Throne Hunters Book 4, Chapter 38

(I'm aiming to finish this book this weekend. I'll post the chapters as I write them till we're done.)

Harald stalked the night.

Veil of Shadows made him part of the darkness, clothed in him the void. He felt light, lethal, perilous. The Celestara estate was large, consuming the entire city block, divided into groves and orchards, ornamental gardens and expanses of lawn. A carefully controlled stream chuckled over perfectly placed rocks into a large pool that sprawled out before a pagoda.

Harald made his way through it all. The Scourge rested upon his shoulder. His gaze probed the darkness. Shadowpaw padded alongside him. Instinct warned him to not relax. The Celestara guards were too wary. Jumpy, almost, whipping about to glare into the night as if preparing to be assaulted. Why so nervous? What did they know?

Harald decided to find out.

He watched a patrol finish its circuit and draw close to the back patio. Six men strong with an officer. Harald was a guest, wasn’t he? They’d not attack him for simply presenting himself.

So he stepped out of the Veil into their path, dropping The Aura of the Aching Void and Thronebound Mantle as he did so.

The guards flinched, hands dropping to their hilts, but then their expressions grew slack with dismay and horror. Harald couldn’t guess what they say in him, how he might appear, but he saw the terror seize them by the throat. A Level 6 raider might be able to beat Thronebound Mantle back—barely—but these guards?

No chance.

“You,” said Harald, gesturing to the officer. “Come here.”

The man grimaced, clenched and opened his hands, even cast a desperate look at his companions before shuffling forth. “Yes, sir?”

“You know who I am?”

“Harald Darrowdelve.”

“What’s going on? Why do your men look so frightened?”

The man grimaced again as if trying to swallow a crumpled razor, hunched his shoulders, took a step back.

Harald willed the Mantle to close about him like a fist. “Why?”

“Sir, this is confidential information, I shouldn’t share it…” The man’s eyes glazed over as fear consumed the last of his loyalty. “The Celestara grounds are to become a hunting ground. Each House has negotiated the right to hunt you.”

Harald chuckled. “That so?” He glanced up at the brilliantly lit windows. “Negotiated?”

“Sir, I’m sorry, we’ve no part in this, just orders… but yes.” The captain tugged at his collar as if it were choking him. “I… I was told that Houses Viridian, Silvershield, Drakenhart, and Thornvale protested being left out of these negotiations. Your… duel. They… they forced negotiations, and Emberfell agreed to do nothing till you showed—or didn’t—to your duel. They’re to be… I mean, word is, Lord Blaze will be rewarded with unimaginable wealth by whomever kills you first.”

“If they kill me. Unless they’re sending Gold-rankers?”

“No, sir. That wasn’t…” The man cough, trying to loosen his tongue. “That wasn’t considered fair. Sporting. Something. Only Silver-rankers. One at a time, with the weakest going first. The Gold rankers are to protect the manor, and prevent your leaving the property.”

Harald scanned the distant walls. “So this is become a hunting preserve, and I’m the game.”

“I—yes, sir.” The man’s chagrin was raw. “I’m… the men, we… I’m sorry, sir.”

Harald hefted the Scourge, and the captain flinched. “Can you tell me anything about the Silver-rankers coming after me?”

An imperious House Celestara officer emerged from the back door and caught sight of them. “Hey! Captain Obran! What are you doing?”

Harald bit back the urge to curse.

“Sir, sorry sir, Lord Darrowdelve intercepted our patrol, I…”

“Come here immediately. Excuse us, Sir Darrowdelve.” The imperious officer all but sneered. “We would appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt our men on their business.”

“Sure,” said Harald. “What’s your name? In case I want to find you, after. For a little conversation?”

The man had approached just close enough to feel the outer edge of the Mantle, and his face went pale, then almost green. He put his hand to his throat, then quickly backed away. “I… that won’t be necessary. With me, Captain Obran!”

The patrol hurried past Harald, who stepped aside to let them go. Other patrols were filing back to the manor. They were all being pulled, Harald saw. The garden was being left undefended.

Of course.

They’d only get in the way of the fun.

Harald licked his lower lip. With Gold-rankers watching the manor and walls, he’d no hope of escaping. Even Veil of Shadows wouldn’t prevent such powerful raiders from catching him.

Looked like he was out of options.

Harald began walking deeper into the gardens.

Well, that was fine.

He didn’t want to run, anyway.

There was no question of his returning to his friends. The Silver-rankers only wanted him. He’d not bring his friends’ into harm’s way. Not just out of a misplaced sense of loyalty—he could imagine Sam’s outrage already. But because of something darker. Something twisted. Something ravenous. Something he worked hard each and every moment to suppress. So that he might walk amongst men and blend in. So that he might not scare his friends.

His desire for blood. His desire for conquest. To prove himself against all that the world could throw against him.

Harald realized he was grinning.

So they thought him penned in, trapped, and ready to be hunted down?

Let them come.

He’d tear them apart, one by bloody one.

“Keep an ear out, boy,” whispered Harald, breaking into a lazy lope. “We’re expecting company.”

Shadowpaw whuffed and ran out wide, fading into the darkness.

The weakest first. They’d wear him down. He could only imagine how much fun the lords and ladies must have had, deciding which raider they dared risk. Send too powerful a raider, and they’d go last, risking not getting a chance to fight at all. Send the weakest, and they’d no doubt lose. What a delicious paradox to enliven their night.

Not that it mattered to Harald.

He summoned the Aureate Master, the Rootheart Sigil, and the Solace of Aurelum. Power flowed into him, the deep, unrelenting stamina that made him feel unstoppable. Harald activated Dark Vigor, felt everything rise a fraction more, then summoned his Window to check his stats, and couldn’t help but give a feral grin.

Strength: 17
Dexterity: 16
Constitution: 37
Ego: 29
Presence: 17

If they thought they were hunting a lamb, they’d soon find out their mistake. Constitution 37. It was a godly number. Combined with his Ego 29, and Harald thought there was nothing he couldn’t survive, couldn’t tolerate, couldn’t overcome. He was less a man than a force of nature. His flesh had grown tough, sinewy, his lungs endlessly capable, his mind as obdurate as the void itself.

He ran low and smoothly, and knew that he could run in such fashion for literal weeks. Already he was growing passingly familiar with the garden’s layout. The withdrawal of the house guards had done him a favor. He no longer had to parse friend from foe, innocent from assassin.

All that moved now was his target.

Shadowpaw let out a low chuff, just barely audible, and Harald angled toward him, moving along the edge of a perfectly straight line of beech trees toward a pocket glade.

Where…?

A large figure was picking a careful trail through the shadows beneath the bows.

Harald activated the Rootheart Sigil. Its usage was instinctual. With but a flicker of his will the grass, the bushes, the roots, the boughs, the vines, all came to life and responded to his desire, reaching for the figure, enmeshing their legs and drawing a low curse of surprise.

Shadowpaw bayed, tearing the night apart with the shocking howl of a Level 27 monster, and in that moment Harald felt a pang of loss, missing the Goldchops whom he reflexively willed to fly ahead.

But they weren’t with him any longer.

Instead he wielded an Epic level Artifact.

The Scourge caused the air to moan as Harald broke into a sprint and summoned both Shadow Knights on either side of the man who was tearing himself free of the writhing vines.

But the warrior was no novice. He disappeared from the entrapment, literally vanished to reappear at Harald’s side, great blade of gleaming silver unleashing a blast of tearing wind that swept around Harald in a rising vortex, lifting him off his feet.

Harald summoned Umbral Aegis as the wind began to slice through his clothing, and thus buffered, unleashed Abyssal Grasp upon the man, fortifying the attack with Shadow Dominion. The velvety darkness only empowered his attack further; the ropes of abyssal blackness wrapped around the man’s legs, causing him to let out another curse.

But the Grasp was immediately repelled, blasted away by some reflexive defense Harald couldn’t understand. But then Shadowpaw slammed into the raider from behind, but the man somehow kept his feet, staggering and spinning to toss Shadowpaw off him with one arm as a grown might toss a pup, and then he disappeared again.

The Shadow Knights were flowing toward them in mist form, but the man was gone—

A shriek rent the air, and Harald looked up.

A wyvern filled the night sky, wings spread wide, tail as long as a tree-trunk lashing, its eyes blazing with deep crimson fire. The man rode it, legs athwart its shoulders, his blade raised so that it burned silver white like a living brand of lightning.

“Harald Darrowdelve! I hereby sentence you to—”

Harald didn’t wait to hear it. He ran at the largest of his knights, barking out his command, so that the smaller dropped to one knee. Harald leaped, placed a foot on the bent leg, surged up to place his other foot on the larger knight’s shoulder, and then hurled himself upward to face the wyvern, fury burning away all fear.

The wyvern shrieked and opened its maw, the purest of blues burning in its gullet.

Harald screamed as he brought the Scourge around, the vast blade rippling through dimensions, gaining a baleful power that defied understanding, wreathing itself in toxic glory just as the wyvern blew its flames right at Harald.

Who clove right through the jet of fire, counting on his empowered Umbral Aegis, and slammed the Scourge into the wyvern’s head.

Which, it turned out, was made of glass and iron. The Scourge slammed through it effortlessly, shattering the structure of its skull and sending it flying through the air, only for the glass itself to freeze in place, the violence of the blow coagulating into a spread of glowing purple poison crystals.

Harald flew past the dead wyvern, his Aegis burned away, the force of his swing twisting him midair. The wyvern cracked, flew apart, and Harald landed in a roll, to come up and spin and see the enemy raider slowly floating down, cloak rippling, blade pointed at where Harald now stood.

“You defeated Stormwrack,” intoned the man. “I commend your skill. You’re more powerful than I was led to believe. Good. Now I can unleash my full power without guilt. I pledge to kill you tonight.”

The man was wafting down as gently as a dandelion seed. His blade suddenly coruscated with lighting, as if the man’s words had given it power. Harald’s mouth went dry, his throat clenched, his stomach cramped.

Harald unleashed a Demonic Edge even as he broke to the left, sprinting as fast he could, but it was too late.

Lighting blasted down, traced his path behind him, caught him, tore his Aegis apart, and lifted him off the ground, hurled his spasming body straight into a tree. He felt his back creak as he wrapped around the trunk, then bounced off it, hit the ground, rolled and lay still.

Harald blinked.

That should have hurt a lot more.

Smoke was coming off his blackened flesh.

But he didn’t feel too bad.

Damn. Constitution 37 was amazing.

Instinct bid him lie still. He dismissed his Servitors, willed the Rootheart Sigil to grow quiet, and closed his eyes.

The subtle sound of an armored man stepping down onto the earth came from close by. “Better men than you have fallen to the Thrice-Oathed Blade.” There was a moment of silence as the man seemed to consider him. “I regret that I was forced to fight one beneath my station. But we are but servants to our lords, are we not?” The man’s tone was pensive. His manner unhurried. “Ah, fuck. What a mess.”

The man approached, suddenly decisive. No doubt intent on finishing the job.

Harald grinned and detonated a Tenebral Surge.

At the same moment he unleashed Abyssal Grasp again, pushed off the ground, and hurled himself after the man who’d been knocked clear off his feet. Shadowpaw and the two knights appeared beyond the man as he hit the ground. The mastiff closed his jaws around the man’s shoulder while the knight’s brought their axes down in unison.

Somehow the raider managed to roll aside, dragging Shadowpaw with him, but this time the Abyssal Grasp took hold, and Harald felt the man’s prodigious vitality begin to flow into him.

The man swung his blade wildly just above the ground and hewed a knight’s leg off at the knee. He then punched Shadowpaw in the face, knocking the hound back, and somehow kipped up to a crouch despite his heavy armor.

“I, Sir Gale Rordan, swear that—”

Harald screamed and swung the Chyron’s Scourge with both hands, empowering the attack from his hips, putting everything he had into the assault, sheathing the sword in Abyssal Attunement.

Sir Rordan brought up his blade but his grip was angled wrong, his balance off. The Scourge powered right through the man’s guard and hewed the top of his head off, sending metal, hair, bone, blood, and brains flying, only for the spew to crystalize purple as the man toppled over and lay still.

“Fuck your oaths,” said Harald, shoving his hand into his scale pouch to absorb some Golden Dawns and heal the severe burns that covered his body. “Fuck.”

He dropped into a crouch, resting his brow upon the Scourge’s cross hilt.

The sound of metallic stars ringing out against the void filled his mind.

The Demon Seed Has Stirred

Your Strength has risen from 15 to 16
Your Dexterity has risen from 14 to 15

Shadowpaw erupted into a snarl and lunged past Harald, only to be knocked back even as Harald turned, his dark pelt slashed and torn asunder, blood fountaining from countless wounds as a gaunt, shadowed figure loomed over them both, its form unspooling into whip-like arms laden with wicked thorns. These had entangled Shadowpaw, torn him asunder as an impatient man might a wet envelope, and a second later the faithful hound was banished back to Harald’s Cosmos.

“Fuck you!” Harald triggered a Tenebral Surge that caused the thorn-shadow-monster to stagger back, entire chunks of its body blasting away. On instinct he summoned Umbral Aegis just as a dart a footlong thunked into the side of his neck, cracking the shadow armor but bouncing away harmlessly, trailing green liquid through the night.

Harald spun, searching out his enemy, but couldn’t locate them. Standing still was too dangerous, so he darted away, through the beech trees, circling around, scanning the undergrowth, but nothing.

Wait—there. A trailing ribbon of fog. It wound its way between the trunks, curling around where Harald had been. He closed in, but the moment he passed through the hovering fog his Umbral Aegis began to sizzle and pit as the fog were acidic.

Where the hell were they? Laughter sounded in the air, feminine and petty. But from where?

Harald triggered the Rootheart Sigil, willing it to grasp anything and everything that didn’t belong to him.

The glade went mad, grass growing and rearing up to wave like ropes of kelp, the trees warping and bending, canopy whispering and dropping leaves as if lashed by a storm.

The laughter cut off.

There—he could dimly sense, somehow, through the Sigil where it had caught something. Harald sprinted closer, only to see a  cloud of hexagonal mirrors gyring through the air. The moment he glanced at one its reflection caused his gorge to rise, his balance to falter, and he crashed down to one knee.

Another dart slammed into the side of his neck, cracking the Aegis. Clouds of poison began to curl around him like great feather boas, his Aegis immediately spitting and corroding.

“You defeated Thracos? My, my. Wonders never cease.”

She’d evaded the Rootheart Sigil. Was simply gone. Harald threw himself back, rolled away from the smoke, came up, tried desperately to come up with a plan. Something hit him from behind, just hard enough to cause him to take a step forward, but then nothing happened. Harald spun around, squinted into the dark, then unleashed a Tenebral Surge.

Or tried.

The moment he triggered the Ability, whatever had stuck to his back exploded. He was hurled off his feet to fly into the bushes, tearing through the wiry branches. His Aegis disappeared, absorbing the brunt of the damage, but for a moment it was all Harald could do to simply lie there, dazed.

But quickly enough his wits returned to him. His Constitution was just too damn high. He considered playing possum again, but this foe would just kill him from a distance.

He had to flush her out into the open.

Then Harald noticed something—a droplet of his blood rose from a gash in his hand, rose into the air, then simply misted and disappeared. Glancing down at himself, he saw that all his spilt blood was evanescing in similar manner.

What the hell?

“As much as I’d like to play games, I think this has gone on long enough.” The amusement just barely clothed the iron in the woman’s voice. “Goodbye, Harald.”

He tensed, ready to leap aside, then heard a very impolite curse from the left. Harald spun and saw that both his Shadow Knights had materialized on either side of a woman garbed all in form-fitting black clothing. She’d ducked one blow, reflected it somehow, so that a ghostly ax, the duplicate of the knight’s, lashed back at the towering giant and drove it back.

But the second had slammed down into her shoulder, cleaving deep. She immediately disappeared, a circlet on her brow glimmering for the briefest moment, but now Harald had her position.

He swung the Scourge and hurled a Demonic Edge at where she’d been. The searing black arc flew through the air, faster than thought, only to be cut in half and disrupted by slash of the woman’s blade as she appeared again, staggering back, her wounded arm hanging by her side.

“You’re not the only one with pets,” she snarled, and ropes of thorns coiled around Harald and lifted him off the ground.

Only to immediately begin tearing him apart. But his flesh was tough. Brutally resilient. The thorns dug in deep and tugged, but Harald refused to tear. What had ruptured Shadowpaw like a waterskin could only fitfully wrench at Harald.

Tenebral Surge.

Again the shadowy-thorn monster was blasted away from him, and when Harald landed, his body pocked with deep holes but none of it hurting him, Harald grasped the Scourge with both hands, drew it all the way back, and hurled it at the stunned woman.

Smoke was closing in around him, burning his eyes, his sinuses, the insides of his mouth, but he threw the huge blade so that it spun through the air and hit the woman right in the forehead.

With its pommel.

The massive blade bounced off, her head snapping back, leaving her just off-balance enough that the Shadow Knight stepped in and decapitated her with a great blow from his ax.

The smoke around Harald immediately dissipated. It had already worked its damage, however; his skin was red, steaked with blisters, his breath rattling in his throat.

Thank the angels for Shadow Fortitude.

Harald dropped to one knee. His body was rent, brutalized, but that was two down.

Two more to go.

The sound of metallic stars ringing out against the void filled his mind.

The Demon Seed Has Stirred

Your Dexterity has risen from 16 to 17
Your Constitution has risen from 15 to 16

Harald shoved his fist into scale pouch and set to absorbing all that remained. He should have taken every scale his friends possessed. He felt the lesions close, his vision cleared, and hundreds of thorn-holes sealed over.

But then he ran out of scales.

“Fuck,” he hissed.

Two more enemies to go, with the next presenting themselves at any moment. He needed more scales, more healing —

More text filled his vision.

The abyss approves of your glorious defiance.

Your purpose illuminates the void.

By the decree of the Fallen Angel, you are granted the next echelon of your destiny:

Abyssal Master 7