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Throne Hunters Book 4, Chapter 36
🕑 Added 2025-06-19 16:53:48 +0000 UTCHouse Emberfell had turned out in force. The broad avenue before the House Celestara manor was filled with Emberfell guards, raiders, and more incredibly, scale golems. Scale lanterns atop high poles illuminated the block so brightly it looked as if a false day had dawned, and the fore of this formidable army stood Lord Doran Blaze, resplendent in massive plate armor that looked to have been fashioned from gems and smoky gray marble.
House Celestara guards opened the main gate so that Harald, the Throne Hunters, and Lord Josse and Yseult Khan could emerge to parlay. Hundreds of stony stares were trained on them, and Harald estimated that a good third of those assembled in the street had to be raiders. Copper-ranked, mostly, but with enough Silvers and Golds to ensure that nobody doubted the lethality of the moment.
Lord Josse was pallid, his chin raised, his brow glistening with sweat. Yseult Khan looked stoic, emotionless, and Harald guessed she was so shocked by the violence of recent events that she’d yet to fully grasp everything that was at play. That was the danger of being led by someone as competent and brilliant as Melisende: it became impossible to imagine a world without them.
But Harald was fully grounded in the moment. If the pregnant silence that filled the air wasn’t emphasis enough for what was at stake, Doran Blaze’s flat, unyielding stare filled in the gaps.
House Celestara raiders stopped within the gate, with perhaps another fifty guards crowded in behind. Their numbers were shy of Emberfell’s by a good margin. Yseult had explained that their second strongest raiding team was currently in the dungeon, and his own Throne Hunters had injured or killed a good twenty of the regular House guards.
Whereas Doran had Thornar Blackhammer with him. The legendary Gold-ranked raider was second in the charts only to Seraphina the Skyward Blade and ranked one spot above Yseult. The man was as solid as a granite wall, his chin square, his dark hair graying at the temples, his shoulders as square as a barn door. He stood by Doran’s side, his signature weapon missing, his beefy forearms crossed over his bull-like chest. His luxurious mustache hung past his chin and his heavy brow beetled out over his dark eyes.
Thornar fucking Blackhammer.
Harald could barely believe what was happening.
Yet here he was, leading his friends out to face the combined might of House Emberfell.
Lord Josse cleared his throat. “This is a provocation, Doran.” His voice sounded unfortunately reedy in the tense air. “How dare you bring such a force to my doorstep. Do you wish to test House Celestara’s might?”
“I’ve word that Lady Melisende is dead.” Doran’s voice was heavy, weary almost. “Is that true, Lord Josse?”
“It is. She perished tonight, but that loss is a private affair. Depart and leave us to our grief.”
Doran ignored the demand, which immediately qualified how seriously he took Josse. He looked instead to Yseult. “You follow your brother now?”
Yseult came back to the moment. “He is the current head of House Celestara.”
Current. Not a good qualifier.
“I was aware of tonight’s political machinations.” Doran raised his voice so all could hear. “I agreed to side with Harald Darrowdelve and Anna Sonora on the condition that there be no violence. A foolish request, I know, but I wasn’t so naive to believe it would be scrupulously followed. Hence my readiness to visit House Celestara in force.” His gaze fell upon Harald. “You disappoint me, boy. Worse. You betrayed my trust. Noble blood has been spilt. This will not be forgiven.”
A dozen things suggested themselves in response. Harald could bluster, could insult the man, could reach for scorn, for flippancy. Vic was fairly vibrating by his side, but in the end, what was there to say? So Harald merely held Doran’s gaze and waited. The man had, after all, come to pronounce judgement.
“I warned you that I would not tolerate murder. Yet murder has taken place. To you, Lord Josse, I demand the following: relinquish what protection you’ve given the Throne Hunters crew. Hand them over to me for justice, and I in turn will respect your grief and depart.”
Josse stirred. “A fair request. I accept on the condition that I retain the company of Victor Carmine. The rest are yours.”
Nessa exhaled in sharp amusement, while Harald couldn’t help but smile sidelong at the pale-haired lord.
“As long as those entrusted to my care possess the Twilight Crown, I care not.”
“The Twilight Crown belongs to Victor Carmine,” said Josse.
“Then we’re at an impasse. I know that your forces are weaker than my own. Much blood will be shed, but you have several key raiding teams absent and in the dungeon. You’ll die here, Josse, if you press the issue. Hand over the Throne Hunters, give me the Crown, and you’ll be spared.”
Yseult inhaled deeply as if awakening from a dream. “You’ll die if you give the order to attack, Doran. I’ll go for you first.”
Thoran Blackhammer extended his arm so that his infamous war hammer could appear in his grasp. It wasn’t oversized or overtly magical, perhaps only three feet in length, but the air suddenly tasted metallic and Harald felt the prickle of his every hair standing up along his arms and the nape of his neck. “Easy with the promises, Yseult.” Thoran’s voice was an amused rumble. “You’d have to get through me, first.”
Everyone shifted subtly, hands dropping to weapons, eyes narrowing.
This was going to go to hell, fast.
“A suggestion.” Harald’s voice cut through the hubbub. “Vic, give me the Crown.”
Everybody watched as Vic stilled. Harald turned to him, hand extended. For a long, aching second everything hung in the balance. Harald kept his expression casual, but it felt as if his heart had ceased beating.
Vic cut a glance at Josse, then raked the Emberfell forces with his glare, then finally laughed. “What, this thing?” He materialized the Crown and spun it casually about his forefinger. “You want this bauble? Sure. I was only going to pawn it later for a few Golden Dawns.”
And he tossed it over to Harald.
But despite is easy smile, oh how is eyes glittered with intensity.
Harald snagged the Crown and turned to face House Emberfell. “This is what’s at stake. The Twilight Crown. The very same that King Gustav wore.” He raised it high. “Now, there are two ways we can go about this. All out war, with the entire neighborhood being destroyed, hundreds killed, blood spilled, and terrible loss to Flutic, or—” He lowered his arm, voice growing soft. “Or Lord Doran can challenge me for it. Single combat. If he thinks himself worthy of the Crown, then he shouldn’t be afraid of taking it for himself. After all.” Harald smiled. “I’m merely a Level 4 raider. Surely the Lord of House Emberfell will have no difficulty putting me in my place?”
“That’ll be a coffin,” agreed Doran, amiably. “A nice ploy. But I have the numbers. Why should I introduce chaos into what is otherwise a favorable equation on my behalf?”
“Because I know Lady Yseult will kill you if you don’t.” Harald shrugged. “Sure, Thornar might interpose himself, but House Celestara doesn’t need to defeat your every soldier. They just need to kill you. Can Thornar and the rest of your raiders keep everyone from landing one lucky blow on your neck? You can easily crush me, but can you block a single blow from Lady Yseult or the rest of her Gold-ranked crew?”
Doran’s amiable smile hardened, and he looked past Harald to examine the House Celestara raiders.
No doubt he was running the odds. No doubt he was already regretting having chosen to lead this venture in person, to place himself at the forefront of his small army. Harald had no idea if Yseult and the rest of House Celestara would agree to make Doran their sole target, but nobody was contradicting him.
“You agree to these terms, Yseult?” Doran ignored Lord Josse with sublime ease. “If I defeat Harald you won’t contest my taking the Crown?”
Yseult shook her head. “I care nothing for the Crown or the Throne Hunters.”
Lord Josse spluttered, glanced at his sister, then decided to hold his tongue.
“Very well.” Doran licked his lower lip. “A duel, then. It’s been too long since I dusted off my Artifacts. The victor walks free, Crown in their possession.”
Harald’s heart was pounding. How strong was Doran? He was no Gold-ranked raider, or at least, had never been registered as one, but he had to have Ascended some four, maybe even five of his Thrones. And he’d have the very best Artifacts available to House Emberfell, whose fame rested on the quality of their craftsmanship.
“Let’s not be gauche.” Vic raised his palms. “This duel is to be pretty consequential, right? Harry should have the chance to pray to the Fallen Angel, make peace with his sins, and say goodbye to his friends. Let it take place at Tenth Bell. That’s not too far away at this point. And can we not hold this brawl in the street like ruffians? I’m sure Lord Josse will extend official hospitality to House Emberfell so we can hold the fight in private behind House Celestara walls?”
“Assuredly,” agreed Josse, nodding rapidly as if relieved to once more be involved in the conversation. “House Celestara will host this duel and observe all decorum.”
Doran exchanged a glance with Thornar. “Very well. Tenth Bell is due to strike soon. On your word as the leader of House Celestara, I will enter your home with an honor guard so as to conduct this duel.”
Yseult Khan inclined her head in agreement, and so it was settled.
“Great!” Vic shook Harald’s shoulder. “Then let’s go and say our goodbyes. It’s been such a wild run! A shame it all has to come to an end.”
Harald stepped back warily, then again. Doran watched him go with a quiet smile. The smile of a man already savoring his victory. And Harald couldn’t fault him. They retreated through the gate, and as they made their way back along the drive toward the manor Yseult stepped up alongside Harald.
“You won’t get any help from us.” Her voice was cold and hard as coffin spikes. “You brought this upon yourself. No resources, no aid, no advice, nothing. When you die I’ll throw your corpse on the midden heap myself.”
“Charming,” said Sam, coming up on Harald’s other side.
Yseult’s clear stare pierced Harald with all the grief and rage that she was keeping within, and then she turned to Josse to guide him aside.
The Throne Hunters made their way to one side of the garden, for instinct warned them they were no longer welcomed in the manor. They gathered in the darkness beneath a copse of apple trees, and for a moment stood thus, facing each other in grim, horrified silence.
“Well!” Vic clapped his hands together. “This is all going splendidly. Aren’t you all glad Uncle Vic is here to save the day, yet again?”
“How?” demanded Sam. “Are you going to encourage us to run away? Because we’re being watched by Yseult’s crew.”
Harald glanced back toward the lawn, and saw Sam was right. Three shadowed individuals stood in the gloom close by.
“If we try to run they’ll cut us down,” agreed Nessa soberly. “House Celestara has agreed to host this duel. They won’t let us escape and besmirch their honor.”
“Oh no, Harry’s going to fight. I’m talking about this.” And Vic reached into pack to draw out a small, luxurious looking bag threaded with gold. “I snagged this by accident while leaving Melisende’s private vault, as intuition told me it was bound to hold something good. And does it ever. Harry? Stretch out those palms of yours.”
Harald frowned, not wanting to allow tremulous hope to be reborn in his chest, and extended his hands. Vic undid the drawstring and upended the sack so that a number of scales tumbled free. They burned with their own inner light in the gloom, each the darkest most royal purple, their fluted, kite-shield forms containing starfields within them so that each looked cut from the dusk sky.
Twilight Infinitums. A dozen? Enough that they filled his cupped hands so that a few spilled over onto the ground.
“Careful, careful,” chided Vic, dropping into a crouch to snatch up the fallen scales. “You’re treating them like Copper Crescents.”
“The angels wept,” breathed Sam, drawing close. “Are they all Infinitums?”
“I think so.” Vic glanced up at them from where he crouched, toothy grin pale in the gloom. “Seventeen of them. Poor House Celestara! I almost feel bad for them.”
“Seventeen.” Harald stared, mesmerized, at the handful of purple scales. He held enough wealth in his palms to almost double what his father had brought out from the Dungeon after his deal with Vorakhar. 17,000,000 Copper Crescents’ worth.
“You should be able to Ascend to your fourth Throne,” agreed Vic, rising smoothly to his feet. “And then I figured the rest we could divide amongst ourselves. Two each, to give us a boost. The trick, then, becomes figuring out what best combination of Artifacts in our possession will allow you to take on Doran.”
“He’s rumored to be a 8th Level,” said Anna quietly. “But it’s his Artifacts we have to worry about. I don’t know how many Thrones he’s ascended, but it’ll be at least three, if not probably more.”
“The Chyron Scourge,” said Nessa firmly. “It’s the only weapon we possess with a hope of breaking through that armor of his.”
“The Gold Chop?” Sam glanced about their group. “With four Thrones he’ll have four of them.”
“Hmm.” Nessa considered. “The Ashwright’s Wreath slows down time when you’re attacked, right? That could help give him an edge.”
“What if he hits Doran with the Compressed World?” asked Anna.
Nessa shook her head. “It would lock Doran up, but make it equally hard for Harald to hit him.”
“I got some Artifacts from the two raiders I killed.” Harald reached into his pouch and drew forth a small golden sphere. “This one’s Masterwork, it’s called The Solace of Aurelum. It’ll completely heal me when I’m on the brink of death once per day. Plus it gives me a +4 to Constitution, so…”
Nessa nods. “The Chyron’s Scourge and the Solace, then. You should take the Aureate Master for its doubling of your bonuses. Which leaves one slot left. The Ashwright’s Wreath would give you an edge, but perhaps you should take the Rootheart Sigil instead.”
“Thracos’ weird pendant thing?” asked Vic. “You think some vines will trip up Doran?”
“We’ll be fighting on the manor grounds,” said Nessa. “Which means plenty of greenery to manipulate. Plus it bestows a +2 to Presence and Constitution. That would bring Harald’s Constitution to…”
“31,” said Harald quietly. “Not bad.”
“I think that’s our best bet,” agreed Nessa. “Doran will be too powerful for you to take down with a couple of hits. You’ll need to wear him out, outlast him. We’ll work on the details of your strategy, but first you should absorb those scales. Ascending to your fourth Throne is no joke. You’re going to start entering the more mystical part of your journey.”
“Mystical?” asked Harald.
Nessa shrugged, dismissive. “So it’s said. I’ve never spoken to anyone with that many ascended Thrones, so it could be all nonsense.”
“It’s not nonsense,” said Anna quietly. “The first Throne is Harmony, which is said was set by the Fallen Angel in the hopes that it would spread peace amongst the greatest number of raiders.”
Vic snorted derisively, then subsided under Anna’s flat stare.
“The second is of Shadows, which comes to those for whom peace isn’t enough,” she continued. “Then War, which is guessed to be the goal for those whom two Thrones was insufficient. But if you can transcend the impulse for battle, the fourth Throne is Knowledge, and is located in the Fallen Angel’s head. It’s said that one acquires a modicum of Her awareness upon ascending to it, beginning the drive towards apotheosis.”
“What are the remaining Thrones?” asked Kársek respectfully. “We Tinker dwarves have never paid too much attention to human spirituality, I’m afraid.”
“The next is Aether,” said Anna. “Then Eternity, and finally Transcendence. Few ever reach such heights.”
“You’d need ten Celestial Prismwings to ascend to your seventh Throne,’ said Sam quietly. “Ten billion scales. Nobody’s ever achieved it.”
“There’s probably not that much wealth in the world,” agreed Vic. “But what we do have are a bunch of Infinitums we should all get to gobbling up like a gaggle of geese. Honestly, could I have a little recognition here? I feel like I’ve become the villain in this tale, what with my stabbing Anna a little in the leg and ordering Josse to stab his sister to death then demanding he swear fealty to me while I wore the Twilight Crown.” He gazed about the group with raised brows. “Right? This is me literally buying my way back into your good graces. And not just with a little wealth. With an obscene amount of wealth. Which, given what you know about me? Is about as saintly as it gets.”
Anna crossed her arms.
“I appreciate it, Vic.” Harald considered the immense wealth in his hands. “But—”
“I know, I know.” Vic waved a hand. “No stabbing Throne Hunters, no… I don’t know, imperiling the world for our demonic overlords, no kicking puppies, and so forth. Honestly, it’s so tiresome to dwell on what happened in the past. Let’s set our eyes on the bright future ahead of us.”
Sam rested her weight on one leg, her other hip sticking out. “You’re referring to the ancient past that happened two Bells ago?”
Vic waved a hand. “Yes, yes. I can barely remember it. The follies of youth. Unless you all don’t want in on my gorgeous, sultry, Twilight Infinitums?”
Sam studied Vic suspiciously. “What about your obsessive interest in saving the common people of Flutic?”
“Oh, that’s as fresh and fuckable as ever,” agreed Vic. “But I am a pragmatist, darling. I’ve nothing to leverage any longer on that account. But rest assured, I’ll keep a weather eye out for helping the common man—and woman, don’t get me wrong, I love me the ladies—from hereon out. Beginning with helping Harald kill another lord of a major House.”
“Ah,” said Anna. “There it is.”
Vic winked. “Can you fault me on this one? One stone, two birds, or what have you?”
“We don’t have much time left,” said Nessa. “Tenth Bell is about to ring.”
“Each of you pluck two scales, then.” Vic bounced those he’d picked off the ground in one palm. “That should leave Harry with nine, which should be sufficient for him to ascend.”
Everyone but Kársek did so.
“You might want to lie down,” said Anna quietly. “This ascension will hit you harder than the previous ones.”
Harald nodded soberly, found a tree to sit against, and then closed his eyes, cupped palms in his lap. The others did the same, finding a spot of privacy in which to absorb their two million scales’ worth of value.
Harald dove into his Cosmos. Down he sank, swimming with surety and excitement, the nine purple scales burning brightly in his hands. Down till the armature of the Fallen Angel appeared before him, brilliant and impossibly beautiful, a million billion pinpricks of colored starlight forming her supine form.
Harald hovered above the corpse, then raised the nine purple scales and returned them to her, so that they flashed brightly and were gone. In that moment a thought occurred to him: did the Fallen Angel never run out of scales because those she gifted to raiders were inevitably returned to her through this process? If so, then wouldn’t that mean—
The Fallen Angel stirred to life, wings beating slowly, face rising, arms stretching out. In her palms he saw the Thrones of Harmony, in her wings were hidden the Thrones of Shadow, in her heart blazed the Throne of War, and now, as power flowed into him in a torrent, he saw the Throne of Knowledge light up in her brow, its light sublime, the palest white, extending to illuminate his Cosmos and drown him in her mind.
And for a moment, his awareness, his understanding, deepened. He saw how his binding to Vorakhar played out in the grander scheme of events, how the Fallen Angel was both battlefield and promise, a challenge and a tragedy. How without her involvement in mortal affairs the world would have continued along banal, prosaic, predictable paths, everyone struggling for power, wealth, influence, might, and magic. How humanity would have continued in much the same way it had even with her death, but without the hope, the potential to become so much more. A potential they had hitherto squandered, but how it was still not too late, how there was yet room for greatness, true beauty, the ultimate sacrifices whose very nature would be infused with the grace and divinity the Angel had brought to the land of the living.
Rapt with wonder, pierced by hope, Harald marveled at the living Angel within his Cosmos, but then she stilled, the purple light dimming, and all too soon she was still once more, a corpse, mute, enigmatic in her death.
His understanding dimmed and left him aching to recall the reason for his surge in emotions. Even as he considered it the thoughts faded like a passing dream. Something about hope, how it was still not too late to turn the tide against the demons, how she’d set events in motion purposefully, so that even this, this dark moment in history, this nadir of politics and corruption, could…
It was gone.
Harald stared, bereft, but despite the loss he couldn’t deny the new power available to him. He had paid back the scales to the Fallen Angel, returned her tokens to her, and in exchange he now had permanent access to the fourth Throne.
Four Thrones of divinity were his to tap and command as needed.
Harald raised his face to the surface and began to rise, his purpose hardened, his ambition refined.
The war against the demons called him more than ever. It felt beyond personal now, it felt… existential.
But first he had to defy the odds, accomplish the impossible, and crush Lord Doran Blaze.
Comments
Mark Timmony
Okay, we’re getting there!
Raymond Lenihan
Are we going to see a pov of Lord Thornvale (is that his name? Can't remember) seeing his artifact tied to Thracos going out? I'd love to see his reaction to that.
Lorenz
4 thrones for Harry boy all right!!! But boy is Lord Blaze going to be a challenge no doubt Harald has his work cut out for him…..
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