Throne Hunters Book 2, Chapter 18

“I’ll get out here,” said Nessa as the carriage rumbled past a broad avenue.

Harald roused himself. They were still a good ten minutes from the Angelic Quarter, and crossing a bad stretch of the city that bled into the Shambles.

“Here?”

Energized, Nessa rapped on the ceiling of the carriage, which immediately began to slow and pull over to the curb.

“Yes.” She flashed him a cold, impersonal smile. “I’ve realized I’m not ready to call it a night.”

“Oh.” Harald peered out the window. There wasn’t much traffic here, and night had fallen over the city. It looked like a warehouse district, which meant the Silver River or one of its off-shoot canals had to be close. “I can ask the carriage driver to take us directly to where you’d like to go…?”

Because there was no question of his accompanying her. The atmosphere in the carriage had been brittle and tense ever since they’d left The Black Note, with Nessa sunken into a morose reverie which he’d known better than to attempt to rouse her from.

The carriage rocked as the driver hopped down, and a moment later Nessa’s door opened. She gathered her cloak and purse and smiled again in that perfunctory, distant manner. “Goodnight, Harald. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then she hopped out, pulling her sable cloak about her, and strode off into the darkness.

The carriage driver watched her go, scratching at his jowls. He glanced at Harald, clearly wanting to voice his concern, but then simply nodded and closed the door.

Harald sank back. This wasn’t good. Should he get out and follow? He grimaced. Nessa was too alert to miss his attempts at tailing her, which would only result in her distant manner becoming scathingly insulting.

He wasn’t concerned for her safety, so much, as what she might do to herself. But that lay outside his ability to control. She was now the delve captain of their crew, not a trainer who earned pay as long as she followed his conditions.

Harald sighed. Not that he blamed her. Darrowdelve Manor had lost much of its charm since Sam had moved out, and with its furnishings sold off, it felt more like a cadaver than a home. Vic would probably be out for the night as well, meaning Harald would be alone in the large, drafty manor.

Perhaps he’d head down to the gymnasium and do some strength training. But the thought failed to cheer him; laboring alone in the damp cold was fulfilling in some ways, but tended to leave him adrift by the workout’s end. Uneasy, and at loose ends.

Perhaps he could summon his Shadow Mastiff and see if it wanted to play “fetch”?

The thought caused Harald to grin, and then he paused. The night was his. He could go where he liked, do what he wanted.

Why not return to the dungeon?

After all, it was open at all hours. With the Goldchops and the Mastiff, it wasn’t as if he were alone. And he need not venture back down to the 27th Level. He could simply wander one of the Iron Levels, allowing the Goldchops to back him up if he ever got in trouble.

A flicker of excitement awoke within him.

But he’d had a long day already. Had spent most of it fighting and exploring the 27th Level. He should be exhausted.

But he felt fine. Better than fine. He felt energized, partially, perhaps, due to the dinner and what had happened at The Black Note, but mostly because…?

There could only be one explanation.

Shadow Fortitude.

They’d sat in near darkness in The Black Note, and the interior of the carriage was dark as well. Was he drawing strength and endurance from the Passive even now? How much darkness was necessary?

Harald sat up, discomfited and excited. He’d shied from thinking about this aspect of his new Passive due to its unnerving origin, but there was no denying how he felt. He wasn’t truly rested, but he could definitely see himself fighting for a few hours on a less challenging dungeon level.

A grin carved itself across his features. One of the greatest limitations in any raider’s rise to power was their need to rest. People could only delve for so long before they had to return to Flutic and heal and sleep and restore themselves.

If his new Passive could grant him extra resilience, the kind that most raiders only tapped when their Constitution reached the high teens, then… well.

That might change everything.

And somehow, during these musings, Harald realized he’d already decided to hit the dungeon. If Nessa had remained with him he might have held back, but now that he was alone?

The carriage rumbled into the Angelic Quarter and eventually turned onto Baldric Avenue. Harald monitored his energy levels, and found that they remained stable. He felt alert and eager. And that wasn’t taking into account how Dark Vigor and the Goldchops would raise his Constitution…

Harald paid the carriage driver and hopped out onto the curb. Traffic was light but steady; his peers were out and about, paying house calls, attending salons, visiting the less salubrious parts of town to wine and gamble and whore.

None of that held any appeal.

Right now he felt as giddy as a man about to go on his first date.

The dungeon awaited him.

Harald let himself into the manor, removing his cravat and gloves and rushing upstairs to his room. Everything echoed strangely, deprived as the house was of tapestries and rugs and furnishings to dampen sounds. Harald lit a lantern, shucked his fine clothing, and dug out his adventuring gear. Breeches and long-sleeved woolen shirt, broad belt, pouches and daggers, woolen socks and his boots.

His armor though.

Harald frowned at the remnants of his leathers. They were thoroughly ruined by this point. The greaves and vambraces might still serve, but the chest and back had simply taken too much abuse.

A heavy leather coat, then. Better than nothing. He had trouble getting the long sleeves over the bulky vambraces, so he slit the sleeves, but then they just flapped around, so in the end he just cut them off at the elbows.

He didn’t look all that sharp, but who cared?

Harald went over the contents of his packs. He’d not touched the rations, of which there were enough for two days, but it was time he doubled his water supply. Emergency bedroll, a medicine pack full of cloth bandages, thread and needle, a small bottle of alcohol, and everything else he might need.

Harald forced himself to just stop. He wanted nothing more than to rush down to the kitchen, grab a new waterskin, and run out into the city, but first he blew out the lantern and sat cross-legged on the floor.

Heavy darkness washed over him.

The sounds of Flutic were distant and ephemeral. He focused on his breathing, willing it to slow.

Was this madness?

On one level, yes, obviously. You were never supposed to go into the dungeon alone. Too many accidents could happen. Not only that, but nobody would even know he’d gone until tomorrow morning at the earliest. He’d also spent most of the day already exerting himself to the utmost. It was entirely possible that this energy was febrile, and would fail him when he needed it most.

And yet.

He wanted to go back.

And he had the Goldchops and his Shadow Mastiff. He didn’t need to push it. He could return to the 4th Level, say, and just massacre ashen walkers for a few hours. The Goldchops alone would safeguard him there.

Harald imagined himself simply striding through corridor after corridor, the twin gold hatchets massacring all they came across.

A little deeper, perhaps.

There was no sense in letting the Artifact do all the work.

So did he want to go? Despite how foolish it was?

Harald sat with the question, and realized that if anything, he was growing more energized the longer he sat in his dark room.

On impulse, he opened his window and read the description for Shadow Fortitude once more:

Shadow Fortitude: Your weak flesh shall become insensate to the clawing hands of agony, even as the shadows reduce your need for rest and ennoble your endurance.

This was the Demon Seed’s doing. And the Demon Seed was Vorakhar’s. Which meant this was the demon’s desire, that he push himself, that he continue to grow as rapidly as possible.

That he make of himself the best possible investment.

Wasn’t it enough, that in one day he’d raised himself to Level 2, that he’d fought and defeated foes on the 27th Level, that he’d dined with one of the most powerful figures in Flutic, that he’d stood strong against Nessa’s self-destructive temptations?

Harald read the description for his Soul Ability:

Condemnation of Success: Every success can be outdone. There is no end for you, for every end is but a beginning, and always will your eye be drawn to the horizon. Every peak shall prove false, and every victory bitter. Nothing shall suffice, and this shall be your goad, your lash, your blessing, your torment.

A gift, or a curse?

But he couldn’t deny how it rang true. He wanted more. Defeating the scarecrows already felt like a dim and distant victory. The only way to stand tall against the manipulations of people like Melisende, the only way to make Nessa take him seriously was to grow in power.

Power.

It was the true currency of Flutic.

Until he had enough, he would be tugged and pulled, toyed with and manipulated.

Power.

In the darkness, Harald closed his fist until his leather gauntlet creaked.

Time to head back to the dungeon.

The Eleventh Bell rang as he rode down to the Dungeon Plaza. By the time he stepped down, he saw that most of the activity had died away altogether. A truncated line of Humble Petitioners edged toward the Petitioner’s Gate, and nobody stood before the elite gates.

Harald paid the carriage driver and glanced around the square. The windows of the inns and taverns were lit as adventurers and raiders caroused and spent their hard-won scales. Music bled out into the darkness, along with the scent of beer and cooked meat.

He felt no pull to join them. To enter those common rooms, to order a drink, to laugh and clap friends on the back, to regale them with tales and catch the eye of a buxom barmaid.

But that’s what everyone else wanted. They delved so as to carouse. They fought so as to enjoy the fruits of their adventures up here in the city.

But they had it backward.

The delving was the point. All the festivities around him, the nights spent getting drunk, dancing like fools, chasing skirts and having a good time were… well. They were a waste.

A waste of time that could be spent raiding. Hunting. Killing. Reaping scales, building your scale count, raising your levels, Ascending to new Thrones, acquiring new Artifacts, new Servitors.

Harald shivered, feeling feverish.

How did they not see it? Below their feet descended a mile of adventure and rewards. Miracles and monsters, terrifying beauty and opportunities to measure yourself against the greatest dangers.

Harald shook his head as he set out for the Copper Gate. Once he’d been just like them. Intent on nights at the Kitty Kat Club, breakfasts at The Oak and Acorn, focused on fashion and girls.

On being liked.

On having worth in other people’s eyes.

Harald felt savage pity for that former self. How many years had he wasted? How many opportunities to reap?

Well, it was time to redress that deficit.

There was nobody in line. A couple of guards watched him approach, muttering to each other as they leaned on their spears. Harald recognized one of them, the heavyset lady with well-worn leather armor.

“Welcome to the Copper Gate,” she said, but her tone had a new curiosity to it. “The great city of Flutic salutes her brave heroes, and welcomes those guests from abroad who wish to try their hands at the dungeon, etcetera, etcetera. Here, I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”

“Yes, actually.” Harald smiled, feeling chuffed at being recognized. “A few times now.”

She peered at him. Square jawed, her nose kinked by an old break, her brown hair mostly hidden under her utilitarian helm, she appeared a true professional, bored, practical, but very, very competent. “You planning to head down now? Night raiding is more dangerous. Where’s your crew?”

“Just me tonight.” Harald hitched his pack up a little higher. “And I think I’ll be fine. I’m not going to attempt anything too crazy.”

“Nothing too crazy,” she agreed, “nothing like going night raiding by yourself.”

Her partner, a tall, one-eyed man with a bird’s nest tattooed around the milky white orb so that it looked like a bird’s egg, chuckled.

Harald smiled. “It’s just that there are all those scales, just waiting down there for an intrepid idiot to come snatch them up.”

“And you’re that idiot,” smiled the heavyset woman.

“Looks like it. The name’s Harald.”

“Susie. Well, if you’re sure. Where was I? All who venture through do so at their own risk, and relinquish any right to charge the city of Flutic, the Mining Consortium, or any other governing body with responsibility for what transpires below. The city exacts a forty percent tax on all scales recovered. Do you agree to these terms?”

“Sure,” said Harald.

“Then in the name of the Grandees of Flutic, go forth brave adventurer and wrest glory and honor from the remains of the Fallen Angel. Don’t do anything too stupid, Harald.”

Feeling reckless, he winked at her and stepped over to the taxation counter. The balding accountant yawned impressively and ran him through the procedure, but seemed to jolt awake upon reading his window and stared at Harald as if surprised.

“Everything all right?” asked Harald.

“Oh, just fine, just fine,” said the man, passing his hand over his gleaming pate. “Let me issue you that invoice. Going in with 594,974 scales, are we?”

“That’s right,” said Harald, glad that the rest of his window was hidden from view.

“Here you go, then. Best of luck.”

Harald took the invoice, suspicion rife, and crossed to the platform. When he glanced back, he saw the official watching him, but the man quickly looked away.

Odd.

But over them all, presiding over this banal process, spun the alien Dungeon Portal. Huge, never still, it spun and vibrated above them, filling the air with a metallic tang and tempering Harald’s fever as he stepped up onto the Copper platform.

“What level, son?” asked the guard, an older man with silvery hair and a thick mustache.

Harald tore his gaze away from the portal and considered the guard.

“Son?” The guard frowned. “You with me?”

“Fourth,” said Harald, digging out the requisite number of Copper Crescents. For a second, he’d been tempted to say something crazy, to push himself to the 12th Level, say, or even deeper. He knew he could pull it off. Knew he could reap higher benefits.

But the thought of Sam’s disapproval kept him from leaping into the abyss.

“When the portal opens, move forward and pass through it without stopping.” His tone was curt. “Walk on forward and the gate’ll take care of the rest. Hesitation can result in a partial teleportation, which can be fatal, so keep moving once you start. Are you ready?”

Harald stowed the Crescents, drew his scale torch, and summoned the Dawnblade to his hand. It manifested quickly, light and fell, its presence reassuring.

The portal ceased its revolutions to present its 4th Pentagon to Harald, the four golden notches marking the deep Iron Level.

Harald steeled himself as he strode up into the deepening hole that eroded impossibly fast in the portal’s pentagonal side, forming a carnivorous tunnel in seconds. Up into the air he stepped, and then he felt himself sucked into the darkness, and left Flutic behind.

He stepped out of the portal into a square chamber with no floor. For a moment he windmilled his arms, heart rushing up his throat, and then he staggered back to press himself against the wall. Some eight heavy chains descended from the darkness above to sink into the square hole that dominated the chamber. Peering over the lip into the depths, Harald saw that it went down some four stories, each ringed with a similar walkway, the chains losing themselves in a fog far below that was lit by the diffuse blue glow of a haunt light.

“Fuck,” he whispered, getting himself under control. Glowering, he turned to where the portal stood flush against the wall. Was that… legal? To deposit him right at the edge of a drop? He probably could have grabbed a chain if he’d fallen in, but… damn.

Blowing out his cheeks, rattled, he glanced around. Two archways led out of this small chamber. From where he stood he could see archways on the lower floors, one of them betraying another chill blue radiance of a second haunt light.

Hitching his pack up higher, he skirted around the walkway, then stepped through the first archway to stare down the dark hallway. He raised his scale lantern, but even as he stood in its coppery radiance he felt fatigue stealing back.

Was this a bad idea? Should he just turn around and depart while he could?

Then, on a hunch, he twisted the dial on the lantern, lowering its light to the faintest ebb. When it was just a smolder that lit up a few feet in either direction, reducing him to a tiny island of light, he felt his strength begin to return.

Shadow Fortitude didn’t like the lantern. Harald tapped the Dawnblade against his leg, thinking. Turning, he glanced into the shaft chamber. Faint, icy blue light ghosted up from below, barely outlining the rough blocks and the descending chains.

With a flex of his will, he summoned the Goldchops. Fresh strength and agility enlivened him, though its lack of a Constitution bonus was a pity.

At that thought, he snorted. Was he disappointed in the Goldchops now? How far had he come that he could ask for more from the twin golden hatchets?

They bobbed alongside him, their heads fat and gleaming in his dim lantern light.

Harald summoned the Shadow Mastiff.

It coalesced out of the darkness ahead of him, barely visible and then not at all as it wrapped the night around it like a blanket. Only its crimson eyes peered back at him, registering something akin to curiosity and mild surprise at being back in the dungeon so soon.

“I know, I know,” muttered Harald. “Just a… an experimental excursion to see if…” He tried to find the right words. “Just a little fun, I guess.”

The Shadow Mastiff’s crimson eyes narrowed, and then Harald could have sworn they rolled as it turned away from him.

“Here’s the plan,” he whispered. “I’m going to keep my light at a bare minimum and just… run along. You keep ahead, and kill whatever you find. The Goldchops will provide roving support.”

The Shadow Mastiff growled deep in its chest.

“I know, I know.” Harald stretched, slashed at the air twice with the Dawnblade, then set forth at a walk. “Let’s see how it pans out.”

It was surprisingly challenging to walk in near darkness through the 4th Level. With only a few feet dimly lit before him, it felt like a nightmare, the corridor walls slowly scrolling past, the crunch of his boots loud. It was too easy to populate the darkness ahead with ashen walkers, standing in that dazed, half-listing manner of theirs, wasp-nest faces orienting on him even as he walked obliviously toward them.

Instinct made him want to hedge his steps, to shuffle, to peer ahead myopically. But Shadow Fortitude was invigorating, so after a dozen or so steps, Harald forced himself into a jog.

The Goldchops floated alongside him, placid and reassuring. Soon his breathing was all he could hear, the Dawnblade resting over one shoulder, his pack bouncing.

The walls on either side vanished just as one appeared directly before him. He slowed, confused, then realized: a T-junction. So he veered left and continued running.

He entered a hall and chose to run up a flight of steps set flush along his left. These opened into a broader corridor, and he put on a little more speed, still fighting that half-panicked urge to turn the light up, to slow down, to be more cautious.

The flagstones and wall blocks scrolled by, repetitive and dismal.

Then, without warning, the Goldchops flew ahead, abruptly spinning head over haft, to plunge into the darkness.

Harald, heart pounding, slowed and turned the lantern up brightly.

A pack of ashen walkers were falling apart just ahead, the Goldchops having flown through their chests, rupturing and bursting them apart and filling the hallway with hovering dust as they collapsed.

The Shadow Mastiff emerged just past them, having somehow slunk through their ranks, and seized the last one across the hips with its huge jaws. It shook its head savagely, and its teeth tore rents in the monster, only for a Goldchop to fly unerringly through its head.

The Mastiff cast the dead walker aside, then glared angrily at the hatchet.

Six ashen walkers, dead faster than Harald could react.

Copper Crescents materialized over each one.

Harald grinned.

This was going to work.

This was going to work just fine.

He stepped over the corpses, collected nineteen scales, then turned to his Servitor and Artifact. “Ready? I think we can go a little faster this time.”

And once the hallway was nearly completely dark, he set off at a run.