Throne Hunters Book 2, Chapter 15

Harald found the portal back to the 8th Level not long after. It stood in a narrow hallway just off the hub in which he’d killed the three scarecrows.

For a while he simply stared at the coruscating black energy that would lead him back to his friends.

Back to the real world.

To Flutic, to dinner with Lady Celestis, to House politics and training and losing Darrowdelve Manor.

Or.

Harald turned and gazed behind him. At the tunnels that wound about the hubs like an endless argument. There was something here. Something that felt more real, more like home, than what awaited him above. The notion was perverse. He treasured his friends. Wanted on a fundamental level to grow strong so as to help the faceless masses against all dangers and threats.

And yet.

Here he felt… unfettered. Alive. Raw. His nerves singing, his every sense on edge as he prowled the dark, searching for prey. He couldn’t deny the sweet glory of killing foes far beyond his pay grade, the thrill of acquiring scales of immense value.

Harald bit his lower lip. He couldn’t just stay down here, could he? He’d grow hungry, run out of water. He’d make a mistake, would slip up, would get himself killed.

But in a few frantic hours, he’d already made some 15,000 scales.

It felt right. It felt good in a primal, unnerving manner.

He obviously couldn’t stay. His friends were waiting for him. He had responsibilities.

But maybe he could come back.

Harald blew out his cheeks, rubbed his face, then strode through the black portal.

There was a moment of fluid transference, the abyss sucking him in and then spitting him out, and he emerged into that great hall of archways, the dank droplets, the clank of chains.

The 8th Level.

To his surprise and delight, his friends were still there. Nessa was working her way methodically through a sword form, advancing as her blade spun, while Vic regaled a despairing Sam with a tale of some kind.

“… so obviously I called her bluff,” Vic was saying. “I - Harald!”

Sam leaped to her feet, Nessa lowered her blade, and they all crowded around him.

“And?” Nessa’s tone was half-demanding, half-relieved. “How did it go?”

Vic poked him gingerly in the chest. “Are you still human? Did you have to bed a succubus?”

“Let him talk,” snapped Sam, looking him up and down. “You’re not hurt?”

Harald raised his palms, fending them off with a smile. “Not hurt. It went… well? Do you want to hear it here, or back at the manor? You must be sick of waiting.”

“Here,” said Sam firmly.

“Immediately,” agreed Vic.

“Sure.” Harald grinned. “Well, Vorakhar heard me out, and agreed to help on one condition.” And he told them what had happened, leaving nothing out.

Their incredulity rose with each revelation.

“Preposterous,” cried Vic, staggering back when Harald reached the part with the Servitor Crystal. “You lie! You’re a braggart, a conniving worm. You’ll say anything for attention!”

“Sounds like someone I know,” smiled Nessa.

“You… you got a Shadow Mastiff Servitor?” asked Sam, tone hushed with wonder.

“Want to meet him?” asked Harald in return, to which she could only nod.

Harald took a deep breath, stepped back, then reached deep into his Cosmos to summon the ebon hound.

A second later it materialized by his side, huge and terrible, shoulders reaching Harald’s hips, its head turning from side to side as it sniffed and took in his three strangers.

“Everyone, this is… Shadow Mastiff,” he finished lamely, realizing he’d not thought to name it.

Sam had drawn back, eyes wide, and Nessa raised her weapon instinctively. Vic, on the other hand, grinned fatuously and came forward. “Oh, he’s a cute puppy! What a good boy. Who’s a good boy, then? You’re a good boy!”

The Shadow Mastiff’s heavy upper lip writhed back from its huge canines as it snarled at Vic, the sound as feral and terrifying as anything Harald had ever heard.

“Oh yes,” said Vic in his strange, babyish tone. “You’re an angry boy, I absolutely understand, we all have to keep up appearances. Harald, can I pet him?”

Nessa took hold of Vic’s arm and drew him back. “You’ll lose your arm.”

“Incredible,” whispered Sam, hand rising to her lips. “How do you… speak with him?”

The mastiff began pacing around the hall, sniffing at the puddles.

“I just kind of will him to do what I want.” Harald shrugged. “I’ve got more questions than I have answers, but he seems to just understand what I need. Not that he’s… mindless, or anything. He’s definitely got an attitude. But, yeah. I would have died without him, for sure.”

“Incredible,” agreed Nessa. “A Servitor from the 27th Level. And you but a Level 1 Abyssal Initiate.”

“Second,” said Vic. “That’s implied by his having returned to us.”

“Correct,” said Harald. “Level 2. With some new abilities, too.”

“This is terrible.” Vic dragged at this face with both hands, distending his features. “Spending time in your company is absolutely terrible for my self-esteem. You make me feel like an underachiever, but not on my own terms.”

Harald glanced over at the huge hound. “Time to go, boy.”

It turned to glower at him.

Seemed it didn’t like being referred to as ‘boy’.

But it faded from view when dismissed, and Harld turned back to his friends, smiling tentatively. “Yes. So. On one hand, Vorakhar placed me on the 27th Level, which was terrible. On the other hand… he put me on the 27th Level, which was great.”

“The 27th,” said Nessa. “That’s a level universally avoided by almost everyone I’ve ever met. Your scarecrows are known as Thought Reavers. They’re awful. Their attacks break minds, leave people reeling and unable to defend themselves. Few can resist their assaults.”

“Yeah, well.” Harald scratched the back of his head. “Their attacks definitely hurt. I was just able to fight through them.”

Nessa shook her head, speechless.

“I’ve got Ego 23, remember? Actually, I can’t remember if I… told you,” said Harald, trailing off as both Vic and Nessa’s eyes widened almost comically.

“Darling.” Vic bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It sounded as if you just said something patently absurd, but it could just be my having an unexpected panic attack. What was that?”

“Twenty-three?” Nessa appeared bewildered. “That’s… I mean, obviously I believe you, but I’ve, I mean…”

Only Sam appeared unfazed.

“Yeah.” Harald sighed in resignation. “When I emerged from the dungeon that first time, after Vorakhar saved my life, it had gone from 3 to 18. My Class added another 5.”

“Harald. Just stop. Please.” Vic raised his face to stare up at nothing, blinking rapidly. “I was joking earlier about having a panic attack, but if you continue spouting such absurdities, I will start screaming out of sheer jealous rage and possibly never stop.”

“That explains your change,” said Nessa slowly, working her way through it. “Your training regimen, your discipline, your dedication. I’d guessed your Ego had jumped up, but I would have guessed a 14, something… something intelligible.”

“Twenty-three,” said Harald apologetically. “I know. It’s why when the Shadow Mastiff bayed its mind attack and two of the, ah, Mind Reavers -”

“Thought Reavers,” corrected Nessa distractedly.

“When two of them assaulted me, I was able to keep fighting.”

“Ridiculous,” said Vic, throwing up his arms and striding away. “A farce!”

“That’s why he sent you there,” said Sam. “Vorakhar knew you were uniquely suited to handle the key threats of the 27th Level while reaping the benefits.”

“Right,” agreed Harald. “It wasn’t easy, but if I hadn’t been able to shrug off the mind attacks, I’d have died immediately.”

Sam smiled crookedly. “And it paid off. Now you’ve got a Servitor and reached Level 2. It’s almost as if the demon knows what he’s doing.”

“Almost,” agreed Harald again. “But not quite. Because I’ll tell you this: no matter how much he showers me with opportunities and gifts, I’ll never become his creature. There was this moment when I was tempted to stay down there, to continue hunting, killing, reaping scales -”

“Harry, darling!” Vic’s call echoed from down the hall. “Just tell me. How many scales did you collect? Actually, no! Stop. Don’t tell me. I can’t handle it.”

“Oh, Vic,” sighed Nessa in tired resignation, watching as the Rapier Regent strode off deeper into the hall, gesticulating and muttering to himself.

“About 15,000 scales,” said Harald quietly.

“Fifteen…?!” Now it was Sam’s turn to gape.

“They harvest scales for these sculptures they make,” said Harald. “I found one after using the Dawnblade’s power. It was a treasure trove, pinned up on branches to resemble the Fallen Angel.”

Nessa pursed her lips as she shook her head. “Incredible. But it’s time we got out of here. Vic’s shouting is going to draw Gloom Maws, and I’m just not in the mood.”

“But hey.” Harald stepped forward and reached out to touch their arms lightly. “Thank you. For waiting for me.”

Sam snorted. “It’s starting to feel like we’re becoming pretty irrelevant pretty quickly.”

“No!” Harald glared at her, then caught himself. “There was a moment when I considered staying below, but it was thinking of you three that snapped me out of that particular kind of madness. I need you all. I mean it.”

“Well.” Nessa’s smile was pained. “Despite how quickly you’re advancing, your basic sword work is still shit. So there’s room for improvement there, at any rate.”

“See?” Harald grinned. “Plus, who else would I invite to enter the dragon’s den with me tonight? I couldn’t do it without you, Nessa.”

Nessa’s eyes narrowed.

“What?” Harald feigned innocence. “You’re going to love it.”

*

“I’m going to loathe it,” hissed Nessa, glaring out the carriage window at Flutic rolling by.

Harald inhaled and squared his shoulders, surprised at how tight the fabric had grown around his shoulders. He wore the same outfit he’d donned to the Platinum Rose, but already it felt as if it had subtly shrunk. “I can’t thank you enough, Nessa.”

“No, you can’t.”

Harald covertly admired her as the carriage rolled on, each street lantern casting a passing radiance into the cabin. He’d known Nessa for four years, but never had he seen her so dressed up. He’d seen her in warrior’s garb, had seen her in outfits at once decadent and luxurious, had seen her in bathrobes and men’s wear, but never in a beautiful dress actually meant for polite society.

Her hair was pulled back in a deceptively simple style, swept up from the nape of her neck into a vertical twist, elegantly pinned at the back of her head and accentuating the length of her neck. Her dress was of the finest black silk, black as a raven’s wing, the bodice fitted and subtly accentuating her warrior’s physique, with long, slender sleeves. The neckline was modest, a simple choker with a black onyx her only ornament, but the back of her gown was daringly low, revealing her shoulder blades and spine almost down to the small of her back.

“Darling.” Vic had all but purred in delight as Sam descended the staircase to the entrance hall. “You’re dressed to kill! No, to slaughter.”

“She looks… she looks very nice,” Sam had allowed, a faint flush rising to her cheeks.

“Stunning,” Harald had agreed, and then blushed in turn when Nessa had raised one single eyebrow.

“Oh, children,” Vic had sighed, extending his hand to Nessa and then turning her around so he could admire her from all angles. “You are completely insensate to the language Nessa here - no, Evernessa - is speaking.”

Sam had raised her chin angrily. “We weren’t all raised in ballrooms.”

“No, of course, and I’m sure you could hold forth for hours on the virtues of different brooms.” Vic had shaken his head in admiration. “Evernessa here will be speaking volumes before she even opens her mouth. Bravo.”

Now, Harald studied her out of the corners of his eyes, marveling that she was with him, traveling in a coach to Celestara Manor, looking deadly and mysterious and utterly beautiful. How many times had he wished that such an evening would come to pass? Now it was here, but Nessa was staring sullenly out the window, somehow poised and sultry even in her pique.

Harald sighed and looked out his own. It was raining in the Angelic Quarter. The cobblestones gleamed. They’d entered such a refined part of Flutic that each block belonged to a different manor, their grounds extensive, their walls more akin to ornamental battlements than the garden walls around Darrowdelve Manor.

The rain, Nessa’s remote beauty, the violence of the 27th Level, it all combined to make Harald melancholy.

This was his dream come true, his being invited to dine with one of the most important figures in all of Flutic due to his martial prowess, Nessa resplendent by his side.

But it was that and nothing more: a dream. Nessa was cold, distant. He had no desire to join Lady Celestis’ house, making this visit a necessity at best, a farce at worst.

A mocking dream.

As the carriage rolled and rumbled closer to their destination, his thoughts strayed to the 27th Level. To hunting the Thought Reavers. To a slaughter that had felt more real, more tangible than anything that had happened since he’d emerged back into Flutic.

“I’m sorry,” he said, surprising himself. He felt more than saw Nessa glance his way. “You’re only here because of my own limitations. You’d think having been raised a nobleman’s son that I’d be better at navigating these situations. But I’m not.”

The weight of her regard was clear, but she didn’t speak.

Harald stared out at Flutic as dusk cloaked the gleaming streets. “I know you don’t want to be here, with me, going to this dinner. If you want, you can remain in the carriage when we reach the manor. I’ll ask the driver to take you wherever you want. No, don’t speak. I’m… I’m tired, Nessa. The more I try to simplify matters, to be true to myself, the more complicated the world becomes. So… just decide when we arrive. And if you want to stay in the carriage…” He turned at last to glance at her.

She was watching him, expression inscrutable, brows lowered.

“If you want to go somewhere else, then I swear on my mother’s memory that I won’t hold it against you. I’ll be fine. But please. Don’t torment yourself for my sake.”

Her stare was intense, but he didn’t want to search her features for some clue as to what she felt. Relief? Skepticism? Amusement?

No matter.

He turned back to the rain.

They arrived at the main entrance shortly thereafter. Guards in the livery of House Celestara’s royal blue and gold pulled the wrought iron gates open, and they rumbled up the long drive to the manor.

Harald had never visited a grandee’s home, but he’d always heard tales as to how vast their estates were. Just from the length of Lady Celestis’ driveway, however, it was clear that her estate was at least ten times larger than his own.

They reached the front of her house and the carriage door was opened by a manservant.

Harald gathered his sword and hopped out neatly onto the gravel. A second servant immediately opened a broad umbrella over his head, and Harald strode under the manor’s portico as to not inconvenience the man.

Celestara Manor was grand, though he could only see a fraction of it from here. He got a sense of an expansive facade the color of cream, lit by scale-lights hidden amongst the shrubbery so that its ornate exterior glowed in the gloom. Massive columns supported the portico, and huge wooden doors were open, revealing the grand hallway within.

Harald buckled his sword neatly at his hip, tugged on the hems of his gloves, and inhaled deeply, ready to enter the house alone.

That’s when Nessa stepped up beside him, poised and composed. When he glanced at her, she but raised a brow and then slid her arm through his own.

“This way, Sir Darrowdelve,” said the butler, and led them within.

They were escorted through the arched front doors and across the entrance hall whose white marble floor was veined with hints of gold, the air carrying subtle hints of jasmine and citrus that accompanied the natural scent of the indoor topiaries.

The delicate sound of a harpsichord reached them from a distant chamber, and then they passed through an archway crowned with intricate stonework into a salon whose walls were resplendent with portraits in gilded frames. Soft, plush rugs muted their footsteps as they passed beneath a grand chandelier, and they walked through a pair of tall doors that were more glass than wood onto a stately covered balcony where a dining table was set beneath the evening sky. Fine china and crystal gleamed about the centerpiece of blooms, which echoed the sprawling gardens below, where hedges and flower beds spoke to what had to be a legion of punctilious gardeners.

In comparison to this beautiful, rarefied home, Darrowdelve Manor felt like a dark and gloomy hall, cramped and roughshod, dusty and decaying despite Sam’s heroic efforts. Everything here gleamed, was polished to a high gloss, everything was manicured and perfect, every aspect, every detail, every possible element.

Harald raised his chin as he and Nessa stepped out onto the balcony to greet their host, feeling an imposter, a crude country bumpkin.

Three individuals stood to one side of the balcony, glasses of wine in hand, engaged in quiet conversation, and as one they turned to regard the new arrivals as the butler bowed low and seemed to somehow just melt away with a graceful gliding step to the side.

The first Harald instantly recognized: Lady Yseult Khan, as regal and beautiful as before, but now clad in a black dress ornamented by beautifully filigreed gold in such manner that she still appeared martial. Gold gloves, gold vambraces, golden ornamental pauldrons, and gold over her chest, with a royal blue cloak hanging to her heels just added to the well-designed outfit. None of it was actual armor, but the effect was striking and projected strength.

A stern young man stood across from her, his white hair raked back and hanging down to his shoulders, his expression haughty, his face clean-shaven. His nose was striking, his brows heavy, and his uniform was of a subtler martial bend than Lady Yseult’s. Still, there was no mistaking the military inflections of his epaulets, gold chain, and the rapier at his waist.

But in the center stood a slight and slender woman whose presence somehow dwarfed that of the others despite her being the least physically imposing. Her white hair was bound back in an elegant bun, and she wore a high-collared black dress with delicate needlework in gold across its fabric. Her brows were dark and strong, her lips rouged, and her eyes accentuated by dusky makeup. Yet to Harald’s surprise, she appeared to be her late twenties, perhaps early thirties, just like Lady Yseult. Trim, elegant, and with a piercing stare, she studied them both as they approached.

“Lady Melisende Celestis,” said Harald, bowing to just the degree Vic had instructed. “We are honored to be welcomed in your home. May I introduce Lady Evernessa Ermarine?”

“Sir Darrowdelve.” Lady Celestis’ tone was clear, crisp, complex. It seemed as if her gray eyes smiled even as her expression remained sober. “Lady Ermarine. Be welcome at Celestara Manor. Let me introduce my brother, Lord Josse Celestis, and you of course have met my elder sister, Lady Yseult Khan?”

There were bows and nods on all sides, though Lord Josse continued to frown subtly as if he suspected - but wasn’t certain - that a bad smell was coming from his guests.

“The invitation took me by surprise,” said Harald, trying for a smile. “I believe Lady Yseult is ranked third in all of Flutic by the Gazette? It took all my decorum to not embarrass her with compliments.”

Lady Yseult smiled. “Yet you are the man of the hour, Sir Darrowdelve. The future of our city will be defined by the deeds of raiders and heroes such as you.”

“Which is why I am glad you accepted my invitation,” said Lady Celestis smoothly. “You have yet to swear your oath to any other House?”

“I am as of yet a free agent,” said Harald.

Lady Celestis smiled a quiet, private smile, and her gray eyes gleamed. “Good. Though it is my hope that won’t be the case by the end of the night. Please, sit. We have much to discuss.”