our view zooms in on the southern tip of South America. A huge structure on the scale of a mountain, but with a regular outline, rises up from the waters of the Drake Passage.

“This is the outside Labyrinth of Yggr, on Taereun.”

Shock numbs my mind. Taereun is Earth? From the things said by both Boran and The Nameless, Woden, I should think of him as Woden, there Universes of the Earth and Taereun exist in separate multiverses. So, why do they have the same geography?

“That looks like Earth.” My words are barely above a whisper.

Thrall shrugs. “I have seen several worlds with this same geography. According to the Dvergar, all these worlds are what they call Gaean Worlds. They claim that the first world in the first universe ever created by Life looked like this, and it is infinitely repeated throughout the myriad realms of the metaverse, because it is the original. I do not know if their words are true or false, but I have never found the Dvergar to be liars.”

Gaean Worlds? Earth? Taereun? I do not know what the meaning of this is, but I feel that there has to be more than meets the eye. Earth scientists have had theories of infinite universes branching off based on divergent events, but I always thought that those were mostly just bullshit. Could there be some truth to them?

“The Labyrinth of Yggr is the abode of the Jotun Lords, the home of the Three Divine Tribes. It is a virtually indestructible shell that contains this dimension and tens of thousands more. Soon, Woden and Yggr will be going to war for control of it. Boran and other Dvergar will become involved, and events will move forward.”

While I have been more than pleased to soak up what Thrall was willing to teach me, I have never been able to understand his altruism. “What do you get out of this?”

Thrall smiles bitterly. “There is someone important to me that is trapped within the structures and strictures of the Three Divine Tribes' culture. I hope to set her free, but I lack the Power to challenge the Jotun Lords and Yggr.”

“So, which side are you on in this war?”

“I allied myself with Boran and the Dvergar Transcendents a long time ago. They do not generally care what other races do, as long as they do not endanger the structure of the multiverse in general and Taereun's universe in particular. Woden and the Three Divine Tribes will at the very least suffer a great deal of damage by provoking the Dvergar, and I will look for my chance in the chaos.”

“What do you expect from me? I not a Transcendent.”

Thrall laughs, but this time there is no bitterness. “Do what you want. My real interest in you is that you master my Shadow Fist and find a disciple of your own. Shadow Fist was my father's creation and passed on to me alone. He never taught my two brothers the art, and that is the core of their hatred for me.

“I tried to find an heir for the art, but none could ever completely master it. Only, one who is accepted by the Od can even attempt to learn Shadow Fist. That limits the number of possible successors, and of the ones I have trained, none have mastered it. You are closer than any before you. Shadow Fist is still not complete. My father created it. I continued to evolve it. Maybe, you will be the one to complete it.”

Thrall is Transcendent, an immortal. The art given him by his father and someone important to him that is trapped by a culture that reject him seem to be the center of his world. It seems to be too simple, but Transcendents are probably motivated by the basic desires they had before the became Transcendents. Besides, I get the impression that he is just a little Transcendent in a big ocean.

“It is time for your next lesson. Psi falls into two broad categories, psychics and kinetics. Pyschics target mind and soul. Kinetics target body and can sometimes be used to influence mind. This illusion is generated by psi, kinetic psi. Your spatial awareness is another manifestation of kinetic psi. Force based attacks are yet another manifestation of kinetics, and you have an extremely strong affinity for anything related to brute force.” Thrall has a wry smile as he pauses, making it unclear if the last was a compliment, an insult, or both.

“You should be able to expand your abilities with kinetics on your own. I do not have much talent in that area outside of illusions. My strengths lie in psychics, especially telepathy, mental assaults, and mental probes. I am going to attack you in a variety of ways, so that you can directly experience psychic abilities. Your shields are strong enough that you will not suffer any real injury.”

Fuuuuuck. And he says that I have an affinity for brute force. It is not like I have the Power to stop him. If I had the Power, this would not be necessary.

*I am beginning.*

The way he projects the idea into my mind is different than normal. I never realized it, but he is always using some kind of trick or technique to conceal exactly how he uses his psychic abilities. I guess you could call it the wavelength he uses is obvious this time, and I think I can see or maybe feel how he is doing it. I might be able to duplicate it with practice.

My knees buckle under me, and I cannot make a sound. I am barely aware of my surroundings. I do not know what Thrall hit me with, but it put me down with a single hit.

*That might not have been the best result.*

Thrall's telepathic projection brings me back to awareness, but it is still an effort to focus. I sit on the floor, rubbing my head with both hands.

“What the fuck was that?” My words are slurred, like I am drunk.

*A reminder of the difference between between being Transcendent and not even having begun to Coalesce. It has been a very long time since I last tried to show someone how to use psi. That was nothing but a blast of raw psi, but I underestimated how powerful it was.*

“It was plenty powerful. My head feel … feels like it was punched by a stone golem.”

*It is extremely difficult to make a blast like that weak enough to not injure you, but it is something you need to experience. You can think of it as a basic psychic punch.*

After sitting on my ass for a few minutes, I force myself back to my feet. “Okay, I'm ready.”

*This will be a lighter attack.*

I cannot see the attack, but I can feel it. It feels almost like a blast water from a high pressure nozzle. Even though the distance between Thrall and myself is short, the Trinity energy starts to spread out as soon it is released. The best way to describe that attack is a slightly focused blast of raw Power. In a way, it is similar to some of the ki burst attacks that I sometimes use, crude and not very effective outside of point blank ranges.

*Did you see it clearly?*

“I think so, but I'm not sure I can duplicated it. I don't have enough psi strength at the moment.”

*I did not expect you to be able to use the attack now. Your spatial awareness will not strengthen your psi very much. With your natural affinity for force, you can probably develop a psi based force blast. Using that as much as possible will strengthen your psi until you can use this attack.*

By the time Thrall is done showing me literally dozens of psi attacks and techniques, I feel like my mind has been used as a target dummy for an entire army. On top of that, I am almost overloaded from trying to remember how all of the various techniques differed. None of them used actual patterns, but most of them used the Trinity energies in odd ways. It will be quite some time, before I can begin to make use of this repertoire.

The strange thing about Thrall's actions is that it seems like he is making an attempt to expose me to as much knowledge as possible, whether or not I can remember it all. I feel like he is preparing in advance for his absence.

I stare at the empty space, where Thrall had been standing for a long time.

* * * * *

“The Mistress said you were to attend her, when the Smith finished with you.” The guard's tone is diffident. I do not remember him going to the arena, but he has probably heard from the other guards about my actions in the arena.

I refrain from sighing and make my way to Elan'fer'sha's ritual room. Inside there are whips on the altar and a small brazier with a few irons heating. Elan'fer'sha must be in a particularly masochistic mood.

When I try the door to her study, it opens at a touch. I pause in the open door, more than a little surprised at what I see. Inside, Elan'fer'sha is going over paperwork on her desk. In front of the desk, Mikumi is sitting nervously at the edge of her seat. Both females look at me, as I stand in the open door. Elan'fer'sha smiles languidly, and a relieved expression settles on Mikumi's face.

“The guard said you wanted me. What's goin on?”

The smile does not leave Elan'fer'sha's face. “The Smith kept you for a long time. You missed out on celebrating your victory over the Ogre with the other gladiators. Your little whore here looked despondent without your dick to satisfy her, so I kept her here with me. She should enjoy watching, while I take your Power.”

What the fuck? If I did not know better, I would think that Elan'fer'sha was jealous of Mikumi, but there is no reason for it. I am nothing but an animal in her eyes, just like Mikumi. Would either of them be fucking me, if they were not getting something out of it?

“Come!”

Elan'fer'sha stands and walks out of her study. She is already naked, though I am not sure if you can really call her normal clothing being dressed. It is not like I am going to complain about her running around naked or nearly naked, I enjoy the view.

Except for a translucent shawl, Mikumi is completely naked, but unlike the first time I saw her, she has her arms tightly crossed over her tits. The relief in her eyes from when she saw me has turned into fear. She drops her shawl on the chair that she was sitting on and rapidly scampers along at Elan'fer'sha's back.

My anger is simmering toward a boiling point. I hated the half-assed, fucked up social status and petty jealousy games that people play on Earth. I hate this little fucked production that Elan'fer'sha is staging now. I swear, everything with a cunt is completely fucking insane!

The door to the ritual chamber automatically closes behind us. The sheer number and complexity of spell formations and sigils built into this one room is mind boggling. Even being here every night, I have not even begun to get a solid grasp on their numbers, let alone their purposes.

Elan'fer'sha opens one of the hidden storage compartments and takes out an empty Power crystal and iron stand. After setting them up next to the Altar, she turns around and stares at Mikumi and myself for a few moments.

“I have never told you how a Wytch is trained, have I?”

“No.” My tone is stiff. Keeping my anger in check is getting harder by the moment.

Elan'fer'sha smiles. “Prepubescent female children with a predisposition for the Umbra are taken from orphan barracks or families without Provenance by an experienced Wytch. After being raped by a slave under their Mistress' direction, they are taught to wield mana, and if they have the talent, psi. The most important part of their training is to learn to use the Umbra and to embrace pain. Rape and torture are daily activities, and the child either learns to love both or goes insane and is disposed of.

“If the child has mastered the knowledge, spells and rituals by the time of her first menstrual cycle, she is given a test to become a Wytch. The test is being thrown into a cage with a male who is both a rapist and murder, the more brutal the better. If she can satisfy the male's lusts for sex and torture, and then kill him with her Umbral arts as he orgasms, she becomes a Wytch. If she fails to kill him as he orgasms and survives, the test will be repeated, until she succeeds or dies.”

Elan'fer'sha's stare is fixed on Mikumi, with a rigid smile on her lips. Mikumi's face is twisted in horror, and she is backing away, while shivering.

“I am a bit of a prodigy. I was lucky enough to survive twice, and performed perfectly on my third test. Most of the female children who are lucky enough to survive require five or even ten or more tests to succeed. Wytches are very few in number. To the Clans and Church, we are nothing but outcast trash, but they come to us time and again for skills that only we can provide.

“One of the Priest-Wizards gave Brand to me, on the condition that I provide him with twenty-three fully charged Power crystals. Because of Brand's unique disposition, I cannot properly torture him with my Umbral spells, but I have found that he cums harder, when he tortures me while fucking me. That is far more pleasurable for me, and I can extract more Power from him. I am going to allow you the privilege of watching us, my little whore. Come close, so you can better enjoy the show.”

Too afraid to defy one of the Masters, Mikumi hesitantly moves over near the altar. Even with her bronzed skin tone, she has gone pale as a ghost.

“I can see your dick getting hard. You should take of the pteruges come play with me.” Elan'fer'sha's smile is as seductive as always, while she sits on the altar fingering herself.

By using me in her mind games, that little bitch is pissing me off. I tear off my pteruges and loincloth, dropping them on the floor, and stalk toward the altar. Catching the many-tailed whip that Elan'fer'sha throws at me, I snap it the air. My breathing is heavy, and I am barely keeping from growling.

Spreading my ki through the whip's tails, I lash Elan'fer'sha, slamming her onto her back with the force of the blow. With a few more lashes, she is covered with welts from the tops of her thighs to her neck.

Moaning with pleasure and licking her lips Elan'fer'sha stares up at me, her eyes challenging me to do more. As I keep lashing her, she deliberately bites her tongue and paints her lips scarlet with her own blood.

“More! Hit me harder! Fuck me! My cunt is dripping wet. I'm waiting for you.”

No longer able to keep from snarling, I thrust into her. She is right. I get off on abusing her, as much as she gets off on being abused. My dick Is like a steel rod, as I violently fuck her. We are both so twisted that I am amazed we are even functional.

Moaning and gasping in time to my thrusts, Elan'fer'sha reaches out a pull one of the irons out of the brazier. It is thinner than her pinkie, maybe only a quarter the diameter, tapering to a sharp point. Smiling at me with her blood colored lips, she spears her own nipple with the sharp tip. Her shriek is a sick mix of pain and pleasure and her body spasm as she orgasms.

Not wanting to hold back any longer, I let myself cum. The flood of Power she drains from me makes every time before seem like a trickle. Her agonized shrieks fill the chamber, as she channels my Power into the crystal. The crystal keeps glowing brighter, until it finally shatters. Fragments fly out in all directions, embedding themselves in all three of us.

Even without a vessel, Elan'fer'sha does not stoop sucking the Power out of me. Without a repository to soak it up, my Power lashes wildly about the chamber. From her wide-eyed expression of terror, I do not think Elan'fer'sha can stop, and my own body is frozen in place as well. Except my mouth, howling with rage, I am as rigid as a stone statue.

Finally, the flow of Power stops. I collapse on top of Elan'fer'sha, barely able to move. We are both panting from the exertion of dealing with the flow of my Power. Body, mind, and soul, I am completely drained. My mind and soul feel like they have been sandblasted and lacerated by the flow of so much Power.

“Too much. Too much. Only a Transcendent should have that much Power. Too much. How can you have so much? How?” Elan'fer'sha's mumbled questions are only audible because my ear is next to her mouth.

Whimpering draws my attention to the side of the altar. Mikumi is half-kneeling and half-sitting, with her calves splayed out to the sides. Quivering with terror, she does not even try move out of the pool of her own piss. With her eyes out of focus, she does not seem to even be seeing what is right in front her any longer.

“You're a sick fucking bitch.” My words are barely more than a whisper.

“Are you any better?”

I have no response to Elan'fer'sha's words. We are what we are. Is it sane or insane? Are we good or evil, both or neither?

“Stop blubbering, little whore. This what real Power is like. That little trickle of mana you use to make yourself more attractive and fuck better is nothing compared to the Power of someone who could rise to godhead.”

Mikumi silences her whining, but I can still feel her fear beating against my mind. I can feel her fear? I look at her again. Beyond her expression, nothing is visible, but I can definitely feel her fear. Empathy? Could I be an empath? I am too drained to try and figure it out now. After I sleep, I will worry about it.

“Get your leaden animal carcass off of me already!”

“Fuck you. I don't have the strength to stand.”

Elan'fer'sha tries to push me off herself but lacks the strength to move me. I push against the altar, trying to roll to the side, and we both fall to the floor in a tangle. More shards from the Power crystal get embedded in our skin.

“Idiot!” Elan'fer'sha's voice is getting muddled, like she is barely hanging onto consciousness.

I do not try to fight the exhaustion and let unconsciousness claim me.

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 252

Pain brings me back to consciousness. My head hurts. My mind hurts. My soul hurts. From my stomach up, the entire front of my body feels like it has been sandpapered and is itchy as hell on top of it. Pain I can deal with, I am used to it. The shards from that crystal are worse than being covered in mosquito bites. The itchiness makes me want to hurt that fucking Priest-Wizard Kra'cha'len.

Elan'fer'sha mumbles and tries to snuggle tighter against me. Mikumi is curled up against my back. If it was not for the damage and irritation, I would be thoroughly enjoying this. Then again, considering Elan'fer'sha's ridiculous behavior last night, I probably would not be enjoying it.

Was it last night? Is it morning? I cannot even tell. Usually, I have a rough idea of how long I sleep, but at the moment, my head is so fucked up that I cannot even guess. I can feel pools of Power within myself, so at least enough time for me to partially recover my Power has passed.

I feel a shifting sea of emotions softly pushing against my mind from behind. They must be because of whatever Mikumi is dreaming about, but I can actually feel them. It has to be the first awakening of psychic abilities, but how did it happen? Why did it happen? The only thing that happened was Elan'fer'sha draining off all of my Power. Could that have torn something open within my mind?

I have to suppress my urge to grin like an imbecile. Turning my focus inward, I try to understand how the ability works. It seems that I have become and empath, but without knowing to use the ability, it is completely useless to me. My mind and soul feel like they have become larger, but that should just be my subjective perceptions. The reality is that dormant parts of my patterns must have become active, or maybe parts of my mind and soul sealed under the scars have started to work.

While I can feel the emotions coming from Mikumi's sleeping mind, I do not understand all of them. Perceptually, they are coming across as a combination of colors, smells, and sensations. Some are recognizable, like anger and frustration, but others I do not understand at all. What exactly is a soft pinkish-red breeze that smells of flowers supposed to represent? Will the emotions of every person have the same feeling to them? It is likely that I will misunderstand what I feel for a while, and possibly always misunderstand the emotions of people with odd mindsets.

The arm that Elan'fer'sha has around my neck tenses, with her entire body following suit. She is staring at me, when I open my eyes. Only a few inches separate our faces, and for a moment, there is an odd vulnerability in her honey-amber eyes.

This is the first time I have seen Elan'fer'sha appearing anywhere near vulnerable. Combined with her naked body pressed tightly against my own, it is an incredible turn on. My heartbeat accelerates slightly, and my I start getting hard again.

Whatever Elan'fer'sha's emotional state may be, I am only getting ghost-like impressions that I cannot begin to interpret. The innate mental shields that Thrall said all DokkAlfar possess must be interfering with my ability to read her, or maybe, they contain her emotions inside of her mind, so that they cannot be properly detected.

However, Elan'fer'sha's shields do not conceal her heartbeat, and I feel it accelerating. She does not resist, when I pull her face closer and kiss her. Despite the amount of fucking we do, we almost never kiss. For us, fucking is about Power, not passion. Surprisingly, she returns my kiss hungrily. It feels like she is desperate for something, but I also get a faint impression of regret and loss. A number of times I am certain I have seen a deep sense of regret and loss in Elan'fer'sha's eyes, but I have never tried to learn what it is for.

After long minutes of our tongues and hands exploring each other, Elan'fer'sha pushes herself away from me. The expression in her eyes hardens, and she rises sinuously to her feet. Without a word, she smoothly and swiftly moves to the door, which opens silently.

Sitting up, I look at her departing back and continue to stare at the empty doorway, until the door automatically closes again. The memory of a laugh that I will never hear again seems to echo in my ears.

“You can stop pretending to be asleep. She's gone.”

Mikumi sits up, hugging her knees to her chest. She looks like a scared and vulnerable teenager, instead of a confident whore.

I consciously adjust my blood flow, so I stop getting hardon settles down. Why does vulnerability in a woman turn me on so easily? When I see it in an attractive one, I want to dominate them and make them mine. That is not a new feeling. As far back as my middle school days, I can remember vulnerability in a girl inciting my lust in this same manner.

Mikumi looks at me and shivers. The fear her mind is exuding is as clear as day. Strangely, I do not get any impression of anything that seems like disdain or disgust from her.

Without saying anything, I rise to my feet. The dozens of crystal fragments embedded in my skin irritate the cuts and tears where they are lodges. Circulating my ki throughout my body, I identify them all, and with a small explosion of force, I force them out.

Mikumi stares at the falling crystal fragments, with a surprised cast to her features.

“Stand up!”

Mikumi rises to her feet, and I put my hand on her head. I feel her shiver, as I send my ki through her body. Like all living things, she has ki inside of her, but her ki is far to weak to put up any resistance. She completely lacks the strength in ki to make use of it in any way. Finding all the crystal fragments in her, I use my ki to force them out of her.

With her eyes glistening, Mikumi shivers. “That felt incredible. If you did that while fucking me, I would follow you for the rest of my life.”

I turn away from Mikumi, but I cannot keep the bitterness out of my voice. “The last girl to follow died in only a few months time. She was too busy paying attention to me, when she should have been watching her own back. I have too many enemies and will only acquire more.”

“Did you lover her?” Mikumi's voice has an odd tone, and her eyes are more focused on the ground than on me.

Opening one of the hidden compartments in the walls of the ritual chamber, I take out a small vial of blood red liquid.

“I told her I did. I lied to her, as she lay dying in my arms.”

Brand did not lie. Brand loves Perzey.

The “voice” sounds like it is in my own thoughts, but I can tell it is not telepathy. Looking around, I find a faintly pulsating energy field. There is no shape or form to it, but I can still tell that it is Perzey.

Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain.

I cast the pattern sight on both of my eyes, but it does not help much. There is not real pattern to the energy. If I was not specifically looking for something out of place, I would have mistaken it for a part of the air. Perzey had an air affinity, so maybe that is the reason.

Even with no body, Perzey tried to stay with Brand forever, but Perzey's time is up. Perzey's Power is almost gone. I get the faint impression of a smile with the thoughts.

I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, when I heard your voice.

Perzey's laughter fills my mind. Perzey watched Brand take the Power in the arena. If Brand takes Perzey's Power, a little bit of Perzey can be with Brand forever.

If I take your Power, you'll be gone forever. There's not much left.

Perzey knows. Perzey wants Brand to take her Power. Perzey wants Brand to have Perzey's love. Hurry, before Perzey is gone forever.

I lied to you.

Brand did not lie. Brand loves Perzey. Perzey knows. Hurry.

As I reach out my hand, a faint silvery-grey glow surrounds it. A gentle, somewhat bittersweet feeling fills my mind. Without being told, I know that this is love. There is not much Power, but what is there settles inside of me. A last image of a smile and happy laughter fades away.

What would have happened if my psi had not been jarred into a more fully awakened state by Elan'fer'sha's twisted games? Would Perzey have dissipated before I knew she was there? I do not think I want to know the answer. How much more have I missed by remaining dormant for so long?

“What was that?” Mikumi's voice is soft and faintly sad.

“A fading spirit. She's gone now.”

I glance at the vial that I am still holding. Moving to Mikumi, I hold it out for her.

“Drink this. It's a high grade healing elixir.”

Mikumi sniffs the vial, before drinking it in a single quick gulp. Her shiver and grimace give me an urge to laugh, but I refrain.

“It feel like insects are crawling all over my body.”

A cannot hold in a single barking laugh. “Ignore it. It's already working. With those minor injuries, they should be healed in less than a hundredth.”

“What about you? Your wounds are . . .” Mikumi's voice trails off as she stares at me. All my injuries are scabbed over, and for the minor ones, the scabs are already peeling off.

“I heal fast.”

“Is it okay to leave now? Will the Mistress get angry?”

I shrug. “It should be okay. Elan seemed to be over her pique, but I don't understand what set her off. You would be best off getting out of the stable, while she's calm.”

“What about the guards?”

“I'll walk you out.”

* * * * *

When I reach Thrall's territory, he is at his forge, but he is not forging anything. I do not notice even a hint of emotions from him. He might as well not exist on an empathic level.

“Did you know about the spirit that following me?”

Thrall turns toward me. “So, she's gone. She was no danger to you. The opposite. She tried her best to distract and damage your opponents in the arena, while you were playing games to see how tough you had become.

“Empathy. I would never have guessed you had a predisposition for it. Hone your control over your emotions, they will become your tools and your weapons in time. Empathic assaults are extremely destructive, if the wielders emotions are strong enough. Hate and rage are good weapons.”

Thrall begins to stoke the fires in his forge. “Take out your armor. It is time to reforge that mask, so that Elan'fer'sha does not get upset when you wear it. I will show you how to alter patterns, while you are at it.”

I lay out my armor on a workbench and disconnect the mask from the helm.

Thrall stares at the mask for a minute or so. “It really does look like him. You have a good eye and deft hand, but it is best if memories of Talon are not conjured up in Gor'achen.”

“What did he do that makes him such a sore subject?”

Thrall smiles. “An all DokkAlfar arena team was competing that season. They were all the scions of lines of Provenance from the High Clans. There was a implicit understanding among the stables that they were not to be killed. During the general melee, Talon wiped out the entire team. If Blood Rose Stable were not under my protection, it would have been destroyed. Elan'fer'sha was forced to make numerous reparations, and she lost almost her entire fortune. In the end, she was only able to come to terms with the Citadel Lord, when the Central Fane of Yggr interceded. The result being that she has been at their beck and call for nearly two hundred years now.”

I cannot keep from chuckling. From what little of Talon's memories are left to me, it was clear that he had a really bad attitude when he was younger. He had mellowed a lot by the time he was Possessed, but most beings that knew of him still feared him.

Thrall drops the mask into the forge. “We will make a plain visor out of it. Doing this would normally break the pattern, but there are three ways of Making that can be used to alter items without destroying the pattern. The techniques are not exclusive to Smithing, they can be used in any form of Making. The first two will maintain the existing structure of the pattern and the last will allow the Maker to alter the pattern.”

A thick book appears in Thrall's hands, and he opens it to a specific section, before handing it to me. “Read this, it describes the three techniques. There are hundreds, probably thousands, of variants on these base techniques, but that does not matter. If you encounter variants, do what you will.”

The techniques are both simple and ridiculously complex at the same time. It all depends on the complexity of the existing pattern, and the complexity of any alterations for the third technique. I can understand them on a conceptual level, but applying them will not be easy.

“When I trained in Tallifer, my master, Roderick, never mentioned anything like this.”

Thrall's grunt might be meant as a laugh. “He probably does not know about them. Very few non-Transcendent smiths in the Battleground would be aware of these techniques, and the ones who are would be unlikely to teach them. The manual is yours. There are many techniques you might find useful in there, but almost all of them are only meant for rather explicit situations. You will probably find countless others over the course of you life. There is no end to Making.”

I store the book in my belt.

Thrall holds out his hands and the image a pattern appears over each. Neither is a complete pattern. They seem to be attributes meant to included into larger patterns.

“Hardness and resilience. Find a way to link them into the pattern of your own armor. With these included in your armor's pattern, it would have been more than strong enough to use against the Ogre.”

Holding my armor's pattern stable, while I reshape the mask into a visor is not difficult, but that is only the beginning. Before putting the final temper on the visor, I need merge the two attribute patterns into the whole. Hours pass as I struggle with the structure of the whole, and my mana burns dangerously low. If I cannot complete the pattern before I run out of mana, the pattern on my armor will be broken, and I will have to start Patterning it all over again.

In the end, my mana runs out first, and I can only watch the armor's pattern shatter. The surface of the armor takes on a dull and corroded appearance.

Thrall nods in apparent satisfaction. “Your attempt was well done. The approach you used was solid, and if you had more mana, you would have probably succeeded.”

My laugh is full of bitter frustration. “So what do I do now?”

“Re-Pattern the armor, and re-temper it. Then, start over trying to modify the pattern to include the new attributes. Do it as many times as it takes for you to succeed.”

Another Assassination

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 283

“Very good!” Thrall's face is revealing a pleased smile.

The finished armor lies on the worktable. Mastering the technique for modifying the pattern proved far more difficult than I anticipated. In the end, I only succeeded so quickly, because of Thrall's suggestion that I use etchings help focus and bind the new pattern elements. Now, my armor has two fists engraved into the breastplate.

“The strength of your mana has improved greatly by performing this task. Working until you completely exhausted it so many times has opened up much more of your potential.”

As Thrall said, the result has been an enormous improvement to the size my mana pool and the amount of mana I can channel. What was a small stream only weeks ago has become a torrent, but it still does not feel like it is more than half the strength of my ki. A not quite as noticeable change is the effect that my increased mana has had on my body, mind, and soul. By circulating mana through my body, mind, and soul in the same manner as I do with ki, it has increased my strength speed and resilience.

I am not sure of the difference in level from before, but because of my distinct lack of mana, I have been working out with the gladiators. The difference in my speed and reaction time has reached the point where even the speed Tyrend's attacks is starting to look mundane.

“What is your understanding of the symbols of breaking?”

Thrall's question catches me flatfooted. I still cannot tell what tangent he is going to come at me with at any given time. Since the assassination, I have not really thought much about the symbols of breaking, but there is obviously something about them that Thrall considers important.

“They allow a Smith damage or break the patterns within forged objects, maybe within any metal. Using the symbols, a Smith can destroy an enemy's weapons and armor.”

“What else?”

“I don't know.”

Thrall snorts. “How do the symbols work?”

I scratch my scarred cheek, while thinking for a moment. “The symbols permeate the objects pattern to find any compatible faults in the metal, then fracture the metal along the faults.”

“Is metal the only physical object that has faults?”

“No. Wood, stone, cloth, leather, and almost everything else has faults. Noting is perfect.”

“What about living beings?”

I just stare at Thrall for a moment. “The symbols will work on living creatures?”

Thrall smiles faintly. “You are a Trinary. Once you develop all three Powers, as long as your enemy is not also a Trinary, he will always have at least one area in which he is vulnerable. Your mana is strong enough for you to use it as a weapon now. Remember, Makers are the greatest of Destroyers. Because you understand how to create patterns, you have the tools to understand their natures and find their weaknesses. They symbols of breaking are tool to aid you in this. Over time, there is no reason that you cannot develop new symbols even better suited to your own mentality. When your psi is stronger, you will have yet another weapon in your arsenal.

“You will find very few adepts under the Third Circle of Coalescence that you will not be able to defeat, if you are smart and sneaky about it. You will even have the chance to defeat many in the Third Circle and with surprise at least injure those in the Fourth Circle.

“Coalescence only improves on the base you have to work with. Just because you enter a new Circle of Coalescence, does not mean there is a miraculous transformation to a state of being that means those at a lower Circle or no Circle can no longer touch you. Your base level of ki is already far beyond the average. When you fully develop all three aspects of the Trinity, you will be stronger than all but the extreme outliers in terms of Power. If you become a Triune, your Power will put in the realm that can only be reached through Coalescence for those who are not Triunes.”

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 287

Elan'fer'sha pauses in the door of Thrall's training hall. She does not seem to be aware that even with my back to the door I can still watch her with my spatial awareness. From her posture, she seems to be hesitant to enter the hall. A leather satchel is clasped in her right hand.

Since the night she made Mikumi watch our fucking, she had been different. She no longer wants to be abused and only draws out a small portion of my Power, when we fuck. I think something scared her that night, but I do not know exactly what it was. Was it the depth of my Power? Was it my violent reaction to her games? Was it something else?

From what Tyrend picked up, the amount of money she raked in from the betting on my fight with the Ogre was astronomical. None of the bookies thought I could win, and the odds were heavily stacked against me. Where Tyrend acquires his information is unclear, but there are probably information networks among slaves and the non-citizens in Gor'achen. In the eyes of the DokkAlfar, the only real difference between the two groups is that the slaves already have their collars on.

Ignoring Elan'fer'sha, I continue working with my axe on a target dummy. No matter how badly I chop up one of the dummies in Thrall's training, it will automatically repair itself, when the spell formation is activated. My Blood Iron axe still has not been Patterned, so the training dummies will last for ten to fifteen strikes. Considering its weight and sharpness, if I Patterned the axe, it would probably be able to cleave through the armor of one of the old Earth tanks.

After watching for close to ten minutes, Elan'fer'sha enters the training hall. She starts slightly, as I turn to face her.

“You knew I was watching.” There is no hint of a question in her voice.

I shrug faintly. “You seemed caught up in your own deliberations.”

Elan'fer'sha almost smiles, before putting a stern look on her face. “Aluras has sent a messenger with you next target.”

I frown. “What about my payment?”

“You botched your last mission. The target was killed in the wrong location, and you exposed yourself to the Left Hand Order assassins. Aluras is demanding this kill in compensation.”

“I don't owe that dyke jack or shit.”

Elan'fer'sha's eyes glisten for a second, and she looks away from me. “If you do not do this, you will cause problems for me.”

“What's the hold she has on you?”

Elan'fer'sha frowns for real and clenches her left hand into a fist. “She doesn't have any hold on me. We have been allies since we were children. Now, I need her more than she needs me. The only thing I have to offer her is the adulation of the stable's fans, and that is only a secondhand devotion at best. Aluras gives me access to the information her espionage network collects. Without that information, I will have no chance of ever finding the murderer of my clan.”

“You've twisted your life around vengeance. It is really that important to you?”

Elan'fer'sha turns and glares at me. “What else do I have? I am a Wytch, and outcast among my own race. If my clan was not betrayed and destroyed, I would not be trapped in this life. Three clans and seven line of Provenance were destroyed in only a few years, and the traitor was never found. Aluras and I may be the only ones still looking.”

I sigh. “It's been what a hundred, two hundred years? You haven't found any real clues about a traitor. Are you sure that your clan was betrayed? Couldn't there just have been mistakes made that left them vulnerable to the LjosAlfar?”

Elan'fer'sha looks like she wants to scream at me, but she does not. After a few moments, she looks at the floor. “I don't know anymore. We have never found any clues about how the convoys or secret outposts were found, but that doesn't mean we won't. Aluras' clan has one of the largest spy networks of any of the Citadel clans. If the information is there, it is only a matter of time.”

“Do you have that much time left?”

Her eyes wide from shock, Elan'fer'sha stares at me in silence for almost a minute. “How do you know?”

I close my eyes for a moment and look downward. “I've had too many dealing with Umbral casters. Every one of them was being corrupted and destroyed by the Umbra. You have all the signs of an advanced level of damage. Do you have any idea how much time you have left?”

Elan'fer'sha turns her back to me, her arms tightly crossed over her chest. Her voice is barely even a whisper. “Too little. Less than twenty years. Probably, less than ten. No matter what entities I summon or what scrying spells I use, nothing has ever turned up any information. I have poured all of my resources into buying information, but none of it has ever led me to the traitor. But I can't give up now. If I do, my life will have meant nothing. Everything I have done will be meaningless.”

As I put my hand on her shoulder, Elan'fer'sha stiffens, but after a moment, she relaxes. When I turn her around, she does not resist. Her eyes empty. They look like soulless amber gems, faintly glistening with unshed tears. Her lower lip quivers, when I take the satchel out of her hand.

“I'll kill the target, but this is the last one. I'm not suited to be an assassin. After the last job, I understood how mismatched I am to that profession.”

“Why?” Confusion mixes with hopelessness, as she stares at me.

I shrug. “Why not? It will be my last assassination for Aluras'bektsh'tar. Two are enough. I don't like her. I don't trust her. I'll help you for as long as I stay in Gor'achen, but I won't do shit else for her.”

Elan'fer'sha nods, but I have no clue what the gesture is supposed to mean. After looking at me for a moment, she turns and leaves the training hall.

Why? The question resonates in my mind, but it is only my own inner voice. Perzey's voice is gone forever. If I had noticed her spirit sooner, would it have made a difference?

Why? I cannot answer my own question. I do not know why I am going to make this last kill. I do not think I am doing it for myself, am I doing it for Elan'fer'sha? I do not care who the victim is. I need to know where Woden took the targets of my own vengeance, before I can move. Though, I will not let myself obsess over revenge. The way Elan'fer'sha has destroyed herself in her quest for vengeance is warning enough to not do the same.

Moving into Thrall's Smithy, I spread the contents of the satchel out on a workbench. This time the First Layer map has a tower marked. Other maps contain details of the interior of that tower. Assuming the maps are accurate, Aluras'bektsh'tar or her source for these maps knows this tower very well.

The target is Sinla'aveyka'tar of Clan Mistress of Clan Aveyka'tar. According to the information, she is another one of the Stoics. Her clan only has five blood members, and everyone else in the compound is a retainer.

Talchok'aveyka'tar is the Lord of Gor'achen Citadel and the Clan Master of Clan Gor'achen. The information Aluras'bektsh'tar provided does not give any information on the link between the target and Citadel Lord, but they are obviously of the same Provenance. What is the relationship between the two? What the fuck is that fucked up dyke plotting?

I really do not give two shits about DokkAlfar politics and grudges, but I have no intention of getting caught in the middle of some political power struggle.

Thrall is not around, so I cannot ask him about the political state of Gor'achen. It is not unusual for him to disappear for a day or three, but I need to figure out what I may be walking into. Elan'fer'sha is my only option.

The guards do not say anything, when I leave Thrall's territory and head up the stairs to the main residential part of the compound. Except for Elan'fer'sha, her butler, and a handful of female human slaves, no one else lives in a residence that could support several dozen people. Since declaring myself not a slave, Elan'fer'sha has not tried to stop me from exploring the stable. Most of the residential section is closed up, with the unused rooms empty and covered in a layer of dust.

I have never found Elan'fer'sha to be in her bedroom. She is always either in her study or her ritual chamber, when I come up from the gladiator cells. A number of times, I have found her sleeping at her desk. Knowing she is dying, she must be under enormous pressure to finish her quest for vengeance, and most of that quest involves digging though information, trying to find the clues that will lead her to her target.

When I check her study, Elan'fer'sha is at her desk absorbed in poring through a stack of reports. She looks up as the study door swings open.

A frown fixes itself on her face. “Announce yourself, when I have not already summoned you.”

“Knock. Knock.”

The frown on Elan'fer'sha's face deepens, and her eyes move to the satchel I am carrying. “You never come here without a reason. Is there something you do not understand about the assassination.”

“Ha! I understand it alright, but do you understand it?”

Elan'fer'sha's expression becomes more irritated. “What are you insinuating?”

Since Elan'fer'sha brought me the satchel, her emotional state has shifted again. Even with her mental shields, I can feel a simmering anger radiating off of her.

“I am not insinuating anything. I am asking if you know about this target?”

“No!”

I almost sigh with discouragement. “The target is Sinla'aveyka'tar. Aveyka'tar is the line of Provenance of Talchok'aveyka'tar isn't it?

Elan'fer'sha's brow wrinkles. “She is his second or third cousin. Clan Aveyka'tar split from Clan Gor'achen in the time of Sinla'aveyka'tar's grandfather. He founded a new clan, but I do not know what his reasons for leaving Clan Gor'achen were. All the clan members are direct descendants of the Aveyka'tar line, but not of her grandfather. If anyone is given the benediction of a new Provenance, they are ejected from the clan.”

“Why would Aluras want her dead.”

Elan'fer'sha frowns hostilely when I use Aluras' name without any title or Provenance. “Clan Mistress Aluras'bektsh'tar has probably come into conflict with Clan Aveyka'tar in her search for her line of Provenance's murderer. I cannot think of any other reason she would send you as an assassin.”

“She can't only be chasing vengeance. There is no way she could keep control of a clan, if the only thing she cared about was vengeance. What else is she doing?”

Elan'fer'sha leans back in her chair. “Aluras is one of the Citadel Lord's advisers, the Minister of War. She is the person in charge of the Gor'achen Citadel Legions. It is a position that has been held by the Clan Master or Mistress of Clan Vardne'tar for tens of millennia.”

Elan'fer'sha does not seem to see anything off about this assassination, but I have a bad feeling that there is something wrong with it. I have no reason to trust Aluras'bektsh'tar, and that may be why I am so uneasy.

“Did anything seem odd about Aluras, when she brought this?”

Elan'fer'sha looks at me like I am an idiot. “Aluras did not bring this. Coming to meet with an animal assassin is beneath the dignity of a Clan Mistress. The only reason she came in person last time was to take your measure. She sent a courier with the satchel.”

Now, I know there is something wrong. Since Elan'fer'sha did not know the specifics of the assassination, she did not look through the satchel, but she knew it was an assassination. The courier had to know the contents of the satchel, so I cannot assume that the mission is a real secret. I told Elan'fer'sha that I would make this kill, so I will carry though with it, but I will be on the lookout for a trap.

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 288

When I open the secret teleport gate, the apocalyptic red skies of the Life and Death furnace dimension meet my eyes. Thrall said that the Seven Great Citadels come here for meetings or conferences. Just how long is this conference going to continue? What are they meeting about?

Could Thrall's disappearance have something to with this meeting or conference? He claims to be a half-blood Aesir, who has more or less been cast out by the Aesir, and the Jotun Empire does not interfere with him, as long as he does not interfere in their business, but I am not very clear on Thrall's position among the DokkAlfar. At least some of the DokkAlfar seem to be terrified of him, and the non-citizens in Gor'achen seem to look on him as a living legend and something akin to divinity.

When I step through the teleport gate, the gale force winds tear at me. I am not even going to attempt to guess how far the roiling sea of Trinity is below us. With no point of reference, I can only stare down at the raw Power that I cannot use yet. While the waves of Power from Life and Death beat against me, I cannot even feel the faintest hint of anything that would let me know the sea below is Trinity and not water.

Leaving the ledge, I travel though tunnel, until I reach the fork. After the first assassination mission, I explored the right hand tunnel. It is only a few hundred yards long and it exits into a pocket dimensional side cavern off the Third Layer, like the one occupied by the Blood Rose Stable. Like the Labyrinth itself, this citadel is a warren of pocket dimension, though they are on a much smaller scale and far fewer in number. At least, I think they are far fewer in number. I have to wonder what the power source for Gor'achen Citadel is. When I asked Thrall, he just said it was an Elemental Furnace and did not elaborate. What the hell is an Elemental Furnace?

After taking the left hand tunnel, I reach the carving that could be of Thrall. I still have no way to determine if there is anyone on the other side, but I suppose it does not matter. If anyone is there, I will just kill them.

Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain. Channeling my mana into the carving, I am surprised that it takes less than a quarter of what I am capable of channeling to activate the spell formation. When I came this way the last time, it took over three quarters of my mana. Continuously burning through all my mana, while repeatedly Patterning my armor and attempting to alter that Pattern, has had an impressive affect in opening up my latent mana pool. Thrall talks about activating my latent Power, before attempting to become a Triune, but I wonder how much my pools of Power can be expanded beyond my latent levels.

There is no one visible, when the wall becomes transparent. I step out into the sewers and do not hear anything to indicate the presence of anyone nearby.

I do not want to use the same tunnel as last time. Since I destroyed the lock, there is always the possibility that there might be a monitor or ward spell of some kind set on it. After moving through the sewers for half an hour or so, I pick an access tunnel at random.

Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain. Applying the pattern sight spell to my left eye, I carefully search for any signs of spell patterns but find nothing. Casters have a number of ways to conceal spells  and wards that I have heard of. There are similarities to the techniques I know to conceal my Power, when I use it, but I do not know how effective they are or how to break them.

I use a different symbol than last time and the bolt that the lock secures turns into rust in seconds. The rest of the lock and gate are completely unaffected.

Screech. As I open the gate, the faint sound of unoiled metal on metal seems loud, but it should not be audible more than a hundred feet or so from the access stairs. Ascending the stairs, I find myself in another empty back alley.

At one end of the alley, a crew of slaves is working under the watchful stares of their whip masters. The whip masters are two humans and an orc, and the slaves are a mixture of humans and orcs. While scarred and missing a few eyes and ears, their limbs are all intact. Since they are performing the heavy and semi-skilled labor of replacing some damaged paving stones, they would unable to do the job properly, if they too badly mutilated.

Each paving stone in the roads of Gor'achen is about a yard square and so perfectly cut that there are almost no gaps between them. After the slave in the work gang destroy the damaged paving stones, another slave, dressed in a loincloth and decidedly lacking in scars, measures the space and cuts a new paving stone from a block of dark stone in a wagon. Considering the way the dressed slave uses his mana, he must be a Maker.

The DokkAlfar in Gor'achen have hundreds of thousands of slaves, and among them are many highly skilled artisans. Whether or not it has always been so, with the exception of weapons and armor, the DokkAlfar of Gor'achen Citadel and presumably the Atran'ler Empire as a whole consider even skilled labor beneath themselves. Even among the High Clans, they are all involved in the military or ownership of mercantile operations, unless they are not part of the clergy of the Church of the Jotun Lords. Only DokkAlfar who have fallen into the lower ranks of the second class citizen or to non-citizen status will deign to perform any form of manual labor.

Elan'fer'sha's DokkAlfar guards are an example of the lowest tiers of second class citizens and non-citizens. She probably uses low class DokkAlfar like them, because they are DokkAlfar. The gladiators have been conditioned to fear the consequences of laying hands on a Master, which is any DokkAlfar from a slave's perspective. For a slave to harm even a criminal condemned to death, the punishment is death by protracted torture.

The most humiliating form of execution for a DokkAlfar convicted of a crime is Death By Slave, which amounts to being beaten and abused until death by a group of slaves. The slaves, who know they will be tortured to death afterwards, tend to make the DokkAlfar's death as excruciating and degrading as they possibly can. To prevent the slaves from committing suicide, before they can be tortured, the DokkAlfar put geasa type spells on them that forbid any form of self-harm.

There is only one exclusion to this rule. When a DokkAlfar willingly enters the gladiatorial arena as part of gladiatorial stable, he or she is relinquishing any protection as a Master. The rulers among the DokkAlfar have so far not dared to pervert their blood sport entertainments for the masses by showing any kind bias that would cause the slaves to fear fighting against stables that include DokkAlfar gladiators.

Turning to the opposite end of the alley, I move onto the streets. Moving in the Shadow of the Od, I am like a ghost moving through the sanguine tinged light and shadows. The world around me has a surreal appearance. The castles and compounds, which have a Baroque or Gothic appearance, are built with predominantly black stone that looks stained with drying blood. I feel as though I am moving through a land of the dead. I suppose you could say I really am a ghost. I was murdered once and still walk the planes of the metaverse, so who is to say if I am really alive.

The home of Clan Aveyka'tar is a single tower, surrounded by a wall about fifteen feet high. On top of the wall, several wards are visible, but it is not the visible wards I am worried about. The visible ones can be circumvented, but the ones I cannot see, I cannot avoid. Sinla'aveyka'tar can barely be called a Binary, since her psi is so weak as to be nearly useless, but her skills as a caster have been developed over more than six hundred years. I cannot begin to guess what level her knowledge and ability might have reached.

The wards extend about fifteen feet above the walls fifteen foot height, but there does not appear to be anything beyond that. Somehow, I doubt that is the truth. There has to be something beyond the obvious ward that is simply hidden. After all, I know of three ways to hide their spells, so there have to be more than just those few methods.

All of the other structures in this district are small like the tower: small mansions surrounded by similar low walls; other towers; small keeps, with high walls. It is a quiet neighborhood that reeks of old power and unannounced prestige.

The fifth through ninth floors of the Aveyka'tar Tower contain only suites for the clan members. The floors below the fifth contain offices, common rooms, and an audience hall. The tenth floor is the province of the Clan Master or Mistress. With only six actual clan members, including the Clan Mistress, and a few concubines in residence, Aveyka'tar Tower is practically deserted. The servants and guards, quartered in the subterranean levels outnumber the clan member by more than ten to one, and with the exception of performing their assigned duties, they are not allowed above the first floor.

After moving into the alley separating the Aveyka'tar tower from the small mansion behind it, I slip deeply into the Shadow of the Od and move sideways in relation the to the pull of gravity. The world grows dim around me, turning into a pink tinged grey. To anyone looking in my direction, I should be no more than a darker shadow in the night. Fuel by ki, my running leap takes me into the air, soaring above the height of the tower. If there are still wards at this height, I will have no way of avoiding them. Slowly sinking through the air, I use the little bit of traction I can get on it, to rapidly run to an unlighted window in the eighth floor of the tower.

As my feet touch the outer sill, I let the faint gravity of the tower take hold of me and extend my empathy into the room. Nothing seems to impede my power, and there is no hint of any minds or shields. The window is hinged so as to open into the room and appears to contain Elemental material in its construction. There are no signs of active wards, so hopefully there is nothing that will trigger an alarm.

Running my hand down the sides of the window, I identify what should be the hinges and the latch. Wrapping the latch with the corrosive symbol of breaking, I turn it into rust, but it takes much longer to corrode than the lock on the sewer grate.

Pushing open the window, I find the room is empty as I thought. I examine the remains of the latch and see Elemental metal mixed in the alloy. It is not Blood Iron or any other Elemental that I have seen.

The room is lavishly furnished, but has the air of disuse. Everything is clean, maybe a bit too clean, and there is a complete lack of personal affects. The delicate appearance of the furniture and the four-poster bed give the impression of the room having been furnished for a female. The floor is covered in dark polished wood, with several thick rugs atop the flooring.

Moving to the door, I listen for any sounds that would indicate guards standing or patrolling in the hall outside. Hearing nothing beyond the door, I slowly open it. The circular hall is empty, as far as I can see around the tower, but the central shaft, containing the stairs, blocks my view of more than a third or the floor. Slipping quietly into the hall, I find nothing, when I check the rest of the hall.

The treads of the stairs have some visible wards, with apparent gaps in their coverage. I do not trust those gaps, since they probably contain more wards that were cast in such a way as to leave them concealed from normal pattern sight. Everything that exists should be perceivable in some manner. Even if the spell patterns are not visible to my sight, there should be ways to detect them, but so far, I have not learned any techniques for doing so.

Despite the warding of the treads, the ceiling of the stairway shows no signs of being warded in any way. The dim light crystals in sconces on the walls, also leave the ceiling mostly in shadow. Is it an oversight or a trap?

Avoiding the pull of gravity from below, I jump up and use the minuscule gravity of the ceiling to traverse the stairway in the shadows. There are no signs of living beings, until I reach the last curve before the top floor of the tower.

The two DokkAlfar standing guard outside the door at the top of the stairway have an air of lax boredom about them. The pair of them are slouching, with the hafts of their ubiquitous glaives providing a third leg of support. From their position they will be aware of the impending presence of their Mistress by the opening of the door, and they probably thing the footfalls of anyone ascending from below will give ample warning of their arrival.

They are wearing chainmail, but their helms are not visored like the citadel military and church military. Their helms remind me of Greek hoplite helms with a nasal bar, leaving their faces partially exposed. Both their glaives and armor are made of the oily black metal that the DokkAlfar seem fond of.

As I seem to appear out of nowhere, crouching in front of them, the guards start to jerk erect, but they are too late. Both my short-swords are in my hands, and I stab through their helms, with the blades vertical so as not to get slowed cutting through metal. Blood and teeth splatter outward, and their limbs go slack as my swords pierce their palettes, and bursts of kinetic force destroy their brains. Driving upward I launch their bodies a few feet into the air. Releasing the hilts of my swords, I grab their glaives and stab them in the stomachs, before their bodies hit the ground. More blood splatters the area, but there is no clatter of armored bodies or heavy glaives on the stairs.

After quietly setting the corpses down on the stairs, I retrieve my swords from their heads and listen at the door. No sounds are audible, but that does not mean anything. The door could be more or less soundproof. The wood seems to be thick and heavy, and the door is tightly fit into the frame. It opens inward into the tenth floor. Also, there is no trace of any emotion or mental shields, but when I try to actively probe beyond the door, there is a strange sensation of my empathic power attenuating.

The latch is firmly fixed in place, not moving at all when I try to open it. When I use a symbol of breaking, the latch comes free in my hand, and powdered rust falls from the hole. The door opens smoothly and silently at a touch. With the door open, its near two inch thickness becomes visible.

A curving corridor circles the top floor of the tower, just like the lower floors. There are still no sounds to indicate the presence of anyone. I move around the tower, listening at the three doors on this floor, but I still hear nothing. My spatial awareness is hazy, and when I try using psi, there is a clear sense of something damping the power. Sinla'aveyka'tar must have set up sigils of a kind that somehow dampen psi energy. Nothing in Aluras'bektsh'tar's information indicated that Sinla'aveyka'tar is a psi of any significance, so she might have done this as a way to restrict a Power that she cannot use.

Aluras'bektsh'tar's information did not contain anything about the layout of this floor. So still not hearing anything at the last door, I try the latch and it opens smoothly. The revealed room is a library, with packed shelves, more books stacked on the floor, and bins filled with scroll cases surrounding a reading table and overstuffed chair.

The two doors on opposite walls are both open. Beyond the left, there is a ritual chamber. Like Elan'fer'sha's there is an altar, but there is absolutely no similarity in the inlaid runes and patterns. The room on the other side is larger and contains a rather extensive laboratory. I looks like something that should belong to a mad scientist, with jars of chemicals and preserved organs lining shelves. A blood stained table in the middle has straps made of woven metal, thick to hold down bull orcs and maybe even ogres. I wonder if the table is used for research or enjoyment.

The next door opens as easily as the first, and I dive to the side.

Crack-boom!

Blue-white light illuminates the corridor, leaving my dazzled eyes are filled with kaleidoscopic afterimages. The strong smell of ozone fills the corridor, along with a hint of burnt stone. If I had not reacted to the feeling of danger, before even realizing what it was, I would possibly be dead. The Power in that lighting was several levels above what the Throd'nahk was capable of producing.

As I moved, I caught a glimpse of the room beyond. It is a trapezoidal room with a huge four-poster bed on the right wall. The entire floor is covered with a thick carpet, and a single chair and table are set up next to one of three windows, with a stack of books on the table. Two door on the wall opposite the bed were both closed, and bureaus were standing next to one of the doors.

Despite the ringing in my ears, I can hear the clatter of metal clattering on stone coming from the stairs. It is at least a dozen pairs of feet, maybe more.

I dive into the room and roll, moving in the direction of the bed. Standing in the corner next to the other closed door, the one farthest from where I entered, is a tall DokkAlfar female. Her silken robe is sky blue, with intricate sigils or formations embroidered on it in silvery metal thread.

Crack-boom!

The lighting bolt she launches thunders out the door again, barely missing me. Rising to my feet, I charge toward the Sinla'aveyka'tar in a zigzagging pattern. A third lightning bolt, not as powerful as the first two, streaks past me, before I reach her. As my left hand blade thrusts forward, a static electric field surrounds me. Muscle spasms cause me to miss, slicing open her shoulder instead of piercing her eye and brain.

As Sinla'aveyka'tar tries to dodge past, my right hand blade slashes her leg, jarring against the femur. The leg buckles under her weight, and my left blade pierces her back.

“ AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR!” Her shriek is high pitched and, the pain in it cannot hide the beauty of her Alfar voice.

I withdraw my blade and stab with it again. Blood, bone fragments, and bits of brain matter scatter all over the thick carpet, as my burst of ki force explodes Sinla'aveyka'tar's skull.

With no reason to be subtle any longer, I blast one of the windows open, with a another burst of ki force. Slipping into the Shadow of the Od, I charge out into the sanguine night and down into the back alley between the tower and the mansion behind it.

Surprisingly, there are no hails or cries from the Aveyka'tar Tower. If I did not know what had just occurred, I would think nothing was wrong.

Prey or Predator?

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 287

I do not enter the alley where I came up from the sewers. Something feels off. The slave work gang is still visible at the opposite end of the alley, but they did not have the relatively despondent air of earlier. Their movements indicated they were on edge and fearful. I slip past, staying in the shadows.

For hunters to be waiting for me here, they must have been aware of where I exited the sewers, but who are they? Are they aware of who I am? Do they know what I have done? Or by chance, is this completely unrelated to the assassination?

I was not too surprised, when there was no hue and cry at the Aveyka'tar Tower. It seems that Aluras'bektsh'tar never warned Clan Aveyka'tar about my coming. I think she wanted Sinla'aveyka'tar dead, and she also wanted me to be caught after the fact. These ambushers should be either Clan Vardne'tar or from the Gor'achen Legions.

There is no sign of the ambushers, so they are either inside the compounds backing on the alley or in the sewers. It is time to find them and ask a few questions. Moving along the avenue, I look for another sewer entry in the alleys. The nearest one seems to be about two hundred yards away, but it is on a different tunnel. The tunnel I exited from is running perpendicular to the line between the two entries.

Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain. With one eye seeing the world as patterns, I will not be easily fooled if the ambushers are concealed with spells.

Turning the lock to rust, I push open the gate and enter the sewers. At the bottom of the access stairs, I turn to the right. There was a tunnel this way that continued on in the direction of this tunnel. When I reach the cross tunnel, I turn toward the tunnel that I used earlier.

Pausing at the corner, I listen for any sounds of the ambushers. After several minutes, I do not hear anything. Moving in the Shadow of the Od, I scale the tunnel wall and move around the corner. Despite the light crystals, there are heavy shadows from the vaulted supports for the ceilings of the sewer tunnels. Concealed by those shadows, I slip forward, until I can see the ambushers.

They are not concealed by spells. All of them are wearing chainmail, but two of the ten are carrying rune inlaid staves instead of glaives. The real world bears little resemblance to the idiotic rules of role-playing games. There are no universal rules or classes restricting casters from wearing armor or learning to use weapons.

Those casters are the most dangerous, but they are on opposite ends of the ambush. With the ambushers split into two groups of five on opposite sides of the access stairway, the casters are at the outer ends of the groups.

As long as I kill them all and destroy the bodies, there should be no problems. I take my endless quiver out of my storage belt, and sling it sling it on my back. Pulling Stone Feather Death from the bow storage pouch, I string it. It seems much easier to string, but that is more likely an increase in my strength than anything to do with the bow.

Crack-boom!

The left side of the far caster's chest almost explodes under the impact of the arrow.

Crack-boom!

The second arrow pierces the second casters helm, turning his brain into puree.

Fuck me. I cannot keep a smirk off my face. Both arrows broke the sound barrier. Stone Feather Death is increasing its draw weight to match my increased strength. A normal Patterned weapon would never do that, nor would most named weapons. When I have the leisure, I need to probe this bow's past more deeply and establish a higher level thread link with it.

The ambushers all spin in my direction, their glaives held at the ready. Surprisingly, they do not make any noise, and there is no sign of panic in them. Whatever else they might be, they are not cowards.

I hunker as deeply into the shadows as I can, and knock another arrow to Stone Feather Death's string. Between the shadows of the material realm and the Shadow of the Od, it should be nearly impossible for them to see me. Even so, I am not invisible, not physically and certainly not psychically. Psi energy brushes past my mind a few times, before focusing on me. The cold malice in that psi probe would be enough to cause most beings to be chilled with fear, if not frozen with terror, but I am not most beings.

“There! Half on each side! Take him alive!” Something sounds odd about the voice. Even muffled by the helm, the pitch and timbre seem off.

The DokkAlfar who spoke points at the shadows, where I am hiding, and the group on the far side of the stairway jump across the sewage channel. As both groups start moving toward me, I launch the arrow at the arrow at the DokkAlfar that pointed at me.

Crack-boom!

“Aaargh!” The DokkAlfar's muffled exclamation of pain rises over the sound of leather soled boots on stone, as he pitches face down on the walkway. With my arrow lodged in his hip, he will not be moving very fast or very far.

Putting Stone Feather Death away, I race along the ceiling of the sewer tunnel toward the oncoming DokkAlfar. Dropping from the ceiling, I pull my short-swords, while flipping in midair to land feet down on the walkway.

The hammer falls, shaping the steel. The steel remembers the force. The steel releases the force. A dark grey aura surrounds my swords.

Cling! Clang!

“AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

A stream of blood sprays from the lead DokkAlfar's groin, as he drops to his knees, clutching his mangled balls. My kick breaks his neck, while flipping his corpse head over heels into the DokkAlfar behind him.

Having moved behind me, the DokkAlfar on the opposite side of the sewage channel are jumping over to my side. Running up the wall before they can attack my back, I jump over the two DokkAlfar in front of me. Twisting into a backflip, I land facing the rear DokkAlfar, who is spinning while slashing at me with his glaive.

Clang!

I stop the glaive with an x-block. Slipping inside the effective combat range of the glaive, I shoulder the DokkAlfar backward into the one trying to disentangle himself from the corpse. My knee hammers into his groin, and a wave of ki ruptures his internal organs.

These DokkAlfar give the impression of being from the regular legions. From their physical abilities, none of them seem to have begun to Coalesce their Power. Four are dead, and one is crippled. The remaining five are all in front of me, and none of them is my equal. Their confidence is broken, and there is hesitancy in their postures.

Stomping on the corpse of their comrades, if DokkAlfar think of one another as comrades that is, I charge into the closest one.

Clang! Crack! Clang!

I deflect the DokkAlfar's stab and snap a kick at his knee. He tries to use a shin block to stop my kick, but his tibia shatters under the impact. Even with hate and pain filling his eyes, this DokkAlfar does not make any sound. Instead, he targets my own knees with the butt of his glaive, but his eyes widen when I block the metal haft with my own shin. Pressing down on the haft of his glaive with my right sword, I drive my left blade up under his helmet, and the hate and fear leave his eyes, along with any other signs of life.

As the body starts to collapse, I kick it into the rest of the DokkAlfar. This time, they all jump and dodge to avoid getting tangled up. Directly in the wake of the copse, I attack the nearest one, and the DokkAlfar at the rear jumps across the sewage channel. The DokkAlfar I attack tries to step back and slash me, but the one still behind him blocks his movement. Getting inside the effective combat range of his glaive, I thrust both my blades through his chest.

Picking up the corpse, I keep charging into the DokkAlfar still in front of me. The DokkAlfar that jumped over the sewage channel jumps to my side at my back. Hurling the corpse, with my blades still embedded in its chest, at the DokkAlfar in front, I grab a fallen glaive and spin toward the DokkAlfar are my rear.

Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang!

“Aaarrrgh!”

The DokkAlfar keeps up with my rapid attacks for almost two seconds, before my glaive cleaves into his leg, burying the blade in his femur. Shoving him into the sewer channel, as blood fountains from the severed artery in his leg, I grab his fallen glaive and turn back to the last DokkAlfar.

The last DokkAlfar looks around and starts backing away. Even though they do not have a proper point for point work, these glaives still have just enough of a tip to open a chink in armor that their bladed edge can cut into. Underneath my mask, my grin is savage as I close and thrust low with the glaive. The DokkAlfar continues to defends desperately against my chain of thrusts, while backing away.

I have the feeling that he is trying to stall for time. They had a psi coordinating them. Could he think there are reinforcements close enough to save him?

I move onto the wall and jump behind the DokkAlfar. His movements are jerky as he tries to catch me, and my glaive slashes into his lower back, nearly cutting him in half. The surprised look in his eyes is already fading, as he falls to the ground.

The DokkAlfar I dumped in the sewer channel is trying to climb up onto the walkway. Even though he will bleed out in a minute or so, I still behead him.

Pulling my short-swords out of a DokkAlfar corpse, I flick the blood off the blades. With the dark grey force shimmer still surrounding the blades, simply things like bodily fluids cannot adhere to them.

The crippled DokkAlfar stares over his shoulder, as he tries to drag himself up the stairs. Fear and hate are mixed in his eyes, as he watches me close with him. When he tries to stab me with a dagger he was holding against his forearm, I shatter the arm.

“Aaarrrgh! Filthy animal!” The pitch is clearly audible and definitely off.

As I rip the DokkAlfar's helmet off, long hair the color of pure gold falls gently through the air to frame a face that is not even close to androgynous. Like all DokkAlfar females, her beauty is so incredible that it almost makes my heart skip a beat, but it is a face filled with fear.

“Why are you hunting me? Who sent you?”

She shakes her head. “I can't tell you. Betrayal means death for myself and everyone in my Line of Provenance.”

Keeping the DokkAlfar pinned to the ground with a knee and an arm lock, I pick up the dagger she tried to stab me with.

My heart is steel. My soul is the forge. My thoughts are life to my blade. The blade of the dagger turns cherry red, and heat shimmer distorts the air around it.

“If you don't tell me a story and make me believe it, I will bury this your guts. You'll die screaming in agony.”

“If I tell you, my company's coordinator will know, and I will suffer an even worse fate.”

If she is part of a company, that means she should be either a squad commander or a company commander. DokkAlfar squads are made up ten soldiers. DokkAlfar companies are made up ten squads. DokkAlfar legions are made up of ten companies. The DokkAlfar have a fixation on base ten organization, but I do not know how their military is organized beyond the legion level. I have heard larger groups called both task forces and armies, but there were no consistent sizes to either group.

I shrug. “Your choice.”

“NO!”

Blood mixed with bits of her skull and brains splatter all over the stairs and my armor. Stripping the gauntlet off the corpse's hand, I find a two dimensional storage rings. One is unadorned and the other has what I think is a Gor'achen Legion insignia, which should mean that the female was an officer.

Listening, I cannot hear any sounds of footsteps, but I am not waiting around to be cornered by a lager group. From the strength of the probes, the only way I can escape is to outdistance the psi users range or put wards that will block it between us. The easiest way to outdistance the probe would be to cross dimensional barriers, but to do that easily, I need to reach Thrall's teleport gate. The only problem with that is that I will lead my pursuers right to it. The next option is to use the tunnel between the layers. The second through the fifth layers are all pocket dimensions contained within the outer shell of Gor'achen Citadel. That would mean going back to the surface of the First Layer, where there is probably an ambush waiting for me at the tunnel to the Second Layer. I would certainly close off that route of escape, if I were trying to corral someone. My only real option might be going over the curtain wall surrounding the First Layer or through one of the sewer outlets.

The Seven Great Citadels are feared by the polities of the Battleground of the Damned for the military might they project, but they are also loathed for the filth they dump on the cities below. When passing over the cities of the Battleground, citadels will often dump thousands of gallons of sewage filled water on the cities. Each citadel has a myriad of outlets for ejecting sewage and other wasters, and while the are almost certainly barred, they should not be guarded.

The DokkAlfar and many of the non-DokkAlfar polities that are subject to them make extensive use of airships. There are multiple docks giving access to the citadel. On the First Layer, the docks are restricted to High Clan and military usage. The Second Layer's docks are for travellers, and the Third, Fourth and Fifth Layer's are primarily for cargo. As long as I can get onto the outer surface of the citadel, I can reach one of the other Layer's docks.

Whoever is probing me is not trying to break past my shields, he or she is just tracking me. There have to be psi techniques to conceal your mind from probes like this. If I knew one, I might never have been found. The more I do, the more I find myself lacking in knowledge and techniques. I do not see any pursuers, but that does not mean they are not there. Pausing periodically to listen for the sounds of pursuit, I move at random through the sewers, but I keep drifting toward the outer edge of the citadel.

I think I am fairly close to the outer edge and looking for a sewer outlet, when I pause. The faint sound of hard leather on stone reaches my ears. There are pursuers in the sewers. If I can get my hands on one of them and drag him into a pocket dimension, I may be able to interrogate the fucking puke and get a better idea of what Aluras'bektsh'tar's game is. I would hate to have wasted my time assassinating that caster bitch, with nothing better to show for it.

Finally, I can hear the sound of strong winds down a tunnel. I am standing in an octagonal room that contains a huge basin in its center. On five connecting sides, sewer tunnels dump into the basin a dozen or so feet below the bottom of their sewage channels. In the middle of one of the opposing walls, a much larger channel leads out of the room. The only problem is that there is no walkway in that tunnel, but that suits me better than if there was one.

The sounds of pursuit are audible from three of the sewer tunnels, but the noise dies out in two of them. I am not sure what they are doing, but they are not getting any closer. Only the pursuers in the tunnel I entered this room by keep coming. From the sound of the footsteps, there must be two companies of them, but the fools are making it easier for me.

I stand next to tunnel my pursuers will come out of, with my back to the wall. As the DokkAlfar soldiers leave the tunnel, they turn toward me, while moving into position to create a half-circle in front of me. Ten DokkAlfar, one squad, are facing me, and I can hear at least another squad of them still inside the tunnel.

All the DokkAlfar surrounding me are waiting, with their weapons pointed at me, but not a one is saying a word to me. What are they waiting for? There is a faint energy that might be psi, perhaps telepathy. Someone is giving this group orders, but I cannot tell if the communication is with one or all of them.

The DokkAlfar nearest the sewer tunnel, the last one to come out, takes out a slave collar. I may not know much about how the DokkAlfar slave collars work, but I am familiar enough with their patterns to know that this one is not normal.

“Put this . . .” The voice is too high pitched. This is another female squad commander.

My movement catches the DokkAlfar commander off balance. Even for DokkAlfar, when one is talking, it will take it fractions of a second longer to shift its mental gears to deal with something other than the the words it is speaking, like sudden violence. Wrapping the DokkAlfar's right arm with my left, I twist it into a painful submission lock, and she arches her back in an attempt to relieve the pressure on her elbow and shoulder. My right palm slams into her stomach, doubling her over and increasing the pressure on her joints, while carrying her along with me.

Behind me, the DokkAlfar's squad scrambles to chase me, but they seem leery of attacking, most likely afraid of injuring her along with me. Their hesitance gives me the second needed to reach the edge of the basin and leap off. Sliding my hand up under her helmet, I release a wave of ki into the DokkAlfar's head, and she loses consciousness.

Pain rips through me. My body feels like it is being torn apart. Dragging another being into the Shadow of the Od with me is more difficult than I ever imagined it could be. The pain does not end, but we are both in the Shadow of the Od. As my feet touch the surface of the sewage filled water, I begin to run again.

Fwoosh! Boom! Crack! Boom!

Barely missing me, spells detonate in the mouth of the outlet tunnel, as I disappear down it, and the energies wash over me without doing any damage. The water level is low enough that I have several feet of clearance above my head, and after less than a hundred yards, I reach a row of metal bars blocking the outlet. Beyond the bars, I can see the cloud filled sky and the sea of Trinity below. The red-tinged light makes this look a gate into hell.

I still wonder what the source of the red tinged light is. The Furnace of Life and Death is emitting a combination of silver-white and purplish-tinged black light, so how come is the background light a bloody red color?

The DokkAlfar is lucky her helm has strong straps keeping it in place, as I hold her by it when I release her arm. With the way I rattled her brain, she should stay unconscious for quite some time, so I do not need to worry about her causing problems.

The bars blocking my way are almost as thick as my wrist, with less than a foot of space between them. The metal they are forged from is an alloy of steel and and Blood Iron. The DokkAlfar seem to use this Blood Iron allow extensive in their defensive construction but not for weapons and armor, which I do not understand. Blood Iron is stronger and harder than the black alloy they normally use, so why not use it for their weapons and armor?

With the size of the gaps between the bars, I need to remove two of them, if I am going to fit through. Since waking up from my coma, I have developed an extremely thick and burly physique. The amount of bulk muscle I am carrying has my weight up near the three hundred pound mark, while I am barely more than a fraction of an inch over six feet tall.

It would take far too long to corrode such thick bars, but there are many symbols of breaking, each with its own properties, and no metal is perfect. They symbol I use finds the flaws that exist in all solid objects and exaggerates them. In less than a minute, I have two bars weakened enough that a kick with a focused blast of ki is enough to shatter each one.

With the bars gone, the gap is nearly three feet, but my shoulders still only clear it with an inch or so on each side. Even though I know that I have put on a lot of mass, I am still not really used to how thick and heavy my arms, legs, and shoulders have become.

Still carrying the unconscious DokkAlfar by her helmet, I move onto the outer surface of the citadel and look around. There are a few gryphons with riders flying around, but if they are hunting me, they do not seem to be aware of where I am. Below and to my left, there are the open gates of one of the docks. I do not know which level they are for, but considering how far down the side of the citadel they are, it is probably the Fourth Layer or maybe the Fifth Layer.

I start running down the side of the citadel. The outer surface is rough, filled with fissures, ledges, and chimneys, much like a mountain. I have never tripped over an concrete information about the source of the floating islands that were used for the bases of the citadels, but the ones I have seen look like the could be asteroids or pieces of mountains with their peaks flattened out. It really does not matter where they came from, but the roughness of Gor'achen Citadel's outer surface makes it easier to hide from any pursuers that might be trying to find me.

The psychic probes are still following me, but their strength is attenuating as I move down the side of the citadel. During the Great Fuck Over, we always found it hard to do anything except confront the DokkAlfar armies in head on battles, and I think I finally understand why. With even a handful of psis who could monitor our movements, even if it was only once we were within five or ten miles of them, how could we ever surprise the DokkAlfar?

The base of this citadel is somewhere around six to seven miles in height. The First Layer rises in tiers another half to three-quarters of a mile more above the curtain wall making the entire height of the citadel somewhere around seven to eight miles. This citadel is taller than Mount Everest, with a diameter of more than five miles at the widest point, and there are six more under the control of the Atran'ler Empire. With the possible exception of the Dvergar, there is no power with the Battleground of the Damned that can challenge the DokkAlfar.

I move quickly, but there are more gryphons in the air, before I am half way to the docks that I am targeting. The riders of the new gryphons are obviously searching, and there is nothing besides myself that would make sense as a target. As I move farther down the citadel's base, the psi probes become more tenuous, and their search area becomes wider. It seems that I am far enough from the psi that he or she can no longer accurately track me.

Using all the cover provided by the rough outer surface, I finally reach the docks. They are set back from the outer surface, and huge door can be used to close off the entry. Berthed at the wharfs, there are a mix of stone DokkAlfar airships and the wooden ones used by other races. Slaves under the close scrutiny of whip masters are loading and unloading cargoes from some of the airships, while others have their hatches buttoned up tight.

Staying in the Shadow of the Od and using the shadows of the material world, I cling to the roof of the docks and slip in near the corner. The psi probes abruptly disappear, after I pass under the massive gate. I have entered a pocket dimension, but whether the dock is its own pocket or part of the layer behind it, I cannot tell.

Not leaving the roof of the dock cavern, I move to the passage with the least traffic and sidle down the wall to enter it. Not a single being reacts to my presence, and I disappear from the docks as though I was never there. After less than fifty yards, the passage ends, and I enter the main cavern for this layer.

Instead of moving down to the floor level, I climb upward to get a better look at the layout of the layer. It appears that I am in the Fifth Layer. From above the layer can be divided into four areas. Two of them are clearly demarcated by a fence and a wall, and the the other two more or less spread one into the other.

The fenced area is a large military base. Three quarters of it is a training field, and the rest is made up of multistory barracks, smaller parade grounds, and administrative buildings. Other than guards and patrols, there is no visible activity in the military base.

The walled area contains decaying buildings ranging from shacks to multistory, multifamily residences. Thousands of human and orc males are visible, all wearing slave collars. Most are sitting or wandering in groups, but others, again in groups, are involved the ages old sports of beatings and gang rapes. This must be the infamous general slave pen that Tyrend was originally thrown into.

The third area is warehouses, which are obviously where the incoming and outgoing goods are stored. Mixing with the warehouses before separating into its own area are a mix of residences, ranging from nice to lavish, and walled or fenced compounds. Some of the compounds appear to be residences, and others are guarded complexes that do not have an obvious purpose. Though, the guards on those complexes have an air of private security thugs about them.

I need to find someplace to question this DokkAlfar, someplace where her screams will not be heard. There are wards all over the place, with the exception of the interior of the slave pen. Maybe, it would be better to take her someplace where no one will care if she screams.

Staying high on the sloping wall of the cavern, I easily slip past the guards and move toward the back of the slave pen. There seem to be six or maybe seven major gangs in control of the pen, and the one that controls the area farthest from the walls looks to be the largest.

With the collars on their necks, they have no control over their Power. Their raw emotions are filling the slave pen, like sewage in a cesspool: fear, hate, anger, lust, more fear, more hate, bloodlust, pride, arrogance, self-hatred, disgust, still more hate, still more fear. The nearly overwhelming intensity of them all makes my skin crawl. This place makes me feel like I am back on Earth.

Most of the slaves are naked, but a few have tattered pieces of rope or cloth tied around their waists like a status symbol. Each of them has one or more other slaves following them, holding onto the rope or cloth. When there is more than one follower hanging on, there seems to be a pecking order determined by how they are holding on. The grips range from using the thumb and forefinger to a full handed grasp. Despite their self-loathing, even the catamites seem to have something resembling pride.

Even though there have to be hundreds of thousands of slave in the pen, there are still many buildings that are completely unoccupied. Whether within or without the gangs, the slaves seem to mostly clustered together in groups, probably for security and strength of numbers.

Finding a five story building with no traces of anyone inside, I quickly walk across the air and enter the top floor. Snapping the odd slave collar on the DokkAlfar's neck, I leave her lying on the floor and check the building. There is no one living inside, but I find some skeletons and a partially dismembered rotting corpse, with what appear to be teeth marks around the missing sections.

Returning to the top floor, I sit down. For the first time in hours, I drop out of the Shadow of the Od, but the pain filling my body does not go away. My vision is blurry, and the pain is the same burning feeling as when I pushed my ki too far in the Swamp of the Lost. Only this time, I can feel the burning in my mind and soul as well as my body.

After stripping her of her armor and clothing, I tie the DokkAlfar with her own harness and gag her with strips torn off her own clothing. With the slave collar on her throat, she will not be getting free, before I have time to react.

Two females in a regular legion is more than unusual. Unlike most human polities in the Labyrinth of Yggr, the DokkAlfar have females in their military, but they are very seldom actual line troops. Most of them are either in dedicate magical support companies, or they are intelligence officers or strategists. Even though the DokkAlfar do not keep females out of the military, they are not stupid enough to risk the more vulnerable half the reproductive pair anymore than necessary in the chaos of battle.

Women in the military may be a nice sentiment for equality between the sexes, but it is complete bullshit from a survival standpoint. A man can impregnate a couple hundred or more women in a year, but a woman can only give birth to one child a year. For Alfar, that one child a year is closer to one child in two and a half years, if they can get pregnant in the first place. While it sounds great in fantasy novels, putting large numbers of your females in wars means your nation or race is doomed.

Pain wracks me, as I sit down again. I wonder how much damage I have done to myself this time. With someone else, I could look at their pattern and estimate, but I cannot see my own pattern. The only way I know to observe my own body is through meditation. I have to focus my mind and consciousness internally, and then, I can at least get a subjective view of my own body, mind, and soul.

I cannot claim to have real medical knowledge, but when you have spent time as a medical test subject, followed by a decade more of regular hospital visits for observation, you can learn a bit about the human body from a medical standpoint. When you spend a decade killing people and studying to be better at it, you learn other things about the human body.

My nervous system is a mess. The nervous system and the circulatory system are the channels that Power primarily flows through within a living body. I still do not really understand exactly what I am doing, when I use the Shadow of the Od. Thrall can only explain it in vague terms. It has something to with the relationship between the Trinity and the Od, and I am making use of my Power, primarily ki, to shift myself into the Shadow. According to Thrall, if I could use Trinity or the Od to make the shift, it would be almost effortless. Maybe if that was the case, I could carry another being with me and not damage myself.

I begin to channel the flow of my Power through my body. With being used for anything, it baths my damaged nervous system with revitalize energy, healing it instead of straining it. Garion for all his vaunted healing, did not understand that the Powers of the Trinity will naturally accelerate the body of a creature that is born of the Trinity.

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 288

The DokkAlfar has been awake for quite a while, when I open my eyes. Her hate-filled stare burning into me brings a smile to face, but with the face mask on my armor, she has no idea of what expression I may be showing.

Even though my slaps are light, they are still enough to rattle the DokkAlfar's brain, draw blood from her mouth and nose, and leave her face swelling. They also plant the shadow of fear beneath her hatred.

My voice is cold and emotionless. “That was just to get your attention.”

Grabbing the DokkAlfar by her hair, I drag her where we can see out the window and lift her high enough for a good view.

“We are on the Fifth Layer, in the middle of the slave pen. Imagine what your death would be like, if I were to dump you out there.  I'll take off some of their collars and let them abuse you. Think of how it would feel to die from being raped for hours on end, or if you're strong enough days on end. You'll have dicks in your cunt and your ass. Hell, they'll probably fuck you in your urethra. You'll get to suck on dicks. They'll even pop out your eyeballs and skull-fuck you. Or maybe they won't bother popping the eyeballs out and just crush them with nice hard dicks.”

The DokkAlfar shivers, as the seed of fear I planted germinates into full blown terror.

I throw her down on the ground and squat next to her. There is no hate left in her eyes, and certainly no defiance.

“If you don't want to die that way, you better tell me a story. Tell me a story about a manhunt, and the orders behind it. That gold-haired squad leader I killed thought what would happen if she talked would be worse than what I would do to her. Unfortunately, I was lacking for time and just killed her. I still don't have the time to torture you properly, either. So if I don't believe you, I'm just going to throw you out there naked and bound, and be on my merry way. There are more hunters out there, and one of them will be willing to talk.”

The DokkAlfar cannot see anything except my eyes, and my eyes have long since become cold and pitiless. Before I started playing Taereun: Battleground of the Damned, I was already brutal and remorseless, whenever I could escape the eternally watchful eyes of the social cameras. Since being one of The Damned, I have become lacking in any form or mercy or misplaced feelings of benevolence for those who wish me ill.

As I remove the gag from the DokkAlfar's mouth, she shudders, when my gauntleted fingers touch her lips.

“If you harm me, your situation will become truly hopeless, animal. I am under the direct command of the War Minster. I am a Company Commander in the Warlord's Fist Legion, her personal legion. Free me, now, and if you provide information on your fellow traitors, she might be inclined to give a quick, clean death.”

As I thought, Aluras'bektsh'tar was preparing a trap for me. Eliminating the other bitch, who was probably an enemy of Aluras', was most likely just a bonus. She obviously would not tell anyone that I am her assassin, but what kind of game is she running?

“Who do you think I am?” My hidden smile would cause this DokkAlfar bitch to piss herself, if she could see it.

The DokkAlfar sneers. By letting her run her mouth, it seems her fear is fading. “Did you think your Nameless God cult was a secret? Cowards and fools worshiping a god too scared to reveal his name and allowing animals like yourself among their ranks, you will all be exterminated.”

What the fuck? There is no indication that this DokkAlfar is lying. Just what the hell kind of crazy tale is Aluras'bektsh'tar spinning? A Nameless God cult among the DokkAlfar? It is not like there could not be one, but something feels seriously off about it. This sounds like some kind of crazy conspiracy theory, but I do not know anywhere near enough about DokkAlfar politics and society. Weird plots like this could be the norm for them. Considering how fucked in the head they are, this probably is normal for them.

Aluras'bektsh'tar is the one who ordered the assassination. She is also the one who ordered her personal legion to capture me. Is this some twisted method to set up Elan'fer'sha? Why would Aluras'bektsh'tar want to set up Elan'fer'sha? Why would she need to? From what I can tell, Elan'fer'sha lives outside the normal society of the DokkAlfar because she is a Wytch. Would the fallout form setting up Elan'fer'sha not impact Aluras'bektsh'tar as well? Could this have something to do with Woden's appearance in the arena and Graham and Alva swearing loyalty to him? Even though Alva was Aluras'bektsh'tar's slave, could that impact Elan'fer'sha?

I take off my helm, and the DokkAlfar gapes at me in astonishment, for a few moments.

“You're that animal Brand! Why are you an assassin for the Nameless God's cult?” The DokkAlfar pauses, as an idea dawns on her.

The DokkAlfar's face turns nasty, filling with spite and malice. “The Smith, the Wytch, and you, you have all betrayed the War Minister! You're all in league with the Nameless God, a part of his filthy cult!”

My laugh is nasty and mocking. “Cunt, where the fuck do you come off thinking I owe anything to your dyke cunt of a mistress? Elan'fer'sha is the only one with ties to her, and Elan has never turned on your backstabbing cunt of a mistress. That bitch is the one that ordered the assassination, and now she's trying to set Elan up.”

“Liar!”

Fucking DokkAlfar cunt.

I put my helmet and mask back on and grab the DokkAlfar by her hair.

“Aaargh! You fucking bitch! Let me go, animal!”

When I shake her like a rag doll, the DokkAlfar shuts up, and I drag her to the window. From the window, a few buildings away, I see a group of a dozen humans and orcs huddled around a fire. All of them are scared, and between them all, they are missing enough body parts to make half a man or more. They have a half butchered human corpse on the ground, with the legs roasting on the fire.

Cannibalism. The slave pens are worse than I imagined. The strong do not just ass-fuck the weak, they literally eat them. Do the DokkAlfar just not care how many slaves die, or do they collect enough that letting them kill and eat each other in the slave pen makes no difference?

“How about it? You think you'll enjoy spending the rest of you life with them?”

The DokkAlfar's eyes are opened so wide that the whites are visible all around the irises. Her voice is a desperate whisper, as though she is terrified of being notice. “No! Please, no! I'll do anything. Use me however you want, but don't give me to them!”

“Compared to the DokkAlfar pussy I fuck every night, you're third rate. Besides you're just a peon. You don't know anything about what's really going on.”

“The War Minister is going to usurp the Citadel Lord's position!” The DokkAlfar's face is a mask of terror and desperation.

“Tell me more.”

“The Nameless God's cult controls the Stoics, and they have almost been pushed to point where they will have to rebel, if they want to survive. We have been conducting special operations to drive the cultists into a corner. The Church has been manipulated into sending assassins against the Stoics and the Nameless God cultists. The cultists are planning to rebel and attack the Citadel Lord. The Warlord's Fist Legion has been training to take over the Citadel Lord's Palace. When they cultists attack, we will let them weaken the Palace Legion and move in behind them to take over.”

This is even more fucking twisted than I expected, but among the DokkAlfar, if those in lower position usurp the power of those in positions above them and solidify their power, they usually get away with it.

“How do you know all this?”

“My company was supposed to be the guard company for Sinla'aveyka'tar. She was part of the War Minister's camp.”

Sinla'aveyka'tar was Aluras'bektsh'tar's ally? Why the fuck did Aluras'bektsh'tar send me after her then? Was this some advance house cleaning? Will the rest of Clan Aveyka'tar back Aluras'bektsh'tar without Sinla'aveyka'tar?

I have never been good at dealing with politics, and I am out of my depth. Politics means people and personalities, and I do not understand people. I do not want to understand people, they disgust me.

“When does all of this shit go down?”

The DokkAlfar's face becomes more fearful. “Soon, but I don't know when. It all depends on when the cultists can be pushed into acting.”

There are still pieces missing. Aluras'bektsh'tar was clearly trying to set up Elan'fer'sha, but nothing this DokkAlfar bitch is talking about gives me a clue why. I need to get back to the Blood Rose Stable as soon as possible. Why? Does it really matter if Elan'fer'sha is used or maybe killed by Aluras'bektsh'tar? Besides fucking her, is there any reason to keep her alive?

Fuck me. I am not sure what is wrong with me. First Perzey and now Elan, I was better off when I was not getting laid. I could think straight back then. Now, I feel like I am thinking with my dick.

My laughter sounds insane in my own ears, the DokkAlfar bitch is staring at me in horror. It only make me laugh harder. She looks too ridiculous being held up by hair, while naked and bound, and having that pathetic expression on her face.

Below, the humans and orcs on the street are looking around. Even up here, I feel the fear coming off them in waves.

I grab the DokkAlfar's throat with my free hand. Panic and terror mix with the horror on her face, as she loses the ability to breath and her bones begin to creak under the strength of my grip.

“If I had more time, I would see how enthusiastic a fuck you could be, but unfortunately for you, I'm more interested in Elan'fer'sha living than trying you out.”

Purpose

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 288

The streets of the Third Layer are filled with simmering tension. With the exception of bars, taverns, and eateries, all the normal businesses are closed and shuttered. The yellowish light crystal in the cavern roofs have been extinguished, and the silvery ones used at night are casting their dim light over the layer. It should be fairly late, but I have yet to see any public clocks, so I can only guess at the time.

Still dressed in leather armor and a leather cloak, I stay in the shadows of the back alleys, as I make my way to the cavern with the tunnel entry. No one sees me, but a few notice my passage. As I move past them unseen, they shiver and look around.

As I am crossing over one of the larger streets, a head of honey blonde hair catches my eye. Below, coming toward me, a smiling face is framed by the shoulder length hair. Mikumi. Despite the tension in the air, I feel a clear sense of joy and contentment radiating from her. She is more or less dressed, but the material is transparent. Her hard nipples are clearly visible through the almost nonexistent material of her shift.

The man at Mikumi's side that she is snuggled up against is bigger and more heavily built than I am. Unlike Mikumi, the man is clearly aggressive toward anyone looking in their direction, and his arm is wrapped around like she is his prize possession. I have seen hid kind by the thousands. He has a bit of skill at fighting, but he will never be more than a thug. Maybe, he deals drugs or runs a protection racket, but he will never climb to the top of any significant criminal organization.

Looking at the pair of them, I do not think that man is a customer. The way the man is holding onto Mikumi leaves me feeling irritated and annoyed, but I do not understand why. She is nothing but a whore that fucked me because she was paid to.

As they pass under me, Mikumi shivers slightly and looks around.

“What's the matter, baby?” The man's voice carries arrogance, but the emotion he cannot hide is different. It feels like insecurity, though that may not be right.

Mikumi glances around again. “Nothing. I just felt a chill.”

Mikumi's eyes are reflected in a couple windows, while they move away from me. She is surreptitiously looking around, using the images reflected in those same windows as her eyes.

The side cavern where the second tunnel exit is located was once a private compound, probably for a mercantile operation. It is another small pocket dimension, like the Blood Rose Stable. There are living quarters that should have been for the owner's family, servant or worker barracks, and warehouses.

As soon as I am inside, a chill runs down my spine. I charge forward, into the shadow of a warehouse. Behind me, a clump of arrows punch holes in the hard rock. A quick glance confirms my perception from my spatial awareness, at least seven archers fired at me. I can tell the general areas where the arrows came from, but I cannot locate the actual archers.

My kick, backed up with my ki, punches a hole in the wall of the warehouse, and I quickly duck inside. From the shadows inside the empty warehouse, I try to find the archers on the rooflines of the buildings in the main cavern. The instincts I developed over my eleven years in the Great Fuck Over tell me the archers are still there, but I cannot spot them. Either, they are being hidden by wards that I cannot detect, or they have the abilities that allow them to hide from my perceptions. I do not think these archers are part of Aluras'bektsh'tar's legion. It is more likely these are professional assassins.

Since I escaped into the Fifth Layer, I have not felt any psi probes. Either these assassins picked me up visually, or they knew where I was headed. I doubt that they could have found Thrall's teleport gate, but they might be aware of this passage and its sewer exit on the First Layer. The door to the sewer tunnel can be operated by anyone with enough mana and the ability to channel it, which means a not insignificant percentage of the DokkAlfar population of Gor'achen and who knows how many of the non-DokkAlfar. After all, the DokkAlfar are outnumbered by non-DokkAlfar in Gor'achen by something around twenty to one.

I have to assume that the assassins were waiting for me, and there will be more of them between myself and the passage. Swords in hand, I move deeper into the empty warehouse. Even though there is no light, the world around is clearly visible in gray scale to my ki enhanced vision There is a double door in the back wall that leads deeper into the complex. Passing through it, I find a corridor I have not been in running parallel to the back to the warehouse, with other double doors opening onto it. Since where I would have entered to reach the tunnel is to my right, I turn right.

The corridor ends at a single door, and I pause to listen. I did not expect to hear anything, but I am still irritated that I cannot get any clue as to whether the assassins are present or not. Cautiously, I open the door, but here is still no sign of the assassins. However, I recognize the corridor on the other side. If I had entered where I originally intended to, I would already be using this corridor. It leads to the deepest storage rooms.

Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain.

Pulling off my gauntlet, I slice my palm and anoint both blades with my blood, before kissing the hilts.

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

I sheathe my short-swords and feel them almost floating in their scabbards. I do not like short-swords to begin with, and these are too light. Their lack of weight and mass robs my strikes of a chunk of their power. Taking out my regular weapon harness I don it, and adjust the fit, so that the paired bastard sword hang comfortably on my back. With the massive increases to my strength, they are still not close to the kind of mass I want in a weapon, but they are better than the short-swords.

I draw my bastard swords, with the soft ringing of metal on metal.

My heart is steel. Steel is the blood and bone of the Smith. While the flame of my soul burns, the steel of my sword will never break and never dull. A silver aura surrounds both swords.

Steel is shaped. Steel is tempered. Steel is honed. The blade severs life, leaving death. A brilliant white light momentarily flares on the edges of the blades, before the honed edges become line of white.

Reaching the end of the corridor, I enter the last room. I feel a murderous tension in the air. The assassins are here, waiting for me.

“You faggots might as well come out. I smell your stench in the air.”

A shadow starts to move, and nine more immediately spring out from nine other locations. They are all taller than I am, with the beanpole builds of Alfar. Their armor and short-swords are a match for the ones that I have, so they are probably Left Hand of Yggr assassins. Three of them are on the ground, and the rest are on top of the empty shelving.

If they are sending ten assassins after me, I must have done something that really pissed off the Left Hand Order of Yggr. The information that Aluras'bektsh'tar gave me had no indications of ties between Sinla'aveyka'tar and the Left Hand Order. Was that the real trap? Then what is the truth about the coup that DokkAlfar cunt was telling me about? Am I a distraction?

An assassin to my right is isolated, I jump onto an empty keg rack and launch myself toward the top of the shelves he is on. Even with their greater height and limb length, the length of my swords gives me the greater reach. The assassin tries to parry my thrust with my left blade using only one sword and has to quickly twist and add the strength of his other hand to the attempt. My right hand blade strikes the shelving beneath his feet, and driven by the explosion of ki, splinters and shards of wood are sent flying across the room.

My feet land solidly on top of the shelving unit. Even though it is made of wood, it easily supports my weight.

As the assassin loses his balance, I crouch down. Pulling my left sword back, I slash at an upward angle into the backs of his legs. Despite the resilience of the assassin's black leather armor, it is cleanly sliced through by the white aura of Power on the edge my blade. The flesh and bone inside the armor part like cobwebs under the magically enhanced sharpness of my sword, and his legs start to fall to one side of the shelving, while his body falls to the other. Streams of spurting blood form a curtain in the air as his body spins.

Not even pausing, I spring toward the outside the assassins' attempted encirclement. Without slowing, they turn and follow. This room is not that big, maybe two hundred feet deep and three hundred wide. There is not much room to run, but I have no intention of running. Turning to my left, I flicker through the Shadow of the Od and close on the farthest leftward assassin.

A heavy overhand slash forces the assassin to use both of his short-swords to stop it, and leaves him open to a low attack. My left blade stabs though his abdomen, and I slice upward as I pull it out, opening him up from waist to sternum. Sections of his already severed intestines begin to fall out of the gaping wound, and the stench of open bowels fills the air.

Clang! Clang!

I deflect another assassin's thrusts and move away from him. Dropping to the ground, I engage an assassin who is alone in the aisle below. He sways and weaves while retreating, attempting to buy time for other assassins to surround me.

Dropping into the Shadow of the Od for a fraction of a second, I move next to the assassin and hammer a round kick into his shin. His armor, which is strong against slicing and piercing attacks, barely reduces the impact of my kick, and the unleashed wave of ki destroys the bone and flesh inside of it. As the assassin lists to his right, when the boot of his armor becomes nothing but a sack for his ruined flesh and blood, I keep moving past him.

Bouncing off one of the shelving units, I barely touch the top of another, as I take in the positions on the remaining assassins. Keeping my distance from the main body of assassins, I move across the room and close on two that are a bit separated from the rest.

The two assassins separate a bit more thinking to attack me from two sides, but I step through the Shadow of the Od and come up on the outside of the farthest one out. His reactions are good, even better than the average DokkAlfar, and he spins toward me, blocking both my blades. His strength is as surprising as his reactions, at least two or three times better than most DokkAlfar. Has he started to Coalesce his Power?

As I exchange blows with the first assassin, the second one uses the few seconds to move around and attack from my side. He is coming at me with a high line attack, aiming for my neck. I drop into a crouch, avoiding the attack, and spear my shoulder into his solar plexus.

“Aieeeee!”

As the assassin staggers backward, my short-swords drop out of their sheathes and stab through his groin, into his lower abdomen. When he start to crumple, the swords rip out of his stomach in a shower of blood. I leap over the falling body, and the short-swords stab toward the first assassin, who parries and jumps clear, in a different direction.

The other five assassins have closed in around me in an arc. Without the Shadow of the Od, there would be no reliable way to get past them. The short-swords return to hover over my shoulders For a moment, neither the assassins nor I move, as we appraise one another.

Since the assassin that is probably Coalescent is to my left, I charge to the right. My target stiffens in fear for a fraction of a second, giving me the chance to pin him down. I launch staggered overhand strikes with both blades, forcing him to give way toward the wall to avoid them. As he tries to parry my bastard swords, the dancing short-swords arc up and over. Coming down on both sides of the assassin's neck, they pierce through the gaps in his collar bone, tearing up his arteries, heart and lungs.

I step past the falling body and spin toward the next assassin in line, as fountains of blood spray into the air. My short-swords fly into the air rotating around their guards, as though they are spinning around axle shafts. As our blades clash, the short-swords shoot out to either side of my opponent, attacking the assassins coming up on either side of him.

The hammer falls, shaping the steel. The steel remembers the force. The steel releases the force. A dark grey aura mixes with the silver aura surrounding my bastard swords, and the assassin's short-swords are battered aside. My kick with a burst of ki to his diaphragm ruptures internal organs, and blood leaks from his helmet as he flies backward.

Circling around the two assassins my short-swords are tying up, the last two assassins come at me from either side. The Coalescent assassin is on my left, and I close with him, while keeping ahead of the other one.

The Coalescent assassin suddenly blurs into motion, and my block is a fraction of a second too late. His left hand sword pierces through my armor and pecs, before stopping at my ribs. As both my swords bind his, the assassin pushes me off balance, with a surprising burst of strength.

Spinning like rotary saws, my short-swords dart away from their current targets and cut into the back of the Coalescent assassin and the side of the other one closing on me. The Coalescent assassin collapses, with his spine severed, and the other one attempts to hurl himself away from the short-sword.

I do not try to retain my balance and fall between the shelving units. Flipping over backwards, I land silently on my feet. The short-swords return to hover over my shoulders again.

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.”

I point at Keratin. “That piece of shit was Aluras'bektsh'tar's spy in the stable, and now, he is a toy for Mungo and his faggots to play with.”

Mungo is staring at me, filled with hate, anger, and resentment. He is clearly aware of my contempt for him and his collection of faggots, but he knows that I can kill all of them at the same time, with or without weapons.

The Throd'nahk walks over and stops about ten feet from me. His erect posture and the arrogant tilt to his head is purely confrontational. In contrast, when he speaks, his tone of voice is flat and emotionless. “How do you know this? You are nothing but a slave, just like the rest of us.”

I run my fingers over my collarless neck. “I'm no fucking slave. You may be one, but I'm not. I'm the Smith's disciple. Anytime I want, I can leave this place. There is not a single DokkAlfar in Gor'achen Citadel that can stop me.

“Aluras'bektsh'tar wanted me to become her assassin, and I made two kills for her. The second was my last, but it was also a setup by her. She wanted to capture me, after I made the kill. I turned the tables and captured a couple of the company leaders from her legion. One of the sluts talked. She spilled what she knew, before I killed her. Mungo's new bitch talked too.”

The Throd'nahk is filled with burning anger and another complex emotion that I do not really understand. It is at least partly lust, but I do not know what the rest of it is. He glances around the room, weighing the attitudes of the gladiator's and guards, before staring at me.

“What are you planning to do?”

The Throd'nahk's question catches me off guard. My eyes widen slightly in surprise. I have been running on pure emotion, since interrogating that DokkAlfar bitch. The little head is the one that has been doing all of what passes for my thinking. What the fuck am I going to do?

I have an agreement with Elan'fer'sha, but if she has become Aluras'bektsh'tar's prisoner, there is nothing in that agreement that is forcing me to do anything. Elan is nothing but another DokkAlfar bitch that looks at me as an animal, but she is a DokkAlfar bitch that I have been fucking on a daily basis. Maybe, it is time to make her my woman. It would piss her off to be called my woman. It would put her, a DokkAlfar female, on the same level as a human female, nothing but a woman.

My grin is fierce and brutal, a challenge and a warning to anyone that sees it. “I'm going to take my woman back from that fucking dyke, and anyone that gets in my way will die.”

I am still thinking with my dick, but maybe, that is not always a bad thing.

There is total silence, as I leave the mess hall. In most of the gladiators and guards, their anger, hate, and fear have been replaced with shock and surprise. A few of them even have a bit of twisted admiration mixed in with the surprise.

Window and Door

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 289 – Day 290

In Thrall's ritual room, the stand in the middle of the room still supports a frame made of silvery metal, like the frame of a long oval mirror.

I have not slept much, but I rested a bit. Anger and frustration kept gnawing at me. I would not say that life has been good, since coming to Gor'achen, but it is certainly better than living on a shithole like Earth. Because I was enjoying learning from Thrall, fighting in the arena, and fucking Elan'fer'sha, I was getting complacent. I let that cunt Aluras'bektsh'tar take something from me, and I may not be able to take it back.

Steel is cruelty. Steel is pain.

I cast the pattern sight spell on both of my eyes. The pattern of the frame is like nothing I have seen before. There are parts of it that remind of the party charms, but they are just small fragments of the whole. Its complexity is on par with a living being. While I may be wrong, there seems to be strong elements of psi and traces of ki in this pattern. When Thrall used the frame, I thought he was using a mana based spell, but now, I know that I was wrong. He would have been using Trinity, when he communicated with Boran. This pattern was made to be used by Trinity, not a partial aspect of Trinity like mana.

Thrall is still missing, so how do I activate this pattern? Ha! If Thrall was here, I would not need to activate the pattern.

Even though the pattern has all the aspects of the Trinity in it, I can only find a single contact point. Would it work, if I used all three Powers, mana, psi, and ki, at once? It is at least worth a try, if nothing else.

Body, mind, and soul, I need to use all three at the same time. That is easier said than done. My awareness and consciousness are no longer restricted to my mind. With the strengthening of my ki and the awakening of my psi, they have expanded into my body and soul, but I have never consciously used all three for a single purpose. Keeping my ki flowing through my body, mind, and soul has become an autonomic action, the same as breathing. My spatial awareness and is passive, like my other senses. I can focus on it, but I do not do that unless I am searching for something hidden or obscure. Even my empathy is something that is always on, and when actively probing, I am focusing on it exclusively. Whenever I used more than one, it was always done in sequence, while simply maintaining the previous Power. Now, I need to actively project all three types of Power at the same time for the same purpose.

All three of the aspect of the Trinity exist within me, but so far I can only circulate ki through my body, mind, and soul without constantly focusing on it. Since circulating my ki became natural, I have stopped mediating. I derive more benefit from using my Power. I am more naturally a fucking things up that contemplating my navel personality, but meditation may have its purpose too.

Sitting in a lotus position, I turn my focus inward, observing the three Powers within myself. My ki is constantly flowing through me. Even if it is not the raging torrent that I use to enhance myself in combat, it is always flowing like a calm brook. However, my mana and psi are pooled in my body and mind. If I do not actively channel them, they are nothing more than untapped reservoirs. Only small amounts are circulated, as they are dragged along with my ki.

Up to now, I have only circulated my mana a handful of times and have never done so with psi. Drawing out thread of mana and psi, I start circulating them throughout my body, mind, and soul, using the same paths as my ki is following. In the body, the flow of Powers follows the circulatory and nervous systems, and in the mind and soul, they flow through pathways that are analogous to the physical ones.

In a manner I never expected, the threads of the three Powers are being drawn to each and weaving together like a braid. The combined energies of the three Powers is healing the remaining damage from overexerting myself while carrying my DokkAlfar prisoner. As I watch the braid of Power moving through my body, mind, and soul, I have the strangest illusion that I am looking a triple helix.

I do not know how much time has passed, but I feel completely restored. There is not a single sign of self-inflicted damage remaining. I feel stronger and tougher than ever before.

I have used mana to activate Items of Power. Even if I have never threaded ki or psi in that way, there is a first time for everything. Manipulating the braided Powers, I create a thread of Power in the same manner as I channeled Power into the doors to Thrall's no longer so secret tunnels. At first it feels clunky, and my manipulation of the Power is clumsy.

I only saw Thrall activate this frame once. Though, I can barely remember the spell pattern he used, I do my best to duplicate it and tie it to the thread point. This not a thread point meant for soul binding the frame, but rather to connect the spell pattern. The frame is best described as a spell formation with a mutable use or multiple uses. The spell fails to trigger the frame, but I get a better understanding of the frames function.

Ten times. Twenty times. Fifty times. I weave the spell again and again. Each time I cast it on the formation's thread point, I learn more. When Thrall used the frame to contact Boran, I think I assumed it was a communication device, but it is not. While Thrall used it like a videophone, I think it is closer to an espionage device. I keep casting variations on the spell pattern I am trying to use and using places that I have already seen within Gor'achen Citadel as the focal point. I still have not figured out the trick to focus on a specific being. There might not be a way to do so, but I think my knowledge is just too limited.

Sitting down again, I meditate on the frame's pattern, while my reservoirs of Power refill. While meditation does not help me much to build my Power, it seems it is useful for evaluating information and understanding abstract concepts. Everything has its purpose.

The frame has the ability to view images across dimensional boundaries, and I do not think that its ranges is limited to the Labyrinth of Yggr. It all comes down to a question of Power. The greater the distance in terms of dimensions you are trying to see across, the more Power you will need to activate it. More importantly, you have to know what you are trying to observe. Being familiar with one or more patterns in the target zone is the best, but even without being familiar with any patterns having a good mental image of the target zone will still work.

My constant failing is a lack of knowledge, and that is not a weakness that can be overcome in a matter of days. It will years, decades, or centuries, before I can begin to overcome that obstacle.

It has been over three years since the last time I was in Mountain View, three years since I last saw the cavern with the statues, but my memory of them is still crystal clear. With all my Power refreshed, I begin to weave another spell pattern. I keep the image of that cavern and the statues clear in my mind, as I create the spell and connect it to the frame's thread point.

The frame starts sucking in my Power like a black hole. I cannot stop or even slow down the flow. I cannot break my link to the spell pattern and the frame. All of my Power is drawn out of me in a few seconds. Just hanging onto consciousness is struggle, but if I pass out, I think I will really die.

“AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

An agonized scream is ripped out of me, as a torrent of Od pours through me. The volume of Power is too much, and it feels like my body, mind, and soul are being destroyed. Time becomes nebulous, and I do not know how long the pain drags on.

In the frame, an image appears. There is a canvas on an easel, with the partially completed picture of a girl in a red Chinese style dress. Sitting in front of the easel, with her back to me, is a woman with hair so long that is pooling on the floor behind her. That hair is a black so dark that it has bluish highlights where the sunlight touches it. The woman, no, teenage girl, looks over he shoulder, with a faint hint of surprise on her face, and blackness consumes me.

Something soft is touching my forehead, as I start into wakefulness. Opening my eyes, I see the girl with the black hair, dressed in a blue-green kimono, kneeling on the floor next to me. Her small, soft hand is resting on my forehead, and a slight smile is on her lips.

*That was a dangerous thing to do. You're far too weak to be using the Od, especially in such large quantities.* Her soft and slightly husky voice sounds inside my mind.

I stare at the face that matches the statue in Boran's cavern. In person, her beauty is almost overwhelming. Human beings were not meant to embody such perfection.

The girl's smile broadens. *I'm not human, at least not anymore. Even though you have been chosen by the Od, I am surprised Boran showed you the statues. He is usually such a secretive old Dvergar.*

“Who . . . what are you?”

*Boran already told you, I'm LIFE, but you could more accurately say I'm CREATION.*

“Aaarrrgh!” The way she forms the words Life and Creation drives knives though my skull. The meaning and intent in those two words is not something I am not equipped to handle. It is similar to the way Boran said them, back when I first met him, only more intense.

A tiny trickle of energy flows from Life's hand into me, and the pain disappears. That Power reminds me of the Od, or maybe the Od reminds me of that Power, a mere shadow of it, would be a better way to put it.

Life smiles fondly. *You're more HIS child than mine, but I still love you. This metaverse is harsh, and danger lies everywhere. If you are not destroyed in your climb to Power, there will come a day when you will be able to use the Od as naturally as you draw breath. That is when you must make your choice. Until you are strong enough, you need to be careful. In small amounts, you can survive the touch of the Od, but if I was not the terminus of your seeking, you would have died from drawing so heavily on the Od.*

Life strokes my scarred cheek for a moment, a sad frown on her lips. *You're enemy is cruel to do this to a child, but the pain is not as great as you believe. You have no concept of real pain. Do not let this shape and dominate you. When you meet your enemy, destroy him and move past him.*

Life glances the frame, with the image of the room with painting. *That is a bit too powerful for you to be experimenting with so casually.*

For a moment, it feels like my mind is going to explode, as the knowledge of the frame's pattern, usage, and purpose fills my mind. To say that its scope is mind blowing would be an understatement. I barely hold back a shiver. I am lucky I did not eradicated myself with the way I was toying around with it.

Life rises to her feet, her face appearing mischievous. *It's okay to think with your dick. Men and women are meant to love another. Just because she is an Alfar female does not mean she is not a woman. Love and sex bind men and women together and keeps the cycle of Life to Death and back to Life flowing forever. I know this is truth, since I made it that way. Give dear old Boran my love.*

Life seems to stretch out, like the scenes of spaceships accelerating to light speed in a video, and appears back inside the image. She is looking at me with a sad smile, as the image disappears.

I rise shakily to my feet. Physically, I am fine, but the impact of Life's presence has left me shaken to my core. Woden, who calls himself a God, is not even a fart in a hurricane compared with her. After, being in the same room with her, the world around me feels pale and ephemeral. She seemed to see and know everything about me, but strangely, knowing that she knew about all my darkest secrets and shames does not make uncomfortable.

She went at her own pace, never giving me the chance to ask any of my questions. Why would she call me her child? Could it be because of the Od? Is it because she really is Life, and sees everyone as her children? When she said HIS, who did she refer to? Who is my enemy? What choice do I have to make?

With the knowledge given me by Life, Thrall's frame is considerably more intimidating than it was only minutes ago. It is both a window and a door that can reach almost any place not warded in certain manners, and even when a place is warded, it can even break many of those wards, if you give it enough Power. The key is Power, and I have only a fraction of what is necessary to make proper use of it. I probably have enough Power to contact Boran with it, but that assumes I do not make another idiotic mistake like I just did.

Despite being completely drained of Power by the spell, I am brimming with Power now. It must have been Life's handiwork, but other than being chosen by the Od, I have no idea why she would save me and restore my Power.

There is no time like the present to test the knowledge that she passed on to me. Based on what I now know, I should be safe contacting Boran. Even though Mountain View is in a different region of the Labyrinth of Yggr, it should be safely within my Power limits. Trying to contact Thrall is a different matter. Without knowing where he is, I could overextend myself, and die from Power depletion or drawing on the Od.

The spell pattern I weave this time is different from the previous ones, and as it connects to the thread point in the frame, I feel a heavy drain on my Power. A silver shimmer in the interior of the frame coalesces into an image of Boran.

For a moment, Boran stares at me, before nodding to himself. “You have figured out how to use Thrall's mirror.”

“You already knew Thrall wasn't here.”

“I know many things.”

“What do you know about Talchok'aveyka'tar, Sinla'aveyka'tar, and Aluras'bektsh'tar.”

“That depends on what you are asking. What was your impression on meeting Life?”

I pause for a second. Boran asking that question is surprising for a moment, but he is a Priest of Life and Death.

“She is more than just a little overwhelming. After asking who she was, I never had a chance to ask anything else. She said to give you her love. Why is Aluras'bektsh'tar staging a coup?”

Boran smiles. “She is a DokkAlfar. Does she need any other reason?”

“I've been feeling like someone's been fucking with me. How are you involved in the shit I'm in the middle of?”

“Thrall allowed it to happen, because I asked him to. You needed more training and real conflict to hone yourself.”

“Eleven years in the Lands of Despair wasn't enough?”

“You are now in your real body, and it has formidable potential for a human, potential that exceeds anything I have yet to encounter in a mere human.”

“What about Elan'fer'sha?”

Boran shrugs. “She is just another Alfar. I have slaughtered billions of Alfar.”

“I'm going to get her back. She's my woman, now.”

“She is almost out of time. Her Umbral Channels were deliberately mislaid.”

“Because of you?”

“I do not know who instigated it, but there is no one in Gor'achen Citadel that should understand why and how they are mislaid. Instead of shielding her from Umbral corruption, they have been corrupting her in a specific way, confining the majority of the corruption to her soul.”

“Not even Thrall?”

“Thrall's knowledge is impressive for one so young, but there are no remaining sources for leaning about Umbral Channels that he should have access to. The DokkAlfar do it by rote memory. That is what makes the sabotage of your woman's Umbral Channels puzzling. Someone or something with extensive knowledge of Power Channels arranged it.”

“Can you fix them?”

“There is no point. The damage is already done. Even if she never touches the Umbra again, she will not last more than two thousand days.”

“I'm going to take her back.”

“The only DokkAlfar in Gor'achen you are not capable of killing has been lured out of Gor'achen by Thrall. You will have to struggle and overcome your limits, but if you do, you can succeed.”

“Why?”

“I have a task I need completed. You are the best one to carry it out, and I can provide you with rewards that will be beneficial to your future growth.”

“What is it?”

“You will learn, if you survive.”

“What is the relationship between Talchok'aveyka'tar, Sinla'aveyka'tar, and Aluras'bektsh'tar?”

“Thrall's mirror is both a window and a door.”

“I know. Life gave me the knowledge about it.”

“You have the tools you need. If you succeed, we will talk.”

The image of Boran disappears from the frame.

I am pissed, but everyone has their own agenda. Boran has no obligation to help me. What I am after and what he is after are not necessarily the same, but at least according to Boran, with Thrall's mirror, I have the tools I need to figure out what the fuck is going on.

Using the mirror, I scan through the layers of Gor'achen from a bird's eye point of view. The tension that I felt when returning to the Blood Rose Stable seems to have grown. No matter which layer I observe, the residents of Gor'achen are continuously looking around in a furtive manner, as they go about their business.

The way Thrall's mirror works is based off dimensional rifts. When being used to view a location, the beings there can only see the user of Thrall's mirror, if the user allows it, or if the beings at the target have spells or senses allowing them to detect and observe dimensional rifts. There are a number of ways to block the mirror from viewing a location, but that means that the location has wards or other effects inhibiting dimensional rifts. The number of locations and dimensional pockets in Gor'achen Citadel with those types of wards and effects is surprisingly limited. Even though I have seldom encountered dimensional magic or powers, they were almost always in the hand of DokkAlfar.

Vardne'tar Castle, Lord's Castle, and the Cathedral of the Jotun Lords are all filled with sections that are completely warded against dimensional magic. I could probably break some of those wards, but that would immediately alert the casters. In what I can observe of Vardne'tar Castle there is no sign of Aluras'bektsh'tar. It might be easier to make plans, if I locate the Nameless' cultists, but the problem is finding them. I am not certain, but I think that Woden has subverted the Stoics, and turned them into The Nameless' cultist. Unfortunately, I have no idea where that teleport portal took me, and no way to identify other cultists, unless I catch them entering one of the portals. There were no defining features about that room that I could use to lock onto it either.

The best time to fins the cultists will probably be at night, if you can really say there is any difference between day and night in this dimension. For now, I will sleep and eat, then begin searching again during the nominal night.

* * * * *

When I enter the mess hall, there are a half-dozen gladiators sitting in a group, quietly talking. Seeing me, they fall silent, and three of them leave through three different doors. Since the hour is already past the evening meal, there is no food out, so I continue through the mess hall toward the kitchen.

The kitchen is off the hall that leads to the baths, and the DokkAlfar guard at the door does not try to stop me. Even though Elan'fer'sha provided whores, booze, and a feast for the gladiators after winning matches, the regular food was always low quality crap. The actual ordering of supplies would have been something she would never waste time on, so who was buying the crap food? Keratin?

Despite the food being crap, the storeroom and cooler are high quality. They both have sigils crafted into them to prevent the decay of the food stored within. Like some of the human polities in the Battleground of the Damned, the DokkAlfar use a certain amount of magic technology. I suppose it is really Power technology or mana technology, but the word magic feels more appropriate for most things mana related.

The only place in the Battleground of the Damned that really goes overboard with the magic technology is the Kingdom of Toven, located in a backwater area of the Southern Reaches. Down there they are absolutely crawling with Artificers and Magic Engineers.

I have no idea how the DokkAlfar do it, but the sigils are probably also intended to keep insects and vermin out. Gor'achen Citadel has a definitive lack of both. Whether in the sewers or the slave pen of the Fifth Layer, even with the filth in the back alleys of the Third Layer and Fourth Layer, I have never seen so much as a fly, let alone a mouse or rat.

With a plateful of meat and bread, I head back toward the mess hall but stop in the corridor. Coming from the mess hall, I can feel a maelstrom of emotions from over twenty humans. When I probe the room, I find the cold shields of seven DokkAlfar in there with them.

As I enter the mess hall again and stare at them, they all stare back. The Throd'nahk is among them, along with the DokkAlfar guard commander, whose name I do not know, next to him. Tyrend is sitting off to one side, and Mungo is in the back with a couple of his faggots. Broken Shoulder and Keratin are squatting next to Mungo, while holding onto his loincloth. The rest are gathered into three groups, which pretty much represent the cliques in the stable. What the fuck is going on?

Even though the humans' emotional state is turbulent, there does not seem to be any hostility directed toward me. Well, there is no hostility with the exception of Mungo. His dislike for me seems to be as strong as my disgust toward him.

The Throd'nahk and the guard commander look at each other, and the guard commander nods fractionally. With his slight nod of acknowledgment, the Throd'nahk steps forward a pace.

“You have been holed up with the Smith since yesterday. Is the Smith going to intervene? What are you going to do?”

So, they do not seem to be aware that Thrall is not in Gor'achen. It is not surprising, since not even Elan'fer'sha knows much about him and his business. They will probably easier to deal with if I do not let them know, but I may have to in the end.

“The Smith has his own affairs and is not getting involved. As soon as I have an opening, I am going to take Elan'fer'sha back.”

The Throd'nahk becomes worried, but keeps his expression unchanged. “Do you know where she is now?”

I shrug. “Not yet. There are too many wards throughout Vardne'tar Castle. I can't really spy on them too easily, but when Aluras'bektsh'tar makes a move, there will be an opening.”

“How do you know? Do you have knowledge about what she is doing?” The guard commander's voice is soft, but it has a hard edge to it. The look in his eyes says that he has seen the bad side of life and has no qualms about being violent.

“What are all of you planning?” I stare the guard commander in the eye. “I know what you are, but what's your name?”

The guard commander holds my stare for a few moments. He is clearly measuring me, just like I am weighing him. We do not know each other, and without some idea of what he is after, I am not going to tell him more. Before figuring out how they are going to jump, I am not going to tell any of them more.

“Kanchek of no Provenance.” Kanchek's tone is challenging. He is about average height for an Alfar male, 6'6” or so, but he is surprisingly heavily build, almost reaching the bulk of an average human. While he is wearing the usual chainmail made from the DokkAlfar's favorite oily black alloy, he has a pair of war hammers hanging from his belt, and I have seen him carrying a polearm similar to a Lucerne hammer at times.

“If you don't go off on some half-assed suicide attempt, we seven are going to help you retrieve the Mistress.”

“All of the Gladiators in this room will be going too.” The Throd'nahk's tone leaves no room for doubt about his intentions.

“What about the people not in this room?”

Kanchek's mouth has a hostile twist that is almost a smile. “They are in holding cells and will remain there until we succeed or die.”

I look around the room. “Why? I've never known DokkAlfar to be loyal to anyone or anything. You serve the boot that is on your back. As for you gladiators, you're slaves. DokkAlfar are going to die. You'll be tortured to death.”

The Throd'nahk and Kanchek glance at another. Maybe looking to see who will go first.

Tyrend's voice fills the momentary silence. “Only if the Smith allows us to be killed. He's a god. Even if no DokkAlfar will say so, you can see it in the way they look at him. I'm not sure even the Priests of the Church of the Jotun Lords would defy him.”

I shrug noncommittally. “That doesn't tell my why you want to save her.”

“Life's good in this stable. Most of us have been in the pens, and we don't want to go back. Fer me an my boys, we get to fuck lots of other stable's bitch boys in the ass, an the crowds cheer us on fer it. If the Mistress ain't here, life might not be so good.”

I cannot keep the shock off of my face, as I stare at Mungo. The glare he gives me in return is filled with arrogance. He probably has no concept of real pride, after growing up in the slave pens.

Keratin falls to the ground, as Mungo slaps him. His face and most of body look like one huge black and blue abrasion. Blood and drool drip from his slack his lips, which appear sunken like an old man's, now that he has no front teeth. His eyes and mind are filled with fear and resentment, as he stares at me.

“The only bad thing around here's been the food. Now dat Fuck Boy here ain't gonna be in charge of buying it, it should get better.”

Mungo's two butt boys laugh nastily, and Keratin shivers with fear.

“Mungo may be a twist, but he is more or less saying what we all feel. Under the Mistress, this wasn't a bad place for us as gladiators. If she's gone, a bad Master could take over, or we could get sold off to other stables. There's no telling what the Smith will or won't let happen. But if we save the Mistress, the Smith should see that we're not killed. Right?”

Tyrend is not stupid. It is no secret that I am Thrall's disciple, and he is trying to get me to commit to their safety, if they help me. Their help would make it easier to retrieve Elan'fer'sha, but do I trust them?

There is nothing that I can find in the emotions of the humans that leads to think they are lying or will betray me, but emotions and thoughts are two different things. As for the DokkAlfar, their minds are closed to me. Unless they are really worked up, their emotions and thoughts remain firmly locked behind their natural shields.

I nod to them. “If you want to stay, the Smith should protect you, but I can get you all out of Gor'achen. It's up to you.”

The gladiators look at one another, with surprise and hope in their eyes. Freedom is a powerful enticement, and one that may guarantee their loyalty, but it means nothing to the DokkAlfar. Looking at them, I cannot decide whether or not I should trust them. What do they have to gain from Elan'fer'sha's return?

From the way he is looking at me, Kanchek seems to understand my wariness. “None of us have Provenance. In the Atran'ler Empire, without provenance, you are nothing. You can serve the Clans, but you're never going to amount to shit. They will use you, until you are used up, then they will cast you aside. The Mistress pays us well to keep the stable in order, and as long as we do that, she leaves us to our own devices. You were the only anomaly that we didn't know what to do with. If the Mistress is gone, there is no telling what the next owner will be like.”

Among DokkAlfar, that pretty much passes for enlightened self-interest. It is not something that you often see among them. Normally, DokkAlfar are lusting after power. Since they are looking out for their well-being, I think I can accept that. At least, I know what I am working with.

I sit down and eat. The gladiators and guards watch me intently, but they refrain from questioning me. More than half the gladiators seem to be on edge and irritated, but the Throd'nahk's impassive stare mirrors his stoic resolve. On the other hand, Kanchek seems strangely satisfied by my actions. He is probably a strange one among the DokkAlfar.

After eating, I stand up. “Kanchek, Throd'nahk, and Tyrend, come with me.”

The three follow me back to Thrall's territory, and I disable the wards that I set when I left. Besides the rock wall that only Thrall can raise or lower, there are other wards that either restrict entry to people attuned to the ward or completely block entry. The wards are breakable with enough Power, but that would alert Thrall or myself. I am unsure of the distance that the alerts will function across, but I think they will work as long as we are within Gor'achen Citadel.

As far as I know, of the three, only the Throd'nahk has been in Thrall's territory before. Tyrend and Kanchek look around with unabashed curiosity at the simple appearing forge and workbenches as we pass through the Smithy. From the Throd'nahk's expression, when we enter the ritual chamber, he has not been here either.

Casting and linking the control spell to Thrall's mirror, I center it on Vardne'tar Castle. “As far as I know, Elan'fer'sha has not left Aluras'bektsh'tar's castle since entering. When I performed my last assassination for Aluras'bektsh'tar, it was a setup that was intended to see me captured, but only after I had already killed the target. The trap was manned by Aluras' personal legion.”

I hold up the two rings taken from Aluras'bektsh'tar's commanders.

Kanchek nods. “That's the insignia from the Warlord's Fist Legion.”

“What I don't understand is why the setup. Elan is a Wytch. She's basically and outcast from DokkAlfar society. Aluras'bektsh'tar is the War Minister of Gor'achen, so why didn't she just kill Elan'fer'sha?”

Kanchek stares at me for a moment, but his flat expression does not reveal anything. “All the Wytches in Gor'achen are sworn to the Citadel Lord. No Wytch is allowed to reside in a Citadel or Imperial city without swearing herself the Citadel or City Lord. Wytches may be outcasts, but they are still a valuable resource to the Empire.”

It makes sense, more or less, but if that is the case, Aluras'bektsh'tar could have just waited until after her coup to move against Elan'fer'sha. There is still something missing.

“Aluras'bektsh'tar is planning a coup against the Citadel Lord.”

Shocked surprise lights up the faces of Tyrend, Kanchek, and the Throd'nahk. No matter how well they keep themselves under control, my statement sends their thought whirling. None of the three says anything for more than a minute.

“How do you know this, and is the information verifiable?” From the tone of his voice, Kanchek's surprise seems to have settled into suspicion.

“One of Aluras'bektsh'tar's company commanders told me, before I killed her. She said that they are instigating a revolt by cultists of The Nameless God. I think the Stoics may actually be The Nameless' cultists.”

I change the view in the Thrall's mirror from the First Layer to the Third Layer. There are not enough people on the streets to call them crowds, and the tension has become even more pronounced since I was last monitoring them.

“It's not so obvious on the First or Fifth Layers, but when you watch the other layers, you can see that the people know something is coming. Everyone is tense and afraid.”

“Tyrend, you have connections with the slave networks.” The Throd'nahk's tone of voice is decisive.

Tyrend's eyes widen in apparent surprise, but the feeling he is giving off is apprehension. “What do you mean slave networks.”

The Throd'nahk turns to stare at Tyrend. “This is not the time to fuck around. You know what I am talking about, and if you hold back on us, we may fail.”

Tyrend looks at me in an innocent manner, but I keep my expression neutral. I have no idea what the Throd'nahk is talking about, when he says slave networks, but Tyrend always seemed to be unusually well informed about the goings on in Gor'achen.

“If we die, do you really think you'll survive?” Kanchek's tone gives a clear intimation of a threat to his words.

Tyrend scratches the back of his head, while wearing a sheepish grin. “There are five networks, and slaves are only a small part of them. There are even DokkAlfar with no Provenance among the network I know.”

An angry glint flashes in Kanchek's eyes. Does he suspect someone among the Blood Rose guards is part of Tyrend's network?

“Can they find anything out about what's going on out there?”

Tyrend shrugs. “Probably, but I can't get in touch with them from here.”

“Where do you need to go?”

“The Scarlet Lilly.”

I gesture in confusion. “What's that?”

“The brothel the Mistress gets our whores from.”

I point at Thrall's mirror. “Direct me to it.”

Following Tyrend's directions, I locate the brothel. It is in one of the seedier section of the Third Layer, but it is solidly built and well maintained. Finding a dark corner in the alley behind the brothel, I change the window into a door.

“Come here.”

Putting my hands on Tyrend's collar, I reach into it with my awareness and find the trigger to release it. With a faint click, the collar come off in my hands.

All three of them look at me askance, but I ignore their blatant curiosity.

“The mirror is a portal. Go find out what you can.”

Tyrend gingerly reaches his hand toward the mirror. It appears to stretch out, but he gives no sign of discomfort. With a nervous grin on his face, he practically leaps through the portal and appears in the alley.

“It's not often that you find easily relocatable gates.” Kanchek's tone is clearly approving, and maybe, a little impressed.

“The Smith made it. I'm just using it.”

Time seems to drag, but I do not intend change the mirror's focus, until Tyrend returns. I am not sure why I expect him to return. His collar is already gone. He could run as fast and far as he wants, but I expect him to come back.

After more than half an hour, Tyrend's figure appears in front of the gate. He looks around in confusion, not being able to see the gate. I adjust the gate, and his eyes widen fractionally, as he is suddenly staring at the dimly lighted ritual room. With his normal cocky grin back in place, he steps through the portal.

Whether or not Kanchek and the Throd'nahk can smell it, I cannot say, but I can smell the odor of pussy emanating from him.

Tyrend glances from one to another of us, and his grin changes from cocky to shit-eating. “Hey, I had to do something to keep myself occupied, while I was waiting for the information.”

“So you were fucking that sausage with tits again?”

“You just like your women too skinny.”

“Whatever. What did you learn?”

Tyrend's smugness disappears in an instant. “Something is going down. Thousands, probably more like tens of thousands, of people have disappeared. No one knows what happened to them or where they went, but most people seem to think it's the DokkAlfar's doing.”

Kanchek snorts. “That's idiotic. It would take the Citadel Lords forces to make thousands of people disappear at once, and he would not be secretive. He would just have the legions crush anyone that got in the way of his arrests. Disappearances are the work of the minor houses and merchant guilds, when DokkAlfar are involved, and no small house of merchant guild has the resources to make thousands disappear at once.”

“I never said I thought it was the DokkAlfar's doing, that is just what most people think. But that doesn't matter. No one is going to get involved that isn't among the missing. Wherever they are, they've all disappeared in the last two days.”

I move the focal point of the mirror back to the First Layer, but there is no sign of anything happening. Even searching the sewers does not turn any p signs of anything afoot. Where could they all be hiding? There are probably some hidden dimensional pockets inside of Gor'achen, but how can I find it?

“Mikumi's brother is among the missing.”

I shrug. “I didn't know she had a brother.”

“Different fathers. He's older and is one of the bouncers for the brothel. He got more attitude than skill, but that's typical for the job.”

Could that brother be the asshole I saw Mikumi with? I never looked at his pattern, but I more of less remember his features and his physical presence within my spatial awareness. Would that be enough?

Concentrating on my memories of the asshole, I try to center the mirror on him. There is a faint pulling sensation from the mirror, but the image does not change. I do not think he is behind wards, this does not have the same feel as the ward blocking me from Castle Vardne'tar. Is my memory of him too weak?

I settle in a lotus position and enter into a trance. In this state, I can access my memories in far greater detail. Picking out every characteristic of the man I can remember, I build a new pattern for the control spell.

Opening my eyes and rising to my feet, I cast the pattern onto the mirror, and the image shifts to a huge stone room. At a glance, there are probably three to four thousand people in the room.

“That's Toki, Mikumi's brother.” Tyrend sounds more than a bit surprised.

“I guess we won't have to wait for your information, to learn more about what it going on.”

“Kanchek, is that anyplace you are familiar with?” The Throd'nahk's voice is pensive, as he stares at the image revealed in the mirror.

“I don't remember ever seeing anyplace in Gor'achen similar to that room.”

The room is the size of an auditorium but trapezoidal in shape. There are more than a dozen arched exits, irregularly scattered along the walls. Even though the room is fully enclosed, on the short side of the trapezoid, about sixty feet above the floor level, there is a porticoed promenade made of stone. Looking at the room, I have no clue what purpose it might have been built to serve.

The inhabitants of the room are mostly male, but maybe one in ten or twenty is female. Humans are the majority race, with DokkAlfar coming in second. There are also orcs and ogres in the mix, but they are clustered together in their own grey-skinned groups.

Having found the room, I have no trouble moving the focal point of the window around. The corridors exiting the trapezoidal room are part of a warren of passages, but no matter where I search the only entries and exits I find are teleport gates. Also, there is no sign of anyone in charge beyond what seem to be cell or group leaders in the mass of beings.

“There are legends, more ghost stories than legends, about lost dimensional pockets within Gor'achen. The legends say that they can no longer be found because distortions from the Elemental Furnace blocking the spells that would be used to search for them. This may be one of those pockets.”

If Kanchek is right, there would be no way to access this complex other than the teleport gates. I really do not care about getting in there, but until they move, I cannot move. I do not want to try to retrieve Elan'fer'sha, while Aluras'bektsh'tar is in Vardne'tar Castle, and the only time she will be certain to be gone is during the coup. If he coup is successful, it will probably be bad for me, but Elan'fer'sha is my priority.

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day Day 291

“Brand! Something is happening.”

Tyrend's yell is not loud, but it easily wakes me. After my years in the Land of Despair, I am a very light sleeper in almost all conditions. Kanchek and the Throd'nahk are not here. They are preparing their respective forces for the coming battle. I stand up and look at the mirror.

An air of excitement is moving through the mass of beings in the room. Moving the focal point of the mirror, we see carts with weapons and armor being wheeled into the room. The items are nothing special, being made from common steel and not the DokkAlfar's black alloy, but they are a step up from what most of the beings currently have. Guarding the carts are several hundred men that are equipped with n high quality armor and weapon in a variety of styles.

“Fucking gladiators.” Tyrend's voice betrays his complete shock.

“You recognize them?”

“Yeah. I see men from at least three stables, probably more like five considering their numbers. They're slaves like us. If they kill DokkAlfar, it's death by prolonged torture. What in Hel's frozen pits is happening?”

“I think someone is trying make them believe he will change the rules.” Considering the numbers of beings in that room, Woden has probably had his minions recruiting for some time. It is unlikely that Gor'achen is the only place this is happening, but will there be uprisings anywhere else? I have a feeling that someone is fucking with Woden's plans for their own purposes.

“TONIGHT WE STRIKE!” The voice booms throughout the chamber.

The massed beings all start looking upward, toward the portico on the small side of the trapezoid, and I change the focal point of the mirror again. There are a mix of DokkAlfar, humans, and one other, a SvartAlfar, standing there.

“The SvartAlfar!”

“The gladiator?”

“Yeah, that's him.”

The SvartAlfar looks around, seemingly wary and a bit confused. Then, his eyes settle on the focal point of the mirror, and he seems to be staring at me though the mirror.

“We are being watched!”

Jailbreak

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 291

“What do you mean?” The questioner is a human dressed in robes, with his face hidden under a hood.

The SvartAlfar's eyes never the mirror's focal point, but a look of pure contempt marks his face. “Pathetic animal. If you were more than a useless herd beast, you would be able to see the scrying lens in the air overhead. From within this sub-dimension, I cannot identify its source, but its presence is easily seen.”

The human stiffens, but his anger is subsumed by terror. The SvartAlfar's raw malice would make almost any Earthling piss himself or herself. He turns to look at one of the DokkAlfar and nods.

Through the mirror, I can barely feel the emanation of psi energy. Whether DokkAlfar the human is looking at or another one is using the psi, that DokkAlfar's control is extremely precise for him to have such a small amount of leakage.

Except for the robed human, two DokkAlfar and the SvartAlfar, all of the beings on portico leave though passages in the back. The SvartAlfar continues to stare that mirror's focal point.

“I do not know you are, but since we are not under attack, you should not be part of the Church or the Citadel Lord's forces. If you involve yourself in our business, you will suffer and eventually die. If you wish to survive, do not interfere.”

Even through the mirror, I can feel the SvartAlfar's hate and hunger. I have never believed in an objective existence of evil. I have always thought good and evil to be subjective to the views of the individual and culture. The SvartAlfar may force me to changed my belief. That creature feels like evil, pure unadulterated evil.

After a few minutes, the image in the mirror turns to a silvery-grey sheen. I try to center the focal point on Toki again, but something it blocking the mirror' Power. The cultists must have activated wards within that pocket dimension.

“What happened?”

“They put up some kind of wards. Go tell Kanchek and the Throd'nahk to be ready to move tonight. If the cultists make their move, we'll attack Vardne'tar Castle, when Aluras leaves.”

* * * * *

As soon it is nominally night, I begin watching the First Layer again. If the cultists have really been maneuvered into attack the Citadel Lord, they will have to assault the Lord's Castle to get to him.

“Brand! We fucked up!” Tyrend charges into the ritual room, dragging Mikumi along behind himself.

I do not try to keep the confusion off my face. “What are you talking about?”

“The Citadel Lord isn't in Lord's Castle! He's at a conference in the Gor'achen Auditorium on the Second Layer! They're already under attack!”

Changing the mirror's focal point to the Second Layer, we see dozens of fires and chaos in the streets. The Citadel Legionnaires and cultist troops are easy enough to identify, but there are thousands of beings not identifiable as either mixed up in the fighting.

“That's the auditorium.”

Tyrend is pointing at a building more or less near the center of the chaos. I has six sides, and a cordon of Gor'achen Legionnaires is surrounding it. Each of the six sides has a huge entry, easily wide enough to fit six ogres abreast. Alcoves surrounding the building contain statues of numerous DokkAlfar, but I have no idea who they are or were, nor what their significance might be.

I cannot tell whether or not Aluras'bektsh'tar is in the auditorium. Wards are blocking me from putting the mirror's focal point inside the building, and I do not see any legionnaires with the Warlord's Fist badge among the defenders.

“Mikumi, tell him.”

Mikumi is radiating nervousness and insecurity, as she begins to speak. “Other than the Citadel Lord, we aren't sure who is attending that conference. We were able to find out that there are DokkAlfar from other Citadels but couldn't learn their identities. We did confirm that the security force is being commanded by the commander of the Warlord's Fist Legion. Also, a large number of slaves were brought in to work in the auditorium kitchens, and many tons of food were delivered.”

“Did you know that your brother was one of The Nameless God's cultists?”

Mikumi does not answer. When I turn to look at her, she flinches and does not meet my eyes. Her nervousness has become outright fear.

Returning the mirror to the First Layer, I center it over Castle Vardne'tar. The gates are closed, and the walls are heavily manned. They look like they are ready to receive an attack, but many other castles and towers in the First Layer seem be in the same condition.

I glance at Tyrend. “Tell Kanchek and the Throd'nahk to bring their men.”

Mikumi stays behind, when Tyrend runs off the get the gladiators and DokkAlfar guards.

“What are you doing here?”

Mikumi flinches under my stare. “The Light Bringers sent me as their messenger.”

“The Light Bringers? Is that your slave network's name?”

She looks conflicted, and her emotions are fluctuating rapidly. After a few moments, an almost fanatical glint fills her eyes. “We're not a slave network. The Light Bringers keep the hope of the Radiance alive and work toward the day the followers of the Umbra will be cast down.”

It sounds like she is part of some kind of secret society that is tied up with the Radiance. The Radiance and the Umbra, they are two sides of the same coin, and neither bears good will for anything that is of the Amalgamate.

“Is your brother a Lightbringer?”

Mikumi frowns, as sorrow fills her. “He was not judged worthy of serving the Radiance.”

“But a whore is?”

Mikumi glares at me, her eyes glinting with unshed tears. “I thought you were different, but I guess I was wrong. You murder people in the arena to satisfy the crowd's bloodlust, but you look down on me for doing what I have to to survive. You're no better than me. You're worse than I could ever be! I don't kill people!”

I do not bother replying and turn back to the mirror. While I can feel the Power creating the image with my spatial awareness, I cannot actually see it. There may be a way to see images without using my eyes, but for now, I need my eyes to see an image.

Inside the curtain wall, the main structure of Castle Vardne'tar stands in all its baroque splendor. When I move the focal point next to a window, I cannot see though it because of the wards. If I use enough Power, I might be able to break through the wards and open a gate inside the caste. If I cannot, we will have to fight our way in from one of the doors. The main doors and the kitchen doors are both open, but neither looks like a good option. A guard room, with its door open to the courtyard, is only a few dozen feet from the kitchen doors, and there should be one or more guard posts near the main doors.

Taking my gear out of my storage belt, I dress in my black plate armor. The helm has been reforged so that it now has a nasal guard and a visor the covers my jaw and mouth. The changes to the armor's pattern have made it several times stronger than it previously was. My harness has my bastard swords attached for an over the shoulder draw, and the short-swords I was using as an assassin are setup for an underhand draw. In addition, a sheathe for the haft of my Blood Iron axe is secured straight down the middle of my back, and the the broad double-bitted head is standing up behind my head.

Mikumi is looking at me with a mix of fear and something that I cannot identify. Even though I have only had my empathy for a short time, I have realized that I seem to have a different range of emotions from most humans. I think that I may be incapable of experiencing some emotions that are normal for others. It may be why I have a hard time understanding people when their actions go beyond the range of dislike, hostility, and a desire to hurt others. I do not believe this to be a bad thing. I am content with myself as I am.

The sound of leather and metal shod feet echoes from the Smithy, and I turn toward the door. A group of hard, brutal men and DokkAlfar males enter the room. Whether gladiators or guards, every one of them has killed, and done so many times over. The gladiators are nervous, but there is no sign of real fear. Considering that they are slaves who are about to kill DokkAlfar, I would not fault them for being scared shitless, but after facing death in the arena time and again, they have become somewhat inured to the fear of death.

“Kanchek and Throd'nahk, I'll leave the team setups in your hands. I need one person to stay in this room with Mikumi. If things go to shit, he's going to shut down the mirror. A team of eight will be left at the gate in Castle Vardne'tar. The rest will come with me to retrieve Elan'fer'sha, set them up in groups of four.”

While Kanchek and the Throd'nahk organize the guards and gladiators, I move among them removing the collars on the gladiators' necks. The expressions on most of the gladiators' faces reveal their shock, when I open their collars without using a control rod. Kanchek watches me, but does not say or reveal anything.

“We're ready.” The Throd'nahk's voice is steady, but he is full of uneasiness. He is probably worried about Elan'fer'sha being injured or killed during the rescue. I have known from the beginning that he lusts after her, but he will never have a chance with her. He appears to have tried to draw her attention by following her, but she has always been focused on her vengeance. As long as he does what is necessary on this rescue mission, it does not matter what he wants or feels.

I prepare a new spell pattern. It is more of brute force Power channel to the mirror than anything. My Power flows out into the spell pattern, and I connect it to the mirror. My target is a window about twenty-five feet above the ground. There are no windows on the Castle proper below that height. Everything below about twenty feet or so is probably work areas and quarters for the servants and slaves.

A backlash reverberates into me, as the mirror runs into the wards, but this not a simple rift meant to view an undefended area. I pour more Power into the mirror, and the probe drives into the wards. Despite feeling like I am tearing apart my body, mind, and soul, I keep my Power flowing into the mirror.

I am not sure how much time has passed, probably less than a minute, when the ward suddenly breaks with a crackling sensation I can feel but not hear. With a bright flash, an new image forms in the mirror. It appears to be a small library, or maybe, a sitting room with shelves of books. Whatever it may be, at the moment, it is an unoccupied room.

Changing the viewing window into a portal, I step into the room and move to the door. From behind me, the noise of the guards and gladiators entering the room makes it impossible to hear anything from outside. Drawing my bastard swords, I open the door and continue into the corridor beyond.

At the moment the corridor is empty, but I can hear the sounds of running boots echoing from both directions. As I expected, my piecing the castle's wards has not gone unnoticed. Whether or not they know our exact point of entry, I cannot tell, but if we move fast and hard, we should keep them off balance. Gesturing to the men and DokkAlfar behind me with a come hither motion, I turn toward the back of the castle.

I do not know the layout of Castle Vardne'tar, but I doubt that the dungeon access will be near the main entry. Most likely prisoners are brought in through the back gates, where they can cause less distraction, and quietly be locked away.

Kanchek's smooth movements in my wake belie his heavy build, heavy at least for a DokkAlfar.

“Gate Squad, stay here and do not let anyone gain access to this room!” The Throd'nahk gives orders to the gladiators chosen as the guards and follows the DokkAlfar with the rest of the gladiators in tow.

“Who are AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!”

A DokkAlfar dies with sword in his throat. His corpse, dressed in expensive robes, falls to the ground in the doorway he was exiting from. The room revealed by the open door appears to be a bureaucrat's office. Stacks of paper are piled on the desk and the walls are lined with file cabinets. A quick check reveals no one else inside the room.

Continuing down the hall, we reach a narrow hallway that ends abruptly in another narrow passage paralleling the one we are in. From its design, I think these are passages intended for the use of servants. Less than a hundred feet down the servants passage running parallel to the main one, we find a stairway on the inner wall. Flights of stairs lead both up and down. I race down the descending flight, with the guards and gladiators hot on my heels.

Running headlong into a squad of Vardne'tar guards at the bottom of the stairs, I lash out with both swords. Battering the leading guard's glaive aside with my left blade, I drive the right though his stomach. Pulling my sword clear from the guards stomach, I kick him. My ki powered kick ruptures his intact internal organs and shatters his pelvic bone, sending him flying into the guards behind him.

As several of the Vardne'tar guards fall to the ground in a tangle, the Blood Rose guards tear into them. These guards who came with Kanchek never stood watches in the barracks, so I never had much chance to evaluate them. Their skills are on par with the better gladiators, which is above the average level of the DokkAlfar soldiers that I have encountered. They make short work of the Vardne'tar guards. Their brutality almost makes it seem as if they have a grudge against the Vardne'tar guards.

Finding a Vardne'tar guard that is still alive, I drag him up off the ground by his harness.

“Do you know who Elan'fer'sha is?”

The guard clamps his jaw closed and does not respond.

Pushing up my visor, I smile nastily at the guard and dig around in a wound on his shoulder with the spiked pommel of my sword.

“AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!”

“Do you know who Elan'fer'sha is?”

“Get castrated!”

Evaluating the pattern of the guard's armor, I focus one of the symbols of breaking on my swords pommel spike and tear it open over his groin. A pecker just as skinny as the rest of him is exposed and looks as though it is trying crawl up in his body cavity to hide.

“I've been castrated. If you don't answer me, I'll let you experience the pain of castration for yourself.”

Confused expressions flash across the faces of the gladiators behind me, before they school their faces back into menacing expressions.

“Master, let me have him.” A DokkAlfar with pale lavender eyes is standing next to me. I have very seldom seen eyes that color on an Alfar.

When I glance at Kanchek, he nods affirmatively. “Valcrit knows what he is doing.”

When I hold out the guard, and he looks at Valcrit's lavender eyes, his face turns ghostly pale. Feeling the unleashed psi energies, I understand why. This Valcrit is a ridiculously strong psi. He is probably not on Aluras'bektsh'tar's level of Power, but his is well above the norm that should be attainable by a non-Coalescent.

Just what the fuck is the Blood Rose Stable? I have been so focused on my own business that I seldom paid much attention to the rest of the stable. Most of the guards that stood watch in the barracks and training arena were nothing special, but this groups is different. With the exception of the Ogre and that group of shield specialist from my first battle, the Blood Rose Stable's gladiators are above the level of other stable's gladiators, as well. There are entirely too many beings that are considerably above the average levels of Power, talent, and skill that you find in the general population. I doubt this is Elan'fer'sha's work, so it has to have been done under Thrall's manipulations.

As the minutes pass, it feels like they are dragging on for hours each. The sounds of Vardne'tar patrols searching for us echo from all directions, sometime louder and sometimes softer. The Vardne'tar guard I am holding up by his harness whimpers and twitches, but he seems unable to even put out anything resembling a real struggle.

After about three to four minutes, Valcrit blinks a few times. He slits the guards throat, with a dagger pulled from his belt, and looks at me. “I have found the location of the dungeon entrance, and the least used paths to reach it. This one has not seen her, but he has heard that the Mistress is in the dungeon.”

“You lead.”

Valcrit nods and moves out at a fast jog. I remember seeing him guarding the entry to the Blood Rose arena complex, when I was leaving with the parade for my gladiatorial battles. The distance covered by his smooth easy strides reveals his extreme level of physical enhancement, but because of the nature of physical enhancement, it is difficult to gauge the strength of his actual mana.

Mostly following back passages obviously meant for servants, we reach a point where the one we are in opens on a wide corridor with a heavy double door at the end. Four guards, two on either side, are stationed in front of the door, and their alert eyes are constantly roving between the mouths of the other corridors that open on the one with the doors. If it were not for the fact that my spatial awareness allows my body receive impressions through every square millimeter of its surface, I would be exposed by sticking my head out to look.

It could be considered strange the way so many Power based abilities include or ignore clothing, armor, and gear, but when you consider that there is an aura or periphery to patterns that generally extends beyond the physical body it might not be so odd. The aura has Power, or maybe you could say it is Power that is radiated by the pattern, almost like light from a star. Once you are aware of the aura, you can consciously keep it within the bounds of the body, but that requires the constant expenditure of some level of concentration.

I take my endless quiver out from my belt and attach it to my harness, before taking out Stone Feather Death and stringing it. Because of it being a Legendary Weapon, its pattern would probably keep it from being damaged, if it remained strung, but even with a stone bow, it is a bad and sloppy habit to leave it strung forever.

“There are four guards at the door, and we are a bit over a hundred feet from the door. All four of them have heavy repeating crossbows. Stay on the right side of the corridor as you charge, so I have a clear line of fire.”

Nocking an arrow, I step out into the draw and shoot.

Crack-boom!

The arrow punches through one of the guards chests and pins him to the door.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

As I drop to one knee, crossbow bolts fly over my head, punching holes into the stone walls behind me. As stone fragment rattle off my back, the guards and gladiators charge out in the wake of the impacts. Valcrit is in the lead, and one of the Vardne'tar guard's limbs go slack, and he drops his crossbow to the ground.

Crackle-BOOM!

A massive bolt of blue-white lightning streaks over my head, and a third guard is hurled backward, with a smoking hole in his what is left of his chest.

I set another arrow to my bowstring, but there is no clear line of fire. The faster DokkAlfar guards are already on the last Vardne'tar guard, and he slumps to the ground minus an arm, with his chest caved in like a soup bowl.

Finding the double doors locked, Kanchek searches the corpses for the key, but comes up empty handed. He looks at me shrugging, with his hands full of storage devices.

After putting Stone Feather Death away, I place my hands on the door and close my eyes. There are wards on the door, but I can still feel its pattern and the patterns of the the latch and lock. The metal is another Elemental alloy, but the Elemental metal used in it is not one that I have encountered before. Kanchek orders men to the nearest corridor entries to keep watch, while I feel out the pattern of the lock and bolt, searching for weaknesses.

My first attempt with a symbol of breaking is a failure, and Power backlashes on me. Silently snarling, I braid my power and drive home a different symbol.

Pop! Clatter.

The door opens under my shove, and fragments of the shattered bolt fall to the stone. Beyond the door, six more hostile guards are waiting with readied crossbows.

“Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!”

One of the gladiators falls, with a crossbow bolt buried in his chest. I deflect another into the ceiling, with the back of my wrist, and the last two are knocked aside by other gladiators.

A second or two later the corpses of the guards fall to the ground, missing multiple limbs and a couple heads. Swathes of fresh blood paint the walls and floor of the landing crimson. The sounds of running metal shod feet is getting steadily more audible, but from below, there is only silence.

“Throd'nahk stay here with the gladiators and guard this door. If we lose control of these stairs, we'll be fucked getting back to the gate.”

For a few seconds, I can see the internal battle raging in the Throd'nahk's eyes and feel the rapid shift in his emotions. Then, he calms down and a hard coldness suppresses his emotions.

“Don't you dare come back without the Mistress!” His blatant jealousy is so clear that most of the gladiators and guards have to be aware of it.

I cannot keep a shit-eating grin off my face, but the visor of my helm keeps it hidden. I turn and descend the stairs, taking them a dozen at a step. Behind me, the DokkAlfar guards are in hot pursuit.

At the bottom of the stairs another set of double doors bars our way, but these doors have barred windows for viewing the apron in front of it and stairs we are on. From a hundred stairs up, we can see a good twenty DokkAlfar guards, two squads at least, through those small windows. A caster is waiting at each window, and two ball balls of flame streak toward us. We split up, scrambling up and down the stairs to avoid the explosions, when the fireballs strike the stone.

A wave of powerful psi flows past me and one of the casters freezes, but another more powerful wave of psi clashes with the Valcrit's. The caster starts to move again, anger and fear burning in his eyes.

I hurl both my bastard swords at the door and the casters duck down.

Thunk! Thunk!

The windows and the casters were never my targets, and my swords stand quivering in the faces of the doors. I pull my short-swords. Flipping up my visor, I slash my cheeks and let my blood anoint the blades. With my face, it is not like a couple more scars will matter.

My heart is steel. My soul is the forge. My thoughts are life to my blade. As my braided Power flows into the short-swords, they begin to dance in the air. Their movements are faster and more agile than ever before, but it is more difficult to control my Power, when I use it braided like this. The short-swords fly to the windows and begin stabbing repeatedly at anything the sticks its face too close. Without being under fire from the casters, I am at the door in a couple seconds.

The lock on this door has the same structure as the one on the door above. The symbol of breaking I use on it turns the bolt into shards.

The DokkAlfar reach the door, and without pausing, two of them slam the doors wide open. In a wedge shaped formation they charge into the room beyond. Kanchek is at the point of their wedge, with Valcrit on his right. Despite the differences in weapons used by the Blood Rose guards, they are a well coordinated fighting unit.

While taking out Stone Feather Death, I send my short-swords after one of the casters, and their keen edges nearly sever his head, before he can put up a fight.

Crack-Boom!

My arrow ends the life of the other caster, and I begin scanning the Vardne'tar DokkAlfar, looking for their psi. As my psi probe brushes across the shields of one of the Vardne'tar guards, a burning knife of psi lances into my mind. My shields only hold up for a few seconds, before shattering under the DokkAlfar's attack.

The DokkAlfar psi has driven my awareness back inside of my own mind. With pain drowning my consciousness, I cannot feel my body. I do not know if my hate fueled growl is audible or only inside my head. Even though my shields are broken, the Vardne'tar DokkAlfar does not seem to be making much headway. He keeps trying to thrust deeper into my mind, but I refuse to give ground and keep repelling him. I am a stubborn, vicious, hate-filled mother fucker, and I hate losing or giving in more than anything. The only question is what do I do, now?

Empathic assaults are extremely destructive, if the wielders emotions are strong enough. Hate and rage are good weapons. I remember Thrall's words, but I never took the time to learn how to use my emotions as weapons, there were always other things I needed to do. Even if my will is strong enough to hold off the DokkAlfar for now, how long can I last? Will the Blood Rose DokkAlfar be able to win with eighteen to seven odds?

Dark Od flows into me, and I have no way to stop it, my strength of mind is completely occupied with holding back the DokkAlfar's psi. More than just a little strangely, the Od is not burning and tearing me up with the strain of its too strong and too real existence. Why?

*You are pathetically weak beyond measure, but as she said, you are one of mine. Frail as it may be, your greatest strength comes from unbridled hate and rage; calm and control are the tools of the weak. Learn from your pain. If you survive to Transcend, you will have to make a choice, and no matter how you choose, there will be prices. That which does not kill you will make you stronger; a stupid and false saying for most, but for you, it is truth.* The voice is deep and has the feel of danger. It seems to come for the Od, but there is no sense of any presence other than the Od itself.

The Dark Od recedes, but it leaves something behind, a piece of knowledge. I understand how to use my emotions as weapon and armor. What was that voice? Who was that voice? Od exists between Life and Death, made of both and neither. I remember those words of Boran from more than a decade past. The girl looked like Boran's statue and said that she was Life. Could that voice have been Death? I remember their statues, as clear as day. That man's, Death's, huge build would rival most Dvergar for mass. I could easily believe that voice was his.

This knowledge he left, I should have already understood it; I have been using my psi in a half-assed manner since I first created the aura in Bogwater. Instinctively, I had been using my stubbornness and hatred to create a half-assed shield against the DokkAlfar's psi, but there are more efficient ways to do so. I change how I am defending myself and fuse my hate into a Power backed wall. Pushing outward, I force the DokkAlfar out of my mind, and my awareness reconnects with the world around me.

Two of the Blood Rose DokkAlfar are injured too badly to continue fighting, but the remaining five are only facing eight. Nine more of the Vardne'tar have joined their casters, as corpses on the ground.

Crack-Boom! Crack-Boom! Crack-Boom! Crack-Boom! Crack-Boom!

The DokkAlfar psi's head explodes, when my arrow punched through his helm. Four more Vardne'tar DokkAlfar quickly follow him into the realm of the dead, as the Blood Rose guards finish off the other Vardne'tar guards.

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.

Unrest

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 291

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.

The Blood Rose gladiators and guards are watching the battle with a detached air, as though it has nothing to do with them. In a way, it probably does not have anything to do with them. It is doubtful there is even one of them with a vested interest in who rules Gor'achen Citadel.

I stare at Elan'fer'sha's patterns, trying to identify her Blood Oaths. I know what Blood Oaths are, but I do not know what form they take on a pattern. Her pattern is already covered with abnormalities because of her her Umbral Channels and the damage done to her by the Umbra. How can I identify the Blood Oath?

With so much damage in Elan'fer'sha's pattern, how I can separate the alien from the natural? Blood Oaths are tied to the pattern and the blood, but they are not natural to it. They are not something of the Umbra, but there are a number of other patterns or pattern fragments not of the Umbra attached to her pattern than are not natural to it. Some of the other DokkAlfar in this auditorium appear to have pattern fragments as well, but they are not similar to Elan'fer'sha's. Are they from her upbringing as a Wytch?

The damage and pattern fragments aside, Elan'fer'sha's pattern is still very different from the gladiators and somewhat different from the DokkAlfar guards. The only exceptions are Kanchek, the Throd'nahk, Aluras'bektsh'tar, and the Citadel Lord. There are odd similarities in the appearance of the threads making up all their patterns. Looking at the cultists, the SvartAlfar has them as well.

Ki, mana, and psi are normally pooled withing reservoirs, but all three Powers are embedded into the bodies, minds, and souls of these beings that should all be Coalescent. When they use one Power, they wield the combined strength of all three. When I forcibly braid my Power, it seems that I am artificially mimicking being in the First Circle of Coalescence.

Stepping back from the battle line, the SvartAlfar stares at me. The cold, malevolent hatred radiating form him would be palpable even if I were not an empath.

*So, can you actually see it human?*

*You are Coalescent.* I let the thoughts form outside of my shields, certain that the SvartAlfar will be able to understand them.

The SvartAlfar sneers. *You sound more like a sanctimonious Dvergar ape than a human. Only Dvergar use that term, but still, you are the only one in this place to have seen the truth.*

*I get along with Dvergar. They don't go all bitchy, because they have needle dicks like you skinny-ass Alfar.*

The SvartAlfar starts laughing. The sound causes both the rebels and the DokkAlfar they are fighting to shiver.

*You have a vicious mind, human. You target what you perceive as other's lesser qualities in relation to yourself, but you need to better understand your targets. Do not run away human. I will play with you after killing this fool of a Citadel Lord.* The SvartAlfar plunges back into the battle, seemingly ignoring me.

Several of the the alien pattern fragments are clustered together, tied to what might be the representation of Elan'fer'sha's heart in her pattern. They are so deeply entwined with her pattern that trying to remove them would almost certainly destroy that section of her pattern. Could these be the Blood Oaths?

Greenish-silver Power fills me. As a Half-Dvergar, I seldom used Light Od, unless it was in tandem with the Dark Od. Since returning to my human body, I have almost never used it. The Dark Od has always felt more natural to me, but I do not think Dark Od can be used for what I need to do.

The Od can destroy the Blood Oath patterns, but it cannot restore the damage done to her by the Umbra. If it is tried, she will be purified of the Umbra, but she will die. The thought is not my own, but I am not sure whose it is.

Elan'fer'sha's eyes open wide, as the thought flits through my consciousness. Did it enter her mind, as well?

The Light Od is not as destructive and domineering at the Dark Od, but my body, mind, and soul are still strained from trying to contain it. I focus the Light Od into a lance of energy and drive it into the first of the patterns. If I am wrong, I may kill Elan'fer'sha, but being bound by Blood Oaths, she might be better off dead.

The patterns barely lasts more than a few seconds under the touch of the Od.

“One of the Oaths is gone.” Elan'fer'sha's voice is barely more than a whisper. With the destruction of the Blood Oath pattern, she does not show any adverse effects, and instead, she smiles giddily.

A rapidly charged spell pattern, fired by the Citadel Lord, streaks toward me. Rather than take it on my shields, I drive the lance of Od through the spell patter, and it busts into a spray of prismatic light. The backlash from the destroyed spell rebounds on the Citadel Lord, and he drops to his knees clutching his head, while hissing in anger.

Keeping the Citadel Lord in the periphery of my awareness, I drive the lance of Od through the second Blood Oath pattern, then the third. Releasing her neck, I put my arm around Elan'fer'sha, as she sways slightly, and drop the pattern sight from my right eye, so that I can gaze at her inhumanly beautiful face.

Letting the Light Od recede from my body, I feel like I have been pushing myself to my limits for an extended period of time, but there is no sign of damage. Either I am getting considerably stronger than I realized, or the Light Od by itself is not as destructive to an Amalgamate form as the Dark Od.

“AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!”

The Citadel Lord slumps to the ground, as Aluras'bektsh'tar pulls her spear out of his back. With three quick steps, she makes a running leap that takes her over the heads of the legionnaires defending the Citadel Lord. Caught by surprise, the Citadel Lord's bodyguards react too slowly to stop her.

Elan'fer'sha stares at the tableau, conflicting emotions playing across her face. She seems to settle on hostility as she watches Aluras'bektsh'tar, before schooling her face into an emotionless mask.

One of the bodyguards kneels next to the fallen Citadel Lord and examines him.

“The Lord still lives! Defend him with your lives!” The bodyguard's shout echoes in the auditorium, and he triggers a device that brings up a domed shield covering himself and the fallen Citadel Lord's body.

Aluras'bektsh'tar's face turns so ugly from her rage that is almost impossible to recognize it as being the face of an Alfar.

“Are you going to back your friend?”

Elan'fer'sha looks at me for a moment. “I am going to kill her. Defend me, while I cast my spell!”

At my gesture, with the exception of the Throd'nahk, the guards and gladiators for a defensive line in front of us. The Throd'nahk deliberately stands next o Elan'fer'sha, almost as though he is trying to stake his territorial rights. After watching their actions, Elan'fer'sha stares at me for a few moments. Her gaze seems to be appraising me, as though I have suddenly become something she does not recognize.

Deliberately turning away from me, Elan'fer'sha begins to weave a spell pattern. I do not remember exactly what the spell she used in Castle Vardne'tar looked like, but I clearly remember large sections of it. This one is similar to that one, but there are some definitive differences.

The battle in the center of the auditorium is spreading, as the wings of the defenders are being eroded by the rebel forces following the SvartAlfar. Seeing the spell pattern being woven by Elan'fer'sha, the SvartAlfar's eyes widen slightly, and he steps out of the battle line with the Citadel Lord's defenders. Quickly slipping through the mass of his own forces, he engages the thinning defenders on the wing closest to our group.

There are no signs of Umbral Power in The SvartAlfar's pattern, but he seems to know enough about Umbral Power or Umbral casting to be aware of the threat in Elan'fer'sha's spell.

The SvartAlfar does not hold back in the least, revealing his strength as Coalescent being. With him adding his skill and Power to the attack on the Citadel Lord's defenders' flank, they quickly begin to fall apart. As the rebels force their way through, the SvartAlfar orders most of them to keep the Citadel Lord's forces tied up, while he advances on my group.

My heart is steel. My soul is the forge. My thoughts are life to my blade. Even though I activate the dancing weapons spell on my short-swords, I keep them in their sheaths and draw my bastard swords. As much as I love the axe, the SvartAlfar is too fast, and I am still to match his speed if I use it.

“Keep the trash off Elan'fer'sha. I'm going after that SvartAlfar.”

As I move down toward the SvartAlfar, my feet barely touch the stone benches of the auditorium seating.

“Kill the Wytch! Brand is mine!”

The SvartAlfar's movements are smother and faster than my own. He is using a mana based ability that allows him to run on the air, his feet always a few inches off the ground. As he charges toward me, the area dims and shadows close in around him. His inky black skin and soot black armor seem to blend into the lack of light. There is something strange about those shadows, making even his pattern nearly impossible to see within them. If it were darker, he might become impossible to detect.

Behind the SvartAlfar the cultist forces are splitting into two wings, so they can move past without interfering in our imminent battle. They outnumber the Blood Rose gladiators and guards three to one, but they lack the aura of strength and competence that the Blood Rose defenders have.

The SvartAlfar is using a pair of swords that are too long to be short-swords and too short to be long swords. The blades are about thirty inches long, with a width of almost three inches at the hilt that tapers along a perfectly straight edge to a needle point. Their shape and probable balance would them almost useless for edge work, so they are almost strictly stabbing weapons. If I had not already seen the SvartAlfar's formidable fighting skills with them, I would think that the lack of blade length would make them awkward for fighting on a battlefield.

As we come within striking range, our swords begin to clash violently. The SvartAlfar is faster, but I have an advantage in reach. For an Alfar, the SvartAlfar is decidedly short, barely an inch or so taller than myself. With the slightly more than forty inch long blades of my swords, my reach exceeds the SvartAlfar's by a solid six inches. It may not seem like much, but in a contest of almost pure point work, it borders on overbearing. The SvartAlfar's slight speed advantage is not enough to overcome it, and he ins continually forced to abort his attacks, as I parry and riposte with smooth motions.

Despite his beanpole build, the SvartAlfar does not lose to me in strength and is probably a fair bit stronger. I do not know exactly how strong I am now, since I have had more important things to do than testing lifting ability, but I have easily lifted objects that should be more than seven hundred pounds, if I weighed them. In the Labyrinth of Yggr, even your common trash humans are usually twice the strength of your average Earthling.

Dancing up and down on the uneven footing of the steps and benches, we circle one another, lunging and withdrawing. When the SvartAlfar jumps to move up several levels in a single move, my short-swords fly out of their sheathes, attacking his calves. Defying gravity and momentum, the SvartAlfar twists in midair and deflect my short-swords away, before finishing a complete somersault and landing on his feet.

The smile on the SvartAlfar's face is a challenge, not an expression of pleasure. “You are a Smith. I was beginning to wonder if my information was in error.”

“And you're an orc fucking backstabber. So, what's your point?”

The smile disappears from the SvartAlfar's lips. “Pathetic human, I told you to understand your targets better. I am a Chosen of Kah Lee, Mistress of Murder.”

We never stop attacking, even while talking. Our fight taking us farther and farther up the the stands, as the SvartAlfar keep springing back out of my reach to deal with my dancing swords.

“Oh! So, sorry! You bend over while Kally shoves her fist up your ass! Got it!”

The SvartAlfar stiffens momentarily, before wiping all expression from his face. I smile behind the visor of my helm and press my attack. The SvartAlfar stops retreating when my dancing swords strike and starts circling. We are done feeling each other out and are looking for the kill. With four blades against two, we are evenly matched.

Below and to my right, the Blood Rose defenders are decimating their attackers. Kanchek and his guards formed the center of their line, and the gladiators had taken the wings without arguing. I had thought that the only thing really keeping the gladiators in check was their collars, but the fighting skills and ability of these seven DokkAlfar is several steps above the gladiators. Every one of them would easily be able to stand in a battle line with the elite among the DokkAlfar forces.

Below, to the side of the stage, Aluras'bektsh'tar's legionnaires are still penned by the Citadel Lord's force, but with the Citadel Lord down, his defenders are wavering. It is just a matter of time before Aluras' legionnaires break through.

As I remain caught in a stalemate with the SvartAlfar, Elan'fer'sha's spell pattern dissolves into a cloud of purple blotched black gas. It flows down the stands and into the battle line between the Citadel Lord's and Aluras'bektsh'tar's legionnaires. For a few moments, nothing appears to happen, but then Aluras'bektsh'tar's legionnaires begin to visibly slow and weaken. The Citadel Lord's troops rally and begin to press their attacks, striking down their enemies one after another.

With a parting glare at Elan'fer'sha, Aluras'bektsh'tar spins on her toes and stalks down the tunnel behind her, as her forces scramble to make a path for her. The gas does not appear to be affecting Aluras'bektsh'tar or the Citadel Lord's forces in the least, but I cannot tell why.

The SvartAlfar springs to the side, covering more than thirty feet in a single step.

“Tens of thousands of pawns, and a single Wytch can turn the tide of a battle with a sing spell. But a single assassin with a single stroke of a knife can change the course or an Empire. Your life or death is irrelevant.” The SvartAlfar glides down the stands toward the rebels.

“It that how a worm of Kally says I'm a loser?”

I just watch the SvartAlfar disappear into the mass of cultist rebels. There are too many of them down there, and no matter how good I might be, I would be overwhelmed trying to bring him down with all of them attacking me.

The end of the battle is anticlimactic, as the black gas weakens the forces rebelling against the Citadel Lord, and his troops cut them down like a field of wheat at harvest time. With the energy dome covering him, I cannot see the Citadel Lord's pattern. It is impossible to tell whether or not he really is alive, but in the end, I suppose it does not matter for us.

I return to Elan'fer'sha's side and wait for her to terminate her spell. None of the Citadel Lord's guards attempt to approach us. For all the attention they pay us, we might as well not exist.

Finally, Elan'fer'sha's spell ends, and she releases the Umbra. As she turns toward me, I catch her, when her legs give out, and she begins to collapse like a puppet with its strings cut. Picking her up, I turn toward the gate, with her unconscious body in my arms.

“We're leaving.”

Everyone from the Blood Rose Stable follows me through the gate, while some of the Citadel Lord's legionnaires and bodyguards watch. As soon as Kanchek, the last one through, is back in the ritual chamber, I close the gate.

While Kanchek and the Throd'nahk disperse the gladiators and guards, I retrieve some blanket from one of my storage devices to make a bed for Elan'fer'sha. It seems to be convenient that I never did get around to disposing of all the trash loot that I accumulated from the Thug Horde massacre.

After I have Elan'fer'sha safely ensconced in her makeshift bed in one corner of the ritual chamber, Kanchek, the Throd'nahk, and Tyrend are the only ones left in the room with us. The Throd'nahk's worry is obvious in his face and posture, but Kanchek and Tyrend seem more curious and confused than worried.

“What is wrong with the Mistress?” Kanchek does not seem like the type to equivocate, and he does not surprise me getting right to the point.

“Umbral corruption.”

Kanchek nods fractionally, more to himself than anything. Tyrend stares blankly at me, but the Throd'nahk appears to be close to becoming distraught. Being DokkAlfar, it is not surprising that Kanchek would have some awareness of the meaning of the term. The Throd'nahk seems to have spent enough time in Gor'achen Citadel to know it is not good, but for Tyrend, there is no reason to expect him to understand. Outside of the DokkAlfar, Umbra users are extremely uncommon, and more often than not normal people would have no real knowledge about the side effects of the Umbra.

“What do you plan to do?”

I shrug. “Hole up here, until the Smith gets back. After that, it will depend on what's happening. Once the Smith is back, if you or anyone else decides that they want out of here, I'll open a gate to someplace suitable. I can't open gates anywhere and everywhere, but I can do it in a lot locations in the Battleground of the Damned and the Lands of Despair.”

Kanchek nod in acknowledgment and leaves.

“Will the Mistress be okay?” The Throd'nahk's eyes are locked on Elan'fer'sha's recumbent form.

“Do you understand what Umbral corruption is?”

The Throd'nahk turns a challenging glare on me. “No.”

I look at Elan'fer'sha. “The Umbra is inimical to life. Over time, it twists and destroys the patterns of living things. Even Transcendent beings can be damaged or killed if they use too much of it. Elan has used far too much for far too long.”

“How long until she recovers?”

Rage and anger flare up in me, and I turn to glare at the Throd'nahk. “There's no fucking recovery. She's dying and what she did today chipped away at what time she has left. Get the fuck out of here, so she can at least rest in peace.”

I do not know why I am so angry, but I am ready to break the Throd'nahk and throw him out of Thrall's territory. He seems to sense how close I am to fucking his world and makes the wise choice, he leaves.

“You've changed.”

I look at Tyrend. “What do you mean?”

Tyrend scratches his jaw, while not looking quite straight at me. “The Brand I saw that first day you arrived wouldn't care if the Mistress lived or died. He was death looking for something to land into. You're still death looking for something to kill, but the Mistress matters to you, now.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

I do not think I have changed, but maybe, he is right. I can only see myself from a subjective perspective. Even with all the Power I have at my disposal, I cannot separate my consciousness from itself and evaluate myself from a completely detached point of view. Those who claim to have an objective view of themselves are all morons and lying fucking hypocrites.

“Go check on Mikumi, but don't let her leave. We're probably being watched from within the Third Layer.”

Tyrend nods, with normal cocky grin in place. “Some padding to fill her out, and Mikumi would be a pretty good fuck.”

“You have disgusting tastes in women's physiques.”

Tyrend's laughter drifts back into the ritual chamber as he leaves.

Elan'fer'sha sits up using the wall for a backrest. She has been awake since the mass of the gladiators and guards left the room.

“Why did you tell them?”

“Depending on how the act, I'll have a better idea of how far I can use them without being stabbed in the back.”

“You would be well suited for the Left Hand Order. You could rise high among them.”

“Except for the dead, everyone I ever trusted has betrayed me.”

Elan'fer'sha's smile is bitter. “There is no who will not betray you, if they find a reason to.”

“Why did Aluras betray you? What was the point?”

Elan'fer'sha closes her eyes. “Who else could she take vengeance on? My clan was the tool used to destroy her Line of Provenance and make it look like a LjosAlfar attack. It was masterminded by Sinla'aveyka'tar on the orders of the orders of Talchok'aveyka'tar.”

“Did you learn who killed your clan?”

Elan'fer'sha shakes her head, her chin falling to her chest. The air of despondency around her is so heavy it feels like I should be able to see it. If she were not what she is, I would expect her to cry.

“PEOPLE OF GOR'ACHEN CITADEL I AM THRALL, SON OF RIG. YOU KNOW OF ME AS THE SMITH.” The booming voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, and it certainly sounds like Thrall.

I quickly weave an activation spell for the mirror, with Thrall as my intended focal point. As soon as I bind it to the mirror the scene resolves to Thrall on a castle parapet, lit by the sanguine light of the dimension of the Life and Death Furnace. He looks at the focal point for a moment before continuing.

“I HAVE COME TO AN ACCORD WITH YGGR, AND FROM THIS MOMENT ONWARD, THE GOR'ACHEN CITADEL BELONGS TO ME. IT IS NO LONGER PART OF THE ATRAN'LER EMPIRE.

“THIS CITADEL WAS BUILT FOR WAR, AND IT WILL BE GOING INTO BATTLE WITH THE FORCES OF WODEN, WHO NOW CALLS HIMSELF THE NAMELESS GOD.”

Elan'fer'sha climbs unsteadily to her feet and moves over to me. Leaning on my shoulder, she stares at Thrall's image in the mirror.

“I WILL ALLOW THOSE WHO CHOSE TO LEAVE THIS CITADEL DISEMBARK TO THE OTHER CITADELS THAT ARE ARE HERE NOW. YOU HAVE A SINGLE TEN-DAY TO DECIDE AND DEPART, IF YOU CHOOSE TO DO SO.”

A storm is coming, and there is going to be even more chaos in the Gor'achen Citadel. The rats and the vipers are going to be scrambling and backstabbing one another right and left in their struggle to grasp a little more status and power. I wonder how Thrall plans to handle it?

My body stiffens momentarily in shock, as Elan'fer'sha's arms slip around my neck, and she clings tightly to me. When I wrap my arms around her, she holds on tighter, without saying anything. For a long time, I stare at the the now empty battlements, while silent tears fall on my neck and shoulder.

Boran Second Father

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 294

“Is my test over?”

Thrall stares at me for a moment. This is the first time he has been back to the Blood Rose Stable, since his announcement, and the first thing out of my mouth is a question about something that I should be unaware of.

“You talked with Boran.”

I shrug.

“Things went quite a bit awry from what was expected. Boran was satisfied with the results, but I do not know when he will contact you.”

“You want to explain what the fuck happened?”

Thrall frowns. “I am Transcendent and do not worry about the actions of most mortals. For too long, I did not pay enough attention to the course of events. Apparently, Aluras'bektsh'tar and Canth are Dragon cultists. They had been secretly manipulating the Stoics. I knew the Stoics were staging a rebellions, but if the clans did not pay attention to it, I had no intention of warning them. What I should have paid attention to was their religion. The Stoics appeared to be worshiping Yggr, but their real loyalty was to Woden. Most of the common Stoics seem unaware that they were really worshiping Woden, but that does not make it any less significant.

“Woden and Yggr are twins, and the Stoics leaders used their almost identical appearance and carefully worded prayers and sermons to disguise it as worship of Yggr. The Citadel Lords and the Priest-Lords of the Church of the Jotun Lords discounted them as weaklings that were trying to undermine their culture because they lacked the strength to rise. Only the Left Hand of Yggr seemed to watch them, but for unknown reasons did not act until too late. Now, there will be purges across the Atran'ler Empire.

“After Yggr demanded I act as his go between with Boran, I paid even less attention to events in Gor'achen. I never thought that Aluras'bektsh'tar would learn about Elan'fer'sha's clan being the source of her clan's destruction. There should have no source for that information. Her daring to move against one of my minions would be unbelievable, if she were not a Dragon cultist.”

“What's the big deal about her being a Dragon cultist, other than the Jotun's egos?”

Thrall laughs. “The Dragons have no foothold in the Labyrinth of Yggr. Even though a few of them are here, they are younger and weaker ones, that have no place in the Dragon hierarchies. You may or may not have heard legends about the Jotun-Dragon War, but the Jotun's overthrew the Umbral Dragons as the gods of most of the DokkAlfar. Being accused of being a Dragon cultist is a death sentence, if you lack the power and position to fight off the Church of the Jotun Lords.

“In the past thousand years, there have been hundreds of Lines of Provenance that have been exterminated because they were thought to be Dragon cultists, the Bektsh'tar line among them. Aluras was thought to have never been inculcated and Canth made his reputation fighting on the Jotun side in the Jotun-Dragon War. Clan Vardne'tar taking him on was assumed to have been a move by Aluras' father to obfuscate his Dragon cultist loyalties. When or how he became a Dragon cultist may never be known, but it is helping to foment a new wave of paranoia over Dragon cultists in the Atran'ler Empire.”

“What about the SvartAlfar? Who is Kah Lee?”

Thrall frowns, and a glint of anger appears in his eyes. “The SvartAlfar has left Gor'achen. Kah Lee is the self-proclaimed Mistress of Murder. She is one of those who calls herself a goddess.”

“I'm leaving too many enemies alive.”

Thrall smiles and walks over to the mirror, then looks at me with narrowed eyes.

“Twisting the three parts of the Trinity, that is a trick I never expected you to master. Most who try it burn themselves out, before doing it properly. If you keep using your Power in that manner, it will help to open all of your Power reservoirs and channels equally. Still, I am surprised you mastered my mirror so quickly.”

“I fucked up; someone gave me a lot of help.” Unlike Boran, I do not feel comfortable talking about Life with Thrall.

Thrall just watches me for a moment, when I do not elaborate.

“No matter, you can have the mirror, along with this place. I have taken possession of the Lord's Castle and can build a better mirror. If you do not accept Boran's request, I could use you in the war against Woden.”

Thrall never really answered my question, and he seems to have no intentions on elaborating on the partial answers he gave. I know as well as anyone that everyone has secrets they do not want to talk about.

*** Gor'achen Citadel - Battleground of the Damned ***

Return: Day 301

Three swords, one nothing more than a lump of metal with a shattered pattern, and an axe lay on the workbench in front of me. Neither my swords not my axe have been Patterned, and I am not sure how I want to Pattern them. My knowledge is still far too lacking, so my options are extremely limited.

Power flares in the room behind me. As I spin around, I see space slit, and another scene become visible in the rift. Compared with my Smithy, the rough hewn cavern is only dimly lit by the flickering ruddy light of a forge. Standing midway between the rift and the forge, Boran looks at me with a faint smile.

“Bring your weapons.” Boran's words are in English.

I stare at him, unable to keep the shock off my face. “When did you learn English?”

Boran chuckles softly. “English as you call it is a common language on Gaean Worlds like your Earth. There are around seven hundred common variations.”

Stepping through Boran's rift, I feel the Od filling the cave. Its concentration is so high that I am not sure a being could survive her without at least being recognized by the Od.

With the exception of the area around the forge, the cave itself is mostly natural. In the section of the cave where the floor has been leveled, a Smithy has been constructed. There are even stronger concentrations of Power around in the Smithy than the rest of the cave, but I cannot identify the nature of those Powers. From their extremely heavy feel, they might be Elemental.

“Leave them on the table for now and take a seat.” Boran points to a workbench in the Smithy.

Leaving my weapon on the workbench, I sit down on one of the two stool in the Smithy, and Boran takes the other.

“What is a Gaean World?”

“Gaea was the first world in the first universe. Its geographical pattern is repeated time and again throughout the first metaverse and the second metaverse. I already told you this is the second metaverse, did I not?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“The first metaverse was created by Life and Death. Before the existence of Life and Death, there was nothing but the Four Primal Powers: Light, Dark, Law, Chaos. How long the Primals have existed is impossible to know; time has no meaning within the Primals. Whether or not the Primals are sentient, no one knows. Each of the Primals exists solely for the purpose of making everything of itself.

“Before the first metaverse existed, Life and Death came into existence, because they chose to exist. At the point all four Primals meet, Life and Death were born. Siblings, lovers, allies, enemies, They are eternally tied one to the other and eternally opposed to one another.

“After Life and Death came into existence, They created the Five Great Elements: Air, Earth, Fire, Water, and Spirit. With creation of the Five Great Elements, other Powers came into being that were Elemental in their strength. Each was sentient and was a NAME.”

The meaning and Power contained the word Name, as said by Boran, nearly blasts me into unconsciousness. As I sway on my stool, Boran frowns.

“Your strength is still far too weak. Names have Power. When one understand the reality of a Name and can properly say it, one can bring about the Power of that Name. The Names of the first metaverse were the very embodiment of their own Power, and each has purpose based on their own Name.

“The monolithic Power contained within the Five Great Elements allowed them resist being destroyed by the Primals, and within the shield of the Five Great Elements, Life and Death amalgamated the first two universes. Each universe was a mirror and an inverse of the other, one living and the other dead.

“Over an incalculable period of time universes beyond count naturally amalgamated, and the first metaverse became filled with well nigh infinite lives. But everything that is born must someday die. Born from Life, claimed by Death, given to Life and reborn, this is the eternal cycle of Life and Death.

“During the birth of the myriad universes, Life gave birth to the children sired by Death. The first of the Dragons were born, True Dragons, not the little wyrms of this multiverse that call themselves Dragons. The Dragons were Elemental beings with strength to challenge the weaker Names, and they set out to conquer all of the Amalgamate universes.

“Unsatisfied with the weak races that worshiped them, the Dragons wanted a stronger race to serve them as soldier-slaves. In his flesh shaping labs, the Dragon Nidhoggr, one of the firstborn of Life, created a new race. Though their form was partly made of Amalgamate flesh, these were creatures birthed of Elemental Earth and Elemental Fire. Initially they created only five, Lemur, Boran, Korak, Vein, and Viroka. From the blood of the Fathers, the Dvergar race was born in the flesh cauldrons of Nidhoggr, but Nidhoggr, being jealous of his technology and not wishing to spend his days making soldiers, was unhappy.

“The Dvergar were the perfect soldier-slaves in the eyes of Nidhoggr, but they needed to be self-perpetuating, so he created the Valkyrie. Creatures of Elemental Air and Elemental Water partially in the form of Amalgamate flesh, the Valkyrie were made in a female form to complement the male form of the Dvergar. Two completely unique races, Nidhoggr made it so they could mate and produce offspring.

“Millions of years after the Dvergar were created, the Dragons were bored with ruling their empires Nidhoggr created the Alfar to be their factors and administrators. The Alfar were given the title of Whip-Masters by the Dragons and given power over all the Dragons domains and properties as their proxies.

“Billions of years after the creation of the Dvergar, and possibly trillions of years after the births of the first Dragons, a group of Dragons left the first metaverse. In their dimensional battle fortresses, with legions of their slaves in tow, they entered the sea of Dark, beyond the first metaverse. An unknown amount of time passed while the Dragons fleet wandered lost within the Dark, until finally this, the second metaverse, was found.

“In the beginning, it was not known that this was a new metaverse. The Power of Life and Death were present, but the Dragons were never able to find the first universe, where their original home, Gaea, lay. Only after billions of years, when they encountered the Avatars of Life and Death, did they finally understand that this was new metaverse.

“As the children born of Life's womb, the Dragons tried to assert supremacy over what they saw as mere Avatars and were mercilessly beaten by Death. Pretending to capitulate, the Dragon left their holdings in this metaverse in the hands of their Alfar Whip-Masters and spent all their time and efforts seeking more Power.

“The Alfar were vain and jealous, much like the Dragons themselves, but unlike most Dragons, they were petty. They used their position to oppress and crush everything else beneath their feet. Bound by the collars made by the Dragons themselves, Dvergar and Valkyries became their playthings and generation upon generation were squandered in wars fought for purposes no greater than entertainments or bets among the Alfar. Many more were murdered and tortured for nothing other than the Alfar's pleasure.

“The Power that the Dragons eventually found was Primal. They gave themselves to Light and Dark. In the first metaverse, Life and Death forbade any and all beings from using Primal Power, but in this metaverse, the Dragons thought themselves above the whims of the mere Avatars of Life and Death. They tried to control Primal Power and became corrupted by it. Nothing of the metaverses of Life and Death can use Primal Power without being corrupted.

“Death came to the Dvergar and gave us the choice to fight against our creators or be destroyed along with them. Boran Second Father, the only one of the Five Fathers with the Dragon's fleet when it left the first metaverse, chose to fight. His heart and soul were filled with rage over the treatment that the Dragons allowed the Alfar to subject his children to. He felt betrayed by those whom he had served loyally for hundreds of billions or perhaps trillions of years.

“Death shattered the collars on the Dvergar and Valkyries, and they rose up against their creators. They destroyed the technology and tools of the Alfar, nearly exterminating the race. They slaughtered the little wyrms, the orcs, the goblins, the trolls, and all the other biological weapon systems of their creators, the Dragons. They killed every living Dragon they could find, and Boran Second Father slew Nidhoggr, the only thing akin to a father he had ever known, with Harbinger, the axe of the Avatar of Death himself.

“In the wake of the War of Slaughter, the Dvergar and Valkyries put aside their weapons and tools created with the Dragon's technology. All that was not destroyed was sealed in pocket dimensional Heritage Vaults, never to be touched from then to now. Only lesser weapons and armors were kept in clan vaults to be used a handful of times from then till now.” Boran pauses and watches me for a time.

In the Battleground of the Damned, there are too many stories about the Dvergar, making it hard to know what is true and what is false. Because there are only unsubstantiated claims of beings seeing female Dvergar, there are more than enough rumors about Dvergar proclivities. I have heard rumors about Dvergar and Valkyries, but like most everyone else, I never considered them to be more than flights of fancy. After all, Valkyries are nothing but legends in the Battleground. Other than odd comments that made little sense, Thorrin used to always change the subject, whenever anyone tried to question him about the Dvergar. I wonder how much of what Boran just told me he knows?

“So is Boran a common Dvergar name?”

Boran laughs so hard he almost double over. Was the question really that funny?

“There are five names that have never been borne by more than one Dvergar each: Lemur, Boran, Korak, Vein, and Viroka.”

Okay. Right. I do not know if Boran is sane or not. I do not know if I am sane or not, since I have the feeling that he is telling me the absolute truth.

“The thing I don't understand is, if the Dragon's made Dvergar so powerful, why are the Dvergar in the Battleground generally so weak now?”

Boran stares at the ground with a frown. “The Dvergar born now are not like the Dvergar of old. At best, they are Fallen Dvergar. Their DNA has deteriorated and is no longer Elemental. Like you humans, my descendants have become Amalgamate beings.”

“Thrall doesn't know much about this does he?”

Boran frowns. “Only because you are chosen by the Od and acknowledged by Life, did I tell you this. I prefer you not to speak of what I have told you. I can prevent you from repeating it, by using Power to constrain you, but I will not.

“I won't speak of it. But I don't understand why you told me all this. What do you want from me?”

“This Labyrinth of Yggr is not something that was created by Yggr or any of his Divine Tribes members. They are barely more than ignorant barbarians, just like your own people. As I once told you, this a Dragon battle fortress. This is Yggdrasil, the dimensional battle fortress of Nidhoggr, that I had thought destroyed in the War of Slaughter.”

Boran holds up his had, and an image appears in the air over it, the image of a cube covered with what look like spell formations. It is a cube that I have already seen. In the base where Taereun: Battleground of the Damned was being run by The Nameless God Entertainment, Inc., I saw that cube.

“I saw that on Earth. What is it?”

Boran's smile is predatory. “That is Yggdrasil's primary dimensional drive. That is what allowed Woden to draw your Earth's solar system into the Battleground of the Damned. I want you to retrieve it for me.”

Fuck me. I may not feel fear the way normal people do, but I still feel a chill in my soul listening to Boran's words. As completely improbable as his story may be, inside the Labyrinth of Yggr, no, inside Yggdrasil, I have seen enough of Power to believe him. What I have felt in the Od, the overwhelming reality of Life, those go far beyond the already mind-blowing levels I have seen used by casters with just mana. Now, he wants me to go against Woden, or The Nameless, or whatever the fuck he wants to call himself.

I came back here with the intention of fucking The Nameless over and killing him, if I could, but I planned to acquire Power before doing so.

“Gods may be myths, but Woden is so fucking powerful, I won't have a chance in hell against him.”

“Yes, he is powerful, but he is also limited. In this metaverse, there were no Names. For whatever reason, the Elemental realms came into existence, but no sentience ever manifested within them. After becoming Transcendents, the ones who call themselves gods have a followed a path that allowed them to take on aspects and become similar to Names. They are False Names, and many can have the Power and aspect of the same Name. There are False Names that are so alien to your human form and nature you would not even be able to recognize them as life, but there are none among them that concern themselves with this multiverse.

“Once a False Name is born, a realm coalesces around it. Within that realm, they keep their original body, effectively becoming unkillable outside of that realm. Outside of their realms, False Names can only operate through projections and avatars. Only by creating Avatars can they use the majority of their Power outside their personal realm, but that leave them vulnerable to suffering significant damage, if the avatar is destroyed. Yggr and Woden are two of those who became False Names, and after the Jotun-Dragon, neither uses avatars any longer. The projections that Woden uses are severely limited in their Power, and if you use the Od, you can contend with one.”

I hold up my hands. “Hold it! You realize every time I use the Od it tears me up. The more of the Od I use the more it damages me.”

“You are getting stronger, and with the amount of Od you can channel now, you should be able to destroy Woden's projections and survive. Also, I will will arm you with weapons that will allow you to fight Woden's avatars and projections on a more even footing should you need to. I will also provide you with a tool to move the drive.

“If Woden keeps using the drive as he has, he will destroy this multiverse. The universe your Earth was ripped from has already been destroyed, and its destruction has damaged other universe in its proximity.”

I stare at Boran. I feel like I am in an alternate dimension, and I sure as fuck do not mean that in a literal sense. “I'm not a fucking hero. There have to be better choices than me to do this shit.”

“I am not asking you to be a hero. I am not an altruist. If Woden is allowed to keep the drive, he will destroy this multiverse. You and every other mortal will die. I will survive, but Taereun was restored from a dead and poisoned lump of rock by we Dvergar. It was on Taereun that I first met the Avatars of Life and Death. I do not choose to allow it to be destroyed. You are better equipped to retrieve the drive than anyone else, and I will reward you with knowledge that you are in need of. You will simply act the part of a mercenary paid by me.”

I cannot keep from laughing and frowning a the same time. “I don't need the rationalizations. I understand enlightened self-interest well enough, and don't want to fucking die, because Wooden is a fucking jackass. I'll find the drive, but I want to know why you can't leave this place. What's so special about this city?”

Boran frowns, as well. “It is not the city. Mountain View is meaningless. On my orders, we Dvergar destroyed most of our weapons and equipment made with the Dragons' technology, but not everything was destroyed. Deep below this cave, there is a gate to a pocket dimensional vault, where I stored weapons and equipment I did not destroy. Many of those weapons are far more dangerous than Yggdrasil's drive, because they were made to be used as weapons. If I leave here, some of those fools who think they are gods will try to steal from the vault. With their Power, it is not impossible for them to do so, so I do not leave the general area of Mountain View. I can only rely on agents like you.”

I sigh. “I know where the drive was, but Woden moved it, before I left Earth. I have no idea how to find it.”

“The nature of the energies in the drive make it very had to isolate its location, unless you are very close. I will give you a tool to detect it, but you will have to be within a few miles at most. I will also provide you with a tool to move the drive.”

Boran stands and moves to the workbench with my weapons. “None of these are Patterned. I will reforge and Pattern them for you. They will become weapons that can hurt even avatars of the False Names.”

End of Path of Transcendence

Book 2

Slave Pits of the Tyrannical God