Chapter 83
"Abbbbapubueeeee!"
With a sound roughly like that, a medium-sized Chaos Spawn made another attempt to pounce on me. This clump of crooked blue tentacles, horns, and snarling maws moved surprisingly nimbly for its appearance. Its insensitivity to pain, however, was expected. I had already landed three blows on the spawn, severing clusters of tentacles. I doubted it would be possible to lop off this thing's head. Most likely, I would have to mince the spawn into pieces. I had no objection.
The spawn's tentacles were mostly bruised blue and yellowish-red, but the rest of the monster's parts bore spots of almost every color of the rainbow. Literally a purple-gray-maroon mess in speckles.
I evaded the creature's leap without much trouble, seeing the monster off with a light stroke of my broadsword across its back. The arena stands reacted with a surge of roars, which subsided immediately. The bloodthirsty pointy-ears realized I was still far from victory.
Before the spawn, there had been a warm-up in the form of a dozen large Beastmen and Ungor rabble. This allowed me to accumulate seven segments of the Bloody Vessel. I was keeping the sixth closed for now to keep gathering energy. I wanted to reach the twelfth and see what Pepe's sorcery was capable of.
"Yyyyaaaaayyyyrrrraaaa..." the spawn uttered, opening the largest of its maws and retching a glob of slime that splattered onto the arena stones.
"At least it wasn't on the carpet!" I smirked, tossing my shield aside and gripping the broadsword with both hands.
Shu-shhh!
The spawn's right "arm," consisting of root-like tentacles, elongated and tried to grab me by the leg. This thing was full of surprises.
A fight with an opponent that could mutate right during the battle required caution. After every two or three strikes, I broke the distance and watched to see what the creature would throw out this time.
"Aleeeeebaaaa rygvyraaaaa!"
The spawn itself tore out a portion of the damaged tentacles and hurled them at me. The limbs continued to twitch frantically as they flew.
"No. Not interested," I replied, moving aside with wide side-steps.
I had already agreed to elven porn in the style of light BDSM, but tentacles were crossing the line. I had to keep pummeling the beast.
It was hard to say how many blows the spawn absorbed in total. Definitely more than thirty. I was at the ninth segment of the Bloody Vessel when the Chaos creature stopped offering active resistance. The spawn had already become nearly half its original size. I had trimmed it mercilessly. The remaining lump of hacked flesh convulsed and howled in several voices, splashing streams of slimy ichor with a sharp, putrid smell onto the arena stones. Ugh! What filth. I had somehow gotten used to killing opponents with normal blood over the last month.
"Are you finished?" I asked the convulsing spawn. "Oh no. No! This is a clever plan to lure me closer, isn't it? And when I approach, you'll attack with the last of your strength? Well, fine..."
I cautiously approached the defeated monster, raising my sword for a strike. As soon as I narrowed the distance to two meters, the spawn's body contracted sharply, and a thick jet of smoking liquid splashed toward me. Acid? Most likely.
"There! I told you so!"
Under the buffs from the Bloody Vessel, it wasn't hard to dodge. Not a single drop landed on me.
Having discharged the jet of acid, the spawn went silent.
"Trickery again, little buddy? Buuuuddy?"
A careful but quite strong chop with the upper part of the blade yielded no results. The spawn lay still. Was it really over?
The stands buzzed. In the voices of the pointy-eared sadists, delight and disappointment sounded simultaneously. That exact feeling of "tasty, but not enough." On one hand, I had hacked enough meat here. On the other, the final fight against the spawn turned out to be quite predictable despite all the creature's tricks. A Tzeentchian beast, evidently. However, the monster simply lacked the speed and reaction time to force me into close combat.
"Alright. Double-tap and home."
Delivering a few more particularly strong blows to the creature, I noticed that new energy was no longer entering the Bloody Vessel. This meant the spawn was truly dead.
"Before our eyes, Jurg Goblinoeater has secured a new victory," the master of ceremonies of the bloody show announced. "A pity, but this promising fighter will soon leave Clar Karond. And yet, many have emerged wishing to take his head."
Yes. A whole bunch of pointy-ears wanted to step into the arena with me. Sisters of Slaughter, other renowned gladiators, and simple aristocrats in search of a thrill. Another Beastmaster suggested to Liandra that she pit me against his favorite Sea Serpent. The elf refused. There was no longer any special reason to fight in Clar Karond for money and respect. I had boosted my strength and gained new experience. From here on, it was just unnecessary risk. Let's say no to meaningless bloodshed and go shed blood meaningfully!
Absorbing the vessel's segments, I headed back to the arena dungeons. There, a familiar company of pointy-ears awaited me. Khemor Thorny-Whip, surrounded by several bodyguards and a pair of wolves, looked less pleased than before. Without unnecessary praise, he handed Liandra and me a small silk pouch. The reward for the public slaughter.
"My black heart mourns the realization that you are soon leaving the walls of our city, Mistress Mordrim. You became a bright star in the darkness of the local rat race," Khemor said with affected politeness as we were leaving, and then smirked more sincerely. "However, it will be quieter here without you."
When your presence SIGNIFICANTLY raises the level of violence in a Dark Elf city... I don't even know if that's an achievement or a diagnosis.
It was time to prepare for the trek. The Shades, by Liandra's order, were already busy purchasing supplies. Accompanied by guards provided by the Drachau of Clar Karond, we headed to the slave market. Our second visit to this "wonderful" place.
Crying, lamentations, wails, and the shouts of traders rang out from all sides as we stepped onto the spacious rectangular square of the slave market.
"Goblins! Extra plump! Home-grown!" yelled one of the private entrepreneurs. "For sacrifices, rituals, and meat! It is Mistress Mordrim! Take some fresh goblins for your barbarian. He needs to eat well to win in the arena!"
Liandra ignored these calls, moving further along the rows.
"Artisan slaves! Carpenters, stonemasons, blacksmiths!"
I turned at these shouts. I thought there might be Dwarfs among the artisans. No. Entirely morose humans.
"Dwarf slaves are rare in Clar Karond," Liandra lamented. "They are a stubborn race, difficult to train, and gradually dying out. However, they are valued for their craftsmanship. The few who end up on the slave market are quickly bought up. In Karond Kar or Naggarond, there are surpluses, but here, and in just a day, we won't find anyone suitable."
"Still, it's worth a look," I replied. "We're going underground. What if we need to clear a collapse properly or punch a new tunnel?"
"Very well, Gil. We search until evening today."
"Mistress Mordrim!" came from behind.
The whole city already knows our faces. Celebrities, damn it.
"Halt and not a step further!" came the stern voice of one of the guards in our rear, cutting off someone's attempt to approach us.
"Mistress Mordrim, I can help you!"
Who is that yelling? Ah, a familiar mug. A short, lame-legged Corsair had tagged along behind us. One of those who sold us the Kroxigor.
"What do you want?" I asked in Norsk.
The elf either understood me or began speaking with pre-prepared phrases:
"You need stunties, don't you? Dwarfs? I know a place where they're sold. For a small financial assistance, I'm read..."
"Lead the way," Liandra interrupted him commandingly. "If you haven't lied, you'll get five silver coins. If you lied, Jurg will snap your neck."
I nodded meaningfully, confirming the likelihood of such an outcome.
"The reward is small, and the punishment excessive," the Corsair sighed sorrowfully. "But such is my lot. Come. I haven't lied to you."
Following Dark Elves anywhere is not a very good idea. You could even say it's outright rotten. However, we were accompanied by armed guards, and we ourselves were ready to repel a dangerous foe. The morning's Chaos Spawn would have confirmed my words if it knew how to speak and were still alive.
This time, however, we didn't have to fight. The Corsair led us to a well-protected mansion on the outskirts of the city. Amidst the narrow streets, hovels, and abandoned houses, it looked like a luxurious fortress.
"Knock on the door," Liandra ordered the elf, resting her hand on the hilt of her sword.
"Of course. As the mistress says," the Corsair nodded and, wincing from pain, climbed the high porch.
To knock on the door, there was a special hammer here. Made very skillfully, by the way, and suspended on a chain. The door soon opened. An elderly female Dark Elf in a puffy dress, accompanied by two armed servants, stood on the threshold.
"Ho-ho, if it isn't the young Mistress Mordrim," the elf addressed my companion, spreading a black fan. "I confess, I expected your visit. I heard that you are interested in slaves of the Dawi variety. I am one of the best breeders of these little ones in Clar Karond. Please, dear guests, enter my abode."
So we entered.
This lady's mansion was furnished quite luxuriously. I'm sure any member of the Addams family would have lived here with pleasure. Black and purple colors predominated. The walls in many places were decorated with intricate stone carvings. Dwarfs had clearly worked here. The subjects, however, were entirely non-Dwarfish. Druchii on Pegasi hunting humans, Druchii on a ship sinking an Ulthuan Elf vessel, a Druchii on a Dragon burning a whole city... kittens? My eyes didn't deceive me. Amidst the battle scenes, a bas-relief with kittens was wedged in. However, the cuteness bore the dark imprint of cruel Druchii customs. The kittens were depicted tearing a helpless leveret to pieces. Furthermore, the master had carved the latter's internal organs very diligently.
"Isn't it wonderful?" the owner of the establishment asked us, adjusting an elaborate hairstyle with several gray strands. "If you buy one of my little ones, he can carve something like that for you too. I happen to have several specimens for sale."
From the corridor, we passed into a circular hall intended for holding auctions. One of the walls was decorated with a painting depicting the hostess surrounded by intentionally small Dwarf slaves. The still-young owner of the establishment was reclining in a luxurious chair while short, beardless workers bustled around: hammering stone with picks, carving figurines from jade, forging metal.
This painting reminded me of an old Rammstein music video for the song "Sonne," which played on the theme of Snow White and the Dwarfs.
"O my gracious, magnificent mistress..." with these words, we were met by a human slave dressed in ridiculous but expensive clothes and wearing a white curly wig.
"Bring number six and number ten, Gyu," the elf ordered, waving her fan. "Are they washed?"
"Just this morning I washed them and did the bandages for number ten," the slave replied, literally crawling away on all fours.
"Bandages?" Liandra frowned. "Is he wounded? I need a healthy Dwarf ready for a trek."
"It's a minor wound," the owner of the establishment smirked nastily. "The consequences of castration. After it, the little ones become more obedient and calmer."
Her tone made me shudder. And in terms of vileness, I had been through a lot—including a very close acquaintance with Tamurkhan. Eh, the Dawi started the War of the Beard with the wrong Elves.
"Here they are, here they are, mistress!" that slave in the wig wailed, straining his throat, dragging two Dwarfs on a chain.
Beardless, heads shaved bald, stooped, they seemed much smaller than their free kin.
"Number six and number ten," the hostess said, gesturing with her fan. "Onto the stage, boys. Quickly, quickly!"
It immediately struck me that the Dwarfs were walking somewhat too unsteadily. There were seemingly no shackles, only collars, but they barely moved their legs.
"Are they sick or something?" I grimaced. "They can barely drag their feet."
"Sick?!" the owner was incensed. "Who do you take me for?! Their tendons have been slightly nicked and shortened. A simple operation that makes my boys not very fast, but absolutely obedient."
"How much do they cost?" Liandra asked.
"The price is reasonable," the hostess replied with a smile and, leaning toward Liandra's ear and covering her face with her fan, whispered something.
I noticed my companion first flush slightly, then on the contrary turn pale.
"Is this some kind of joke?" Liandra said, and anger spoke in her voice. "For that kind of money, one could hire a squad of two dozen warriors for a year."
"Warriors? Perhaps," the hostess dismissed with a shrug. "I don't know much about military matters. But I can tell you for sure: a year is very little. Мои малыши will serve you for centuries! Let's look at this Norscan..." I felt the greasy gaze of the aging elf on me. "A real stallion! Such muscles... A pity that in a decade or two he will turn into a wreck. Do you understand what I mean? Time! Time is the most valuable resource. By buying a slave from me, you buy centuries of submissive service. You see before you now only two pathetic cripples, but they have hearts of gold—and hands of gold. Before you is the potential for thousands of works of art, beautiful bas-reliefs, sturdy buildings, wells, tunnels, any other products."
The bitch knew how to advertise, but she had run into the wrong clients.
"We don't need terrified cripples on a trek," I said, playing the barbarian and trying not to show pity toward these tortured creatures who didn't even dare to lift their eyes to us.
"Jurg is right," the elf agreed. "We are going to a dangerous place. Such slaves will only be a burden to us. We're leaving."
"Well, as you wish," the hostess huffed. "I could have haggled with you. With you and your... hmmm... champion. Can he be gentle, if needed?"
We ignored these words, leaving the vile establishment as quickly as possible. I can't say its mistress was ugly in appearance. It's just that from such women, one should keep their junk as far away as possible. Castrating slaves was her idea, damn it...
At the threshold of the mansion, the same lame Corsair awaited us.
"Did you buy anyone?" he inquired happily, but noticing Liandra's grim face, he immediately hurried to justify himself. "I didn't lie to you, did I?! Dwarfs are sold there. I honestly... Wait, Mistress Mordrim! Are you still interested in lizards?!"
Liandra cast an icy look at him, then looked questioningly at me and nodded.
"There's a fresh shipment. Come with me. I'll show you the place for just two... one coin..." he didn't finish.
With a flick of her fingers, Liandra tossed a coin so that it caught him right between the eyes.
"Thank you, mistress. Come. It's nearby. The ship arrived only a day ago. They haven't even reached the slave market yet."
The Corsair led us to an inexpensive inn, the entire space in front of which was occupied by crates, barrels, stacks of elephant tusks, and cages. It looked as though several wagons had just been unloaded here. A Corsair ship's crew had dragged their goods for sale to Clar Karond.
"No one goes anywhere until the loot is counted!" hissed what was likely the captain, wearing gold earrings in the shape of horned skulls. "If anyone slips off to the whores again, I personally... And who the hell are you, may the wrath of Mathlann blast you... that is, me!?"
He began this line in a menacing, irritated voice, which became increasingly soft in the process and sounded almost polite by the end. The captain had simply assessed our combat capability, realizing immediately it was better not to be arrogant. His gaze swept over Liandra, me, and the guards in Clar Karond colors.
"Lady Mordrim of the Black Guard," the lame Corsair introduced us ingratiatingly. "Bearer of the Iron Edict."
"An honor for me, mistress," the captain bowed, and the other Corsairs went silent, froze, and pretended to be inanimate decorative objects.
"I was told you have sapient cold-blooded ones from Lustria," Liandra stated. "I want to buy them."
"I do," the captain agreed, then frowned. "Actually, no. Actually, I do, but not exactly. Here, take a look."
The captain pointed to one of the cages, which was packed with the bodies of Skinks and Saurus. About thirty in total. Cool, except only a Necromancer would lead them into battle now. They were dead without a doubt.
"What a terrible, disgusting waste," Loom-Pia lamented. "They could have done so much more for the glory of the Old Ones and for the fulfillment of the Great Plan. These insignificant elven creatures are worthy only of extermination."
"We managed to capture a few alive," the captain reported. "But they died of wounds during the voyage. We brought the carcasses anyway. Maybe they can be sold for taxidermy or sorcery."
A bust. Another bust. Damn, if I were a real Chaos worshiper, I could have bought half the market here and organized a whole army of Norscans.
"Why have you shut your mouths, you fragging Elgi?" came from one cage that was hidden from us by crates. "Finished with the foreplay, stood in a circle, and started sucking each other off!? You thin-legged weaklings, whose balls can't be seen even under a magnifying glass! I'd frag you all by myse..." and so on, and so forth.
Hmm... That definitely sounded like a Dwarf who hadn't yet been stripped of his dignity and fighting spirit.