Throne Hunters Book 1, Chapter 29

“Go out wide!” barked Harald, trying to find stable footing amongst the flagstones. “Sam, other side of the street!”

The statue was barreling down on them, fast, too fast. Sam darted across the narrow street, blade held down and low, and then the statue was upon them.

Any hope of fighting the fiend was immediately ended by its first blow. The burning blade came sweeping around with a roar and passed clear through Harald’s desperate parry. Then the golden flames swept through him, and the world ended.

Pain.

He couldn’t even scream.

He was on the floor, arching his back, dying, but somehow the pain couldn’t overcome his life force. His torso was a chasm of living magma, the blade having passed clear through him, done terrible things to his flesh, and then distantly he heard Sam scream, and then all was silence.

But whatever elixir Vorakhar had granted them refused to let him go. Slowly, his body knit itself together, a process that felt as if it took eons, and finally the tide of agony receded and Harald came back to himself.

With a gasp, he passed his hand over his sweat-soaked brow and blinked, the world coming into focus.

He lay amidst the high grass, twisted on his side, blade gleaming by his side, a foot-wide span of its length darkened and without luster.

His leather cuirass was ruined.

Harald was about to rise when he saw movement. Slowly, barely daring to breathe, he glanced up the street toward the square.

The large statue was slowly walking away, moving ponderously as if it had exhausted all its liquid grace, the blade gone from its fist.

Panic seized Harald, clamping tight around his chest. Desperate, he searched the far side of the street and saw a gleam of metal where Sam was stirring.

They should just lie still.

Let the statue move away.

But that’s not why he’d come down here, was it?

“Hey.” His voice was little more than a croak. With a grunt he sat up.

The statue froze, then, as if in disbelief, turned to gaze over its own partially ruined shoulder, its blank eyes narrowing.

“I’m not done with you,” rasped Harald. Taking up his blade, he rose to his feet. He actually felt pretty good for having been nearly killed. That effervescent energy was bubbling through his veins, enlivening him, making him feel reckless, invincible.

Sam was glaring at him incredulously through the high grass. Get down, she mouthed.

Harald had seen Nessa demonstrate the Wrath Stance only once. It involved placing the sword almost flush down the length of his back, elbows up, body twisted as if about to take the world’s greatest swing.

She’d told him it was a complex guard, to be used sparingly and only in the precisely right occasions.

Too bad.

Given that there was no way to defend himself, the Wrath Stance felt just about right.

The statue turned, extended its arm, fingers flared, and burning glory appeared in its fist. A scimitar of burning gold.

“I can’t ruin your day yet,” said Harald, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “But one day. And this I vow. One day, I will come back down here to the 47th Level, and I will find you, and I will destroy you.”

If the statue was impressed by his tough talk it made no sign. The air moaned as if distorting as it swept the burning sword behind it once more, not even a Tail Stance, just an out-of-the-way stance, and then, leaning forward, it charged once more.

“Harald!” Sam cried and leaped to her feet, blade in hand. She ran up the street, looking to flank it, but at the last second the statue changed course. It veered abruptly into her, hunched over like a battering ram, and simply plowed into her body, ignoring her strike that bounced off its stone shoulder, and bore her into a wall, powering clear through it and shattering her body between it and the white rock.

“Sam!” Harald sprinted forward, forgetting his stance, his Wrath Stance, horror seizing him by the throat.

She had to be dead. Crushed to paste and jelly.

The statue extricated itself from the collapsing wall, huge blocks tumbling off its shoulders, and swept its blade across the air.

Casually. Without even looking.

Harald screamed as the golden flame washed over him again.

The last thing he saw was his blade swinging wildly at the statue, but he couldn’t tell if it hit.

Then pain.

Real pain.

Thought-erasing agony.

As if he’d been dipped head-first into a vat of molten iron.

It lasted for an eternity, and then it was over.

Gasping, Harald blinked up at the flat blue sky. He was on his back again. The blow had taken him across the face.

The pain was gone, but its memory lingered like the afterimage of a lightning strike against the night sky.

He should stay down.

It was madness to court that kind of pain.

Harald clenched his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut, and thrust that memory from him.

Then, with the greatest flexion of his will yet, he opened his eyes and sat up.

The statue was almost back to its square. Slowly, dolorously striding, one great step after another, as if the weight of the world rested on its shoulders.

This time, Harald rose to his feet before speaking. “Hey.” His voice sounded weird to him. “Hey, you.” He cast around, saw his expensive longsword. A nick had been struck into its upper blade.

So he’d hit it after all.

He bent, closed his fist around the tightly wound hilt. Even as he did so the elixir’s madness bubbled up within him again.

He was invincible.

Immortal.

The statue had frozen, and this time Harald was sure it hung its head before wheeling slowly around.

Harald slashed a couple of cuts in the air, the Dungeon Square, upper left, lower right. Came up in the Ox Stance, hilt by his head, point aimed at the fiend. “Hey. Come over here and kill me again.”

Sam was slowly sitting up amongst the rubble of the ruined wall. Her gorgeous armor was partially melted, the chainmail ragged, her eyes wide with horror.

“Sit this one out,” Harald said, tone almost conversational as the statue resummoned its golden blade. “I’ve got it.”

“Harald,” she whispered. She passed her gloved hand over her lips, looked at the leather, then levered herself out from under a block that lay across her hip, and stood.

He smiled as she moved to join him. “Well, if you insist.”

This time, the statue didn’t charge. It approached them slowly, warily, as if it couldn’t understand something.

Harald moved to a slightly flatter stretch of ground, his blade unwavering. Where could he strike it? The whole thing was made of stone. He couldn’t parry. An eye? Was he assuming it even had a weak spot? Why would a stone eye be more vulnerable that its stone shoulder? Was its human shape purely symbolic? It was moving with entire chunks missing. An animating magic.

Still, he had to have a target. Something to strike. Something to wound.

The statue dismissed its blade just as it reached Harald.

Who lunged, sword flowing out to stab at the carved visage.

It turned its head with dismaying ease.

The blade slid past its cheek.

It reached up and closed its fist around Harald’s elbow.

Squeezed.

Bone fractured as his flesh pulped.

Harald screamed, but was silenced when it backhanded him into oblivion.

He drowned in an ocean of agony. But this time, when he came back to himself, a message hovered before him, an offering from the Fallen Angel.

Your resilience has shone a light in the darkness.

Your bravery has been noticed.

By the authority of the Fallen Angel, you are hereby bestowed a new Class:

Voidheart Vanguard

Do you choose to accept?

Harald licked his dry lips. Voidheart Vanguard. That sounded a sight better than a Steelheart Rearguard. He focused on the title and triggered the description.

Voidheart Vanguard: Frontline warriors who bridge the gap between the known and the unknowable, Voidheart Vanguards lead the charge into the heart of darkness, their resolve unshaken by the terrors that dwell within. Their mastery of combat is matched only by a courage born from the heart of the void.

“Damn,” he whispered. Now that was a Class. What would its Actives and Passives even look like?

Carefully, he glanced up the street. The statue had returned to its plaza and extended its palm once more to the sky.

Sam sat limply against a wall. Her wounds were healed, however. She blinked, frowned, then carefully looked up through a curtain of her golden hair, most of it having escaped her braid.

This time, Harald gestured back to the square in which they’d first appeared. She nodded, and together they crawled back until the statue was hidden from view.

“You all right?” she whispered, then scowled. “Stupid question.”

“I’m good,” said Harald, “but more importantly, I got a Class offer.”

Sam smiled then, a small, wicked smile of quiet pride. “I did, too.”

“You did?” Harald grinned. “What is it?”

“I’ve never heard of it before. Chasm Sentinel?”

Harald shook his head, mystified.

“Here’s the description.” She stared into the middle distance as she read to him. “Guardians whose vigilance extends into the deepest rifts of reality, Chasm Sentinels stand watch over the precipices that separate worlds. Their defensive prowess ensures that no malevolent force can surge forth from the chasms they guard.”

“Whoa,” whispered Harald. “Precipices that separate worlds?”

Sam’s blue eyes were wide. “I know. What does that…? But… what about you?”

“Voidheart Vanguard.” He read her the description as well. “Which sounds amazing, but…”

Sam chuckled quietly. “We’re getting greedy.”

“I like the idea of being a frontline warrior, of charging into the heart of darkness. But since we’re down here…”

“Say it.”

“I don’t know. It feels too direct? It’s not that I don’t want to be in the vanguard of wherever we fight, but I want… I want more options. Not to just always be leading the charge. More versatility?”

“I understand. I’m not sure about mine, either. It’s purely defensive. Static. A guardian who watches. I want…” She bit her lower lip and looked down at her ruined gloves. “I want something more… I don’t know how to put this. But what Vorakhar said… how he described me… I don’t want him to be right. About me.”

Harald put his hand over hers. “I understand. We’ve just gotten started. Let’s see what else the Fallen Angel offers us.”

“But Harald.” When she looked up, her eyes were gleaming. “This is… I used to dream of being a Bladeweaver like Nessa, or even just a Warcleaver. But this? What we’re being offered here? It’s almost too much. I’ve never even heard of these Classes.”

“Me neither,” said Harald softly, his excitement causing his skin to prickle. “That’s why we should make the most of it.”

“But I can’t forget who’s making this all possible. He said he has no angle, but I don’t believe him.” She stared at him beseechingly. “I don’t want to serve a demon, Harald. I came to make sure you didn’t face this alone, but this… this is beyond anything I could have imagined.”

Harald nodded grimly. “I hear you. But I don’t know what to say. We either make the most of this, or we die down here. You heard the demon. He’s not coming back, and we won’t last a second once the elixir wears off.”

She studied his face, her dark brows drawn close, and then she nodded reluctantly. “What’s done is done.”

“What’s done is done.” He stood and considered his blade. It was heat-scorched, but otherwise still serviceable. “Shall we hunt down some more fiends? I’ve a mind to give that statue a break. It looked like it was becoming upset.”

She snorted. “Fine. Other direction, then?”

“Let’s go.”

“One second.” She considered her ruined sleeve of chain, then tore it off. Her chest plate was warped, the metal having melted and run, but after tugging on it once or twice, she decided to leave it on. “Let’s go.”

Harald led the way. Crouched low, wary, they slipped over a waist-high wall and moved through the tall grass, taking their time, watching, cautious.

A well rose in the center of a small orchard of willows. Harald gazed around, then led Sam over to peer inside. Iron rungs were attached to the inside, leading down into the darkness.

“A way down?” asked Harald. “To more of the 47th, or the 48th?”

“I don’t know,” said Sam. “I’ve not done a lot of exploring around here.”

Careful, darlings, came a new, feminine voice, its tone arch and playful. You wouldn’t want to bite off more than you can chew.

A winged demon had appeared beside one of the willows, her full figure a striking fusion of majesty and allure. Her skin was of the palest lavender, her long white hair contrasting sharply with the ridged ebon horns that curved outward from her temples and then speared straight up.

The seductive cut of her bodice was off-set by the high-gothic armor aesthetic of her silver pauldrons and vambraces, each forged with flourishes that made them works of art. A black velvet cape cascaded from her shoulders, its trailing edge tattered where it dragged along the ground. Her long legs were bare, the curvature of her hips framing a narrow tabard that hung from her silver belt near to the ground.

The cumulative effect was one of dark allure and formidable presence, part armor, part fever-fantasy, designed to command attention and inspire desire and awe in equal measure.

Harald blinked and raised his gaze to meet the demon’s burning white eyes. She was watching him with amusement, clearly aware of the effect her appearance was having on him. “Are you… are you a friend of Vorakhar’s?”

She laughed, the sound ethereal, delighted. Of sorts. At times we have been closer, but of late he’s been neglecting me. It wounds my poor heart. So I’ve come to inspect the source of his most recent fascination. I am Eclavistra. And you are?

Harald bit his lower lip, hesitant. Would it confer power over him to reveal his name? Would Vorakhar get upset?

“Sam Tuppins,” said Sam, her tone hard. “What do you want, Demon?”

Eclavistra approached, her baronial cloak dragging behind her, each step accentuated by a deliberate sway, her pale hips rolling softly, creating an undulating motion that was hypnotic.

By the angels, thought Harald. Get it together, man.

Why, he’s Endowed you with a Demon Seed. Eclavistra’s black-ringed eyes widened in surprise. And you burn with an Elixir of Rashanna. Yet you radiate precious little power. Why has Vorakhar taken such an interest in you?

“You could ask him,” said Harald, fighting to keep his voice level.

Again she laughed, and now she moved to circle them both, still unhurried. And betray my interest? Surely you know my kind loves subtlety. But here we are. An opportunity for us both. Unless you declare yourselves eternally loyal to Vorakhar and his ambitions?

“We don’t know what he wants,” said Sam, turning to keep the demon in view. “He’s not been forthcoming.”

“But we’d be fools to take you at your word,” said Harald, doing the same. “No offense. Given your kind’s penchant for subtlety.”

Of course. Her perfume was subtle but growing more notable, a crisp, aromatic lavender undercut by a sharp, peppery edge. You have no reason to trust me. But Vorakhar isn’t the only one capable of dispensing favors. Perhaps I can tempt you. What do you desire? I would imagine you have… she looked Harald up and down. Questions.

“Sure. What does Vorakhar want with me? He says I have potential, but for what? Why is he favoring me?”

“We can’t trust her answers,” said Sam. “Maybe we shouldn’t even speak with her.”

Conversation is harmless, darling. As for the why: you humans, and to a lesser degree the other conscious species, are capable of enviable growth. Her tone was playful, and having completed her circuit, she came to a stop before them. You may be weak as reeds now, but one day you might swell into mighty oaks. Whereas demons of all ranks are incapable of natural growth. We are as we were created, and if we wish to upset each other’s plans, we are best served by recruiting heroes who may one day force our rivals to bend knee.

She smiled, revealing milk-white fangs. Hence our ageless reputation as shameless seducers. We strive to enlist the aid of those with the greatest potential. And while Ms. Tuppins here shows remarkable promise, you, mysterious stranger, are on another plane entirely.

“So he seeks to recruit us into his war,” said Harald. “Not surprising, I suppose.”

“I think he’s going to be disappointed,” said Sam. “As are you.”

There was movement at the far side of the grove. A statue was entering the ring of trees, its form more abstract than the first, the edges that lined the missing chunks rimmed in gold. It extended its hand and a burning scimitar of gold fire appeared, causing the air to moan as if warped.

“We might have to continue this conversation later,” said Harald, his gut clenching at the memory of the horrific pain. “If you -”

Eclavistra glanced sidelong at the statue, then summoned a mace nearly as long as her leg into her palm. The massive weapon seemed forged from silver, its haft spiraled, its head a great rectangle inlaid with complex patterns, two faces sprouting vicious triangular spikes each over eight inches long.

The demon extended the monstrous weapon and the statue burst apart in a conflagration of pale purple flame. Chunks of cindered stone flew through the willow branches and rolled through the grass.

Eclavistra’s mace vanished, and she smiled sweetly at them both. As I was saying, you are being groomed by Vorakhar to aid in his war. Understandably, I am loath to bequeath him such a handsome ally without vying in some manner for your loyalty. But how to overcome your understandable mistrust?

Harald tried to take her raw display of power in stride. The casual manner in which she’d destroyed the statue had driven home the enormity of the power disparity between them. Eclavistra might be courting him, but by the angels, it clearly didn’t make them equals. And the attack had intensified her perfume. He could now smell a heart of smoky incense beneath the lavender, a hint of leather, of dark vanilla.

It made it hard to think clearly.

Sam was far less conflicted. “One demon is enough for us, thank you. We’d be fools to be pulled into your game.”

Unless you clearly stand to benefit from my intervention. But I understand. I will ask nothing of you now, but instead make a gift: a bracelet that, if worn before you enter the dungeon, shall shield you from Vorakhar’s awareness and indicate to me that you wish to talk. Also, I am willing to slay you in such a manner that shall trigger the Fallen Angel to offer you the best possible Class. That is why you are down here, is it not?

“You can do that?” Harald immediately regretted the eagerness of his question. “How can you manipulate her?”

The Elixir of Rashanna is sufficiently potent to help even weak creatures such as yourself survive the attacks of the 47th Level. Any deeper, and it would be unable to shield you. But I can modulate my attack so that it doesn’t overwhelm the elixir while still registering as your fighting a far superior foe. Eclavistra paused as if considering, and her smile grew wry. A far, far superior foe.

“Then why didn’t Vorakhar attack us himself?” demanded Sam.

It’s hard to nurture the affections of those you’ve attempted to kill. Eclavistra narrowed her burning white eyes. The human subconscious takes it personally. But I have few other cards left to play in this round, so I shall take the risk.

Harald licked his dry lips. “And Vorakhar won’t get upset?”

Only if he finds out. But my brethren and I are adept at hiding from each other. Since this development will be to his benefit, he’ll take your fortune as a blessing. Her smile grew predatory. Unless you tell him, of course, but why would you limit your options needlessly?

“Right.” This wasn’t the time to debate her. “All right. If you can help us acquire the best possible Class, sure. I’ll try not to take it personally.”

The best possible Class as determined by the Fallen Angel, clarified Eclavistra. But you never told me your name.

The scent of lavender and spice swirled around him, and the orchard seemed to fall away as Eclavistra’s presence swelled before him.

“Harald,” he heard himself say. “Harald Darrowdelve.”

Oh. Her eyes widened, and then her smiled turned pleased. That is a fascinating development. Oh, yes, I understand so much more now. She summoned her monstrous mace again, and lifted it effortlessly so that its spiked head was pointed at them both. Her tattered wings spread out, and she raised her chin, eyes narrowed. Are you prepared to die?

“Harald?” Sam’s nervousness was tangible. “You sure?”

He wasn’t. But the more he learned, the greater the stakes appeared to be. The more monumental the odds stacked against them. Eclavistra could have slain them easily by now if she’d desired. Unless she required his permission to enact some kind of power that would shield her intervention from Vorakhar…?

“Ready for you to bring us to the brink of death, yes.”

The demon considered, then inclined her head in appreciation. A fine distinction. But very well. It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Harald Darrowdelve. I look forward to our next conversation.

The attack was as sudden as it was absolute.

The world flared the palest purple, and then there was nothing.