He came in hard and brutal. Even without his ignited Heart he was Gold-tempered. Those months of shattering rocks at the Chasm had honed his body into a fell instrument, and life hadn’t gotten any easier since. His fists felt like rocks, his arms like tireless prongs, his power inexhaustible.
Naomi gave ground, then gave ground again. The sound of forearm on forearm was a constant staccato. She tried for a leg sweep, he leaped and pounded a roundhouse kick into her arm which she curled against the side of her head just in time.
This time, it was his turn to spin. He stepped in, heel pointed at her, and whipped around to thrust a kick from the hip, his whole body behind the blow. Naomi crossed her arms and took the full brunt of the kick which lifted her off the ground and sent her sprawling, rolling head over heels to come up into a crouch, eyes narrowed, face livid though whether with pleasure or fury he couldn’t tell.
“We’re Flame Vaults,” he ground out. “But we’re more than that. We’re some kind of dancing monkey celebrities. Whatever we do, wherever we go, we’ll be noticed. People will try to use us. So we might as well remain in the heart of it and make our own choices.”
“Is that what you call this?” Naomi stood and shook out her arms. “Making our own choices? The Seamstress is sending in Blood Barons from the Emerald Reach, Scorio. Those bastards cut their teeth against the Emerald Host. You think the Blood Ox compares to the Viridian Heart? They’re going to eat Plassus alive.”
“Plassus’ problem.”
“Our problem.” Naomi began to circle. “You’re Scorio the Red Lister. The Scourer, Lord of Nagaran, Master of the Black Tower, Bringer of Ash and Darkness, the Shadow of Spurn Harbor, the Abhorred, Quencher of Hope and Unmaker of Joy.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“And now you can add new titles to that list. Slayer of Praximar, destroyer of Manticore, banisher of Imogen the Woe.” Her oblique approach brought her ever closer. Any moment now, any second, the attack would come. “You’re right. You’re not just a Flame Vault. You’re disruptive. You bring chaos to ordered plans. They’re closing their nooses about your neck without you even realizing it. They have to, or risk you destroying them.”
Scorio surged forward and unleashed a barrage of strikes. Naomi gave ground, then pushed back. Their Gold and Silver-tempered bodies allowed them to take blows that would have staggered anyone else. It took learning. Realizing they didn’t have to be as afraid of damage as they’d once been.
“I’m getting sick,” growled Scorio, “of being told I’m this… important… person.”
Naomi trapped his arm under her own, ducked under his hook and slammed her brow into his cheek. Scorio reversed his blow, sought to elbow her in the face, and she ducked under again, released him, and this time her leg sweep took out his heels neatly.
Scorio fell back, but his body was so alive, so undaunted, that instead of his shoulders hitting the ground he reached back, planted both palms on the ground, and sprung back onto his feet. Leaped, kicked, then escalated a series of ever more tremendous blows till Naomi leaped away in turn to escape.
“Don’t you see?” Her eyes burned. “You are.”
“And you? You’ve been with me every step of the way. You’re just as dangerous as I am.”
“I’m going to set everything on fire, but nobody sees that. They only see you. The Red List killer.” She flipped her braid back. “Me? I’m an upstart nobody riding your coattails. Silver to your Gold. That’s their mistake, but my advantage can’t come at the expense of yours. Wake up, Scorio. Take control.”
“Take control,” muttered Scorio, his fury now a dull drumbeat in his temple. “What’s that supposed to look like?”
He strode toward her, arms by his sides.
Naomi scowled and closed, struck him, once, twice, three times. He didn’t bother to block. His body rocked with each strike, his head jerked around but an inch from a blow to the chin, but he barely felt the pain.
Naomi backpedaled, dropped and spun, trying to trip him again, but her calf bounced off his ankle. She rose haphazardly, staggered as she fought for balance, then ducked low and surged forward and up, burying her fist in a brutal uppercut into his gut.
Scorio grunted as the pain registered, but he clamped a hand around her wrist and closed the other around her neck. He raised her off the ground. She kicked and pummeled him to no effect.
He felt aflame, his anger now fully roused. “I need to know what’s happening. I need information so I can make the right decision. I will learn what people desire of me and only then will I choose my own path.”
“Good,” whispered Naomi, her lips peeling back in a half-snarl, half-smile. “There you are. At last.”
And fast as thought, she shifted into her Nightmare Lady form. Tall and gaunt, her feet reached the ground, her tail coming up and spearing down at him from over her shoulder.
Scorio released her skeletal neck but refused to ignite. He dodged aside, the great blade missing his face by an inch, and danced back.
The Nightmare Lady hunched over, one taloned hand brushing the caldera floor, and advanced. Her fangs were horrific, her eyes blazed sulfurous green, her head backswept and ebon, her movements languorous and smooth. “There’s the anger. There’s the rage. Never lose sight of it. Never let it die. It’s your only true defense down here where everyone wants to use and abuse you and discard you when you’re broken and done for. Anger, Scorio. Wield it.”
But her words cooled his rage rather than inflamed it. The bright burn became a spark and fell away, like a burning brand dropped down a well, leaving him clear and cold.
Her tail spiked down at him, again and again, but each time he darted aside, giving ground, eyes locked on her burning own. Then without warning he reversed course just as she retracted her tail and came in hard, spinning into a backhand which cracked across her monstrous jaw.
His knuckles split under the impact but her head rocked aside and then he was on her.
Blows to her pronounced ribcage, a flurry of tight, brutal hooks, then he ducked down almost to sitting to avoid her slash and came up to power a cross through her jaw again.
The Nightmare Lady hissed and slammed him with the length of her tail. It was like being hit by a log. Scorio was lifted off the floor to crash down some six yards away and roll.
Dazed, head ringing, he pushed himself to his feet and leaped blindly aside, hoping his instincts would prove true.
The Nightmare Lady pounced where he’d been, pivoted, and flew after him. The blows came faster, ever faster, too fast to track. Her talons were curled into loose fists, but even these hit him like blows from an iron club.
Scorio raised his arms into a tight guard, stumbled, staggered, then collapsed to one knee as a blow blinded him across the temple.
The Nightmare Lady rose over him, tail lashing, shoulders heaving. “Ignite,” she hissed. “Embrace that anger. Come at me, Scorio.”
He heaved for breath. His Heart all but throbbed, yearning for flame. One flicker of his will and he’d burst up into his scaled form. It was there, just under the skin, yearning for release.
But no. He allowed the ignition, Iron flames whooshing over his great and perilous Heart, but restrained his monstrous form.
Instead, he weaponized his icy calm and summoned his aura. That nebulous and opaque power that he’d yet to fully understand. Summoned his power, gathering it about him like his Shroud and projected its full force at the Nightmare Lady.
BACK AWAY, he commanded, rising slowly to both feet, the power from his Heart flooding his body, already healing the abrasions and deep bone bruises.
The Nightmare Lady shifted, turned from one side to the next as if seeking a hidden foe, then took a step back.
Scorio breathed deeply, felt his ribcage expand to the point of creaking, and brought his will to a razor point. BACK AWAY, he commanded again, and slowly, step by step, he drove the Nightmare Lady before him.