Scorio shrank back into his human form, his hand outstretched but fingers falling short of reaching Plassus by over a foot.
The crowd of Great Souls that ringed the walls had also frozen, but due to awe rather than supernatural aegis; they stared, eyes wide.
“How?” rasped the Charnel Duke. “What power was that?”
Scorio tried to respond but he was clamped in a vice so powerful he could barely breathe.
Plassus tugged at his robe, examining the wound in his chest with incredulity. “What trick was that? How in the ten hells did you summon so much bloody mana?”
Dominion imbued the Charnel Duke’s voice with preternatural force; each word rang forth like a hammer striking an anvil, and his displeasure was almost a physical force, crushing Scorio’s will.
“That was not the boy,” called out the Iron Tyrant, voice shaking with fury. “That was my pet blazeborn queen. I have no idea why she saw fit to intervene, but I promise you this, my lord - she will pay the greatest price for her temerity.”
“The blazeborn queen?” If anything, these words confounded Plassus further. “She helped you? Why? What the bloody hell is going on?”
Sweat ran down Scorio’s face. His body shook from the effort as he fought off the pressure that sought to snap his bones.
“Speak,” snapped Plassus, waving his hand irritably.
The pressure abated, but he remained firmly held. Scorio exhaled with a gasp. Fought to catch his breath, then glared at the Charnel Duke.
“You are to Xandera and me as the Blood Ox is to you.” His words echoed. “But we’d both rather die than bend knee or admit defeat.”
Plassus’ head rocked back.
Nobody spoke.
The Charnel Duke’s gaze darted back and forth as he thought. He passed a shaking hand over his brow, then shook his head as if denying some unspoken line of reasoning.
“You’ve only been here for a handful of days,” protested the Charnel Duke at last, rounding on Scorio. “How’d you get the queen to throw her life away for you?”
“I pray she hasn’t.”
“Your prayers are worth shit where the Iron Tyrant’s concerned. Am I right, Bravurn?”
High above, the Iron Tyrant radiated displeasure. All he could manage was a curt nod of his head.
Scorio inhaled deeply, then began to strain against Plassus’ power.
He couldn’t ignite, but he yet had his native strength. Half a year spent smashing rocks at the Chasm had enhanced his physique far beyond the norm. He felt his muscles tighten and swell, felt his joints creak, his bones flex.
“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Plassus, exasperated.
Scorio didn’t answer. He kept his gaze locked on the man, kept straining, fought for just another inch.
“I have dominion, you blasted fool!” Plassus threw up his hands. “I could snuff out your life where you stand!”
“Still… breathing,” rasped Scorio. “Still… fighting.”
“If we had a hundred of you, this whole war would already be over,” said Plassus in wonder. “You’re a madman. You’ve the wit and sense of a man drunk on firewine.”
Scorio fought through the pain, leaned into the power, fought it with every fiber of his being.
Plassus shook his head in mute wonder then looked down at his robe again. A tear of blood had soaked into the fabric.
“Enough. Enough! This duel is over.” He glanced up at the Iron Tyrant. “A draw.”
“A draw,” allowed Scorio, ending his efforts.
The Charnel Duke relinquished his dominion. Mana immediately began to filter into the caldera, wisps and curls entering through the now quiescent walls.
Everybody seemed stunned, everybody but the Iron Tyrant, who swept out of his balcony, expression furious.
Scorio blinked, dazed, then realized where the man was headed.
Exhausted, reeling, he forced himself to run in what he hoped was the right direction.
“Where are you going?” The Charnel Duke’s voice was stricken with confusion, anger, and bewilderment. “I just spared your life - we must talk!”
“I have to save her,” Scorio shouted back, reaching for the closest wisps of mana, drinking it in, and igniting as soon as he could.
It hurt to embody his scaled form, to set forth his wings, but he forced himself to regardless. He crouched, and the balcony cleared as Great Souls scrambled to get out of his way.
Queen Xandera.
He had to reach her before Bravurn.
Chapter 27
Scorio wrenched what little mana he could gather into his Heart and ignited. Extruded his wings and leaped, straining, fighting to reach the Iron Tyrant’s balcony.
Ponderous wing beats hurled him aloft, ever more mana sluicing into his burning Heart, till he cleared the railing and dropped to the balcony floor.
A handful of the Iron Vanguard stared at him in shock, but he ran past them, hurtling after the Iron Tyrant. Bravurn was just ahead, but the Blood Baron heard his pursuit, turned, and all but hissed in displeasure. He reached out with one hand, brought it down sharply, and the tunnel filled with Iron.
A perfect metal cylinder dropped from the ceiling, filling the narrow tunnel completely and causing the floor to shatter.
Scorio slammed into the reflective curvature, bounced off, stared about wildly. The fit wasn’t perfect; the cylinder fell short of each wall by a few inches. Too narrow for Scorio to squeeze through.
Scorio reached into his core, drew forth his flaming self, and threw himself at the gap.
His flame form passed through with a great roar, and Scorio inhaled the flames to become himself on the far side. He turned his head and exhaled fire, scorching the tunnel wall as he ran after the Iron Tyrant.
The tunnel climbed steeply, curved around and around till it let out into the highest floor. Scorio raced down the corridor to Queen Xandera’s grand archway, only to stagger to a stop at the sight of a gleaming Shroud that covered the entrance completely.
Bravurn’s Shroud.
A Blood Baron’s shield.
Its surface glimmered with Gold miasmas, like fog wreathing the face of a dawn river. Scorio stared, furious, and could vaguely make out the caverns beyond.
He tore up into his scaled form and slammed his talons into the Shroud. Again and again he pummeled the curved surface, each blow powered by his might and desperation.
The Shroud held firm.
Furious, he stepped back. Cast around and saw that the corridor was rich with traces of Bronze. He drew these directly into his Heart, and when it burned brightest, he summoned his flame form.
But instead of inhaling it straightaway, he poured more and more of the Bronze mana into the flames, so that his humanoid form raged like a bonfire on which lamp oil had been poured. The more mana he poured into the form, the more his very sense of self wavered and evaporated. It felt like wrestling with a fever, one so potent that his mind, his identity began to warp and burn.
Just when he thought he couldn’t take it any longer he inhaled the entirety of it, drinking the fire deep into his chest so that he felt as if he would burst. More and more he consumed, till his ribs creaked, his muscles burned, his sight blurred.
The second he’d drunk it all, he spewed it forth with as much force as he could muster.
The sheer power of the blast drove him back. The flames streamed forth, a blue so vivid they appeared unreal, to burst against the Shroud and there burst out in all directions.
Scorio leaned into the conflagration, his hair whipping about his face, his skin burning hot from the intensity of his own flame, the blast concentrated on one spot in the Blood Baron’s Shroud.
A spot that darkened, fragmented, and from whose nucleus cracks abruptly ran. More and more flame Scorio blew, an endless stream of white-hot power, and then the Shroud shattered and Scorio was through.