Throne Hunters Book 4, Chapter 3

(Please note, I'll be going back today to update all the old chapters to their edited and revised form.)

Harald jogged up to his quarters and pulled his raiding backpack from out under the bed. At first he simply stuffed items into bag with mechanical efficiency: his scale lantern, his remaining supply of dried rations, all four water skins, his flint and steel, his bedroll, extra clothing.

But slowly he lost momentum until he finally came to a stop, one hand holding the nearly full pack, the other his final pair of woolen socks.

Harald frowned, staring right through the bed and into the void of his disappointment.

This felt like running away.

This felt like failure.

Bitter resentment rankled in his heart.

What hadn’t he thought of? There had to be an approach that would raise their odds of success. First Draken would fall, then with his might they’d tackle a second House, and then a third. They’d roll the flank.

But his friends’ protests rang true. He wasn’t able to use the Artifacts without bleeding out of the eyes. Hardly a proposition for success.

“Hey.” Sam appeared in the doorway. “Came to check on you.”

Harald grinned wolfishly and shoved his socks deep into the pack. “Why? You think I’d be all caught up in bitter anger?”

“Something like that.” She entered the room and moved to his armoire where she expertly checked his remaining tunics and breeches. “But also to see how you’re feeling. You got really scary there before you collapsed.”

Harald folded an all-weather cloak. “Scary how?”

“Well. You know how it feels like when Vorakhar shows up?”

“Wait. That bad?”

Sam glanced back at him apologetically. “Almost. Different. There was the Eclipse Edge’s holy overtones mixed in, which was strange. But yes. It felt like being in a room with a higher power. The combination of your high Presence and your Passives was… terrifying. I almost summoned my Starfire Bastion to shield us from your power.”

Harald turned to face her full on. “That… that feels excessive. You were all safe.”

“Instinct.” She shrugged. “You didn’t look yourself. Your eyes turned pure black, and waves of darkness were washing through the room. I didn’t know if I wanted to fall to my knees or start sobbing.” Her smile was unconvincing. “It was really scary, Harald. I don’t think I’m conveying that enough.”

“Scary enough to compel Draken to swear fealty?”

“Maybe. But like Vic said, even if he swears fealty, he doesn’t become your follower. You still have to compel him.”

“And I can’t if I’ve collapsed.” Harald pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes. I know. He’s right.”

“But you still don’t agree.” She stepped in closer and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s your Demon Seed, Harald. Acknowledge that. It doesn’t want you to follow logic or act rationally. It wants you to attempt the impossible. To quest for the heights of power. It’s mad at you for not throwing yourself at Draken.”

Harald lowered his chin and closed his eyes. Was she right? Was this sullen resentment his own or that of the Seed? It was impossible to tell. All he knew was that he felt it: the dark star of ambition driving him to conquer the heights.

Then Sam’s Beacon of Hope washed over him, and the sullen anger become subdued. Warmth and confidence suffused him, and the hollow ache that had been gnawing at his ribs eased away, a strange, spiritual stiffness that made it hard for him to commit to their chosen course of action.

“Huh,” he said, opening his eyes. “You’re right.”

For a long moment they simply held each other’s gaze, the charge in the air between them palpable, and then he placed his own hand over her own where it lay on his shoulder. “You know, I should keep you around.”

She smirked, gave him a slight shake, then released her grip and stepped back. “I don’t think you have much choice on that matter. Come on, I’ll help you finish packing so we can head down together.”

Was she blushing slightly?

“You should go pack your own things,” he protested. “Oh. Of course. It’s all back at your place.”

“Let’s hurry.” She turned back to his armoire. “You got a second pair of boots?”

Harald watched, bemused, as she efficiently tore his room apart, suggesting items he hadn’t even thought of, and then quickly emptying his pack so she could repack it far more efficiently, getting almost twice as much gear into it the second time.

It felt good to have her there. Right. And not just because of her constant Beacon of Hope.

Regardless, the anxiety and bitterness felt distant, and when they quit his quarters a few minutes later, he did so with decisive resolve.

*

They gathered in the entrance hall, their company somber, their expressions intent as they awaited Anna’s arrival. Vic debated how best to carry a sack he’d filled with wine bottles, which Nessa examined her blade critically for nicks and notches. Kársek has positioned himself by the front door so that he could watch the entrance placidly, while Sam fussed over the gigantic pack of provisions she’d gathered from the kitchen.

Anna appeared at the top of the stairs a few moments later, but visibly hesitated before descending.

Harald immediately saw why, and recalled the moment, a lifetime ago, when Sam had appeared for the first time in Darrowdelve Manor in her secretly acquired armor.

For Anna was now garbed in armor of her own, but where Sam had worn a functional mix of chainmail and leather, the countess wore a veritable suit of plate. Cuirass, pauldrons, cuisse and greaves on her legs, vambraces and rerebraces on her arms, complete with couter to protect her elbows. A fauld of chain and overlapping plates hung down over her hips, along with twin crossed belts of slender and leather, and all of it a dark lead gray filigreed with subtle gold swirls of impeccable artistry.

Their company stilled as Anna descended the steps, a subtle, almost inaudible jingle accompanying her movement from the lithesome suit of dark gray chainmail she wore beneath the plates. A wondrous helm was tucked under her arm, its style elven, and a heavy pack was slung awkwardly over one pauldron.

Vic began clapping. “Oh, bravo, I say, now that’s a sight for sore eyes. Countess, you look a figure stepped out of legend. Even I, Rapier Regent extraordinaire that I am, would fear to cross blades with someone so beautifully caparisoned as yourself.”

Harald couldn’t help but smile. Anna moved well in the armor; despite its artistry, it had clearly been crafted by a master, for she moved well in it, unencumbered, the plates light, the chain supple. Anna glanced at him, apprehensive, and he realized she was nervous.

Why? Did she think he would laugh, or that their company would disdain her dressing for war?

“You look ready to teach the Dungeon a lesson or two,” he said, smile becoming a grin.

“Beautiful,” breathed Sam, moving up to meet Anna and run her hand over the armor. “This is incredible work. Furthak?”

“The very same.” Anna’s color was high, but her eyes gleamed. “Rivik had thought it a ruinous waste of money, but I think part of me always knew I’d have to go to war.”

“Have you any actual training, my lady?” asked Nessa, tone flinty.

“I have. I’m a Level 2 Thornblade Marquessa.” She announced this defiantly, her blush deepening even as her stare bore into Nessa. “I’m no stranger to the blade.”

“I love it!” Vic turned to the rest of them, arms opened wide. “Even I didn’t know she’d acquired an actual class! This is like an opera, a tale performed upon the stage of the Golden Wheel! Intrigue upon intrigue, wonder upon wonder! Let me guess, countess—you used to sneak into the Dungeon when you were young?” He spun back to her. “But not alone—you must have sworn a small band of your father’s guards to secrecy. Am I right? I am! Oh, to have missed such wonder!”

“Vic, you’re being an ass, again,” said Sam. “Countess, you look fantastic, and a Thornblade Marquessa?” Sam smiled. “Absolutely wonderful.”

“Vic’s right,” said Anna, tone dry. “But I can reveal the details of my youth while we make for the Dungeon. Vic, did you procure the carriage?”

“He’s waiting outside the gate, gleefully counting each scale he’s earning while not doing a thing,” said Vic.

“Kársek?” Anna raised a brow. “Did you have time to count the scales?”

“I did, countess, though I was rushed in the endeavor. By my count we acquired three million, two hundred and twenty thousand Cooper Crescents’ worth of wealth.”

Vic let out a low whistle. “Imagine how much more Gorkin must have squirreled away around town.”

Anna raised her chin. “It’s my opinion that we should divide the scales equally amongst our number—Kársek excluded, unfortunately—and absorb them all. With House Sonora having to go to ground, and us spending the foreseeable future in the Dungeon, there’s no merit in retaining the wealth.”

“I’ve a different idea,” said Harald. “I’ve already Ascended my third Throne. Let’s first get everybody else above theirs, and then perhaps just give me what remains.”

“Very generous,” said Nessa dryly.

Harald met her gaze square on. “You object?”

“Hardly. Doesn’t matter. Thank you.”

“Quick tally,” said Anna. “How much do we each need to get to Ascend the third?”

They rattled off their numbers in quick succession, and Kársek did the sums rapidly and with such confidence that nobody felt the need to double check his figures. In all, it would take Sam, Nessa, Vic, and Anna a combined two million, eight hundred thousand scales.

“We don’t have much time,” said Nessa. “I suggest we skip the formalities?”

“Agreed,” said Vic, rolling up his sleeves. “We’ll toast our success in the Dungeon. Shall we?”

Kársek divided the largest scales amongst them, and they sat or lay down so as to set about the process.

Harald inclined his head as Kársek delivered the remainder: three Horizon’s Whispers and a mess of Zenith Tides and Aurora Veils.

“I’ll save some for healing,” said Harald reluctantly, and then closed his eyes and set about absorbing the last of Gorkin’s wealth.

Power flooded into him, but it was but a fraction of what he’d need to Ascend his fourth Throne. Righteous glory poured into his Cosmos, and the mass of scales disappeared, flooding his essence with the Fallen Angel’s might.

When at last he opened his eyes, he saw his friends stirring, their expressions bright with joy and newfound power, and summoned his own Window:

Scales: 1,435,333.

An enormous sum, a staggering amount, and yet somehow he felt disappointed. Reaching 10,000,000 felt like it would take a lifetime to accomplish.

“Ah!” Vic sprang to his feet. “I am a new man, refreshed and ready for adventure. This feels glorious. Glorious!”

Harald couldn’t restrain a grin as Sam wiped at her eyes, clearly overcome with emotion, and Anna was beaming. Even Nessa was having trouble restraining a smile, and when Harald met her gaze she blushed and looked away.

“I suggest we carry the Artifacts with us until we have time to identify them,” said Kársek, gesturing at a large sack in which he’d bundled their remaining treasures. “We have already tarried for too long.”

“Agreed,” said Anna, tone brisk, her eyes bright. “Though the delay was worth it. With all of us now Ascended to our Third Thrones, we’ve grown exponentially more dangerous.”

“I love life,” beamed Vic, and hoisted his sack of wine bottles. “Shall we?”

They quit the manor house, but Anna paused once she’d taken only a dozen paces down the drive to regard her ancestral home. There was no denying the pain that marred her features now.

“The Sonoras have been gravely wounded by these events. I’ve not even been able to bury my fallen servants with the honor they deserve.” Even Vic fell silent at the bleakness in her tone. “I do hereby vow to return and do them all dignities for their sacrifices, and destroy the order that forces me to flee my own ancestral home.”

Clad as she was in her regal armor, hand resting on the pommel of her blade, her words didn’t sound like an empty threat. Harald felt his own heart rise in response, and he stepped up alongside her.

“As a knight of House Sonora, I join you in this vow,” he said quietly, gaze fixed on the old manor. “We’ll return some day soon, or die trying.”

“Or die trying,” agreed Anna, and then with one final, shuddering breath, she turned from the home and led the way down the drive toward the gate.

The carriage was a proper stage couch, large enough for them all to clamber inside. Vic and Harald assisted the driver with lashing their packs to the roof, and moments later they were rolling down the avenue, curtains drawn across the windows.

It was tight fitting, but nobody complained. Vic kept the corner of his curtain peeled back just enough to watch the traffic outside, his expression bemused.

“Thornblade Marquessa,” said Sam, leaning forward to smile at Anna. “I remember reading about that one in Brixman’s Guide to Dungeon Classes. It’s a martial leadership class, right?”

“’The rose that bleeds’,” smiled Anna. “Yes. You can imagine my delight when I realized I wasn’t getting something as commonplace as a Shieldmaiden.” She shifted, and Kársek drew even closer to the edge of his seat beside her, giving her armor room. “I thought of it at the time as proof that I should be raiding. My father… he didn’t quite agree. Still.” For a moment Anna’s gaze grew unfocused as she peered out into memories. Then she inhaled deeply and smiled, coming back to the moment.

“And Level 2?” Harald couldn’t help but grin. “You didn’t just go below once or twice.”

“No. Even after my father forbade it, I kept finding ways to sneak below.” Anna’s smile was complicit. “I must have done a dozen raids before he released my companions from service and banished them from House Sonora. That put an end to my dreams.” Her smile faded. “I felt terrible. They were excellent soldiers. For awhile we remained in touch, but they refused my generosity, and over the years…” She shrugged regretfully.

“Your Passives and Actives?” asked Nessa.

“My first Passive is Poise Under Pressure. The more enemies attack me at once, the greater my speed and defenses becomes. My first Active is Crescent Slash, a sweeping attack that hurls inch-long thorns at everyone within a few yards. Second Passive is Crimson Entourage. My allies gain speed and morale equivalent to my own. If I hide, flee, or lose line of sight with any of you, however, the effect ends.”

“Very nice, very nice,” said Vic absently, eyes narrowing as she studied something outside the window. “So you’re saying we should throw you headfirst into as many enemies as possible.”

“My second Active is Petal Guillotine. The longer I go without being hit, the stronger my own attacks become, culminating in a finishing blow far stronger than anything I could manage by myself.”

“That must pair well with Poise Under Pressure,” said Nessa. “Well. Color me surprised. I guess we won’t be leaving you with the baggage whenever a fight starts.”

“No,” said Anna coldly. “You won’t.”

Kársek’s deep tones broke the tension. “Harald. Your Aureate Master. You said you had to return it to Thracos or he would hunt you down.”

“You’re right. But.” He paused, the realization crystalizing even as he considered the matter. “I don’t think I’m going to.”

“That would be dishonorable,” said Kársek gravely.

“I know. But I’m not feeling particularly honorable right now. Nor am I going to be able to continue playing our game. I’ve no intention or ability to raid the Emberfell Hall as he demanded. Which means time’s up. Keeping the Master will remove a sizeable edge of his, and increase my own.”

“Bravo,” said Vic. “I fully approve.”

“You gave your word,” said Kársek. “And without Thracos’ assistance, you wouldn’t have been able to rescue us.”

“Karsy,” protested Vic, rolling his head over to glance at the dwarf. “Let’s not pretend Thracos is anything other than a demon-kin beholden to an enemy power. Who, may I add, is ready, willing, and extremely able to kill poor Harald in a duel. It was his mistake to trust Harald with the Master.”

Kársek’s gaze remained steadily on Harald. “Honor is its own reward.”

Nessa’s smile was as dark as sin. “Honor is a luxury most can’t afford.”

“Honor is what makes life worth living,” said Kársek. “Without honor their can be no dignity, no integrity, and no respect.”

“What are you saying?” asked Vic, tone growing sharp. “That we should ensure Harald’s mortal enemy has absolutely nothing to fear when he comes hunting us?”

Kársek nodded. “Honor is what will keep Harald from falling to the dark.”

“Oh,” said Vic dismissively. “So it’s a demon thing.” He waved a hand and looked back out the window. “How dreary.”

Harald couldn’t tear his gaze away from Kársek’s dolorous eyes. “You really think I should give it back.”

Kársek saw no need to respond.

“Sam?”

“I…” Sam grimaced. “I don’t know. My heart agrees with Kársek. What does it matter if you win every battle if in doing so you lose the war?”

“He gets to live,” said Nessa, amused.

“Only you can decide the person you wish to be,” rumbled Kársek. “I fully understand the folly of giving the Aureate Master to your enemy. But life is not worth living at any cost.”

“Hard disagree,” said Vic, still peering out the window.

“Anna?”

The countess didn’t answer right away. They turned down a side avenue, everyone’s weight shifting to the left.  Bells began to toll. Harald counted each peak. Seventh Bell.

“I don’t know either. My upbringing insists Master Kársek is correct. But life has taught me that those guided by such high principles are often left with their throats cut in the gutters. Gorkin used such morality against my father to enormous and devastating advantage. But.” Anna bit her lower lip. “Your soul is literally in the balance. Such questions go beyond mere practical advantage. Would you fall deeper into the Demon Seed’s sway if you kept the Master?”

Harald closed his eyes and rested his head back. Sank into his Cosmos, willed himself to descend into that private sanctum. Down his consciousness fell, ever down into his spiritual core, until at last the Fallen Angel appeared before him, resplendent and vast, a great field of glittering pinpricks, a replica of that which lay entombed in the earth.

But he turned away from Her fallen glory, and instead considered the elements that now existed within his Cosmos. Shadow Paw padded in a great circle about him, sniffing and restless, while Wirmas stood to one side, sneering and cleaning his talons with a knife. The Goldchops hung in the air, gleaming and wondrous, and the Helm of Wrath hovered across from it, bathed in a subtle crimson light.

Close to the center of his Cosmos hung the Aureate Master, somehow more real and tangible than all the others. Perhaps it was due to its rank, its sheer power. Perhaps it, in turn, would have been shadowed by the presence of the Eclipse Edge and Twilight Crown.

With great effort, Harald pushed his attention into the darkest corner of his Cosmos, until at last the Demon Seed revealed itself.

As always, direct revelation caused his gorge to rise, for fresh horror to spring into his heart. It was fibrous and enmeshed with the very fabric of his Cosmos, as if it were pushing itself into the essence of his being and blending with it. Large and whorled, it pulsed with malevolent power and hunger.

His curse, his gift, his benediction and doom.

Would keeping the Aureate Master empower it further? How beholden was he already to its influence?

It was madness to give the Master away. A foolish move that would make his survival and that of his friends infinitely less likely. His own ability to command the heads of the six Houses would become infinitely diminished, and the odds of his being slain by Thracos increased a thousandfold.

And yet.

He recalled Kársek’s steady gaze, and realized that disappointing his friend was something he never wished to do. Not only for the esteem in which he held the dwarf, but because of what that would signify—the loss of something precious, delicate, and irrevocable.

Life is not worth living at any cost.

Harald sighed. Damn it.

With great effort he resurfaced. Everybody but Vic watched his closely.

“Fine. Let’s swing by the Auction House.”

“Harry boy, you’re an idiot,” said Vic. “Never change. Oh wait. You won’t have a chance to, given that you’re going to die now in a couple of days.”

Kársek nodded once, and the lack of surprise in his expression buoyed Harald’s spirits far more than even Sam’s Beacon of Hope.

*

The Dungeon Plaza was alive with activity when they emerged from the stage coach. The Petitioner’s Line was already wrapped around the perimeter, with those who’d accepted tickets for the night having returned and assumed their places. Vendors called forth their wares, and the Sentinel Golems stood stark and austere as they always did, ready for the Dungeon to disgorge more enemies for them to slay.

“Act casual, everybody,” said Vic, an easy smile on his lips. “We’re just a regular group of raiders that are planning to relocate permanently into the bowels of the Dungeon. Absolutely normal, no need for anyone to scrutinize us farther.”

“Let’s make this quick,” said Nessa, hoisting her pack. “The sooner we’re below, the better. Everyone ready? Let’s go.”

Harald fell in line behind their Delve Captain. Nobody had decided this was a regular raid, but nobody complained, either. If anything, he felt relief at Nessa stepping back into the role. She’d retreated in some ineffable way ever since the kidnapping, had offered little more than cutting remarks or nihilistic pronouncements, and refused all attempts to be drawn out of her shell.

This was what she needed. A function, a purpose, a role to play.

Perhaps, maybe in the near future, she’d find a moment in which to untangle her emotions, to reconcile the horror of what had happened, to thaw our the frigid control she’d clamped down upon herself and actually share with them what she was going through.

The Dungeon Portal hung as ever in the plaza’s center, polyhedral and rotating swiftly, vibrating and filling the air with is strange hum. The Gates were busy, with the Copper-ranked one already boasting a line a dozen parties strong.

“Damn it,” said Nessa as they reached the back of the line. “This is going to take a half a Bell or longer to process.”

Vic glanced nonchalantly behind them. “Countess? Do you know of some special ability or privilege you have that could get us to the front?”

Anna, who’d drawn a cloak about her gorgeous armor and a hood down over her braided red hair, shook her head.

“Then perhaps I’ll see what I can do.” Vic stretched luxuriously and stepped out of line. “My charm is legendary. I’ll go talk to the guards up front.”

“Luck,” said Sam.

“And scales,” said Nessa. “Bribe liberally if you have to. We need to get below, now.”

Vic winked at them, but such was the urgency of the moment that he simply strode toward the Gate.

Harald fought himself to breathe deeply, and stepped up alongside the countess. “How are you holding up?”

“Me? Fine. It’s been years since I’ve stood here. I’m excited. Nervous. Mostly nervous. But ready. I think.”

Harald smiled. “I know what you mean. It feels like years for me, too, since I first went below. Times like these it doesn’t serve to have an overactive imagination.”

“No. But we’re here together.” She returned his smile. “And that takes the edge off.”

Nessa stiffened beside them, her hand dropping to her blade. “Shit.”

Harald forced himself to look slowly over his shoulder. Three carriages loaded with City Guards were rolling right up to the plaza, with a fourth carrying what had to be high-end raiders right behind. One of the sergeants bellowed at the crowd to make room as he leaped off the front, his companions spilling over the sides with haste.

“Damn it,” said Sam. “That’s House Silvershield in the back. They’ve sent their best.”

“They’re onto us,” said Nessa, her tone becoming calm. “Well. So much for a clean getaway.”