Scorio raised his palms. “We’re still figuring things out. Right, Naomi?”
Naomi just glared at Nyrix, who looked half-apologetic, half-defiant.
“Women,” said Alain, leaning forward to peer around Nyrix. “Am I right?”
Nyrix let out a shout, leaped forward and turned as he slid down the face of the dune, raising his arms so that a crossbow of glowing white light appeared in his hands, its bolt aimed squarely at Alain.
“Whoa!” Alain raised his hands. “Easy there!”
“Nyrix!” Scorio scrambled forward to interpose himself between the two. “Don’t loose, it’s just Alain.”
“Just me!” Alain gave a helpful wave.
Naomi smacked him hard upside the head.
“Ow!” Alain hunched over and twisted about to stare at Naomi with a hurt expression. “What was that for?”
“That was for being an idiot and surprising Nyrix.” She then grabbed the front of his robe and with a powerful twist hurled him down the dune. Alain yelped, rolled in a flurry of sand, then clawed at the slope till he stopped sliding down. Hair dusted gray, he stared back up at Naomi, bewildered. “And that was for your ‘women’ comment.”
Alain shook his head in mute resignation, looked to Scorio, and mouthed, “women”.
Naomi’s eyes narrowed and then she was the Nightmare Lady, hunched over, tail lashing as her claws sank into the sand in preparation of springing down after Alain.
Who yelped again, leaped up, and ran the rest of the way down the slope to disappear into the camps.
“Who…” Nyrix’s crossbow faded from view. “Was that?”
“Alain,” said Scorio tiredly. “He’s attached himself to us. I keep forgetting he’s there. It’s his power.”
“We should tie a huge bell around his neck,” groused Naomi, sinking back into her human form.
“Is he part of Company 16?” asked Nyrix. “Does Taron know he’s here?”
“I’m not sure, actually. I forgot to ask. It’s his power. It makes him really hard to keep track of. It’s really powerful.”
“No kidding.” Nyrix sat on the dune’s edge once more. “But that would make him a really useful scout.”
“Alain’s good for nothing,” said Naomi. “He’s a coward and a pervert.”
“Not fair,” protested Scorio. “He helped me a lot in the Fury Spires.”
“A helpful pervert, then.”
Scorio laughed. “Fine.”
A bell tolled out over the army camp, its peals dolorous and reverberating.
“That’s the signal for dinner,” said Nyrix, rising to his feet. “See how the sun’s just above the horizon? It’ll stay there for a short while. That marks the dip. When it starts rising it’s the start of the next dip cycle. It’ll be about three Bastion sun-wire cycles between the dinner and breakfast bell. Not much, but it’s when the camp generally rests. Come on, I’ll show you the Company 16 mess tent.”
Scorio stood. “And after breakfast? Taron said something about integration drills?”
Nyrix grinned. “The only fun we get around here. Learning to blend our powers together in combat. You’ll see. Nothing quite like watching fifty Great Souls fighting as one. You’ll love it.”
Chapter 32
“Listen up.” Taron didn’t need to shout. The loose collective that had followed him out onto a stretch of packed sand wasn’t there to mess around. They cut off their conversations and listened intently.
Taron crossed his arms and rocked back onto his heels. “I’ve nothing terribly exciting to share. The business of running an army is as boring as it is bureaucratic. But if you cut through all the nonsense, in essence we’re in a holding pattern until we receive confirmation from the Seamstress that her Imperators are incoming.”
A young man at the back of the crowd raised his hand. “How’s that going to be coordinated? We need to strike LastRock just as they arrive, right?”
“That’s the crux of all the deliberations.” Taron’s bleak blue gaze glimmered with dour amusement. “Charoth and his strike team need to draw the Blood Ox to LastRock just as the Imperators arrive. We can’t afford to waste a minute of their time. Each second that they’re away from the Twilight Cradle results in catastrophic consequences that we can’t begin to fathom. But that’s none of our concern. We’re mere peons, ignorant foot soldiers who need but do and die as commanded. As far as anyone can tell, we have a week before we ride forth into the Bone Plains. Which is fortuitous, as we need to integrate a handful of new talents into our battle plan.”
Scorio glanced at those around him. Nobody seemed taken aback by Taron’s tone; it was clear that negligent sarcasm was the Pyre Lord’s modus operandi. In the near distance stood a large circle of standing stones, the spaces between them hidden by a flowing wall of milky-white fog. Groups were clustered around this stone circle, indifferent to Taron and his Dread Blazes.
“Some of your trial memories may have shown you ancient battles. You might have seen thousands arranged in neat and orderly blocks marching toward each other while archers darkened the skies with arrows. A battle might take the course of a whole day, and its outcome determined as much by morale as anything else. That is not how we Great Souls fight.
“We’ll be facing foes who can at times number in the thousands. Most often these are the Bronze-ranked fiends of the Telurian Band, but sprinkled throughout for our delight are Gold-ranked fiends who can ruin your day if you’re not paying attention. Who can tell me what our approach is, seeing as our dastardly little company will only number about fifty individuals?”
“Power integration,” said Fyrona, her tone a hair’s breadth short of exasperated.
“Power integration,” agreed Taron. “We’re all such special, unique creatures. Nyrix can open portals. Wesanin turns into a living tornado of whatever materials lie around him. The Shadow Petal can cleave through endless ranks of enemies with her infamous blades. I can make it so that the ground beneath our foes’ feet becomes as slick as wet glass. How do we fight as an organized group and avoid tripping each other up? How do we ensure that Rharvyn doesn’t drop an explosive blast atop our heads by accident? Power integration. We memorize how to move together, how to complement each other’s powers, how to leverage our strengths and compensate for our weaknesses. If we integrate, we magnify our strength a hundredfold. A thousandfold. And that’s how we can defeat entire tribes of Bronze-ranked fiends.” Taron smiled mockingly as he brought his hands together, interlacing his fingers. “Integration.”
This time Fyrona did roll her eyes, the gesture accentuated by the striking smoky eye makeup.
“We operate as a spear,” said Taron, tone turning businesslike. “The Dread Blazes are the tip. They open a path that the Flame Vaults widen, with the Tomb Sparks at the rear ensuring that we aren’t encircled. Our strategy is dependent on terrain, but we tend to cut through swarms of fiends as quickly as we can, exiting on the far side, turning, and then cutting back through. Speed, power, violence. We destroy and destroy again till either the fiends are slaughtered or their morale breaks and they flee. To do this smoothly requires cohesion, which means ensuring we don’t surprise each other. As such, we’ll break now into ranked groups so that new members can introduce themselves and drill in their cohort.”
Taron clapped his hands. “Tomb Sparks, over there.” Half the company moved away. “Flame Vaults, over there.” Some fifteen others followed Taron’s command, leaving ten Dread Blazes in the center.
Naomi grimaced, lingered, then moved to join the Flame Vaults.
“Well then,” said Taron. “Now that it’s just us Dread Blazes, we can get to work. Ursan, Shadow Petal, Galvon, Scorio. Go ahead and introduce yourselves. Tell us what you can do. Don’t be modest.”