Throne Hunters Book 1, Chapter 11

Sam woke Harald at Sixth Bell.

Which is what they’d agreed to the evening before.

To Harald, it had sounded like a great idea. An early start, a savage way to begin their first day of training.

But in the pre-dawn dark, his body had other ideas.

“Harald. Harald!”

“I’m…” The siren call of sleep was wicked. The warmth of his bed. His pillow had developed a suction power that made it impossible to lift his head. And he hadn’t slept well. Had awoken at Third Bell to lie there in the dark, his thoughts racing, cursing his inability to sleep.

“Hey.” She shook his shoulder. “Up!”

“Yeah, yeah.” He lurched up to sitting like a corpse brought back from the dead. His face felt slack, his body torpid, his mind sluggish.

Sam was already dressed in her armor. She’d set a single candle on his dresser, and in its warm yellow light her armor gleamed and glittered. Her hair was freshly braided, her face alert and ready.

“Two months starts now,” she said. “Up!”

His whole life he’d yearned to have this kind of discipline. To be the kind of person who simply did what needed doing. Who woke up earlier, who worked out hard, who ate the right kind of food, who pushed themselves to fulfill their potential. Always, he’d looked for tricks and shortcuts, motivational snippets or insights from those who’d accomplished what he’d desired.

And always, he’d fallen short.

Always, his best resolutions had lasted a week, maybe two, before something, life, bad luck, tripped him up and sent him back into his bed, weak and making excuses for his failure.

Sam stared down at him, her eyes narrowed, fully expecting him to protest, to fall back into his deliciously soft and warm sheets.

A lifetime of seeking shortcuts had failed him. Sitting there, leaden and lumpen, exhausted and dull-witted, a new truth hit Harald like a roundhouse punch: shortcuts failed because there were no shortcuts.

You either got out of bed, or you didn’t.

There was no way to make the process easier.

Harald stood up jerkily. “Gah,” he protested, as he stumbled over to where Sam had laid out his clothing and leather armor the night before. “How do my legs still hurt from running?”

He shucked his nightshirt, and shivering, hastily got dressed. Sam had generously helped him clean and mend his armor, and together they worked on getting him strapped and cinched in. The armor felt stiff and unwieldy, like a half-molted insect skin. Finally, when he was done, Harald swung his arms about in a series of huggers and eyed Sam warily. “Breakfast?”

Her smile was cruel. “Time to run.”

They exited the dark house and emerged into the pre-dawn stillness. The air was damp and cool, the world a mass of shadows, the sky to the east just starting to lighten from deep cobalt to a gentler robin’s egg blue.

Harald felt off. Sore and shivering from the cold, he felt stiff and tired. The old him would have refused to step outside, much less leave the bed. The new him just gazed dolefully at Sam. “Ready when you are.”

“Then keep up, big boy.” And she set off at a light jog down the driveway.

“Big boy?” He glared after her in mock-outrage. “Hey!”

She just laughed mockingly as she reached the gate. And kept going. She wasn’t going to stop and wait for him.

Cursing, he took off after her.

Every step sucked, the impact jarring. Running stiff in the cold was the worst. He pounded down the driveway, gravel crunching, then slipped out the gate and turned right to follow Sam along Baldric Avenue.

They’d worked out the route the evening before. It was four blocks to Season Park, which Sam had guessed was just shy of a mile in circumference. A trail wound around the perimeter, perfect for running, and she said that there were other regulars who used it at this hour to either walk or jog.

Madmen, Harald had thought.

But by the time they reached the park the worst of his stiffness had eased. His breath was still coming heavily, and somehow, despite the cold, he’d started sweating.

Sam would jog ahead, reach some bend in the path, then turn back and jog past him. A minute later she’d jog ahead again, and in this manner she maintained her pace while he labored along, gasping and feeling like a wounded cow searching for a place to die.

Season Park was large, elegant, and the path was dotted with dead scale lantern-poles. Once it must have been beautiful, the park lit at this early hour with the steady radiance of a Copper Crescent, but now they simply ran in the gloom, occasionally passing another runner.

The leather armor made everything worse. It chafed, it weighed him down, and made him feel a hundred times more awkward.

But that was another point of agreement from the night before: if they were going to train to raid the dungeon, they might as well grow comfortable exercising in their armor.

A decision he now profoundly regretted.

Harald stared grimly at the pavement ahead of him. Sam had given him some advice on how to run; to lightly pinch his forefinger and thumb as if holding a flower petal, to keep his arms low and relaxed, to find landmarks to work toward, to inhale through his nose and exhale through his mouth.

None of it helped. Without the ornery fire from his run back from the Academy, this jog felt uncomfortable and unending.

But each time he came within throwing distance of slowing to a walk, he’d catch sight of Sam running lightly, effortlessly, and though he might slow down, he refused to stop altogether.

In such manner he painfully worked his way around the park, limping and gasping, until at last they returned to the starting point.

Sam awaited him by the willow tree that marked where they’d entered the park. “One more?”

It was a dare, but there was concern in her voice as well. He knew he couldn’t look good. It was one thing to sit around his manor making bold plans and talking as if he could accomplish the impossible. It was another to haul himself around the park before Seventh Bell and look like he was going to die puking his lungs out.

It had taken all his will to run that one mile. He felt slovenly and ridiculous. Everyone else out at this hour was in Sam’s league. He was the only idiot stumbling along and trying desperately to swallow down the thick spit that kept caking the back of his throat.

It would be reasonable to go home.

They’d had a good run, even if Sam barely looked warmed up.

Reasonable. Understandable. Wise, even.

“One more,” he gasped, and took off along the path.

The aches and pains in his body returned. The pain in his shins, in his knees, a stitch like a bleeding wound in his side. His throat burned, and he couldn’t get enough air. Sweat blinded him, and his sole comfort was that he’d cut his hair, so that his flaxen locks couldn’t plaster themselves all over his face.

But he’d learned something from that first run.

The body lied to you.

It told you that you were done. That you had nothing left to give. That it hurt too much. That you should stop.

But if you ignored it - if you gritted your teeth and just ran on - the body would grudgingly oblige.

Harald knew he had more left to give. Greater reserves than he thought possible. He’d tapped them on the run down from the Academy.

He just had to force his way through the pain, the reluctance of his mind, his instinctive abhorrence of discomfort.

So just as he felt like he had nothing left, he willed his stride to lengthen. He sucked in deep lungfuls of air, and blinked away the sweat.

You’ve got more, he told himself, needing, wanting to believe it. You’ve got so much more. Don’t listen to your weakness. That’s the old you. Just run. Just run!

And somehow, from somewhere, he found the energy.

He didn’t exactly accelerate, but he struggled back up to his old pace, and somehow his body finally warmed up. He fought through the pain, the aches, the discomfort, and found his stride.

“There you go!” Sam breezed past him, her own face now damp with sweat. “I’m going to go all out for a bit, see if I can lap you before you get back to the willow tree. Keep it up!”

Harald didn’t have the breath to curse her. Instead, he just watched as she took off, her stride enviably long, and all too soon she rounded a curve ahead and was gone.

Then it was just him.

Him and the pain, the discomfort, his resolve, his battle against weakness.

Everything shrank down to the next step, the next inhalation. Curve after curve, around the whole park, other runners constantly lapping him, until at last the willow tree came into view, now lit by the rising sun.

Ha! He’d reached it before Sam could -

She blasted past him in a mile-eating stride, her chainmail sweetly jangling. When she passed the tree she turned and slowed, jogging backward, and then came to a stop, grinning widely.

Harald closed the distance.

“You did it!” She finally stopped jogging in place and ran her hand over her brow. “Not bad.”

He bent over, hands on his knees, and fought to catch his breath.

“Head back?” Sam asked.

Harald straightened, winced, closed his eyes tight. “One more.”

“You sure?” She actually sounded concerned. “You don’t look too good.”

“One more,” he asserted, and lurched forward, half-falling into his run.

In the end, he managed three additional laps, though each featured ever more walking until the last was just him limping along, gasping and wincing and blinking away the sweat. The Seventh Bell rang as the willow tree came back into view, and Sam was waiting for him there, having lapped him several times so that she, too, had had a good run.

They walked back in silence, though Harald could sense Sam watching him covertly. He was too dazed and uncomfortable to say anything though.

Traffic was picking up on Baldric Avenue by the time they got home. People stared at them curiously, partially for their armor, partially because Harald looked like he was trying to decide whether or not to have a heart attack. But once they entered the manor grounds the prying eyes disappeared.

“Harald,” said Sam warningly.

“What?” He wiped at his face and saw a man standing, arms crossed, outside the manor’s front door.

Yeoric.

It felt like a bucket of iced water had been dumped on his head. Yeoric was alone, and though he wore plain clothing, he had his broad-bladed sword buckled at his hip.

“What do you think he wants?” whispered Sam nervously, stepping in close.

“Hell if I know.” Harald fought to catch his breath. “Your Guest Acumen tell you anything?”

“He’s not officially a guest, so no.”

“Then let’s find out.” Wishing he had his own blade, wishing that he didn’t feel like a half-dead yearling calf, Harald raised his chin and marched up the driveway to where Yeoric awaited them.

Yeoric. He looked exactly like the opposite of everything Harald felt. Broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with a narrow waist and long, muscled legs, he obviously would have had no trouble keeping up with Sam on the trail. His clothing was plain, sure, but of subtly good quality. Harald had enough experience with tailoring to realize that the outfit was both new and custom cut to Yeoric’s powerful frame.

The man watched, almost expressionless, but there was a slight curl of his lip that betrayed his opinion of Harald’s appearance.

“Harald.” Yeoric’s deep voice resonated in the dawn air. “I was afraid you weren’t home.”

“Yeoric.” Harald hesitated at the base of the steps, then angrily told himself that this was his house, and labored up the ten broad white steps to stop before Yeoric. They were of a height, which was good, but still it felt awfully uncomfortable to be this close to the man. It was as if his body remembered the punch that had laid him low, and hated being close enough for a second. “You’ve some nerve showing your face here.”

“Is that so?” Yeoric affected surprise. “But we have an outstanding business arrangement. You’re owed 5% of our income, remember? I’ve come to deliver your earnings.”

“I didn’t think you were serious. Not after robbing me blind right there in the street.”

Yeoric smiled. “You do us wrong, Harald. We’re truly grateful for your patronage, and in time, we’re sure you’ll earn back what you’ve invested. Here. Your part of the haul.”

And he reached into his pouch and drew forth three Copper Crescents.

Harald crossed his arms, fury warming him. “Three Copper Crescents? I invested a Zenith Tide in your crew. You stole a Horizon’s Whisper worth of scales from my scale pouch. And you come here to give me three Copper Crescents?”

Yeoric raised a brow. “Our first raid resulted in six Silver Starbursts. Not much, but it was just our first. If you don’t want your 5%, you need but say and I’ll not bother coming round again.”

A deep, dark fire began to burn within Harald’s core. “You’re a thief and a bully. Fuck you and your 5%. You can keep the Zenith Tide I invested in you four. I’ll consider that the cost of my education. But you owe me a Horizon’s Whisper.”

“Well.” Yeoric crossed his arms over his broad chest and stared at Harald, bemused. “We consider that Whisper a final investment in our team, to be used for healing purposes. Which, as you might recall, is to be provided at your expense in the official charter.”

“Yeah, I saw what you did with the charter. An incredible forgery. But I don’t care what you call it. Give me my money.”

Yeoric’s brows lowered, and the air around them thickened with tension as he leaned forward to meet Harald’s glare full on. “Make me.”

Sam’s agitation was obvious. At any moment, she might try to interpose, to defuse the situation. Harald held Yeoric’s stare. Once he might have blinked, looked away, backed off.

But no longer.

“How about a wager, then?” He smiled. “In two months’ time, we’ll have ourselves a duel. Loser is the first to submit or be rendered unconscious. If I win, you’ll both return my Horizon’s Whisper and pay me a second as an apology. If I lose, I’ll pay you a second and never mention it again.”

Yeoric’s brows raised. “Wait. You? You want to fight me in an official duel?”

Sam’s agitation increased, but she thankfully bit her tongue.

“That’s right.” Harald raised his chin. “What do you say, asshole? Or are you only good at sucker punching your opponents when they’re not ready?”

“Oh, ho, that’s rich.” Yeoric placed his hand on Harald’s shoulder and began to squeeze. “I’ll fight you if you insist, Harald, but not two months from now. What’s the point in waiting that long? Four weeks. It’s not like it’ll make a difference. But if you step into that dueling ring with me, you’ll be getting no quarter, you understand?”

The man’s grip was iron-strong, but Harald kept his pain from showing. “That goes both ways.”

“Amazing.” Yeoric looked to Sam. “I don’t know who you are, but you should tell your friend here not to pretend to be an adult. He’s going to get very badly hurt.”

Sam stepped up alongside Harald. “Get your hand off my master, or I’ll break your wrist.”

“Will you now? Well, the little kitten has fangs. How cute.” Yeoric released his punishing grip and dusted off Harald’s shoulder. “Four weeks. Unless you’re having second thoughts?”

“Doesn’t matter how long I have. I’m going to break you.”

“Scary. You do realize, don’t you, Harald, that there’s a death clause in our contract? That if you die, your 5% and all claims on your investment are forfeit?” Yeoric smiled. “I’m just saying. That would be a very tidy way to clean this matter up.”

“Get the hell off my property,” said Harald coldly.

“Gladly.” Yeoric inclined his head to Sam. “I wish you and I had met under other circumstances.” Then he shook his head at Harald. “And I’m genuinely sorry that it has come to this. Ah, well. I’ll be in touch.”

And with that, he lightly jogged down the steps and strode down the driveway, whistling jauntily.

Harald watched him go, hatred curdling his gut. Once the raider was gone from sight, however, he glanced sidelong at Sam. “Master? I thought we were past that.”

“Old habits die hard.” She grimaced then turned to glare at him. “But, Harald. What the hell did you just do? Four weeks? That’s… I mean, literally, that’s impossible!”

Harald passed his hand over his shorn hair. “Maybe for some. For me?” He felt a quiet knot of absolute conviction form within his chest. “It’s simply motivation.”