And that’s when his Heart guttered out.
The pain rushed in. His knees went weak. Scorio staggered, almost fell. Not now. But fine—he’d wait, gather more Bronze, would refill his reservoir, and when he was ready—
The third executioner stepped over the gap and onto the second ring, cleaver raised.
“Oh come on,” groaned Scorio, backing away, trying desperately to focus on the man, whose form doubled, coalesced into one being, then split again.
Impulse. Instinct. His saving grace. All the long hours spent training against the Nightmare Lady, dodging through the ruins, working every angle, breaking every rule.
Just as the executioner stepped over into his pentagon, Scorio lurched over the yard-wide gulf, and onto the third.
He’d not defeated the man—the executioner was coming right after him—but forget that guy. Scorio wheeled about, saw the fourth ready himself as he came revolving into line.
Sensing the attack, Scorio staggered around his pentagon. He was fading fast. No strength. Precious little coordination. He sought feebly to ignite his Heart, but there was no mana in his reservoir.
The grievous wounds that scored his back were draining his will, overwhelming his every thought. Pain that just sucked his ability to think down a dark well. The spinning pentagons were making him feel sick, disoriented. Where was the third? The fourth? Was that them in truth, or delirious visions of them?
Scorio felt his gorge rising, his legs folding under him. Too much blood loss, too much pain. That last move in the previous room had gotten him past the floating monsters, but at too high a cost. Without mana buffering him from his wounds, without his Tomb Spark might, he couldn’t keep going.
One chance.
Jova had made it to the third.
He had to just cross to one more segment.
With a faltering cry, summoning the last of his will, Scorio threw himself over the grinding gulf, to land face down on the revolving floor.
A huge blade immediately thockked into his back, and his legs went numb. Scorio wanted to thank the fiend. His body jerked over as the man tore the cleaver free.
But Scorio didn’t care. He lay there smiling, blood welling up his throat, body adrift on a sea of flame.
He’d made it to the fourth segment.
One more than Jova.
He’d done it.
Somehow, against all the odds, he’d beaten her at the Gauntlet.
When the blade came back down, it brought nothing but welcomed oblivion, and Scorio fell into the abyss with joy bubbling up within his heart.
Chapter 79
Scorio blinked, focused, then stared up at the interior of the basilica’s vast dome. The light of First Bronze sluiced in through the many small windows that ringed its base, pouring in distinct, oblique shafts to illuminate the balconies and massed guests to its side. Around him he heard the murmurs of awakening Great Souls; sharp inhalations, gasps even, the sound of robes as people sat up.
An entire cohort manifesting and coming back to life.
He expected pain. Had been conditioned by the old Gauntlet to expect the agony of death when he awoke. But instead, he felt comfortable, his body relaxed, as if he’d just taken a refreshing nap. The jewels of the bier were hard pebbles beneath his body, but familiar now. He’d returned. Alive. Whole.
Strong.
Then memories began to flood in. Slowly at first and then all at once: Naomi stabbed by the golden statuette, Lianshi falling into the depths of oblivion at the base of a hidden funnel. Leonis sacrificing himself in one last great charge to drive the fiends off Scorio and afford him a chance to press on.
With a gasp, he sat up, heart pounding, and turned to stare at his friends.
There they were. Leonis lying with an arm draped over his eyes, Naomi rubbing at the back of her head, scowling, Lianshi staring at him, eyebrows raised.
He’d made Tomb Spark.
The thought hit him like a club to the back of the head. He’d passed his second trial. He hadn’t betrayed his brother—at least, not in the way Kuragin had described it. And he’d made it to the—eighteenth room?
Had seen Jova die on the third pentagonal segment, had passed her to reach the fourth.
Scorio’s eyes widened. He couldn’t catch his breath. His heart seemed to freeze, and then began to pound widely as a wave of giddiness washed over him.
Lianshi’s stare flickered right past confusion to a demanding glare. But before she could speak, Praximar’s voice washed over them all.
“Welcome back, brave souls of the class of Eight Hundred and Seventy-Three! You have struggled, fought, sacrificed, strived. You have won glory, you have suffered ill luck. You have much to celebrate, much to rue. Amongst you are those who achieved far greater success than they might have hoped for, those who felt themselves destined for glory but who stumbled at the last moment. No matter. In this moment, we, the assembled might of Bastion, the Academy, and the far-flung settlements of Hell, salute you.”
Applause broke out from the balconies, the wings of the basilica; thousands clapped and a few even let loose wild cheers. Scorio blinked, looked about himself; saw a sea of faces smiling down indiscriminately at him and the others.
“But though you are all noble, only one of you made it the farthest into the Gauntlet. Amongst your number is a single soul who dared and achieved the impossible. Now, I think I speak for all of us when I say that I believe I know whom it is, but we must obey decorum and seek confirmation from the Archspire. If our guests can be patient for a moment longer, we shall confer.”
Praximar led the procession down from the far stage to make their way toward the central spire. They were a mixture of instructors, heads of Houses, illustrious guests, all of them dressed in their best finery. Praximar met the eyes of students as he went, smiled, muttered blessings, nodded his head.
“What happened?” hissed Lianshi, leaning over as far as she could without toppling off her bier. “Scorio!”
“It must be bad news,” said Leonis fatalistically, lifting his arm off his face to finally sit up. “You don’t think he’d be shouting it to the skies if he’d done well?”
Naomi remained still, staring at him with a subtle frown.
Scorio couldn’t speak. The air was trapped in his lungs. He felt so light he might lift right off the bier and float away.
Praximar climbed up the steps to the platform that ringed the base of the Archspire, and once more raised both hands as he turned in a circle, smiling at everyone who was watching him. He bowed his head as an elderly man leaned in to confer with him, clearly in no rush, enjoying the moment, the pregnant pause before the revelation.
Scorio’s mind was whirling. He couldn’t think. What would he do? He wanted nothing so much as to retreat with his friends to a side chamber, to tell them everything. Instead, he pivoted about, searched the biers, and then saw her.
Jova Spike.
She sat with her knees drawn under her chin, arms wrapped around her shins, ignoring all the covert and overt stares being directed at her. Her expression was severe, closed, brows lowered.
She didn’t know. She had died before him.
Her gaze slid over and met his own, as if drawn by one of those hidden funnel traps.
Jova’s gaze was intense, moody, just shy of defiant.
Scorio had spent endless hours imagining how he might celebrate a victory. Would he grin rakishly at her? Smirk? Make a rude gesture? But instead, he found his expression remained sober.
He couldn’t mock someone so strong. Who’d walked into further pain and against all the odds when her body was so nearly destroyed. It was incredible, to see her whole, healed, her shoulders aligned, her body free of blood.
So instead he nodded respectfully to her and turned back to the stage.
Praximar was nodding to another person but raised a hand in mock protest as a third dignitary went to speak to him. “My friends, my friends, this is not the time to dally! We’ve three thousand honored guests eager to celebrate the victor! And, if I may add a sobering note, this is, after all, a time of great stress for the city of Bastion.”