Throne Hunters Book 1, Chapter 1

(Hello everyone - welcome to the first chapter of Throne Hunters. This is from the updated edition that was published on Amazon, and as such is current and canon. I'm going to update every chapter published here on Patreon, so that all confusion and old errata are removed. Cheers!)

Harald awoke with extreme reluctance. Someone was shaking his shoulder, calling his name, but his head pounded and his stomach was trying to ooze up his throat. He turned away and buried his head under a silken pillow.

“Harald! Wake up! You’re late.”

“Sleep,” he groaned, yearning for oblivion. “Wake me up… tomorrow.”

“But Harald!” It was Samantha, his last remaining servant. By the Fallen Angel, didn’t she know better than to risk his anger? “You’re going to miss your raid! The Tenth Bell has already rung!”

Raid?

Despite the nausea, his clammy skin, his aching head, that word resonated deep within his soul. Raid?

Harald blinked.

His raid.

The raid he’d spent the last of his father’s fortune outfitting.

He lurched up and winced at the bright light streaming in through the high windows. “What? The Tenth Bell?”

Samantha had been forced to crawl across half his massive bed, navigating the other slumbering bodies to reach him, and only now did she draw back, hesitant and apologetic. “Yes. I tried to wake you earlier, but…”

“Oh damn.” Urgency gripped him by the throat. He clawed his long hair out of his face as he threw the silk sheet aside and scrambled off the bed. Grimaced at the bright light pouring into his bedroom, then cast around, momentarily lost as to what to do next.

“Your gear,” said Samantha. “Shall I help you don it?”

“Yes, obviously.” He burped, and that triggered a hot rush of burning fluid up his throat. The angels wept. What had even happened last night? People lay curled up asleep in armchairs, intertwined amidst cushions on the rug, passed out on the divan. The air smelled of spilled liquor and stale yearnsmoke.

Harald swayed, a rush of emotions passing through him. Chagrin, horror, panic. The Tenth Bell. That meant Yeoric and the rest of the crew were already in the Plaza of Dials, waiting for him.

“Fuck,” he hissed, and began struggling to get out of his evening wear. His pants were missing, fortunately, but even so he tore buttons in his haste to get out of his long-sleeved ivory shirt.

There was no time for a bath. He’d have to show up reeking of smoke and with booze sweating from his pores. What a mess.

The next ten minutes were a blur. Were it not for Samantha, he’d never have managed. Worse, the gear he’d purchased two months ago for this day didn’t quite fit. Furious, disheartened, he sucked in his gut as Samantha cinched tight his leather armor.

“What a waste of effort,” he hissed, furious. “All that work to lose that weight. All that for nothing. You stop exercising for one minute and…”

Samantha remained quiet, her narrow face ashen, her brow furrowed, lips pursed.

The tight armor didn’t help his upset stomach. Breathing shallowly so as to not provoke the urge to vomit, he raised his arms so Samantha could tie his scabbard to his hip, then considered an emergency glass of whisky before heading outside. Just enough to steady his nerves.

“Where you off to, Harry?” called Vic from the divan, having roused himself enough to move a tasseled scarf off his face. “I thought we were going to do brunch at The Oak and Acorn?”

“Not me.” Harald drew himself up. “I’m going to the dungeon. I’m late.”

“The dungeon?” Vic’s eyes widened, and then he grinned, delighted. “You were being serious last night?”

“Drop dead,” snarled Harald, and marched out of the room. It felt like walking on the deck of a ship. Was he still drunk? He was sweating, a bad sweat, cold and thick, and his stomach felt like it was full of greasy chunks of ice.

“Here,” said Samantha, trotting along to keep up, batting a lock of blonde hair from her face. “Your scale pouch. It’s all you have left. My apologies. I mean that literally.”

He belted it to his side.

“And your dagger,” she said, sliding it into the sheath. “Do you have your writ of entry?”

“Stop badgering me,” he snarled, then stopped by the front door to gaze up at the large oil painting. How long had he waited for this moment, to stand before the portrait of his father and salute him as a fellow dungeon delver?

His father.

The painting had been commissioned after the legendary raid that had resulted in his finding the Nightshard scale. Wealth enough to make him a count at court, but his father had never wanted to enter that elevated society. Instead, he’d cashed in the scale, and with that fortune lifted his little family from poverty to the heights of luxury.

“I’m finally going to do it, Dad.” Harald studied his father’s vulpine, forceful face. His eternally mocking smile. “I’m following in your footsteps. I’ve got a crew and everything. It’s - it’s thanks to -” A vicious burp tore itself up from the grottoes of his gut, and he bent over, desperately swallowing burning bile.

Samantha held out a tumbler of whisky, her expression painfully neutral.

“Thanks, Sam.” Harald tossed it down, hissed, then handed the tumbler back. Fire washed down his throat, flooded his murky stomach, and settled the worst of the nausea. Straightening, he looked up at his father again. “I’m going to do you proud, Dad. You’ll see. I might not find a Nightshard today, but I will soon. No, not a Nightshard. Maybe a Zenith Tide. Who knows? But I’m going to do you proud. You and Mom. I’m finally…” He burped again, a manageable, smallish burp, and wiped the back of his hand across his lips. By the angels, he was sweating like a pig. “I’m finally going to make something of myself. You’ll see.”

His father smiled down at him, his expression derisive, confident, eternal.

“Good luck, Harald,” whispered Sam, opening the front door.

“Ha. Like I need it.” Harald stepped out into the painfully bright sunlight. “I’ll be back this evening loaded with scales and stories of our successes. You’ll see, Sam. This is the beginning of a new me.”

Was that pity in Sam’s face? “I hope so, sir. And here. Don’t forget this.”

And she drew out his father’s pendant.

Harald stilled. “You remembered.”

“Of course. I thought you’d appreciate having it with you.”

Harald took the pendant. It was a crooked black thing, a stone finger, its talon sharp enough to scratch rock. He hated it, had always hated it, but his father had brought it back from the 65th Level as a memento of his battle with Vorakhar the shadow demon.

The demon from which he’d wrested his famed Nightshard.

“Yes,” he whispered, and draped the pendant around his neck. “Thank you.”

“He’d be proud of you,” whispered Sam.

Harald resisted the urge to snarl at her. Of course his father would be proud of him. He didn’t need Sam to tell him that. But he bit back the caustic words. The only way to prove himself was through decisive action. She’d not pity him when he returned victorious. After celebrating with his loyal crew, of course. So he spun on his heel and marched down the impressive driveway to the ornate iron gates.

Once, he’d have driven down to the Plaza of Dials in his father’s scale-coach, but that old hulk now rusted in the garage, draped in white sheets and deprived of all power. So instead, he let himself out, ignoring the empty guard post that hadn’t been manned in over five years, and stepped onto Baldric Avenue.

The metropolis of Flutic was ablaze with activity and energy. Old-fashioned horse-drawn carriages rolled by, elegant men and women in the latest fashion strolled arm in arm along the broad pavements, while unobtrusive guard patrols in black and gold marched by in pairs or stood on the street corners.

Why did it have to be so blasted hot?

Harald set off. His scabbard kept banging against his leg. His leather armor was too damned tight, so he undid each of the clasps, one by one, promising that each was the last he’d loosen. He wiped at his sweaty brow over and over again, cursing his fine, long hair that kept getting plastered across his brow.

Bells began to ring.

It couldn’t be the Eleventh Bell already, could it?

It was.

Panicked, Harald broke into a jog. Two months ago, he’d gotten into the best shape of his life. Which, sure, was good compared to where he’d been six months before that, but now? Now he felt like it had all been a waste. He was able to maintain a steady jog for some six blocks, drawing amused stares from passersby, but finally had to slow and walk, gasping for breath and fighting to keep his stomach quiet.

Not that Yeoric and the others could leave without him. He’d paid for their gear, brought them together, fired them up with his passion and zeal. They were his raiding crew. If he was late, they’d just have to wait.

Or so he told himself.

He jogged then walked, jogged then walked, until at last he saw a passing hansom cab. With immense relief he flagged it down, panting and burping, and crawled gratefully into the small cab after telling the driver where to go.

The wheels rattled over the cobblestones, the horse’s hooves clopped, and the city scrolled by in all its faded glory. Harald closed his eyes and focused on breathing through his nose.

He’d almost fallen asleep when they drew to a stop.

“We’re here, sir!” called the driver with unnecessary volume.

“Oh, thank you.” Harald roused himself, rubbed at his eyes, then dug into his pouch for a Copper Crescent scale.

“That’ll be two Silvers,” said the driver, insultingly cheerful.

“Two?” Harald gaped at him, then realized he’d not established the fare from the get-go. Damn it.

But there, Yeoric and the others were watching from the shadows of the massive central sundial. He couldn’t let them see him haggle, so he drew out two of the small Silver scales and handed them over.

“Have yourself a blessed day,” smiled the cabby, and leaped up to his seat with enviable alacrity.

“Get tossed,” muttered Harald, then turned to his crew with a forced smile.

They were all here. Of course they were. Yeoric in his serviceable half-plate armor, unpainted and dull, but somehow all the more impressive for being meant for actual battle. Lucine, tall and elegant, her half-elf heritage shining through in her refined features and slightly pointed ears, her chainmail glimmering like fish scales beneath her tabard of white and gold. Gazurn, an actual dwarf from Dumrûn, his great beard braided and tucked into his broad belt, his powerful hands resting atop the hilt of his war hammer. And his friend Derrick, that old rascal, his hair painted an artificial black, his skin pasty white, his smile unnerving.

His crew.

“Yeoric!” Harald tried for a boom as he crossed the plaza to where they stood, the huge sundial looming behind them. “Here I am. Just got a little waylaid on the way. But no matter. Are we ready?”

Yeoric was everything Harald had grown up wanting to be. Tall, broad shouldered, and handsome, he watched with a flat stare as Harald approached. “You said Ten Bells. We’ve been here over an hour.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry.” There, a bit of generosity to set things at ease, to reinforce that he didn’t feel above them. “I might have gotten away with celebrating our adventure last night.”

“You celebrated before the raid?” asked Lucine, her tone acidic.

Harald frowned. She’d never spoken to him like that before. “I, well. I know we’re destined for greatness, so, I thought a drink or two…?”

Lucine sneered and shook her head in disgust. Harald felt a different kind of nausea wash through him. Lucine liked him. She’d even flirted with him, had made him think that if all went well, she might be willing to…

“Look, Harald.” Yeoric stepped up and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I’ve bad news.”

“Bad news?” Harald tried to shrug off Yeoric’s hand and failed. “What do you mean, bad news? We’ve still got the whole day to get below. What’s wrong?”

Yeoric studied him, his square jaw jutting out, then sighed. “You’re not coming.”

Harald just stared up at him. “What?”

“You heard him,” snapped Derrick irritatedly. “You’re not coming, lard-ass.”

“I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you,” continued Yeoric, his tone inexorable. “But you’re not dungeon raid material. It’ll be too dangerous for you.”

“What?” Now Harald did shrug off Yeoric’s hand and stepped back. “What are you talking about? This is my raid. I paid for your armor, your weapons, your elixirs. I paid - Derrick, I fucking paid for you to open your soul window! I paid for the raid permit, this is - what are you…?”

Lucine sighed. “Oh, grow up, Harald. Yes, we appreciate your generosity, and we’ve already thanked you I don’t know how many times. But we’re done groveling. Honestly, it’s ridiculous for you to think you’d actually come. You don’t even know how to use that sword.”

“We can’t risk your dying,” said Yeoric. “So you’re going to stay behind. We’ll give you a cut of the profit, however. We all agreed that 5% is fair.”

“5%?” Harald spluttered. He felt like he was drowning, couldn’t breathe. “You’re… no! Absolutely not! The contract! We all signed a contract, you can’t do this -”

Yeoric looked away as he stepped in casually and buried his fist in Harald’s stomach.

The world grew at once brighter and tightened to a narrow tunnel as Harald’s whole body clenched up. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stand. He slid off Yeoric’s fist and fell to the ground, where he promptly spewed all over the cobblestones.

Yeoric crouched down next to him. “Easy there, you’re all right. Just breathe. Now, we’ll be taking the writ. Derrick?”

Hands pulled at his belt.

Harald tried to slap the hands away, but he couldn’t focus. His whole body was in agony, his throat burning, stars in his eyes. He’d never been hit before. By the Fallen Angel, it hurt.

“You won’t need your scales either,” said Lucine, crouching lithely beside him. “But we might for healing. So thank you again for your generosity.”

Harald tried to wheeze, to protest, but Yeoric pinned him to the ground with one hand.

“Easy,” said Yeoric again. “We’re almost done. Derrick had a friend in the Mining Consortium remove your name from the permit, so don’t try going to the authorities about this. Honestly, Harald, this is for the best. You go home and rest. You look like you need it. We’ll let you know how it goes when we emerge.”

Harald blinked away tears of outrage. He tried to sit up, but Yeoric kept him pinned, his face stony.

“Let go of me,” snarled Harald when he could breathe at last.

Yeoric kept him pinned for another beat. Harald struggled but got nowhere. Finally, when he’d proved his point, Yeoric removed his hand. “Go home, Harald. This life isn’t for you. You might not see it, but we’re doing you a favor. One day, I’m sure you’ll thank me.”

“Fuck you,” snapped Harald, fighting the urge to cry. Then he looked past Lucine and Derrick to where Gazurn stood, expression unyielding and cold.

“Gazurn?”

The dwarf shook his head. “If you were meant to come with us, you would not have let this happen.”

They were all against him.

“All right, everyone,” said Yeoric, rising to his feet with ease despite his massive armor. “We’ve got the writ and broken the news to Harald. Let’s get to raiding.”

“Finally,” said Lucine. “And Harald? If you ever leer at me again, I’ll cut off your junk and feed it to you. Clear?”

Harald simply stared at her, hatred and horror burning all his words away.

“Cheer up, Harald.” Derrick grinned. “Now you get to go to The Oak and Acorn and have a drink. Honestly, it’s kind of incredible that you thought all this time that you were part of the crew.”

“Incredible?” Lucine arched a brow. “Or beyond pathetic?”

“Either or,” laughed Derrick, bouncing Harald’s scale pouch in his palm. “Oh, here.” He dug out a Copper Crescent and tossed it into the vomit by Harald’s face. “For your champagne.”

Then he had the gall to wink.

“Let’s go,” said Yeoric, and led the group out of the plaza.

Harald pushed himself up to sitting, his arms shaking, his stomach throbbing, his mind spinning.

That hadn’t just happened.

This was just a nightmare.

Sam would wake him any moment now.

It’d be the Eighth Bell, and he’d have ample time to get to the Plaza of Dials to meet up with his crew.

His crew.

Tears welled up in his eyes and he bit back a sob.

He saw his father’s mocking smile.

His father’s piercing eyes.

Harald’s face burned. His stomach was on fire. People were going about their business, all of them studiously avoiding him.

Vic would probably be making his way to The Oak and Acorn by now. Along with Bestik, Evernessa, and the others. They’d buy him drinks, sympathize, listen as he poured out his outrage…

“No,” whispered Harald. “No, I won’t go get a damned drink.”

Arms shaking, his whole body in pain, he forced himself to stand. Rose to his feet, swayed, then placed his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“I will go raiding today. Screw you guys. Screw all of you. I don’t need you. I never needed you! I’ll… I’ll find my own glory.”

With great care he picked up the Copper from where it lay in his spew. He rubbed it clean on his pant leg and then closed his fingers around its sharp edges.

Wiped his face with his sleeve, then set off after the crew.

Toward the Dungeon Plaza.

Tears brimmed and ran down his cheeks. The world swayed. With each breath, he had to fight the urge to retch.

“I’ll make you proud, Dad.” He whispered the words brokenly as if they were a talisman, and reached up to clutch the black, broken finger hanging around his neck. “I swear it. I’ll make you proud. I will.”