Throne Hunters Book 3, Chapter 19

Time passed.

Hobgoblins bent knee and became reavers.

In his exaltation Wirmas found a salve for his fury and hatred.

Again and again his voice echoed forth across the green wastes with that crackle of authority, and more and more hobgoblins fell in line, augmented and made massive. Wirmas was the pale grub in their center, orchestrating the fall of one warband after another.

The Throne Hunters had to do nothing but follow. Harald took immeasurable comfort from his companions. Sam’s Beacon wasn’t always a constant, but it came back enough to keep him even-keeled, and Kársek’s dignity and solidity were nearly as good. And Vic? He brought a splash of color and animation to the grim proceedings as he all but danced behind the reavers.

“And another warband bites the dust! Goodbye, Moklok, we barely knew you, but alas, all good things must come to an end.” Vic grinned and rose to his tiptoes so as to peer over the huge reaver ranks. “Wirmas! Dear Wirmas. How does your authority fare? Got room for any more?”

They stood in a giant hall, and though most of the pillars yet stood, enough had toppled over to spill across the flagstones and make the terrain treacherous. Reavers were gathered all around them, dark and solemn, their gazes heavy and steady as they awaited orders.

“I am at my capacity,” said Wirmas, tone only slightly tainted by distaste. “More than this I cannot command.”

“Incredible,” said Kársek, gazing about them warily. “A hundred of these warriors. A veritable army.”

“Then the time has come,” said Vic, and grinned at Harald. “Are we ready to quit these dismal climes for the balmy 17th Level?”

“Balmy?”

“Well, perhaps not, but its arid air will be a relief after this eternal fog. Wirmas, ask your men if they know of a well to the next level.”

The reavers conferred, turning to each other in mute ignorance, until one of their number pressed forward. “I know the way. I came across a descent. It’s not too far.”

“Lead on,” said Harald. He felt on edge. They’d collected few scales thus far; all the hobgoblins they’d come across had mostly been recruited. A band of orcs had sighted them but fled rather than tackle their number. “Let’s get to work.”

“Now, the 17th,” said Vic, slinging an arm across Harald’s shoulders as they moved with the small army. “It’s all orcs. No goblins, no hobbos, no trolls. It’s orc country. It’s the kind of level that brutes and bastards love best. You’ve heard of it?”

“Not in any detail.”

“I have, obviously,” said Sam. “It’s called the Shattered Plain. But that’s misleading. It’s supposed to be more ruins, just like the other floors. Waves of orcs come rushing at you, again and again, until most people either descend to the 18th or quit the level.”

“Oh, but I do love having studious types in our group,” said Vic. “In the long run, it’ll save me from having to learn anything myself about the rest of the dungeon. But yes. She’s quite right.”

“So sort of like the Crypt Keepers?”

“Not quite as bad, thank the Fallen Angel. Can you imagine, endless orcs?” Vic feigned a shudder. “More broken up, like. I’ve only visited three times, and each time was a chore. They just keep coming, and there’s poor lines of visibility. It’s all sunken pits, crappy walls, weathered flights of stone steps. You never can see too far, and the orcs just crest the walls or come boiling through archways or gaps when you’re least expecting them.”

“Got it,” said Harald. “So more like the 13th with the goblins.”

“Sort of. You’ll see. Now here’s the thing: there are no hobgoblins down there, so we won’t be able to replenish our reavers. Unless Wirmas can sweet talk the orcish girls?”

Wirmas glowered at Vic.

“No? Then we’ll need to make sure we don’t get in too deep before finding your way down to the 18th. That story Nessa told us about those Extraction League idiots has me a little on edge.” Vic rubbed at his chin as they began climbing a broad staircase to a ledge overhead. “I’d hate the Fallen Angel to get mad while I’m here belowdecks.”

“Mighty generous of you,” said Kársek, tone bland.

A call from up front signaled the discovery of the well. Wirmas led the way, and the reavers formed a great circle around the means of descent. It was a broad stone well, high-rimmed and old, but still only large enough for a single man or reaver to descend at a time.

“How do you wish to proceed, Praetor?”

“I’ll go first. With my Goldchops I can establish a beachhead. That’s if we’re attacked right away.”

“I’d rather you kept a direct line of sight on Wirmas at all times,” said Vic. “If you know what I mean.”

“Oh. Sure. Then what do you suggest?”

Vic gestured around at the reavers. “Let’s send our boys down with orders to form a cordon. They should have enough time to dig in before being noticed. We’ll be fine.”

Wirmas raised a brow. “We’re going down, then. You there, you’ll go first. Each reaver behind you will follow. Make a protective circle around the portal, and once there’s ten of you, the rest should get their bows ready. Nobody’s to move out until we’re all below. Clear? Then get going.”

The first reaver hobgoblin stepped up to the well, drew his black scimitar, and without hesitation simply leaped clear over the lip of the well to drop into its swirling green glow.

The second went right after. Then the third.

One by one they disappeared, falling away. Harald itched to get below, to cut in line, but there was no reason to. Plus he understood Vic’s hesitation. If Wirmas could in any way, shape or form find a means to hurt him, the hobgoblin surely would.

On and on the reavers dropped, and slowly their numbers dwindled until the last of them vaulted over the stone edge and was gone.

“Wirmas, you’re next. Hold till I’m there.”

“As you command, Praetor,” rasped the boss, and with far less athleticism climbed up over the well’s edge then fell in.

“I’ll go next.” Harald moved up. “Make sure Wirmas doesn’t do anything when you appear. See you below.”

“Luck, Harry.” Vic saluted with The Point. “Riches beyond imagining await below.”

“One way to find out.” And with a nervous smile to Sam, he swung his legs over the edge, wriggled forward, and dropped into the green light.

It was a relief to be quit of the 16th with its dismal miasma and dark memories.

He fell, was transported, twisted through space, and briefly felt the abyss before he landed lightly, knees flexing, to take in the glories of the 17th Level.

The air was bright and arid, a sere yellow that was unlike anything he’d seen before. Everything appeared old and desiccated in its bleak light, the shadows dark and definite, the broken land about them the many colors of bone, from jaundiced yellow to pale white.

The reavers had formed a heavy cordon, an arc of bodies five deep and hemming in the corner in which they’d appeared. Some had already climbed the rough wall that curved around behind them to higher vantage points, bows at the ready.

For the terrain here was broken and complex, ill-suited for the march of large troops.

Vic appeared beside him, eyes wide, and then grinned. “Ah, the 17th. Just as I remembered it.”

“Your command, Praetor?”

“Let me get a sense of the place.” Harald sheathed the Dawnblade and cast his eye over the rough wall that rose behind them. It was carved from natural stone, more akin to the side of a slot canyon or gulch than anything built or shaped by intelligent hands. It rose a good dozen yards, furrowed and pocked, and he hefted himself up, scaling until he could gaze over the heads and helms of the massed reavers.

They’d appeared in a large, contained area, perhaps a hundred yards deep, almost as wide. For a while he simply scrutinized the space, unsure as to what he was looking at, but then surmised it must have once been a work yard of some kind. Great square pits were cut into the ground, some still surmounted by scaffolding from which hung chains. The powdery yellow ground was pocked with irregular flagstones, like a great lizard’s hide made of knobby scales. Here and there low walls cordoned off squares of ruined workstations, though whether they’d been smithies or some other kind of shop he couldn’t tell. The whole of this ancient work yard was enclosed by the same high wall, with weathered stairs rising to some archways at the perimeter.

Treacherous ground. Ideal for small raiding parties, but a large force like their own would have difficulty marching across it; the square pits, the narrow walkways, the waist-high walls, all of it made for broken territory.

At the far end was a large archway. Its depths were dark. Perhaps like the 14th, it would lead through the wall into the next work yard, or whatever this place was.

“Listen up,” called Harald. “We’re heading for that distant archway there. Break up into groups of ten and move independently toward it.”

The reavers listened, lips pursed, then turned to Wirmas, who nodded. “Do as he says.”

The mass of warriors began to break up, clumps moving away to pick their paths.

Harald watched, unsure if he should have specified a better tactic, and then saw a wave of tension flow across the reavers like wind trails across wheat.

They turned to stare at the great rough wall that ran down one side of the huge yard.

“Orcs,” called one, voice rough and eager. “Form up! Bows!”

The disparate units all settled in, some kneeling, others hopping up onto walls, others moving out wide. They raised their great bows and waited.

Then Harald heard it. Echoing shouts, the sound of metal clashing on metal, rapidly growing louder.

The orcs burst out of the archways buried deep in the left wall, while a handful crested the huge wall itself to leap down to the work yard below.

Each unit of ten had designated its own leader, and this reaver barked out a command at roughly the same time as the other nine, so that their command to “loose” was a shuddery, reverberant cry.

Some hundred arrows flew forth.

The orcs died in droves.

Their muscled bodies twisted as they collapsed, peppered with shafts. Just as soon as the attack had begun, it was over.

Harald blinked. He’d not even left his perch. For all the excitement it had only been fifteen orcs.

They’d never had a chance.

“Oh, man,” sighed Vic. “This is so therapeutic. A little warband like that pressed our crew so hard last time we nearly cut and ran. Fifteen orc berserkers are a real handful for a regular band of raiders.”

“But nothing against an army.”

Wirmas already knew the drill. He ordered scouts to collect the scales. Silvers had appeared above the corpses, a little more on average than had manifested one level above.

Harald hopped down, and the army began moving again. The hobbo reavers were remarkably disciplined. Scouts collected not just the scales but as many arrows as they could salvage as well; these were distributed amongst the troops when they gathered beside the archway exit.

Of course.

They couldn’t know when they’d get more arrows.

Harald scrutinized the closest quivers. The arrows were hard to count, but each reaver seemed to be carrying some fifteen.

That had to be plenty, right?

The archway was only broad enough for three reavers to pass through at a time, and Wirmas sent some scouts ahead. Harald couldn’t tell what made a scout a scout; they looked the same as the others, carried themselves with the same dour intensity.

Perhaps they were scouts simply because they’d been ordered to scout.

A handful jogged into the archway.

A short while later they returned. One came up to Wirmas, Harald, and Vic.

“There is another great space on the other side, three times bigger than this one. Orcs are gathered on the far side. Perhaps twenty.”

“Simple,” said Vic. “We sneak as many reavers in as we can get away with, and when the orcs come running, we loose arrows.”

Harald shrugged. “Sounds good. Wirmas?”

The hobgoblin boss gave the command. The reavers began filing into the archway, pouring in like oily water down a drain, and again Harald felt an itchy restlessness as he just stood there.

“Harry-boy, relax.” Vic squeezed his shoulders. “We’re not here to fight. We’re just collecting taxes. You’ll get your fix of fighting on the 18th, or tomorrow with Nessa.”

“Doesn’t feel right.” Very distantly he heard the sound of combat. Reavers were still pouring through.

“When you’re drowning in scales you’ll feel better.” Vic inhaled briskly. “Well! Looks like we’re last. Shall we?”

Their little group entered the tunnel and passed through to the next great space after some twenty yards of darkness.

The reavers formed a powerful wall before them, blocking their line of sight. They were still fighting, so again Harald scaled the back wall, and saw that while the original orc warband lay dead and feathered, a second warband had appeared to their left and charged directly into the reaver flank, double-handed axes swinging.

It was a fierce fight, but the orcs were outnumbered.

A few moments later it was over.

The reavers spread out some, a detachment thirty strong heading into the main space to collect arrows and scales from the original orc band.

“What happened?” snarled Wirmas at one of the reavers who’d been fighting on the flank.

“They came up from a pit,” shrugged the reaver. His chest plate was badly dented right down the center, and he’d snuck an arm under it in an attempt to pop the dent back out.

“How many did we lose?”

It took a moment to take the tally.

Eight dead, four wounded.

“Two warbands?” Vic tongued the inside of his cheek. “That’s rare. Few raider crews can fight 30 orcs at the same time. Looks like the Fallen Angel’s starting to take notice.”

They collected scales and this time there were two archways to pick from.

“We need to stay close to our original portal,” said Harald. “Heading deep into the level will only get us more fights. Nessa said the quickest way down was to circle your original point of entry, right?”

Sam and Kársek nodded.

“But what if we just clean this level a little?” wheedled Vic. “Are we really in that much of a rush to go down? We’ve made barely any scales.”

“We’re looking for the 18th,” said Harald with certainty. “I want as many reavers with me when I descend alone. Wirmas?”

The albino hobgoblin limped up. “Praetor?”

“Let’s do this intelligently. Send out scouting groups ten strong. They’re not to fight, just search for a descent. Have them circle around us, not go deeper. You know how the levels work?”

“I’ve a working notion,” allowed the hobgoblin. “Yes. But they’re liable to run into orcs, and being only ten strong, will flee back to us, drawing the enemy behind them.”

“Then we find a defensive location and keep fifty reavers with us. If scouts come running back pursued by orcs, our reavers shoot down the pursuers.”

“Very well, Praetor.” Wirmas went to bow, checked himself, and glanced at Vic. “I will see it done.”

In short order their small army was divided in two. Some forty reavers formed a thick defensive line in one corner of the clearing, half their number up on ledges along the walls for optimal vantage points, while the other reavers were split into smaller groups and sent forth to scout.

Vic listened closely as Wirmas gave his commands, but apparently could find little to fault the hobgoblin with.

“This is like nothing I have ever read about,” said Sam softly as they watched the scouting teams depart. “All the tales are of heroes like Lady Hammerfell fighting through endless hordes. Not heroes sending out endless hordes to do the fighting.”

“The wise smith uses the best tool at hand,” said Kársek, placing both hands on the pommel of his war hammer, its head resting between his boots. “I’ve no complaints.”

“As long as the Fallen Angel doesn’t mind too much, yes,” agreed Vic. “But still. This won’t last forever. Regardless of its efficacy, eventually we’ll be heading down into the 20s, and the reavers will be of ever less use as we grow in power.”

“True,” said Harald. “I guess we’ll just take advantage of this while it lasts.”

Wirmas stood to one side, watching the empty stretch of ruined walls and pits, and his reavers remained admirably alert. Time passed, and without the ringing of the bells it became hard to gauge just how long they stood there, alert in their rough corner, ready for death.

Warning barks sounded from one tunnel. Six reavers burst out at full speed, arms pumping, and on their heels came a mess of orcs.

Wirmas sneered but made no sound; commands weren’t necessary. Each file leader barked out a command. Black bows rose, arrows were loosed, and the first dozen orcs fell, pincushioned by arrows.

The rest of their warband drew back, snarling as they stared at the massed reavers, then fled back into their tunnel and were gone.

“They’re not going for reinforcements, are they?” asked Sam.

“It’s entirely possible, I suppose,” allowed Vic. “One way to find out. Hey, maybe Harry will get the fight he’d been itching for.”

The six reavers reported in. They’d ended up in a dead-end gulch and been chased all the way back by orcs who’d come bursting out of a pit in the ground.

Shortly thereafter, however, the other scouting teams began returning. Their orders to not penetrate too deeply into the level curtailed how far they could range.

One after another reported dead-ends or large archways leading out into deeper ruins, and Harald had begun to despair and resign himself to having to lead the whole army into the 17th when the last scouting team returned with good news.

“A well,” said their file leader, his voice a deep rasp. “Hidden at the back of a grotto. A large centipede defends it.”

“How large?” asked Harald.

“Hard to tell. It was coiled up around the base of the well. Big though.” The reaver’s oily black eyes gleamed. “Wider around the waist than I could wrap my arms around.”

Harald nodded grimly. “Lead the way.”

They’d lost perhaps a dozen more reavers scouting, so that they were only 80 strong as they made their way back. They passed through a series of tunnels, out into the arid yellow light that bathed more half-collapsed walls, industrial ruins, and gaping square holes that led down into what looked like mines, and finally into a cave system whose depths were illuminated by torches affixed in iron brackets.

“Up ahead,” said the reaver scout quietly. “Through that opening. The room’s not big.”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Harald, and the reavers parted for him as he led the Throne Hunters up to the parting in the wall and peered into the next cavern.

It was perhaps the size of the Darrowdelve ballroom, dominated in its center by a brutally large well, but it was the segmented centipede that caught his eye.

It was a mass of pincer legs, crimson and black chitinous shell, all of it still but for the head that reared up as if scenting the approach of so many reavers in the next cavern, its antennae questing back and forth as pincers flexed about its mandibles, each the length of Harald’s arms.

Sam made a gulping sound next to him, and Harald could appreciate why. It was massive and fearsome enough to qualify as a true monster.

Before the gigantic centipede could unravel itself from around the well, Harald sent his Goldchops flying forth.

The twin golden hatchets blurred as they spun, flinging themselves right at the centipede’s head. The beast, guided by senses Harald couldn’t divine, exploded into activity, its coils thrashing, legs bunching, their sharp tips scratching at the stone floor.

But though it ducked the Goldchops’ first pass, its body was simply too massive to continue evading. The hatchets clove through its body again and again, not bothering to try to target its head, and the centipede rapidly collapsed into butchered segments.

Finally, as if in an act of mercy, the hatchets both sank their edges into the monster’s shovel-like head, and it went still.

“Damn,” said Vic. “I love me some Masterwork Artifacts.”

“Most impressive,” agreed Kársek, tone dry with wonder.

The Goldchops pulled free, the centipedes milky white gore slicking off their faces, and drifted back over to Harald.

Scales appeared over the dead monster’s head, perhaps a dozen Golden Dawns.

“I’ll get them!” volunteered Vic, darting forward.

“Wirmas?” Harald twisted to look back at the waiting reavers. “Please ask your reavers to haul the corpse out of the way.”

The pale hobgoblin had been watching from the tunnel mouth, and in his twisted visage Harald saw the first vestiges of respect.

The Goldchops would have that effect on a person.

“Yes, Praetor,” said the hobgoblin, tone pensive, and then barked forth his orders.

Reavers rushed in, shouldering bows, and set to hauling the giant chunks aside. They seized the edged legs without disgust, and in short order had cleared a path through the butchered coils to reach the well.

“We’ll wait for you in the Dungeon Plaza,” said Sam.

It was the only plan that had made sense. Seeing as Thracos’ terms precluded his friends from following him down, it meant they’d have to sit tight on the 17th. But the moment Harald descended, he’d bring his own portal down with him, meaning he’d have a quicker exit to the Plaza.

And besides, asking Sam, Kársek, and Vic to just wait here where orc bands could assault them made no sense either.

“Sounds good.” Harald smiled nervously to his companions. “I’ll make it quick. If I can grab a handful of wands, great. If not? I’ll just take the one and get out.”

“Good,” said Sam, her frown betraying her concern.

“Remember yourself,” said Kársek, grasping Harald’s hand and squeezing it. “Remember your honor.”

Harald nodded solemnly.

“And please bring back a ridiculous amount of scales and Artifacts?” Vic sounded almost pained. “This run has been absolutely dismal compared to your last. I feel almost heartbroken.”

“I’ll do what I can,” laughed Harald, and shook Vic by the shoulder. “Get back to your portal safely. I’ll see you all soon.”

Kársek hefted his war hammer. His presence alone gave Harald the confidence in leaving the others behind.

“All right.” Harald rubbed his hands on his hips, drew the Dawnblade, and moved up to the ancient well. “Here we go. Time to surprise the hell out of the trolls on the 18th. Ready, Wirmas?”

“Always,” whispered the hobgoblin. “Shall I and my men go first?”

Almost Harald decided to go first, but that would mean leaving Wirmas up here with his friends. “Sure. Clear a path.”

Wirmas bowed low, then repeated the procedure from before. The reavers dropped into the well, Wirmas going last, and then only the Throne Hunters remained.

“Luck,” said Sam, eyes shining.

“Make the Kitty Kat Club proud,” said Vic.

Kársek made no further comment, but simply nodded gravely.

“Yeah. See you guys soon.” And then Harald swung his legs over the well’s edge and dropped into the swirling black energies.