Throne Hunters Book 3, Chapter 21

Harald crept along, keeping low, moving from shadowed nook to darkened declivity as he circled around to the target hill.

Shadowpaw padded along soundlessly beside him. The Goldchops floated close by, imbuing him with Strength and Dexterity. His only active Ability was Veil of Shadows, but still he felt lethal. Unstoppable. A predator stalking powerful prey.

The hill loomed to his right. He ducked under branches, avoided possible snare traps, and stepped carefully over trickling streams. In the distance he thought he could hear a clamor, a metallic din.

Wirmas and the reavers were making themselves known.

All too quickly he found himself at the base of the hill. It rose steeply before him, emerging from the jungle like a rubbled dome, free of vegetation but littered with rocks and ridges behind which a bold assassin could hide as they approached.

Harald placed a hand on the rock before him, ready to slide over it and begin his ascent.

And it was then that the surreal nature of his advancement hit him. A vivid memory came back, only a few months old: Harald rushing, wheezing and hung over, to meet with Yeoric in the Plaza of Dials, inept, inexperienced, useless. And how only that night he’d fallen to a pack of dire rats.

Now here he was, armed and armored, leading Servitors and reavers into battle, flanked by a Masterwork Artifact, ready to assault an enemy base on the 18th Level by himself.

Shadows coiled about him, obscuring him from sight. Power bubbled in his blood, but that was as nothing compared to what he could now summon.

Harald pursed his lips, coming to terms with how quickly he’d grown. The old Harald would have curled up and whimpered, desperate for help, immobilized by terror.

Now? He was ready to kill.

Harald slid over the rock and dropped into a crouch as he scuttled up the hill, darting from rock to boulder, following ridges and plotting his ascent with care and deliberation.

The furor of battle was dimly audible. Shouts, screams, roars.

No trolls were visible up ahead. They had to be all gathered on the far side.

Where was Shadowpaw? No matter. The hound could take care of himself.

Harald continued climbing. The slope leveled off, and up above he saw the altar at last, its glimmering statue of radiant blue smoldering in the overcast light. Its pall fell upon Harald, oppressive and malefic, but it didn’t otherwise seem to affect him.

And there. Two trolls festooned in feathers and bows, watching the action taking place on the hill’s far side. Hunched and wiry, each clasped a skull-topped wand.

Two shamans.

The Fallen Angel was reacting to the reavers indeed.

Harald rubbed at his jaw.

Could the Goldchops take care of both? A hatchet to the back of the head would give the shamans something to think about.

But his own sense of power caused him to disdain that approach. Better if he relied on his own skills. That was the only way to level up.

So he resumed his approach, moving ever more slowly, more carefully, Veil of Shadows obfuscating him perfectly.

The shamans were arguing. One was gesturing imperiously with his wand, seeming to demand they head on down the hill. The second was shaking his head, arms crossed, wand resting over his shoulder.

He’d not give them time to reconcile their differences. Moving even closer, Harald extended one hand and willed Abyssal Grasp into existence.

The rope of void energy snaked forth, silent and lethal, twisting and spiraling as it flew toward the gesticulating shaman. The temptation was there to try for two ropes, to ensnare them both, but that would require two hands, wouldn’t it?

What if it didn’t?

Harald changed his mind and willed a second rope to billow forth from the same path, and it worked. Speeding in behind the first, the second rope was thinner but just as lethal. Harald felt the draw on his Thrones, delayed activating Dark Vigor or any of his other Abilities.

But at the last moment the shamans reacted. Perhaps it was due to the altar, or their own mystical Abilities, but they both tensed and spun, raising their skull wands so that spheres of green light appeared around them, completely encasing them both.

Harald exploded forward, Dark Vigor and the Aching Depths activating as he dropped the Grasp.

Damn it. Damn it!

Then a dark meteor pounced into both shamans from the side, talons extended, maw turned sidelong so that he could crush the first’s head in his jaws.

Shadowpaw.

Both shamans toppled to the side, driven back and down by the mastiff’s sheer bulk.

Their green shields did nothing to deter the assault. Only effective against magical attacks?

No matter.

Time to kill.

Harald felt savage exultation seize him by the throat as he bounded up the last dozen yards, the balls of his feet barely touching the rocks.

Shadowpaw shook his head from side to side, rag-dolling one shaman, but the second raised himself up on an elbow and extended the wand.

Green flame flickered at its tip.

Harald screamed and with Dark Vigor giving him wings, threw himself aside in a desperate dive. He hit sharp rock, failed to roll, sprawled out, but the coruscating WHOOSH of flame rushing by was all the sweet affirmation he needed to know he’d avoided the assault.

The shaman cursed, cried for help, but even as he went to unleash another blast, Harald extended his palm and from this close range the Abyssal Grasp fell upon the fallen troll with unstoppable finality.

The shaman spasmed, screeched, dropped his wand.

Life force began to flood through the conduit, and Harald poured it right into his Abilities.

Rising to his feet, he felt ecstatic.

Shadowpaw finally discarded his mangled chew toy, went to leap on the second, but Harald sent him a pulse of negation, checking the assault.

“Leave him,” whispered Harald, moving forward. “I need him for as long as he’ll last.”

The shaman drummed his heels on the rocks, shook and shivered, foamed at the mouth as he fought the Grasp, but to no avail.

Harald moved past him and shoved the aquamarine statue off the altar as he rounded it.

The statue shattered and the oppressive pall faded away, leaving only another Veil scale in its place.

Below, a dozen trolls were backing away as they unleashed arrows upon the advancing reavers. Half their number were darting looks back at Harald, alerted by the shaman’s warning cry.

“Hello,” called Harald, and fell upon them.

The Abyssal Grasp extended behind him, growing thinner, the rate of siphoning diminishing the farther he got, but what mattered was that it didn’t snap.

Umbral Aegis encased Harald in shadowed armor. Veil of Shadows kept him elusive, surrounded by shifting shadows even as he raced down, while Abyssal Attunement sheathed the Dawnblade in jet. The Aching Depths swamped the trolls, whose eyes widened as they stared from the shattered statue to the fallen shamans, and in the depths of their souls they had to know their time was up.

They swung about, bows rising, and loosed arrows at point-blank range.

Harald willed the Goldchops to screen him, and they spun in place, shattering arrows that came right at Harald’s face and chest. A few went low, went wide, and these his shadow armor deflected.

Then he was upon them.

Life force pumping into him without end, he swept his sword, slashing two-handed, cutting through bows, hands, forearms, thighs.

Trolls screamed, fell back, died.

Harald spun, sliced, slashed.

The reavers were roaring, pounding up the slope, but they weren’t going to arrive in time.

Attunement sent pulse after pulse of life force into Harald, even as his Aegis cracked and broke beneath the blows that got through.

But nothing could stop him. He willed the Goldchops to hang back, for Shadowpaw to merely watch, and killed the dozen trolls himself.

Leaping from spot to spot, swaying away from knife swings, ducking behind one troll to avoid the strike of another, hacking, stabbing, he tore them apart, one by one, until at last they were all dead and sprawled out before him.

It happened so fast.

Abyssal Grasp ran out just as the last troll dropped dead.

Harald allowed his Abilities to die, felt his exalted strength, speed, and stamina fall away, and straightened, breathing deeply, feeling euphoric.

There was no denying how crucial the reavers’ distraction had been. But still. Could he have killed this entire group of trolls by himself, without their aid?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Harald whipped the Dawnblade down and to the side, thwipping blue blood off its length, then sheathed it and waited for Wirmas to ascend.

His Servitor did so, limping and hesitant, eyeing the dead trolls pensively.

“How many did we lose?” asked Harald.

“Perhaps a dozen.” But Wirmas waved his hand as if dismissing the question. “Those vines are pernicious. But you, Praetor. I am coming to look forward to your little massacres.”

Harald inhaled deeply and glanced around. “It’s working so far.”

“I should have known. What you did at my own camp with that helm. You slew forty hobgoblins with your hands alone. These trolls? They do not stand a chance.”

Harald studied the pale hobbo. “You buttering me up, Wirmas?”

“No. I speak facts.” Wirmas’ blue eye glittered. “You are a force of destruction. Primal. I have never respected great warriors, for in my heart I have only worshipped systems of authority. What matters a single great warrior, when a great leader can command hundreds?”

“But?”

“But what if that warrior could kill hundreds?” Wirmas shrugged one shoulder. “If you continue to grow as you’re doing, then that will be your fate. Death and destruction wherever you go. And I?” Wirmas grinned his hagfish grin. “I hope to still be of sufficient use come that day so that you keep me around to see it.”

“Hmm.” Harald frowned. “Somehow that praise sours my success. But regardless. We’re done on this hill. Have your men fetch the scales. I’ll collect the wands.”

Harald made his way back up to the peak. A handful of Golden Dawns floated above the dead shamans, while another Aurora Veil had appeared where the glass statue had shattered.

Harald collected them all then squatted by the shamans.

One was mangled into nauseating crimson, the other reduced to a shriveled mummy. Harald took one wand, then the second. Each read much the same as the first, but with different powers.

Artifact: Troll Shaman’s Wand
Quality: Uncommon

Special Ability: Hail of Thorns

Activation: The wielder may cast a storm of wicked thorns upon their foes, wounding and crippling them.

Limitation: The number of attacks and their severity is limited by the number of Ascended Thrones.

And:

Artifact: Troll Shaman’s Wand
Quality: Uncommon

Special Ability: Torrential Downpour

Activation: The heavens open to drop a deluge upon the chosen targets, inundating them in freezing water.

Limitation: The quantity of water dropped diminishes the greater the area covered.

“Interesting,” Harald murmured, tapping one of the wands into his palm. If he outfitted each member of the Throne Hunters with a wand like these, they’d gain masterful battlefield control. Just with these three wands alone they could trap their foes in place, wound them, and blind them with water.

But it wasn’t to be.

These were going to Thracos.

Harald bundled the three wands together and slung them over his shoulder.

“Your command, Praetor?” asked Wirmas from the far side of the altar. “Is your covetous heart content?”

“We’ve about thirty reavers left?”

“Plus the wounded.”

“Right.”

Kill the wounded for their scales, then we press on, Harald heard in his mind, and frowned. His own thought? No matter, he dismissed the notion with distaste. Then gazed out over the Carnivorous Labyrinth. The jungle and mist and occasional bald hill extended in every direction. In the distance he thought he could make out a glimmer of glass.

They could score one more wand.

If the Fallen Angel didn’t escalate further.

But they’d already gone from one shaman to two. What if there were four on the next hill? Each equipped with a controlling wand? His reavers would be torn apart, and Harald would no doubt find himself fighting to his utmost. Of course he had the Goldchops and Shadowpaw.

Even so.

Harald inhaled deeply then sighed. “I think we’re done. Three wands will suffice. To make a categorical difference beyond this I’d have to acquire ten, fifteen. Five isn’t so large a difference from three that it’s worth getting in over our heads.”

“You show temperance,” said Wirmas. “Is your resolve weakening?”

Harald thought of Sam. “Say instead I’m gaining wisdom in my old age. Shadowpaw? Lead us back to the portal. We’re heading home.”

It proved to be the right decision.

Their group hustled back at a jog, their column some three or four wide, snaking a path through the jungle and ruins, and almost immediately they began to suffer attrition.

An arrow from the left flank here. A pit trap dropping a reaver onto spikes there. Once a hug log simply swung right through their column, hammering three reavers right off the path and jellying their bones, the log held aloft by a cunning series of knotted vines.

Harald glimpsed loping trolls keeping pace. He couldn’t tell how many, but ululating cries began to sound, drawing closer from all sides. It sounded like disparate tribes were moving in to join the fray.

Luckily they’d kept close to the portal. Shadowpaw loped ahead, melting into the dark spots, and soon enough the portal appeared, dark and glimmering.

Only twenty reavers emerged from the forest, Wirmas in their center.

“I’ll dismiss you here,” said Harald. “Tell your men to do what they will.”

The reavers glanced at each other, clearly displeased. Leaving them behind was a death sentence. But what was Harald to do?

“Very well.” Wirmas eyed his men as well, then inclined his head. “Ignore their surly ways. They are honored to have served, and will die with righteous joy in their hearts. With a little luck, the trolls won’t cook them alive over their bonfires.”

“Right.” Harald fought down his disgust. “You could also tell them to find a way back up to the 16th. Whatever you think is best. But I’m heading back. Thank you.”

Wirmas sneered. “Don’t thank me, Praetor. You make it sound as if I had a choice in the matter.”

Harald dismissed Wirmas with a flicker of anger. Sent the hobgoblin back down into his Cosmos, and after scritching Shadowpaw once between the ears, did the same for him.

The reavers, deprived of Wirmas’ calming authority, began to turn on Harald, their surliness turning to anger.

“Gentlemen,” said Harald, and he saluted them before stepping back into the portal.

He felt that profound sense of dislocation, and then he was once more on the Copper platform. Late afternoon, the sunlight watery and thin, the air chill after the humid warmth of the 18th.

Harald lowered the large scale sack to the platform, wiped his forearm over his brow, and sighted past the closing guards to spot Vic, Sam, and Kársek standing just beyond the Copper Gate. He waved, grinned, then turned to give the closest taxation official an upnod.

“Let’s get this done.”

It rang Fifth Bell when he finally stepped out the Copper Gate to meet his friends, a smaller sack of scales in hand. It was a far cry from their expedition the day before, but it also spoke as to how quickly Harald’s expectations were advancing, that he’d consider thirty-five Golden Dawns a paltry sum.

“Three?” Sam smiled widely as she approached. “That’s incredible!”

“I’m assuming everything went according to plan?” Vic looked equally pleased. “Old Wirmas remained pliable and complacent?”

“Unnervingly so,” agreed Harald, unable to restrain a grin. “We hit two different troll altars, and by the end of it he was almost being sincere in his compliments.”

“That can’t be good,” said Sam. They all fell in together, heading across the Dungeon Plaza. “Were you…?”

“Biting trolls’ heads off?” Harald tried for a smile, but then saw the wizened corpse he’d drained of its life essence. “No. But I’ve got some new Abilities that are… disconcerting.”

“Of course,” said Vic, rolling his eyes. “You Leveled. It’s been at least a week.”

“About nine days,” said Kársek, tone precise. “Harald is advancing at an admirable rate.”

“Level 4?” Sam studied him. “What did the Seed reward you for?”

“Actually it was for rescuing Nessa. Happened a few days ago.” And Harald explained his new Abilities, starting with the less alarming Veil of Shadows and then reluctantly sharing what Abyssal Grasp could do.

His party of friends slowed as he elaborated, then Vic grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him out of the street into a side alley.

“Wait.” Vic placed his fingertips to his temples. “Wait, wait, wait. You can… vampirize? Your foes?”

Even Kársek was frowning.

“I don’t keep the power,” protested Harald. “I just siphon it out, use it in place of my Thrones, and paralyze my opponent in the process.”

Sam was studying him wide-eyed. “You can drain life essence.”

“The power calls it ‘life force’. But yeah. Basically.”

“A serious power,” said Kársek, tone gruff. “But it is as you said: you are not feeding off your victims like a true vampire does.”

“Right, right,” said Harald shakily.

“And do dungeon monsters even have real life essence?” Sam looked to Vic. “Seeing as they’re creations of the Fallen Angel?”

“No, I guess not. In a sense, Harry’s just draining the dungeon itself.” Vic brightened. “A much more palatable way to look at this dreadful power!”

“Though, uh…”

All three stared at him expectantly.

“I used the power on two Red Fist guards already.” Harald scratched the back of his head and looked down. “When I cleared that unit from the warehouse?”

“Oh.” Sam’s eyes widened again. “You didn’t mention that when you told us about that night.”

“No.” Harald flushed. “It’s… I’m still wrestling with how I feel about it. But in the moment, I rationalized it by telling myself it wasn’t that different from stabbing someone in the neck. Either way, I’m killing them.”

“True, true,” allowed Vic, rubbing at his chin. “And it could be argued that blood is but a substitute for life force.”

“I don’t know,” said Sam. “I’m not denying how useful it is, being able to use your opponents to fuel your Abilities, but…”

“Yeah,” sighed Harald.

“Your father warned of this,” said Kársek. “Powers whose usage would push you across moral boundaries.”

“But is this a bad thing?” Vic looked about the group. “I mean, yes, draining life essence through a rope of living abyssal darkness sounds bad, on the face of it, but how is it different from coming up behind someone and strangling them to death?”

“That also sounds bad,” said Sam.

“Not if you’re an assassin, going around assassinating folks who need assassinating,” protested Vic. “Like these Red Fist people.”

“We’re just guessing that this power drains their life force harmlessly,” protested Sam. “What if it doesn’t? What if it extinguishes their souls?”

Kársek broke the ensuing silence. “Are there other powers that do something akin to this? Perhaps some research is in order.”

“Right!” Sam perked up. “Brixman’s Guide to Dungeon Classes! I brought your father’s copy to my place. I can go there right now and see what I find.”

“Perfect,” said Vic. “You go do that. Meet us at the countess’ for dinner?”

“Sure.” Sam took a step away. “Harald?”

He looked up. “Yeah?”

“I…” She hesitated, looking for the right words. “Nothing. I’ll see you soon.”

And with that she turned and strode away.

“Don’t worry about it, Harry-boy.” Vic punched him lightly on the shoulder. “You’re just doing what needs to be done.”

“What do you think, Kársek?” He glanced down at the young dwarf as their trio emerged back onto the street. “Does Abyssal Grasp sound dishonorable to you?”

“I can’t say with certainty,” said the dwarf after a disconcertingly long pause. “It depends exactly on what your power is doing to your victims.”

“How would a dwarf go about learning the truth of it?”

“All dwarven magic comes from Earthblood.” Kársek shrugged. “Thus nothing can be done without the blessing of the Earth, and thus all possible usages of this power are honorable.”

“Interesting,” said Vic. “You could say the same of the Fallen Angel and all the Classes she bestows.”

“But mine’s been corrupted by Vorakhar,” said Harald dourly. “I need to find out what it’s doing, exactly.”

Kársek nodded. “The dwarves have methods of analyzing the powers of Artifacts before breaking them down into their component pieces. I could ask the Forge Master of Deepforge to examine your power and see what he discovers.”

“That’d work?” asked Harald.

“It’s possible.” Kársek looked up at him. “I would be willing to ask.”

“Then let’s do it.” Harald nodded firmly.

“After dinner, possibly?” Vic’s smile grew strained. “Right?”

Harald ignored him. “Can we go now?”

“We can,” agreed Kársek, tone firm. “And we should. Follow me.”