Throne Hunters Book 3, Chapter 20

Harald dropped into a crouch as he materialized on the 18th.

A new level.

A whole new set of rules.

Around him stood his reavers, massive and bulky, two concentric circles around his central spot. The inner circle had their heavy bows nocked, the outer their scimitars drawn. Wirmas stood to one side, hands linked behind his back, taking in their environs.

Which finally were more than just arid stone and fog.

Harald stood, Goldchops flanking him, and took in the new dungeon level. Thick mist undulated just overhead, smothering the sky, as if the very clouds had lowered to brush against the ground. Around them ruins rose and fell, punctuated by small hills, and everywhere strange foliage and bushes grew, leaves long like scythe blades, vines crisscrossing the rocks, huge ferns splaying their fronds.

The air was humid and rich with the scent of loam. Animal cries sounded from the distance, chittering, ululating calls.

“This level looks inviting,” said Wirmas, pleased. “What did you say it was called?”

“The Carnivorous Labyrinth.” Harald turned in a slow circle. “I don’t see much by way of a maze.”

“Mazes come in many forms. Their function, however, is always the same: to disorient those who seek to traverse them.” Wirmas narrowed his sole eye as he squinted up into the fog. “I don’t see any landmarks. Note how everything in the distance fades into mist. We’ll be easily lost if we press.”

“Right, right.” Harald rippled his fingers on the hilt of the Dawnblade. “Luckily we’ve got a friend who can help us get back.”

And with that he summoned Shadowpaw.

The huge mastiff arose from the depths of his Cosmos to materialize by his side, his ebon pelt luxurious and turning him into an ambulatory shadow. The hound cast about, sniffing sharply, then growled low in his throat.

“Yeah, I know.” Harald smoothed the fur on the hound’s head. “Mark this spot. We’ll need to get back. Now -”

Arrows thwipped down from the foggy sky amongst the reaver ranks, who roared warnings, the front rank raising their heavy shields even as the archers dropped to one knee.

An arrow plunged into the soil by Harald’s foot. It was long and slender, feathered in red and blue.

“Move!” bellowed Wirmas. “That way! Wedge formation! Go!”

The arrows were descending from above so that they fell nearly vertically, but there was enough of an angle where they lodged in the dirt to indicate from where they’d come.

The reavers manifested their admirable discipline, formed up, and shields raised, began to jog toward the hidden enemies.

Almost Harald urged Shadowpaw to head into the fog and hunt their foe, but he couldn’t risk losing the hound. So instead he moved forward alongside Wirmas and set the Goldchops to protect them of falling arrows.

The hatchets began to blur as if spun upon a tabletop, rotating in a screen just above their little command group. A few arrows fell down upon them only to be shattered midair, the Goldchops jerking aside to intercept them.

The reavers navigated the rough terrain as best they could without losing formation. They’d formed an arrow-shaped wedge, but there were so many of them that they were forced to break up as they scrambled over gullies, surged up the steep but short flanks of hills, and constantly cut their way through knots of undergrowth.

A dozen had fallen to the initial assault, but enough were left to storm forth that it felt as if they were assaulting the jungle itself.

Harald licked his lower lip and thought on what Sam and Nessa had told him of the trolls. The same creatures as that tall bastard who’d loosed that explosive arrow at him during his helm massacre. Long-limbed, lanky, and capable of loping along at great speed, they were tribal and claimed shrines in the jungle like the goblins protected their home bases. They usually only formed groups some eight or ten strong, but with Harald’s reaver army catching the Fallen Angel’s attention, there was no gauging how many might join together to fight them.

Arrows kept falling, but far fewer. Their foes were retreating before them, pausing no doubt to turn and loose an arrow before hurrying on.

Harald hunched his shoulders.

How long since he’d had a solid fight?

The reaver army forged a path through the ruins and jungle. Peering ahead, Harald caught a glimmer of aquamarine from the peak of the next hill.

“That way!” he called, and the reavers glanced back, oriented on his pointing arm, and began forcing their way toward the hill.

Which broke into view, revealing a large stone altar at the top upon which a statue of translucent blue stone stood, a stylized troll carved with brutal artistry.

And as Harald had thought, the trolls refused to relinquish it without a fight.

Their enemy finally revealed themselves. Some fifteen trolls were backing up the slopes, long ragged bows unleashing arrows as they retreated to the altar.

“Shields up!” barked a reaver. “Double ranks! Archers, loose at will!”

The reavers cleared the last of the jungle undergrowth to gain the foot of the hill. Thirty reavers loosed arrows over the heads of their fellows while the remaining thirty or so formed two ranks, the front one moving forward in a crouch, shields low, the other rank holding their shields above the heads of their fellows.

It made for a slow approach, but the high defense saved the reavers from the trolls’ rapid fire.

Until the trolls changed everything up.

Harald, itching with impatience, kept his Goldchops spinning above him and Wirmas, but could do nothing more than watch and walk up behind the massed ranks. So he was the first to see two of the trolls draw forth cannister arrows from their quivers.

“Watch out!” he screamed, trying to make himself heard over the hobgoblins’ shouts. “Incoming bomb!”

Wirmas ran his tongue nervously over his lower lip, but there simply wasn’t time to react. Harald saw the albino king tense, go to yell something, but then the trolls loosed their cannister arrows.

“Watch out!” Harald yelled again, but it was too late.

The arrows hit the shielded ranks, each to one side, and the explosion was thunderous. Reavers were lifted off the ground and hurled back, shields warped, bodies mangled, in a spray of dirt, rocks, and billowing smoke.

That’s when the troll shaman revealed himself.

The vines underfoot writhed to life and began curling around legs, constricting with terrible force and trapping reavers in place.

There!

Through the screen of smoke Harald made out the shaman. Feathered, war-painted, he danced from foot to foot as he shook what had to be his wand, a skull-topped staff from which hung finger bones and more metallic feathers.

The reavers were shouting in rage, hacking at the vines or trying to rise up from where the cannisters had thrown them. Twin craters pocked the face of the hill, and despite their discipline their anger and confusion were on the verge of destroying all their momentum toward the altar.

“All right, boy.” Harald activated Abyssal Attunement, the Dawnblade turning jet black. “Time to play our hand.”

He broke into a run, ignoring Wirmas’ warning shout. The Aching Depths shrouded the area about him, dimming the light and leaching the color from the environs.

Finally.

He could let slip his murderous instincts.

Harald tapped Dark Vigor even as he sent the Goldchops flying on ahead. Their combined stat boosts gave him wings, and he raced up the hill, too fast for the vines to snag.

The trolls saw him coming. They cried to each other in their strange, fey language, and all oriented their bows on him.

Shadowpaw bounded up the flank, a bolt of living night, far faster than Harald, and one of the cannister trolls tracked the hound and loosed.

But Shadowpaw was too wily for that. He leaped to the side, the explosion rocking him, causing him to roll, but he came up unhurt, shook debris from his thick pelt, and bayed.

The terrible sound echoed across the battlefield. It was the howl of a Level 27 monster, and its effect was tremendous: the trolls shrank back, their bow strings going momentarily slack as they stared at the Shadow Mastiff in horror.

Reavers continued loosing arrows from behind. These punched into the trolls, knocking them back, slamming into their bone armor, their shoulders, their guts.

Half the trolls were down now.

Ten yards to go.

Harald forced himself to run faster, flying up the hill.

Five yards.

The trolls regained their wits, the shaman screeching something from behind the altar, and they all trained their bows on him and loosed.

Umbral Aegis.

The shadows leaped to obey, to cover him, enshroud him, and Harald felt his form become encased in translucent gray smoke.

The arrows hit.

He felt his armor crack, a few panels shatter, but no pain.

Shadow Fortitude ensured that, even if he was wounded.

Harald swept his blade across in an arc and unleashed a Demonic Edge at the far cannister troll.

The sizzling arc of black demonic death flew to slam into the troll’s chest, slicing through the bone cuirass and lopping off his shoulder and arm.

Then Harald was upon the remaining trolls, who ditched their bows to draw curved long knives.

They were fast, nimble, sure-footed on the rubble. Hunching low, long ape-like arms outstretched, they circled and closed as one, blades swinging.

Shadowpaw pounced onto one, crashing it to the ground.

Harald felt his Thrones rapidly running out of power. He unleashed an Abyssal Grasp on the closest troll, the rope of shadows coiling around the charging foe and causing it to freeze in place, staggering to a stop as it cried out in pain.

Power flooded into Harald, stolen life force, and in that moment Harald realized a key aspect of his new power: on one side he was draining his Thrones of all essence, his many Actives and Passives proving too demanding for his twin Thrones. On the other, he was drawing power from the rapidly withering troll.

With a flexion of his will, he used the troll’s life essence to fuel his Abilities.

So great was the draw from his many Abilities, however, that the extra power assisted the Thrones but was unable to replace them altogether.

But he could draw for as long as the troll lived.

Savage exultation filled Harald, who ducked under one swung blade, felt another clang off his Umbral Aegis, further damaging the armor. He cleaved the Dawnblade through a troll’s wrist, severing his hand and causing the abyss to darken the stump even as a flash of life energy flashed into him.

All became whirling blades and death.

Harald was outmatched. The Dungeon Square had no place in this whirling dervish of curved blades, but between his Aching Depths causing the trolls to hesitate and doubt themselves and the Aegis protecting him from the worst of the blows, he was able to keep going even as more reaver arrows slammed into his foes, whittling their numbers down.

A troll fell to a stab in the chest.

The Goldchops cut another two down.

Shadowpaw leaped off his fallen prey onto another, taking a blow to the shoulder as he bayed and sinking his fangs into the troll’s neck and chest.

Then everything turned virulent green as the world caught fire, and Harald was lifted right off his feet and hurled back down the hill. He slammed into rocks, bounced, turned, slid a few yards and came to a stop, face down on the gravel.

What the…?

Harald shook his head. His Thrones had instantly guttered and died as the Aegis’ attempt to protect him overloaded them.

The Aegis, Dark Vigor, the Aching Depths, all of his Abilities were gone. He groaned, missing Shadow Fortitude most of all. His body was scorched and seared, the pain coming in ever more powerful waves as his red skin and smoking armor began to reveal just how much damage he’d taken.

Blinking, disoriented, he shoved his hand into his pouch and absorbed a mass of Golden Dawns.

The pain receded, his flesh reknit itself, and his mind cleared.

Rising to his knees, he saw the front waves of the reavers cut down the last of the troll warriors.

The troll shaman had leaped atop the altar. He pointed his wand at the advancing ranks and unleashed another gout of green flame. Four reavers were engulfed, their forms turning into hazy black outlines within the emerald conflagration, and then the reavers reached the altar and cut the shaman down.

The flames died away.

A pale hand appeared, and Harald took it, allowing Wirmas to haul him up to his feet.

“You live.” Wirmas affected surprise. “I thought I’d found my freedom when you blocked that firebolt heroically with your face.”

Harald grimaced. He’d absorbed a dozen Golden Dawns, and already he felt himself once more. “How many have we lost?”

The hobgoblins were already setting about sorting the dead, pulling the wounded to one side.

Their assault on the hill had cost them twenty-three reavers. Another ten were too badly wounded to continue.

That left them with just over fifty reavers.

Harald made his way up the hill, turning those numbers over in his mind. The reavers were the equal of the trolls in a straight fight, but this environment placed them at a huge disadvantage. Their very natures were detrimental here, their tendency to march in formation, to present themselves as obvious targets. The trolls were able to fight and ever retreat.

If each hill cost them twenty reavers, then they’d be able to storm another pair before having to retreat.

Reavers were collecting arrows and scales.

Shadowpaw patrolled the perimeter, stopping to sniff and sight out over the jungle.

The closer he got to the altar, the heavier the sensation of ambient malice became, as if a thunderstorm were about to break. The cloud cover was so low that it felt like stepping into a fog bank. Harald approached cautiously. Did the aquamarine statue hold some supernatural power? It looked valuable. Could it be brought out of the dungeon? Harald had only ever heard of scales, Artifacts, and Servitors being harvested.

Six Golden Dawns hovered over the fallen troll. Harald crouched beside the shaman, and saw that he was a wizened elder, his face ravaged by the years beneath his thickly caked white face paint.

And there, the wand.

Harald took it up.

Artifact: Troll Shaman’s Wand
Quality: Uncommon

Special Ability: Grasp of the Grove

Activation: Once per combat encounter, the wielder may invoke the wand to animate nearby flora, binding the feet of foes and impeding their movement.

Limitation: The Grasp of the Grove relies on the presence of nearby flora and is limited in barren or lifeless environments.

Harald turned the baleful wand about, studying the troll skull affixed to its top. It looked nasty, but was only Uncommon in rank, and didn’t provide any stat boosts. Still, the spell was powerful. Anything that controlled movement could shift the tide of battle. Harald glanced down the hill to his remaining reavers. Or stop an army.

He rose and slid the wand into his belt. Considered the altar piece.

“What do you think?” He studied the aquamarine depths. It was easily three feet tall, a couple of feet wide. “Worth carrying out?”

“No,” said Wirmas, smile patronizing. “You must strike it down, shatter it. Only then will the dungeon reveal the treasure hidden within.”

“Oh.” Harald considered. “How do you know that?”

Wirmas sneered. “I don’t know. I just do.”

“So in a way, it’s like a goblin boss chest.” Harald shrugged. “Well, if you say so.” How to shatter it? He could swing the Dawnblade through it, but the thought of sending shards of blue gems flying wasn’t appealing.

In the end, he simply toppled the statue off the altar. It fell upon the rock floor and there exploded into fist-sized fragments. The air lost its menace, the shadows their depths, and Harald felt himself able to breathe more easily.

The blue fragments faded away, and where the statue had crashed to the ground appeared an Aurora Veil scale, hovering and shimmering as it spun slowly in place.

Harald’s eyes widened.

Now that was a bounty worth fighting for.

He took the scale up, then slipped it into his pouch.

Instant healing right there.

A reaver lieutenant approached and saluted Wirmas. “We’ve salvaged the arrows. The trolls had an explosive missile left each. I’ve given one to each of our best archers. Fifty-three reavers are ready to march on your orders.”

“Good, very good.” Wirmas glanced sidelong at Harald. “Does your soul long for more carnage, Praetor?”

“One more would be good.” He might not be able to floor wipe the entire 18th Level, but delivering two wands to Thracos was still more impressive than one. “Let’s triangulate around the entrance portal though.”

Wirmas nodded and frowned into the fog, searching for their point of origin.

And that’s when Harald realized he’d lost track, as well. From the peak of the hill the ruins and jungle extended in every direction, fading from view.

No landmarks, just as Wirmas had warned.

“Shadowpaw?” He looked to the hound, who raised his head, triangular ears perked. “Which way back to the portal?”

The hound padded back and forth, scenting along the broken ground, then raised his head and stared off into the fog.

“That way? Good. Wirmas, we’ll move that way, cutting back and across.”

The hobgoblin sneered. “Very good. I took the liberty, Praetor, of mixing in the scales from fallen reavers amongst the ones harvested from the trolls. I trust you’ve not grown squeamish, harvesting the riches of your own fallen troops?”

Harald stared at Wirmas, who met his gaze with sadistic innocence.

“That’s fine,” Harald said at last. “What’s the tally?”

“From this battle?” Wirmas nudged the side of the scale sack. “About 125 Golden Dawns.”

“Not a bad haul. Have someone carry it. We move.”

A reaver shouldered the sack, and then their force assumed the wedge formation and strode down the hill to plunge back into the ruins and undergrowth. Half their number remained, but still they moved at the same steady march, weapons drawn.

Harald felt his Thrones replenished.

Another hill assault.

How would the Throne Hunters fare down here?

Their smaller numbers might help evade notice. When they reached the hill, they’d have to charge up, but being able to spread out wide they’d be harder targets. The trolls were powerful, but no match for the Goldchops, and he was confident that their team could tear them apart.

A straight blast from a troll shaman however could possibly kill one of their number. Which meant Harald would have to take point and draw the shaman’s attention.

Doable, though.

They marched through the shrouded jungle for a while, everyone alert, and time seemed to lose all meaning. Harald couldn’t help but keep glancing behind them where the wedge’s wings opened wide.

“Worried?” asked Wirmas, tone patronizing.

“Yeah. Have ten reavers bring up the rear.”

“But of course, Praetor.” Wirmas bowed his head mockingly, gave the command, and the rear of the wedge broke away to form a loose screen behind them.

A reaver jogged back shortly thereafter from the front.

“Lord,” said the massive warrior. “We spotted a troll. Might be a scout. He disappeared into the forest before we could loose.”

“Good, good. We must be drawing close to the next hill. Let’s mount the next one we find and see if we can’t sight their altar.”

The reaver nodded and ran back up to resume his position. Their wedge angled off to the left, and soon they were scrambling up a slope, only to break free of the trees and mount the remainder of the bare hill.

Harald moved to the very peak, and with Wirmas by his side studied the other hills around them.

“There.” The aquamarine glimmer was distinct. “Two hills that way.”

“A target,” agreed Wirmas. “Frontal assault?”

“Let’s do this one differently,” said Harald. “I’m going to break away. I’ll circle, come up from behind as you march slowly to engage. Bang your weapons on your shields, keep their attention. I’ll sneak up the rear of the hill and try to assassinate the troll shaman. If I can kill him before you reach the base of the hill, that’ll make your own assault much easier.”

Wirmas nodded with grudging respect. “That’s a good plan, Praetor. If you do manage to gain the altar, topple their statue. Losing it might dishearten the remaining trolls.”

“Sure. Good idea.” Harald let out a low whistle. Shadowpaw, sniffing at a collection of broken rocks, looked over. “You’re with me, boy. Remember, Wirmas. Slow approach, plenty of noise. When you see me topple the statue, go all out.”

Wirmas bowed low. “I live only to obey your every command.”

“Sure.” Harald considered the remaining reavers. “All right. See you all soon.”

He summoned the Goldchops, felt their power suffuse him, and with Shadowpaw by his side set off down the far slope of the hill.

Moving quickly, Dawnblade in hand, Harald couldn’t help but grin.

Now this was more to his liking.