Throne Hunters Book 3, Chapter 22

They made their way to Deepforge. It was a small, often overlooked part of Flutic, its buildings solidly built in the unmistakable style of the dwarves. Every building was built like a fortress, with clean lines, seamless joinings of huge, regular-sized blocks that appeared not to need the usage of mortar. Traffic on its few streets was stately and ordered, unrushed and dignified. Everything was scrupulously clean.

Kársek led them toward a covered stairwell. The angled roof was large enough to cover a pair of carriages, and a steady stream of foot traffic and carts made its way in and out of the hole like a surreal ant nest.

But it was the reaction of the other dwarves to Kársek that truly made Harald see his new friend in a different light. The other dwarves were mostly dressed the same, in plain, sober clothing of fine-weave, woolen cloaks draped over sturdy shoulders, their fashion unostentatious yet refined. Many had the look of regular townsfolk, but here and there moved a dignitary of some kind, often marked as such by a silver or gold chain that hung across one breast.

But none of these social distinctions mattered when it came to Kársek. Whether it was a tradesman, a simply clad dwarf, or a clearly more important dignitary, all startled at Kársek’s approach.

All turned to face him, and bowed.

Vic smiled, waved, but eventually gave up on trying to figure out how best to respond, and whispered to Kársek, “What’s going on? They’re acting like you’re royalty.”

“I’m a DreadRune,” said Kársek, tone calm. He didn’t look to the sides, didn’t bow, didn’t even incline his head. But nor did he proceed with arrogance, or preen or look self-satisfied. He could have been walking through Harald’s old garden for all the airs he was giving himself.

“Yes.” Vic was clearly dissatisfied with this response. “But they’re all something or other, as well, right?”

“Correct.” Kársek saw no need to elaborate. He led them to the front of the line that was snaking its way down the great stairwell, and there glanced politely at the dwarven guards who bowed as well.

Harald felt a mixture of delight and awe. When he’d met Kársek, he’d been a runaway Tinker Dwarf with no societal heft or prospects. Now? He’d shot to the top of the social ladder. That had to be a good thing for his friend, didn’t it? One day this all would come to an end, and then Kársek, with the long life of all dwarves, would continue enjoying or simply living this more exalted lifestyle.

That was a good thing, wasn’t it?

The stairwell was huge. A hundred men could have been dropped into its empty throat and fallen without touching the great ramps and staircase that were cut into its sides. The ramp was steep, but from the wagons and carts making their way down, this wasn’t a problem for the dwarves. Each vehicle was outfitted with cunning mechanisms that applied pressure to the wheels, the friction causing them to revolve more slowly than they otherwise would.

On the inside of the ramp ran the stairs, broad and shallow, designed, obviously, for the shorter dwarven residents. All was beautifully carved, the precision and regularity breathtaking, and only once they’d dipped below ground level did Harald realize that the walls themselves were decorated with incredible carvings in the living stone. Endless tessellating geometric patterns framed dwarves portrayed in stylized poses of industry, their faces stoic and noble, their crafts and trades made obvious by the tools and products they handled.

Everything was beautifully lit by scale lanterns that exuded a clear golden light. Those descending stuck to the inside portion of the staircase, those ascending the outer. But a single gold line was inlaid down the center of each half, and this seemed to have a guiding effect on the dwarves, most of whom walked far from it, either hugging the wall or right up against the ramp.

Kársek, however, strode right down the line, his manner as grave and cooly confident as ever.

They circled the stairwell once, twice, then followed their friend out into a broad hallway.

This was like no tunnel Harald had ever seen. After the past few months delving dungeons, he thought he’d started to become a connoisseur of underground passageways. How little he knew.

This was more a subterranean avenue than a tunnel. Broad, beautifully lit with clear amber light, every inch of it was scrupulously carved, planed, finished. Patterns were everywhere, from the tessellating interweaving of the lines along the main road to the geometric outlines upon the walls. Borders and edges. Cunningly wrought stone inlaid with copper, with lead, with silver. The ceiling arced subtly overhead, capturing the light so that it appeared far taller than it actually was. Great stone planters held curious shrubs whose leaves were large, waxen, and pale silver, and beautifully carved statues and abstracted shapes were placed upon plinths every twenty or so yards, each clearly a Masterwork object.

Dwarves and the occasional human marched purposefully along the street, each moving with serene confidence despite how crowded the thoroughfare was, nobody bustling, nobody pushing their way forward, or apologizing for mistepping. Faint music echoed from the distance, deep and dirge-like, accompanied by tremulous basso profundo pipes of an organ.

And the air! A current. Harald thought he was dreaming, but a gentle, continuous breeze wafted overhead, sweetened by a mineral tang that smelled of fresh rain.

Far from feeling confined down here, he felt expansive, at ease. The sense of order, of decorum, of restraint was palpable.

But the greatest wonder remained Kársek. He marched down the center of both wayfares, treading with confidence down a band of gold as thick as Harald’s wrist. No other dwarf came close to this band, but nobody challenged Kársek’s right to walk the center of the hall.

Instead, the bows continued to happen, at least on the part of those who walked farthest from Kársek. Occasionally a grand-looking dwarf walked past close to the gold band, and these studied the DreadRune with polite curiosity, and always, infallibly, inclined their heads.

Kársek gave obeisance to none.

“By the angels,” whispered Vic, leaning in close. “I fear we’ve been taking our companion a little too lightly. He seems to be aggressively respectable down here.”

“No kidding,” said Harald, his estimation for his companion continuing to grow. But was that right? Should his opinion of Kársek depend on how others treated him? No; that made him feel like those carnivorous vultures who’d eyed him hungrily at The Platinum Rose. Opportunists. Folks who bowed low the second he made the charts in the Gazette, but wouldn’t have poured a bowl of piss out on him before if he’d been on fire.

Harald studied Kársek’s broad back. Recalled the dwarf as he’d been in the dungeon, wounded and alone, brave, desperate, mortally wounded. Even then he’d had his natural dignitas, but there’d been a rawness to him, a lack of certainty, that had marked him as young, untested.

But since he’d assumed the mantle of DreadRune? It was as if he’d become invested by an ancestral spirit of yore.

Incredible.

Kársek led them to a second stairwell, smaller and more refined, the walls paneled in dove gray stone wondrously smooth, inlaid with ivory and gold. No others used these steps, and they descended alone to exit into another level where all was still. The hallways here were close, the walls beautifully carved, and the gold line that ran down their center only as thick as finger.

“This is a sacred space,” said Kársek quietly as he led on. “Great magics are wrought here with Earthblood. Not smithing, for that happens in another location, but more cunning weavings.”

“Sure,” said Vic. “I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’ll be maximally decorous.”

Kársek snorted, and Harald felt a small jolt of relief. Kársek was still himself.

They passed heavy stone doorways, and then entered a broad chamber through a heavy archway. Three dwarves were seated at what might have been a workbench, might have been an altar. Made of dark iron, its surface was oily and marked with a scaled pattern that mesmerized the eye.

The three dwarves stood. Each was an elder, their beards gray or white, beautifully braided and beringed. They wore elegant work smocks of dark gray, black belted, and over each chest hung a simple hammer amulet forged from red gold.

“DreadRune,” said the eldest, a white-bearded dwarf whose left eye was covered with a white leather patch, its surface intricately stitched with black. “You honor us.”

“Forge Fathers,” said Kársek, his voice youthful in comparison to the elder’s quaver. “Peace upon your halls, and may your hammers strike true. I come with a request. My companion, Harald Darrowdelve, has manifested a complex power whose provenance we fear and whose effects we don’t understand. It was my hope that you could help us determine its particulars by employing your various methodologies.”

The three elder dwarves turned to regard Harald, who found himself raising his chin and inhaling deeply to resist the sheer weight of their stares. Ego 23 came to his aid. He met their cold stares with equanimity, and after a long pause the eldest nodded.

“You need but ask, DreadRune, and it is done. What can you tell us of this power?”

Kársek nodded to Harald.

“It drains life force,” said Harald. “I, ah, manifest a black shadow rope that reaches out for my target and paralyzes them even as I drain them. I can use their life force to power my other Abilities, giving my Thrones a rest while I do so.”

This, the dwarves had not expected. All raised their bushy brows, then turned back to Kársek, who nodded gravely.

“Master Darrowdelve, you’ve described a fell ability whose nature straddles the darkest spheres of Durkuthul, the draining arts. We dwarves, keepers of Galdor-Larnak, or Earthblood, as it is translated, have long sought to understand and negate such workings. For the power you wield falls into the domain of Deathcraft, a branch of Durkuthul - the Shadowed Paths of Power. Within Deathcraft, there are three principal paths, each more insidious than the last.”

Harald nodded, sobered by the dwarves’ startling intensity, held by the elder’s sole gleaming eye.

“The first is Sulthraug,” continued the Forge Father. “Which can be translated as Soul Thievery. These abilities siphon vitality directly from a creature’s essence, their uthmara, the soul’s breath. Such magics leave behind nothing but emptiness, a healthy, physical husk bereft of will or strength. Vampiric magics belong here, as do the fell arts of the Drakngrim - soul-binders who trade stolen life for unnatural might.”

“Sounds nasty,” said Vic. “Let’s hope that’s not what Harry-boy’s doing.”

“Let us hope,” said an iron-bearded dwarf, tone so forbidding that Harald all but winced on Vic’s behalf.

The elder continued. “The second path is that of Varnzur, the Devourers. This draws not from the uthmara, but the varnakra, the animating energy of the body itself. The drained life is consumed and converted to raw strength and power. The Gramalgun, the Shadow Wights, were masters of this art until they were destroyed, their existence sustained by what they stole from others. What you describe - empowerment drawn from contact - suggests this might be the source of your power.”

“You said there were three,” said Harald, trying not to sound desperate.

“Aye. Arnkathil, the rarest and most dangerous of them all. The Chains of the Abyss. These powers entangle the victim’s fyrzund, the spiritual thread that ties them to this world. Such magics imprison the soul itself, either to bind or break it. It is said the ancient Lords of the Abyss, the gathul, wove chains not of metal, but of stolen lives, dragging their victims into servitude or oblivion.”

“I…” Harald felt his eyes glaze over. Gathul. Such had Kársek named Vorakhar.

The eldest dwarf leaned forward, expression dark. “Your ability walks the line between Varnzur and Arnkathil. The black rope of smoke you describe is a fyrbraud, a soul tether. It both drains and binds, making your foes weaker while empowering your abilities. It suggests your power draws from the Abyssal Threads themselves, a nexus where soul and life entwine. But we cannot be sure until we have analyzed your power. If you are willing, we shall test it.”

“Test it?” Harald’s alarm and fear almost broke free as a laugh. “How do you suggest we test something like that without doing someone terrible harm?”

The elder smiled. “We have our means. DreadRune Kársek, with your permission?”

Kársek nodded gravely, his expression dour. “Please proceed, Forge Father Thangrim.”

“Then come with us, Master Darrowdelve,” said the eldest, gesturing. “The testing room lies this way.”

“Sure, yeah.” Harald cast a desperate glance at his two friends, but all Vic could do was shrug and mouth something that might have been, “You’re fucked!”

Harald followed the eldest down a short hallway that led past a series of black iron doors banded in silver, and then stopped before a final portal whose archway shimmered as if filled with heat haze.

“Through there is the Chamber of Trials,” said Thangrim, gesturing at the featureless room beyond. “You will find a mannequin set against the far wall. By means of Galdor-Larnak we will slow your every attack so that it can be analyzed. Do not hold back. Even an attack launched by DreadRune Kársek would fail to damage the mannequin.”

“Sure,” said Harald, feeling completely out of his depth. “Just step inside? All right.”

He passed through the heat shimmer, feeling little more than a tickling sensation pass over him as he entered the domed room beyond. It was of medium size, large enough for a table for ten to be set comfortably down its center, but was completely bare but for the far mannequin. The floor, curving walls, and domed ceiling overhead were all made from the same seamless lead, which gleamed dully in the ambient but sourceless light. Its surface was marred by countless marks, as if the metal were unnaturally soft, and the air was chill.

The mannequin reminded Harald almost exactly of Gustav, his father’s training dummy. Segmented arms, featureless face, carved from ironwood, it only differed in being larger, more ponderous, and for its columnar base extruding smoothly from the leaden floor instead of being bolted to stone.

“All right.” Harald glanced back to the archway, but it was gone. He startled. What? Where -? The walls were smooth, continuous.

“Fear not,” came Thangrim’s voice from all around. “We observe you and shall open the portal when you are finished. Please proceed, Master Darrowdelve.”

“Right.” Harald wiped his palms on his hips and resisted the urge to summon the Goldchops. Instead, he focused on the distant mannequin. Unlike the floors and walls, it was pristine, as if it had never taken a blow.

“Here we go.” He raised one palm and activated Abyssal Grasp.

And the abyss was there, even in this rarefied room, between every mote, every particle. Its yawning immensity was everywhere and nowhere, eternally deep and impossible to fathom. Its dark power flowed up through Harald’s very being, filling him with its chill glory, and then emerged from his palm as a rippling rope of living shadow, shooting forth with lethal speed.

It curled and spiraled as it shot through the air toward the mannequin, but before it had crossed half the distance it began to slow.

And attenuate. Its thickness began to shrink even as it slowed further.

Harald narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t slowing. He could sense it racing out from him at the same speed, questing toward the mannequin. But his eyes told him otherwise; the rope grew ever thinner, the rope’s progress ever slower.

Now his Thrones were raging, seeking to exert themselves and maintain the rope’s trajectory. Harald gritted his teeth as he strained, willing the rope to go faster, but its progress had slowed to inches.

“Very well,” said Thangrim, his tone severe. “That is enough.”

Harald released Abyssal Grasp with a gasp. The rope recoiled back into his palm, disappearing even as it did so, and he all but bent over, hands on his knees, as he fought to still his racing heart.

What had happened? The rope had extended perhaps six yards, but it felt as if it had stretched nearly thirty.

A portal opened in one wall, and Thangrim was there.

Harald emerged and followed the Forge Father back to the workstation room where the others waited.

“What happened in there?” asked Harald. “That felt…”

“We must test all manner of powers,” said another of the Forge Fathers. “Determine what any given Artifact can do. It would be impossible to construct a counter for every variation in the world. Instead, we manipulate the distance itself between the test subject and the mannequin. The harder you exert yourself, the greater the onus on the attack to cross half the distance between itself and the target.”

“No matter,” said Thangrim. “The Chamber of Trials allows us to analyze your attack, and analyze it we did. I was correct in my surmises. Your power is subtle and layered. It lacks elements of Sulthraug, so you are not directly destroying the uthmara of your victims. Instead, you target their varnkara, the animating life energy of their body. That vitality is drained and used to empower your Abilities.”

“Oh, good!” Vic beamed. “So it’s just their vitality you’re attacking. That’s not so bad!”

Harald ignored his friend, much as he wanted to believe him. Thangrim’s expression remained dour.

“You drain their vitality, yes, but sever their fyrzund in the process. When you are done with your Ability, your fyrbraud, your soul tether, draws your victim’s uthmara into the Abyss where the gathul may harness it to their own ends.”

“Wait,” said Harald. “You’re saying I’m sending souls to -” Almost he said Vorakhar. “To the gathul?”

The three Forge Fathers nodded grimly.

Harald saw the wizened features of the Red Fist sentry he’d killed. Had he slain the Red Fist boss with Abyssal Grasp? No, that had been Shadowpaw.

Still.

Nausea roiled his gut and he stepped back, throat working.

“It is as I feared,” said Thangrim, remorseless. “You have manifested a power directly from the darkest aspects of Durkuthul, the draining arts of old. Your power serves the Lords of the Abyss. We would urge you to turn to another path, to renounce your Class, and if you have already used this power on others, that you seek restitution with the angels themselves.”

“Shit,” said Vic, frowning and staring off at nothing. He gave his head a sharp shake. “Wait. That’s really bad. Right?”

Kársek inclined his head. “You have my thanks, Forge Fathers. I appreciate your wisdom. We will take our leave.”

“DreadRune,” said Forge Father Thangrim. “Walk as if you strode the halls of Dumrûn.”

“Just so,” said Kársek. “Harald?”

They made their way back out of Deepforge. Harald barely saw where they went. Vic took him by the elbow and guided him skillfully. All too soon they climbed the stairs and emerged once more into Flutic’s late afternoon air.

“Hey. Harald. Hey.” Vic gave him a slight shake. “You need to get it together. I know that came as a shock, but that power and its usage is entirely under your control. You decide when and if you want to use it. It’s like a knife. A tool. You don’t want it? Never use it again.”

“Correct,” said Kársek. “Insofar as that goes. Your father issued warnings about these more potent powers. You can only expect that whatever you manifest next will fall in line with Durkuthul.”

“I…” Harald rubbed at his face. “Well. That’s been made clear enough. I’ll never use Abyssal Grasp on a living being again. I wish by the angels I could go back and undo what I did.”

“That’s right!” Vic snapped his fingers. “The dungeon denizens are just reflections of the Fallen Angel. And therefore? Fair game.”

Kársek frowned. “Harald will still be sending power to his tharkûn.”

“Pah,” said Vic, waving the concern away. “You think Daddy Vorakhar will even notice if Harald sends him a dozen goblin souls? No. He’s operating on a vastly different power scale. Whatever Harald slays on the 18th Level won’t even register with him.”

“Maybe.” Harald inhaled deeply. He still felt nauseous. Each time he blinked he saw the sentry’s desiccated features in the darkness. “Damn it.”

“Let’s get back to Countess Sonora’s,” said Vic, slinging an arm around Harald’s shoulders. “Unless you want to hit the Kitty Kat? Maybe there’s a special someone there who could make you forget your woes?”

“Damn, Vic,” said Harald, his laughter jagged. “That’s what you think I need?”

“You’re… saying it’s not? Pastoric finds the angels each night between those heavenly thighs. You could do worse.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass. I want to talk with Nessa.” And even as he said it he realized it was true. A memory came back to him: Nessa waiting up for him one night when he tried to sneak out to the dungeon. The guidance she’d offered him. The words he’d hurled back in her face. “For better or worse.”

“Oh, that’s for worse. But you’re the masochistic type. I understand. Kársek? What do you say? Want to try some elven lady sap?”

Kársek stopped walking and simply stared at Vic, whose brows shot up. “No? All right, all right, don’t blame me for being curious. I’ve heard it’s a thing for you dwarves. But fine. I’m not going to go back to Sonora Manor to watch Harald mope about over his demonic soul stealing powers. It’s been grand, but I’ll swing by Sonora Manor tomorrow.”

“Sure, good thinking,” said Harald, glad to be left alone with Kársek. “See you later, Vic.”

Vic grinned, gave them a mock salute, and strode off whistling.

“He is impressive, in his own way,” said Kársek. “How he clings to his certainties, despite what the world throws at him.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” said Harald at last, just as Vic turned the distant corner. “He’s far more aware of things than he lets on. He just doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“If you say,” said Kársek, then glanced up at Harald from under his blond brows. “But he was correct in one respect. This is your power to wield. Or not. Your path to walk. You still retain the ability to decide how to walk it, or if you wish to be rid of the Seed altogether.”

“Right, right.” Harald wanted to believe what Kársek said, but felt a sinking sensation of doom. “Thank you, by the way. By helping clarify all this.”

To which Kársek only bowed his head. “It is my duty to aid you as best I can. I owe you my life, Harald. I am obliged to save yours, however that opportunity presents itself.”

Kársek’s words rang in his mind the entire walk back to Sonora Manor.