“I’ll…” Scorio blew out his cheeks. “I’ll do my best. It’s not exactly an area I excel at.”
“Oh, I know. But that seems to drive women wild around you. It’s amazing. I’ve seen the way they watch you walk by, not all of them, of course, and some of the guys as well, and… and I’m going to stop talking now. See you around! From a polite distance, where I can’t listen in!”
“Bye, Alain.” Scorio watched the lanky man leave, and returned his wave halfheartedly. When he was gone, he blew out his cheeks and shook his head, then returned to the bonfire.
The celebration was in full swing. Scorio fended off some greetings with a tight smile, saw that Naomi still wasn’t in evidence, and found Taron as the Pyre Lord was leaving a group of nervous Tomb Sparks.
“Scorio!” Taron’s calm was almost jarring after Alain’s feverish intensity. “You’re back. I’d feared you’d already grown bored with our company.”
“Do you have a moment?”
Taron studied him for a second, then nodded and simply led Scorio off to one side where no one was close. “What’s on your mind? Ill at ease over slaughtering fiends?”
“Hmm? No. I mean, to a degree, but you can’t fight this war without fighting fiends. It’s more… well. I have a friend who’s part of the war councils, and they told me there’s not a lot of confidence amongst our leaders that we’ll be able to pull this off.”
“Is that so?” Taron’s tone was light, almost disinterested, but his gaze sharpened. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that you have your connections. Has Charnel Duke Plassus been bending your ear with his pessimistic forecasts?”
“No, it’s a broader problem than that. Vermina, Charoth, Aezryna—it doesn’t seem as if any of them are confident at all.”
“I see.” Taron raised his shell and took a sip, and Scorio thought perhaps that he was buying time. “And you’ve come to me for reassurance that everything is going to be alright?”
“No.” Scorio ordered his thoughts. “You’re an obviously intelligent and capable man. So I’m asking why you’re going into this war with such calm confidence if our leaders seem to be at their wits’ end.”
“Hmm. A compliment. Thank you. Let me see.” Taron turned so that they stood shoulder to shoulder and gazed out at the gathering together. “The truth? We’ve received enough confirmations that this plan will work in broad strokes that it’s worth pursuing. What do I mean by that? There are a number of our kind who can, well, interpret and divine the probability of any course of action as being a wise or successful one. Daemon, the former leader of Manticore, was one such. His power was a reason we sought to recruit him. You’ve heard of Desiree, who serves the White Queen? Or Helminth, who was an instructor at the Academy? Great Souls like them can either directly question the future or estimate our best approach to executing a goal. And the handful of Great Souls we have on hand, and who have studied this war from deeper in hell, have all said that the LastRock strategy will result in the death of the Blood Ox.”
Scorio’s eyes went wide. “We know that for certain?”
“Nothing is certain in this world other than ambition and pride, but as good as. If we launch these attacks, the Blood Ox stands a high chance of dying within the near future. It’s surely no coincidence that two Imperators are also swimming through the Interstitial Rivenings as we speak.”
“Then why is the leadership so upset?”
“The prophecies and forecasts say nothing as to the fate of our army.” Taron’s smile turned grim. “It’s assumed our assault will provoke the Blood Ox to emerge in time for the Imperators to slay him, but the price we’ll pay for that victory is completely undefined.”
“So you’re saying we could all die?”
Taron beamed. “We’ll certainly die, but the question is, will it be this week? Will a few hundred of us fall in battle, or will our entire army be wiped out? A quarter of all the Great Souls alive in all of hell are with us in this camp. The stakes are enormous. From what I gather, a huge argument took place in deep hell as to whether it was worth seeking to destroy the Blood Ox with so much at risk. Obviously they decided it was, because to not kill the True Fiend meant ceding the Telurian Band, the Iron Weald, the Rascor Plains, and Bastion to his tender ministrations.”
“Damn,” whispered Scorio.
“Which is why Great Souls such as you are so highly sought after.” Taron glanced at Scorio sidelong. “You have Fate’s Whisper at your back, and so do a half-dozen others we’ve recruited. Momentum, fortune, blind luck, wretched coincidences—no matter. Thus far you’ve accomplished the impossible, and with so much in the balance, a little of Fortune’s favor is a most welcome addition to our efforts.”
Scorio considered. “So we’re just hoping we don’t all die.”
Taron clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re not just throwing ourselves headlong into ruin. Didn’t you see how well we slaughtered the Okozs today? That was no coincidence. We’ve crafted the best plan we can devise, we’ve a thousand Great Souls ready to implement it, and best yet, we’ve surprise on our side. For a year we’ve sat here, for a year the war has been at a lull as the Blood Ox’s best fiends grow starved of the mana they need to survive. When we attack them three days from now, we’ll catch them unawares, and crush them before they can mount a response. Then, the gods willing, the Imperators will arrive just as the Blood Ox bestirs himself from his Sanctum, and they’ll lop off his head just in time to turn around and be back at the Twilight Cradle in time for tea. We’ll spend a fine week enjoying the best amenities that LastRock has to offer, and then most of us will proceed south into the Silver Unfathom, and on to new adventures.”
Scorio held Taron’s glittering gaze.
“What?” Taron turned back to the festivities and raised his shell to his lips. “It’s entirely possible. In the meantime, enjoy yourself. In three days we’ll test Fate and see what she has in store for us.”
Chapter 38
They broke camp the next morning. The sun was making its bloody ascent back toward its meridian, the cycle of dim to bright never-ending but never reaching a satisfying absolute. Scorio emerged from the tent, stretched, then set to breaking the tent down. Everywhere Great Souls were intent on packing up their company’s gear and carrying it toward a large corral where he’d espied the huge beetles during their descent from the whale ship.
Now he finally had a reason to get closer, and by the reinforced fencing marvel at what was going to be their next method of conveyance.
“You’re kidding me,” Naomi said, peering through the boards.
The beetle was bigger than an Okoz, with a massive palanquin strapped to its back large enough to seat twenty. A canvas awning was stretched taut over the benches, and every area of the huge fiend had been put to use. Water barrels were slung under the palanquin’s outer edge, crates strapped to a platform extending out the back, lanterns hanging from bony ridges, and a pilot’s seat lashed down high above the beetle’s twin horns with heavy-duty reins extending down to where they were fastened to either end of an iron rod that was stuck through the beetle’s main horn.
The fiend itself was quiet, content to simply stand as Great Souls clambered about it, loaded gear, strapped down more crates, or loaded great translucent eggs the size of a man’s chest that glowed with a faint Bronze-mana tang. Its huge shell was iridescent, with swirling hues of copper, black, crimson, and burnished yellow sweeping across its form in a beguiling miasma. The number “7” was painted across the beetle’s brow.
“Perfectly safe,” said Rharvyn, stopping alongside them. He hitched his pack up higher and grinned, his teeth bright against his dark skin. “Once you get over the motion sickness.”