And with those thoughts, a profound determination entered his soul, replacing the fevered need to prove himself powerful, to prove everyone wrong. He felt his will swell with power, his mind growing sharp and focused, and a tremor of excitement passed through him. The upswell of mental strength took him by surprise, but he recognized the value of the moment.
Setting aside all his concerns, he focused on his Heart, fractured and pitted, and on the wisps of mana that remained within it.
Reached out with his will, and for the first time eschewed the Coal to purposefully work with the Iron that filled the room.
He flexed his will, and instead of visualizing a paddle, he imagined a great hand scooping up the Iron as a man in a boat might lean out and scoop up the glittering water at sunset. Freed of his rage, of his brittle need, he found the Iron respond more smoothly, more quickly than it ever had.
With great deliberation he packed the Iron into his reservoir, and found that it required less condensing, being so fraught with power in the first place. More and more he scooped in, his will inexorable even as his body weakened, and when his reservoir reached the point of saturation, he lowered his chin, furrowed his brow, and focused intently on its gleaming mass.
Slowly, with great intensity and force, he willed his vast reservoir to grow compact. To condense. It resisted, the Iron strong and proud, but in this moment of enlightenment and clarity, it could not resist him.
Slowly but surely, he forced the Iron to shrink, his reservoir to collapse upon itself, grasping the whole of it as if between his hands, and returning it to its original shape and size.
He trembled. Pain besieged the fortress of his mind. Sweat and blood ran down his brow. His body swayed.
Just when he thought he could force it no more, when motes of darkness began rising to cloud his vision, he felt something akin to a spiritual click; his reservoir returned to its original form, and once more occupied the center of his Heart as it once had done.
Wonder seized him by the throat. He raised his hands and studied his hands, over which burned a spectral fire, translucent flames that immolated him without pain.
Then the pressure, the agony, the mania, and fever-bright delirium—all of it fell away and disappeared.
And Scorio found himself standing on a gray slate platform from whose edges arose three free-standing portals, the void beyond starless and infinite.
Two of the doors were sealed shut, but the third stood open.
Stunned, shaking, resolute, he approached it. Studied its copper frame, then stepped through and into his second trial.
Chapter 76
Scorio stood within an old tent, the guide poles bending under the weight of the sodden canvas, drops of water pooling where it sagged to grow pregnant and then drip upon the heads of those gathered within. The air stank of sour sweat, anger, and mud, and from the impatient shuffling of the dozen men and the cantankerous stares they were leveling him, he could sense that the tenuous silence was about to break.
A table was before them, upon which a crude map was pinned down by daggers. It displayed part of the kingdom, the provinces immediately around their own, along with roughly carved wooden miniatures representing towns, the few larger cities, battalions on the march, galleons at sea, and their own, secret encampments.
If he focused on any one of them, names came swimming up from the depths of his mind: the village of Golden Creek, where they’d hung the six royal scouts they’d stumbled across by accident; the old Floss Mill, where they’d met in the dead of night with Garvin Smith two months ago to cement an alliance between his archers and their own men; Rump Moor, where they’d learned the dangers of attempting to fight the king’s men in open combat all too well.
And there, on the coast, Spurn Harbor, sacked and burned by the king, empty now but for a few hundred citizens who’d somehow survived the siege.
A stir; the wall of men around the table parted, and his brother, Eberro, stepped into view. His face was spattered with mud, his eyes bloodshot, his hair crazed with dried sweat. Pulling off his gloves, he threw them down on the warped boards and placed his hands on his hips.
“Well, it’s a fine day for a butchering, lads.” His voice was resonant, rich with authority and contempt. “I pressed the mayor about as hard as anyone could without drawing a sword, and he’s refusing to let us into the city. We’ll not be given the protection of the walls.”
“Then we should take the damn town,” cried Rawn, an old man with an eyepatch, skin leathery and tanned by a life spent toiling under the sun, his teeth jutting and yellow like those of a mule. “We’re not fancy diplomats from the capital, needing to stand on delicate points of etiquette.”
“We could,” said Eberro, expression flinty, “but what then? Face the king’s guard tomorrow at dawn, our forces worn out and depleted from a violent siege?”
Rawn subsided, muttering angrily to himself.
“It was our one chance,” said Eberro. He leaned down over the table and glared at the miniatures as if they had personally betrayed him. “We’re cornered. If we try to retreat with this many men now, Captain Prewitt will catch us here”—he tapped the meandering course of the Whitemilk River—“here”—and he tapped the marshes beyond them—“or here.” And he tapped the open plain on the far side of the town. “Nowhere to run, boys.”
“Then we stand and fight,” growled barrel-chested Harkan, hand clutching the bandolier from which his skinning knives hung. “What choice do we have?”
“We could do that,” allowed Eberro, straightening up, and in that moment, Scorio realized what his brother was about. This had all been premeditated. He was leading the crowd to his own, foregone conclusion. “But that’s tantamount to suicide. Our two hundred boys against their five hundred veterans? No, we’ve had a good run.”
“What are you saying, Eberro?” Harkan narrowed his eyes. “Spit it out already.”
“What I’m saying,” said his brother, turning to regard each man present, “is that the writing is on the wall. We fight, we die. We run, we die. We gave it our best, but we weren’t able to muster enough support. Oh aye, we got Garvin Smith on our side, and Lady Farrow, and there was a chance we could secure the support of the Sea Baron’s League, but that proved to be naught but smoke and mirrors. We’re out of time, luck, and men. I say we disband, and I will present myself to the king and ask for clemency. Lady Farrow has promised to vouch for me, and with her patronage and a little luck, I’ll be cleared of wrongdoing and allowed to run for election again next spring.”
The uproar was immediate. Eberro crossed his arms and weathered the storm, jaw set, waiting for the reaction to wash over.
But Scorio, who had stood silent all this time, realized that more than a few of the men were glancing his way. Waiting for his words.
His opinion.
He’d never gainsaid his brother openly. Oh, in the privacy of their council tent, or on the march through stinging rain, or sleeping in the branches of more than one oak under the stars, he’d spoken his mind strongly, but always Eberro had dismissed his concerns.
But now. Now was the time. He could sense the weight of Harkan’s expectant stare. That of others, as they quieted, turning to him, waiting.
Scorio had become a favorite amongst the men. While Eberro schemed with mayors and sought the support of the Sea Baron’s League, while he’d courted and seduced the powerful Lady Farrow, Scorio had been out in the field with the boys. Helped with their training, taken patrols, listened to their grievances, and shared their meals.
But more than that, he’d manifested impossible powers ever since the day he’d saved Eberro from hanging. Talons that could cut through steel, scales that wreathed his arms and shoulders and which deflected any blade. He’d killed scores of men at Rump Moor, had cleaved through the ranks of the kingsmen with ease until he’d come against four of the king’s own Legendaries whose powers had forced him to run. He’d been the one to give the grim order at Golden Creek, and had led six successful raids against the kingsmen already, capturing prisoners, loot, and disrupting their supply chains.