“Thank you.” Scorio studied the older man’s worn visage and felt a deep and terrible sorrow well up within him. “Thank you, Plassus. For fighting.”
“For fighting.” The man’s voice was soft, barely audible. “Only ever fight for yourself. There’s nothing else out there worth fighting for.”
Scorio rose, hefted his pack once more, then glanced at Naomi. Grimaced and looked away, wishing he could banish that sight forever from his memory, then began to stumble southwest, taking an oblique approach toward the Dead Ridge. The Imperators would no doubt head straight north after the Blood Ox; he didn’t want to be in their path.
Every few steps he looked back. Back at the fallen Gold-tempered fiends, at the corpses of his friends, at the solitary and still form of Plassus.
Then up, to scan the cloudy skies, terrified that twin specks would have appeared, two Imperators winging their way with terrific speed toward the scene of battle.
But on and on he scrambled, down into gulches, up across ridges, his body weak, his feet numb, his body shaking and shivering with pain and nausea. On and on he pressed, never relenting, till at last he looked back and saw nothing but the Telurian Band’s endless badlands, and dared to dream himself safe.
Chapter 47
Time passed.
How far was far enough?
Scorio clambered up flint-edged slopes. Half-slid, half-staggered down dissolving slopes of shale. Summoned the energy to leap over narrow chasms, or followed broader ravines till he found places to torturously climb down. Hills rose and fell like petrified waves angled toward a distant shore. He splashed through metallic lakes, most only ankle or shin-deep, but occasionally the waters would hide greater depths, and he’d drop with a cry to flounder and fight his way back to the knife-blade shores.
For in the deeper lakes fiends swam, their fins occasionally breaking the opaque surfaces, their burning eyes leaving searing contrails behind that slowly faded away.
The sun dropped toward the horizon. Shadows grew velvety and thick, stretched toward the north, merged and became an omnipresent gloom.
Still Scorio struggled on. His strength never returned. His vigor was at its lowest ebb. Whatever the Blood Ox had done to him had left a permanent mark. Would he always be this weak? The thought terrified Scorio, but as much as he sought to banish it, the realization that the change was effected with Noumenon failed to fade away.
But always he remained cognizant of his burden. Even with his Heart dead and unburning, he thought he could feel the egg’s burning presence in his pack. It wasn’t any heavier, but suddenly it felt infinitely precious; each time he slipped he’d desperately turn so that the pack wouldn’t hit the ground. He knew that it was probably tougher than it had ever been, infused as it was with this rarest of mana types, but somehow his paranoia only grew.
The farther he left the battle site behind, the more the Telurian Band’s ecology came to life.
Cat-sized orange crickets whose forelegs were pincers leaped up, antennae bristling into feathery manes around their heads as they chittered away. Thousands of filaments waved in the air from banks of moss, only to retract as one as Scorio drew close, tiny chitin beaks clenching over them. In the distance he saw a pack of Angraths lazily stalking a wounded Okoz, but they were far enough away that they gave Scorio no mind.
Lichen whose metallic hues rippled in alarm if Scorio stepped on them and puffed up spores; metallic banks of thick iron wires that glowed as mana blew past them; snake-like fiends who hid in holes, mouths opened wide like fleshy flowers, daring anything to step or fall into them; flocks of paper-thin kites connected by filaments of light that blew with the Bronze mana, their bodies curving around the gusts and flying fitfully ever north.
At a glance the Telurian Band was desolate; but close up, without company or conversation to distract him, moving with a guttered Heart and in silence, he saw the wealth of life reveal itself. Hard-bitten, camouflaged to blend in, the wealth of insects, mosses, plants, and shelled fiends were almost too numerous to count.
On he went, till he was stumbling and tripping. His darkvision required igniting his Heart, so he walked in unaccustomed gloom, inured from the pain of scrapes and cuts by his general numbness. On and on he went, always fearing the moment when an Imperator would alight beside him, eyes blazing with concern and command.
Finally he tumbled down a gulley and couldn’t rise any longer. He’d grown so used to the strength and vitality that igniting gave him that he felt broken without it. He pulled his pack around onto his chest then simply lay against the sharp rocks, gazing up at the dull crimson sky.
He couldn’t go on.
If the Imperators found him here, then so be it.
This would be a really great time to become a Pyre Lord, he thought, then fell asleep.
When he awoke the sky was bright, and hundreds of fingernail-sized beetles had crawled over him. He brushed them off, but dozens remain glued to him, and in horror he realized that they’d inserted their trailing antennae under his skin. Panicked, he pinched one and tore it free, only to see two black dots remain behind where its antennae remained trapped in his flesh.
He sought to ignite and immediately keeled over as a harsh pain spasmed through his Heart. Cursing, furious, he fought for calm and gathered himself. Then, with great care, he pinched a beetle between two fingers and pulled it gently free.
Its antennae slid reluctantly out of his flesh, each seven inches long. Scorio crushed the beetle with savage hatred, then calmed again and took up one that had inserted itself into his forearm.
Over the next half-hour he stripped and pulled forth scores of the parasites until he was surrounded by crushed little purple shells. There was a spot in his midback that he couldn’t reach, and not willing to leave it unexplored, he rubbed himself against the sharp rocks and felt several insects tear free.
Woozy, nauseous, horrified, he shook more of them off his pack and clothing and climbed out of the gulley naked to get dressed in the morning light. Beads of blood formed where each beetle had perforated him, and he forced himself to drink only a little of what remained from his waterskin. He’d no hunger, and what blood or mana or whatever he’d lost to the beetles would have to wait till he could stomach the thought of chewing on some of his rations.
Hefting his pack again he stared south. No sign of Imperators. By now they must have reached Naomi and the others. Was she alive? Had Plassus held on long enough to explain to her?
Nothing Scorio could do about it now.
Then he looked north. He’d made better progress than he’d anticipated. The Dead Ridge towered above him, only a dozen or so miles away. The great bones poked up at regular intervals along the range’s spine, emerging from the rock as if the mountain were rotting away from its own internal scaffolding. Had the fiend lain atop the mountains and died there, or had its death caused the mountains to form?
Whatever the case, Scorio was glad it was long gone. The mountains and the bones stretched as far east and west as he could see. A World Worm, surely?
And where to cross? The Dead Ridge wasn’t too high, but he still didn’t want to scale any cliffs. From where he stood there didn’t seem to be any obvious passes, but perhaps something would suggest itself the closer he came.
But that begged the question: what was he doing? The day before he’d fled the Imperators. He could declare that goal accomplished. Which meant now what?
Woozy, still disgusted by the ordeal with the beetles, he staggered over to a boulder, sat, and took out the egg.
He reached out to it with his Heart’s senses. Its power blazed brightly, undiminished.
All it needed was flame.
But without his ability to ignite, he couldn’t provide any.
Which meant he kept moving for now. Why? He wasn’t sure. Staying still might invite trouble. Perhaps fiends would sense the egg and come to investigate if he stayed still for too long. Perhaps the Imperators would range out wide in their pursuit of the Blood Ox.