“So?” Now it was Scorio’s turn. “They know where he is, don’t they? Sol came back to Bastion to deal with Imogen. Couldn’t he spare a few hours to kill the Blood Ox?”
“It’s not so simple,” said Faridian, smoothing away his smile. “The Blood Ox is a True Fiend, and as such has access to his own Sanctum. It’s said that he spends almost the entirety of his time there, hidden away, and emerges only to destroy key points of our resistance. It would take several Imperators to break into his Sanctum, and more time than they can spare.”
Scorio tried to understand all of this, but each answer only provoked a dozen more questions.
Naomi mastered her annoyance. “And the Imperators can’t hang around waiting for the Blood Ox to appear.”
“Quite.” Faridian shook his head. “He’d sense them close and remain hidden, allowing more of his kind to escape the Pit while the Imperators there were weakened. As such, he’s our problem to deal with, though nobody has discovered an answer yet.”
“True Fiend,” said Scorio. “That means he’s as powerful as an Imperator?”
“A wholly different manner of beast, but yes. And therein lies the cause of all our problems.”
“Then how can we win?” demanded Naomi. “It took Sol to send Imogen packing.”
Jaks’ impatience boiled over. “We’re obviously not winning. It’s why we’ve been losing for years now. And why they’ve sent Charnel Dukes all the way back to the Telurian Band, instead of keeping them way south in the Azure Expanse or the Scorched Swale.”
“Indeed,” mused Dakshina, tone remote. “It’s unheard of to have Charnel Dukes this far north.”
“The White Queen was in the Rascor Plains,” protested Scorio.
“Which was a miracle in and of itself.” Dakshina shrugged. “Faridian, are there any Charnel Dukes in the Silver Unfathom?”
“Not that I know of. There are a handful in the Lustrous Maria beyond it, though.” Faridian sighed. “It’s a mess. Even two Charnel Dukes cannot stop the Blood Ox. If the war remains a debacle, something extreme will have to be done.”
“Like sending Crimson Earls?” asked Scorio.
“Or abandoning the first few layers of hell,” said Faridian. “Once that would have been inconceivable, but Bastion only has a handful of years left. The highest ranking amongst us might decide it’s not worth defeating the Blood Ox if it means weakening our front in the most southern reaches of hell.”
Scorio tried to encompass this reality. “Abandon the Telurian Band, the Iron Weald, the Rascor Plains, and Bastion?”
“The White Queen has already done as much,” said Faridian softly. “Her descent to the Azure Expanse sent ripples of shock and fear through the northern reaches of hell. The final years are upon us. We may simply not merit the sacrifice of being saved.”
Chapter 7
Their party drew close to the Fury Spires.
Conversation stilled as the ground slowly rose to the base of the central mound. Scorio fought to take in the scale of the towers that rose precipitously above them. So much of the Iron Weald had already been gigantic in size; the individual valleys with their weathered walls, the World Worm tunnel, and now the Fury Spires themselves.
Only now did he realize that they weren’t perfectly vertical, but gently sloped toward the north. They varied in height, with one central spire preeminent amongst the others, but all conical at the base where they emerged from the central structure, and quickly tapering to a gravity-defying spire.
The central structure was an organic mass, its surface smoothly pebbled with a glossy black texture that differed from the rest of the valley. It flowed across the valley’s entirety, forming a great curving wall that rose from the gentle pediment to a hundred or so yards in height, with the spires then bursting forth here and there across its roof to spear into the sky.
Even the gently rising slope they were climbing was alien to the Iron Weald; it had the same glossy texture as the Fury Spires, and was a mottled mixture of black and brown. A path had been worn up the incline, the rock roughened for firm purchase, but Scorio imagined the rest of the pediment would prove slick and treacherous to walk on, even at this gradual slope.
“I remember the first time I gazed upon these towers,” said Faridian softly, no doubt noting Scorio’s awe. “I felt myself impossibly dwarfed, and remember thinking: if fiends in the Iron Weald can build something this magnificent, what might others of their kind have wrought deeper in hell?”
“Do you still feel that way?” asked Scorio.
“Alas. Familiarity breeds contempt. It is only when I see it through the eyes of new arrivals that I am reminded of my former awe.” Faridian’s smile was rueful. “One of the truest wonders of hell is how quickly we Great Souls can grow accustomed to anything.”
The spires were not uniformly smooth. Small protrusions pocked their faces, each culminating in a ruddily glowing tip. Windows? No. The glow reminded Scorio of the magma they had seen in the depths. Heat sources? But why place them on the surface of the building?
The road grew steeper and then let out onto an artificially flat plateau set before the main gate, the entirety of which betrayed the work of Great Souls in its rough texture.
“What are those?” whispered Scorio.
A small army of massive statues stood arrayed before the bridge that rose at the plateau’s far edge. Each statue stood some three yards in height and was but the roughest of approximations of a man; their heads were round knobs emerging from their chests, their shoulders hugely sloped to curve down into arms that extended all the way to the ground, knuckles planted on the plateau. Their legs were thick and rounded like tree trunks, and they were covered in a thick and scabrous charcoal hide.
There had to be some fifty of them arrayed before the bridge, with a clear path cutting down their center.
“Titans,” said Jaks, voice tinged with awe. “A kind of blazeborn. They’re our first line of defense in case the Fury Spires ever suffer a ground attack.”
Their company crested the rise and followed the road between the gigantic fiends. Each one radiated intense heat, so that the air here shimmered between their still forms.
“Don’t worry,” said Faridian softly. “They are all but mindless and respond only to commands from their queen. They have stood thus for as long as I’ve been here, and never been given cause to stir. Should the Gurlocks ever assault the Fury Spires, they’ll come to life and defend us.”
Scorio tried to imagine the fifty or so giants breaking out of their slumber. The thought was formidable.
“Not that a Gurlock could handle so many Titans,” said Jaks, edging up alongside them. “From what I’ve heard, a fresh-born Gurlock can only take five or six, maybe ten at most. Right, Faridian?”
“Who can be sure?” The Dread Blaze’s tone remained soft. “Pray that we never find out.”
“Why doesn’t the queen turn this army against the Iron Tyrant?” asked Naomi, expression inscrutable.
“Their kind have been forced to learn the consequences of rebellion,” replied Dakshina, tone cool, almost proud. “Those that defied us are dead. Only one last queen remains, and the Iron Tyrant has her well in hand.”
“I see,” said Scorio, and to him the silent giants seemed inexpressibly sad.
The bridge arched over a broad band of rumpled black rock that encircled the base of the Fury Spires. More heat baked from this black slag river, causing the air to shimmer and distort. Sweat prickled Scorio’s brow as he moved to the bridge’s railing and gazed over the petrified moat.
“That’s actually lava,” said Jaks, her tone smug.
“I know.” Scorio cut his gaze back at her for a moment before returning to the broad black flow. “I take it the queen can awaken it?”