IGS #4, Chapter 37

Scorio

Scorio slumbered. Fingers interlaced beneath his head, he’d lain still for what felt like ages, gazing up unseeing at the shifting clouds, fragments of conversations playing in his mind. Emotions arose and then fell back into nothingness. Warmth and purpose, loss and pain. Leonis and Moira, Aezryna and Lady Krula. The mysteries of Acherzua, Myla’s doubts, his own few but rock solid certainties.

Eventually his eyes closed, and he fell into dreams.

Only to convulse back into awakening, his whole body straining, every muscle rigid, his hands grasping, his mouth opened into a soundless cry.

Braxofitz leaned over him, his alien, expressionless face framed by the Unfathom’s endless heavens.

Scorio’s body burned cold, his skin seared by endless instantaneous lacerations. Braxofitz cocked his head to one side, movement birdlike. His mask of a face was expressionless, his eyes unfeeling, his small mouth pursed with what might have been satisfaction.

Scorio clawed for reason, for thought. He had to scream, call out this treachery. His companions slumbered right beside them. But all he could do was strain, as if fighting to heave off a house-sized boulder from his chest, arms half-raised, his neck corded with effort, his fingers clawing at the air.

A slow hiss escaped Scorio’s clenched jaws. What was happening? His mind reeled. The colorless fire flooded his body, a burning sensation that his draconic core rejected, unearthly, unnatural. Sweat prickled then beaded then ran in rivulets. Summoning all his presence of mind, he invoked his Heart and flooded it with Mana, and willed it to Ignite.

It took tremendous effort. His mind reeled, his thoughts were sluggish. What had become an instantaneous practice now felt like shoving mud.

Braxofitz crouched and pressed a slender vial to his lips. Cocked Scorio’s head back so that his mouth opened, and poured the contents into his gullet.

Molten lead flowed into his throat. Scorio tried to scream, but the gelatinous liquid quelled the ability. It poured down his gullet into his chest, his stomach, and the vision of his Heart wavered and disappeared.

The colorless fire was within him now, searing him alive.

Braxofitz reached down with heavily gloved hands to adjust whatever lay upon Scorio, and then with terrifying strength took hold of him by the belt and the nape of his neck to rise from the ground in perfect silence.

All Scorio could do was gargle in wretched fury.

A new sound arose.

“Scorio?” Jova, voice sharp with alarm. “What are you—”

Braxofitz surged upward into the pale sky. Head lolling, Scorio gazed helplessly down at the camp in time to see Jova tear a dozen rocks from the ground, her eyes wide, her jaw clenched. Yes, he thought, pulp the bastard, do it Jova, do it!

Then hell washed over the camp.

Philosophers swept down in perfect silence. Advanced Silverines by the dozens, hundreds. Scorio’s breath caught. Braxofitz veered as if to accommodate his victim, and Scorio’s field of view shifted to encompass the deluge of Philosophers that swarmed the camp.

Jova screamed and her rocks began to blur around her. Druanna’s eidolon pounded into the fray, blades swinging, and the others scrambled to their feet.

Higher. Braxofitz flew on, uncaring, and with each moment Scorio saw more of the landscape.

More of the enemy.

An ocean of Philosophers were pouring into the camp. They’d flown in low, perhaps only a few feet above the silver sands, and now they swarmed around his friends. Scorio’s heart wanted to break. He had to be down there, he had to embrace his dragon form, he had to breathe flame, to fight, to protect—

But they flew higher yet, and his thoughts quelled, froze before the sight. There weren’t hundreds of Philosophers throwing themselves against his companions.

There were thousands.

A great army of the fiends, multifarious, some winged, some more humanoid than others, all intent, all awaiting their turn, rank upon rank upon rank rising up now even as Scorio watched, discarding caution, discarding order to fill the air like a locust swarm and fall upon the camp.

The last glimpse Scorio caught was of the eidolon being utterly smothered by Silverines, of a vortex of boulders scything around and around the Great Souls, Nyrix loosing bolts of bright light, Kuragin shifting into his armored form, Xandera hurling forth a stream of lava—

Then Braxofitz leaned forward and put on speed, and the sight fell away.

Scorio struggled, but he might as well have been within Ydrielle’s prism once more. His limbs hung limp and he could barely breathe. His thoughts were scattered, his ability to focus on his Heart ruined.

Fury.

Deep within his inert body Scorio raged. He fought to gather his focus, to wrest control of his body from whatever drug Braxofitz had poured between his lips, but he might as well have willed a statue to life.

The wind howled around them.

Abruptly they descended to land amidst a crown of menhirs. Braxofitz alighted delicately upon the rough, rocky ground, and laid Scorio upon an altar. The stone was cold beneath his fevered skin.

A figure stepped into view.

Dameon.

Scorio managed a low, hoarse growl.

Dameon eyed him nervously, then beamed. “Scorio! Fancy seeing you here. Ah, what a turn of events.”

Tears of impotent fury leaked from Scorio’s eyes. A constant, tearing growl emerged from deep within his chest, his whole shivering as he fought to regain control.

“Honestly, I’d relax if I were you, I urged Braxy here to give you ten times what he thought an appropriate dose of lyrnxia vine. You’ve been dozed with enough purified paralytic to topple a cloud whale.”

Scorio couldn’t even clench his jaw. Horrific memories of sinking into liquid Gold mana flashed before his eyes, that fury, that helplessness.

Dameon eyed him critically, then relaxed. “And, I hate to say it, we’re going to dose you with it every few minutes. You must be mad if you think I’d risk you Igniting and ruining my plans. Oh, my plans. Did I mention them to you? Namely, not allowing you to kill me. How? By agreeing to feed you to an Abstraction. Heard of them? I’m sure you have. Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. Braxy here will fly you to the closest one soon, and then you’ll get to investigate the Silverine Suns. From the inside!”

Dameon clapped his hands as if delighted by his own jest.

Scorio’s whole body shuddered, his chest vibrating, his head slowly turning from side to side.

“Damn,” said Dameon, leaning in. “Braxy, I think he needs another dose already.”

The Philosopher had stood to one side, unmoving, but now he considered Scorio, head tilting. “He cannot be freeing himself of the lyrnxia’s influence already.”

“Look, all he needs do is shift into a castle-sized dragon once to ruin our plans. Let’s avoid that, shall we?”

“As you wish.” The Silverine stepped forth, unstoppered a fresh vial, and poured more colorless fire into Scorio’s mouth, tilting his head back again so that it flowed down his throat.

What little motility Scorio had wrested from the poison disappeared.

“There.” Dameon crossed his arms and beamed. “I’ll be honest, I really shouldn’t stay and gloat. It’s… unbecoming of me. And you’ll not believe this, but I respect you, Scorio. For what you’ve accomplished. I’d like to think we’re equals, in a way. I killed your friends, you killed mine. You ruined my plans, I’ve ruined yours. You’re like my big, dumb, brutish reflection. So I’ll spare you the torment of having to listen to me any further. Maybe we’ll meet in another life. But I doubt it.”

Dameon reached down to pat Scorio’s cheek. “Have fun with the Abstraction.”

And with that he turned and walked away.

Scorio tried to growl, tried to summon his Heart. He caught the briefest flicker of it, but then it vanished like a reflection dashed from the surface of a pool.

Rage.

Rage against Dameon for his perfidy. Rage against Braxofitz for his betrayal.

But most of all, rage against himself for having fallen victim to this ploy. For having failed his friends. For not having been there to fight at their sides.

Scorio sank into a fevered nightmare. Every few moments Braxofitz would pour more of the lyrnxia venom into his mouth. The Philosopher was stoic, expressionless, endlessly patient.

Time passed. Trapped and burning, it felt like days, but the rational part of his mind knew it couldn’t have even been an hour or so. The sky remained its perfect silvery hue, banks of fog swept by overhead, and Scorio remained trapped upon the plinth, unable to do more than rage and sweat and shake.

Movement.

A second figure appeared in the corner of his eye. With immense effort he moved his head just a fraction to see Myla step out from behind one of the menhir’s. Her robes were torn, her face bruised, her expression fierce.

Hope leaped within his chest.

Braxofitz turned sharply to face her, then froze as she made a complex sign with her fingers. The Philosopher bowed his head.

“Be gone,” whispered Myla.

Braxofitz levitated into the air, angled his body, and flew away.

“It’s all right,” whispered Myla, rushing up to where Scorio lay. “Well, not all right, but I’ll get you out of here. Hold on.”

She pulled off her boot, yanking it free, then with great care used its toe to dislodge the heavy ropes that yet lay over Scorio’s chest and legs.

“There.” She tugged her boot back on, hopping around for a moment, then stomped it into place and moved up alongside Scorio. “Let’s go.”

She tapped his shoulder, and he lifted off the plinth on a cushion of firm air. Taking hold of his arm, she pulled him after her, at first slowly but then breaking into a jog, leaving the circle of menhirs and darting out over the sands. Faster she ran, Scorio bobbing and floating along behind her, and for a good span of time they simply raced along until at last they began climbing a steep, rocky slope, and found a natural shelter inside a sharp overhang of gray stone.

“Ignite your Heart as soon as you can,” said Myla, pressing him down so that he lay upon the ground. “That’ll help you burn off the lyrnxia vines quickly.”

Scorio stared at her, straining for control, for autonomy.

Myla crouched against the rough wall and wrapped her arms around her shins. “I ran. After Jova died, I knew we had no hope. I’m so sorry.” Her expression was bleak. “I know they were your friends. I did what I could, but I’m not a strong fighter, that’s not my—I used my teleportation power to skip out, then I ran in the direction I saw Braxofitz carry you. I knew he was keeping you alive for a reason. I was terrified he’d simply take you miles and miles away, but then I saw that old ruin, and figured maybe—and there you were.”

Scorio growled deep in his chest. Tears leaked from his eyes.

Myla leaned forward to dab at his face with the corner of her robe. “I’m sorry. I wish there were a better way to tell you, but… I don’t think anyone survived. Druanna’s was…” Myla took a deep, shuddery breath and looked away. “There were just too many of them.”

Scorio closed his eyes. It was too much. He couldn’t process it.

“Look. I have to tell you something.” Myla’s voice had grown firm, as if she’d reached a decision. “I haven’t been completely honest with you about who I am.”

Scorio opened his eyes once more.

“I… don’t know quite how to say it, and it’s tormented me ever since I ran into you at the Red Keep, but…” Myla took a deep breath. “I used to be a Herdsmen.”

Scorio stilled.

“I… I was reborn inside the Fortress of Symmetry, what you’ve been calling the Lost Cube. I never had a choice in the matter.” Myla flushed. “And for a while, I was happy to do what I was told. It all made sense, after all. Then Lady Krula—not the one at the Red Keep, her missing sister—a few years ago she started getting impatient with her superiors. She—and through her, I—believed in the Herdsmen’s duty of preparing the weapons and armor and tools to tip the balance in the Great Soul’s favor in the war against the Pit at the final hour, but there’s this prophecy, that only a natural born Great Soul can become the Infernarch, and she—”

Myla took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of her nose, centering herself. “All right, let me try again.” She opened her pale blue eyes to study Scorio. “Lady Krula was recruited by the Herdsmen a century ago to help refine and perfect and bring back to life the machines that have laid in waiting inside the Fortress all this time. The tools that will help us win the war and go home to Eterra. But over the past decade she’s grown impatient. Her superiors insist that they cannot show their cards till the Acherzua-born Great Soul takes ownership of the Fortress, but it’s become clear that will never happen.”

Scorio’s mind raced. Natural born. He worked his jaw. The lyrnxia was slowly fading. He tried to summon his Heart, almost managed. Instead, he croaked, “…Naomi.”

Myla shook her head. “No. That was our last hope. But she’s not truly natural born. We influenced it too much. When the higher ups realized it hadn’t worked, they abandoned that attempt and returned to just waiting. Which eventually drove Lady Krula mad. We’re out of time. They accused her of lacking faith, but…” Myla shrugged. “So she’s secretly broken away from the order. She’s too carefully watched to do anything without being silenced, but she recruited me to help. I went to the Titan’s Causeway because I thought perhaps the—never mind. That’s where I met up with Kuragin, and where we both learned of your deeds. Oh, he doesn’t know. Kuragin, that is.”

Scorio coughed. He still felt dazed, could barely follow along.

“When he told me he knew you from before, I convinced him to come with me to the Red Keep. I knew you’d have to pass through there. My hope was to help you penetrate the defenses of the Tomb of Sadness, and show you the truth behind the Herdsmen there, explain it, and recruit you to Lady Krula’s side.”

Myla leaned forward. “Because she wants you to come to the Fortress. She believes you can awaken the artifacts. That you can force the Herdsmen to finally quit the sidelines and join the main war effort before it’s too late.”

Scorio stared at her.

It was too much to take in.

He summoned his Heart again, and it finally coalesced in his Heart’s sense. With savage immediacy he swept Bronze mana into its depths and Ignited.

The flames cleansed the last of the stupor away, and with a grunt he shifted up into his draconic form and sprang to his feet.

Myla shrank back against the overhang’s wall, eyes wide.

“You…” Scorio loomed over the Dread Blaze. “Why should I trust a word you’re saying?”

Myla’s gaze darted from side to side, then stilled. Her shoulders slumped. “I can swear a new Heart Oath if you like. Or—I don’t know. You said earlier that you’d take the facts as they came. I’ve put myself at your mercy. You can—you can kill me now, if you wish. I’m not powerful enough to stop you.” Tears welled in her eyes as she gazed up at him. “But—I just want to end the war. I want to help Lady Krula end the war. You can do this. You can reveal the truth behind the Herdsmen. Force their hand. Help the Imperators. I’ll take you to the Lost Cube. I know how to find it. I can open its hidden doors. You can speak with Lady Krula herself, examine the artifacts. I…” She hugged her knees to her chest again and looked away. “I’m sorry. I wish I could do more.”

Scorio’s shoulders heaved. The effects of the lyrnxia vines was gone, but still he struggled to understand everything that had happened.

His friends… dead?

Myla might be lying.

But he’d seen the thousands upon thousands of Philosophers swarming the site. Had fought in the Bone Plains against similar numbers. Knew how overwhelming such a force could be, especially if they were Silver-ranked fiends. Not even Instinctuals. Philosophers.

Dameon.

Dameon had clearly been the architect behind this ambush. He’d disappeared before Scorio had left the Red Keep. Had convinced Braxofitz to betray them.

He wanted to kill something. To vent his rage. Myla had deceived him. Lied about not knowing the Herdsmen. Broken her Heart Oath? He recalled the terms, remembered how she’d quickly volunteered the words herself: I am not a Herdsmen, and I’m not working in their interests. I’ll do everything I can to help you reveal the truth about them and defeat them in whatever way you think is best.

All of that was technically true. She’d betrayed them. Was working against her superiors. Was trying to force their hand.

Scorio closed his eyes and staggered back. Hung his head.

Xandera. Leonis. Jova.

All of them.

Gone?

He had to be sure. “I must go find my friends.”

“Sure,” said Myla, wiping at her face. “I understand. But Silverines…”

Silverines ate their prey.

“I don’t care. I have to be sure.”

“I can lead us back there.”

Scorio studied the girl. Her face was flushed, her eyes glassy. He didn’t trust her. But she was willing to return. She’d know the way. “Can you fly?”

“No, I can only cause others to float if I touch them.”

“Then…” He wanted nothing less, but he had to hurry. “Get on my back. We’ll fly there now. Tell me which way to go.”

Myla nodded and rose.

Scorio extruded his wings, crouched so she could climb on, then took a dozen running steps and leaped.

Beat his wings powerfully, and took to the air.

Myla pointed the way.

They flew.

Scorio’s mind was smooth and null.

He pushed himself as hard as he could. They cut through the fog, lowering so that the ground became visible, and powered along till at last they reached the campsite.

There was no mistaking it. Boulders were littered everywhere. The ground was badly churned up. The remnants of some packs lay to one side. Here and there he saw splotches of silvery blood.

He descended, landed, and Myla released her hold to hop down.

Mute, Scorio wandered in a great, faltering circle.

It was the campsite. But there were no corpses. Neither Philosophers nor Great Souls.

The thousands must have devoured everything immediately, and then… flown away.

Why remain?

He stopped when he reached a great spray of congealed black lava.

Dropped into a crouch and hung his head.

His friends were gone.

No words.

Just a great aching void where his heart had been.

He remained thus for an eternity, feeling nothing, thinking nothing.

Eventually, he rose.

All that remained within him was volition. Determination. To wrest some truth, some benefit, some advantage from this horrific loss.

He turned back to where Myla awaited, hands linked behind her back, face downcast. “You said this Lady Krula expects me.”

“Yes. She wants you to tear everything wide open. She wants you to do what you’ve done before.”

“You know where the Lost Cube is.”

“I do.”

Scorio bowed his head. What was the right play? Should he kill Myla here and now, and then…?

Then what? Wander the Unfathom alone, searching for the hidden Cube? Return to the Red Keep and inform the original Lady Krula that her sister was alive and hidden in the Cube? He could drag Myla back with him, and then together with Krula interrogate her, wrest her secrets free, then mount a new party—

Perhaps that was the smart thing to do.

But he… he didn’t have it in him. To travel all the way back, Myla bound hand and foot, gagged, to not sleep the whole way to ensure she didn’t escape, to then explain everything, endure everything, to mount…

No.

Bleak horror was scrabbling at the walls of his mind.

Alone.

He was finally, truly alone. Lianshi back at Bastion, but otherwise…

Alone.

His own impetus to find the Lost Cube was the barest of threads keeping him moving.

“Fine,” he rasped. “Take me to the Lost Cube. Take me to Lady Krula. I don’t even care if you’re lying. One way or another, I’ll have my vengeance.”

Myla nodded, expression sober. “Absolutely. And your vengeance will be Lady Krula’s, too.”

“How far to the Cube?”

“If we fly? Only a few days.”

“A few days.”

He thought of Leonis, of—but no. He couldn’t afford those thoughts. All he could think of now was blood and ruin.

Scorio took a deep breath and raised his face to the heavens.

Blood and ruin.

That’s all that remained to him.

“Then let us go.”