Plassus’ face darkened as his jaw clenched.
“If not,” called out Scorio, “maybe you should look into doing your damned duty as a Charnel Duke and lead our people to victory instead of -”
“We will not allow this hallowed tradition to be dragged in the mud,” called out the Iron Tyrant, his voice magnified so that it drowned out the growing clamor. All eyes turned to where he’d stepped to the balcony’s front. “Given the esteemed Charnel Duke’s rank, there is no need for a judge to arbitrate the duel. The fight shall be to the death, unless the victorious party accepts surrender. No blame or vengeance will fall upon the victor for slaying his foe, as I declare this duel lawful in my own eyes.”
Everybody settled.
Plassus doffed his white cloak and held it out without tearing his gaze away from Scorio. Kinch stepped up, took it without a word, and beat a hasty retreat.
“I’m going to kill you now,” said Plassus. “Seeing as so many people have come out to watch I’ll make a bit of a spectacle of it. But don’t worry. It won’t last long.”
Scorio exhaled shakily and lowered himself into a combat stance.
The Iron Tyrant continued. “The battle must be constrained to the confines of the caldera. All efforts must be made to not injure the spectators, but ultimately they acknowledge the danger of being present and are responsible for their own wellbeing. Neither party my ignite or manipulate mana till I give the signal. Nothing will be given to the victor other than the glory and honor of having bested a foe.”
Plassus stood at ease, his chin lowered, craggy brows heavy over his dark eyes. Even without igniting his Heart the Charnel Duke gave off such a portentous sense of malevolence that Scorio dry swallowed.
“On my count.” The Iron Tyrant’s voice rang clear.
Scorio scanned the crowd.
“Three.”
The faces were a smeared blur. Some familiar, most strangers, but all watching avidly.
“Two.”
No sign of Naomi.
“One.”
And - there. A slight form, barely visible, given berth only due to its natural heat.
A blazeborn drudge, just within a tunnel mouth.
“Begin!”
Their Hearts ignited simultaneously and Scorio leaped back and away, his scaled form bursting forth to envelop him in saurian might. He extruded his wings, hopping as they emerged, and with three powerful downbeats he lurched up into the air, fighting for altitude, lifting, lifting, watching with a pounding heart as Plassus just stood there, fists on his hips, expressive mouth drawn into a line.
The audience shouted, catcalled, some let loose long drawn-out whistles. The caldera was stifling with Iron mana, and Scorio initiated the Delightful Secret Marinating technique, drawing it around and around then down into his burning Heart. Scorio couldn’t hover, so instead he cut from left to right, trying to gauge the distance, the moment, to divine Plassus’ intent.
Slow humiliation.
That was to be the name of the game.
The Charnel Duke would take Scorio’s best attacks and then crush him.
Scorio bared his teeth as the will to fight, the urge to destroy swept over him. He’d yet to go all-out in his new Dread Blaze form. Had yet to test just how much damage his thickened armor combined with being Gold-tempered would take.
One way to find out.
Scorio flew right up to the ceiling then brought in his wings, rolled to the side and dropped so as to come cutting in at full speed from an oblique angle.
The world blurred, faces and balconies, the dull smear of the gray-brown walls, and in the center Plassus, patient, dour, ready.
At the last moment, Scorio summoned his flame form. It rushed forth, bursting out of his essence to immolate him, but he immediately sucked it into his chest, reverting to flesh and scale, and then blasted it out as he strafed by.
The process took too long. He needed more practice. To refine it to a fluid strike. As it was, he’d already started to curve around Plassus from a distance of a dozen yards, the man turning to track him, when he finally unleashed his flame attack.
A hissing stream of ultra-heated blue flame speared forth, to billow and burn, to unfurl into riotous splendor as it poured down upon the Charnel Duke - and froze.
The entire plume simply locked up, curlicues of flame and hellish intensity snapping into utter immobility. Scorio felt the strange power come rushing up the stream of fire and he thrust himself back, cutting off the attack, fighting again to gain altitude, and just barely avoided being caught by the power.
Plassus glanced up at the locked attack that now hung above him, a violent adornment, all of it trapped in place and moving with him as he turned.
“Pretty,” he said.
Scorio hissed, anger and panic roiling in his chest, and drew more from the ambient mana. He narrowed his wings, cut back the way he’d come, and strafed the Charnel Duke once more, gliding past as quickly as he could. Again he summoned his flame form, again he inhaled its immensity into his chest, but this time when he unleashed his attack he buttressed it with an ancillary power:
PANIC!
His mental command fell upon Plassus like a hammer blow just before his second stream of flame burst forth with a roar.
Plassus raised an eyebrow, and the second stream was caught just as the first, locked at the Charnel Duke’s left just as the first yet hung to his side.
An idea.
Scorio didn’t course correct; he continued to swoop around Plassus, flying out wide to curve around his side, and there he drew forth his flame form again, inhaled it with a ragged gasp, and immediately blew it forth.
But he aimed to miss.
The flame cut across Plassus’ front, missing him by a yard, bright and awesome, the heat that came off it plastering the Charnel Duke’s hair back and causing him to squint his eyes.
“Very nice,” said Plassus as the flames dissipated. “Trying to blind me? It’d be a piss-poor power of mine if it could be used against me so easily.”
Damn. Scorio snarled and flew back as he rose. He’d hoped to lock the blast right across the man’s line of sight, blinding him indeed.
Looked like only attacks that would actually hit were frozen.
The Iron mana was already starting to thin out, and though Scorio’s reservoir was brimming and his Heart raging, he felt as if he were rapidly running out of time.
Scorio rose high, furled his wings, and dove. He aimed directly at the Charnel Duke this time, fighting for speed, fighting to turn his black-scaled body into a bolt hurled by the gods.
Down he sped, and at the last second he summoned his flame form, just a flicker of black fire, and inhaled it before it could fully envelop him. Immediately, he expelled a smaller gout of fire, cutting it off before it could do more than begin to explode before him, severing his connection to it.
The timing had to be exquisite.
Plassus opened his arms to welcome his dive.
The plume of fire froze.
Scorio pushed himself, resisting the urge to scream from the effort, and became flame once more.
He dove through his own fireball, his body rushing, snarling, leaping in pure flame, hoping against hope that in this state he’d evade the Charnel Duke’s freezing power.
STOP! His command was a cry of rage, of wild hope, and this time Plassus flinched under its assault.
Then all slammed to a halt.
Scorio found himself locked in place, burning, ever burning, a mere yard from Plassus, an arm drawn back for a searing strike.
The Charnel Duke grinned up at him, yellowed teeth bared. “A nice ploy. But nothing’ll work against me. You’re too weak. Too slow. Let me show you how it’s done.”
And for the first time, the Charnel Duke’s will became manifest. The Iron stream that flooded into Scorio’s Heart abruptly severed as the mana withdrew. In moments, Scorio hung in a great empty sphere, deprived of all mana, and no matter how he strove he couldn’t manipulate any of it, couldn’t bring his paddle to bear, couldn’t swirl it around himself.