“Joy,” said Noami. They moved over to study the last fiend. It was giant purple centipede, its back composed of thick armored plates, its underside only slightly less armored and a dull cinnamon in hue. Arm-long pincers with razor-sharp edges flanked its mouth, while a mess of feelers hung limply from its brow nearly to the ground.
“Apparently their favorite tactic is to ball up around you,” said Nyrix softly, “and then tear you apart with its hundred legs all at once.”
“We should avoid that,” said Scorio.
Naomi shook her head. “Someone give this man a medal.”
“The Tokalauths usually are only found inside the huge stone wall that bounds the Bone Plains,” said Nyrix. “Unfortunately, the Blood Ox has a way of driving them into battle by the thousands. Sorry.”
Scorio gripped Nyrix’s shoulder and gave him a slight shake. “Not your fault.”
“No, but it still feels like I’m delivering bad news. Anyway. There you have it. What we’ll be fighting, for the most part. Unless we run into some of the Blood Ox’s Gold-elites. Then a bad day will simply get much, much worse.”
“We should avoid that,” said Scorio again, and grinned slyly at Naomi, who rolled her eyes.
“Agreed. Oh, Scorio: Taron asked that you come by his tent after this little demonstration. He’s waiting for you.”
“You know what it’s about?”
“I don’t, actually. But if he asks you to volunteer for something?” Nyrix raised both heavy eyebrows. “Just say no.”
Taron’s tent was just large enough to house a paper-covered desk and a fold-out stool. Weary, shadows about his eyes in a pale mockery of his sister, the Pyre Lord penned a missive just as Scorio ducked under the tent flap and presented himself.
“Ah, Scorio. One moment.” Taron elegantly scrawled the last of his message, pressed his thumb to the base, and Scorio felt a pulse of mana.
“What was that?”
“Hmm? A mana imprint. Once you reach Pyre Lord you gain the ability to infuse mana with your own essence. It becomes a signature for those who can recognize it.” Taron folded the letter and placed it in a pile along with a half-dozen others. “Don’t rush out of being a Dread Blaze.” His smile was jaded, cruel, derisive. “Being a Pyre Lord is mostly bureaucratic negligence. Those higher can’t be bothered with the details, which means everything filters down to our shoulders. Mark my words, Scorio: hell is run on the diligence of Pyre Lords. Unsung heroes, our bold and lamentable cadre. Anyways.”
Scorio raised his brows expectantly.
“We leave this evening for a harvesting. Word’s reached us that an unusually large tribe of Okoz fiends are coming down the right arm of the Triangle. Here.” He pulled out a broad scroll and unrolled it to reveal a map. “LastRock is the tip pointing straight at the Silver Unfathom. The Bone Plains is contained by these two arms, forming the Triangle with the Iron Weald as the base. The fiends have their warrens and dens hidden within the massive rocks that comprise the Triangle’s walls. Occasionally they bestir themselves and come rampaging down toward us, drawn by our irresistible allure. That’s happening now. Sylsan the Blind has detected a Category Green attack, and I’ve managed to position us to intercept.”
“Category Green?”
“He categorizes threat levels by color. Green is middling, nothing to get too excited about, but the scouts have sent back word that it’s a force composed of some five hundred Okoz, which makes it more interesting. The Okozs are massive, built like two carriages stacked atop each other, say… twenty feet tall, and just as deep. They run on all fours, but their front legs are really arms, and when they rear up to take a swing, it can feel like facing down an avalanche.”
Scorio blanched. “Yeah, we just saw one at the zoo. You said five hundred of them?”
“It’s a sight, to be sure. But they’re not very smart. They tend to just run forward en masse. We’ll be fine. Probably. We leave at dusk to catch them five miles outside of camp as dawn breaks. It’ll be a tidy fight, good exercise for our company. You, incidentally, will be leading three others. I’ve assigned a Tomb Spark and two Flame Vaults to your care, all three of them solid fighters and tough enough to take a punch.”
“Naomi?”
“No, her style is more in line with the Shadow Petal, so she’ll be working as part of the advance murder squad, as I’m calling them. It’s a technical name. You’ll be leading Nagarjuna, Wesyd, and Kelona. Don’t fret; they’re hardy, have been with the company for a spell, and will be an asset to you in battle. Still, you’re a Dread Blaze, so act the part. Don’t be overly familiar, hmm?”
“Great,” said Scorio. “Where are they?”
“Why, they’re waiting outside the tent. Take some time to get to know them. They’re good kids. Then report back at dusk for our little excursion. Clear?”
“Yes,” said Scorio. “Thank you.”
Taron smiled blandly and took up a fresh page.
Scorio ducked back out of the tent.
Three people were standing in a loose triangle off to one side, and as he emerged they turned sharply to orient on him, manner uniformly expectant, focused, and intense.
“Scorio?” The first to step forward was a young man with tawny skin, his black hair cropped close and neatly cut, his jaw darkened by stubble. “The Pyre Lord told us to wait for you here?”
It sounded like he’d tried to make it a solid statement, but it still slipped out as a question.
“That’s right,” said Scorio, squaring his shoulders and trying to affect some reserve. “I’m Dread Blaze Scorio, Class of 873. Who are you three?”
“Kelona the Gold,” said the woman, gesturing at herself with her thumb. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a thick bun, her skin tanned and glowing with health, her eyes a vibrant hazel green. “Flame Vault, Class of 875.”
“The Gold?” the third member of the group, a scrawny, lean-faced kid, his eyes deep set, his skin a rich ochre, his robes hanging on his lanky frame as if he’d stolen them from a bigger person. “Who even calls you that?”
“Nobody, if I don’t start the trend.” Kelona grinned unabashedly. “You’re keeping the Dread Blaze waiting.”
“Nagarjuna, Flame Vault, also Class of 875.” The scrawny man gave a shallow bow. “We’ve heard a lot about you, sir.”
“Sure,” allowed Scorio, not wanting to get into it, and looked to the first man.
“Wesyd, Tomb Spark, Class of 875.” He drew himself up and studiously avoided looking at the other two. “I’m about to make Flame Vault.”
“Uh huh,” said Kelona, the corner of her lips curling up. “Any day now, right, Wesyd?”
“It looks like it’s my job to keep you three alive in the fights to come.” That truth sat oddly with Scorio. “So I guess I need to know what you can do.”
“Well -” began Kelona, but cut off when Scorio raised his hand.
“Let’s take this out onto the training field. Then you can just show me.”
“Sure,” said Nagarjuna, his grin menacing. “It would be an honor, sir.”
Scorio led them out of the camp. The trio followed a few paces behind, and though they whispered to each other Scorio didn’t bother trying to join in. He kept thinking of Evelina, of Davelos, of how their insistence on just fighting right away had irked him. Now he understood a little better. All was talk till someone showed you what they could do under pressure.
And yet. Davelos had simply beaten him and his friends down. In fact, all the training he’d ever received, from the Nightmare Lady’s first brutal lessons to Feng’s instruction in the Academy had been hard. Cruel. Manticore had only continued that throughline, with Daemon ordering him and Naomi to break rocks for months without so much as an apology or ounce of compassion.
Perhaps he could do this differently.