IGS #4, Chapter 46 (@Gambit asked for a bonus)

Scorio

Scorio exhaled slowly, finding his center, his control. If this was indeed a Gauntlet run, then he had time. Death was assured, certainly, but that meant he could learn, adapt, get better at whatever challenge was coming his way.

Unlike most Great Souls, he’d learned not to fear death in the Gauntlet. His time with Leonis, Lianshi, and Naomi back in the Old Academy had taught him that.

It might hurt. It might hurt terribly. But he’d only get better with each iteration.

“Up,” he rasped. “Get up and help.”

Myla simply looked down and away.

Useless, for now. Death would no doubt shock her out of her stupor.

The enemy was approaching. He could hear the rapid pitter patter of their feet. Not bestial. Booted. Humanoid, then?

He’d soon find out.

Scorio shifted up into his draconic form. The enemy would no doubt swarm out of the side tunnels. Which meant he should seek the high ground. “Myla. I’m heading up. You coming with me or not?”

Myla blinked owlishly at him, tears running down her cheeks, then nodded numbly and scrambled to her feet. So she did have some survival instincts. She rushed toward him as he extended his wings, stepping into his arm as he leaped and beat down powerfully, sending blasts of sand and dust away as they flew up alongside one of the huge columns.

There were no easy perches. No convenient ledges. The domes were bright but without exits. He could dip into one of the wings and fly up to a gallery or those dark tunnel mouths, but he was liable to be swarmed if that’s where the enemy chose to emerge.

So instead he simply flew up to one of the columns and sank his burning talons into the rock. They cut deep and held, the stone immediately creaking and cracking under the tremendous heat, but he was able to perch there, one arm extended to its fullest, the talons of his toes caught against the wall just below.

Myla hung onto him, her gaze raking the ground some fifty yards below.

And then the first of their foes appeared.

It was a man, at least it seemed to be at first glance, gorgeously attired like a courtier in midnight black. A black shin-length skirt, its torso highly filigreed with textures and needlework that evoked armor, vertebrae, and high fashion, a pauldron cloak descending from one massive shoulder to hide its right arm, the left puffed and quilted with bright ruby-red lights pinpricking the fabric and providing the sole color.

But its head.

Its head was featureless monolith, jet black and rectangular and emerging from a high collar. Somehow the smooth gloss of this geometry was far worse than any bestial or monstrous head.

Scorio stared, fascinated, as the figure slowed to a stop and stood below. It didn’t cast around as if searching, but rather froze, and then abruptly Scorio felts its attention engulf him as if a huge psychic light were shone upward to capture them where they hung against the column.

Had it sensed his burning Heart? Scorio was about to detach from the column and fall upon it when it projected its will upon the room.

Scorio had felt the like only a couple of times before. Once when Sol and Imogen had fought for dominance. The other when Plassus had claimed dominion over all the ambient mana.

For that’s what happened now. The Bronze and Silver that was flowing around the huge hall suddenly froze and became inert. Worse, the power radiating from that void-like obelisk of a head reached into his reservoir and tore his mana free—all of it.

Scorio’s Heart guttered, and with a hoarse cry he became human once more, his hand unable to find purchase on the column’s face, to fall as Myla screamed to the ground below.

The figure didn’t move as they plummeted the fifty yards. The ground rushed up at terrific speed. Scorio windmilled his arms, but then all went white as he collided with the ground.

Pain.

With a groan he opened his eyes. His body was all wrong. Gold-tempered as he was, he’d somehow survived the fall. His legs. He couldn’t move them. And his chest, something in his lungs, he couldn’t inhale. His mind was afloat on an ocean of pain.

The jet-black figure stepped into view. Up close, it radiated extreme cold. For a moment it simply loomed over him, immaculate in its finery, and then, faster than Scorio could follow, it raised its shining boot and stomped in his face.

Scorio screamed and staggered forward, every muscle clenched. Wait. He was standing again. In the hall, unhurt.

Myla had dropped into a ball by his side, wrapped her arms around her shins, and was weeping into her knees.

The lingering pain vanished swiftly.

“Thank the ten hells,” he sighed, rubbing his hand across his brow where his skull had been collapsed.

“Thank the ten hells?” Myla looked up at him in complete confusion. “What is there to be grateful for? I just fell—I just fell to my death, from up there—and—”

“Oh, this is a pretty good setup,” said Scorio. “Sure the dying part hurts, but we’re not left in agony for ages after we wake up.”

Myla’s eyes slowly widened as she stared at him. “That’s your silver lining?”

“Hey, you take what you can get in Hell.” Scorio listened intently. In the far distance he could hear the sound of running feet. The figure was returning. “We don’t have long. What can you tell me?”

But she simply stared at him in horror and wonder.

Forget her, then. It could claim dominance. Which meant he couldn’t Ignite. However, even if he lost his powers, he could still fight, still had his Gold-tempered body. And it had come from that tunnel mouth over there. Which meant if he hid behind that column—

Scorio jogged over, got in place, and began refilling his empty reservoir. Myla had lowered her face to her knees again. Clearly she wasn’t used to dying over and over again in agonizing ways.

She’d get there.

The footsteps grew louder. He’d wait to Ignite at the very last second. Closer. It ran lightly into the hall, came into view, exactly as before. Cloak draped over one arm, its rectangular head, the high boots, the agile gait.

Scorio threw himself at the foe, launched himself with all the speed and ferocity he possessed even as he Ignited and swung his searing talons at the creature.

It didn’t hesitate but claimed dominance before Scorio had taken two steps. His Heart guttered, the pain awful, his reservoir was brutally stripped again. By the Hells that hurt! But Scorio came on, fist swinging through the air.

A beam of simmering crimson light emerged from the closest facet of its rectangular head to cut across Scorio’s stomach.

The pain was absolute. It felt like a dozen white-hot pokers had been jabbed into his gut. With a scream Scorio folded over, his flesh parting, innards boiling inside his torso. Unable to breathe, he crashed down onto his knees.

The figure stepped up to him even as Scorio tried instinctively to push his guts back inside. It stopped, seemed to consider, then spun on the ball of its foot to bring its foot scything around to smash its heel with utter finality into Scorio’s temple.

Everything exploded into light which became darkness, then—

Scorio gasped and staggered, on his feet again, hands pressed to his healthy stomach. The pain faded, going from absolute to nothing in seconds.

Myla screamed by his side and then cut herself off, hands going to her jaw as if expecting it to fall off. She dropped into a crouch again and screamed, “Anseline! Get me out of here! Anseline!”

Scorio blew out his cheeks. All right. It could claim dominance with a thought, and unleash a searing ray attack that could almost cut his Gold-tempered body in half. He bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, shook out his arms, and then ran back to the same column.

“What are you doing?” moaned Myla.

“Trying my next trick,” grinned Scorio.

She stared at him. “You’re as mad as she is.”

“It’s possible,” he agreed, then closed his eyes to listen. “Entirely possible.”

He wasn’t feeling fear. If anything, he felt eager. Eager to find a way to destroy this thing. This black filigreed courtier, this impossible shadow of death. It was obvious why this was a Charnel Duke challenge—without the ability to contest dominance, he was rendered helpless.

But he wasn’t about to give up yet.

The footsteps drew closer. Confident, sure footed, nimble.

This time when the foe jogged into view, Scorio Ignited and roared, “FALL!”

His command washed over his foe to no effect. It immediately claimed dominance, stripped him of mana, guttered his Heart, and then blasted him in the face with a crimson beam.

The last thing Scorio felt was his face melting off the front of his skull.

“Arrgh!” he cried, staggering backward, hands touching his undamaged features. He was back. The pain faded. Three deaths in rapid succession. His shouted command hadn’t even fazed it.

“Fuck this,” he growled, and began drinking deep of the local mana even as he shifted up into his dragon form.

His body morphed, grew rapidly, wings like sails bursting from his back, tail lashing down the length of the hall, neck elongating, sheer might suffusing him. The stone floor splintered under his talons, and he moved forward, past the column behind which he’d hid, to stand beside the tunnel mouth like a cat awaiting the mouse.

The moment the sound of footsteps drew close, he inhaled a chestful of black fire, as much as he possibly could, then lowered his head and exhaled a plume right into the tunnel, turning its hidden depths into an inferno.

The flame streamed forth, filling the confines with black majesty, the roar tremendous, the heat causing the very air to waver. On and on he blew, until at last he had absolutely nothing left, and retracted his head.

The black-clad foe emerged. Its peerless uniform was cindered and charred, revealing a perfectly formed human torso beneath, as black and glossy and smooth as Druanna’s eidolon, the flesh unmarred even as its clothing fell in smoking chunks from its shoulders.

Dominance. Scorio collapsed down onto all fours, his Heart guttering instantly. The pain was worse this time, his perfectly Heart feeling wretched as he coughed and hacked.

The black-clad figure kicked his shoulder hard enough to knock Scorio onto his back. Then, clothing still  smoldering, put the sole of its boot on Scorio’s face and began to press down.

Scorio screamed, the sound muffled. He grasped the boot, sought to wrench it away, but failed. Slowly, gradually, the construct crushed his head. Scorio felt the architecture of his face buckle, creak, then snap. His vision blurred then disappeared, the pain was horrific, and then he was upright again, screaming as he stumbled to one side, hands rising to grasp his skull as if it might fall apart.

He was healed again.

Myla immediately dropped into a crouch and covered her head again. “Make it stop,” she whimpered. “Make it stop!”

Scorio glared at the offending tunnel. The pain was gone. His thoughts sharp. He set to filling his reservoir from the abundant mana. He toyed with trying to block the creature with his Shroud, but what was the point? It would simply drain him again.

“Time for a new plan,” he muttered. Without hesitation, he turned and ran.

“Scorio!” Myla’s wail faded behind him as he raced for the closest tunnel mouth that stood opposite the enemy’s.

If he couldn’t fight his foe, he’d seek some other advantage. He ducked into the closest tunnel and sped along its length, dark vision illuminating its length.

The key.

If he could find this key before the figure caught up with him—

He broke out into a new chamber. Its floor was lost beneath sand which rose up like waves cresting upon each wall. It was divided by buttress-like columns, each made of the same brutal stone, and high above one dome allowed pale light to filter down.

Not thinking, acting on instinct, Scorio ascended into his draconic form and flew aloft, beating his wings frantically as he climbed through the air and into the dome. He studied the band of gold intently. What was it, could he use it, could he—?

The band burned with Copper mana, was little more than a channel through which the incandescent mana flowed. He swiped at its surface with his talons, scored deep gauges and watched as the Copper oozed forth like lambent honey.

Nothing. Just a source of light.

He dropped, furling his wings, and then snapped them open at the last just shy of the floor to sweep around a huge column and right toward his black-clad nemesis which had appeared in a distant tunnel mouth.

“Damn it!” he veered violently, nearly hit the wall, got his feet up in time and pushed off it, flipping mid-flight to head in the other direction.

His nemesis claimed dominance, and his Heart guttered as his scant reservoir was stripped.

Scorio hit the sand face first, rolled, came up to his feet and kept running.

One glance cast behind him as he fled into the next tunnel confirmed that his nemesis wasn’t following.

Into the darkness. He tried to Ignite, but was still in his foe’s realm of influence. He ran lightly down the tunnel’s length, hit a T-junction, took the right, kept running. Emerged a moment later into yet another cyclopean hall, this one as sandy-bottomed as the last, but long, stretching a quarter of a mile away toward a tall, narrow arch that blazed with white light. Alcoves big enough for him to pass through in his dragon form were embedded down the walls, but there were no domes, just shadow.

Scorio veered toward the distant archway and kept running. This was the longest he’d lasted so far. Perhaps he was onto something. That distant arch. That white light. Could the key lie beyond it? Of course not. A Charnel Duke trial couldn’t be this easy.

But hope was hard to deny.

Scorio sprinted down the length of the hall, feet slipping in the silty sand. The white archway loomed larger as he drew close, and then a small figure with a rectangular head stepped into view, silhouetted against the blaze.

Scorio stopped so abruptly he fell on his ass, kicked against the sand as he sought to get up, but a burst of crimson light took off his left leg at the knee.

Scorio screamed, clutched the stump, went to ignore the wound and try to get up, then stopped. He’d lost a leg. There was no winning this round. Instead, he hugged his knee to his chest, blood pumping out of the wound, and roared his defiance at the figure.

Who stood, immobile, perfectly clad once more, and then unleashed a blaze of crimson that tore the top off Scorio’s head.

“Damn it!” Scorio reeled, caught his balance, took off again at a run even as Myla renewed her wailing.

This time he didn’t care where he went. He needed to think. He couldn’t brute force this. Finding the key wouldn’t—couldn’t—be as simple as turning the right corner. His nemesis—he’d call it blockhead for short—was able to negotiate this complex far better than he.

Scorio took the same tunnel, raced down its length, burst into the same sandy chamber with the single dome, and turned to continue sprinting down the tunnel he’d fled into last time.

No wasting time on the dome.

This was a Charnel Duke test. On the face of it that meant his foe was Ruby-mana ranked. The kind of fiend one might fight in the Scorched Swale. As long as it could claim dominance, it would continue to strip him of his powers and destroy him.

Scorio couldn’t claim dominance. He couldn’t even send forth his vortices. But was that the answer? If he sent his vortices forth, would the blockhead’s attempt at dominance be impaired?

Scorio thought of that moment in the Red Keep with Aezryna. How he’d weaponized all the mana at once, created a hundred vortices. Was that the answer? He’d nearly exploded his Heart, nearly died.

But what did he have to lose?

He emerged into the lengthy hall and stopped. Considered. Extended his Heart sense to check the room, and found massive amounts of Iron and Bronze coiling along the ground, with eddies of Copper up on high.

Scorio blew out his cheeks.

What choice did he have? The last time he’d sought to activate all the mana. What if he… what? Activated only a little? Just as the blockhead claimed dominance?

Resolve hardened his heart. He’d try it.

Slowly, resolute, he marched down the center of the huge hall. The blockhead stepped out from a titanic alcove to his left. Perfectly dressed, cloak over one arm, its geometric head gleaming with inhuman precision.

Scorio stopped, inhaled, held his breath.

For a single second they stared at each other. It would claim dominance—now!

Scorio imagined the hall filled with Nox’s gel, imagined the perfect cells, the layers of ordered power. The Iron and Bronze—

The blockhead claimed dominance and guttered Scorio’s Heart.

“Damn—”

A beam of crimson line cut across his neck and all went dark.

“—it!” roared Scorio, staggering again as he coughed and cleared his mouth. Myla didn’t crouch this time, simply hugged herself.

Fine. He’d prepare sooner.

Scorio unfocused his gaze and studied the huge hall. Silver and Bronze here, Iron along the edges, even some Coal in the corners. It was all his. He claimed it with savage intensity. The whole chamber, all of it, was filled with Imperial Gel. He visualized the matrix, forced his mind to consider it done. He had no reservoir, his Heart was everywhere and nowhere, he was the owner of this place, its supreme lord.

Then, with terrible focus, he willed it all to obey him, to begin falling into his Heart.

“Scorio…” whispered Myla. “What are you…?”

It felt akin to stirring an ocean of honey. But he didn’t need to stir; he discarded the image of his paddle and instead thought of the mana as falling, falling as it had done while he’d bathed in Nox’s gel pool, falling around his Heart.

The entire hall stilled, grew sluggish, then began to swirl around him.

Sweat beaded Scorio’s brow. His nails dug into his palms. He clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might crack.

He’d broken the hall’s equilibrium. Become the fulcrum, the center.

An impossible amount of mana became akin to an external reservoir, and his to burn.

The sound of distant footsteps grew louder, and it seemed they ran with greater urgency.

“Mine,” Scorio hissed. “All… mine!”

The entire hall began to burn as his vortices popped open, one, a dozen, a score of them around him, flying out and budding. Scorio’s head was filled with a rushing roar, and he felt like he was burning in turn, a sheet of paper cast into a fire, charring and curling and immolating as his Heart blazed so bright he ceased to be able to see it for the inferno that raged around it.

All the mana. All the Bronze, the Iron, the Copper, the Coal. Even the Silver. It all began to burn at once.

Tremendous, impossible power suffused him. He felt like a god, as if he could tear down these vast walls, snuff out all life—

It was too much. He could hear himself screaming as if from far away.

The obsidian blockhead stepped into view… and froze.

The entire hall was a funeral pyre of exploding mana.

Scorio reeled, bared his teeth at the figure, felt himself a feral force of nature. “Mine!” he roared. “All mine! Kneel!”

The blockhead claimed dominance.

Scorio’s Heart guttered, his vortices collapsed, and the vast ocean of mana ceased to obey him.

It felt akin to being slapped across the face with a shovel.

Scorio staggered, momentarily blinded by the backlash. He couldn’t breathe, he was bathed in sweat. Coughing, gagging, he dropped to his knees, his head rent by the worse pain he’d ever felt.

A gloved hand closed around his neck. Unable to breathe, he was lifted up off the sand by the blockhead. Effortlessly it raised him a foot of the sand. Its freezing aura seared Scorio, brought him back to lucidity.

He clasped at the creature’s velvet vambrace, sought to tear its fingers apart. For a moment it turned him from side to side, as if examining him with renewed curiosity, and then a beam of total crimson flared and all went black.

“Gah!” cried Scorio, and this time he staggered back and fell on his ass. His thoughts were shattered and despite there not being any pain, he couldn’t catch his breath.

It hadn’t worked.

He’d been sure—absolutely sure he’d found the answer.

But it had wrested dominance from him like a bandit prying a golden bauble from the fingers of a dead child.

“See?” Myla’s smile wavered as tears ran down her cheeks. “Do you understand, now? There’s no winning. We’re trapped. We’re trapped here forever until we go mad. It’s all over.”

And she bowed her head and interlaced her fingers over the nape of her neck.

From the distance came the sound of running feet.

Scorio inhaled shakily, and for the first time he didn’t move. For the first time, no new ideas occurred to him.

He just sat there, arms roped around his knees, mind blank, and stared at the tunnel mouth with burgeoning horror as the sound of racing footsteps grew louder.