Except that the slope suddenly shattered into a thousand cracks, like a plate of porcelain dropped upon the floor. And from between those cracks flooded forth lava, at first welling up like an overripe fruit squeezed in a fist, and then bursting forth in great sprays, gouting forth and throwing dollops of burning rock into the air.
The ground shook and trembled, and more than one Great Soul yelled out in surprise and staggered into their fellows. The queens remained eerily silent, arms raised, and when Xandera lowered her trident to point its fearsome head at the approaching horde, all hell break loose.
The base of the slope broke forth before a wave of lava that rushed forth even as the valley floor for hundreds of yards in every direction melted and began to blaze orange and crimson.
The fiends shrieked and leaped and fought the suction of the molten rock. Scorio could only stare, wide-eyed, as the entire valley floor transformed into a lake of fire.
“By the gods,” whispered Valdun hoarsely.
The Ixithilions were the least able to handle the heat and burning rock. They screeched and leaped as nimbly as they could, but their pointed legs sank swiftly into the lava and burned away, so that they quickly fell and tumbled amidst the flows.
The Nethercoils were much more capable of taking the damage; they roared and hurled themselves into huge leaps that carried them over much of the lava, only to land with great splashes that charred their legs and seemed to compel them to leap even further.
The Symmetrons, however, seemed inured to the pain; they waded through the lava with the same twisted expressions upon their golden masks, perhaps protected by some power or ability that reduced the terrible damage that was being dealt to the others.
“Here they come!” shouted Valdun, and a dozen winged horses appeared in the air above him, each mounted by a spear-carrying warrior.
None of the Ixithilions made it more than halfway up the slope, but the Nethercoils came roaring and screaming, badly burned, limbs twisted and blackened, their forms unspooling into a mass of tentacles.
But before the Great Souls could defend themselves, the queens raised their palms and unleashed hundreds of bolts of lava, some wielding the burning rock like great whips, others simply flinging burning rocks from their palms.
The Nethercoils went down before the onslaught, battered out of the air to roll upon the broken rocks and lava, sinking beneath the assault and roaring and fighting the molten liquid that sucked them under.
Scorio could only stare, transfixed, at what the power of all those blazeborn queens could do. The entire valley floor was now orange and yellow, hellish vapors rising to darken the sky and obscure the distant sun, the burning glow dancing along the lower halves of the cliffs and painting them burgundy and crimson.
Not a single queen had taken damage. Not a single Great Soul.
Someone laughed, the sound almost unhinged with delight and disbelief. Naomi had seized hold of Scorio’s arm, her expression slack with awe. The heat was tremendous; Scorio had to squint against the burning winds and raised a hand to shield himself from the drifting sparks and motes of burning ash.
The Symmetrons tackled the slope. Their sheer size gave them an advantage; they struggled against the flowing rocks, each step a splash, their pain now made evident in the way they swung their clubs and rotated their four-sided heads as if searching for a path that didn’t exist.
But though they took terrible damage, the burning slope didn’t stop them.
“Here we go,” shouted Scorio, igniting at last. He grabbed Naomi by the nape of the neck and kissed her, hard. “Stay alive!”
“You, too!”
With a leap, he assumed his scaled form and extended his wings. The updraft was tremendous. He was buffeted from below by the rising winds, so that it was with relief that he grew into his dragon form.
What power. What might! He felt his body grow massive, sinuous, lethal. Ponderous yet at once light upon the winds, a force of destruction, the burning wasteland laid before him mirroring the fire that burned eternally within his chest. His wings grew even more massive and the dark clouds billowed as he powered through them, his tail undulating far behind, his eyes no longer affected by the heat and the fumes.
In this form the terrible fires below didn’t discomfort him; if anything, he felt at home, as if this landscape, this air, this burning world were where he belonged.
Huge and fell he descended upon the first Symmetron. It raised its clubs and waved them at him threateningly, but Scorio could only purr with amusement as he opened his mouth and gave vent to his inner inferno.
Black flames exploded forth, a gout of such virulent ferocity that the Symmetron rocked back as if in the face of a hurricane wind. Its upper torso disappeared within the flames, its clubs smashing at the stream of fire, and then Scorio was past, great wings carrying him to the next foe.
Turning his head back briefly upon his sinuous neck he saw that the Symmetron’s torso had been reduced to a crumbled silhouette; the fiend collapsed sidelong into the lava, and was no more.
One of the remaining Nethercoils leaped out of the furnace to unleash its tentacles as it sought to collide with him. Scorio slammed his Shroud into its path, and was gratified to see that his shield had grown in size commensurate with his new form; the great curved surface was easily ten yards across, and the Nethercoil plastered itself against it, tentacles grasping and seeking to find purchase before sliding back down into the flames.
Another Symmetron was right ahead. This time, Scorio banked at the last second so that all four feet came up just as he crashed into it, talons sinking deep into the huge fiend’s side, his wings beating furiously at the air as he bit its head. Several of its clubs pounded at his side, the blows tremendous, but his scales diffused the strength behind the attack, protecting him from strikes that would have shattered his regular scaled form before.
With a great roar he tore the fiend’s head clear off, crumpling the golden masks in his maw, and twisting about threw the body aside so that it tumbled down the molten slope.
Scorio trumpeted his victory. Fighting for height, tail lashing behind him, he scoured the smoky heavens and saw that other Great Souls had followed him into the air to give battle.
Valdun and his winged host flew just above, Amity seated behind him. The spear-wielding warriors were flinging their weapons at the Symmetrons, again and again, while Amity was shriveling up, rapidly aging and growing desiccated as he prepared his massive attack.
Scorio roared his greeting cautiously. Was this the moment when they turned on him?
Valdun raised his fist in acknowledgement.
But instead of turning away, Scorio kept watching the other Pyre Lord. Waiting. And then he saw it: Valdun wasn’t saluting him.
Instead, the Pyre Lord raised his burning spear, and with all the strength in his body flung it down at Scorio, moments before his dozen other warriors did the same.
Chapter 59
Savage fury fought with bitterness. Scorio’s very size precluded nimble maneuvering; he banked hard but several of the spears slammed into his Shroud. A handful broke through. Pain lanced into his body, but none of the wounds were mortal; it seemed his Gold-tempered body was enough to rebuff the Pyre Lord assault.
Winging around, mind racing, he resummoned his Shroud and poured Iron mana into it, thickening its curvature till it glimmered in the air. The temptation to char the two Pyre Lords was overwhelming, but Valdun’s expression was one of horror.
He was being compelled by his Heart Oath.
Amity was growing more wizened by the moment, so Scorio plunged toward them and blasted out with his aura of command: STOP!