IGS #4, Chapter 45

Scorio

How often had he been here?

How many times had he found himself flinging himself into the unknown, without much of a plan, deprived of allies, alone, and pitting himself against all of Hell?

Despite the growing exhaustion, Scorio flew on, resolute, grim, his mindset barbaric, savage. For days they’d been flying, Myla occasionally passing forward one of her waterskins. At times she fell asleep upon his back, but never so deeply that she released her grip on him altogether.

Scorio needed no rest. No sleep. All there remained for him was his destination. The Lost Cube. The venture that had claimed the last of his companions and left him, for the first time, truly alone in Hell.

Others would have regrouped, reconsidered. Aezryna would no doubt have retreated to the Red Keep, to confer and deliberate with Lady Krula, to plan and organize a fresh strike.

Scorio knew he should do the same. Knew that it was foolish to venture on with only Myla to guide him. That he was thrusting himself deeper into his enemy’s plans. But he found that he didn’t care. He felt like a great rock hurled at an enemy castle’s walls. Once cast, the boulder no longer had agency, just purpose, and that was to impact its foe at extreme velocity so as to cause maximum damage.

Wise?

No.

But he simply didn’t have it in him to dig any deeper. His rage, all-consuming, long banked, had finally reared its head once more. His old friend. His constant companion. He yearned now for nothing so much as to find foes to rend, obstacles to crush, challenges to overcome. For as he flew he saw faces before him, ghosts of those who but a few days ago had laughed and lived and entrusted their fate to him.

Consumed, now, by Silverines.

Perhaps he didn’t really care about the fate of Hell. Perhaps he’d been fighting for his friends all this time. Perhaps he’d been a hypocrite, lying to himself and anyone who’d listen that he fought injustice on a grand scale.

Perhaps he’d simply been looking to protect those he knew and cared for.

It didn’t matter.

He’d find his own end soon.

Moira had tried to warn him. Lose too much, suffer too much, and you become bleak. Suicidal. Flying right at the Lost Cube with a former Herdswoman on his back couldn’t be construed as anything but.

Scorio narrowed his eyes and powered on. The shifting banks of fog parted before him, revealing endless vistas of the Silver Unfathom. Taken as a whole, this band of Hell felt uniform: and endless wasteland of silver sand, sharp crags, the occasional mountain range of black fibrous rock. But in practice, hour to hour, it varied tremendously. Plains pocked with great craters in whose depths metallic water glimmered. Washes of toxic-looking sands that spread across the ground like an impossible tributary. Gulches that crisscrossed each other to form geometric grids that appeared wholly unnatural, that surely had to be orchestrated by some foreign hand.

Packs of Silverine Instinctuals coursed below as if on some grand migration, some numbering in the hundreds, some in the thousands. They moved with a herd instinct, turning as one so that they flowed across ravines and over rises like a single organism.

Schools of Philosophers would venture close, sometimes in trios, others in small groups of ten or twenty, once in a great flock hundreds strong. But each time Myla would rouse herself and gesture, call forth a greeting, or stir in some manner Scorio couldn’t decipher.

Always the Philosophers fell away, their trills respectful, their manner turning from euphoric at a prospective feast to demure and humbled.

Scorio cared not.

Had they tested him, they would have been met with dragon fire.

Finally, eons later, his body grown wracked with soreness and fatigue, Myla tapped his shoulder and edged up to call into his ear.

“We’re close! But on the wrong plane! Keep flying, I’ll guide us through.”

Scorio roused himself and focused on the wisps of cloud that strayed before him. The land was barren and empty. No matter how he peered ahead, he saw nothing.

But then mana pulsed upon his back as Myla engaged some technique. He felt her Igneous Heart Ignite, felt mana well out about them, forming a bubble. It was Bronze, but infused with something else, something that inscribed strange patterns upon the gleaming surface.

And before him, the air shimmered with rainbow hues. He passed through one such bank, and the landscape around him shifted slightly, dunes of sand changing their patterns, the cloudscapes high above re-arranging themselves.

Another ripple of iridescence, and again the world shifted. Scorio flew into a thick fog, the gritty flecks forcing him to narrow his eyes.

Another band of metallic hues, and they flew out into a brightly lit day, the clouds gone, the fog banished to wreath the distant mountain range on the horizon. Below stretched the flat desert of iron dust, silver rising in endless undulating dunes.

The huge skies were empty.

Myla extended the Rose Compass over his shoulder and called out in a language he didn’t understand. Power girded her words, and Scorio felt her sweep mana into the Compass.

The air ahead rippled, and then, abruptly, it appeared.

And there.

Right before them, massive and ornate, floated a giant ivory cube.

The scale of it was breathtaking.

Half a mile across on each side, with each face carved in inexpressibly beautiful carvings. A great diamond was inlaid into each face, its corners touching each side at the midpoint, but no part of the cube was left plain; vast patterns were cut into the white stone, curling, intertwining, geometric. A soft golden radiance could barely be discerned to be glowing from the Cube’s center, betraying itself only in the deepest depressions of the patterns, so that it seemed as if a subtle sun burned deep within the Cube’s heart.

The Lost Cube.

A creation out of legend. A myth. The home of the Herdsmen.

Here, at long last, before him.

Myla was crouched high upon his back, and she pointed over his shoulder toward one of the faces. “Since we’re flying, we might as well approach! I’ll open the door!”

Scorio had settled into a glide, but now he powered forward once more, curving out to the right so as to approach the Cube’s closest face. There were no windows, no doors, no indication of human habitation what so ever.

The Cube loomed massively before them. There was something spiritually unnerving about it; not just the impossibility of its floating there, several hundred yards above the silver dunes, but very scale of it, the complexity of its beauty.

Who could craft such an artifact? How? His small treasures, like his lost rod, his chalk, the bridge, even, he could understand: they were small, could feasibly be created in a forge or craftsman’s shop.

But something this massive? What manner of skill, knowledge, and talent would it take? Had their forebears truly been such giants of creation? Were their inherent powers that old Great Souls had possessed that allowed them to forge such artifacts, just as Scorio himself could turn into a dragon, or…?

Scorio couldn’t fathom the Cube’s creation. But there it hung, slowly gliding over the ground far below, following its ineffable course through the Unfathom, serene and still and inscrutable.

Scorio drew closer. The air took on a mineral tang, as of petrichor. Even with his Heart senses he couldn’t discern how the Cube remained aloft—there was no column of mana being projected below it like with the flying islands of the Rascor Plains. It seemed utterly self-contained.

Again Myla extended the Rose Compass before her, and again she channeled mana into the treasure.

Ahead, a small rectangular seam blazed with gold, and that part of the Cube vanished, revealing a dark doorway into the interior. The portal’s size seemed minute compared to the Cube’s total scale, but as Scorio winged toward it he saw that she’d opened a massive entrance, easily ten yards in height and four across.

Dark vision failed to pierce the darkness, however.

“What lies within?” he called over his shoulder.

“Lady Krula. She’s sensed our approach, assuredly. We’ll be greeted inside.”

It was too late to cavil. Scorio settled into a glide and rode a rising thermal to the entrance. It was situated just outside the great diamond pattern’s lower left side, a quarter of the way in from the bottom left corner. For some reason Scorio had expected it to appear right at the bottom edge, but then again, why should it?

At the very last he banked, dropping his body so that he could land on the floor beyond the threshold, and passed into the darkness.

The air grew still, cool, and took on the scent of dust and deep time. He landed on a stone floor covered with grit and drifts of sand, and immediately received a sense of dizzying, vertiginous height and space.

A hall. A hall massive enough to dwarf the basilica of the Academy in which the hundreds of biers radiated around the Archspire.

Myla slipped off his back as he turned in a slow circle, struck with wonder.

Columns as broad as houses rose hundreds of feet into the air to march down the length of the hall and support a ponderous looking ceiling made of huge stone blocks in which the occasional dome was scooped out. Faint light defused into the air from the peak of these domes, not from windows, exactly, but bands of what might have been radiant gold.

The archway to the outside world was gone. Instead, the hall continued impossibly behind them, extending past where the Cube’s exterior wall should have been.

The entirety of the place had the air of a ruin. Drifts of sand were piled up against the walls and the base of the columns, along with chunks of rock that looked to have fall from above. A flight of broad, shallow steps rose about midway down the hall, their risers eroded and cracked. The walls were rough and cracked, and haze hung in the air, making the far end of the chamber indistinct. There were wings beyond the columns on each side, and towering alcoves were built into the walls, with hints of further architectural details high up, smaller columns along the front of a hidden gallery, or the ceiling itself rising out of view.

“What is this?” whispered Scorio, stunned by the scale and museum-like silence of the place.

“Greetings, Scorio.” The voice was familiar, arch, educated, wry. Stepping into view at the top of the broad, shallow steps appeared a tall lady, clothed in plain gray robes tied off at the waist with a golden belt, her sable hair pulled into a pun through which the tops of two golden sticks were visible, her crescent-moon like face the mirror of Lady Krula’s. Her skin was chalky white, her frame angular, her eyes heavy-lidded. “It is my honor and distinct pleasure to welcome you to the Lost Cube.”

“Lady Krula,” said Scorio guardedly.

Myla stepped out to the side, hands linked behind her back, a winsome smile on her lips. “I have done as you bid, mistress.” She sounded very pleased with herself. “Precisely as you bid.”

“You have my thanks, Myla.” Lady Krula smiled benignly at the Pyre Lady. “And your role in these final, momentous events shall be recorded for posterity. But please, call me Anseline. Lady Krula is my sister. She rules still in the Red Keep?”

“And searches for you,” said Scorio. “She thinks you imprisoned within a Silverine Sun.”

“Does she?” Anseline’s broad mouth curved into a smile. “How delightful. And metaphorically, quite true. I hope to soon be reunited with her. But first we must reach an accord. You are come to the Lost Cube by my invitation, but still must prove yourself worthy of the Cube’s inheritance. How much has Myla shared?”

“I’ve told him the basics,” said Myla hurriedly. “About the prophecy, and our rebellion. How you hope he’ll break the stasis and bring us to the end game.”

Scorio glanced about himself again. All was still. So huge was the hall that their voices didn’t echo, but rather hung thin in the high air, diminished by the sheer scale of the walls. “I’m not natural born. I was reincarnated by the Archspire.”

“So you were. But not all prophecies are true. Some are fashioned to act as prisons, preventing right action. Others are outright tools of expediency. You are aware, no doubt, of the Empyreal Prophecy?”

“That the Imperators would seal the Pit a few years back? Yes.”

“A farce, obviously, a political machination to keep the hoi polloi in line while also marshalling the Imperators into a unified force in the hopes of actually sealing the Pit.” Anseline waved a long-fingered hand. “A tool, poorly used, which did more damage than it did good.”

“Your tool?” asked Scorio.

“Not this time. The Herdsmen have had an active hand in shaping events and guiding the Great Souls, but that one was born from the fevered imaginings of Crimson Earls intent on a desperate last attempt at victory. Or so they thought. While we yet breathe, there may be other attempts.”

Scorio sought to stay on track. “You’re saying this natural born prophecy is false, then?”

“That’s my belief. But I’m not a heretic by the Herdsmen’s standards. A century I’ve been here, locked inside these walls, laboring to bring about victory. All my peers and superiors are children by my count, yet here I remain, my advice ignored, my warnings laughed at. No longer.”

“Why haven’t you taken control of the organization, then?” Scorio took a step forward. “You’ve been here long enough.”

“I’m not interested in the trappings of power, nor playing at politics. No. My fascination had always been the wonders and intricacies of the marvels we fashioned long centuries past. That, and my sister.” Anseline frowned. “I swore an oath to her not to go deeper into Hell without her, and—well. She would not approve of my interests.”

“So you’re trapped here by your oath?”

“Any my own interests. It was a happy existence, at first.” She scrutinized him. “You don’t strike me as the intellectual type, Scorio, but believe me when I say that there are enough treasures hidden in these vaults to keep a discerning mind content for endless decades. So much lost wisdom. But. All good things must come to an end.”

“Hence my being here.”

“Hence your being here. My apologies for the nature of the invitation. I expect you want nothing more than my head for the loss of your friends. But your reputation forced my hand.”

Scorio simply stared at her.

Anseline’s smile grew wry. “This is where I appeal to your vision, your ambition, your desire for justice. My head would appease your bloodlust for—what—an hour? And then you’d find yourself trapped and without guidance. Together, we can bring the Fortress of Symmetry back into the light, and leverage its wonders for our kind’s benefit.”

Still Scorio remained silent.

“My superiors demand patience,” said Anseline, breaking the awkward silence. “Faith. That in the final hours a natural-born Great Soul shall be revealed who can lead us all to victory. Well, my patience has lasted a century, but is now well and truly run dry. There are no natural-born Great Souls. Hell does not allow their birth. All who are not tied to the Archspire are born in Bastion with a caul over their Hearts, so that even if back on Eterra they could have Ignited, here they have functionally no chance. I can’t help but wonder which of my own kind created this prophecy, and to what end—why paralyze the very organization that was created to guide our people? I can’t understand it. That is why it’s called ‘faith’, I suppose. But mine has run out.”

“I’m here,” said Scorio. “What now?”

“Now? You must harness the power of the Fortress. If I could simply grant it to you, I would, but that’s not how it works. You must earn it, as I did. You must become the Warden, usurping that title from me, by passing the same test.”

“Test,” said Scorio. “What test?”

Anseline gestured around the huge hall with one long lanky arm. “You are already within the grounds. The test begins as soon as I leave you. There lies within these halls a golden key. The symbolism is pat. You must simply find it and claim it. The moment you do, the title of Warden shall pass unto you.”

“Why? Why can’t you as the Warden do this instead?”

“It is… complicated. I am a Herdswoman. I am bound by oaths. While I cannot outright betray my kind, I can arrange my own defeat. I have studied your actions these past years, Scorio. I have seen you accomplish the impossible. You have wrought change where none was allowed. I believe that you are the salvation we have been waiting for. While the prophecy demands we wait for the natural-born, I believe we have actually been waiting for you. It is why you were allowed to escape, after all. And what a life you have already lived! Your accomplishments are as glorious and radical as they are impossible. You are the chosen one. You will pass the test, you will take control of the Fortress of Symmetry, and you shall lead us into the final days. Which is why I shall leave Myla in your care. She shall help guide you to the key.”

Myla’s placid smile vanished. “What?”

“Aid Scorio as best you can,” said Anseline, tone benign.

“I—wait. What?!” Myla took three rapid steps toward the distant Charnel Duchess. “You’re going to make me take the test, too?”

“All of Hell appreciates your sacrifice,” said Anseline. “Be brave, darling. The rewards shall be commensurate to the pain.”

“Lady Krula—Anseline!” Myla’s horror was abject. “You can’t—I did as you bid, that’s—that’s not fair!”

“Fair, as ever, has nothing to do with anything,” said Anseline. “Good luck. I shall speak with you anon, Scorio, once you have secured the key. I know I ask much—after all, this test was designed for Charnel Dukes and Duchesses—but you are Whispered and an agent of chaos, are you not? I’m sure you’ll succeed.”

Scorio felt the blood drain from his face, but made no protest. What point was there? Yelling his incredulity and anger at the woman would only make him sound like a child.

“No!” Myla darted down the hall toward Anseline, but the woman simply vanished from the top of the steps. Myla staggered on a few more steps, then fell to her knees to stare at where she’d gone.

Scorio reached out with his Heart senses. Silver and Bronze washed through the hall. Mana wouldn’t be a problem, at any rate. Again he turned in a circle.

Stillness. Silence. Hints of tunnel mouths at the base of distant walls, along with the galleries high up in the wings offering exits to explore.

“Up, Myla.” His voice was cold even to his own ears. “What can you tell me about this test?”

“We’re fucked,” said Myla simply, tone stunned. “That’s… that’s not what we agreed. She couldn’t…”

“Myla.” Scorio but some bark into his voice. “Get up. What’s the test?”

Myla remained staring at the top of the steps.

Scorio Ignited and infused his voice with undeniable command and impatience. “GET UP.”

She jerked to her feet, swayed, then turned to stare at him, eyes glassy and wide. “We… we have to get to the key.”

“All right. So the test lies in finding it?”

“No. Finding the key is easy.” She dry swallowed, gaze flickering out to the sides. “It’s… it’s getting to it that’s impossible.”

A sound. Distant, barely discernible. Akin to scratching on rock, perhaps, or the rushing of air through empty halls. “Talk to me, Myla. Impossible how?”

“We have to fight our way there. Against… against everything the Cube can throw at us. Anseline spoke true.” Tears welled up in Myla’s eyes. “This is a test designed for Charnel Dukes. We’ve not a hope in Hell.”

“Then we’ll die trying. It’s what I expected, coming here.” He shrugged. “And you said yourself you expected the same.”

“From you, maybe.” She turned to face the walls and began backing toward him. “But it’s not death I fear. We can’t die here.”

“Wait. What?”

She glared at him, suddenly impatient. “We’re in a Gauntlet. Death just sends us back to this spot. We’re doomed. Doomed to die again and again forever till we go mad or Hell itself comes to an end.”

Scorio took in the vastness of the hall again and suddenly understood. “Oh. Fuck.”

Myla laughed, the sound unhinged. “Do you understand? She was meant to pull me out of here, to leave you to face the test alone. It isn’t fair! It’s—I did everything she asked! She can’t leave me here! Anseline!” Her cry was almost a scream. “Get me out! Please! Get me out!”

The sound of whispering, or perhaps approaching footsteps, was growing louder.

“Please,” said Myla, falling to her knees once more, voice cracking with strain and fear. “Please, Anseline. Please. Get me out. Don’t leave me here.”