Throne Hunters Book 3, Chapter 36

Harald cupped his hands over his mouth and nose and backed away from the desk to sink into a crouch, his back to the wall.

Shadowpaw sniffed around the parlor, stepping gingerly, then looked to Harald and whuffed with concern.

“It seems all is not well in your pretty little home,” sneered Wirmas from the doorway.

With a flexion of his will, Harald banished the hobgoblin to his Cosmos. The Servitor dematerialized, his laughter fading as his words had their desired effect.

The silence in the manor house ached. Harald realized he was straining to hear something, some sign of life, something that would demonstrate this hadn’t been such a cataclysmic loss.

Gorkin.

He’d taken the countess.

Nessa’s blade in the hall meant she’d been killed or taken as well.

And the blood. Too much. His friends had put up a hell of a fight.

But he’d only been gone a few bells. How had they known to strike precisely then? They must have been watching the manor. Waiting for some sign that they were planning to flee. But from outside the walls they’d not have been able to foresee what was developing—Ana hadn’t even brought the carriage around.

Which meant someone on the inside.

A traitor.

Harald winced. Clearly not Rivik. One of the servants, then. Those who’d proven themselves loyal to Anna and House Sonora, and opted to stay even when pay had at times faltered.

Harald pressed the base of his palms into his eyes and grimaced. Anna, Nessa. But what of Sam? Kársek? Vic?

And where had all the bodies gone?

Harald sprang to his feet, emerged into the entrance hall, and followed the streaks of blood across the marble to the front door. A set of suitcases and packs were set, untouched, by the entrance, where Rivik lay, ashen-faced, a single stab wound over his heart. He’d bled out and died right there by the door, shoved to one side as the enemy had dragged out the bodies. Blood across the landing, down the broad steps, some on the gravel, but there it abruptly ended.

Carts or carriages. They’d taken their dead and the prisoners away.

Harald sighted up the driveway to the partially open gate. Bosworth sat against the guardhouse wall, hands pressed to his stomach, several arrows sprouting from his chest, head bowed as if in contemplation.

The bastards.

But such a violent operation. It couldn’t have taken place without anybody noticing.

The Watch. Harald recalled how they’d stared at him as he approached. They’d known and done nothing.

“Damn it,” hissed Harald, stepping back into the house. And given Lord Draken’s lack of interest in Anna’s own appeals, there was no sense in Harald going to him, either.

So much for the protection of the larger Houses.

What could he do?

The countess is my guest.

She shall remain so until you present yourself and take her place.

A lie. An unsubtle attempt to get Harald or whomever else read the letter to surrender in the vain hopes of buying Anna’s freedom. It would just be a filthy trap.

Gorkin had no honor.

But what could Harald do? He wandered into the library and sat, to stare woodenly at the dead hearth, heart pounding, pounding, mind blank.

He had to rescue them.

With any luck Vic or Sam or Kársek would turn up, arriving late.

But even if they didn’t, Harald had to rescue Anna and Nessa.

If Nessa wasn’t dead.

He closed his eyes.

By all the angels that ever wept, please let her be alive.

But Gorkin’s home was a fortress. There was no way he could storm it, nor sneak inside.

Could he?

Harald rubbed at his jaw. Perhaps in the same manner he’d stolen into the warehouses. Veil of Shadows, Abyssal Grasp…

And that’s when Harald realized he felt no compunction of damning Gorkin’s men to the abyss.

All of them.

But would that work? This had been a massive operation to be executed so thoroughly and so quickly. And Gorkin would know he was still at large. He’d prepare his men for any such assault.

Fosso.

Damn it!

Harald leaped to his feet and began to pace. He felt febrile, unhinged. One second he’d been ready to relinquish all power, and now he greedily needed as much as he could get.

But how? The Goldchops were potent, but even they couldn’t subdue an army before Harald was taken down.

What could he do alone against such an overwhelming force? Eadwolf?

Harald stopped.

The feral raider was powerful and wise.

But… no. Something told Harald the older man wouldn’t throw his life away to rescue a handful of strangers he’d just met. He’d sympathize with him, give him advice, even. But storm the fortress at Harald’s side?

No.

Harald bit his lip and resumed pacing.

He needed power. That was the only answer. So much power that he could take on Gorkin and win. But how? He was still over 200,000 scales short of his Third Throne. But even a third Goldchop wouldn’t be enough.

So then?

Harald dropped into a crouch and ducked his head, interlacing his fingers over the back of his neck. This very moment Anna was in Gorkin’s power. His friends. This very second they could be suffering.

Wild fury wrested at his heart.

A wild and terrible fury that made every plan, every option permissible.

First and foremost he needed to know which of his friends were still free. Having Kársek or Sam by his side would tilt the odds enormously in his favor.

But where might they be? No, wait—Sam had gone to fetch Nessa. Which meant they’d probably both returned to the manor together.

Pain stabbed at his heart. The thought of Sam in Gorkin’s control…

Kársek, though. Vic. Perhaps they’d not yet arrived.

But Harald felt the hope to be a tenuous one.

He’d wait. He’d take his time coming up with a plot, but wait in case they showed. But if they were going to show, if they were still free, there was no way Kársek would have taken much more time than he’d already done.

Either they’d show very soon, or they were captured or dead, too.

Which left him alone.

A plan.

Power.

He needed over 200,000 scales and a means to take on Gorkin’s combined might. To kill Fosso, a Silver-ranked raider, when he was done making his way into Gorkin’s sanctum.

Impossible.

Impossible! Harald clamped down the wild urge to laugh, knowing that if he started he might never stop.

How much of the blood in the hallway belonged to his friends?

Damn Draken. Damn the Watch. Damn this entire city for standing aside and letting such an atrocity take place. They weren’t any better than Thracos.

Thracos.

Harald stilled.

Thracos was Silver-ranked. No, of course he’d not come help. But he’d not want to see his new plaything captured by Gorkin, would he?

Harald turned the idea over in his mind.

Perhaps Thracos could help him, simply to ensure his new distraction didn’t get nipped in the bud by a degenerate like Gorkin.

But how? If Thracos refused to storm the fortress with him—and he’d surely refuse, for House Thornvale was undoubtedly as weirdly deferential to Gorkin as the others—then what could he do? Extend his deadline for robbing Emberhall?

“Think,” groaned Harald, clutching at his head. “Think!”

Shadowpaw snuffed loudly and pushed his wet nose against Harald’s ear. Harald wrapped an arm around the huge mastiff’s inky head, taking comfort from the hound, but kept his eyes screwed tightly closed.

Think.

Think.

Time passed.

Harald waited, listening intently for any sign that someone was sneaking inside. He sent Shadowpaw to investigate a couple of times, but always it was a false alarm.

Paralysis gripped Harald. The shadows lengthened. His hope stretched with them, and then, when dusk had reduced everything to a velvety smolder, he realized he had to admit the truth: Vic and Kársek weren’t about to walk in the door.

They were gone.

His friends. All of them. Countess Anna. Taken by Gorkin to his impregnable manor.

And those who’d resisted? Rivik? Bosworth? Slaughtered where they’d stood.

Fury began to burn anew within Harald’s chest. A terrible fury that dissipated the numbness, that brought Harald back to the moment, to himself.

Gorkin had made a terrible mistake.

He’d closed his trap too soon. For some reason, he’d thought it wise to snatch up everyone but Harald. Perhaps Anna had been on the verge of leaving the manor. Her bags had been packed and in the hallway. Perhaps Gorkin’s hand had been forced.

But no matter.

He’d erred in leaving Harald loose.

Resolve suffused him.

No matter what, blood would be spilled.

Copious, terrible amounts of blood.

Harald would save his friends, or die trying. After all, wasn’t this what he’d fought to achieve power for? So that one day, when his friends needed him most, he could act?

“Come on,” said Harald, scritching Shadowpaw’s broad head one last time. “Time to hunt.”

*

The Dungeon Plaza was winding down its day. The Petitioner’s line was melting away as those who’d stood in line accepted their tickets gratefully and disappeared into the Shambles or whatever inn or hostelry they’d taken up in. Raiding parties were emerging from the Copper and Silver Gates, lining up at the taxation counters, laughing wearily or just staring glumly as their scales were taxed. The clouds over the city were a murder scene of crimsons and salmon pinks, lurid oranges and hints of gray. Music came from the open windows of the Angel’s Rest, and hopeful vendors cried out their wares, their snacks, their last-second essential raiding accessories.

Harald strode up to the Copper Gate.

Luck was with him. One of the two guards overseeing the operation was Susie, the heavyset and competent lady whom he’d come to know over the course of his many raids.

“Hello, Harald,” she smiled, her amusement dark. “Couldn’t stay away from the lady dungeon, could ya?” Then she saw the cast of his features, and her brow lowered. “What’s wrong?”

Harald stepped aside, and with a glance to her companion, Susie followed.

“Susie. I need to ask a favor.” Her face closed up. “I’m trying to contact another raider. Thracos, of House Thornvale. I need to speak with him. It’s… it’s really urgent.” His voice shook with intensity. “Please. Can you just check if he’s in the dungeon, and when he went down?”

Susie studied his face, her lips pursed skeptically, went to speak, then pursed her lips again. Harald met her gaze directly, doing nothing to hide his raw pain and need.

“Fine. It’s confidential, but I’d be lying if folks didn’t share that information when it suited them.”

“Right. A Golden Dawn?”

Susie scowled. “Bah, it’s a little thing I’m doing for ya. Just hold on. I can’t very well do this in the open. Meet me over there, in that alley past the third scale-golem.”

“Thank you.” Harald took a deep breath, and jogged to the indicated meeting spot, where he set down his heavy pack. There was no guarantee that Thracos was below, but it felt like a safe bet: his Demon Seed would compel him to grow, to push himself, to test his will against the dungeon. Much more likely than his lounging about in some private manor or at an expensive restaurant.

He had to be below. If he wasn’t? It would take Harald far too long to track him down.

After an agonizingly long wait, Susie appeared in the alley mouth. “You’re in luck. He went below early this morning. 38th Level.”

Harald exhaled in relief. “Good. Thank you. I’ll, ah, camp out here and watch for his return.”

“Shouldn’t take too long. He rarely overnights these days. But good luck with whatever problem you’re facing.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“Ha,” snorted Susie. “Sure.” And she waved a hand and returned to her post.

Harald settled in to wait. The blazing clouds overhead darkened, turned dove gray and lavender, then leaden as the sun finally set. Eighth Bell rang the hour. The plaza emptied out further, and a few raiders straggled out the Copper Gate.

Harald’s mind was smooth and devoid of thought. He just stared at the spinning polyhedron that was the Dungeon Portal, and waited.

Ninth Bell rang, then Tenth.

Urgency began to grip Harald by the neck. But he forced himself to wait, to not think of the horrors his friends might be experiencing. The merriment from the Angel’s Rest was discordant, but Harald put it out of his mind.

Focus.

Finally, finally, Thracos emerged from the dungeon. He appeared weary but unharmed, his vine-wreathed cloak alive with its fell powers, his hair filthy with blood. But he stopped at the taxation counter, extended a heavy sack, and when his business was done, pulled his hood over his head and departed through the Silver Gate.

Right into where Harald stood, waiting, heavy pack over his shoulder.

Thracos eyed him, wary. “So soon? Surely not. And we established the security box for a reason. There’s no need to hunt me out.”

“A moment of your time. It’s all I ask.”

Thracos considered, and for a terrible second Harald thought the other demon-kin would tell him to get lost. But finally he gave the slightest of nods. “You may walk with me until I tell you otherwise.”

They quit the plaza. Now that the moment was here, Harald found himself breathless, his need so great he couldn’t think how to begin.

Thracos was patience personified. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care.

“I’m going to die tonight.” Harald did his utmost to make it sound calm and certain.

Thracos glanced at him. “I’d not thought you so melodramatic. Emberfell Hall isn’t nearly as dangerous as the 21st Level.”

“I’m assaulting Gorkin’s manor. I have no hope of succeeding.”

Thracos stopped. “Gorkin?” His tone had grown sharp with curiosity. “That is indeed unwise.”

“But I’ve no choice. He’s kidnapped everyone I care about. I have to free them. But I’m not strong enough. So I will die.”

“If this is some long-winded attempt to recruit me into your little problem, please, spare us both.”

“It’s not. I’m not asking you to come with me.” Harald injected scorn into his voice. “That would be childish.”

Thracos’ curiosity warred with his impatience. “Then what is it you want, Harald? And why do you think I care?”

“You have derived some small measure of enjoyment from our challenges. Our exchanges. You’re looking forward to seeing me exert myself and grow as much as I can before you please your patron by crushing me in the dungeon.” Not a question. “It’s given you something new to enjoy, something different.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Thracos stopped and faced Harald full on. “You are an obligation laid upon me by my patron. Nothing more.”

“Sure. Whatever. But if I die at the hand of a dozen stupid mercenaries, you’ll feel disappointed at the waste of my potential. I could have been an interesting fight. There was a chance for some novelty there. Instead, I’m going to go throw it all away. Unless.”

Thracos raised a finely arched brow.

“Unless you lend me the Aureate Master.”

Laughter burst from Thracos’ lips like a horse bolting through a stable door. “Lend you…? Never.”

Harald smiled. “You will lend it to me. Because you know you can demand it back from Gorkin if I die. He will not deny you if we both claim I stole it. He may enjoy some strange immunity, but keeping a stolen Artifact of yours falls outside those bounds. But more than that, you’re curious. You’re curious to see what I can do. I’ve surprised you already. You see in me a potential rival, no matter how much you sneer. I am you, come again. And I will kill you when the time comes. Laugh if you want, but I am unstoppable, whereas you? You’ve grown jaded. You’ve lost your fire. So you’ll lend me the Aureate Master because it’s the only way you know how to continue pushing yourself. You need me to goad you on. Without me? You’ll continue to drift, awaiting your patron’s next arbitrary demand.”

Harald spoke with inexorable power, his gaze boring into Thracos’ own.

“Lend me the Master. Either way, it will return to you. But by doing so, you bring savage uncertainty back into your life. By doing so, you’ll awaken from your daze. You’ll savor life again.”

Thracos’ brow lowered as a scowl slowly warped his features, and then, faster than Harald could follow, he backhanded Harald with such force that he spun about on one foot, his neck strained to near breaking, and collapsed on the ground, vision momentarily blanked out.

“You presume too much, Harald.” Thracos stood over him, voice rich with fury and disdain. “You’re a plaything, nothing more. I have absolutely no need of you. My trajectory is carved across the heavens in fire, and in time even the mightiest in the dungeon will quail at the sound of my name. Speak to me again in such manner, and my next strike will take off your head.”

Harald blinked away the stars. There was no pain, of course, but his jaw felt wrong. He pushed himself off the cobblestones and stared up at Thracos, defiant.

Thracos continued to glare down at him, and then shook his head as if in mocking despair. “But I admire your temerity. To ask such a thing. It goes beyond boldness. Sheer idiocy. And… perhaps it is that idiocy that amuses me. So… very well. It is as you said: I can retrieve the Aureate Master at any time.”

Harald’s breath caught as the thick golden armband appeared in Thracos’ hand.

“You may have the use of the Aureate Master for one night and one night only. If this is not returned to me by dawn tomorrow, I shall hunt you down and kill you with absolutely no exceptions. Meet me outside the auction house. Let us see just how much trouble you can stir.”

And Thracos dropped the heavy golden band into Harald’s outstretched hands, and strode off with a self-satisfied smile.

Harald stared, shocked, at the arm ring. Heavy, red-gold, and with a band of intricate runes carved along the inner circumference, it imparted a metallic tang to the very air, and all but thrummed with power.

Artifact: Aureate Master

Quality: Masterwork

Special Ability: Golden Resonance

Activation: The Aureate Master doubles the stat bonuses of all other Artifacts in active use by the wielder, enhancing their power through synergistic resonance.

+0 to base stats

Amplifies all Artifact bonuses

Limitation: The Aureate Master magnifies not only the power of its bearer’s Artifacts, but also their obsession with wealth and dominion. The greater the enhanced Artifacts, the stronger the compulsion to hoard more treasure.

Harald exhaled in awe, and immediately swapped out the Amulet of the Hobgoblin King for the Aureate Master. The golden band disappeared from his palm, to be replaced with the brutal amulet depicting the snarling visage of a hobgoblin king.

He absorbed a Golden Dawn to fix his broken jaw, then rose to his feet, shaky but victorious.

The first and most important step had been accomplished.

From there he took off at a run, cutting across avenues and navigating side streets as lamp lighters plied their trade and weary workers returned home after long days at the factories. He ran swiftly, sure of his path, until at last he entered the Deepforge district.

Without Kársek at his side, Harald wasn’t afforded a second glance. He made his way toward the great staircase entrance, but this time the dwarves who entered and exited the levels below either ignored him with sublime indifference or eyed him warily.

One of the dwarven guards gestured for him to approach when he finally drew level with the first step. “Your business in Deepforge?”

“I am Harald Darrowdelve, and must speak with Forge Father Thangrim,” said Harald, straining to keep his tone courteous and calm. “This is in regards to the fate of DreadRune Kársek.”

The dwarf’s rugged features scrunched up into a frown, heavy brows beetling over his eyes, and then he passed his hand once, twice, over his lustrous black beard, and scrutinized Harald carefully. “This is a powerful request. I must warn you, human, that if you are in jest, or if the Forge Father decrees that you have asked for this audience spuriously, the consequences will be grave.”

“I have no fear. This couldn’t be more urgent. Please. I would speak with him immediately.”

The dwarf exchanged a concerned glance with the other guard, then shrugged. “Very well, I will escort you below. I am Sentry Thalin. On your honor, stay by my side and cause no disturbances.”

Harald nodded, and followed the sentry as he led the way down the grand staircase. As before, they descended deep into the earth, passing the cunningly rough mosaics that were embedded in the walls, moving along the outer edge of the steps this time which delayed their passage enormously. But Sentry Thalin seemed in no particular rush, nor did using the wide open central channel of the steps like Kársek had done seem an option, so Harald bit back his impatience and followed in silence.

Down and around, to the second subfloor, then out into a broad hallway like an avenue. But this time Harald had no interest in the novelties and wonders of Deepforge. He stared straight ahead, a sense of bleak horror gripping him by the throat as he tried desperately not to think of how his friends might be suffering.

Thalin led him down a few side tunnels, each more luxuriously appointed than the last, and then to a grand waiting room where a dozen highbacked chairs were carved from the living rock, each ornate enough for a king, set in a semicircle before a pair of double doors made of bronze and banded in silver.

“Please be seated, Mr. Darrowdelve,” said Thalin. “I will alert the Forge Father to your request.”

Harald forced himself to perch on the edge of one of the stone thrones, and watched as the sentry opened a double door and stepped out of view.

Time dragged on.

Harald fidgeted, took solace in his ownership of the Aureate Master, and repeated his speech to himself, over and over again.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Thalin appeared, expression grave. “The Forge Father knows your name, and will hear your message. Please come with me.”

They passed through the double doors into a cavernous meeting room dominated by a hexagonal stone table on whose face was carved an intricate map, its design accompanied by inlaid precious metals and gems. There was no time to study it, however. Thalin led him through a side door, down a narrow tunnel, and through a stout oak door into a simple chamber where three dwarves sat, smoking from elegant pipes. One was Forge Father Thangrim, though Harald didn’t recognize the others.

“Welcome, Master Darrowdelve,” said Thangrim after Harald straightened from his bow. “Senty Thalin reports that you have important news of DreadRune Kársek?”

Thalin bowed his head and stepped back outside, closing the door behind him.

“I do.” Harald took a deep breath. “DreadRune Kársek was kidnapped today, and possibly killed, by Count Gorkin, who came for Countess Sonora and all those who serve her.”

The three elderly dwarves frowned in consternation.

“DreadRune Kársek serves this countess?” asked a second, a matron with a face like an anvil and kindly eyes lost in a sea of wrinkles.

“I am his tharkûn,” said Harald gravely, “And I serve Countess Sonora.”

All three dwarves nodded slowly.

“I’ve come to let you know of Kársek’s fate, and to ask your aid in rescuing him.”

“DreadRune Kársek stands in our highest estimation,” said Thangrim calmly, “but he walks his own path. He would not expect us to risk Deepforge in helping you rescue him, nor is it our policy to meddle in the politics of the Flutic Houses. We can, at best, lodge a request with the Flutic Court that Kársek’s situation be reviewed, and his person set free if there are no grounds found for his imprisonment.”

It had been a long shot, but worth attempting. Harald took it in stride. “I understand. But I did not mean to imply that you should extend Deepforge’s forces in helping me rescue him. I swear it by my honor, and the honor that DreadRune Kársek has seen fit to safeguard as his own, that Count Gorkin is an evil man. I mean to rescue Kársek myself, tonight, for he is a dear friend and I cannot allow him to suffer at Count Gorkin’s hands.”

All three dwarves nodded once more.

“An honorable decision,” said Thangrim. “We wish you the very best in rescuing DreadRune Kársek and your other friends.”

“All that I ask of you -” Harald took a breath. Here it was. “Is that you assist me in a manner that is not outside the bounds of how the dwarves of Deepforge traditionally are known to act. I have brought with me a Rare Artifact.” And here he reached down into his heavy pack and drew forth Bonemelter. “This is a powerful Artifact. I cannot vouch for its provenance, not in a manner that would satisfy you in the short time I have left, but I do ask a favor: please, if you see my cause fit, lend me just over two Horizon’s Whispers, and hold this Artifact as a surety that I will repay the loan.”

Thangrim frowned at the brutal-looking club, and stroked his wispy white beard. “Rare Artifacts are commonly valued at a single Horizon’s Whisper.”

Harald bowed his head. “I know. That is where I hoped your respect for DreadRune Kársek might influence your generosity. I am happy to accept whatever interest rates you deem wise to ensure this is a profitable business deal for the dwarves of Deepforge.”

“Hmm.” The three dwarves exchanged a glance. “If you would give us a moment, Master Darrowdelve.”

Harald leaped to his feet, bowed, and taking his pack, left the room.

Sentry Thalin stood just outside, hands linked behind his back, staring serenely at the opposite wall. He glanced at Harald, looked him up and down, then nodded and resumed staring out into the middle distance.

The murmur of voices within was placid and unhurried. Harald fought to control his breathing. He reviewed his words, tried to divine the dwarves’ reaction from what he’d seen of their expressions. Had he understood dwarven honor correctly? Had he insulted them by asking for their generosity, or given them a loophole they would be willing to exploit in order to help Kársek?

The conversation went on and on. Harald closed his eyes and fought for patience. There was no rushing them, and without their aid, his hopes of victory, already so slim, would be dashed.

Finally a voice called from within. “Master Darrowdelve?”

Harald spun, opened the door, and stepped smartly within. The three dwarves observed him, expressions severe. “Yes, Forge Fathers and Mother?”

“This is most unusual.” Thangrim’s voice betrayed mild reproof. “But if you are willing to accept a compounding interest rate of 10%, to be paid weekly, for a term of no more than a month, we would be willing to loan you just over two Horizon’s Whispers with the club held as surety.”

Relief caused Harald’s knees to go weak. He bowed deeply, not even caring what the interest rate and sums amounted to.

“Thank you, Forge Fathers and Mother. Thank you.”

Thangrim smoothed down his beard, and in the depths of his porcelain-blue eyes a wicked gleam appeared. “You are most welcome, Master Darrowdelves. Now go forth and exact vengeance upon Count Gorkin. DreadRune Kársek thought you worthy of his trust. We shall do the same.”

Harald grinned. “Oh, just you wait. Count Gorkin’s not going to know what hit him.”