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Throne Hunters Book 4, Chapter 5
🕑 Added 2025-05-05 17:48:36 +0000 UTC“It’s an absolute debacle,” murmured Snarri Blind-Eyes as he strode into the Council Basilica alongside Lady Melisende Celestis. “I haven’t seen the like since the Extraction League provoked the first Shuddering.”
Lady Melisende kept her features schooled to noncommittal calm as she led her entourage through the grand hall. The air was alive with murmuration, and everywhere counselors, advisors, grandees, diplomats, couriers, and servants stood whispering in knots or rushing urgently on some errand.
As one of the heads of the six noble Houses, however, her arrival was of particular note; she’d long ago grown used to ignoring covert and overt stares, to gliding through maelstroms of political panic with confidence and poise. Anyone examining her countenance for signs of weakness or fear would come away disappointed, having affirmed only that the Lady of House Celestara was as in control and formidable as ever.
Within, however, she was trembling with fury.
“I shall allow myself to remind the others just once that I foresaw this eventuality,” she said, voice pitched low so that only her head advisor could hear. “And then I shall insist we move on to practical matters. Much as I’d like to rub their idiotic faces in the fact that this could have all been avoided.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Snarri pleasantly. “There’s no doubting the city would be far better run if you had been given safekeeping of the Crown as you’d suggested.”
Melisende eyed her dwarven advisor with amusement. Gray-haired, with a plain white cloth wrapped around his eyes, he wore the royal blue and gold of her House as he’d done for generations of her lineage. “What news from the Church?”
“A delegation is en route, complete with an entire hand of Inquisitors.”
An entire hand? Melisende hid her shock, and then chided herself a moment later. If ever there was a time to bring out the deathsheads, it was now, wasn’t it?
She inclined her head politely to a minor noble associated with her House and consciously restrained herself from striding too quickly down the cavernous hall. All must now flow at the ordained speed. Her party couldn’t be seen rushing to the meeting, no matter how dire the circumstances.
Everything must now play out along the ordained steps.
Up ahead, the grand staircase rose to the great double doors beyond which lay the Council Chamber itself. Ceremonial Council guards stood on either side of the entrance, golden pikes held ramrod stiff, their silver and gilded plate armor turning each guard into an imposing figure and emblem of the City Council’s authority.
A farce.
Nobody wasted good soldiers or raiders on the Council guards.
The House Celestara faction mounted the steps and entered the Council basilica. The huge chamber was astir just like the great hall behind them, with House representatives mingling, cajoling, bargaining, or evaluating each other in full force.
The huge domed ceiling almost disappeared overhead above the great wheel of candles, and the circular table beneath it was large enough to sit fifty. Yet as Melisende entered the august chamber, her gaze slid past the sharp probing glances of a dozen supremely important figures to the throne that had sat empty at the chamber’s far end ever since King Gustav had failed to return from the Dungeon.
The throne from which he’d ruled as Flutic’s last king with the Twilight Crown, raising the city to the heights of power and wealth even as he’d ground its nobility into servitude and ignominy.
Somebody over the course of the past centuries had affixed a barbed spike to the throne’s seat, ten inches tall and of cruel rusted iron. A warning, perhaps, to anybody who might seek to sit on the throne, and an endless source of dissipated jokes as to the manner of person who might enjoy sitting on such a prong.
The jaded jokes had lost their humor.
“Lady Celestis!” Lady Mirella Argent of House Silvershield stood on the Council chamber’s far side, and her sharp tone cut through the clamor. “I’m so glad you thought it worth dropping by. The rest of us have been awaiting your pleasure for almost an entire Bell.”
The crowd stilled.
The games had begun.
What an utter waste of time this all was.
Melisende smiled as she led her group to the House Celestara section of the table. Her sister, Yseult Khan, and her brother, Josse, moved to flank her. Snarri remained but a step behind, and the other attendants and Gold-ranked raiders formed a royal blue and gold wall behind her.
“My lords and ladies,” said Melisende, not bothering to address Mirella’s barb. “That which we have all feared has come to pass. The Twilight Crown is stolen, and the last of Lord Vandalmere’s progeny slain. Unless anybody has new intelligence worth sharing, we are all of us under threat of conquest and the peace of Flutic forever destroyed.”
Everybody settled down. Chairs scraped as those worthy of sitting at the table took their places, and the general rustle of clothing, cloaks, and clink of armor subsided as people turned their wary attention to her.
But to Melisende’s surprise, Mirella remained standing and interrupted.
“I do in fact have news. Upon learning this morning of what had transpired, I sent Lysandra Dawnbringer with her crew to secure the Dungeon Portal. Upon arriving, a crew of Copper-ranked raiders operating under Lady Anna Sonora’s patronage broke ranks and fled into the Portal in a manner most suspicious.”
This was news to only a few; still, Mirella deserved her moment to preen. It had been a canny move to act so quickly.
“Even more interestingly, Lady Anna is reputed to have been amongst their number. Yes. She has entered the Dungeon along with her raiders, all of them fleeing to the 4th Level without registering or observing any of the ancient protocols.”
All eyes slid across to the mighty Sir Gavriel Draken, how loomed massively in his crimson and steel grey finery. His tailoring was of a martial bent, and as always, he looked out of place amongst the other nobles, a giant and brutish man whose impatience with courtly proceedings was infamous.
He now rose to his full height and raised his chin. Age and a surfeit of scales had only served to make him more handsome; his hair was iron gray, his shovel beard close cut, and his hawknose lent him an air of predatory strength.
“House Sonora has been a feudal subject of House Drakenhart for two generations,” he said. “Despite my full support, they suffered commercial difficulties that peaked with Lord Sonora’s disappearance almost a decade ago. Lady Anna petitioned me for redress against Lord Gorkin, whom she accused of being behind her House’s misfortunes, but I was, of course, unable to intercede.”
Lady Melisende inclined her head. None could act against Lord Vandalemere’s progeny without the full vote of the Council. And there was no chance in hell of ever securing that without all of Flutic being in danger.
“Lord Gorkin approached me a few days ago with a loathsome request,” continued Lord Draken, expression darkening. “Lady Anna, he declared, had torched several of his warehouses in the Marheim Gate, and he wished to teach her a lesson. He swore that this confrontation would be of limited nature and observe the laws of the city, so I allowed him to proceed.”
Josse sharp exhalation betrayed his amusement and caused a flicker of annoyance in Melisende. Her brother was as easy to read as he thought himself masterful.
“I instructed the watch to not intervene in Lord Gorkin’s affairs,” continued Gavriel, tone heavy, “but now regret giving him too much rope. He clearly involved himself in matters beyond his understanding, and we shall be the ones to suffer for his idiocy.”
Lord Rowan Thorn of House Thornvale, svelte, athletic, and bemused, leaned back in his chair and canted his head to one side. “The city’s better for his death, a death, may I add, that half the whores of Flutic shall be cheering.”
The damned man. His words caused the Council to stir in annoyance and disgust, as he’d known they would, and his easy, charismatic smile betrayed his enjoyment.
But before someone could call out his lack of decorum, Lord Thorn pressed on. “But regardless. I, too, have information worth sharing. One of my raiders had dealings with Harald Darrowdelve, a member of Lady Anna’s crew. He revealed his intention of assaulting Gorkin’s manor to free Lady Anna and his friends, whom Gorkin had kidnapped.” Lord Thorn’s smile grew lazy. “My raider thought it a suicide run, for obvious reasons, but—well. It seems this Darrowdelve is endlessly surprising.”
Sir Draken leaned forward. “And you didn’t think it worth reporting when you heard it?”
“Unlike some, I only learned of Gorkin’s kidnapping plan this morning.” Thorn’s voice grew hard, though his smile remained. “And my underling thought Darrowdelve doomed. As would any of us have.”
Nods all around. Everybody knew of the depth of Lord Gorkin’s defenses.
“I don’t understand,” said Lord Doran Blaze. His voice was deep and powerful, the rumble of an earthquake shifting huge rocks deep within the earth. Nearly as wide as he was tall and clad in the fiery orange and slate blue of House Emberfell, he was singed and smudged as if he’d just stepped away from his forge. “The report states that over a hundred corpses were found at the Gorkin estate, including that of a Silver-ranked raider. Are we to believe to one Copper-ranked youth did this?”
“Darrowdelve,” said Lady Mirella, tapping her lipless mouth. “The name is familiar.”
“Son of Darius Darrowdelve,” said Sir Gavriel. “The man who emerged from the Dungeon with a Nightshard.”
“Ah, yes.” Mirella’s smile was a cold carving across her face. “His son, you say? Miracles seem to run in the family.”
“Miracles, or something else,” muttered Elara Verdant, breaking her silence for the first time. In her late forties, clad in the emerald green and bronze of House Veridian, she appeared to be in a state of constant inhalation, her nose permanently wrinkled, her lips pursed. Prematurely gray hair fell in cascade past her shoulders, and she wore a thick gold necklace that displayed her House’s Nightshard prominently upon her chest.
A ripple of unease swept through the chamber. It was rare for anyone to allude to the intimations of demonic corruption that were secretly leveled as various of the seated Houses.
Time to seize the initiative.
She rose to speak just as the double doors were thrown open, but bit back her outrage when she saw the figures who marched into the room.
The deathshead Inquisitors.
Their presence filled the huge chamber with dread. Melisende felt her own breath catch as she gazed upon them, and so perfect was the ensuing silence that their booted footsteps rang out loudly as they moved forward as one.
Five men were clad in matching ceremonial vestments of the deepest crimson and black. So richly were their robes embroidered with gold filigree, precious stones, and intricate iconography that the layered cloth appeared stiff and immobile, and draped heavily from their shoulders down to their feet. Their stark white miters were similarly accented in gold, and their hands were sheathed in black gloves. Each man’s cadaverous face had been painted the purest coal black, and over this base had been daubed blood-red paint that streaked down as if each had suffered a terrible scalp wound. All but for their eyes, whose ocular cavities were perfectly dark, for the men walked with their eyelids stitched closed.
Their leader was only differentiated by a white wimple that was tucked under his miter, framed his face, and hung down about his shoulders. He moved slowly and with terrible dignity to stand before the Church of the Fallen Angel’s segment of the round table, and there stopped, hands clasped loosely before him, expression dolorous, lower lip protruding, his four companions arranging themselves behind him.
Nobody spoke.
Even Lord Rowan Thorn has sat up straight.
Melisende caught herself and exhaled slowly, then, becoming aware of the need for a member of the Council to act as its head, spoke first into the yawning silence.
“The City Council is honored to welcome such prestigious members of Flutic’s mother Church into its deliberations. That the Church saw fit to bless us with five of your number confirms the gravity of the situation, and I believe I speak for the six noble Houses when I say I give thanks to the Fallen Angel for your support, wisdom, and guidance in this dark hour.”
The deathshead didn’t orient on her. Didn’t seem to hear a word. He stood, mute, horrific, his presence terrible to bear.
Melisende resisted the urge to dry swallow and tried again.
Finally, the head Inquisitor spoke, and when he did, it was with a sepulchral voice completely devoid of inflection or humanity.
“The Church of the Fallen Angel declares the polity of Flutic to have failed its faithful. Long have we remonstrated against the continued existence of the Twilight Crown as a symbol of earthly ambition and temptation, and now you have as a collective allowed it to fall into demonic hands.”
“The Church knows Harald Darrowdelve to belong to a demon?” asked Melisende as the room stirred uneasily.
Still the head inquisitor faced blindly forward. “How else can one explain the lethality of one man, the temerity of a minor House such as Sonora, and the acquisition of such an Artifact as the Twilight Crown? The Church of the Fallen Angel declares Harald Darrowdelve and Anna Sonora to be anathema. Word shall be sent forth so that all may know of their damned status. We five shall begin our hunt forthwith, and we shall delve the Dungeon until we return with their skulls and spinal columns dripping in one hand, the Twilight Crown in the other.”
Sir Draken stood once more, massive and dour. “The Council welcomes the Church’s aid, but the Crown belongs to the City Council. Should you acquire it, we’ll expect it be handed over immediately.”
Only now did the head inquisitor turn his stitched face to orient on Draken, who, despite his power and age, inhaled and took a step back at being so confronted.
“The Council has failed in its duties. The Crown is a threat to all. When we recover it, the Church shall fashion a mission to bring the Crown to Dumrûn where we shall petition the Anvil Kings destroy it.”
Damn it. She needed the Crown. It was an integral part of her own long-term plans. “We are, as always, grateful to the beloved Mother Church and her Inquisitors for helping safeguard our grand city. But the Crown is a temporal object, fashioned by the Fallen Angel herself, and a symbol of all that we resist. It is for the Council to decide its fate, and not the Church. With fervent respect and the utmost piety, we thank you for your aid, even as we must, with the greatest reluctance, insist that each involved party recall both its role and obligations.”
Had her throat ever been so tight, her mouth so dry? She barely recognized her own voice.
The inquisitor returned to staring ahead blindly. “The nobility of Flutic have failed in their duty. The Mother Church shall intercede for the good of all, and not only in this matter. For too long have we watched the city falter, its fortunes fail, its people suffer. For too long have we witnessed the rot that has crept into the fabric of society, the degeneracy, the impious nature of its leaders. Your Council’s faith in Lord Gorkin is emblematic of your weakness. The loss of the Twilight Crown is the final straw. The Church shall right the wrongs that your laxity has inflicted upon the city, and shall seek your cooperation in these matters.”
There was a long, drawn out pause as nobody dared breathe.
“And should the Council refuse to cooperate,” continued the Inquisitor, “then the Church shall exert itself to ensure that healing and piety returns to Flutic regardless.”
Melisende inhaled sharply as she raised her chin, gaze flicking out to the other nobles.
Sir Gavriel’s eyes were wide with fury, but his face had grown pale with fear. Lord Doran Blaze of House Emberfell’s brow had beetled out so far over his dark eyes that they’d all but disappeared, and his massive, scarred hand was closed into a fist. Lady Mirella Argent of House Silvershield was openly sneering, whereas Sir Rowan Thorn of House Thornvale was tapping his lips thoughtfully. Lady Elare Verdant of House Veridian appeared to be practically quivering with outrage, two high dots of color having appeared on her cheeks.
And around them?
Each had brought an elite raider to mark both their power and might. Melisende’s own sister, Lady Yseult Khan, was ranked third in all Flutic in scale count and renowned for her might. Behind Gavriel loomed Brianna Hammerfell, easily the largest person in the room. The ironically named Earthshaker stood behind Lord Thorn, his frame as slender as a dancer’s, his arms crossed over his golden scale mail, his angular features pensive. Newt One-Eye stood behind Lady Elara.
Four of the top ten ranked Gold-raiders stood within the chamber, alongside a dozen lesser Gold-ranked and Silver raiders.
Enough, possibly, to kill the five deathsheads, though no doubt everyone else would die in the eruption of power and the basilica itself and most of this city quarter be leveled.
The five Inquisitors couldn’t seem to care less.
Was she underestimating their power? Nobody had seen an Inquisitor be tested in a real battle for decades.
Nobody dared.
If the Mother Church decided to declare theocratic law, who would win? The combined might of the six Houses, or Her living saints and deathshead Inquisitors?
An academic question. The victor would rule over a devastated city. Everybody would lose.
Again, Melisende forced herself to take a calming breath.
The head Inquisitor stepped back from the table. “We shall proceed directly to the Dungeon. We expect to retrieve the Crown in short order. Prepare yourselves. A long overdue cleaning comes.”
And with that, the five turned as one and strode from the Council chamber.
Awed, terrified servants closed the double doors behind them, and the enter council seemed to exhale.
“All right,” said Melisende, and she was proud, so proud over her how voice didn’t shake. “If we’re to avoid theocratic war, we have no choice. We must combine our forces, our every resource, and do everything within our power to capture Darrowdelve and the Crown first. Anything less, and Flutic shall be destroyed in the conflagration to come.”
And for the first time that Melisende could recall, perhaps even in living memory, the other five members of the council rose to their feet, expression severe.
“Agreed,” said Sir Draken.
“Absolutely,” rumbled Lord Doran Blaze.
“There is no choice,” said Lady Mirella.
“House Viridian shall do what it must, and what it can,” said Lady Elara Verdant.
“We’re already working on it,” smiled Rowan Thorn. “But it’s good to hear that the rest of you are willing to do your part.”
“Working on it?” Melisende’s eyes narrowed. “How so?”
“My underling? Who spoke with Darrowdelve the night before?” Rowan’s smile became a dark grin. “He’s closing in even as we speak. With a little luck, this will all be resolved before the next Bell.”
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(Quick note: the following was inserted into Chapter 3, taking place just before they quit the manor. I'll repost this tomorrow as well to make sure everyone sees it.)
“Vic’s right,” said Anna, tone dry. “But I can reveal the details of my youth while we make for the Dungeon. Vic, did you procure the carriage?”
“He’s waiting outside the gate, gleefully counting each scale he’s earning while not doing a thing,” agreed Vic.
“Kársek?” Anna raised a brow. “Did you have time to count the scales?”
“I did, countess, though I was rushed in the endeavor. By my count we acquired three million, two hundred and twenty thousand Cooper Crescents’ worth of wealth.”
Vic let out a low whistle. “Imagine how much more Gorkin must have squirreled away around town.”
Anna raised her chin. “It’s my opinion that we should divide the scales equally amongst our number—Kársek excluded, unfortunately—and absorb them all. With House Sonora having to go to ground, and us spending the foreseeable future in the Dungeon, there’s no merit in retaining the wealth.”
“I’ve a different idea,” said Harald. “I’ve already Ascended my third Throne. Let’s first get everybody else above theirs, and then perhaps just give me what remains.”
“Very generous,” said Nessa dryly.
Harald met her gaze square on. “You object?”
“Hardly. Doesn’t matter. Thank you.”
“Quick tally,” said Anna. “How much do we each need to get to Ascend the third?”
They rattled off their numbers in quick succession, and Kársek did the sums rapidly and with such confidence that nobody felt the need to double check his figures. In all, it would take Sam, Nessa, Vic, and Anna a combined two million, eight hundred thousand scales.
“We don’t have much time,” said Nessa. “I suggest we skip the formalities?”
“Agreed,” said Vic, rolling up his sleeves. “We’ll toast our success in the Dungeon. Shall we?”
Kársek divided the largest scales amongst them, and they sat or lay down so as to set about the process.
Harald inclined his head as Kársek delivered the remainder: three Horizon’s Whispers and a mess of Zenith Tides and Aurora Veils.
“I’ll save some for healing,” said Harald reluctantly, and then closed his eyes and set about absorbing the last of Gorkin’s wealth.
Power flooded into him, but it was but a fraction of what he’d need to Ascend his fourth Throne. Righteous glory poured into his Cosmos, and the mass of scales disappeared, flooding his essence with the Fallen Angel’s might.
When at last he opened his eyes, he saw his friends stirring, their expressions bright with joy and newfound power, and summoned his own Window:
Scales: 1,435,333.
An enormous sum, a staggering amount, and yet somehow he felt disappointed. Reaching 10,000,000 felt like it would take a lifetime to accomplish.
“Ah!” Vic sprang to his feet. “I am a new man, refreshed and ready for adventure. This feels glorious. Glorious!”
Harald couldn’t restrain a grin as Sam wiped at her eyes, clearly overcome with emotion, and Anna was beaming. Even Nessa was having trouble restraining a smile, and when Harald met her gaze she blushed and looked away.
“I suggest we carry the Artifacts with us until we have time to identify them,” said Kársek, gesturing at a large sack in which he’d bundled their remaining treasures. “We have already tarried for too long.”
“Agreed,” said Anna, tone brisk, her eyes bright. “Though the delay was worth it. With all of us now Ascended to our Third Thrones, we’ve grown exponentially more dangerous.”
“I love life,” beamed Vic, and hoisted his sack of wine bottles. “Shall we?”
Comments
Lorenz
Good add with showing what they did with the wealth…..like that Harald’s friends all ascended to their third thrown. Just wish Harald could have jumped also. Those church inquisitirs are something else….stitched eyelids how do they see?
Fleetpanda
Ooh another enemy. Funny how right and wrong they are at the same time
