Scorio turned in a slow circle.
This cavern was the largest, but other, small ones were joined to it. A complex? Through one large opening he saw a smaller chamber filled like a cauldron with molten gold that bubbled and fountained in its center. Another was a mass of heavy ridges beneath which gold turgidly flowed.
Saurians congregated in this main cavern, but Scorio now saw other fiends. Black spiders whose legs were four or five yards long, their bodies little more than buttons in the center. Louses with articulated bands of gold and crimson armor over their rectangular bodies, feelers twitching and gathered in mobile matts numbering in the hundreds.
And everywhere tunnels, smaller caverns, islands rising from the magma, all of it lit by a hellish glow.
Scorio frowned up at the shaft. It was easily two hundred yards above him, and from its square opening dropped the conveyor belt of buckets. This was revolving even now, the huge, dull crystals descending into view slowly, taking up a yellow glow as they charged in the atmosphere, then ascending back out of view.
He had to get out.
But how?
Scorio tracked numerous paths up the walls. Along ledges, right up to the ceiling. But then? He could perhaps carve out handholds with his talons and make his way across the rooftop while hanging free, working his way from stalactite to stalactite… but no.
More fiends. Great centipedes were ensconced in the cracks above and curled around the base of the stalactites, some as long as any saurian, their backs hugely armored, their heads sporting pincers as long as Scorio’s arms.
Not just any fiendish centipedes, but Gold-caliber.
He’d have to contend with them as he clawed his way across the ceiling. Could his aura keep them at bay? While he dug out handholds?
One mistake and he’d fall into the magma below. He could process the air, but falling into the magma proper would kill him.
Scorio lowered into an unsteady crouch and nearly fell off the top of the rock. A wave of dizziness passed over him, followed by a powerful desire to laugh at the ludicrous nature of his situation.
Scorio grinned, felt his chest tremble with pent-up laughter, then passed his hand over his face. What the hell?
Of course. The Curse.
He held his hand out before him. It trembled. There was no way he could get out of here in this condition. And how long could he go without water? The coffin had sustained him all this time, but the heat was already parching his throat. He’d die of thirst down here before the fiends could get him. The full villainy of Ydrielle’s plan came crashing home. Had she anticipated this eventuality? No, probably not, or—perhaps—yes!
Ydrielle.
Scorio ground the base of his palms into his eyes as he snarled. All this was her fault. She’d—
He forced himself to stop.
The Curse. It kept derailing him.
Scorio dropped his hands and fought to slow his breathing.
He had to stay calm and focused. There were plenty of tunnels to explore, other caverns. There was no reason to give up hope already.
Scorio looked about himself and saw that he wasn’t on an actual island; an isthmus connected him to the shoreline that hugged the edge of the great cave. Carefully, legs shaky, he descended and crossed to the huge wall. He felt drunk, his reactions delayed, his head woozy.
Taking it slow, he made his way around the cavern’s edge to the next cave, warding off the occasional saurian with a blast of his aura. They weren’t too keen to investigate him; perhaps over time they’d come to associate him with exploding relatives.
The thought made Scorio giggle and he clapped a hand over his mouth, then sagged against the wall. For a while he stayed still, then pushed away and looked around.
Where had he been going? Which way along the wall? He couldn’t recall traversing any of the rocks around him. Fear washed over him. Had he been going in circles? How long ago had he escaped the coffin? Had he been in this cavern before? It was smaller than the huge one he’d spent his imprisonment in. When had he entered this chamber?
“Oh gods,” moaned Scorio and pressed the base of his palm to his brow. He screwed his eyes together shut and swayed. No wonder people spoke of the Curse with such horror.
He had to hurry. The longer he remained down here the worse it would become.
Scorio moved. The Gold mana fueling his Heart gave him wings, and his body had never felt so responsive, so athletic, so ready for any challenge. He leaped up escarpments, scrambled over boulders, dropped down onto ledges. He’d feel all but invincible right till he overbalanced, wooziness washing over him again, and fall onto his side or stumble down a slope, arms windmilling as he laughed breathlessly.
Wait. Where was he?
Scorio looked around. A new cavern. Bubbling magma in the center of the glowing lake. He’d seen this place before. Suddenly his gorge rose and his stomach cramped. Scorio gagged and fell to one knee. Spat thick ropes of spit tainted with burning bile, then rose, staggered forward a few steps over crunchy, loose rock, then cried out as the ground collapsed away under him.
He dropped into darkness amidst chunks of rock. Hit the ground hard, fell onto his side, and lay still, trying not to vomit again.
Hissing filled the air around him.
Scorio forced himself upright and sharpened his dark vision. He’d fallen into a spherical cave whose walls writhed with hundreds of louses. These were larger, the size of dogs, and even as Scorio turned in a wary circle he saw them extrude great cutting blades from their faces.
The walls were riddled with tunnels so tiny he’d have to worm his way into them on his stomach. The thought of doing so filled him with unreasoning terror, but the only other way was the ceiling he’d fallen through some eight yards above his head. And to reach it he’d need to fight his way up the wall covered in the Gold-fiend death grubs.
Who were all orienting on him and streaming down the walls.
Scorio rose into his scaled form and felt a rush of even greater power—why hadn’t he embraced this form from the beginning? But that’s where all thought stopped. He swept his aura around him, ordering the insects back, summoned his Shroud to cover his rear, and with a shout he plunged forward to attack the closest grubs.
His aura had stilled their charge but not deterred them altogether. He brought his burning white talons across the closest one, only to discover that being a Gold-fiend actually meant something; his talons skittered over his banded armor, leaving deep grooves but failing to penetrate.
Cursing, he renewed his attack, and three strikes later managed to punch a fist through the weakened defense into the insect’s soft interior. He ripped his arm back, lifting the grub with it, and flung the fiend away.
Pale yellow ichor splattered through the air.
GET BACK, he commanded, but the death of the first grub had enraged the rest.
They swarmed him, incisors clacking.
Scorio reeled back, slipped, and fell on his ass.
No time for thought. He whipped his Shroud around, foiling the forward onslaught. Those who’d been suppressed behind came boiling toward him. Scorio flipped around and flung out his hand: BACK!
They slowed and milled.
Scorio hopped up onto his feet and leaped for the hole. His talons swished the air a yard short.
A memory: a tomb of hammered bronze, the square of orange light, his first attempts at escape.
Scorio wheeled the Shroud around and around himself, wielding the great barrier like a weapon, hammering grubs aside. Again and again, he ordered the grubs back, and then with a laugh, he brought his Shroud up tight against his back, curled it around so that it swept over his head and sides, and flung himself into the fight.