“Yes,” he said, reaching out to tap his finger beside the wooden carving of Feldborough. “Through the marsh is our best bet. We’ll break out in groups of five and aim to follow the currents down here to Trappin Bay. From there, everyone’s to head north, avoiding Calcote, and meet at the blasted oak in Wainwood, seven nights hence. Get the word out to your men. They’re to carry what they can and leave all else behind. Understood?”
“Aye,” said everyone around them, and the crowd broke into conversation as the men began to argue the best way to travel. Their voices became a murmur, indistinct words that Scorio didn’t register. Instead, the reality of what had transpired washed over him: by raising his voice, speaking his words, he’d both taken control and assumed responsibility for the rebellion.
It was his fight now. These men would live and die by his command. The thought chilled him, yet lit a burning desire in his heart.
He’d do anything to lead them to victory.
And with that thought, the world went dark, and Scorio found himself kneeling once more in the dark upon the bloody flagstones of the Gauntlet.
He blinked, raised his head, then the realization hit him: By the ten hells, I’m a damned Tomb Spark.
Chapter 77
Scorio rose to his feet and stared at his palms. His darkvision had expanded even further, to the point where it now encompassed nearly his entire field of vision; only the very peripheries remained opaque.
But it was his hands that fascinated him. Though they remained streaked in blood and dirt, they were… fine.
No wounds.
He closed his previously broken hand into a fist and squeezed tightly. No pain. Gripped his wrist. Nothing. The bones were repaired, the swelling gone. His forearms were healed as well, the deep burns disappeared, the gash in his side, the cut in his calf, the countless lacerations and slashes.
Scorio restrained the urge to yell for a quivering second, but the cry tore itself free: “Yes!” It was a victory cry, a bark of delight, of something, finally, going his way. No wounds, anywhere. He felt hale, whole, healthy, fit, practically bursting with energy.
But more than that. He stilled. Blinked, then summoned his Heart. Studied it closely, then cursed under his breath.
Still fractured.
But within it, he felt his reservoir, compact, sleek, requiring far less time to fill than before. Experimentally, he reached out with his will and worked Iron mana into his Heart, drawing it in with great, purposeful scoops, and though the mana immediately began to vent through the fissures, he felt his Heart saturate in what felt like record time.
He flexed his will, and his Heart leaped into translucent, silvery flame. Scorio took a deep breath as power washed into him, exalting his sense of strength even further. He’d never felt this fit, this on fire, this capable.
Breathing deeply, he raised his hand and willed his technique to manifest. Immediately black scales erupted from his hands, appearing down the length of his arms, across his shoulders, but they didn’t stop there—black scales swept down his back, and he felt stubs erupt from his spine, protective and angular. Scales emerged across his thighs as well, and his talons extended to their six-inch length, glowing with fell, white heat.
But more than that—from his brow, twin curving horns emerged, the bone warping, extruding, the two horns rising with a shorter, flanking pair growing just beside them.
Eyes wide, Scorio reached up and gently touched the horns. They were subtly striated, their points wicked, and he felt as if he were wearing a mighty crown, as if he’d been anointed by whatever dark power was fueling his powers and marked for greatness.
Lurking just within the realms of his mind, however, was an awareness as to another gift. Something that went beyond his physical form, the increased defenses he’d manifested, the heightened strength and speed.
He couldn’t quite pin it down, understand it, so instead he inhaled till his chest creaked and then willed the power to manifest.
The air around him shimmered as if suddenly superheated, a great sphere that extended at least five yards away from him in every direction. Scorio stared, wide-eyed: was it an attack, a weapon?
Not quite. Though the air glimmered, there was no actual heat. Instead, he felt his very presence pouring forth, his will, his might. As if he were taking in the hemisphere around him and making it part of his being.
What effect might that have on an enemy? He’d no idea. He blinked and released the field, which faded quickly from sight. Jova’s Tomb Spark ability had affected Ravenna at a great distance; Scorio’s seemed to have a limited range. Was it the same power? No—everyone manifested different abilities.
Mystified, he pondered the field, then felt another aspect of himself arise within his consciousness, a potential, an ability he’d never sensed before.
My shroud, he thought with a shiver of excitement. Composing himself, he extended one burning claw and willed the shroud to coalesce before him.
The sensation was incredible, a rush of power for which he seemed but a crude channel; might coursed through him and manifested in the air before him as a translucent shield, a yard tall and a few feet wide. It hovered before his outstretched claws, intrinsically connected to him, part of his very spirit. Mana flowed from his Heart to the floating shroud, and he realized just how much of a drain it was. Holding his scaled form and sustaining the shroud reduced his ability to keep his Heart burning to moments; with a gesture, he dismissed the shroud, released his scaled form, and staggered back, awed and overcome.
Yes, there was frustration. Jova had held her Tomb Spark abilities for the duration of her fight with Ravenna, while he’d barely be able to maintain them for ten, fifteen seconds. But that aggravation was swept away before the wonder of his state. Tomb Spark. Unless others had transcended during the Gauntlet run, that meant he was only the second in their entire cohort to have done so—and that without the patronage or guidance of the Houses or the Academy.
Better yet, he was completely healed; the pain and despair that had nearly crushed his will were gone. Now he felt sharp, focused, ready to tear through whatever the Gauntlet threw at him, to destroy any and every obstacle.
Calmly, methodically, he swept more and more Iron mana into his reservoir until it was bursting at the seams. Paused to consider the spot on which Leonis had died, and bent one knee to rest beside it.
“I’ll make the most of the time you bought me,” he swore, voice fervent, low. “Thank you, Leonis. I’ll never be able to repay this debt.”
Then he rose and entered the narrowing tunnel, made his way to its far, cramped end, where the black archway awaited him.
Without hesitation, he stepped through.
It took him a moment to understand what he was looking at as he emerged into the next chamber. Before him arose a massive set of steps that stretched from wall to wall, at first quite steep and then leveling out as if arching up over a hill. The wall to the left was slashed with regularly spaced cuts from which a pale, frosty light entered to fall on the other wall in bright slashes.
Scorio frowned, dropped to a crouch, and considered the room. Nowhere to go but up. And yet something was off. He extended his senses and felt—like the room that had claimed Lianshi’s life—strange, invisible densities in the air. Pit traps? Were the steps lethal, or perhaps only some of them?
But no; as he pondered, he felt those densities move, gently floating up and down or along the steps as if free of them.
Invisible foes? There was no intent in their paths. Were they biding time till he stepped forth?
Keeping his Heart saturated, Scorio rose and placed his foot on the first step. The invisible presences didn’t react.