Scorio stood with an auger spiral shell cup in hand; these were harvested, he was told, from slow moving rock beasts out in the deeper Telurian Band, the miniature fiends within drawn out to be eaten as delicacies, the foot-long shells converted to goblets. The Copperfire caused the lower spirals to glow dully, indicating how much of the whisky he had left to go.
Around him were gathered a handful of his new friends. Kelona was wide-eyed and grinning, gesturing animatedly as she recounted some choice piece of violence, while Juna looked preemptively hung over, face drawn, eyes hooded, a natural reaction, he’d explained, of riding a fiend till its head was torn apart. Wesyd sipped his drink and listened, amused at Kelona’s expostulations, and Naomi had left a short while ago to meditate in peace.
Nobody had died, while only a hundred of the Okozs had fled back into the Bone Plain, streaming away with panicked hoots from the great yellow marshland that the dunes had become. Scorio had been amongst the last of the Great Souls left fighting, his whole body painted with blood, and as he’d given up his pursuit to watch the last of the huge fiends flee, he’d felt a thrilling surge of confidence and delight.
The company had fought with seamless lethality. Taron’s plan had been immaculate. Their powers had integrated with sweet perfection, resulting in the killing zones and panic that the Pyre Lord had predicted. Scorio had never thought on how to organize a large group for battle, and only now was he starting to understand why Taron was called a prodigy. The plan seemed obvious in retrospect, but he doubted he’d have had the confidence and tactical know-how to come up with it by himself.
Now, pensive, sipping his Copperfire, he half-listened to his charges and watched the other Dread Blazes. Taron was making the rounds, his sly laughter rising with carefree abandon as he stopped by different groups. Any moment now Scorio was sure he’d leap atop a barrel or crate to give a congratulatory speech, end it no doubt on a cautionary tone, and help unify the sense that their company was something special, that the Blood Ox would be left reeling before their assault.
“Scorio.” Moira stepped up beside him. “Do you have a moment?”
“Moira.” She was dressed all in black, her robes at once refined but utilitarian, elegantly cut but without patterning or special stitching. Her hair was freshly washed and bound back, her malachite eyes reflecting the leaping flames as she studied him. “Of course. Kelona, Nagarjuna, Wesyd, meet Pyre Lady Moira. Excuse me a moment.”
His three charges straightened and bowed, obviously impressed, and Scorio handed Kelona his shell before following Moira away from the firelight and off between some supply tents.
“I heard your raid went well,” said Moira, linking her hands behind her back as she walked, almost as if to assure Scorio he had nothing to worry about.
“My raid? Hardly. Taron’s plan was flawless. It was…” Scorio searched for the right word. “A massacre? The Okozs didn’t stand a chance.”
“From what I’ve heard, the Okozs are brutish, simple fiends, governed by primal instincts and a predictable urge to kill. I’m not surprised you butchered them.”
“You suddenly sound far from impressed.”
Moira’s smile was subtle. “Oh, I’m terribly impressed. But not by your killing a few hundred Okozs.”
“I might have killed thirty.”
“You know what I mean.” She stopped and faced him. “I’ve heard good things about Taron. He’s a sharp leader. Okozs look alarming, but under the right circumstances they fall easily. Perfect for building morale before a real fight.”
Scorio crossed his arms. “That’s encouraging.”
“You’re a big boy now, Scorio. I don’t need to lie to you. Your battle out in the depths of the Bone Plains will be against Okozs, yes, but also Tokalauths and the Angraths. And that’s if you don’t face any of the Blood Ox’s Gold-elites, like his Symmetrons or Nethercoils. There’s a reason our forces are bunched up around the Temporal Obelisks and not in possession of LastRock.”
“Great. Well, now that I’m cheered up, how can I help you, Moira?”
Moira snorted. “I’m the one who’s come to help you, though I doubt you’ll take me up on it. Soon this camp will spread out across the Bone Plains, scattering over several hundred square miles to execute strikes against key enemy fortifications simultaneously. I’m going to help coordinate this through the use of my power. By staying in contact with each of the sixteen companies, I’ll ensure our assaults take place at the same time.”
“You’re offering to touch me?” Scorio took a deliberate step back. “No, thank you.”
Moira canted her head to one side, her expression betraying gentle amusement. “What are you afraid will happen, exactly, if I do? We’re allies, Scorio. At best, I can augment your own powers in your time of need. At worst? There’ll only be an ‘at worst’ if you betray the Great Soul cause to exterminate the Pit. And surely that will never be a problem, will it?”
Scorio smiled. “You make it sound so reasonable. Maybe I’ve just come to suspect everyone of seeking to use me as a tool in games I don’t yet understand. It’s unfair to tar you with the same brush, but it’s a cruel, callous world. My apologies.”
Moira laughed. “Indeed? Well. No matter. Taron’s already accepted my touch, so we’ll be able to remain in contact. The Iron Tyrant has finally agreed to teleport Gold mana to our locations just before the strike. He says he was paranoid we’d abscond with his wealth and use it for our own nefarious ends. I can’t say I’m surprised; those who often engage in duplicity expect it the most from others.”
“Gold mana?” Scorio rubbed at his chin. “That’ll be useful. How’s he going to get it to us?”
“I’ll coordinate with Jarex, his teleporter, and derive your location from Taron. But let me make one last appeal, Scorio: once you head out into the Bone Plains, you’ll be lost in the fog of war. Events will happen quickly, the tide of battle might change, and you’ll be a cork batted about by storm waves beyond your control. You’re too important for me to lose track of lightly. Let me help you. Let me keep you connected to the others, so that you know how the assault on LastRock is progressing, so that you know what we determine about the Blood Ox’s movements. And if for any reason your company is in trouble, you’ll be able to ask me to send help.”
Moira took a step forward and raised one palm. “One touch, Scorio. One touch, and I can connect you to a network of Great Souls who’ll work with you, help you, ensure that everyone works together smoothly toward the greater good.”
Scorio licked his lower lip and considered her naked palm. “I appreciate what you’re offering. It makes sense. But I’ve had too many bad experiences to trust anyone with that kind of influence over me for the rest of my life. No. Sorry.”
Moira pursed her lips, considered her hand, then closed it into a fist before lowering it back to her side. “Well, it’s your decision. I hope you don’t come to regret it.”
“Will you be heading out as well when the time comes?”
“I’m going to be part of the LastRock team.” Moira’s tone turned brisk. “We’re going to teleport in last and strike first, initiating the battle. The Imperators are only three days away. Everything will be coming to a head very, very quickly.”
“An end to the war,” said Scorio quietly. “And if the Blood Ox is defeated and LastRock regained?”
“Then I will remain at LastRock for a spell. My connections now are at the service of the Seamstress, who is coordinating the greater war effort against the Pit, and has grown pleased with my service here in the upper layers. I’ll do my best to oversee the transfer of resources south for whatever final strikes are planned, and then, when the time comes, head south myself.”