Throne Hunters Book 3, Chapter 26

Harald stared at the ground. The grass was frosted, each blade defined and furred in white. His breath’s fog filled the air as he forced himself to exhale. Eadwolf’s words were eliciting little more than anger: he wanted to shove the other man away, to deny his wisdom, his advice.

But instead he wrestled his anger into submission. Eadwolf waited. For a long-drawn-out while Harald simply stared at the ground, and then he nodded.

“I spoke with Lady Hammerfell about this. She said each monster must discover their own path. Their own way to constrain their… ambitions, their need for power.”

“Aye, that’s true enough. I’ll wager she didn’t tell you exactly how to do it, though.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Because she couldn’t. Her path can’t be yours. You need to find your own. You need to learn how to move in this world without setting everything around you on fire. How to shepherd your flame so that it only consumes your enemies.”

“I’d never turn on my friends.”

“You don’t know that.” Was that pity in Eadwolf’s voice? “Here, now, that may seem as clear as spring water. Down below? When you’re lost in the bloodlust, high on your own power, and alive to the influences of your Class?” Eadwolf shook his head. “You’re a bonfire, lad. You’re burning too bright. And from what I understand you don’t have a choice in the matter.” He raised a hand, cutting Harald’s protest off. “You’re in a race for survival. I understand. But that won’t help any if you survive at the cost of your friends, the countess, the city. You don’t want to end up a beast, hunted in the depths of the dungeon and hated by all.”

“No,” said Harald. “I don’t.”

“So I’ll give you some advice.” Eadwolf resumed walking. “You can take it or leave it. But I’ve some experience in the matter. With handling rage. Will you listen?”

Harald followed. This wasn’t what he’d expected at all. He felt restless, uneasy, apprehensive, even. How much did Eadwolf really know? Why wasn’t he asking more questions? Could he simply intuit everything he needed to understand Harald?

They walked around the back wall, then turned to make their way through a small copse of trees toward the front.

“The first step in managing your rage is to externalize it.” Eadwolf’s voice grew soft. “You’re a maniac, a murderous machine. You can’t make that hunger go away, so don’t bother pretending. Externalize it. Think of it as a living flame, or a gremlin hunched on your shoulder. Whatever makes the most sense to you.”

“Why?”

“Acknowledging it, thinking of it outside of you, is the first step in gaining some measure of control. If you’re furious, seeing red, simply being able to say to yourself ‘I am feeling fury,’ lessens its grip on you. You are not the fury. You are feeling furious. Externalize that murderous rage, that hateful passion, see it in your mind’s eye, and you remove yourself a step from its influence.”

“How did you externalize yours?” asked Harald, certain the other man would deflect.

“As a murderous wolf, following just behind me. Sometimes snarling, but always there, hackles raised, lip writhing back from its fangs. And when I’d find myself sinking into a killing frenzy, which was often in the early days, I’d force that image of a wolf into being. See my fury as a giant wolf, and that would allow me to come back to myself, some.”

Harald nodded. A flame. An ebon flame, cold as the abyss, but all-consuming.

“Now, the trick is remembering to think of it as such when it has you. Again, easily said and done here in the countess’ pretty garden, much harder when you’re hip deep in blood and dead foes, fighting for your life. Which is why my second piece of advice is to practice visualizing each day.”

“Like meditating?”

Eadwolf snapped his fingers. “Precisely. But not your traditional meditation, where you just empty your mind and focus on your breath. No. This is where you court your fury, your desire to kill. I’d recommend your coming up with a mantra, something you repeat as you visualize your anger. Why? Because the more practice you get, the easier it’ll be when you need it.”

“A mantra.” Harald considered. “Like what?”

“Mine is simple: Wolf, you cannot have me. I repeat that each morning at dawn while I picture it staring me down, yearning to tear out my throat. Come up with your own. Then visualize your foe, and repeat your mantra until it loses meaning. With luck, you’ll find yourself thinking those very words even as you begin to slip into your next frenzy.”

Harald nodded, tongued the inside of his cheek. Vorakhar, you cannot have me. There was a simplicity to that directness that appealed.

“So, step one: externalize. Step two: meditate on your fury. Step three: prepare for the day you succumb to your frenzy, and forgive yourself in advance.”

“How can I forgive myself in advance? I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Doesn’t matter. What matters, in the long run, is that you don’t ever give up on yourself and become that beast. And the only way to do that is to allow for the occasional misstep. If you’re ready to fuck up, to make mistakes, and not simply give up on yourself altogether once you do, you’ll find that you’ll survive those moments of weakness by returning to strength. Otherwise, you’ll be like the celibate monk who restrains himself for years, only to succumb one night and never return again to his holy ways.”

“Huh.” Harald considered. “Forgive myself in advance. Sounds… deceptively easy.”

Eadwolf shrugged. “It is better to live an imperfect life than to strive for perfection and become a complete beast in a year or two.”

“Yeah, I can see that. All right. Externalize, meditate, and forgive. That it?”

Eadwolf grinned. “Oh, no. The next one’s the fun part: you need to vent.”

“Vent.”

“Aye! You need to let off steam so that you don’t puff up and explode. Only you will know how often you need to do so, and what will suit. Perhaps you need to drown yourself in naked bodies, rutting like a beast for days on end. Perhaps you need to find a safe level in the dungeon where you can let slip your worst instincts in safety, destroying all you encounter in an orgy of blood. Perhaps you need to be whipped. Or to whip. I don’t advise drinking or drugs, but…” Eadwolf shrugged.

Again Harald pushed against the man’s seeming friendliness. “What do you do?”

“I hunt.” Eadwolf’s eyes flashed. “I’ve an Artifact that turns me into a true predator. While under its influence I become little more than instinct and savagery. When I’ve the need, I leave Flutic, go deep into the Bonespire Range, and hunt for several days. I’ve found that killing dungeon denizens doesn’t satisfy, no matter how real they seem. I need actual blood. To kill actual living things. Deer, mostly. Sometimes… more.”

“Sometimes more,” mused Harald. Did he mean…?

They walked in silence.

“What matters most, though,” said Eadwolf, his tone grown quiet. “Is that you protect your own. Your crew. They’re committed to following you on this path of yours, but if you lead them astray, they will grow twisted, poisoned. At first they may seem stronger for it, but if they must brutalize themselves to keep up with you, in time they will become so broken that they will die, one way or another, or kill themselves rather than continue with you.”

Eadwolf turned to face Harald abruptly, and poked him hard in the chest. “That, in the end, is your most solemn duty, and your truest saving grace. You must control yourself for your friends. You must save them from yourself. You must be a better man, if not for your own sake, then for theirs.”

“I know that,” said Harald. “You think I don’t?”

“I know you think you know that. But you’re not doing anything about it.”

Frustration bubbled up within him. “Like what?”

“Just as you must externalize your inner beast so that it loses power over you, so must you internalize your friends’ needs so that they grow stronger. You must care for them, actively, in your own way. You must aid them, support them, cherish them. You must look beyond your own needs, your own pain, and expend yourself on their behalves. They may rebuff you. Mock you. Laugh at you. But those are only the walls that ring their inner keep. You must take those refusals as challenges, not permission to quit.”

Harald blinked and raised his chin. “By… what? Sticking my nose in their affairs?”

“Their affairs must become your own, as much as they’ll let you. You’re killing for the countess. You’re spending time and energy on her affairs. Well and good. But you must do the same for the others. You must become vulnerable with them, lower your own defenses, so that they may sink their hooks deeper into the fabric of your soul. Thus, when the moment comes when you’re tempted to tear off their heads in a fit of madness, those hooks will pull you back from the edge.”

Eadwolf’s stare was haunting, knowing, bitter. “It isn’t enough to declare people your friends, Harald. You must make them so. And the only way to make that true is by spending the most precious coin any of us have on them: time.”

“Time,” muttered Harald. “I don’t have time.” He felt petty and surly even as he complained. “In a couple of days I have to enter the 21st Level to hunt down a terror bird Servitor. I’m hopelessly outclassed. How am I supposed to find time to… I don’t even know, take Vic out for tea?”

Eadwolf grinned, revealing his long, yellowed incisors. “This is the hardest battle of them all. Because you must convince yourself to fight it. It’s so much easier to spend time earning scales and learning how better to swing a sword. But slowing down, stopping? Spending time with your friends when there is so much more that could be done? Ah! That is the hardest challenge. But it is the investment that will save your soul down the line. When all else fails, it is your friends and companions that will pull you back from the brink. Nothing else.”

Harald blew out his cheeks and looked away. Just as his father had warned him. Just as Vic had done after his duel with Nessa and after Sam had walked away.

And had he really taken their advice since?

“One day,” said Eadwolf softly, “you’ll look back at this conversation. Perhaps it’ll be a month from now, or a year. In one version, you’ll be standing over the corpses of your friends. Sam. Vic. Nessa. They’ll be dead because of you. And you’ll think of this conversation, this opportunity you had to make things different, and your soul will shatter.”

Harald flinched. “And the other?”

“The other?” Eadwolf laughed. “You’ll draw back your blade. Your hand. You’ll make a different choice, and in doing so, save yourself and your friends. And you’ll realize that you were only able to because you chose to let them sink their hooks deep. Both futures lie before you. Which becomes real is up to you, now, today.”

Harald nodded slowly, considering, his heart pounding. “All right. Yes. I see what you mean.”

“Meh, you think you do. But with this, it only matters how you act. Which is why we’re done.”

Harald’s brows rose sharply. “We’re done?”

Eadwolf nodded sharply. “That’s all I have to share with you.”

“But… we’ve only been talking for half a bell.”

“I don’t like repeating myself. You’ve heard what I had to say. You have the rest of the morning to yourself. You can go for a run, you can train with your sword, you can study the dungeon, lift weights, whatever.”

Harald felt his purpose solidify, but Eadwolf cut him off before he could thank the man.

“Or you could go find your friends and spend that time on them. Waste your entire morning banging your head against their defenses.” Eadwolf laughed and walked away. “If you choose to see it as a waste. It’s your call!”

Harald watched the man go, half-expecting this to be a test.

It wasn’t.

Eadwolf headed down the driveway, chatted briefly with Bosworth, then left the manor grounds altogether.

“Damn it,” muttered Harald, raking his hands through his hair. Eadwolf’s advice was… correct, sure. He couldn’t argue with it. But it wasn’t… practical. He’d not defeat Thracos by going for a walk with Nessa. He’d not be able to slaughter terror birds in sufficient numbers by going shopping at the market with Sam.

Which was why Eadwolf had called it his hardest challenge, right? One he’d easily be able to rationalize away.

Was he right? That Harald needed to invest more time in his relationships? So that… what? On some distant level he wouldn’t go mad and kill them all?

Harald rubbed at this face, despondent and angry both, then turned around in a circle. The morning sun was melting the last of the hoarfrost. It wasn’t even Eighth Bell yet.

He could get two runs in on the 16th Level. Catch back up on his scale count. He still needed almost 300,000 scales and had only a week.

Or…

Damn it.

Shoulders slumping, he set off for the manor, intent on seeing where his friends were. But after searching the manor, he realized nobody was home but Kársek, who slumbered deeply in a darkened room.

Perfect excuse to just go back to training, right?

Instead, Harald grabbed his scale purse, which was surprisingly light, and headed off the manor grounds. Cursing and grumbling the whole way, he caught a carriage to the Marheim Gate, and there wandered around, scowling at vendors and stall owners, unsure as to what he was looking for.

But he knew why.

It had occurred to him like a thunderbolt as he’d stood in the Sonora Manor entrance hall: he’d never purchased Sam a housewarming gift for her new home.

A new home which he knew meant the world to her. A place of her own, where she could close the door and be left in peace, to do as she desired.

But what would serve?

He wandered past a jewelry stand, ignoring the heavy stare of the four private guards who stood to one side. A golden bracelet? A necklace? A ring?

No.

Scowling again, he walked away.

Stopped at an extensive series of cages in which were housed animals of every kind. Gorgeously plumed birds, court dogs, coiled snakes with jeweled scales…

No. Sam would love a pet, of that he was sure, but having a creature dependent and waiting on her back at home would make dungeon delving a torment for her.

And… possibly remind her too closely of what she’d once been.

He considered the weft and weave of beautiful blankets and wall tapestries. Spent probably far too much time examining weapons and shields that he half-convinced himself would cause Sam to swoon.

At a bookstall he perused precious tomes, and almost purchased the latest edition of Brixman’s Guide to Dungeon Classes.

But that felt self-serving, too wrapped up in his own obsessions to feel like a true gift.

Increasingly frustrated, he continued wandering. Why was this so hard?

He stopped in the middle of the market and laughed despairingly. Perhaps… perhaps how hard it was to buy Sam a good, thoughtful gift was indicative of why he should be striving to do so in the first place.

“What does she like?” he asked the surprised flow of people who glanced at him and kept going. “What does she enjoy? Outside of dungeoneering?”

He thought of Sam. Most of his memories were of her at Darrowdelve Manor, tending to him, to their home, to the kitchen.

The kitchen.

Cooking. She loved cooking. Even though it was one of her obligations, it was something he’d seen bring her joy, time and again.

He mulled it over. Did she even have a kitchen at her new place? He’d no idea.

But.

Renewed, he strode to a different section of the market, and soon was walking past pots and pans, knives and stirring spoons, dishes and silverware. There were so many tools! Curved blades and straight, marble display stands for cakes, ornamental hand towels…

None of it rang true until he came across a small but luxurious stand behind which a trader from the Jade Empire stood, clad in soothing tones of sage and gray. On her table were spread out countless small bottles set before a dozen pyramids of colorful powders, each with a small placard before it. Galagal Root, Essence of Mandrake, Nightwort, Beamglow, Suntree Bark, and many more.

“Can I be of assistance?” asked the older lady, her tone kind, brows raised.

“These are… spices?”

Her amusement was gentle. “Indeed they are. I am a purveyor of fine spices from across the Continent. I trade with the Valitheliel elves from Mithlorniel Forest, Tinker Dwarves, apothecaries from Marheim, and many more. Is there any specific kind you are interested in?”

“This would be a gift. For a friend. Who loves cooking.” He blinked, feeling like a clod. “What would you…”

“Suggest?” She smiled. “How skilled is your friend? Do they have a style of cooking they prefer?”

“Skilled, but not a chef. An… amateur enthusiast. Who… I think I’d like to get her, say, a half-dozen bottles that would encourage her to experiment. With new dishes, new styles of cooking.”

“I see. And your budget?”

“Ah…” He studied the little signs. “I don’t know. Perhaps a few Golden Dawns…?”

“Ample,” said the trader. “If I may make some suggestions?”

“Please do,” said Harald with relief. “I’m… well.”

“Not a connoisseur? No matter. Here. Let’s begin with some magma-mite, made from ground lava beetle shells. Yes? They add a wonderfully piquant burn to any dish.”

“Sure,” grinned Harald. “Whatever you think is best.”

*

A bell later Harald entered the square dominated by The Flowering Bower, the inn where Sam had her apartment. Nessa had confided its location to him, warning that he should only visit in case of an emergency, as Sam prized her secrecy, but surely a housewarming gift warranted a visit?

The inn was busy, its common room packed with a genial throng who’d turned out for lunch, and the smells and laughter warmed Harald’s heart. The place had a wholesome, cheery air to it, with garlands of blossoms hanging from the crossposts and bouquets standing perkily in glass table vases. The pewter dishes he espied on the tables were laden with rich fare, and his mouth filled with spit as he scented mint, lamb, rich gravy, and the endlessly alluring scent of freshly baked bread.

But with directions from a barmaid he regretfully left it all behind, and made his way up the stairs to knock on Sam’s door, adjusting his package under one arm awkwardly as he did so.

“Harald?” Her voice was muffled through the door.

“Hi! Hey. It’s me. Um. Harald.”

He winced.

She cracked the door open and studied him, expression closed. “Nessa told you.”

“She did. Sorry.” He winced. “I thought… well, I wanted to make up for an oversight. Of mine, that is. I never got you a housewarming gift. So.”

And he thrust the wrapped bundle forward.

Her brows raised higher than he’d thought possible.

“A housewarming gift?”

“Uh-huh.” He pushed it at her again. “For your… new home?”

She took it, expression half-wondering, half-confused. “I thought you were training with Eadwolf today?”

“Turned out to be a quick session. He said I already knew everything I needed to know.”

She stared at him.

“Or something like that.” Harald grinned. “Anyway. I, uh, yeah. There you have it.”

She considered the bundle, brows furrowed, then glanced up at him again, and in her face he saw a raw vulnerability and surprise that cut him to his core. Was receiving a gift from him that shocking? “Thanks. Come on in.”

“I don’t have to -” But she’d already turned away, leaving the door open.

Harald pushed open the door carefully and peered within. Sunlight bathed everything a buttery gold, and the great round window was glorious, the panes tinting the light that fell across an old rug so that it became a patchwork of stained-glass colors.

Bed, a mass of candles, a chaotic set of shelves laden with a books, and a chest of drawers. For the most part, the room was just open space.

Good for training in, he warranted.

Sam drifted to her great circular window, sat on its ledge, and opened the package with her belt knife. The strings fell away, and she unwrapped the sage papers to reveal the half-dozen miniature bottles nestled within a thick cloth.

“Oh.” She glanced up at him, surprised. “Poisons?”

“Poi - what? No!” He strode forward to peer at them with her. “Spices! For cooking. You know?” He gestured helplessly. “I remember you loved cooking, or I think you did. I remember seeing you so happy as you made different dishes, and Miss Mei said these spices were all different, but some could be used together in really interesting ways, but now I see…” He looked around her apartment. “No kitchen. Damn it.” He flushed. “I’m sorry, it was a stupid idea. I should have asked first, maybe I can return them -”

“No, Harald.” Her eyes were gleaming, glimmering, and he realized to his shock - again - that they were brimming with tears. “These are perfect. Thank you.”

“But…” His heart clenched tight, and he felt as helpless as he did hopeful. “How will you…?”

“It doesn’t matter, I’ll figure it out.” She smiled. “I haven’t had a reason to cook, since… you know. But now?” She turned the bottles over, one by one, so that their labels faced forward. “Now that I have a reason, maybe I’ll work something out with Brambleburst, the innkeep. Maybe he’ll let me use his kitchen if I share what I make with him.”

“Yes!” Harald felt giddy. “A wonderful idea. He’ll be paying you for more before he realizes what’s happened.”

They smiled at each other.

“So. That’s why… I mean, I only came by to give you those. To congratulate you on your new place. Which is fantastic, by the way. I, uh, love that window. But I don’t want to presume. I’ll just -”

“Harald.” She reached out and caught his wrist as he turned to go. “It’s all right. Stay. I’ll fix us a pot of tea. If you want? I could tell you about… how I found this place.”

“That would be…” Harald nodded vigorously. “That would be great. Really.”

“Good.” She considered the little bottles again, then hugged them to her chest. “I love them. Thank you.” She stood, holding the package carefully. “I can’t wait to try them. But sit! I’ll put these on this shelf here… just so. And would you like chamomile or elf-breath tea? I’ve some biscuits from yesterday, they might be a little stale, but I put them in a jar. Now where did I leave it…”

Harald sat on the edge of the sill, and watched as Sam bustled about what must have been her little kitchen nook, which was little more than a collection of jars, a kettle set over a fat candle, some wax paper-wrapped packages, and a breadboard.

And as she chattered, equal parts nervous and pleased, Harald felt a warm glow suffuse his chest, felt himself slowly relaxing, and realized he was smiling without even knowing why.