What had he seen? What was he supposed to do with a rock? Or the ghost of a rock? Confused, angry, he straightened.
He wished that Lianshi were still here so that he could share his discovery with her.
No matter.
He’d get past the blades the hard way.
The faster he was going, the less time he’d spend in the light. The smaller his profile as he ran through, the less surface area the blades had to hit.
Which meant his best bet was to dive through at a sprint.
He backed up as best he could against the second beam, took a deep breath, then burst forward, three long, limping strides and he dove, folding his bandaged arms against his chest, fists under his chin.
The black swirls came to life, a snicker-snack of living blades rippling with oily smoothness into the air.
He tucked his head, fell into a rough roll, the ground sweeping up and around to press him from his left shoulder to right hip, then he was up and diving again.
This time the blade was right there, flashing out just below his face, a startling split-second of death inches below him.
It passed under his chest and caught him down the thigh.
No roll this time. He just crashed full long onto the walkway, then slid off to fall on the gravel path.
Scorio hissed in pain, levered himself up, and saw that half an inch of flesh had been excised from the length of his thigh.
“Go,” he growled, knowing that if he stopped, if he stared any longer at his raw flesh, he’d freeze, sink into a stupor, and never get back up. Clenching his jaw against the pain, the perpetual flash of lightning that consumed his entire leg, he clawed his way upright, stood hunched for but a moment as he glared at the fifth trapezoid of light, then hurled himself forward.
He crashed through the light as one might through a window, a headlong collapse, and again blades whispered out.
He didn’t even feel where they cut him. He hit the ground, the wounds in his forearms exploding into pain, but though he screamed he kept going. Edged forward to the last trapezoid, the smallest.
Fixing his eyes on the steps leading up to the platform, like a worm he crawled into the light.
Wicked movement stirred above, and he got the impression of two saw blades blurring out, passing through each other in a great “X” cut, then retracting once more.
On he crawled, feeling as if he were stuck in a state of constant inhalation, and only when he was through did he allow himself to believe he’d actually made it.
But he couldn’t stop. Scorio toppled off the walkway to the gravel, and then, through sheer bloody-minded perseverance, dragged himself up the steps, his body aflame, the pain too generalized for him to tell where he was wounded.
When he placed a bloody hand on the platform, an outline of a door sprang to life as if painted across the wall by a thick, black-inked brush.
Growling continuously, legs no longer working, he hauled himself up, his vision narrowing to a slender tunnel. Across the platform, to press himself up and reach, straining, for the handle.
He grasped it just as he collapsed and yanked the door open as he fell. Beyond—black shimmering nothingness. A perfect rectangle of absolute ink.
For a moment Scorio just lay there, bleeding out.
He knew he’d not survive another room; he could barely cross this platform. But then he thought of his fallen companions.
For some perverse reason, he felt like he owed it to them to keep going.
So, with the very last dregs of his strength, he crawled forward and into the inky night.
Chapter 4
Another hallway. Empty, ending in another distant and dismally blank wall. Scorio blinked blearily, then rested his brow upon the stone floor and closed his eyes.
Another damn hallway.
It would be so easy to drift off. To rest. To lie to himself and say it was just for a moment, a blessed minute.
But he couldn’t.
Not knowing from where he summoned the strength, Scorio lifted his head and forced himself to study the corridor once more.
Nothing remarkable. Porous gray walls, as if carved through the heart of a mass of ashen coral. Smooth wooden floor. Recessed lights in the ceiling above, providing a general and pleasant, ambient illumination.
Where was the danger? No foes. No objects. No markings in the walls or ceiling. The lights? Would his death manifest as he made his way down the hall?
Dragged his way down the hall, he amended.
His mouth was parched. He’d have killed a dozen times over for a sip of water. With a grunt, he pulled himself forward, arm over arm, out onto the heavily polished wooden floor.
The wood was slick, smooth, and cool to the touch. Perfectly joined so that he’d not have been able to insert a nail between the seams.
But still, nothing happened.
On he crawled. The hallway was just twenty or so yards long. But in his current state, it felt a mile. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he was drenched in sweat.
Or maybe it was blood.
Or both. Probably both.
He managed two of his body lengths forward before almost blacking out. Stars danced before his eyes, his head spun, and he felt like he was going to vomit. But instead, he focused on his breathing, and the nausea passed.
On he crawled, then paused. Had the floor… moved? Frowning, he looked back and saw that the wooden boards now terminated a foot below the thin ledge that marked where the door had been.
He stared blankly, not knowing what to make of it, his thoughts sluggish. Had the ledge drifted up? Confused, he looked ahead. The end of the hallway still looked the same.
What he’d do for a glass of water.
He could barely think. Too much blood loss. Too much pain. And why waste time thinking? Not like there was anything he could do about any realizations he might have.
So he resumed crawling, dragging himself bodily along the wooden floor, and felt it shift again, growing steeper.
Definitely steeper.
With great effort, he looked behind him and saw that the ledge was now two feet above the wooden boards.
He crept forward again while looking behind him, and saw the floor descend slowly, at roughly the rate he was progressing.
Blinking the sweat out of his eyes, he looked ahead. As steep as the hallway was becoming, it still terminated in the same blank expanse of wall.
But was it? Was the end of the hall moving up the inside of a wheel?
Dizzy, he shook the thought away.
Resumed crawling.
The hall grew steeper. By the time he reached the halfway mark, it felt like a forty-five-degree incline. He had to press his palms and fingers flat against the wood to keep traction, to resist the pull of gravity.
He looked back. A black rectangle a foot high had appeared just above the sharply inclined wooden boards.
A hole.
Despite the pain, despite the feverish delirium that was descending upon him, he felt a chill of panic.
A hole.
Desperate, he looked back up. Still a blank wall.
What the hell was he supposed to do?
“Where are you, Leonis?” His voice was little more than a croak. “Could use some encouragement right now.”
The sound of his voice only made him feel lonelier. He crawled forward a little more, felt the floor grow even steeper. Soon he’d have to start actively fighting the urge to slide back.
Deep breaths. He closed his eyes again, holding on tight. If he was going to die, it wouldn’t be sliding backward on his belly.
Scorio reached deep into himself, reached for strength, for resolve, the last vestiges of his willpower.
He saw again that hunk of obsidian, hanging in the center of his soul. For all the good it did him.
Then Scorio began to stand.
His legs shook like reeds in a storm. He had to climb up the wall, leaving dark blood marks on the gray stone. Hauling himself up, he gasped at the pain, vision doubling, until he stood hunched over, staring up the hallway.
Scorio’s lips writhed back from his teeth in a silent snarl. He pushed off the wall, fell into a totter, and tried to stagger up the incline.