Sam watched, aghast, as Harald massacred the hobgoblins.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away.

From his very first scream as he charged their massed ranks it was an incredible, horrific, nonstop orgy of blood and death. He appeared less a man than an agent of ruin, his strength ridiculous, his vitality unstoppable, the hobgoblins flying apart as he bowled through their number again and again.

It was too much. The sound of bones snapping, the gargled screams, the wet socking sound of fist on flesh, the stench of blood and offal, the sheer kinetic violence of it. With his helm on, he didn’t even seem himself; Harald burned with dark flames as he tore through the monsters, rolling and diving, coming up again and again as if invincible, his hands always reaching for more flesh to tear, more limbs to shatter, more heads to pulp.

But he wasn’t invincible.

He’d not activated his shadow armor, so arrows sank deep into his flesh.

Blades cut through his leather armor and parted his skin.

He seemed to feel nothing, however, only staggering or dropping his weapons when he literally lost control of his limbs. His blood oozed out over the gore that had drenched him, but there was no mistaking it: he was dying, and fast.

So Sam did the only thing she could think of: she closed her eyes, focused on her twin Thrones, and poured their might into her Guardians’ Mantle.

It was her new Passive, and had as of yet to be used in any significant fashion. It enshrouded all of their party, but now she focused its healing energies on Harald and Harald alone.

She felt the Fallen Angel’s might rush up from deep within her core, felt it tingle and flow out through her arms, through her fingertips as she strained to convey the entirety of the blessing to Harald’s whirling form.

Blue flames flickered into existence around him, closing gashes, mending contusions, restoring his lost blood.

It felt like pouring water into the heart of a volcano.

But Sam clenched her jaw and fought for a deep and continuous flow of healing power, tried to ramp up its effectiveness by supercharging it with her Thrones.

The screams continued.

Harald drank deep of her power, and didn’t seem to notice.

Slowly Sam began to feel weak, lightheaded. Her stomach was turned with nausea, and the stink in the air was growing oppressive. Some of the sounds made her flinch, so wet and physical and awful were they.

A hand squeezed her shoulder. “Keep it up, Sam.” Vic. “He’s… somehow he’s almost done. They’re… I don’t even…”

Sam lowered her chin and dug ever deeper. Her Thrones were wavering, the stream of power threatening to cut off. Hoarse shouts of command were abruptly cut off, then a scream.

She opened her eyes and saw Harald swaying where he stood, crimson and gleaming, his helm dripping blood, his eyes white and round behind the mask.

He veered around and stared right at her, and it was akin to meeting the gaze of a demon.

There was no recognition there.

Nothing but hunger and hate and lust for death.

The sight caused her to draw back, appalled.

For a second she thought he would come for them, and if he did, what would they do? Kill him? Maybe the Thornguard could stop him, maybe -

But then he turned, sighted up the tower, and was gone.

“Thank the angels,” whispered Vic, his grip on her shoulder tight.

Sam blinked and gazed around the courtyard. Everywhere was destruction. Half the tents had collapsed, falling to cover bodies. But there were plenty still in evidence. Corpses piled atop each other, corpses mangled, viscera gleaming, bones sticking out through torn skin and flesh, bodies shattered.

“How?” she choked out, hand going over her mouth.

“The Helm.” Vic was grim. “It must grant him terrible, obscene Strength. His berserker rage… coupled with his own Abilities… I mean…”

An explosion sounded from the third story of the tower, and then two figures burst out the tall window, Harald having tackled the tall goblinoid around the waist.

Sam screamed.

They plummeted down into a tent, and then all was still.

She raced toward where they’d fallen, only to slip on the flagstones, her foot going out from under her on the blood, and she crashed down to one knee, an outflung hand sinking into a torn open stomach as she sought to catch herself.

Sam’s gorge rose as she yanked it back, the warm wetness between her fingers, under her nails, and stared at the hobgoblin’s face. His sightless eyes gazed right through her.

Shaking, she jerked to her feet and ran after Vic, navigating the bodies and fallen crates till they reached where Harald had fallen.

The goblinoid lay dead beneath him, its head burst open like a melon, and Harald had rolled off onto his side. Whatever had been under the tarp had cushioned their fall to some degree, for he still breathed, a bloody bubble at his nostril.

“Get this off him,” hissed Vic, working at the leather straps of the helm.

Kársek was there, and with calm focus took over, removing the helm and tossing it aside with distaste.

“What do we do?” asked Sam, kneeling beside Harald. His arm looked broken, he had arrows sticking out of his back and shoulder, appeared covered in gashes and cuts.

“We need to get him to a healer,” said Kársek, and thank the angels, he sounded just like himself, stolid and calm and in control. “He’s probably taken a head injury from the fall.”

“I’ll fetch Nessa,” said Vic, rising to his feet. “You both fashion a stretcher for Harald. Keep your Passive on him!”

Sam turned back and forth, thoughts spinning, trying to see where she could cut some tarp, but Kársek put his hand on her arm. “You stay here with him. I will fashion the stretcher.”

“Yes,” she said, and feeling numb she dropped to her knees beside Harald and took his red hand in hers.

So much blood.

He looked as if he’d been dipped in a vat of it.

It wasn’t just red. It was a primal red. That unmistakable color, that violent, shocking red that darkened to burgundy where it lay thickest upon him.

But the helm had protected most of his face from the gore. Blood was running from his ears, she saw, from the corner of his mouth.

“Hang in there, Harald.” She closed her eyes and tried to channel her Thrones again. Tried to find more strength, but it was so hard. She only had the two, and they just weren’t enough. Not to run like this continuously without pause.

But she forced herself to settle, and holding his hand, she fought to bring the Guardian’s Mantle to bear once more.

She heard voices in the near distance. Vic and Nessa, Vic urgent, Nessa confused. A moment later they came around a partially collapsed tent. Nessa’s leg was healed, a potent combination of scales, no doubt, but she looked… stunned.

Sam had never seen her like this. She’d always seemed confident and disdainful, or raw and vicious, but scared? Nessa’s gaze was darting about as she took in the dead, her skin waxen, her eyes large.

“Here we go,” said Kársek, dragging two poles over with canvas bunched up between them. “Let’s transfer him on, easy like.”

Having something to do was a blessing. Vic and Kársek lifted Harald onto the stretcher, then together they raised the poles.

“Back to the portal,” said Vic. “They’ll have a healer on hand amongst the guards.”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

A healer.

One of the infinitely rare people who could force someone else to absorb a scale.

Blue flame played over Harald’s body, but it had died down to the gentlest flicker.

“I’ll collect the scales,” said Nessa woodenly.

“That’s on you.” Kársek began marching toward the steps. “We must move.”

Sam followed alongside the stretcher, but turned to watch Nessa as she limped across the battlefield, collecting hovering Silver Starbursts and dumping them in her pack.

They reached the steep staircase that ascended to the uppermost level, and were forced to ascend parallel to each other, Harald held lengthways as they climbed.

How was he still alive?

With a gasp her Thrones gave out.

The blue flames died away, and Harald seemed to sag.

Panic filled her chest, made her stomach churn with acid.

“Absorb scales,” snapped Vic. “They’ll help replenish you.”

Nodding sharply, Sam dug out Silvers and set to absorbing them, not even noticing how many she took in as she watched her Thrones. Handful after handful, and then she came across a couple of Golden Dawns, and soon enough her Thrones re-awoke.

Blue flames spread across Harald once more.

The stench of blood and emptied bowels faded as they reached the archway that led into the wall.

“Nessa!” Vic’s call was low and urgent. “We’re leaving!”

“Coming!” Nessa hurried after. “Go, I’m right behind you.”

“You’d better be,” muttered Vic, and they plunged into the long hallway.

Down its length they ran, and out into the room with its dead hobgoblins. Nessa caught up just as they emerged onto the red bridge where Kársek had destroyed the orcs, and this they crossed.

Nessa held Harald’s Dawnblade at the ready, and constantly scanned the ruined tops of the surrounding keeps.

Through the green miasma they hurried, and when Sam’s Thrones died out once more she absorbed fistfuls of scales again.

Up more steps, around the walkway, and then there was the portal.

Thank the Fallen Angel.

They rushed into the swirling darkness, and Sam felt that sickening lurch as they were flung through space to stagger out onto the Copper Platform once more in the light of the afternoon sun.

Sweet, Flutic air.

Their arrival caused an immediate stir. Guards barked out warnings, a raiding team was ordered back, and Harald was lowered to the platform as the healer came running.

He was a heavyset young man with caramel colored hair and thick brows. He knelt beside Harald, expression calculating, and then extended his hand. “Scales.”

Of course.

They had to pay for the healing from their own store.

Nessa set her pouch before him. It was bulging with Silvers and Golds.

“Good,” said the healer, and with quick strokes of an impossibly sharp knife he cut away Harald’s ragged leather armor, tore open his shirt, and poured scales out over his chest. “Add more scales as needed.”

Then the healer closed his eyes, placed a hand over Harald’s brow, and focused.

The scales began to fade away.

Sam took up the pouch and searched for Golden Dawns only.

Slowly Harald’s gashes began to seal over, foreign blood squeezing out of the wounds. The arrows pushed themselves out.

The pile had nearly vanished, so Samantha added ten more Golden Dawns.

These too began to fade, but Harald was already looking better. His blood-smeared face was regaining a healthy cast, and the worst of the wounds had closed.

The ten Dawns disappeared, but before Sam could add more the healer sat back on his heels and opened his eyes. “That’s all I can do for now.”

“How is he?” asked Vic, which Sam thought a stupid question.

“Much better. I could sense where the scales were going, and most seemed to go to his brain. He took a fall, or suffered a blow to the head?”

Vic nodded mutely.

“You got here just in time.” The healer studied Harald and shook his head. “I’ve seen worse, but not by much.”

“Thank you,” said Sam, feeling numb. She took Harald’s hand again. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem.” The healer rose to his feet with a grunt. “Let’s settle up accounts.”

Vic followed the healer to the taxation table, and there set about declaring their income and paying the healer whatever he was owed.

Sam didn’t care.

She just stared at Harald’s peaceful face.

Thought again on how he’d looked at her, that blank stare of nullity and hate.

“How did he do it?” Nessa crouched on Harald’s far side. “That was some forty hobgoblins, plus a troll and an orc behemoth. How?”

“The helmet, I guess,” was all Sam could whisper.

“Here,” said Nessa, reaching for the helm that Kársek had tied hurriedly to his pack. He undid it, handed it over.

Nessa frowned. “+5 Strength, +3 Constitution. Incredible. But still.”

“My Guardian’s Mantle was going throughout,” offered Sam. “But even so. It must have been the… you know. The gift from his patron.”

“Possibly.” Kársek had his thumbs tucked into his belt and was studying Harald with grave thought. “But I think most of that was Harald himself.”

“Against forty hobgoblins?” scoffed Nessa.

“The helm, his Abilities, your healing, his tharkûn’s gift. All of those were the tools he used. But he had the will to use them. The instinct. This young man is formidable by any measure.”

“Ego 23,” whispered Sam, nodding.

“Not that, exactly,” said Kársek, “though again, that was instrumental. I believe it goes deeper than that. We have an expression in dwarven, ‘the right hand for the right hammer’, or perhaps, ‘the hammer that’s molded to the hand’. It means that magic can happen when the right person meets the perfect moment.”

“Magic,” said Nessa.

Kársek shrugged. “Of a sorts.”

“Explains why…” But Sam cut herself off. This wasn’t the kind of place to have this discussion. People were watching. “When will he wake up?”

Nessa sighed. “When he’s ready. His body may be healed, but the mind has to be willing to return to the world that hurt it so. We’ll fetch a carriage and take him home.”

Vic handled the technical affairs, paid the scales to the Flutic Mining Consortium and the healer, and then they each showed their official scale count. Kársek left to flag down a carriage, and when it rolled up, Vic put a hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Go to Sonora’s estate. He’s her knight, she’ll take him in, and he’s going to need uninterrupted rest. I’m going to handle Nessa. She’s…” He glanced at where their Delve Captain stood, biting the nail of her thumb, eyes wide as she stared off at nothing. “She’s in danger of some very understandable relapses if left alone. I’ll bring her back to my place and watch over her. Sam? You with me?”

“Yes,” she whispered, then straightened, her resolve firming. “Yes. Countess Sonora’s. You’ll come find us there?”

“I will.” Vic ran his hand through his golden hair. “What a… I don’t even know what to call it. A debacle? A cock-up? Perhaps shit show. Let’s go with shit show.”

“All right.” She wasn’t even quite sure what she was agreeing to. “See you at the Sonora’s.”

Kársek helped her load Harald into the carriage, and then they were rolling and jostling their way back into the Angelus Quarter, with Harald stretched out on one bench.

Only then did their loss of Darrowdelve Manor truly hit her. It felt so unspeakably wrong to be unable to return to their home, where she’d carry Harald up to his bedroom, then work their kitchen as she heated water for a bath…

Sam closed her eyes tightly and pressed her brow to the cold glass, willing the heart ache away.

They arrived at the Sonora gates, and Kársek stepped down to speak with Bozworth the gate guard. A moment later the gate swung open, and the carriage rolled up the driveway to stop before the front doors.

Countess Sonora wasn’t home, but Rivik took charge, his manner frigid but efficient. Together they carried Harald to a guest room. The blood that smothered his body had congealed to tacky gunk, and Rivik immediately ordered a hot bath be run by the skeleton staff.

Sam remained by Harald’s side, numb, not thinking.

Kársek was a gift. He remained purposeful and calm and confident throughout, and at his insistence they stripped Harald to his underclothes then bathed him in a large tub, though it took over an hour and copious buckets of hot water brought from Lady Sonora’s kitchen to get him even halfway clean. Declaring himself content with the worst of it, Kársek then carried Harald into his bed, tucked him in under a woolen blanket, and set to cleaning up the mess.

Sam drifted to the window seat, and there sat, still dressed in her armor, to gaze out over the lawn. She wanted to busy herself with something, to be in the Darrowdelve kitchen, to clean, to fuss, but this wasn’t her home, so she just… sat. Mind blank, and fought hard not to think about what had happened.

Rivik brought in mugs of herbal tea balanced upon a silver tray, and even managed a smile of sorts as he gave her one. Kársek had taken up a post in a corner armchair, and accepted his own mug with grave formality.

Rivik frowned at Harald, then set the third mug by the bedside table. “Call me if you need anything. We can send for a physician if need be.”

“Thank you,” said Kársek quietly. “But I don’t believe that will be necessary.”

Rivik bowed his head, glanced once about the room on an impulse that Sam identified all too well, and deeming his work done, closed the door behind him as he left.

Harald slept deeply, face turned to one side, blood still darkening his short hair, stuck in amongst the roots, and thick in the whorls of his ears, dusky pink up the side of his neck.

Sam watched him and sipped in silence.

“You’re afraid of growing frightened of him,” said Kársek at last.

His words jolted her from a reverie, and she flushed. She wanted to protest, but his tone had been unjudgmental. “Aren’t you?”

“No. As long as he clings to his honor, I have no qualms with what he does.”

“Honor.” She thought of Harald tearing through the hobgoblins. “Can such mindless violence be… honorable?”

“Of course. Anything can be accepted if it is done with honor. There is a famous Anvil King from our history, Veogrim the Red, who was deposed by his cousin, Anvorg. Anvorg put Veogrim’s children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren to death. He had them executed before Veogrim, and their skulls lathed and burnished into bofring balls.”

Sam stared at Kársek, half-horrified, half-confused. “Bofring balls?”

“It is a sporting game that we dwarves play. Veogrim feigned madness for over a decade, until all were convinced he was harmless. Anvorg released him from prison and made him the court jester, though he had his greatest warrior, Praslok Ironbones watch over him with an ax at all times. For another decade Veogrim pranced and sang and allowed Anvorg to torment him before the elders, until one day Praslok ceased his vigil, and Veogrim took his ax.”

Sam stared, fascinated. “And?”

“And Veogrim became thereafter known as The Red.” Kársek nodded, expression satisfied. “For twenty years he acted the fool so that he could achieve justice. At the time, many thought him without honor. Now all know that his honor was the deepest of all, because he was willing to sacrifice his dignity, something no dwarf willingly does, so that he could eventually avenge his family.”

“So you’re saying that Harald sacrificed his dignity to save Nessa?”

“Hmm.” Kársek sipped his tea. “Harald is a man of light and darkness. His waking mind is spent in the sunlight, but his actions are guided by his nightself. He fears that self who guides his actions, and struggles against him, but for Nessa he was willing to embrace that darkness so as to free her.”

Sam looked back to where Harald lay. “And if his nightself grows to consume his waking mind?”

“Veogrim allowed his waking mind to dwindle to a speck of burning light in an ocean of darkness,” said Kársek. “But that speck never went out. If it should do so for Harald, then he will have lost his honor.”

“And you will no longer follow him?”

“He is my tharkûn for as long as he has honor. Should he one day lose himself entirely to his nightself, then I will continue to have a life debt to the man he had once been, and in that man’s name I will slay the honorless Harald.”

“And you know… I mean, you’re fully qualified to judge that? What if you think the spark has gone out, but it hasn’t?”

“I am a Dreadrune and a dwarf. I shall do my best to not make that mistake.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No,” agreed Kársek, “it’s not. But let us pray to your Fallen Angel and my Hall Fathers that I need never make that decision.”

Sam returned her attention to Harald. He looked so peaceful. So different from the monster that had raged below on the 16th Level. “Harald’s far stronger than we know. It’ll never come to that.”

But she didn’t believe her own words.