Leonis forced himself into a limping run, and a few moments later they reached the far wall.
“She’s gone,” said Leonis, tone numb.
“I’m sorry.” Scorio couldn’t hold his scaled form any longer, sinking back into his human shape and its accompanying pain. “I tried to pull her free. I tried.”
“Damn it,” whispered Leonis, wiping a shaking hand over his brow. “I thought… I mean, I know it was irrational, but with her power, I thought she’d last the longest…”
“Didn’t help her,” said Scorio grimly, forcing himself to stand straight and suck in deep lungfuls of air. The urge to sit, to close his eyes, was intense. “Tripped her up, in fact. She relied on it when she should have dodged.”
“She did her best,” said Leonis, face flushing as he rounded on Scorio. “Don’t belittle her—”
“I’m not,” said Scorio, cutting his friend off sharply. “At all. You know how much I love and respect her. But that’s just what happened. Wrong reflex and it cost her.”
They stood thus in silence for a spell, then Leonis nodded reluctantly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry. You’re right.”
“One room down,” said Scorio. “Come on. I don’t want to linger. Let’s just press on.”
“Fine by me.” Leonis shifted his weight on his good leg. “Together, then?”
“Together.” Scorio swept more mana into his reservoir, pushing himself cruelly, saturating as quickly as he could, and refused to think of how he might have saved Lianshi if he’d been able to ignite quicker. For a moment he wanted to explain to Leonis, to castigate himself, but he crushed the impulse.
A deep breath, a second, and then he nodded. “Let’s go.”
They plunged into the darkness, and emerged into a rough, natural cavern, utterly without light, its walls close, the length of it narrowing into a tunnel. But there was no time for further study—a host of small forms swarmed immediately toward them, filling his field of darkvision.
He caught glimpses of bat-wing ears, ragged, fang-filled mouths so wide they nearly split the creature’s heads in twain, lash-like tails, talons, and claws. Scrawny to the point of emaciated, their eyes burning crimson, they fell upon Leonis and him in a flood, their high-pitched screeches conveying hunger, delight, rage.
Scorio bolted up into his Emberling shape, the ruined scales rushing over his arms, across his shoulders, and even as his claws emerged, he slashed them widely through the attacking creatures before him—the same fiends that Leonis had destroyed so easily in the second chamber.
But there had been four of those then; now they came at the pair of them without number, an endless swarm, racing out of a distant tunnel, streaming to join the crowd that pressed him and Leonis back against the iron wall.
Leonis shouted and swung Nezzar; the weapon shattered and crushed, knocked small bodies flying, but more lunged in the second the club had scythed past.
Scorio swung and lashed out with his searing claws, keeping his guard up, slashed at hideous faces, tore hands off arms, swiped through knees and thighs, occasionally side-stepped as a small fiend hurled itself bodily at him, only to crash into the iron wall and fall back.
Leonis was singing some desperate song, a battle chant that faltered again as he grunted or barked his anger, and seemed to be slowly moving away from Scorio. The press of bodies was pushing them apart.
Realizing this, Scorio began to force his way back, but he had precious little control over the battle; each second was its own distinct thing of horror, one of the endless flashes of darkvision-fueled moments filled with grinning maws, burning eyes, lunging claws, the press of wizened bodies.
Again and again, he cut, and even in his Emberling form, he felt his stamina begin to wane, his strength to flag. The stench of burned meat filled the air, and a mound of bodies began to form before him, becoming a ramp off which the reinforcements hurled themselves at him.
Scorio ducked toward Leonis, who had ceased singing and was now just crying out in rage. Didn’t even have time to glance in the big man’s direction. The nicks and cuts were adding up, the small creatures wounding him over and over. No single attack was devastating, but the toll was debilitating, and Scorio knew he’d not be able to hold his Emberling form for much longer.
This was it. Any second now he’d resume his human form, and die.
Desperate, sweat and blood blinding him, Scorio snarled in defiance, swung, slashed, tore—
“Scorio! Hold on!” A tornado smashed through the assembled ranks before him, Leonis roaring as he swung Nezzar, bulling his way through the crowd as a half-dozen fiends clung to him, rode his back, their fangs buried in his shoulders, his neck.
Nezzar destroyed them. That one terrible swing alone must have sent a score of them to their death, but Leonis couldn’t maintain his momentum. More fiends leaped atop him, clung to his legs, and with a cry, he dropped to one knee, using Nezzar as a support to keep from falling over altogether.
But his charge had broken the overwhelming press; Scorio plunged forward, stepping over the wounded and dying, and set to murdering the fiends clinging to his friend with vicious, efficient swipes of his claws. Flesh parted before his talons, the last fiend taking a chunk out of Leonis’s back as it died, and then Scorio reeled back, gasping, blinking sweat from his eyes, to realize that there were no more.
Leonis gasped, released Nezzar, and fell to all fours. Unable to hold to his Emberling form any longer, Scorio sank back into his human guise and dropped beside his friend. His robes were so torn that they hung off his frame in ribbons, while blood poured from countless gouges, lacerations, and bite wounds.
With a grunt, Leonis toppled over onto his side, rolled onto his back, and lay there staring at the ceiling, blinking in a daze as his chest labored.
Scorio glanced across the cavern floor. Just how many of the fiends had Leonis killed? But each mortal sweep of his hexagonal club had cost him, opened his guard, and it looked like he’d suffered a wound for every fiend he’d killed.
“Damn,” said the massive man, finally focusing his gaze on Scorio and forcing a smile. “Look like the little bastards got me again.”
Scorio felt his throat swell up and took Leonis’s bloody hand. “You got ‘em first, though. They’re all dead.”
“And,” began Leonis, but then his breath caught and he struggled to clear his throat. He turned his head, spat blood, and looked back to Scorio. “And I got a room further than… Lianshi. She’ll never live it down. I won’t let her.”
Scorio felt his eyes burn as he stared down at his brutalized friend. He might even have survived the countless small wounds were it not for two deep bites into his neck; one had torn a chunk of flesh away, and from that deep wound pumped dark arterial blood.
“Room twelve,” said Leonis, blinking and looking straight up again. “Not too bad. I’m… sorry, though. I wish…”
“Don’t apologize,” said Scorio, squeezing Leonis’s hand. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
“Wish… could have helped you go… further,” said Leonis, voice growing light, whispery. “Wish… I could have honored… Golden King. But you know…”
“Damnit,” hissed Scorio, wishing that death would claim Leonis already and absolve him from this lingering agony. “Rest easy, my friend. I’ll see you soon.”
Leonis blinked again, but then his eyes glazed over. The tension went from his massive frame, and his grip on Scorio’s hand went limp.
A moment later he was gone, and Scorio was left kneeling amidst the countless corpses of the fiends who slowly began to disappear as well.
“Damn it,” hissed Scorio again, pressing the base of his palms against his eyes, and then dropped his hands onto his lap. Looking down over his body he saw that he’d suffered his fair share of fresh wounds as well; his arms were slashed up, and the sides of his thighs and his ribs had been scored with numerous cuts.