IGS #4, Chapter 64

Scorio

“I’m here, Scorio. I’m… I’m back.” He knew that voice, his very spirit told him who this was, but he could only marvel, taken aback by her blazing form. The upswell of emotion in her voice was cut off as she turned to face where Dameon was picking himself up out of the sand. Voice hard, she raised her blazing staff, and its tip kindled to life. “Now let’s finish him together.”“Naomi?”

Scorio took a step back, and for a single second he forgot about everything else. The horrific pain from the Ruby mana, Dameon and the Sun, the Cube and the Herdsmen, the deaths and losses, the stakes and all of Acherzua.

She hung before him, aflame, her hair a burning mantle, her form coursing with currents of orange and yellow, with gold and white, and it was her, he knew to his core, the very depths of his soul it was her, and yet—it wasn’t. She was stern, collected, calm, composed. Or seemed to be. No, she was, something had changed, something impossible to fathom, such that he’d almost believe this was her identical twin, a—

She glanced sidelong at him, a nervous peek, and her smile melted the last of his reserves. It was her, hesitant and unsure, but fierce and daring him to say something stupid. But more than that, in the depths of her burning eyes he saw a world of hope and fear, yearning and old pain, and it was her, by the gods and the ten hells, it was her.

“Naomi.” He laughed, undone by her appearance. So much had happened in so little time. He wanted to rise into the air and hold her tight, to bury his face in her burning hair, to lose himself in her newfound strength.

But no.

Not yet.

“First we kill this idiot,” she said softly, voice made husky by the distant roar of a thousand furnaces, a strange, low echo no doubt caused by her burning form. “Then—then we can talk.”

“Sounds like a deal.” His shock at seeing her had driven away the pain, but now it was stealing back. Hurriedly he drew a Vitality Pearl tube from inside his burnt robe and crunched it in his mouth. The treasure worked its magic, causing the burning fire in his gut and throat, the feverish feeling of burning up alive, the splits in his vision to fade away quickly, his strength floweing back into him.

This time however there was no sensation of feverish intensity, and his Heart didn’t feel deeply disturbed and strummed like it had before in the Bone Plains. Benefit of being a Blood Baron, he guessed, and turned to face where Dameon was gaping right back.

“I have Dominion!” the Charnel Duke yelled at them, sounding annoyed and frustrated and bewildered, one hand cupped to his mouth. “You—you can’t be doing that!”

He was right. In his moment of wonder Scorio hadn’t even noticed Dameon claiming all the ambient mana again, his reach circumscribed by the sheer fury of the mana storm.

In response, Naomi raised her staff. Its ornate top blazed to life, flashing sunfire despite the massive cloudcover overhead, and a liquid glare of pure gold flew forth, quick as thought, to strike at Dameon’s Shroud.

The blow was tremendous. Dameon’s Shroud flared bright gold, and while it didn’t shatter, it was clearly greatly weakened by this one strike.

“That a ferula?” asked Scorio, wonder and awe in his voice. “You a Blood Baroness? A Charnel Duchess?”

“It’s not.” Naomi had grown stern and composed once more, her fear and uncertainty locked away. “And I don’t know what I am. But that doesn’t matter right now. I’ll break his Dominion, then you finish him.”

“Deal,” said Scorio, and broke into a loping run toward the distant Charnel Duke.

Naomi burst upwards, her twin cloaks streaming behind her, and unleashed another bolt of sunlight at Dameon, then another, then another.

Each hit the Charnel Duke with tremendous strength, unleashing concussive waves of force that blew past Scorio as he closed with the man. Dameon was outraged. His eyes bulged as he glared up at Naomi in complete incomprehension, his Shroud flaring and cracking and then when the fourth bolt hit falling apart altogether so that he took the next rapid blast on his forefields.

“This is ridiculous,” screamed the man, and aimed his ferula at the blazing woman. “Stop that!”

“Here!” shouted Scorio, waving his arms as he closed in, but Dameon ignored him and loosed a bolt of colorless flame.

Only for Naomi to put on a burst of speed and swoop down and around, avoiding the attack with ease, to then cut in wickedly fast and as she passed over Dameon she… exploded. A great burst of golden light simply erupted from her form, a wave of molten flame detonating right above Dameon to engulf him at point blank range.

Dameon staggered and dropped to one knee as his forcefields went down, and he lost Dominion.

Should it be so easy to distract the man? Hadn’t Plassus shown far greater control over his own Dominion? No matter. Scorio stifled an exultant roar, Ignited his Heart, and his ferula was in his fist, dragon maw pointed at the kneeling Charnel Duke.

A fleck of colorless flame flew forth to shatter the forcefields just as Dameon summoned them anew.

Naomi curled tightly in behind and then charged the man from the rear. For a moment Scorio thought she’d pass through him as he would in his own black flame form, but she proved all-too solid; instead she punched through his reforming Shroud and wrapped her arms around his chest to bear him aloft.

Dameon screamed.

Mana from the Silverine Sun was gushing into his Heart, his reservoir, whatever he was using to keep himself hale and whole. Scorio rose into his draconic form and leaped up into the air just as he saw Jova come speeding in low, Leonis on one knee, her hand on his shoulder steadying him.

Scorio’s heart leaped with relief and joy.

Naomi didn’t hold Dameon for more than a few moments. Before he could react, squirm around to try and punch her, she threw him so that he tumbled head over heels through the air, right into a sideways avalanch of fist-sized rocks. Thousands of them thrashed at him, a dark cloud that Jova had thrown ahead of her with her other arm, and Dameon’s howl was more anger than pain.

Then Leonis’s Nezzars slid into play, their circumference advancing enough to encompass the battle, and Scorio knew power.

Everything grew more distinct, more detailed, the air crisp and the air bitingly cold, and he felt like he could breathe deeper, work harder, fight forever. His wings redoubled their beat, and his reservoir, illusory as it might be, felt like its bottom had just dropped out so that it could take an infinitude of more mana.

But it was more than just a base enhancement. It was—there was an emotion there, a foundation of warmth and respect, of steadfast loyalty undercut by faint traces of chagrin. Scorio felt his chest fill with the purity of that emotion, the support, the humility, the faith, the—the love. Or the capacity for it, a dawning light, a faint and delicate awareness that there was yet beauty worth fighting for, friends worth dying for, and that the worth of a life lay in the grace it brought others.

Leonis.

He felt his great friend all around him, felt his essence, his truest core, and tears came to Scorio’s eyes as he felt ennobled by the man’s power, his newfound dignity, his stripped down simplicity, his raw humanity.

Dameon tumbled off the flood of rocks as a man might bounce off a road if he fell from a carriage at fult tilt, still going head over heels as he span out into the air.

Scorio raised his ferula.

He’d not tapped its full potential yet. Probably wouldn’t, couldn’t, even now. But with Naomi burning in the air above him, Leonis’ faith all around him, Jova curving away on her stone plinth as an example of discipline and determination and the ability to grow, to rise, to overcome one’s own limitations, Scorio channeled his Ignited Heart into his ferula, and willed it to blast Dameon with everything he had.

Silver-mana flooded into the Diamond core, lit by his incandescent Heart, and held in place by the sheath of Coal. Coal that should never have been able to contain such potency, that should have burst apart into brittle fragments, but which somehow only cohered with stubborn, ornery insistence to guide the mana flare up the diamond core to where the Noumenon speck blaze, tiny, impossible, and fell.

The blast lit up and blazed from the dragon’s maw in a great sleek spear of irridescent light, not the colorless fire from before, its length shimmering with subtle rainbow hues as it flashed across the sky.

“No!” Dameon righted himself just in time to see it coming, and raised his palm as if to forbid the possibility. Battered, burned, wild-eyed, he fought for Dominion even as he raised his forcefield and Shroud, as he poured all the Sun-given mana he could draw into his defenses.

The spear of ferula-fire punched neatly through his Shroud, bored easily through his forcefields, and shot clear through his chest.

Dameon screamed, the sound of a wounded beast on the verge of tearing its leg out of a bear trap, and fell.

“Yes!” Jova’s victorious cry was made thin by the distance, but her savage satisfaction was clear nonetheless.

Dameon fell headfirst into the sands a good fifty yards below, hitting the silver slope of a dune with a compact whoomp.

Only to immediately stir and reach for Dominion again.

“No you don’t,” whispered Naomi, her words brought to him by the winds, and raised her staff so that its top could incandesce. A blinding flare of light flashed down to slam Dameon back into the sands, then again, and again, and again.

Each time Dameon coughed, groaned, and sought to rise she blasted him, unleashing such heat and power that the sands around him turned to glass, a great mottled crater of gleaming translucence.

They all floated down slowly. Scorio’s wings beat powerfully to hold him in place, his ferula raised, ready to assist, but there was no need.

Even all the mana in the world couldn’t overcome the sheer amount of damage that had been done to him, and while Dameon was clearly trying to heal the burns and blasted flesh, the singular wound dealt by Scorio’s ferula stubbornly refused to heal, and heart’s blood was oozing forth to cake the Charnel Duke’s cindered rags.

Jova’s plinth touched down to one side, her duplicat fading from view as she did so. Leonis tried to rise, failed, and would have fallen if Jova hadn’t immediately steadied him. His wound was grievous, blood pouring down the front of his golden armor, but his steadfast face betrayed no pain.

Naomi alighted on the sand beside Scorio, lowering gently to the ball of one foot and then the other, flames endlessly coursing up her figure, her gaze locked on Dameon who finally gave up on trying to rise and fell back onto the glassy slope to offer them a bloody grin.

“Well, what do you know, it’s my favorite people in all of Hell,” he wheezed.

Nobody spoke.

“You know.” He hitched himself over to one side, then abruptly spasmed and coughed up a mouthful of blood. Mana was still pouring into him, but it was a losing battle. “There’s probably a lesson for me in all of this. Maybe it’s not to ignore my own Dread Blaze power when it—when it tells me to run like a little bitch.” He grinned, lowered his brow to the ridge of glass, then with great effort lifted his face again. “So. Well done, all of you. Round of applause.” He wheezed a painful laugh that caused him to grimace and squeeze his eyes shut briefly before he opened them again. “So… so delightful. What now? Going to take… going to take turns cutting me apart?”

“No begging?” asked Jova. “Could have sworn you’d make all kinds of offers so we’d spare your life.”

“Nah.” Dameon rested his head back. “I’m an asshole, not an idiot. Well. Guess I turned out to be a bit of an… bit of an idiot after all. And I came so close. If I’d just flown south… Imperator…”

Scorio stared at the dying man with cold loathing. Words. Endless words from Dameon. Charm and braggadocio, even now.

Enough.

“You deserve a terrible death,” he said quietly. “For what you’ve done. The crimes. The pain you’ve caused—”

“Blah, blah, blah,” said Dameon, rocking his head from side to side.

Complete and utter fury seized Scorio by the throat and the next moment he was on the man, pinning him down, white hot talons of one hand spearing through his shoulder and chest and passing clear through him.

Dameon jerked, bucked, eyes going wide.

“For Leonis and Lianshi,” hissed Scorio, just barely resisting the urge to twist his claws. “For them. For us. For all of Hell that will finally be rid of your evil.”

Then he jerked back, raised his ferula with the other fist, and unleashed a spate of colorless flame. The blast took Dameon in the neck, cut straight through tendon, muscle, gullet, spine, and near decapitated him. The man didn’t even have time for a death rattle. He jerked and fell back, dead.

It was done.

The four of them remained still, all still staring at the blond ruin of a man before them.

“Too easy,” said Jova at last. “Maybe I’m not a good person, but I’d have made him suffer.”

“No you wouldn’t,” said Leonis heavily.

The great conduit of Sun mana that had been draining into Dameon even at the last attenuated, grew ever more slender, then cut off and rose away, retracting up into the sky and toward the Sun.

It was truly done.

At least, this small part of their private drama. Scorio raised his eyes to follow that channel of Sun-mana, and took in the burning heavens. The Sun was throbbing with ever greater violence, its face distending, bulging out, as if all coherence were on the verge of being lost.

And everywhere, he saw, were Silverines. Silverines converging on the Sun, a host of tiny motes with the occasional huge Abstraction floating amongst them. Scorio narrowed his eyes, reached out as far as he could with his Blood Baron Heart senses.

The fiends were weaving a pattern about the sun. From a mile away, they were channeling the mana into a great net that was slowly being formed all about the blazing orb. One that was continuously being torn apart, but which reformed again and again and again.

Naomi’s flames died away, leaving her human by his side. Her dark hair was lustrous and thick, hanging in an inky waterfall down past her shoulders, and her features, though drawn as if by months of hunger and hard labor, shone with health. She was clothed in little more than torn rags, the remnants of that robe she’d been wearing when he saw her last, but each strip of cloth was clean as if reverently washed, so that they hung lightly upon her frame.

“What the Hell happened to you?” asked Jova, tone muted, half-wonder, half distrust. “Are you… you are Naomi, right?”

Naomi turned to Scorio as he sank in turn into his human form. Her hands opened and closed. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she bit her lower lip. She looked ready to startle, to run, to step into shadows—but no. Actually, that wasn’t right. The old Naomi, maybe. But this one? Scorio couldn’t imagine her ducking into the dark.

“Scorio?” Her voice was tremulous.

A world of questions in that single name.

“Naomi,” he said, his heart breaking all over again, or not breaking, reforging, and he stepped in. She reacted immediately, rushing toward him and they clasped each other, her arms like bands of iron around him, her face thrust into his shoulder, his face pressed to her hair, and she shook like a leaf, her shoulders hitching as he held her tight.

For a perfect moment, everything faded away again. He didn’t know how he knew, didn’t care to question, but something profound had changed, something fundamental had shifted.

Words would come later.

Explanations.

An understanding of who she now was, and whether they could heal what had happened. No go back, but on a primal level, this felt right. And—

Scorio jerked back, eyes going wide.

Naomi flinched, shoulders hitching up, all color draining from her skin.

“No,” said Scorio, “it’s not that. I—I know you.”

Confusion.

“I know you. From my past. From Eterra.” Realization washed over him like hot water, his skin goosebumping, a wave of something akin to dizzyiness filling him, making his knees go weak. “You were in my first life. I—we—I knew someone who could do what you did.”

Her anguish smoothed away to be replaced by confusion. “You did?”

“The King’s Scepter.” He could barely breathe the words. “She was famous for—I mean, they called her that because of her staff, and how she led his army, she could—she could—” But he couldn’t talk any more. Images came to him from his Trials. Lying with her in the forest, her hair tickling his face, the betrayal, the pain, immolating her with dragon’s breath. “You looked different—but still, roughly the same, same height, dark hair, beautiful—”

Her eyes had gone wide. “I was the King’s Scepter?” He’d told Naomi all about his Trials during their nights together at the Fury Spires. “But that means…”

Scorio let out a breathless laugh and ran his hand through his hair. “You reincarnated. Here. In Hell. Without the Archspire. I…”

Her hand had gone to cover her mouth. A wave of emotion crested within him, and he wanted to step forward, to take her in his arms and kiss her, but he didn’t.

Couldn’t.

An image hung in the air between them. Alain, reaching out his arm, desperate to intervene, and a great tail slashing through the air.

How close would you say we are to being best friends?

Scorio dry swallowed the knot in his throat as his shoulders sagged. Naomi was staring at him, brows raised, aware that something had just shifted, but she didn’t seem surprised. She pursed her lips, bowed her head briefly, then looked away, expression bitter, resigned.

“This is very moving,” said Jova dryly. “But we need to keep moving. Silverines are approaching. And that’s got to be an Abstraction.”

Scorio tore himself free with great reluctance. There was so much he wanted to know, to ask, to share, but now wasnt’ the time. Inhaling raggedly, he raised his gaze to take in the approaching horde.

In the midst of the cloud of Silverines floated a giant of white marble, burning wings of fire made from pure mana blazing forth from its back like effulgent butterfly wings of platinum and silver. Its head was all wrong, some kind of broken geometry, and its torso was split down the middle so that great ropes of white intestine or something spread forth, each disappearing at the tips into pure mana.

“Time to go,” he agreed, and rose into his draconic form. “Jova, can you get Xandera? She should be over in that direction. We have to get to the Cube.”

Plassus hadn’t wasted any time, but propelled the Cube away from the madness with all haste, so that it had already reached the far end of the valley.

“On it,” said Jova, stepping back onto the plinth. Then she looked back, expresson turning cold, and a barrel-sized rock flew down to smash into Dameon’s corpse, punching it deep through cracking glass.

“Petty,” muttered Leonis, sinking back to sit instead of kneel. “But no complaints here.”

The plinth rose and pulled away.

Scorio turned back to Naomi. So many questions. So much old pain. But here, now, perhaps they could forge something new. No matter what had happened, it was still her, Naomi, and nobody in Hell was more important to him. He forced a crooked smile. “Ready to fly?”

She blazed up into pure living flame, eyes burning bright just like Xandera’s, her form wondrous, those twin cloaks of the purest white unfurling from her shoulders. “Try to keep up.”

And she blasted into the sky, rocketing away so that he could only laugh and fight to pursue her, chasing after her trail of fire.