He went to raise his hand to summon his claws when a woman stepped past him, haggard, shoulder broken, black hair soaked in blood, to glare at the foes beyond.
The sight of Jova Spike was such a shock that Scorio’s heart lurched, and he drew back, confused, half-panicked, alarmed more by the sight of her than the five foes that awaited them both.
“What—?”
But he could see through her. She stood before him as if a ghost, looking like hell, looking as if she’d dragged herself through the last few encounters through sheer will alone. Her body was slashed, gored, torn, broken. She shouldn’t have been on her feet. And yet she was. Unbreakable, unyielding, she glared at the five foes, ignoring Scorio utterly.
“Jova?” he whispered.
She didn’t respond. Was he seeing into her private Gauntlet run? Was this an ability fueled by Bronze? Was the Gauntlet itself showing her to him for reasons of its own?
Helminth’s words came back to him: “Further, the Gauntlet will show the final moments of the Great Soul who makes it the farthest to those who reach the same chamber.”
Jova drew herself up and lurched forward, timing her attack just as a ghostly version of the first executioner rotated past her and up to the right. It slashed its brutal cleaver at her, and she swayed aside, almost more by accident than design, so that the cleaver missed her by an inch. Then, one arm shattered past all utility, the other hand pressed deep into a sucking wound in her side, she simply threw herself at the massive man and cracked her brow as hard as she could into his face.
The impact was shocking, the result explosive; the man’s head burst back, but the sheen seemed to have protected it from actual damage. But Jova wasn’t done. She slammed her shoulder into his while hooking the back of his leg with her calf. The trip was masterful, somehow elegant, and the executioner crashed to the ground, both Jova and him rotating up and around so that to Scorio they now seemed to stand against the wall.
Not hesitating, Jova dropped her knee into the man’s throat, crushing it. She paused there for a moment, the executioner scrabbling at her back with his hands, and only when he went limp did she slowly, painfully rise.
How the hell is she still moving? Wondered Scorio, aghast.
But move she did, seemingly at random, stepping into the second pentagon, right above the second executioner who raked his cleaver up at her. She took the blow, the huge blade sinking into her back, and reached up to clamp her gory hand upon the shaft. She began to walk around and down the pentagon to where the huge man was wrestling with his weapon, trying to tug it free of her body.
How was she moving with that hunk of metal embedded in her back? Why hadn’t she summoned her shroud?
Down she came, patient and deliberate as death, and when she was almost upon the man, she tightened her grip on the haft and jerked it down. The wood snapped. The blade came up and out of her back, six inches of wood beneath its metal head in Jova’s hand, and she brought it around in a brutal chop, sinking the weapon into the executioner’s head.
The glistening sheen seemed to prevent the blow from doing as much damage as it should have, but it was enough to knock the man off-balance; he staggered, and she kicked him in the chest, a forward thrust that was almost lethargic. But perfectly timed. The executioner fell off his segment, between his and the third pentagon, and was ground apart by the revolving stones.
“Damn,” whispered Scorio, eyes wide.
Jova stood there, heaving for breath, broken cleaver in her hand. The huge wound in her back, freshly dealt, seemed to blend in with the tapestry of other lacerations.
It should have killed her. Instead, she slowly, ever so slowly straightened, and turned to stare at the third executioner.
Scorio could have sworn the fiend blanched.
She hurled the cleaver at his head just as he passed her to the left, then staggered after it as the man deflected the weapon with upraised arms. Sank her shoulder into his broad midriff, an attempt at a tackle, perhaps, to knock him back and off his pentagon, but there wasn’t enough force behind the charge.
Jova looked so tired.
The executioner brought his elbow down upon her exposed back, but a shimmering layer of might appeared, at last, an inch above her torn flesh and protected her.
Her shroud.
The man’s elbow bounced off, but he brought it down again, and the shroud was no longer there; he drove Jova down to her knees, tossed aside his cleaver, seized her by the waist with both hands, then turned to heave her headfirst into the gap between the third and second segment.
“No!” Scorio took a half-step forward, blinked, and saw double. The five executioners stood in their revolving pentagons before him, yet at the same time, the first two were empty even as the third brute-forced Jova down into the grinding depths.
The first executioner swung his cleaver out and nearly took Scorio’s head off. Reeling back, he stared past the brute at the sight of Jova’s legs kicking, the rest of her hidden from view. The segments revolved around and around, tearing her apart, and Scorio was profoundly grateful that he couldn’t see the damage being done to her. After an impossibly long time, her legs quit their kicks and went limp. The executioner shoved the rest of her into the gap, then turned to face him.
And the realization hit Scorio.
That was as far as Jova had gotten.
She’d died in this room.
And if he wanted to beat her, he had to get past the third executioner.
“All right,” he hissed, drawing more Bronze into his Heart. “I can do this.”
A deep breath and he drew himself up. Stepped forward as the executioner came back down and around and hit him with his aura.
The hemisphere of churning air appeared, encapsulating the brute, who staggered back, weapon coming up half-heartedly in a defensive pose.
At the same time, Scorio lurched forward, annoyed that his legs didn’t obey him precisely as he wanted, and flowed into his scaled form. His claws gleamed as he slashed out at the man, cutting through the haft of the weapon, through the leather apron, and into his chest.
But his claws didn’t tear the man apart as they should have. That glistening layer protected him, blunted Scorio’s attack so that his claws left deep cuts but little more.
The man, however, was struggling to gather himself, the hemisphere somehow constraining him, overwhelming him once more. Scorio swayed back and lashed out again, raking his claws across the man’s mask.
Leather parted, and the man’s features were ruined. Didn’t take much damage to puncture a set of eyes. The man screamed, and taking his cue from Jova, Scorio grunted and slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest, driving him back and into the yard-wide gap between the two segments, where he was promptly torn and ground apart.
Heaving for breath, Scorio looked up and saw the second executioner revolving across the ceiling, heading down toward him and entering the hemisphere.
“Hello,” said Scorio.
The executioner stiffened as he entered the field of churning air, then dropped his weapon.
By the ten hells, Scorio loved his new ability.
With a cry he fell upon the man, slashing at him, again and again. The second executioner raised his beefy forearms, took the blows, then with a cry of defiance lunged forward to try and slam Scorio off his pentagon.
With a grunt, Scorio summoned his shroud right before the man’s brow. The impact was blunt and cruel; the man’s head rocked back, and Scorio leaned in to rake his claws across his throat, once, twice, thrice.
The third set of slashes got through the iridescent shielding. Clutching at his neck, the man dropped to his knees then toppled over.
“There,” said Scorio, swaying, vision going in and out of focus. “Just… just one more.”