“But their situation has never been so dire,” protested Waberly. “Policy changes.”
Scorio rose and moved to the map. His gaze ranged over its expanse. From the coastlines to the farmlands, from the deep woods to the mountains in the far east. Here and there little red markers announced where his forces stood. Most were placed deep in forests or hopelessly out of date as they fled mercenaries or local lords’ forces.
“We’ve won an important battle here,” said Waberly softly. “Word will spread. But there’s a second opportunity at hand. We release the Sea Barons, take their gold and provisions, and demonstrate to one and all that it pays to bend knee to our forces. That and it’ll save lives; the port’s a rat’s nest of ruins and half-collapsed buildings. Rooting out the enemy will take time and cost us in men.”
“Gold and provisions,” said Scorio softly. “Time and men.”
“With such things are wars won,” insisted Waberly, “even if you don’t think the Barons will join us.”
Scorio glanced around the cabin. Those who stood with him were weary. And not just in body. He saw exhaustion in their eyes. The joy of their first, heady victories had long since fled, replaced instead by the grim resolve of those who knew they’d not return home for months yet to come, if ever.
Again he gazed out over the land. A year and a half now they’d been fighting, and all things being equal they were winning. But Scorio could sense it. The growing fatigue. The desire in men’s hearts to return to their families and livelihoods. To tend to their farms, to return to the way things were.
But Waberly was right. It would be pragmatic to force the Barons into an alliance now. Sure, it would sit ill with the many who’d suffered beneath their oppression and brutality, but if they swore their ships and wealth to Scorio, it would do much to turn the tide.
But the very thought made Scorio want to growl.
“When Uln took Spurn Harbor he lined the walls with bodies,” said Scorio softly. “The tales of the women and children starving in the countryside drove more men into our ranks than any victory of ours.”
“Aye,” said Garvis, running a finger down his scar. “A black deed, that was. A black day.”
“The people follow me because I promise change,” continued Scorio. “Justice, whatever that means.”
Waberly felt the tide against him turning. “You will inflame the king’s supporters if you do the same.”
“Gold. Provisions.” Scorio sat back heavily in his chair. “What will we spend it on? Who will carry this food to our people? But word of what happens here will spread faster than the wind.”
“Then show them the kind of ruler you mean to be.” Waberly took an urgent half-step forward. “It isn’t glamorous nor does it set the heart racing, but the long game is won by careful moves. We strip and eject the Barons, showing them we are masterful and in control. We offer to enroll any soldier who wishes to defect—”
Growls filled the cabin.
“I’d sooner cut off my hand than fight along those cowardly dogs,” snarled Sir Oyster. “You’d have us accept the men who’ve burned our homes, killed our families, and hunted us like rats as our own?”
“We need the numbers,” said Waberly, voice rising. “We add them to Harkan’s men and march directly against the king—”
“No.”
Scorio realized it had never even been a decision. His anger, his fury, his bitterness had finally overflowed. “The king’s forces are excused every horror because they’re stamping out cockroaches, while we’re asked to turn the cheek and forgive every sin to prove ourselves better men. Every soldier in Spurn Harbor knew what he was doing when he agreed to fight for the Barons and kill our people. Every man and woman behind those walls had ample opportunity to walk away from the atrocities they’ve been ordered to commit.”
“This will feel good in the moment, but it will doom our cause in the long run. Wars are won with full bellies and paid wages, Scorio.” Waberly drew himself up. “Idealism and grand gestures last a day and are then forgotten. You must be practical. I understand your desire for vengeance and to redress wrongs, but you cannot sink to their level.”
“Oh, but I can.” Scorio felt resolve solidify within his heart. “Spurn Harbor will be a warning to the kingdom. A message of righteous vengeance to our people, and an accounting to every soldier who thinks they can hide behind the king’s cloak. At dawn we’ll dock just as Harkan attacks the gates. We’ll force our way inside and slaughter every kingsmen and mercenary we can find. And by the day’s end, I want Uln and Pothos swinging by their necks for all to see.”
Cheers filled the cabin, savage and fell.
Waberly sighed, shoulders sagging. “The other Barons will quit the sidelines. Every nobleman will move to join the king. It’s all fun and games till you hang one of their own.”
“It was never fun and games,” said Scorio rising. “Let this finally show them.”
And with that thought, the world went dark, and Scorio found himself kneeling once more in the dark surrounded by the corpses of the Gold-fiends.
He blinked, raised his head, then calm certainty filled him. There. A Flame Vault at last.
Chapter 48
Scorio remained kneeling. Around him the clicks of dying grubs sounded. His wounds had closed up. He felt self-contained, clear-minded, the worst of the Curse receding.
Flame Vault.
That meant he could withstand up to Silver level mana. Gold was but one step into the Curse now, not two.
He’d returned from his third trial in his human form, his Heart quiescent. With the barest flexion of his will he caused it to Ignite. The great sphere blazed to life. His body felt… calmer. Resolved. As if it had been in a state of flux before, raw, alive to change, to growth, to… ah. Of course.
Scorio focused his perception and felt the Gold mana locked within his form. No, that wasn’t quite right; it wasn’t locked, like a reservoir of water underground, but permanently bonded.
Tempered.
No amount of effort would drain it now of that power. That heightened strength and durability.
Scorio summoned his Shroud. It appeared before him, inches thick and curving in a great hemisphere, three yards in diameter. Superficially it appeared the same, but it was concrete now, more resilient. Enhanced by the nauseous infinity of practice he’d subjected it to while trapped in Ydrielle’s coffin.
His heart began to pound. His aura would be similarly augmented. But what else? What power had he manifested as a Flame Vault?
Scorio rose to his feet and willed his scaled form to manifest. His talons extended to white-hot tips, black scales flourished down his arms, across his shoulders and back, his chest and torso, down his legs and shins. Horns burst free from his brow, larger now, and his feet extended into three-toed talons, capable of gripping like a bird of prey’s.
But then a sense of potential filled him, fey and pregnant with possibility. For a glorious second he hesitated, enjoying that sense of immanence, and then he allowed the new power to blossom.
His back stirred, roiled, stretched. He felt a second set of limbs extend from a new configuration of bone behind his shoulders, felt huge, slab-like muscles swell down his back. The sensation was disorienting at first; he felt stretched out, alien to himself, bizarre. As if he’d been smeared through the air, distended, and only when he flapped his wings did the rightness of his body fall into place.
“Hell yes!” he roared, turning about to try and get a look at them, his wings of course turning with his body. It took effort, strange focus, but he extended one great wing so that he could study it. Not feathered but leathery like a bat’s, scales along the limb, horn-like protrusions at the end of each elongated finger, easily six yards in length.