Scorio studied the older man. His lined face, the streaks of gray in his curling mane, the bushy brows, the lines carved deep about eyes and across his brow.
For a long, aching moment they simply stared at each other, and then Scorio bowed his head. “As you command, Charnel Lord, so shall it be.”
“Don’t give me that rot,” laughed Plassus, the tension dissipating. “Now, eat. There’s too much here for me to devour, and it’ll be a long time before you’re served such fare once we’re gone from the Fury Spires. Take a plate, good, and get to work.”
Scorio needed no second bidding. He piled his plate high and set to eating everything, and everything was exquisite. They ate in companionable silence, and when finally they were done Plassus sat back with a contented sigh.
“You’ll be standing with my faction at the meeting that’s to come,” said Plassus. “Bravurn’s made it clear that he doesn’t want this to happen, but fuck him. The question remains though whether he’ll surrender his Gold.”
“Can you take it if he doesn’t?”
“Of course. Nothing would be easier. But it’s not so simple. Bravurn’s a prickly bastard, and his Iron Vanguard is sworn to him. If we rob him of his mana he’ll attack us. He’d have no chance of winning, but the Iron Vanguard is almost three hundred strong. Vermina and I command some thousand all told, and the Blood Barons have brought some three hundred and fifty more. But a fight to the death with the Iron Vanguard would cost us more than we’d benefit from the Gold, especially as we’re inside Bravurn’s own fucking house.”
“So he needs to surrender it of his own free will.”
“Which he’ll do. He’s a miserable man. The kind that only laughs when an enemy is begging him for mercy. But it’s one thing to maneuver and posture, another to deny Crimson Earls and those who stand behind them. Now, you’re with me, and when the time comes, I’ll assign you to one of my commanders and you’ll do what you do.”
“And what’s that?”
Plassus leaned forward with an evil grin. “Why, make life hell for your enemies.”
* * *
Events moved quickly from there.
Much more was at stake than Scorio’s allegiance, and he and Naomi were quickly forgotten once it became clear that he’d declared for Plassus. They were both invited to move into his area, but declined.
Alain dropped by a couple of times, and Lianshi reported that Leonis had spurned Scorio’s offer to take him to the imperial gel bath. With a heavy heart Scorio took her down by herself, where Lianshi used an elixir of Silver mana - a graduation gift from the Academy - to learn the technique.
Naomi was wroth over his new allegiance to Plassus, and spent all of her time working on the Pyre Lord technique. It was far more difficult to accomplish without the gel, and she spent most of each day secluded in her room.
Scorio ate, rested, contemplated the queen’s egg, and waited. Nox’s presence gradually pulled away, moving southward.
Three days after his dinner with Plassus, the big meeting finally took place. Scorio was appraised but not invited. Charnel Duchess Vermina arrived to take part, and together with the Blood Barons they sat down to formalize the arrangements for war.
The entire Fury Spires waited with bated breath, and Scorio climbed to Plassus’ quarters to hear the results as quickly as they emerged. Some instinct kept him apart from the other House Kraken members, and each minute crawled slowly by until it felt as if they’d been waiting for an eternity.
Then Plassus strode into the room, bristling and snarling.
“The vainglorious idiot!” His voice boomed through the hallways. “A Blood Baron? The man acts like an Imperator, postures like a dandy, and smiles as if our fury were the finest fucking fragrance.”
A Pyre Lord, Taron, pushed off the wall. He was alabaster pale, his hair a white cloud, his eyes a searing blue. “The Iron Tyrant declined to help?”
“Oh, he dressed his refusal up in the prettiest of words.” Plassus extended his hand and a goblet was placed in it. “Sweet as a sow in skirts and face paint. But yes. It is with the greatest regret, the most heartfelt sorrow, ladee-dah-dee-dah.” Plassus drained the goblet and tossed it aside. “No mana, no Iron Vanguard, nothing but his best wishes.”
Kinch’s smile could have cut skin. “Then we encourage him to change his mind.”
“Would that we could. Vermina brought word that he’s not to be touched. Diplomatic immunity, though from whom or why I’ve no idea.” Plassus pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bravurn’s not been idle, all these long years. He’s called in favors, he’s wheedled and made promises, and now we’ve been told that to hurt his fine sensibilities would be to greatly displease forces in the deepest layers of hell.”
Scorio wanted to ask questions, but Plassus was a thunder cloud looking for a tree to hit with lightning. Being new and a recent source of distress, he decided it best to remain quiet.
“So we fight without him,” said Taron coolly.
“What choice do we bloody well have? Don’t answer, I’ll tell you: none. Yes, we’ll fight without him, and we’ll do so without his Gold. Damn him to the Pit and back.” Plassus fell heavily into a chair and slumped back. His entire delegation watched anxiously, a dozen Great Souls whom Scorio had just started to recognize, their gazes locked on the Charnel Duke.
“Ah, well.” Plassus let out a heartfelt sigh and shook his head. “So it goes, so it ever goes, an eternal river of human waste flowing from Bastion all the way to the Twilight Cradle. Bravurn’s just an exemplar of every folly that’s doomed our progress.”
“When do we leave for the Telurian Band?” asked Exero, tone flinty.
“Tomorrow. The less time we spend under Bravurn’s beady eyes the better. We’re traveling south together, all the forces gathered here at the Fury Spires, and by the time we reach the Telurian Band and our encampment we’ll have hammered out our strategy. You’ll learn of it and your roles soon enough.”
Plassus passed his hand over his eyes, and the gathering relaxed, understanding that the audience was over. Scorio rose and moved to exit, only for Taron to intercept him.
“Come, Scorio. I’ll walk with you.”
“Sure.” Scorio studied the other young man sidelong. Slender, with impressively harsh cheekbones, a strong chin, and an aquiline nose, he was striking and self-possessed; his pale blue irises were ringed with a dark slate, and his manner was that of a man perpetually amused by the world’s follies.
“You’re going to be marching with us,” began Taron as they stepped out into the broad tunnel. “I thought it wise to set your expectations and responsibilities.”
“Thank you.”
“We’re an army, yes, but there’s precious little of ranks or military marching. We move together as a group, and you’ll look to the higher ranks for commands if something should occur while we travel. The odds of that are vanishingly small; there are no fiends outside of a World Worm that would dare challenge nearly a hundred Great Souls here in the Iron Weald.”
“That’s not the case in the Telurian Band.”
Taron’s smile was cold. “Oh, no. Not the case at all. But look.” He stopped and faced Scorio. “You’re a Dread Blaze. Most of our force is composed of Flame Vaults and Tomb Sparks. They’ve seen a good amount of fighting out in the Telurian Band, but they look to us higher-ranked Great Souls to set the tone and elevate the mood. Watch your language in public. If you need to vent your frustration or despair, make sure you do so in private. Morale is a serious matter, and we need to set the example.”