Throne Hunters Book 4, Chapter 10

Thracos surveyed the dungeon chamber, his heart beating steadily, powerfully, vitally.

Here it was, at long last.

And Harald hadn’t disappointed.

The young man stood over a dead Thought Reaver, killed it seemed with one blow by the glorious Artifact he held lightly in one fist. The blade was mesmerizing, its splash of obsidian shaped into a scimitar-like crescent, its depths lit by enticing green lights. The damage it had dealt to the Reaver was impressive; the monster appeared smeared and crystallized all at once.

Oh, but that was nasty.

The duel wouldn’t be so one-sided after all.

Would his Viridian Mantle be able to absorb a strike from such a weapon?

There was but one way to find out.

“Thracos.” Harald gazed up at him, face pale, even as he set his lantern down on the ground. “I thought we were well hidden down here. How’d you find me?”

“I’ve attuned an Artifact to your essence.” There was no harm in revealing it now. “The longer we spent talking, the greater the connection. I could follow you to the ends of the Continent, now.”

“No wonder you were willing to lend me the Master,” smiled Harald. “And I thought it was just your high esteem of me.”

“Oh, I esteem you. More than you can understand.” Was this tremor flowing through him happiness? And why was his left arm itching as if developing a rash? “It’s been too long since I’ve had something to grow excited about. And you, Harald. I saw what you did at Gorkin’s. Impressive.”

Harald’s expression remained wary even as he sketched a shallow bow. “I did what I had to in order to save my friends.”

“Oh come. It’s just us here. Don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it.”

Harald’s eyes narrowed. “I did what I had to.”

“So you still cling to your tenuous morality.” Thracos stepped up to the balcony’s edge. “I understand. It’s served you well. It’s the file against which you’ve sharpened your blade.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Of course not. Understanding what you were doing would have ruined the benefit.” Thracos inhaled deeply, relishing the moment. Soon this barren room would be crawling with toxic life. Soon the very air would be dangerous. But for now, this tenuous, peaceful moment? All was mere potential. “You see, I asked myself: why is Harald gaining power more quickly than even I ever did?”

“Maybe you should have tried waking up at Sixth Bell to go for runs.”

Thracos ignored the young man’s deadpan raillery. “And I realized the truth. It’s so obvious. I, from the start, considered myself Silenthros’ plaything, a tool, a weapon to be wielded against his foes. And in doing so, I became, on some fundamental level, passive. No matter how hard I strove, how often I delved the dungeon, I wasn’t my own master. I relinquished that control. And it robbed me of a certain animus that you never lost.”

Harald’s gaze was flitting from side to side, taking in the room. Smart man. The fight would begin soon.

“But you, Harald. You fight against fate. You think yourself a good person. You revile Vorakhar, and think that you can somehow fight free. So not only do you bend to the Demon Seed’s lash, but you work twice as hard as you seek to escape your own nature. A nature that reveled in the butchery you committed last night. That makes you what you are: a paragon of darkness. I mean, just look at you.”

Harald actually glanced down at himself in muted confusion.

So delightful.

“For all your innocence, you reek of power in a way you didn’t not even a few weeks ago when we first met. That toy you hold in your hand, for example. A gift from Vorakhar?”

“This?” Harald raised the stone blade. “Oh, I found it in a bargain bin at a stall off the Dungeon Plaza.”

“Heh.” Thracos smiled. “Even now you struggle to see light at the end of the tunnel. I’m genuinely sorry that I have to kill you. The world will be a drab place without you in it.”

“I’m not dead yet.” Harald clasped the huge hilt with both hands and raised the sword before him. Three golden hatchets oriented on Thracos menacingly from where they bobbed around the other man, and his giant black hound continued to slowly slink out wide, hoping no doubt that Thracos would lose track of it. “And I don’t intend to lose.”

“Of course not.” Thracos smiled wistfully, and shook out his left arm, but the tingle wouldn’t dissipate. “But even that blade won’t tilt the odds in your favor. It may, however, make this a more interesting fight.”

“We don’t have to do this.” Harald’s tone thankfully remained hard. He wasn’t pleading. Attempting, perhaps, to reason. “Neither of us have to acquiesce to the demons. You’ve gained all this power—for what?”

“Let’s avoid this tedious argument. Perhaps one day when I’m Gold-ranked I’ll consider autonomy, but now? Silenthros would snuff me out without effort.” Thracos studied Harald’s face, sought to imprint it on his memory. “Thank you, Harald. I mean it. You’ve been a delightful surprise. I wish this dance could have lasted longer.”

Surprise flickered on the other man’s face. “I almost believe you.”

“One question before we begin: you have the Twilight Crown on you?”

Surprise became consternation which became calculation and then was all smoothed over in an attempt at self-mastery. But Harald was a child when it came to disguising his emotions, and Thracos felt a twist of dismay. Damn it. He didn’t. What an unfortunate complication.

“You’ll have to kill me to find out.”

“Your friends are down here with you, and I’d wager, not far.”

“I don’t want them harmed. I’ll go fetch it. Just wait for me here. I swear I’ll return.”

“With all of them ready to do battle by your side. No, I think not. Without you they’ll be isolated and outmatched by the Thought Reavers. I’ll kill you first, then explore the immediate area. I doubt they’re far. My apologies. I’ll make their deaths painless.”

Ah, but how predictable. Real fire entered Harald’s expression as he inhaled deeply. He was so dedicated to his friends. Admirable and pathetic, really. But there was no denying how these naive allegiances had propelled him to such great heights.

“Last chance, Thracos. I know you won’t take it, but I’ll offer it regardless: turn away from Silenthros. We’ve Artifacts that can hide you from him. Work with us. Help us save Flutic and the Fallen Angel.”

The time had finally arrived. Poignant regret filled Thracos. But all good things had to come to an end. Still. This fight would no doubt be fun.

Thracos tapped his four Thrones and felt their sublime power roar into him. With a nudge of his will, he activated Rootheart Sigil, his Masterwork Artifact that had turned countless battlefields in his favor. Its power flooded forth, causing roots and vines and tender green shoots to begin thrusting their way out from between the flagstones, the cracks in the walls, to dangle from the ceiling above.

It was all going to happen so quickly now.

Thracos tapped Viridian Authority, and felt a crown of barbed roots coil about his brow, scores of tiny roots burrowing down through his scalp to synergize directly with his brain. The pain was clarifying, and his vision grew sharper as his presence radiated into the room, reinforced by the verdant growth of the Rootheart Sigil.

Simultaneously he willed Symbiotic Thornmail to activate, and immediately his body was wreathed in supple bark shot through with briars and endless wicked thorns, alive and pulsing, constantly coiling and sliding over his form in anticipatory hunger.

Verdant Persistence aroused itself and caused his body to tingle and throb as the infinitude of minute parasites that infested his flesh and blood awoke. Energy coursed into his body and his breath became shallow and shuddering from the sheer excess of vitality that emanated from his very core.

And finally, as a gesture of respect toward his foe, he activated Arboreal Might. Normally he wouldn’t bother, or would leave it till he had no choice, but that sword truly was formidable, and he hoped—he desperately hoped—that Harald would give him cause to benefit from one of his greatest powers.

Like a bloom unfurling in his soul, Arboreal Might began growing from its slumbering seed. For a few moments more it would be barely noticeable, but Thracos knew what divine power it would soon pour into his being, the might of an unstoppable, cloud-challenging titan tree, making him akin to a force of nature, imbuing him with the strength to tear down mountains and resist a hundred lightning strikes.

The odds were against his ever needing that power, or Harald lasting long enough to provoke him to use it, but perhaps this one time it would happen.

All of this Thracos activated in but a second, a fleeting moment, even as Harald watched him, awaiting his response to his final plea.

The Aureate Master appeared about his upper arm, and all his stat bonuses doubled,

Thracos smiled. “You know, I might have considered your offer. But it would mean passing up the pleasure of fighting you to the death. And that’s simply an experience I can’t allow myself to miss. I salute you, Harald. You had the makings of a legend. But I am a living legend, and now you shall see why I am feared.”

“So be it,” said Harald bitterly, and changed.

Thracos had thought himself ready, but he wasn’t prepared.

Harald ceased to be the charmingly ugly young man with a defiant stare and became something else.

The air grew chill and oppressive as shadows deepened and everything took on a surreal, gelid green hue as if they’d suddenly been plunged into the depths of an icy lake. A subtle weight fell upon Thracos’ limbs and shoulders, and he half-expected to see his next breath puff out before him.

But worse, Harald’s very figure became an object of raw menace and authority. A mantle of darkness wreathed him, dour and forbidding, and he seemed to loom even when viewed from above, becoming a nexus of fear and power. Even as confident as he was, Thracos felt himself momentarily checked: how by the ever-loving demons was the boy making him feel afraid?

The three golden hatchets flew upward as if flung by monstrously powerful warriors, blurring through the air even as the darkness around Thracos’ feet stirred to life, great ropes of ebon magic slithering up in an attempt to encircle his legs.

Delight broke through his shock: Thracos laughed, genuinely happy, and leaped off the balcony to plunge into a mat of growing greenery that his Rootheart Sigil was summoning forth by the moment.

Harald hurled himself forward to attack, or tried to; Ivy’s Embrace caused a preternaturally intelligence web of barbed ivy to erupt around him in a tornado of greenery, seeking to bind his limbs, stop up his mouth, and cocoon him in their luxurious embrace.

But Harald leaped with admirable strength to soar upward a good dozen yards, his great stone sword drawn back for a massive overhead strike as if he sought to cleave the world itself in twain when he fell.

“Glorious,” whispered Thracos, watching the other demon-kin fly upward, and then flinched as all three golden hatchets came whirling down.

His Viridian Mantle sprang to life, and thick, impossibly tough vines burst outward to deflect the incoming axes, smacking them with lightning fast reflexes so that all three golden weapons flew past him, one smashing into the floor and bouncing off the stone with a clang, the other two spinning out wide.

Harald roared as he fell, great blade arcing overhead and burning brightly as it grew diffuse, as if it passed through curtains of light and shadow.

Thracos’ laughter bubbled up as he felt the chamber growing ever more alive, pulsing with green energy that fueled his strength, his might. Arboreal Might was now feeding a trickle of power into his soul, but combined with all his other enhancements and doubled by the Aureate Master, it was easy to leap back, carried in part by a wave of greenery that rose up from the floor.

Harald crashed down, blade missing Thracos by inches, and smote the flagstones with such power that they shattered—but already Grasping Virelay caused roots to erupt around him and entangle his feet and legs. Ivy’s Embrace overlayed that assault, the great thorn vines spearing up and around him.

Would it be so simple to ensnare his beloved Harald? Surely he had some means of freeing himself?

The golden hatchets were his response. The three flew about him with surgical precision, chopping through vine after vine, descending to hew through snarled roots, and with his own magnificent strength Harald tore free and swung the great stone sword from a distance.

Terrific power erupted from the blade in a demonic arc of absolute black energy, a great searing slash of ebon magic that flew at Thracos and scythed through the rising stalks and saplings as if they were imaginary.

Thracos wove aside, bending back so that his shoulders almost touched the ground, and the great arc of sizzling destructive power flew past him to fade out just before hitting the far wall, leaving the air tasting metallic and seared.

“Yes!” Thracos spun about and dropped out of the impossible pose to fall into a crouch, heart pounding. “But is that all you can do?”

The hatchets continued their blindingly fast dance around him, cutting back the greenery that sought to ensnare him, but now Harald approached steadily, huge blade having turned as dark as Silenthros’ own heart, the green eddies vanished from sight as if Harald had cloven the space between the stars and torn free a fragment of purest night to wield as a weapon.

His aura.

By the demons, his aura. Thracos’ joy struggled to remain alive, for fear ringed him, squeezed his throat, dried out his mouth, flattened his stomach into a sour disc. Harald’s form burned as flames formed a dark corona about his darkened silhouette, and he looked like judgement itself coming to force Thracos to account for his sins.

“Beautiful,” whispered the demon-kin, and extended his will to summon his first Sovereign Rootstrike.

The flagstones beneath Harald’s feet were already layered with a latticework of roots, but what erupted came from deep within the earth itself. Thracos’ Level 6 Active exploded upward through the stone flooring, shattering the great flagstones as a vast spike of ironwood slammed upward as fast as thought.

Plates of hardened shadow encased Harald even as he crossed his arms before him and tried to leap aside, his face disappearing beneath a visor of black impenetrable glass, a huge cloak of night falling from his shoulders to fade away into nothingness behind him.

The root caught him inside the thigh, sent him spinning, the armor preventing him from becoming impaled but the force of the blow knocked him through the air to crash to the ground.

A baying roar sounded from behind Thracos as the shadow hound made its play. The reverberations of that cry curdled the demon-kin’s blood, but his Ego was so high that he shrugged it off. He’d been waiting for just this moment, and Canopy Collapse activated even as the hound bounded off the ground, dropping a surge of twisting vines from the ceiling which enveloped the mastiff’s body, enshrouding it, and slamming it into the ground.

Shallow cuts opened all over the dog’s hide as Creeping Bloom implanted hundreds of spores into the Servitor. The hound snarled and struggled, but Thracos put it from his mind: it was already dead.

Harald came up in a roll, the hatchets still keeping Ivy’s Embrace at bay, and flung forth another arc of that searing black light, but it was a feint: even as Thracos leaped aside once more, partially carried by a wave of roots, he felt a deep chill sink into his bones as coils of blackness wrapped around his left leg.

Damn it.

It was as if a knife had been plunged into the side of a dam, causing his power to immediately begin pouring into the coil itself. A deep cold stole into his limbs, stiffening them, and Thracos realized his danger: a moment more of this and he’d soon grow paralyzed as more of the shadow coils sought to wrap around him.

“Wonderful!” he roared, and with a wild grin he unleashed Bloom of the Devouring King upon the entire chamber.

His Viridian Mantle came to terrible life and unfurled itself, springing from Thracos to burst outward into a massive, blooming tapestry of living, parasitic organic matter. In the blink of an eye it expanded to fill the entire chamber, falling upon the hound the Goldchops and Harald where he stood, crashing against the walls to wash up their sides, drenching the ground in its vibrant, chaotic, overwhelming power. The lantern’s light grew green as it rolled and was covered by a film of algae, and the twin burning sconces in the walls almost went out.

The ropes around Thracos’ limbs vanished as the other demon-kin’s concentration broke.

Thracos felt the other man’s presence diminish as the Bloom drained Harald of his mental reservoirs and channeled them into Thracos, and knew that his foe’s body would now be wracked by overwhelming pain as parasites burrowed into his flesh.

But somehow Harald refused to scream.

The chamber was utterly unrecognizable now. Where once it had been dull stone and swathes of orange rust, now it was the heart of a primordial jungle. The floor was covered in a foot-deep matt of green and brown, soft and pliant to the touch, while the walls were hung with tapestries of living roots and vines. The ceiling itself was almost hidden by the same, so that it felt as if the very chamber had become a humid, fetid womb of some ancient, untouched living heart.

And still the Rootheart Sigil continued to pour its power into the chamber, even as Arboreal Might continued filling Thracos with power, causing that damnable burning sensation in his left arm to finally fade away.

He rose from his crouch. He felt alive, resplendent, connected to every inch of this living chamber, his soul enmeshed and ennobled by its glory. He was its vital heart, and Harald a fly that had strayed into his web.

The boy had fought well, but Thracos couldn’t hide a faint blush of disappointment. It had finished too quickly. With each passing moment Harald’s chances of landing a blow diminished. Soon Arboreal Might would truly kick in, and then the fight would be over.

The Goldchops burst free of the Bloom, their rapid spinning sending fragments of green ivy and algae flying, and set to chopping Harald’s struggling form free. So strong was the youth, even now, that he was able to wrest himself violently out of Ivy’s Embrace, to tear his limbs clear of Grasping Virelay, and rear up to standing even as Bloom of the Devouring King continued to sap his strength and pollute his body.

Gone was his gleaming black shadow armor.

But somehow, against all the odds, his presence, his fearsome aura, redoubled as he gave a blood curdling cry of defiance, and with impressive skill he spun about, whipping his black-sheathed blade into a great encircling arc so that the Bloom died about his feet, grown crystalized and fragmented.

Thracos felt pity. It was a nice effort, but the boy was simply outmatched.

Ah well. He’d wring what fun he could from these last moments.

Extending his hand, he unleashed his Level 3 Leechburst Laceration. A spear of living wood flew from his palm and impaled Harald’s shoulder, immediately going limp as its sharpened head sank deep and injected leechroot into the man’s blood. Harald staggered back, face paling as he no doubt began to feel his strength and constitution drop. And that was with the overwhelming pain of the Bloom upon him, along with the its own parasitic drain.

A final touch to bring Harald to his knees. If the man couldn’t mount a serious attack, then he deserved to be made to grovel. Pathetic. Thracos’ mood soured in a flash. This had been pathetic, and so he must be made to apologize for his insufficiencies. He’d not even landed a single blow.

Well, he could suffer for his wretched lack of performance.

Thracos activated Aureate Phytomancer, and felt his own strength grow as his Level 7 Passive fed off his four Artifacts, raising all of his combined bonuses which were then doubled in turn by the Aureate Master. Harald, of course, experienced the opposite: each Artifact he carried suddenly became a drain on his stats and Thrones, weighing down on him like lead.

“For a moment there I thought this would be fun,” said Thracos, and he couldn’t keep the petulant tone out of his voice. “But was that really it? Where’s the man who killed Fosso? Where’s the demon-kin that was making Vorakhar proud? Harald. You disappoint me.”

The other man’s response was to cloak himself in his shadow armor once more, encasing himself in gleaming plates of black glass, but Thracos summoned a Rootstrike with a resentful grimace. It slammed upward into Harald’s armored form, sending him flying once more, armor cracked and shattered, to crash to the ground a half-dozen paces away.

Arboreal Might began to truly come into its own. Thracos inhaled deeply, breathing in the endless spores and tiny parasites that suffused the air, the pollen and rich, rotting scent of an endless marsh, and his frame creaked and grew in size, his shoulders broadening, his arms lengthening. His Bramblemail merged with the bark and greenery that extruded itself from his skin, and he felt his awareness, his very intelligence merge with the greenery that enshrouded the room, so that the endless vines and roots felt like extensions of his very body.

Harald coughed, and a wad of algae and wriggling parasites poured out of his mouth. His throat, his very lungs, had to be clogged with living matter.

But the man didn’t give up. Using his great blade as a walking stick, he levered himself to his feet, his indefatigable hatchets clearing away the undergrowth and pruning back the clasping vines.

“Impressive,” rasped the other man.

“It’s impressive that you can even talk,” responded Thracos. “Most men can only scream while under the Bloom’s influence.”

Harald managed a grin, though half his face was sheeted with blood from a scalp wound. And then, against all of Thracos’ expectations, his aura of darkness returned, rising up like a tidal wave to swamp the room, pouring forth in a dark deluge.

Harald became once more a harbinger of the abyss, an emissary of night, a creature of wretched doom. Hunched and battered though he was, such was the power of his Ability that Thracos’ breath caught in his wooden chest, and the verdant growth that sought to immobilize Harald drew back from their ceaseless assault.

“Let’s try this on my terms,” whispered Harald, and stomped on the lantern by his foot, shattered the glass and snuffing out the light, even as he swung his blade and sent forth one and then a second arc of his demonic energy.

Each lost most of their power by the time they reached the chamber’s walls, cutting through hanging vines and sheets of greenery, but each gauged a burning wall sconce in twain and doused their lights.

The chamber was plunged into darkness that than gave way to a subtle green luminescence caused by the Bloom’s glowing algae.

Thracos beamed. Of course! Darkness would empower him. Which meant he might have some manner of darkness-based special Ability, or—

With a cry, Harald flung himself across the intervening distance, his three Goldchops flying before him as if to herald his attack.

Thracos commanded a Rootstrike to erupt squarely in his path, but the Goldchops flew around it even as Harald clove the giant growth in two with a great lateral swing of his abyss-sheathed blade. The root shattered into crystalline rubble as Harald’s charge carried him clear through it—how could his stats be this high after all the drain he’d taken? How was he still moving after suffering a full assault of the Bloom of the Devouring King -

Harald screamed as he punched through Viridian Authority, as he tore his way through the ensnaring attempts of the vines, and swung his blade where Thracos stood, bemused.

The Bloom quivered in anticipation, ready to rise up and consume Thracos, but he willed it stay still.

This moment.

This attack.

The very best that Harald could do.

If Thracos was to become a future Dread Lord.

If he was to one day rise up against Silenthros.

Then he needed to know what he could take.

What damage he could withstand.

Imbued with the impossible power of Arboreal Might, in the center of the Bloom of the Devouring King, enhanced by both the Aureate Phytomancer and the Aureate Master, Thracos smiled and chose not to dodge.

Harald’s scream sounded as if it were torn from deep within his soul. The giant stone blade slammed into Thracos, rippling through dimensions as it came, and blew out half of his body.

All went strange. For a moment his thoughts, his sense of self poured out reflexively into the vines and greenery, seeking sanctum from the damage, but his natural vitality, his endless regenerative ability, his infinite reserves of health, drew him back moments later.

Thracos blinked, realized he’d staggered back, had been prevented from falling by a web of vines that had sprung into place to support him.

Looking down, he saw by the faint green radiance that filled the chamber that his left shoulder was gone, and with it, his arm. Arboreal Might dimmed the pain, and already his parasites were bubbling and frothing in the wound as they sought to repair it. But half his flesh had changed to mineral out growths, great, smooth-faceted purple crystals. Cold radiated into his chest from the wound, and he felt the pain across his Cosmos, as the damage rippled into his very spiritual core. One of his Thrones was guttering, laboring under the sudden malaise and damage.

“Impressive,” he murmured. It would take him some time to repair that wound. He’d probably have to cut away the rock first. “But not impressive enough.”

Harald hadn’t waited to witness the consequence of his attack. He’d continued running, racing past Thracos toward one of the exits, and even now he quit the chamber, energized somehow by the darkness, to leave the overgrown room behind and plunge into the blackness.

Perfect.

He’d lead Thracos right to the Twilight Crown.

Thracos inhaled deeply, and the power of Arboreal Might, of his great form, caused him to grow even taller, his stats to increase yet again.

Allowing the Rootheart Sigil to grow quiet, he released the Bloom of the Devouring King, and drew all his dispersed power back into his towering frame. Then, with a loping, mile-eating run, he took off after Harald.

Immediately he felt the loss of the green chamber. His senses grew limited to his own body once more, his might no longer magnified, the bare stone around him inimical to his powers.

But no matter. Even without that augmentation Harald was simply no match for him. And his Copper-ranked friends? They’d probably not even survive a single Rootstrike.

But that had been fun. Good old fashioned fun that he’d not had in some time. Harald had nerve, had fought well, had given it his all. And it hadn’t been too bad. A few surprises. He’d managed to get away, after all. And that sword. That would be a weapon worth wielding. Thracos would relinquish his tracking Artifact and take the blade in its place.

On Thracos ran, leaving a wake of fungus and greenery in his wake that bloomed and died in the second it took him to pass. His four Thrones were roaring like well-stoked furnaces now, but his reserves weren’t infinite. He’d have to finish the next fight quickly before he grew inconvenienced. Hopefully the idiots would pick a bottleneck or some other last stand that he could infest swiftly with his Rootheart Sigil.

Thracos realized he was smiling.

Harald’s panting and ragged footsteps echoed up ahead. It was quite impressive, really, how he managed to keep running so swiftly. The parasites had to be consuming him from inside, clotting up his throat.

Yet still he ran.

But then again, he was a demon-kin.

Harald called out something, warning his friends, no doubt.

Thracos grinned. This would be the dessert after the main course.

Radiating power, more a force of nature than a man, Thracos turned the last corner, and saw a short, stout figure step out from an alcove where he’d been waiting.

“Khazadrok.”