Throne Hunters Book 3, Chapter 38

Fosso.

Harald realized dimly that the name should mean something, but the thought was torn away by his need to destroy. With a cry of rage that was more a rasp from his ruined throat, he hurled himself through the front door and unleashed a Demonic Edge as he went.

Fosso, unhurried, opened his mouth wide and inhaled. The glittering arc of abyssal energy veered upward from its trajectory, diminishing rapidly and then disappeared altogether into the large’ man’s maw.

Fosso smacked his lips and grinned.

Harald leaped the last dozen yards, hurling himself at his foe with no plan more refined than the need to tear him limb from limb.

The other man swayed to the side and slapped Harald hard across the face with his huge slab of a hand, the blow so jarring and swift that Harald hit the ground before he realized what had happened. He slid and crunched into the wall, his head ringing.

“Hmm,” said Fosso, peering at him. “You’re still alive? Interesting.”

Growling, Harald rose to his feet.

Shadowpaw bayed as he came loping into the hall, the sound of his howl echoing within the tight confines, and Fosso startled, turning just in time to catch the leaping mastiff with both arms around Shadowpaw’s back.

The mastiff clamped down his fangs on Fosso’s shoulder even as he scrabbled with his talons, but Fosso’s skin was unnaturally, impossibly durable. Shadowpaw’s assaults raised red angry welts but little more. With a convulsive shudder, Fosso broke the hound’s back and tossed him aside.

“Bad doggo,” said Fosso reprovingly.

Using Veil of Shadows to its best effect, Harald slipped up behind the man and slammed his fist into his back, just above the hip.

Fosso’s entire bulk rippled, huge waves oscillating up his back and around the front, and he stumbled forward with a grunt.

But he didn’t fall.

“Argh,” he gasped, putting a hand to his back, and turned around, expression wounded. “That really hurt!”

Snarling, Harald threw himself forward, intent on finishing the job, but Fosso again reached out with impossible speed and clamped a hand around Harald’s wrist, a second around his neck, and lifted him clear off the floor.

Harald struggled, contorted, and lashed out with a kick that impacted the man’s belly just before Fosso could tear off his arm.

“Argh!” cried Fosso again, dropping him and staggering back. “How are you so strong?”

Gasping, Harald surged forward, but this time Fosso’s gaze narrowed with sudden understanding. Harald dove for Fosso’s leg, intent on snapping the knee, but the huge man drove a hand into the back of his neck and slammed him to the ground, pinning him.

Fosso was strong, but he couldn’t match Harald’s might. He went to wrench himself free, but before he could do more than lift himself a few inches of the ground the massive man tore away his Helm of Wrath.

Shocking lucidity washed over him, and just like that his Strength dropped from 29 to 19, his Constitution from 22 to 16.

“What a nasty little thing,” said Fosso, turning the helm from side to side before tossing it over his shoulder. “But there, that’s—”

Three Goldchops came sailing through the air at the Silver-ranked raider, spinning head over haft in yellow streaks.

Fosso grunted, deep in his chest, and four slabs of lead, each the size of a large book, appeared in the air around him. These flew to intercept the Goldchops, whose blades rang out as they crashed into the leaden surfaces and bounced off.

Head twisted to one side, Harald watched in sick frustration as the Goldchops endlessly bounced off, curved around, came hurling back in and were rebuffed once more.

The leaden panels floated easily around Fosso, and he ignored them and the Goldchops with sublime indifference.

“You’ve made a real mess, you have.” Fosso leaned down to address Harald, his broad, moon-like face tightening into a frown. “Killing everyone, frightening the staff. You could have made this much easier by just handing yourself over, but no. You had to make a big stink about losing.”

Harald tried for only a moment to pry himself free, but the large hand clamped around his nape was implacable in size and strength. Half-crushed to the ground, it was all he could manage to pant shallowly.

Shadowpaw faded from view and returned to Harald’s Cosmos.

The Goldchops continued hammering away at the leaden shields to no avail.

“This many corpses is going to take a lot of explaining,” continued Fosso, clearly annoyed. “And Count Gorkin doesn’t like people snooping in his affairs. He’s going to be very, very cross with you. But you’re too tricky to just throw in a cell. I know your type. No. Best I just kill you now, nice and neat, so you don’t cause us any problems down the road.”

Harald’s vision was darkening. He could barely breathe.

He had to do something. Anything to break free.

He summoned his Abyssal Grasps and directed all three at Fosso.

“Gah,” startled the big man as the three shadowy ropes flowed up into the air, but he didn’t release his stranglehold. Instead, three ghostly figures of wizened old men appeared about Fosso, and the ropes slammed into each and began futilely attempting to drain them dry.

Nothing flowed into Harald.

It was as if the Abyssal Grasps were trying to inhale sand through a straw.

“That’s nasty, that is. All right, enough. I’m going to eat your head.”

Then a vague memory came to him: text that had appeared during his rampage.

Desperate, he summoned it back.

The abyss approves of your senseless slaughter.

Your hunger has filled the void.

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

Abyssal Master 5

Active Ability Unlocked: Shadow Dominion

Impose your will on the battlefield. Manifest tendrils of abyssal energy to control and dominate lesser foes, dragging them into submission or tearing them apart.

Passive Ability Unlocked: Thronebound Mantle

The abyss recognizes your ambition and crowns you with its authority. You become a nexus of power, commanding fear and loyalty in equal measure.

Harald didn’t have the time or wherewithal to read it all carefully. Even as Fosso leaned down, his jaw unhinging and opening impossibly wide, Harald glanced at his new Active and with a surge of his will he manifested its power.

The three Abyssal Grasps faded away to be replaced by a dozen smaller threads which flowed out rapidly across the entrance hall and sank into the corpses that lay littered about.

Fosso paused.

Twelve dead Ebon Wolves pushed themselves up off the ground as best they could, the abyss pouring the power of Harald’s Thrones into their mangled bodies.

The drain was terrific.

Harald cut Aching Depths, cut even Umbral Aegis.

He poured everything into these new vessels, and with all the authority invested in him by the abyss, he urged them to attack.

The dozen dead Wolves ran at Fosso, their silence almost as unnerving as their assault.

“What the fuck?” muttered Fosso, straightening and backing away against the wall. But there was no time for him to react. The Ebon Wolves were quick on their feet, their cooling muscles animated by the cold fire of the abyss, and in their fists they held their blades which they swung inexpertly at the giant.

Who swung Harald through the air as if he were a club, bashing him against the front rank. The dead Wolves pulled their attacks so that they didn’t slash Harald’s legs apart, but moved around, two deep as they formed a semi-circle around Fosso and began stabbing.

Fosso’s grip nearly snapped Harald’s neck. He grasped at the huge, sausage-like fingers and sought in vain to pry them apart.

Which was when he activated his new Passive, Thronebound Mantle.

He felt a crown of twilight fire appear about his head, felt his presence magnified and exalted. Felt his will flow forth and target Fosso, who yelped and released Harald so that he fell to the ground coughing.

The Ebon Wolves continued their assault, but Harald’s eyes were filled with tears, his chest heaving, his hand to his nearly crushed throat. All he knew was that his triple Thrones were about to give out.

He needed to latch an Abyssal Grasp.

Fosso cried out in pain as a Goldchop sank itself deep in his chest.

Looking up, Harald saw that the four leaden shields were now trying to intercept the golden hatchets and the twelve dead soldiers. Whether it was panic or dread induced by the Thronebound Mantle, Fosso had made the mistake of trying to prevent every attack, and a Goldchop had gotten through.

Desperate, Harald hurled an Abyssal Grasp at the giant’s knee from only a yard away.

The shadow rope boiled forth and latched on before a Fosso ghost could intervene.

Power flooded into Harald, fueled his faltering Wolves, and when Fosso glared down at him, blood streaming down his chest, Harald scrabbled back and out of the way.

“Enough!” Fosso tore the Goldchop free and waded into the dead soldiers, slashing them apart with great swings of his arms. But the dead didn’t fall from merely having an arm lopped off. They reeled and staggered back but remained focused on their prey, and several leaped to embrace him, only to be rebuffed by a leaden plate or a ghost.

Fosso’s skin had taken on a waxen sheen, and sweat was pearling on his brow. His huge chest rose and fell rapidly, and Harald knew it was his Thronebound Mantle, whose dread authority filled the hall and was having a tremendous effect on the man.

Timing it just right, Harald unleashed a second Abyssal Grasp. It snaked toward the man, but before it could latch on like a leech Fosso bellowed like a cornered bull and stomped his foot upon the ground.

An earthquake wracked the hall. The marble flagstones buckled, the walls shook, and the Wolves fell to their knees or collapsed completely. Harald crashed down onto his side, but again Fosso roared in pain.

A second Goldchop had slammed home.

All the while life force flooded through the demonic conduit, weakening Fosso even as more blood poured down his huge frame.

Growing desperate, Fosso shoved the Goldchop in his hand into his mouth and swallowed it whole, his jaw unlatching fluidly, his throat bulging, and Harald felt a burst of power flow indirectly from the absorbed Goldchop through the Grasp.

A second stomp, and this time Harald was thrown back, half his raised Wolves simply bursting apart at the seams, their bodies so ruined that the abyssal energy of Shadow Dominion flowed out of them, unable to knit enough of their bodies back together to operate.

Fosso strode toward Harald, eyes blazing in fury, but now Harald activated Aching Depths, and found that the effect was magnified by a synergy with Thronebound Mantle. The power flooding into his old Passive was far greater than what his three Ascended Thrones should have granted, and Fosso staggered as he ran into the cold nexus of horror, his will draining, his intent growing feeble, his fear magnified.

For the briefest of seconds, the four leaden plates disappeared.

Panting, Harald threw himself forward and hit the giant with the remaining Abyssal Grasps even as the third Goldchop slammed into the back of Fosso’s knee and the second tore itself free.

All three ropes of smoke bound themselves fast to the giant, and a torrent of power poured into Harald. Fosso fell to one knee but hurled himself forward to crash full-length atop Harald, crushing him, his hands locking about Harald’s neck.

How was he not dead yet?

Growling, spit frothing at the corners of his mouth, Fosso applied horrific pressure. Even with all his Abilities and the Goldchops, somehow the Silver-ranked raider was still going to tear his head off before dying.

Then a hunched, pale-skinned creature appeared just behind Fosso and leaned down to hammer a knife into his eye.

Fosso howled and jerked back convulsively. Wirmas leaped away, snickering. Blood sheeted down Fosso’s round cheeks. His leaden shields twisted in the air in disarray, and his screaming was silenced when both remaining Goldchops slammed into his temples, shattering his skull.

The massive man toppled over with a thud and lay still.

Panting, mind reeling, hand to his throat, Harald lay there and simply stared, aghast. He fully expected Fosso to begin moving again, to heave himself up and resume his attack.

But instead, a puddle of blood expanded from the mangled remains of his skull.

“You’re welcome,” said Wirmas, turning his knife about as he examined it. “Please, don’t mention it.”

Harald blinked at the hobgoblin, then gave a jerky nod. “Thanks.”

“You sound terrible.” Wirmas flipped the knife in the air, caught it, and then bent down to clean the blade on Fosso’s back.

Harald stared again at the dead Fosso.

He’d done it.

The man was dead.

Which meant there was nobody between him and Gorkin.

Harald rose shakily to his feet. He felt febrile and hollowed out, but nothing would stop him from searching the manor. Where to go first? How to prevent Gorkin from escaping?

No.

Gorkin would never dream that Fosso could be defeated.

Upstairs.

Gorkin’s bedroom.

That’s where he’d be.

Slowly, feeling exhausted but unstoppable, Harald mounted the steps. Both Goldchops floated alongside him. Would the third return at some point? It had to. Surely Fosso couldn’t permanently consume a part of an Artifact?

No matter.

Up he went, each step leaving a bloody footprint behind. Wirmas came up just behind, padding softly.

Harald didn’t bother with any Actives or Passives. He simply listened intently as he reached the second floor. It emerged into a colonnaded vestibule, the carpet thick and luxurious, the windows heavily barred. An archway led to a sumptuous salon, while a hallway led in the other direction past numerous closed doors.

Sound. The quiet click of a door closing from behind a set of double doors set across from the staircase.

Harald crossed the vestibule and shoved both doors open, revealing an elegant parlor complete with blazing fireplace, endless framed paintings covering every inch of the walls, and another set of double doors on the far side.

Harald crossed and shoved these open, too. A passageway curved to the right, past a small staircase leading up and down, with three oak doors all closed tight along its length.

Frowning, listening intently, Harald opened the first. An empty bedroom, too small for anyone but a guest.

The second revealed a lovely library.

The third was locked.

Harald willed a Goldchop into action, and it slammed into the handle, bursting the wood and causing the door to judder inwards on its hinges.

A shout of alarm came from within as Harald entered.

A svelte older man with a fine mustache cowered behind Anna, a dagger to her throat. It was the same vulpine man from the huge portrait in the entrance hall, but now devoid of his hairpiece and glaring at Harald like a rabid rabbit.

“Stop! You don’t know who you’re tangling with. I’m feared for a reason by the head of every major House -”

Harald imposed his will, and a Goldchop blurred, flying hatchet-head over handle to slam into Gorkin’s face.

The man flew backward onto his night table, knocking dozens of crystal bottles about, and toppled off to the side to fall to the carpet.

Anna’s eyes were wide, her throat swallowing convulsively, but she was staring at Harald in shock.

“Anna.” He raised his hand. “It’s me. You’re safe now.”

“I…” She blinked, passed a hand down her cheek, and then sank to sit on the edge of the bed. “Oh, thank the angels.” And she took a shuddering breath.

Harald stepped over to stare at the dead man, then examined the countess. “Are you hurt? Did he…?”

“He’d only just begun his torments. I’m fine. He was more pathetic than I imagined.” Her voice strengthened. “Harald, was that just… you? Below?”

“Just me and the Goldchops,” he agreed. “And Shadowpaw.”

“And me,” drawled Wirmas from the doorway. “I played my part.”

“It sounded…”

“Horrible, I know.” Harald wanted to take her hand, but his own glistened red, and his arms were flecked with pieces of flesh and tufts of hair. “I had to use the Helm of Wrath. And…”

He felt abruptly lightheaded, and staggered back to sink into the closest armchair.

Anna’s eyes widened in alarm. “Here, there have to be…” She began ransacking the room, opening drawers till she pulled forth a pouch. “Absorb these, quickly.”

Harald poured them out into his palm. A mess of Golden Dawns and Aurora Veils. He drank them into his being, and felt vigor return. The numbness that had clouded his thoughts faded away, and he inhaled deeply.

“I can’t believe…” began Anna, her voice trembling. “I thought, with Fosso and the hundreds of guards… Harald. The Ebon Wolves? The Red Fists?”

“All dead.” He took no joy in the fact. Didn’t want to think of his maniacal memories of slaughtering them. “Or fled, I guess. It’s… it’s a bloodbath below.”

She was staring at him strangely.

He couldn’t blame her. “The others?”

“Yes, below. In the dungeon.” Her tone became assured once more. “Let’s go to them immediately.”

Harald rose from the chair. Despite the scales, he still felt that uniquely worn sensation that came from channeling too much power for too long. Some essential part of him wanted nothing but to lose himself in several days’ profound sleep.

But there would be time for that later.

They made their way to the grand stairs, and there descended until the entry hall came into view.

Anna slowed, and Harald saw the scene as if through her eyes.

The walls were cratered or utterly demolished in several places. Blood was splashed everywhere, even having reached the high ceiling in several locations. Fosso’s corpse lay monumental in the center of the hall, and was surrounded on all sides by the lesser dead. Dead men and women in all positions and levels of bodily integrity. Some were so burst apart as to be unrecognizable. The front door was burst inward, and the frame to the parlor on the right torn clean out.

The smell of coppery-rich blood and opened intestines and bowels was nauseatingly strong.

Anna clenched her jaw, raised her chin, and strode down the steps with renewed purpose, trying at first to avoid the puddles of blood that were liberally splashed across the lowest steps, then ignoring them altogether as she stepped onto the ground level and led Harald to the back of the hall.

He was glad to leave the slaughter behind.

Was relieved that she’d not looked at him again in that strange, wary way.

But then again, she’d not yet seen what he’d done outside.

She knew the way down to the dungeon. Nobody remained to oppose them, though it was clear a number of people had fled out the back from the open doors. A narrow door set just before the kitchens opened to a stone stairwell that led around and down to a basement area lit by flickering torches, and there Harald found their friends.

The place was little more than a large open room with rods of iron rising from the ground to the ceiling forming free-standing cages. There was no privacy, no buckets, nothing, and in the center of the room stood a large rack complete with empty manacles and tools of torture.

Half the cages were empty, but his friends occupied the rest.

“Harald!” Sam rushed forward to clutch at her bars. Harald took them all in, his heart swelling with relief, and tears prickled his eyes as he saw Nessa, Vic, and Kársek, with a sack over his head, moved to the front of their cages in like manner.

“It’s over,” he said. “Fosso and Gorkin are dead.”

“Everyone is dead,” muttered Anna, moving to take a ring of keys from a hook and beginning to unlock the doors. “It’s… Harald saved us. I don’t know how, but…”

“Of course he did!” Vic’s tone was bright, but there was no disguising the mottled bruising across half his face or the way he cradled a clearly broken arm to his chest. “He’s the stuff of living legends, our Harald, and would be universally beloved if it weren’t for his weird habit of swimming in veritable rivers of red paint.”

“Fosso’s dead?” Nessa emerged from her cage with a limp. A hank of her black hair had been torn from her scalp, leaving behind a gleaming patch of bloody flesh, but she seemed not to care. “How did you…?”

Harald tossed her Gorkin’s pouch. “I borrowed enough scales from Deepforge to Ascend to my third Throne. Then I convinced Thracos to lend me an Artifact that doubled all the stat bonuses of my other Artifacts, and put on them Helm of Wrath.”

Everyone stilled.

“Oh,” said Sam, putting her hand to her mouth. “That would… that would do it.”

“Well done, Harald.” Kársek, his manacles unlocked, untied the knot around the base of the sack and pulled it off with relish. “This sack neutralized me all too easily. If I can’t see my enemies, I can’t use my Rune. I’m sorry I failed you all.”

“Oh, pish,” said Vic. “We did our best against literally hundreds of elite guardsmen, but we can’t all be Haralds. But wait. The whole house is empty?”

“But for us,” said Harald.

Vic’s eyes widened. “Then let’s start looting!”

Everyone stared at him.

“I’m serious!” He accepted the scale pouch from Nessa and slid a hand inside. “Think about it: Gorkin dressed this manor up like a fortress for a reason, didn’t he? Let’s find out why! Come on!”

“He has a point,” said Nessa. “It’s now or never. If there really is something of value here, we either grab it now, or cede it to the Watch and the major Houses when they come to investigate.”

Anna’s jaw firmed. “Agreed. And I want to seize all his documents. I want incontrovertible proof that he stole from me and mine. With Gorkin’s death the talk of the town, I want to force the Houses to return my family heritage.”

Vic beamed. “Then let’s get to it. But we’ve got to hurry. I literally don’t know how long I’ll be able to stand Harry looking like a gore demon before I lose my joy for life.”

Harald smirked. “I’d hate to inconvenience you.”

“Oh, never you fear. Keep performing miracles, and I’ll find it within me to put up with your horrific appearance.”

Vic all but scampered up the stairs, Anna striding after. Harald watched them go, conflicted, but then felt a cool wave of assurance and calm wash over him.

Beacon of Hope.

“Thank you,” said Sam, stepping up and placing a hand on his shoulder. “I… I understand what it cost you to save us. Doing this right after your talk with Pastoric… thank you, Harald.”

Harald went to place his hand over her own, but the sight of his hand caked in blood stopped him. “Any time, Sam. You know that.”

She smiled tightly as her eyes prickled with tears.

“Incredible,” said Nessa, studying him as if he were a strange and exotic specimen. “I… I’d love to hear more about how you did it. Later. Once we’re safe.”

“Sure,” said Harald.

They both moved on, leaving Harald to turn to Kársek. He studied the dwarf’s face, searching for horror, disgust, or amazement, but saw instead only rough humor.

“Gorkin should have known better,” said the dwarf, patting himself as he searched for something. “Guess he found out the hard way. Did you see my pipe anywhere about?”

“No,” laughed Harald. “But I’m sure we can find it. Let’s go.”