Throne Hunters Book 2, Chapter 22

“Abyssal Initiate 2,” said Nessa, drawing her blade slowly from its black scabbard. “Your second level in less than a month. Some might call that impressive.”

The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the now much more civilized lawn. Everyone else was on the patio, watching intently as Harald summoned the Dawnblade to his hand.

Vic had made special drinks for the occasion.

Harald felt the weight of his Artifact solidify in his palm, satisfying and fell. Its length steamed briefly, burning off a mystical mist, and then it was ready for action.

A second later the Goldchops manifested on either side of his shoulders, golden heads refulgent in the late afternoon sunlight.

Nessa’s eyes widened.

“Just kidding,” said Harald, and dismissed them. “But yes. Second level. Shouldn’t be a problem for you, right?”

“One way to find out,” agreed Nessa, then scowled as Vic began clapping.

“Well played!” Vic’s good cheer was unassailable. “Keep her off-balance! Now compliment her hair!”

Harald took a deep breath. The day had been an arduous one. He’d given his training his best, and though almost recovered, it had still left him feeling drained. But the sight of Nessa standing before him, her blade swept back into the Tail Stance, her gray eyes narrowed, her manner relaxed but alert, caused all the exhaustion to sluice away.

Deep breaths. Harald entered the Tower Stance, blade pointed high, then changed his mind and flowed up into the Ox, the tip of the Dawnblade pointed at Nessa’s face, hilt by his temple.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she said. The sun was just about to dip below the garden wall behind her, so that she stood silhouetted, still and deadly.

Shadow Fortitude was of limited use here. On the other hand, Dark Vigor was just about perfect.

Harald opened both of his Thrones and allowed power to flow into his new Active.

Black flames enveloped him, swirling and leaping across his arms and hands and no doubt coursing across the rest of him like a miniaturized maelstrom. In the rich golden sunlight the flames appeared insubstantial, like smoked glass, but as he lowered his chin and forced more power into the Active, he felt the rage of the flames grow more frenetic as power flowed into his frame.

Strength suffused him, making his muscles feel like coiled steel bands, while his enhanced Dexterity made him feel light and ready for anything. Finally, his Constitution reserves deepened, giving him boundless pools of energy to draw upon.

Strength 13, Dexterity 12, Constitution 14.

The stats of a tried and true raider.

The exact same stats as Yeoric, actually.

But Harald wasn’t done.

With both Thrones still pouring forth the Fallen Angel’s might, he activated Aura of the Aching Depths, which was enhanced in turn by Dark Vigor.

The air around him desaturated, as if a cloud had passed before the sun, and the temperature dropped. His own breath puffed out, visible as if on a chill morning, and he felt the abyss’ hunger fill the garden, making the air thick and viscous, gelid and enervating.

And this time Harald felt connected to it in a wholly novel manner; it was his emptiness, his emanation. An expression of his hunger, his need, his desire to consume Nessa and devour her every assault. He willed the Aching Depths toward her, focused as much of its dour drain upon her slender figure.

Break, he willed. Bend knee and acknowledge my power.

Finally he tapped Abyssal Attunement. Black light enveloped the Dawnblade, turning its length into pure jet. And it gave his hunger physical form. Through its length he would consume vitality, inhale health. One touch, one caress against Nessa’s body and he’d sap her not only of her strength, but her very will to fight.

Nessa remained still as these powers activated, watching, waiting.

Harald advanced. His held his abyssal blade up high, pointed unwavering at her face, moving out obliquely to her left. She turned with him.

As he drew closer Harald forced himself to relax. In this duel he needed to trust his instincts. Allow his reactions unfettered control. He wouldn’t defeat her with calculated strikes, but rather by flowing from guard to guard, reacting and striking as needed.

Nessa showed no dismay as the Aching Depths washed over her. No fear as his form burned with impossible black flames. He drew close enough to strike, but then she surprised him by taking the initiative.

Her longsword flickered forward, a simple thrust. He parried, blades ringing out, but she wasn’t done. A series of blows lashed out at him, and only his enhanced Dexterity allowed him to parry and deflect. No bind. She wasn’t interested in wrestling or directing his energy, simply probing his defenses instead.

A quick clash and then he leaped back, neither having scored a touch, and then they were circling, only for Nessa to dart in again.

But now she activated her Dance of the Zephyr, so that she executed a series of rapid, flowing attacks that allowed her to strike him faster than the eye could follow.

One of her most powerful Actives.

But Aching Depths was in full effect. She wasn’t as impossibly quick as she once might have been, so that he parried the first three strikes before the fourth, fifth, and sixth hit home.

And when they did, Echo Strike detonated, a white flash bursting forth so that he felt as if he’d been hit by three horses in quick succession, blows like hooves to his shoulder, chest, and thigh sending him reeling back.

But there was no pain.

Nothing but a deadened sense of damage taken.

Nessa was raising her blade, expecting him to react normally, to cry out, to take a moment to recover from the brutal strikes.

Instead, he immediately launched himself back at her, using the classic Dungeon Square as he sought to strike her with his abyssal blade.

Sweat prickled her brow, he saw, and her skin was pasty. Whatever she’d been doing these last three days had taken their toll. Combined with the weight of the Aching Depths and his own surprise attack, and his advantage felt real.

She gave ground, her Blade’s Grace Passive allowing her to effortlessly parry his assaults. Impossible agility. A mastery of the blade beyond anything he could dream. Her sword formed a flickering shield that he hammered against, his Strength 13 making his blows terrible.

The exchange was blisteringly fast, and somehow, despite her awe-inspiring mastery, his abyssal blade got through.

A light touch along her thigh, opening a red line.

The abyssal blade drank deep. Renewed energy flowed into him, stolen from her essence, and he knew she must feel herself grow clumsy, her will blunted, her doubts and indecision heightened.

Harald grimaced as he pressed his attack. Nessa was on her heels, Aching Depths numbing her, his Abyssal touch weakening her, but still she held him at bay, and then, somehow, she opened his guard and stepped in close to hammer the hilt of her blade straight into his temple.

His head cracked back.

But there was no pain. No stun. No moment of disorientation.

It didn’t matter though, because her foot swept in behind his heel even as he staggered, and then he was on the ground, head thudding into the short grass, the tip of her sword at his throat.

“I yield,” he said with a smile, and then the sound of metallic stars ringing out against the void filled his mind:

The Demon Seed Has Stirred

Your Dexterity has risen from 10 to 11

Nessa stared down at him coldly. There was murder in those gray eyes. It was as if she didn’t see him, but rather another foe, a challenge in need of removal.

The moment dragged on a second too long, but then she put up her sword and stepped back.

“Bravo!” called Vic, clapping his hands from the patio. “The pup has teeth! A nip!”

Harald pushed himself up to his elbows, releasing his gifts as he watched Nessa draw out a scale and absorb it, sealing the wound in her thigh in seconds.

He watched her carefully. His elation over his stat gain was tempered by his concern for Nessa. The Aching Depths was gone, but she still looked unwell. A moment later she pressed her hand to her mouth, darted to the side, and bent over some bushes to heave and gag.

“Your performance made her sick,” said Vic, stepping up alongside Harald and extending his hand. “She’s nauseated by your talent.”

But his tone was sober.

Harald took his hand and rose to his feet. “Nessa? You all right?”

She pressed the back of her wrist to her mouth, standing still with her back to them, then sheathed her blade and strode urgently up onto the patio, past Sam and Kársek, to disappear into the house.

“Hmm.” Vic crossed his arms. “Looks like she wasn’t as ready for the bout as she thought.”

“I pushed her with everything I had,” said Harald, feeling guilty. “Aching Depths and the touch of the abyss must have… stirred her system up.”

“Right.” Vic rubbed at his face, then glanced at Harald sidelong. “Your powers are very interesting, Harry-boy. Less specific fighting techniques and more ambient control powers. A draining aura matched with a draining attack, along with personal enhancements.”

“I wouldn’t mind something like you two have.” Harald rubbed the back of his neck. “Your Piercing Lance strike, say, or Nessa’s Echo Strike.”

“There’s a silver lining to not receiving one such, believe it or not.” Vic clapped him on the shoulder, urging him back to the patio. “Receiving a strike Ability too soon can lead to dependency. Too many raiders become reliant on that one Ability, and use it again and again instead of working on their weapon skills.”

They sat, and Sam leaned over to give Harald’s shoulder a shake. “Well done. You landed a touch!”

“She wasn’t at her best,” protested Harald. “I think my powers stirred up the nausea and aftereffects of whatever she’d been doing these past few days.”

“Not your problem,” said Sam, sitting back. “I can’t believe how quickly you’ve grown in just a month.”

“It is remarkable,” agreed Vic. “And by the Fallen Angel, you’re making me feel like an old man, insisting on the importance of the fundamentals! Do you know how much I used to roll my eyes when my own master insisted on such drivel?”

“A lot?” hazarded Harald.

“A lot,” agreed Vic. “But it’s true. Abilities lead to hubris. The flashier and more effective, the more dangerous. The dungeon levels from teens to the twenties are littered with the corpses of vainglorious fools who thought themselves untouchable.”

“As a dwarf, I cannot overemphasize the value of a solid foundation,” agreed Kársek. “But as a Tinker, I, too, understand the yearning for freedom from constraints.”

“That’s just it!” Vic snapped his fingers and leaned forward. “Abilities like my Piercing Lance make you feel as if you’re breaking the rules. Instead of needing years of disciplined practice, you can simply channel mystical power into a single, devastating thrust that can pierce the toughest of armors. Why spend hours at ring practice when you can just Piercing Lance every fool that you come across?”

“I know that’s a rhetorical question,” said Sam. “But why wouldn’t you just use Piercing Lance whenever you can?”

“Because I have only Ascended to my second Throne,” said Vic, sitting back. “I can’t sustain even my Passives for very long. And the more you try to do, as Harald was exemplifying just now by harnessing every Ability he had, the quicker you’ll run out of power and be left with nothing more than your own crude skills.”

Harald nodded. “And the temptation is strong. While my Thrones were roaring, it felt as if they’d run forever.”

“Wait till you get pulled into a serious fight that lasts more than a minute.” Vic gazed at them soberly. “There’s nothing more agonizing than losing your Abilities when you need them most.”

Harald nodded, thoughtful. Even his fights with the scarecrows had been over pretty quickly. They’d felt incredibly intense while they’d lasted, but at best they’d gone for… forty seconds? A minute? Sustainable with two Thrones, but if his Abilities had run out of power…

“Level 13 exemplifies this kind of challenge,” continued Vic. “While no one goblin lasts long, their numbers are continuously replenished. Like the Crypt Keepers. Your Passives will be constantly engaged, and your desire to use your Actives never-ending. Hence the need for sound strategy and kite shields. We’ll all need to take breaks to restore our reserves even as we remain under attack.”

Harald thought back to the Crypt Keepers and how his seeming invincibility had crumbled once his twin Thrones had ceased powering him. How bereft and exhausted he’d suddenly felt. “Fair. Luckily, nobody here is arguing against learning the basics.”

“Well!” Vic stood. “I have a rendezvous with Countess Sonora. It seems she’s in a bit of a pickle. What can I say? People depend on me.”

They all rose to their feet.

“I’ll head home as well,” agreed Sam, instinctively beginning to gather everyone’s glasses. They all entered the kitchen, and as Vic went upstairs to check on Nessa and Kársek set to cleaning the dishes, Harald followed Sam to the entrance hall.

“Good day’s training,” he said.

She flashed a smile as she hefted her pack. “As always.”

“Hey, what do you think about my walking you home?”

She paused, frowned. “Yeah?”

“I don’t know. Only if it’s all right with you.”

She looped the other strap of her pack over her shoulder. “You think I’m not safe?”

Harald laughed. “Hardly! Just that, I don’t know. It’s coming on two weeks since you moved out. I’m just curious about how you’ve set yourself up.”

She nodded pensively, clearly thinking it over. “That’s… that’s sweet of you. Maybe some other time? I’m not yet finished decorating the new place. Maybe I can have you over for dinner when I’m done?”

“Sure.” Harald smiled. “Whatever works for you.”

Sam studied him a moment longer, then leaned in for a one-armed hug. “Thanks for asking, though. See you tomorrow, Harald.”

“Tomorrow,” he agreed, opening the front door and watching her descend the steps and head out toward the street. His smile slowly faded as she closed the wrought iron gate behind her, and for a moment he just stood there after she was gone, gazing out over Flutic at dusk.

Then he sighed and stepped back inside.

*

What followed was a week of arduous training. The weather remained heavy and overcast, which suited Harald’s mood. He put all thoughts of the outside world aside. Thoughts of Ustim Flowervault and the Houses jockeying for his interest, thoughts of his debts and how soon he would lose his home.

Instead, his world once more shrank to just training. To testing his body. To pushing himself to his limits, day in, day out.

Which, strangely, grew harder the fitter he got.

In the beginning, he saw immediate results to working out hard. He would vomit, get dizzy, sweat until he soaked through his clothing. But in just a month, his stats had shot up to such heights that now even after a grueling weights session or an hour of jogging around Season’s Park he barely raised his heart rate or felt sore thereafter.

But it meant he was capable of pushing harder for longer stretches of time. He started carrying his kite shield on his left arm on his runs. He worked with ever heavier weights in the gym, and marveled at how he now handled the corpse bag, where once not long ago it had overwhelmed him.

The harder he pushed, the more his body responded.

Sometimes it felt almost alien. He knew he was growing faster than was humanly possible, and that was solely due to the Demon Seed’s influence.

But he couldn’t find it within himself to resent it. He welcomed its malefic benediction. He yearned for it to stir within his depths, to reward him again, to propel him to greater, impossible heights.

Kársek joined him and Sam on their routines. He ran more slowly but seemed able to go forever. His stamina was astounding, like a banked fire that only grew hotter the longer he strove. His strength was also remarkable. Though smaller in frame, he was able to shoulder enormous weights without protest. He didn’t join them in sword drills, but instead worked off to the side with his hammer. He had his own drills, routines, and took to beating at Gustav with gusto, the mannequin barely stirring as he pounded its ironwood frame.

The highlight of their days was unit work.

Nessa, remote, would only appear for these sessions. She’d form them up in a diamond, her upfront, Harald on the left, Sam the right, Vic at the rear, with Kársek in the center pocket. Shields up, they trained at navigating the garden, simply moving in formation and keeping tight. They worked at scrambling over benches or up and over the patio’s stone balustrade. Squeezed into the house, and spent hours figuring out how best to move through doorways, into narrow halls. Drilled again and again till by the end of the week it started to feel routine.

They stowed the longswords in favor of the arming swords. These felt surprisingly light, but Harald soon found himself enjoying the combination of shield and sword almost as much as swinging the Dawnblade by itself.

It was an entirely different calculus. With the longsword, the objective was to remain out of danger until you were ready to close and strike, to exchange blows while always watching out for elbows, hands, and knees.

But with the shield, suddenly you could edge in and exchange blows without needing to spring away or dart aside. If anything, the shield became both a blessing a curse. Its weight dragged on the arm and shoulder, while it at times blocked Harald’s ability to even seen incoming blows.

There was no Dungeon Square with a shield. Instead, you held your defense up at chin level, and thrust and chopped. It was less about swordplay and more about working your way in and cutting your foe down.

This only grew more complicated when Nessa lined them up beside each other.

“When we face the goblin boss, it’ll be in a large chamber.” She stood before them, still remote, her manner perilous. “We’ll break the square to form a phalanx. Shoulder to shoulder, we’ll advance while being mindful of flanking attacks. We don’t have time to practice much moving in formation, but you need to be mindful of your companions at your sides. Don’t crowd them, don’t leave them exposed. Formation work requires you remain in formation. We’ll still be receiving javelins, so we can’t disregard our shields and just rush in.”

And so they drilled for hours on end, shields up, shoulder to shoulder, advancing and striking in simple drills, always mindful not becoming extravagant with their swings so as to jostle the next person, nor pulling away so as to leave a gap in the ranks.

Harald loved it.

It felt like soldiering. There was a tension to a correct formation that he could just intuit. When everything was in alignment and they were moving just right, it felt fluid, organic, lethal.

Kársek would remain behind their line, using his Vein Whispering to help shape the flow of battle. He and Nessa sat together to sketch out situations, Nessa advising him on what sort of opportunities to look for, and though Harald had no idea what that might look like, he trusted Nessa’s judgment.

One morning a letter arrived from the Flutic Treasury. Harald almost tossed it aside, but instead opened it on a whim, only to grip the letter tightly as he reread the curt message.

The process of seizing the manner had been expedited, and he should address concerns or complaints to the Treasury directly.

Instead of having three or more weeks remaining, he was due to be evicted and the property seized within the week.

One week.

Harald scrunched up the letter, his blood roaring in his ears, and threw it in the trash. Chest tight, he leaned against the wall, hugged himself tightly, and stared out at nothing.

In one week Treasury guards would appear to throw him out on the street, and any pretentions he might yet still have at being “Sir Harald Darrowdelve” would crumble into dust.

For a long while he remained thus, stunned, and then he shuddered, pushed away from the wall, and scowled.

No matter. Nothing had really changed.

He’d tell the others.

Soon.

On the last day of their training they all took off at dawn for the mines, their gear in large packs and meals bundled in wax paper. Rain fell hesitantly from the skies, as if the lowering clouds couldn’t quite commit to truly bad weather, but that damp and cold couldn’t affect Harald’s and Sam’s high spirits.

They found an entrance to the mines behind an abandoned hostelry, and descended into a heavily graffitied chamber whose floor was littered with trash. Nessa, having acquired a map from somewhere, consulted with Kársek, who had an innate sense for the flow of the passages, and led them away from all signs of humanity into the silent, cold depths of the mines beneath the city.

There, in the chalkstone passages, they trained again in formation. Scale lanterns affixed to belts, shields up, weapons at the ready, they navigated tunnels and intersections as Nessa called out imaginary threats and from where incoming javelins were flying.

But this time, Kársek gave free rein to his powers.

He and Nessa had worked out a code so that she could call out terse commands efficiently, with the direction she faced always being north, and the rest of the cardinal points assigned to those in formation behind her.

“North One!” she’d bark, and Kársek would grunt as a wall rose shudderingly out of the chiseled ground before them to some four feet in height, tapering off at the edges.

“Southwest Two!” And a trench would hollow out obliquely perpendicular from Vic and Harald.

“East Blast!” Kársek would thrust out a fist, and a chunk of the far wall across from Sam would detonate into fragments, showering their party with tiny shards of stone but no doubt devastating anyone close to the epicenter.

It was fun.

Harald loved it.

Nessa had introduced leather harnesses which they wore around their necks and left shoulders and from which the kite shields could hang, alleviating their weight. Wearing their armor, arming swords in hand, they traversed broad hallways, worked their way around bottomless shafts, scrambled up two by two onto ledges, and always Nessa had them picturing assaults.

“Three goblins in that corner behind that rock, javelins coming at Vic!”

“A goblin dragging itself away from Sam, pretending injury. Ignore it.”

“Three retreating before me, throwing javelins as we advance!”

They stopped for lunch in one of the famous ossuaries, niche after niche filled with yellowed bones and skulls. Someone had set up a round table in the center, complete with six chairs. A pile of gambling chips were stacked neatly in the middle, and a pack of strange cards lay beside them, their faces depicting suits that none of them had ever seen before.

In the afternoon they practiced moving while using their Abilities. Harald tapped Aura of the Aching Depths whenever more than three goblins assaulted them, while Sam moved her Shield of Valor to wherever the assaults were thickest.

Both Sam and Nessa had support aura powers; Sam could manifest Beacon of Hope, lifting their spirits, while Nessa could summon Will of the Blade and Harmonic Resonance, both powers helping coordinate their movements as well as increasing morale and combat effectiveness.

Vic’s Aura of Cruelty complemented Harald’s Aching Depths, and they practiced synchronizing their activations to maximize the demoralizing effects on their imaginary foes.

By the time they were done, the whole group was weary and spent.

But their morale was high. Even Nessa appeared enlivened, smiling slightly as they returned to one of the exits. Kársek for the first time appeared moderately at ease, his eyes gleaming as he listened to first one then the other person offer suggestions or reflect on tricky maneuvers, and Sam and Harald were practically bubbling with enthusiasm for the venture.

On the ride home, Harald suggested they use the crew funds to buy everyone a hearty dinner at The Burnished Goose, and they claimed a large table and ordered the house special, a massive Argivinian fowl the size of a boar, roasted to a golden sheen and filled with vegetables and minced sausage.

Sitting at the table, tankard of water at hand, plate full of good food, surrounded by friends and companions, and with a dangerous mission on the morrow, Harald couldn’t help but feel a deep level of satisfaction.

It was a new sensation.

He felt… happy.

Purposeful.

Accomplished.

This was the crew he’d always yearned for. Sure there were complexities, sure there were challenges, but he trusted them. Even Kársek despite being new was a welcome addition, the dwarf’s quiet solidity and ready smile as he listened attentively helping balance out Vic’s endless raillery, Nessa’s dark watchfulness, and Sam’s bright smile.

Tomorrow, they’d hit the 13th Level.

And in that moment, Harald made himself a vow. They’d hit every level from the 13th to the 20th in short order. He’d not let up the pace. He’d keep pushing their crew, refusing to settle into a comfort zone, refusing to play it safe.

They’d grow like no other team had ever grown before.

One level after another would fall to their lethality.

They’d all level up together, reap the rewards together, and in due time, become one of the city’s most feared crews.

Anyone and everyone who sought to stop them would be crushed.

Flush with ambition and good cheer, Harald lifted his tankard of water. “Everyone, a toast! To the best damned crew in Flutic in over a century. Tomorrow might be our first assault against real foes, but I know we’re going to crush it. To our success, to all the scales, Artifacts, and Servitors we’re going to harvest, and to you, the best friends a ruined nobleman’s son could hope for!”